Gollum did not know it, but Frodo listened to him every night. To the struggle between Smeagol and Gollum, between good and evil, hope and despair.

Frodo knew the struggle well, for already, he was beginning to hear the first discordant whispers in his mind. And they no longer sounded as they had done before. Gone was that dark, strange and tempting voice, and Frodo could hear the ring speak in his own voice now. It terrified him more than even the idea of facing Sauron - that the ring could speak through him now, that it could poison his mind from the inside out.

He had only been carrying the ring for such a comparatively short time. Smeagol had struggled with his need for it for 500 years, and he still feebly contested its rule over him. What did this mean? How strongly had the poor creature been able to resist, once upon a time? Surely longer than this, these mere months, not even a year? Has it even been that long?

Frodo could not be sure of anything anymore besides the call of the ring. Fear had enclosed his heart like a cold steel chamber. It kept anything away from it that was not need and hunger and desperation.

Only once in a while, such as when his dear Sam smiled at him, or comforted him, or touched his soothing fingers to his tear-stained cheek, did Frodo feel some of the old warmth, but it was never enough to melt the steel. And there were times when he hated even Sam's comfort.

He sighed, lost in his sad thoughts, and did not take note of his surroundings until rapid, uneven breaths, close enough to stir the curls framing his ear, alerted him to Gollum's presence.

"Master is sad," Gollum stated, blinking his huge, blood-shot eyes.

Frodo attempted a smile. "Just feeling... alone, Smeagol." He noted how the use of that name made the poor creature try to stand a little taller and straighter, and he determined to always use it.

Gollum gestured across the dying embers of their fire to where Sam lay rolled up in his Elven cloak, sleeping fitfully. "What about Master's friend? Does not Master's friend make Master not lonely?"

Frodo shook his head. "I'm not lonely, Smeagol. Just... alone."

Gollum looked somewhat confused, but then his eyes grew even larger, and he nodded wildly, sudden understanding dawning on him. "Precious is talking to Master."

Frodo felt a lump in his throat.

"Precious talks to Smeagol, too." And with a reproachful look at Frodo, he hissed, "Less now Master has taken precious." Quickly recovering his fragile composure, Gollum crouched by Frodo's side. "But we minds not."

"No?" Frodo asked hesitantly. Even while cursing his own curiosity, he had to know. "Why not?"

Gollum shivered a little, letting out one of those horrible, hacking coughs. "We can sleep sometimes now. Precious is not keeping us awake all the time." He grinned. "Strange thing it is, sleep. We forgots how."

Frodo whimpered. "It never let you sleep?"

Gollum lowered his head and sighed. "Not for a very long time, Master."

Fear gripped Frodo. He himself had not slept for a week now, growing weaker by the hour.

With a disturbingly triumphant smirk, Gollum said, "Precious talks to Master now. Precious makes Master keep it company. We sleeps sometimes now."

Frodo felt icy cold and, as if sensing it, Gollum looked ashamed for his glee. He reached a trembling hand towards Frodo until his squashed, mangled fingertips barely touched Frodo's shoulder in a pitiful gesture of comfort.

Frodo sat very still, just staring at nothing, until Gollum continued softly. "Sometimes, we hears Master's thoughts. Sometimes, when Precious still talks to us, it sounds like Master."

Frodo's reaction to that statement was desperation. His eyes widened and stared, unseeing, at Gollum. One hand curled around the ring and chain, the other flew to his mouth, balled into a fist, to silence the panicked wail threatening to emerge.

Gollum looked visibly shaken, knowing only he had somehow upset his Master. Why would Master not be proud that Precious spoke in his sweet voice now?

Curling into a ball and making himself as small as possible, Gollum lay at Frodo's feet, whimpering softly. "Bad Smeagol upsets Master. We is very sorry."

Frodo looked down at Gollum despairingly. His lips trembled and he fought against an onslaught of tears. He usually was able to hold them back, at least until he lay curled in his blanket at night, with Sam asleep and Gollum too far away to hear.

Shakily, the hobbit reached out a hand and lay it on the poor creature's head, fighting the horror which overcame him at the feel of the cold, grey scalp against his own skin, and the way the sparse strands of hair - doubtlessly once a thick mass of curls much like his own - seemed to wrap around his fingers.

Gollum made an odd little noise and raised his head, his eyes bulging more than ever and a few tears flowing down his gaunt cheek. "No one touches Smeagol. No one!" he moaned.

Bitter tears fell from Frodo's eyes then, and they sobbed almost in unison.

Gollum scrambled to his knees awkwardly. "Master must not cry for Smeagol." He coughed heartbreakingly. "Smeagol bad, and not worthy of Master's touch."

"Everyone deserves to be touched and comforted!" Frodo sobbed, and without paying any mind to how horrified Sam would be, he reached out to Gollum, clumsily tugging the emaciated form into his arms to cradle him like a child.

And what a fitful child indeed. Gollum whimpered, and he trembled so hard with this long-forgotten need, Frodo could barely keep hold of him. "Hush now," he cooed soothingly. "I am not going to hurt you, Smeagol."

"We trusts Master," Gollum sobbed, and his mangled fingers clutched at Frodo's cloak and held on tight.

Frodo swallowed back his own tears as best he could. "Do you remember the Shire, Smeagol?"

Gollum stiffened in his arms, but he nodded slightly and grasped Frodo's cloak a little tighter still.

"The green trees..." Frodo continued dreamily. "Golden fields of wheat and corn, lakes and streams as clear as liquid crystal, hearth fires, fine ale, the warmth of candles glowing behind windows, kind and gentle folk everywhere..."

Gollum had sighed a little during the wistful description, but at Frodo's last words, he raised his head and scowled. "Not kind. Not gentle. Nasty Hobbitses drove Smeagol away."

Frodo knew from Gandalf why Smeagol had been driven from the Shire, and he regretted bringing it up. They had enough sorrow in their lives now, without needing the tears of the past. Quickly, he said, "But before that, Smeagol. Remember how beautiful everything was?"

Gollum swallowed hard and nodded reluctantly.

"I want to go home," Frodo confessed. "I want us all to go home."

Gollum blinked up at him, his bulbous head resting against Frodo's chest. "Smeagol too?"

Frodo nodded, a tiny smile curving his lips while he tightened his embrace a little more, certain he felt some warmth returning to the thin creature in his arms. "Yes, Smeagol too."

Gollum heaved a shuddering breath, and lowered his eyes sadly. "The precious will not let us."

"That's why we must destroy it." It was becoming so hard to say those words, Frodo thought absently. What had once, not so long ago, been an easy and inevitable choice was beginning to feel like a bitter promise to kill a friend or destroy something gentle and beautiful.

Frodo's eyes flickered to where Sam lay, breathing restlessly in his sleep, and then back to look at Gollum. He had to keep his mind clear. He had to focus, had to look at Gollum and know, simply know, why he needed to do this... this terrible thing. No, not terrible. A good thing.

Yes, that's what it was - a good thing.

"Master wants it. He wants to not destroy Precious." Gollum's words were tinged with the melancholy wisdom of one who has traveled a difficult path before, all alone.

"What I want doesn't matter, Smeagol. What any of us want doesn't matter. We must do what's right," Frodo stated shakily.

Gollum raised his grey hands and held his head, shaking it and wailing softly, as if in physical pain at the thought of seeing the ring destroyed.

"We must all be strong for one another," Frodo said, pulling Gollum's hands from his head and holding them still.

Gollum stopped wailing and stared at their joined hands.

"We can do this, Smeagol," Frodo said as firmly as he could, trying to convince himself as much as his charge. "And then... then we will go home. To the Shire."

"The Shire..." Gollum sobbed a little. He gazed up at Frodo adoringly. "Master would take Smeagol to the Shire with him?"

Frodo nodded. "We'll sit in my garden, and we'll drink some ale and get you all back to being a nice, roundy hobbit, and we'll just... rest." He knew he was babbling, clinging to dreamy illusions, but what else was there? When darkness was everywhere around you, light had to come from inside, no matter how feeble a flame it may be.

Smeagol was crying silently, his eyes locked with Frodo's, and for a moment, he thought he could see in them how his own eyes had looked once - not as beautiful as Master's, but still big, bright blue eyes, and he too had been warm and soft, and once... oh, it was so long ago! Once, he had been kind and gentle like Master, too. Maybe he really could be all these things again?

Yes, Master would take him home. Home...

Stupid Gollum! Precious hissed at him. He won't take you home. The hobbits will throw you into the fire too, because they won't need you anymore. They would dance on your grave, if anybody bothered giving you one. They hate you! Hate you! HATE YOU!

And while Gollum listened to Precious saying those terrible words in Master's sweet voice, and the baneful laugh which followed them, he tried, so hard, to just keep looking at Master's kind eyes and soft smile. Master would take him home. Master would not lie to him. Would he?

Would he?

End