Frodo looked down at his empty left hand—where Gollum’s fingertip had brushed his skin—and saw a single, fading scale of cold.
Frodo swallowed. “Go away. Leave us alone.” SneakyOne.Gollums-precious.1.var
Gollum’s eyes narrowed. The sorrow vanished, replaced by something sharp and ancient. Frodo looked down at his empty left hand—where
“No,” Frodo whispered, more to himself than to Gollum. “I’m not like you.” Leave us alone
Frodo felt the Ring pulse. A hot, vile sympathy. He understands, the Ring seemed to purr. He’s like you. Lost. Alone.
The Shire was dark, not with the wholesome black of a summer night, but with the oily, creeping gloom that had bled out of Mordor. Frodo felt the weight of the Ring like a cold, contracting fist around his soul. Sam was asleep, his breathing a soft, trustworthy rhythm against a mossy root.
“SneakyOne. Gollum’s precious. One point… var.”