They cursed us.

"After him!"
"Catch him!"
"Curse that murderous pike!"
"Drive out that bottom-feeder!"

"Murderer" they called us.

"After the Kin-Slayer!"
"Curse Sméagol! Curse the coward for his fell deed!"
"Avenge Déagol! Avenge our neighbor!"

They cursed us and drove us away.

Hearing the cries of his adversaries, Sméagol ran for his life, terror draining the blood from his face, his expression frantic as he tried to outmaneuver his pursuers. The mob — led by his grandmother, the Matriarch of the clan — was closing in with their torches and their pitchforks and their shovels, as the posse pursued him with righteous wrath and dogged determination.

"I must protect the Precious!" Sméagol muttered in a manic chant. "Mustn't let them take my birthday present!"

It was almost dark when he managed to outrun his kin, their shouts and cries diminishing the further he fled from them — or else they had simply given up the chase. But Sméagol kept going, not looking back until he was close to the Misty Mountains.

It was dawn and overcast when Sméagol finally stopped to rest, and sat on a fallen tree, close to the base of the Misty Mountains, panting heavily from his escapade. He looked behind him for any sign of his pursuers — there were none. He was safe for the time being.

The young Stoor heard thunder and looked up. The darkening skies were preparing to release their heavy burdens to give life to the Earth.

If only the rain could revive his soul . . .

As the rain fell and poured heavily, Sméagol fled towards the Misty Mountains, following the Gladden River, eventually finding a small indent of rock on the mountain base to partially shelter him from the cold, wet rain.

Only when the adrenaline wore off, and shivering, did Sméagol notice the dead quiet around him. There was no sound, no noise save for the thunderous torrent of the rain and the crack of thunder, no light save for the occasional flashes of lightning. No living thing save for himself was here. The silence was deafening — not even the roar of the thunder and the hammering of the rain could drown out the silence that was suffocating him.

With a wet, cold hand, Sméagol reached into his coat pocket and brought it out. He opened his trembling hand to reveal the Ring, beautiful and enchanting.

"My Precious," he cooed, petting the Ring with his index finger. "My birthday present."

Yet the Ring mocked and tormented him even as he admired it, sucking the air around him until it became a void of silence, from which became too unbearable to endure.

Then a lump bubbled from his throat, and despite Sméagol's attempts to stifle it, it came out in a gurgling, choking cough. "Gollum!" he choked. "Gollum! Gollum!"

The Ring whispered to him, in a tongue he could not comprehend. Sméagol, appalled at the voice that came out of him, as if from a different person, and brought a hand to his aching throat, before weeping heavily.

He wept at the unfairness of it all, his body shaking, rocking back and forth as he grieved for the Hobbit hole he had once lived in.

"It's my birthday," he sobbed. "It's my birthday."

And we wept, Precious. We wept, we were so alone.

Sméagol awoke to the warm beams of light radiating from the sun — the only living thing to keep him company, yet could never understand, oblivious to his pain and malevolent torment caused by the Ring.

He looked to his right and saw a dead sparrow laying there. His mouth began watering and picked up the wet carcass. The bird must've gotten blown by the wind and hit one of the rocks.

Just as he was considering to start a fire to cook the bird, something within him caused him to sink his teeth into the little morsel and devoured it raw, feathers and all. It was a crunchy morning snack that he surprisingly enjoyed very much. But his stomach growled for more.

So he ventured around the mountains until he came across a shallow murky pond — a perfect fishing spot. He could see a bottom-feeder swimming close to the shallow end of the pond, close to the surface.

"I got you where I wants you, Precious," Sméagol said to himself, as he positioned himself just above the fish. "Oh yes, little fish, I got you. And Sméagol doesn't need no pole and bait to do it, no he doesn't."

Like the rest of his kith and kin, he was a professional fisherman, and was very patient, waiting until the fish was within striking distance before he struck it with his hand and caught it before it had a chance to swim away.

He jumped in glee, holding the fish in his hands. "Lookee! Lookee! We caughts you, Precious! We caughts you! There's no better fisher than Sméagol!"

With the fish still wriggling in his hands, Sméagol bit into the soft, juicy flesh and guts of the swimmer. This was a proper meal to feast on — he hadn't had a decent meal since his exile from Gladden Fields.

Soon, however, in SA 2470, the Ring would bring Sméagol to a cave entrance, from where it would lead him deep into the bowels and depths of the Misty Mountains. Sméagol wished to find a secret place where his Precious would be safe — a place where no one will try to steal his birthday present.

With one last glance at the Vale of Anduin (where his home, the Gladden Fields, resided therein) — at the trees so green, the air so fresh, the Gladden River so clear, and the sky so blue — he went into the cave entrance, never again to see the surface.

And we forgot the taste of bread, the sound of trees, the softness of the wind.

As years rolled on by in the slow decay of time, Sméagol learned to embrace the void of the darkness in the Caves under the Misty Mountains. He learned how to hunt the cave dwellers within the bowels of the Mountains: fish, bats, and other living and edible creatures, as well as the occasional Goblin he would manage to catch (as disgusting as they were, food was food). And his eyesight became accustomed to cave living, and could see in it as if it were day (if he could remember what daytime looked like).

He had discovered with glee an underground lake with a small island in the middle that was full of tasty fish blind from living in the eternal night of their underwater realm.

"This is the perfect place for Sméagol to live in," he said. "Yes! Yes! Lots of fishes to eats, Precious! Gollum! Gollum! Yes, this will do Sméagol nicely."

This was where he established his residence, building a small boat to fish on the lake and as transportation between the island and the shore. He also built for himself a small hut on the island using rags, hides, bones, and any provisions he stripped off of the Goblins he ate.

It was there where he hid the Ring in a secret place to keep it safe from potential thieves. "We must keep it safe, Precious. Can't let the thieves steal my birthday present. It will be safe here, my Precious. Gollum! Gollum!"

As the years passed, the Ring twisted and manipulated his mind until he was no more than an animal — a creature whose only concern was his next meal and protecting his Precious. The Ring erased any memories of Sméagol's former life.

Gone was the Hobbit Sméagol. He answered to the name . . .

. . . Gollum.

We even forgot our own name.

Gollum caresses the Ring tenderly, talking to it as one would a person, eyes glazed in wanton obsession.

"My Precious," he purred, stroking the Ring — the object of his love and desire. "My own. My love. My own. My birthday present. Gollum! Gollum!"

And during these years that seemed to stretch eternal, Gollum used the Ring to help him trek through the caves unseen for unsuspecting prey such as bats or Goblins or other morsels, he would tuck the Ring into this secret place as a mother tucking in her child, and he would bask in its aura as he continuously spoke to it (or to himself) in a possessive chant, caressing the cool alloy of his most precious birthday present.

His sole purpose now was to protect His Ring, his birthday present, from thieves. He lives for his Precious, and would gladly give his life to protect it and keep it hidden, to keep it safe.

And he wouldn't hesitate to kill again — and even to eat — anyone or anything who wished to steal his precious Ring.

"My own. My love. My own.

My . . . prrrrreciousssss."

A.N. So I had the inspiration to write this when I watched the Return of the King for the 500th time, and saw the beginning with Sméagol and the Ring and then seeing him descend into the persona of Gollum.

I then decided to write from his perspective as he gets exiled by his kin and show him slowly descend from Sméagol to Gollum. This is also the first fanfic I've ever written that's finished. The others either need to be edited, rewritten, or haven't been finished yet. So this is a HUGE accomplishment for me.

This is based on both the books and the movies. For those of you who don't know the books, Sméagol is a Stoor Hobbit, which was one of the three races of Hobbits. They were heavier, stouter, the only Hobbits to have facial hair, and were most like men, and enjoyed close relationships with them. The Stoors were fishermen by trade and unlike the other Hobbits, lived in the flatlands and rivers in the Vale of Anduin and Rhovanion; Sméagol and Déagol's kin lived in the Vale of Anduin and specifically in the Gladden Fields surrounding and hugging the Gladden River. The Stoors clans were also led by Matriarchs — rather than Patriarchs — and the two Hobbits were the grandchildren of the Matriarch of their clan. After he killed his cousin and became corrupted by the Ring, Sméagol was kicked out by his grandmother out of their Hobbit hole and she and the rest of his clan chased him out into exile, where he fled the Gladden Fields and followed the River Gladden to the Misty Mountains in SA 2470, where he would live for the next 474 years before leaving the Mountains in TA 2944 to hunt down Bilbo and reclaim the Ring before eventually getting captured by Sauron and tortured severely, which led to Gollum telling him those two infamous words: "Shire . . . Baggins!"

Tell me what you think, my friends! Constructive criticism and encouragement is always welcome. The kudos and comments don't hurt, either. And if you want to further talk about Gollum and the Ring, either comment or PM me. I'm always up for talking LOTR.

Farewell, my friends. Until next we meet!

- Noctus Fury