Descent into Madness

Disclaimer: Any characters the reader recognizes from Tolkien's works does not belong to me.

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Chapter Two: The Village

He awoke the next morning to find the sun already streaking through the crack in the curtains of his window. Normally he rose earlier. Springing out of bed, he quickly pulled on his trousers and shirt. Undoubtedly he would have several chores to do even before noon. Even though his family was fairly well to do, his grandmother still strongly believed in working. Sméagol did not really mind; in fact, he loved working the land, feeling the soil as it fell from his fingers. He enjoyed watching plants grow; it was certainly not in his nature to kill. The only exception had been the day before…

As he laid his hand on the doorknob, he turned back to look at the Ring, lying on his bedside table once more. He could not just leave it there. What if someone else tried to take it? It was his, after all. He would allow no one else to touch it, much less see it, not after the price he had paid for it. Sighing, he closed his fingers around the metal band before slipping it into his pocket.

A small basket of red apples stood on the kitchen table. While he selected one, his mother called out that she would need more wood for the stove later that night. When Sméagol finished his fruit, he took the axe from its place by the door and made his way down to the fallen oak tree near the water’s edge.

The tree was ancient; when it had been standing just outside of Sméagol’s village of River Smials, it had taken six adults to form a circle around it. It had fallen only a year ago, when the rushing river had weakened its hold on the ground and the strong storm winds had finally blown it over. Since then, its heavy form had given enough wood to create a few new chairs and tables for families less fortunate than Sméagol’s own, still leaving more than enough to provide fuel for everyone’s fires for many months to come.

The sun was shining strong and hot overhead. Sméagol stripped off his shirt before setting to work.

He had chopped enough wood to make a small pile when he felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He was being watched. He turned slowly.

It was Léadan, smiling where she stood, a basket on her arm. Sméagol felt his own lips turn upward as his gaze caught her bright green eyes, sparkling with silent laughter. “Hello, Léadan. What do you want?”

She tossed her curly auburn locks as she glided toward him, surveying him up and down. “Nothing. Just to tell you how handsome you look without your shirt.”

“And you…” He pulled her close, winding one arm around her waist and twining the other in her dark curls before giving her a brief kiss. “I must say, you look very fetching in that dress…although perhaps you would be more so without it…”

“Stop it, you beast,” she said as she gave him a playful whack with her basket. “You know the customs; we must wait until we are married.”

Perhaps that was what he liked about her, that she was still so innocent and naïve. “Very well. But I don’t wish to wait for very long.”

“Of course. But we must wait a few more days for our betrothal...” She pulled away and straightened her hat, red lips curved upward. “Well, I must leave you to your work, then.” Léadan’s blue skirt swirled as she gracefully turned around and left him.

You could make her yours now, if only you would use…

Instinctively Sméagol shoved his hand into his pocket, clenching his fist around the Ring as if to silence the voice. No, he thought. I have no intention of making her do anything against her will; I love her too much to do that…

Do you? Would you love her if she found out about Déagol?

His face contorted with effort. Go away!

Go away! The voice was full of mocking laughter. I am a part of you now. You and I – WE are one. We killed Déagol.

You killed him, Sméagol replied. Not me. I could never have. That wasn’t me.

It was you. Your hands that closed around his throat. You were the one who killed him, as was I.

STOP! No more! Who are you?

There was no reply. Sméagol opened his eyes to find himself curled on the ground, his face wet with tears. He stood up swiftly and angrily, hoping that no one had seen him. His axe bit aggressively into the wood as he returned to his task.

* * *

Léadan crept carefully away from her hiding place on the crest that overlooked Sméagol’s working place, more startled than anything.

It was not the banter that the two of them had exchanged that had worried her; no, that was the Sméagol she knew. What had frightened her was what she had seen and heard as she had climbed the hill.

Sméagol had nearly been out of earshot when she heard him. His voice was low and sounded faint at this distance, but she could still understand what he was saying.

First she had heard a low, guttural voice that was most unlike his own– but when she looked again, she saw that it was he who had spoken. His usual voice had responded in a piteous whine, then he had fallen to the ground, weeping and shivering as he lay curled into a ball.

What had come over him? The Sméagol she had met two years ago at the harvest festival, the Sméagol she knew… He was strong and kind. The voice that had given her shivers had sounded evil, and the other was weak and pitiful.

Léadan resolved to find out what was troubling him. She glanced back before walking back into River Smials. Sméagol was on his feet again and had returned to chopping wood. That was certainly a relief, but… he seemed to go about his task with more anger than anything. Was it something she had done?

* * *

Three days crawled by without any mention of Déagol’s name. Sméagol grew more and more nervous as each day went along, all the while listening for the dreaded voice. Sooner or later, someone was bound to find out that Déagol was missing, and after that it would not be long before the truth of the matter was discovered. He began eating less, feeling ill with worry and guilt. Where he had so often worn a smile, he now constantly had a frown. If his parents and grandmother noticed the sickly pallor of his skin or the slight gauntness of his features, they said nothing.

He had tried to avoid looking at the Ring for those three days by hiding it in a small box in his wardrobe. He was certain that that was what had been speaking to him. But today, as he rose from bed, the desire to hold it in his hand once more was too great. What if someone – his mother, for instance – had gone rummaging through his clothes and taken it? He had to be sure that it was safe. So after a sparingly touched supper, he slipped down the hallway into his room, quietly propping a chair under the knob. Then he crossed the floor, opened his wardrobe, and felt around in the corners for the small wooden box.

As soon as he tipped the golden band into his palm, the metal seemed to grow warm, giving him a distinct feeling of completeness. He felt his breathing relax, and he closed his eyes. Holding the Ring was intoxicating; he would never allow it out of his reach again. And who knew? Perhaps it would be useful one day, if anyone ever found out about…

“Sméagol?” His mother’s worried voice was accompanied by a loud rapping on the door. “Sméagol? Are you all right?”

He thrust the Ring into his pocket. “Quite all right, Mother.”

“Then why ever is the door blocked?”

“I…”

“Do get some fresh air, my love. You’ve been looking pale and peaky lately. Should I send for the village healer?”

“No!” Sméagol strode over and pulled the chair away from the door.

“But Sméagol, you hardly ate anything… I’ve been worried about you, and so has your father. Grandmother has been worried too. She thinks that something is troubling you.”

“I’m FINE!” he shouted in response, yanking the door open.

He watched his mother’s eyes widen, and as she took an involuntary step back she stuttered, “I… I only meant…”

Sméagol blinked at the sight before him. What had he done? He never meant to frighten her.

Forcing his voice to a more steady tone, he said, “I’m perfectly fine. Just a little tired. Perhaps I should go to bed…”

“By the…Sméagol, where have you been these past few days?”

“Why?”

She shook her head disbelievingly. “Tonight is the first night of the summer festival, don’t you remember? Three days before the first full moon of the season. And on the day of the full moon comes a day you have been waited for, for the longest time…” She looked up at him expectantly.

Of course. “The betrothal ceremony.” He had indeed been awaiting that day with much anticipation, but the death of Déagol had driven all else from his mind but feelings of guilt. Tonight he could begin to forget. No one had mentioned Déagol’s name yet; perhaps his absence would remain unnoticed.

“Indeed,” his mother said. “So get dressed. The sun is nearly down; the festivities are going to begin soon! And don’t forget – tomorrow they begin even earlier.” She did not wait for her son to respond as she swept down the hallway back to her room.

The summer festival. How could he have forgotten? Every year before his tweens he had looked forward to the festival, eager for the many treats the folk of River Smials prepared, eager to listen to the music. In his twenties he had looked upon the festival as a chance to meet the lasses of the town, and during the past few years he had eagerly awaited his chance to be with Léadan, dancing and mingling with the other folk, eating and drinking without a care in the world. Now, both he and Léadan had passed their coming-of-age at thirty-three, and were old enough to be formally betrothed.

Sméagol chose his clothes carefully, selecting his best trousers and a cream-colored shirt together with the deep blue vest that Léadan had said brought out the color of his eyes. He tied his slightly curling, longish hair back with a leather cord. All the young lads in the Smials wore their hair that way, thinking that it gave them a rakish look. To complete the look, he tied a bright yellow kerchief about his neck before glancing in the mirror. Satisfied, he headed out the round door and began his walk to the festive lights gathered at the bottom of the hill.