1. River and Willow

Smeagol and young Deagol are Granny's favored grandchildren, treasures given to her by the Powers as a comfort in her old age. Deagol is simple and open-hearted, always bringing her fishes or eggses, quick to fetch her walking stick or her shawl. And Smeagol is quick-minded and clever, if perhaps more secretive and less kind, but always ready to make her laugh with a jest or a riddle.

But now Smeagol sits stiffly at her side, his head down. The Burrow is in an uproar and Deagol is missing, has been missing all day, and night is coming on. They are never apart, these two, never. The searchers come and go, returning each time with empty hands, and each time Smeagol half-rises to his feet, his face white and fearful. Sick with worry over his cousin, he is, her poor lamb. Granny has lived a long, long time for one of her little folk, she knows well how easy it is to lose love, how easily it can turn to bitter grief that cuts you deep, like a damp knife that twists in your hand.

"I hears them whisperin," Smeagol says after they have sat a long time in silence. His head is on her knee, his voice is low and quiet, and his right hand toys with a loose thread on her gown. His left hand is curled into a tight fist against the dirt floor. "The other folk, whisperin about me. They say-"

She feels a spark of anger inside: Cruel gossips, they are, idle talkers what can't leave a grieving lad alone. "What?"

"They say I did somethin." Smeagol keeps his pale eyes fixed on the thread, pulling it out and letting it fall back. His face grows hard and his fingers tighten on the thread until it snaps. "But I did naught wrong, naught."

He hides his face in her lap and cries himself out. Granny cries in sympathy, petting the long hair away from Smeagol's ear, and frowns. His skin is fair where it isn't touched by the sun or grimed with dirt, and a long scratch runs down his neck and disappears under his collar. In the low light of the hearth it seems to glow, like the finest red calligraphy, and on the nape of his neck there bloom faint circles of palest blue and violet.

Fingerprints. No. No, he had fallen into some brambles or somewhat, that was all. But Granny sits quiet then, not even rising up to throw another log on the fire. She sits and tries not to think, but her thoughts run here and there like frightened mice, circling closer, then drawing away from a dreadful shadow beyond her understanding, a shape of something terrible she cannot let herself see. Where is poor Deagol now, their sweet-natured lad with his trusting heart?

The cool of the river creeps in with the arrival of sunset, bringing with it the scent of the mud and the green reeds, and her lad smells of them, too, of damp clay and willow. Smeagol whimpers as her old hand pets his brown curls, a pitiful sound that makes her heart ache, but his tear-streaked face is as peaceful as a babe's, and in his sleep he smiles.

********

the end

(of this, but more ficlets to come...)