Slowly, Gollum is making his way back down the ravine. He is thinking of himself as Gollum again now, though he takes care to refer to himself as Sméagol still; anything else would make the hobbits suspicious. The fat one at least, Sam - he is always suspicious because of something, always insulting him. Even when Gollum had tried hard, tried his best to please Master, Sam had not stopped, had not believed it.

In a way, he is smarter than Gollum had been; he had always known that this could not work, that they could not trust each other. And he had been right, though it had not been Gollum who had betrayed them, oh no. No, Master had betrayed him, false Master with his talk of trust, pretending to be kind, pretending to care! But tomorrow, it will all be over, the hobbits will be over, and he will be free and his own master. The master of the precious. Like it is supposed to be, like it used to be, before the thief Bilbo Baggins had come and taken it from him.

The hobbits are sleeping; he can see from afar already that their eyes are closed. He is glad about it – it means fewer insults and glares from the fat one, and less chances to give himself away. He cannot let that happen, no, not when they are this close to her lair. When he is this close to getting back what is his. And it is his, has always been. The precious had come to him on his birthday, had chosen him. Not false Master, not a traitor like that.

You are a traitor, too.

Oh, but he is not. This is different. Master betrayed him first, and what Gollum is doing . . . it is fair. One betrayal for another. It serves Master right if he is killed, he should not have lied to Gollum, he should not.

It serves him right like it did Déagol, does it?

No. No no no. He will not think about that.

Who is the traitor now?

He is not. The precious is his, had come to him. It had been his birthday. Déagol should have given it to him right when he had asked for it. But he had not, so it was his own fault that Gollum had done it, had made him.

Murdered him.

No.

Murdered your friend. And now you are doing it again.

The hobbits are not his friends, not the fat one, for sure, and not Master either. Traitors cannot be friends. Friends are . . . they are . . .
He does not even know anymore. He barely remembers Déagol –

murdered your friend

– barely remembers anything from before. Before the precious.

He has arrived with the hobbits now, who do not notice him as he creeps closer. Master's head is in Sam's lap, and Sam's hand on his forehead. They are sleeping deeply, and they look so . . . again, he cannot remember.

At that moment, he wishes that he could – 'friends' and 'family' are only words now, words that mean nothing like so many others, empty like the time before the precious came to him. Maybe he was happy, then, he does not know – and what does it mean? He does not truly know either – and he hates it. Hates what he is now, hates the precious for doing this to him!

Old. He feels old, and so tried. More tired than even Master looks these days.

The fat hobbit, Sam, he is Master's friend, Gollum knows that and, as he watches them sleep, he realises he has known it for a while. Maybe what Sam does for Master is what 'friend' means – making sure Master eats and sleeps right, taking care of him. Watching out for those who could hurt him. Like Gollum.

But Master deserves it, deserves to be hurt.

He told the nasty, big men not to hurt you.

But they had, they had hurt him, bound him. Beaten and kicked him, and Master had let it happen.

Master is small. He could not have stopped them.

He wants to scream, would scream if it were not too dangerous. All of this makes his head ache – and something deep in his chest – and he wants for it to end. If only it was tomorrow already, then he would be rid of them.

Do you really want that?

He does, yes, he does. He turns and looks up to where he came from, up to her lair. She is there, he had convinced himself, and she is hungry. Always hungry.

No. He shakes his head. No, now that he imagines it, Master pierced by her stinger, dead, his friendly face pale and still, gone forever, he does not want it anymore. Not Master. Sam – Gollum could not care less if she got him or if he fell down the cliff. But Master . . . he is kind. Never yells, never hits him. And the men had been big, and they had been many, and Master is small and alone except for his fat friend. And he gave him back his name.

Sméagol.

She had called him that, a long time ago, he still knows that much. His grandmother. Turning back to the sleeping hobbits, he knows of what they remind him, a vague memory from long, long ago: light wind, and the sound of water, sunshine that had not hurt his eyes. Grandmother smiling down at him with her hand in his hair. It feels like the look on the hobbits' faces, and he cannot help himself – he comes closer and reaches out.

Sméagol. Maybe he could . . . maybe he could try and be him again. Go with master, help him, and then . . . go home with him. Master has a home – Gollum has listened to them talking – a home with friends, where he was happy. Maybe Gollum, no, Sméagol can be happy, too. If he can stay with Master, kind Master. Maybe he can remember.

As his hand hovers over Master's leg, he can almost see it. A nice hole in the ground, like grandmother's. Master is there, and Sméagol. Sitting at Master's feet, who speaks to him kindly, his hand on Sméagol's head like grandmother's had been, like Sam's is lying on his.

Like a friend's.

Gently, carefully, he places his hand on Master's knee.

Master cries out in his sleep and Sam – Sam is wide awake at once. "Hey you!" he snaps. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing, nothing." He can prove himself to this one, too, like to Master. If he is good, if he shows that he can change . . . "Nice Master!"

"I daresay," Sam says, and his voice is as gruff as before. "But where have you been to - sneaking off and sneaking back, you old villain?"

More insults and suspicion. He wants to try, wants not to listen, no, never listen to the fat hobbit . . . but he is tired, and trying seems far too hard. What if it goes on like this, always? What if, no matter how much he tries, it is not enough?

Sam wants to protect Master, from anything and anyone; he knows it as he looks into the hobbit's eyes, dark and full of anger. He wants Master to himself, and there is no place for Sméagol, no matter how much he might change. That nice home, that friendship, it is only for Master and Sam. The two belong together – and had he not always known that, following them, watching them all those weeks when they others had still been with them, the men and the dwarf and elf, and the other hobbits? The way Sam had never left Master's side, how he had looked at him, still does – and the way Master is looking back? Not like he looks at Sméagol, friendly and sad, but different, with a gleam of joy in his eyes even now that he is so exhausted.

No, there is no place for him here. Master does not need him, surely will not want him to come home with him. Only Sam. Never Sméagol. He was a fool for even imagining it could be different.

It can never be. The fat hobbit cannot change, and Gollum cannot change. Cannot be Sméagol, not anymore. There is no way back for him, all he has left is the precious. His precious. Soon, it will come back to him. Soon, all of this will be over.

She will make certain.