Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

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Author's Note: Unlike the other two dreams, this one has no "framework" of the waking world in which the dream is discussed. This dream stands alone, waiting for the readers to interpret it as they will.

Moonlight Through Water

The first sound that came to him was that of falling water. Not the delicate song of a brook that wound its way merrily among stones and grasses, nor the fitful falling of droplets after a rain. No, it was a torrent, a fury from some unseen force that seemed to surround him and yet was still out of sight.

Frodo looked around him. This place was peopled once, he knew, when Ithilien was still guarded against orcs and armies from the south -- guarded by bowmen clad in hooded green: men akin to Rangers from the north, suspicious of all who walked unannounced among the still green trees of the imperilled land.

Water still flowed here and would flow, no doubt, until these lands were no more, destroyed in some unforeseeable cataclysm far into the future.

Water still flowed here, he knew, falling from some great height to plunge with foaming force into a deep pool.

He walked slowly down the dark narrow path. Steep sides of rocky cliff rose all around, trapping and magnifying the headlong rush of water until it was a roaring onslaught.

Frodo fell to his knees and covered his ears. The sound was overwhelming and he cowered before it. It demanded and pushed and shouted at him until he felt he would go mad.

But then the tumult seemed to lessen although the mist of the spray still wetted his face. Slowly, he got to his feet and gazed about him. A pale moon rose in the east, hanging heavy in the deep twilight, and its silver light fell upon Frodo's face so that he was dazzled.

It was then, while the light blinded him to the deep wells of shadow amongst the stones and crevices, that he heard the voice.

"Master has come back. Come back to us, he has."

The voice came from down by the water.

"He comes back to us in this place. The place where he betrayed us."

"Smeagol," said Frodo uncertainly. He shielded his eyes from the moon and peered down into the pool.

"Has he brought nasty cruel men to binds our handses? What does he wants this time, Precious?"

The moonlight bleached the path at Frodo's feet all to ghostly white, hiding the dips and hollows that waited to trip the unwary.

"Smeagol?" he said again as he gingerly crept down the slope.

"If Master slides, he will not fall," Gollum answered.

Frodo slid, in a scuffle of pebbles and dirt, and fetched up against a rock at the waterside.

"Nice Master, listens to Smeagol, he does. Always did, even when nasty hobbit said no."

Frodo still sat, feet in the dirt. As he sat waiting, he could hear soft movement come from behind. Breath stirred the curls at the back of his head. Long bony fingers curled about his neck.

"Hello, Smeagol," Frodo said, and did not move.

The fingers paused for a moment and then, as if jerked into movement, wound their way under Frodo's shirt and felt at his chest.

"I do not have It, Smeagol," Frodo said softly. "It was destroyed."

The hands stilled then and the weary weight of a bony head rested between Frodo's shoulder blades.

"Master..." was all the voice said -- a sigh of sorrow.

"I'm sorry, Smeagol," Frodo said and clasped the wasted hands close through the cloth. For a long moment, neither of them moved, until Gollum slipped his hands out of Frodo's grasp and out from under his shirt.

"Smeagol..." Gollum said, with syllables drawn out almost lovingly. "Smeagol." He crept around until he faced Frodo and squatted there. "Why did you calls us Smeagol?"

"It was your name," Frodo answered softly. "It was yours. Gollum was a name laid upon you by those who didn't care. Those who didn't know you."

"But Master knew," said Gollum, "Master knew. And Master was kind to us. Master didn't lets us call ourselfs names. Not like nasty hobbit."

"Sam didn't understand, Smeagol, at least, not then. Later, after he had carried the Ring, I think he understood -- a little."

Gollum stared at Frodo, eyes unblinking. Then his mouth twisted in a grimace.

"Nasty hobbit wanted the Men to kill us. Kill us." The sibilant voice lowered. "Why did you come here -- here where you betrayed us?"

Frodo reached out his hand, but when Gollum ignored it, he let it fall to his side. "They were going to kill you for fishing here -- for fishing in the Forbidden Pool. It was the only way I could stop them. They would have shot you otherwise."

"You betrayed us," Gollum snapped. He clenched his fleshless fingers in a knot.

"I saved you."

"You didn't save us at the Mountain of Fire."

Frodo looked away. After a moment, Gollum crouched low on all fours and then, with one impressive leap, he landed directly in the path of Frodo's troubled gaze.

"But you trusted me," Gollum whispered.

"You gave me your word."

Gollum nodded -- a jerky convulsive movement -- and wrung his hands. "I swore by the Precious. I had to do what Master said. I swore. But Master wanted to go to Mordor. And Master destroyed it. Master destroyed the Precious." Gollum wailed -- an unearthly sound of despair -- and Frodo winced.

"Why did Master destroy It?"

"I had to. It was evil."

Gollum leapt up onto the rock. He was a grey silhouette edged in silver from the cold moonlight.

"It was evil," he cackled. "Oh, yes, Master, but It was ours. And Master lied to us. Asked us to take him to Mordor, but not why. Master used us."

"I did not lie to you," Frodo said firmly and stood up. "Yes, I did not tell you my purpose for going to Mordor, but despite your vow to me, your one goal was to have the Ring again. And thrice you attacked me, or planned for my death. If it must be said, then let it be said that we used each other!"

At that, Gollum slithered off the rock and, as he had once before, grovelled at Frodo's feet.

"Such hard words, Master. But you are just and clever. Poor Smeagol can't defend himself, no, not he!"

"Stand up, Smeagol," Frodo said. "What is done is done. I can't judge you, for I also fell to the power of the Ring."

Gollum slowly stood and peered at Frodo. "What's done is done," he repeated softly. His eyes unfocussed and their gaze grew soft and distant.

A soft plop and a swish broke the heavy stillness of the twilight. Evidently there were fish in the pool still. Gollum stirred slightly but made no move towards the water.

"What do you plan to do now?" he said abruptly.

"Hmm?" Confused, Frodo blinked.

"The Precious is gone. For you as well as for me. What will you do now?"

"What do you mean? I have plenty to do. I have my writing..."

"No, no," said Gollum impatiently. "That's not what I mean. Writing!" And here he dismissively flicked a hand away. "What about your life?"

"My life? Why, it's full, Smeagol. Sam and Rosie have moved in. They are good company, very good to me."

"Very good to you. I'm sure they are. After all, you have Bag End. Samwise is very grateful, he is. But come now, Master, how can you possibly expect to live normally in the Shire? How can you possibly think that you are happy?"

"I do have a normal life," Frodo said, nettled.

"Can't you see that you don't have any friends?"

"I do! There's Sam and Rosie, and Merry and Pippin..."

"Of course, of course," Gollum said, rubbing his hands together in glee. "Your gardener and his wife who enjoy the comforts of your own home, and your two cousins who, because of you, have come back as heroes of the Shire. Friendship? Pah! Loyalty, it is. Loyalty to you who have made their lives very nice, very enjoyable indeed."

Gollum's voice grew cajoling. "Nobody else cares about you, do they? Oh no, they love your two handsome cousins and even your gardener. But they don't love you. Nobody cares about you!"

"I don't need a normal life!" Frodo shouted and then stopped aghast to hear his own voice raised. He stood still for a moment and then spoke again calmly. "I don't need anyone else. I am content with my book. Bilbo had few friends too, and he was the eccentric of Hobbiton."

"But Bilbo had many friends among the younger folk," came the rebuttal, "and, at any rate, people always wanted to hear about him. No-one wants to hear about you!"

Frodo froze. He closed his eyes tightly. The tumult of the water rose once more. The moon unwinking looked down upon the two beings. The silvery light shone through Frodo's eyelids and the noise of the water beat upon his ears.

Then all was quiet and Frodo opened his eyes.

"This is a dream, isn't it," he said. "Either this, or I am going mad."

"You are going mad," Gollum nodded and squeezed his pale eyes shut.

"And you are dead! Why are you here? Just to taunt me?

"Perhaps."

"You no longer speak like the Gollum I remember," said Frodo.

"And why should I?" said Gollum scornfully. His eyes opened wide. "Here, I'm not bound by the way you see me."

Gollum leapt up onto the rock and squatted there, his face outstretched, nearly touching Frodo's own.

"After all, I could be any number of things. I could be Smeagol as he could have been if he hadn't been enslaved by the Ring, or perhaps I represent what you imagine he could have been if you hadn't let him fall to his death in the Cracks of Doom."

"I didn't let him fall," Frodo said, stung. "I was rather busy at the time, if you remember, considering you had just bitten off my finger!"

"'I didn't let him fall'," mocked Gollum. "'Considering you had just bitten off my finger.' Make up your mind. Am I he? Or am I some figment that your own addled mind has created?"

"I don't know," Frodo said angrily. "You tell me. You seem to be quite sure of yourself. Don't you know?"

Gollum smirked and turned his head so he was looking at Frodo sideways.

"Master expects much of usss, yes, he does. Tricksy he is to pin us down. Poor Smeagol. Master never wondered why we says 'us,' did he?"

Frodo's eyes narrowed.

"And now he grows suspicious, yes, he does! Even though Smeagol speaks as Master wants, yes, Precious. Nassty hobbitses. Gollum!"

"Why, then, do you say 'us'?" Frodo asked warily. "I always thought that it was because half of you just wanted the Ring, and the other half of you, the original Smeagol, wanted more. A chance? Some affection, possibly."

Gollum, if possible, looked somewhat taken aback. He slumped then and laid his chin upon the rock.

"Perhaps it is," he said, subdued. "Wise Master. But poor Smeagol never got the chance. The Ring was too strong. Too strong for us, Precious."

"Too strong," Frodo whispered and laid a hand, ever so gently, on Gollum's head. The old, old skin felt like thin, delicate parchment. It was warm. Gollum sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Smeagol."

For a while, they stayed like that: Gollum sprawled flat on the rock, limp, and Frodo leaning against it, his hand upon the older creature's head.

But then Gollum did a strange thing. He took Frodo's hand from his head and, sitting up, he held it and examined it.

"No, no, not this hand. Show me the other hand, Master. The one with only four fingers."

Frodo hesitated, but brought forth the other.

"Yes, yes, this is the one. The hurt hand, yes." And with that he clasped the hand to his thin chest and seemed to struggle inwardly for a moment. Then he looked up beseechingly.

"Would you have saved me?"

"What?" Disconcerted, Frodo tried to pull his hand away, but Gollum held fast.

"Would you have saved me?" Gollum persisted. A slight edge crept into his voice. "If you had had the choice, would you have saved poor Smeagol from falling into the Cracks of Doom?"

"I would have. But I was not myself, you see. I did not have the choice."

"No. No. You wanted the Precious. I know. Smeagol knew. But," and here Gollum clutched at Frodo's hand all the harder, "If you had the choice, but it meant you'd also save the Precious, would you have saved me?"

Shocked, Frodo stared at him. Then he passed his free hand over his brow and swallowed.

"Tell me!" Gollum's voice grew desperate. "Would you have saved me, or would you have sacrificed me to destroy the Precious?"

"Don't ask me this, please!"

Gollum launched himself at Frodo.

"Tell me!" he shrieked.

Frodo staggered backwards but kept his footing. Gollum was stuck to him like a limpet, arms wrapped round in fierce embrace, his body quaking.

"I don't know!" cried Frodo at last. "If I could have, I might have tried to save you, but I fear that it would not have been for your sake. The way I was then, I was more likely to have done it to save the Ring!"

It seemed to Frodo then as if the Forbidden Pool itself had become the very Crack of Doom. Flames seemed to leap up from the water's surface as he watched over Gollum's head.

"And if Master hadn't fallen to the will of the Precious? What then? Which would you have chosen?"

Mesmerized, Frodo walked to the edge. Gollum wailed and clutched harder. The flames beckoned to them. The fire was eager. And then Frodo knew what it wanted.

"Yes," he said softly, "I would have let you fall, Smeagol. And, if I really had had to have chosen, I would have let myself fall too."

Gollum burrowed his head under Frodo's chin. "I am scared," he whimpered.

Frodo held him tightly. "I know," he said. "So am I. But it is waiting for us."

He fell forward into the writhing flames.

* * *

A long time passed. Gollum was gone. Slowly, Frodo came to himself. Instead of the blistering, burning fire, all was cool. He drifted in the midst of water -- water above him, water all about him -- yet he did not drown.

He opened his eyes and saw the moon. Silvery light rippled down, distorted by the surface of the water. Above and behind him, his elven cloak ballooned with air until, water-laden, it subsided and sank. But Frodo had no fear. He was only slightly under the surface, and he could see the moon.

He was drifting, but it did not matter. He let the water carry him. Where it was taking him, he did not know. He was no longer in the pool, enclosed by the cliffs, but rather in a flowing river that took him finally to an open vastness so great he could not sense if there were any surrounding land. His body, carried by currents and wavelets, undulated loosely with his arms outstretched, and curly hair floating in gentle waves about his head.

And all the while there was a steady rhythm, a pounding in the deeps almost too low to be heard. Indeed Frodo could not tell whether he actually heard it or rather felt it thrumming through every part of his body which lay so unresistingly open to the music.

Music! Yes, that was what it was -- an ancient music with no melody that filled him. It was a ponderous beat that sent wavelets to ripple at the toes of his feet that just barely broke the surface. It crept up between his legs until the pleasure of vitality shivered through him. It slowed his heart until each beat in his chest echoed to the all-powerful force which now ran, unhindered, through his veins. And it filled his mouth and his lungs as he breathed in the briny water. It enveloped him without and filled him within, in the ever-changing, never-changing song of the Sea.

He lay there, floating, unresisting -- utterly open and passive. Water was in his lungs, yet he did not panic. For he was of the water. He willingly, calmly, peacefully gave himself to it. Unquestioning, unconcerned, he offered himself, body and spirit, and it accepted him and took him and held him.

And it sang to him.

The end (of this vignette)