Preface: The characters are not mine, etc. etc. I'd like to thank my former roommate for her worldly Tolkien expertise and willingness to answer stupid questions and Chathol-linn and the Fliewatuet for their terrific editing job. Everything seen on this website should be the final draft of this barring me finding a good reason to edit it more than it has been edited.

“If a man must walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of the Morgul Vale, then perils he will have. I, too, despaired at last, and I began my homeward journey. And then, by fortune, I came suddenly on what I sought: the marks of soft feet beside a muddy pool.”

-Aragorn (The Fellowship of the Ring)

1. The Plains of Anórien

A breeze, brisk and fresh, swept down from the Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains, and stirred the still air. Alone and uneasy, facing the strange and empty night on the vast plain of Anórien between the Ered Nimrais and Anduin, Aragorn sharpened his blades on a coarse stone. He was clad poorly, in raiment of dark green and brown, a stained and travel-worn cloak and high boots of faded and supple leather caked with mud. The only things of value in his possession – other than the sword, assorted knives, and bow and arrows -- were a corslet of mail underneath the weather-beaten tunic and on his left index finger the ring of Barahir, two serpents eating one another’s tails, their eyes fashioned of glittering emeralds.[i]

For untold weeks he and Gandalf the Grey had traveled in a meandering, southerly course from Western Mirkwood, a hopeless quest through the whole length of Wilderland, searching for traces of Gollum. And then several weeks ago in his despair, the wizard forsook the chase, saying he suspected another way to confirm his fears that the ring of power in the Shire was indeed the long-lost One. To Minas Tirith he went in haste, leaving Aragorn alone to continue their formidable and hopeless quest. Aragorn had not heard a word from Gandalf since they had parted company, but from a group of Gondorean soldiers headed to maintain the garrisons at Cair Andros, he had heard of a slinking shadow, a skulking creature of little more substance than a whiff of dark smoke. It was headed east, towards Mordor, but the soldiers admitted that had been months ago. Gandalf had suspicions that Gollum had ventured to the Black Land, for all evil was drawn there as moths to flame. What hope had they now? If Gollum had indeed entered Mordor, he would not have gone undetected. And if captured, Aragorn had no more hope in secrecy. In the dungeons of Barad-Dûr, the Valar only knew what he screamed to his captors. Aragorn sighed and sheathed his blades.

Wisps of cloud dimmed the moonlight, which offered no comfort in this ghastly night, too grim and bleak for forthrightness. Forty years ago, Aragorn had fought underneath the proud banners of Gondor; even in the dead of winter the plains of the South had not been locked in such deep cold. The shadow creeping from Mordor had driven the land into a bitter winter. Frost, like shimmering white jewels, clung to the long grass and ornamented scattered clumps of trees, and the sharp air pricked flesh and lungs. Wrapping his cloak about his shoulders, Aragorn lay down in a hollow cut into the rolling plains, hidden from the sight of all, friend and foe, by a rounded stone outcropping. As soon as he stretched out upon the ground, sleep overtook him.

* * *

Morning brought forth a brilliant sun, ringlets of golden light reaching towards the Ered Nimrais; the snowcapped peaks glinted silver and white, blinding the eyes. A stiff wind blustered above timberline, and snow billowed like the sails of ship from the mountaintops and swirled into thin will-o-wisps of clouds. Like the silver-white spray of windblown snow shimmering in sunlight, hope leapt up within Aragorn’s breast, driving into retreat the forlorn shadow enveloping him in the bitter night. But even the mightiest gales of the most tempestuous storms did not blow away the burden of time. Every day he vacillated upon his course was one more day for Sauron to build his army upon the Plains of Gorgoroth, and if indeed the Dark Lord had extracted the location of the Ring from Gollum, one more day for him to send his servants after the Ring.

But Aragorn must be unflagging. If Gollum had penetrated the fences of Mordor and been captured, he was no less of a threat, for the Ring called to him – this both Aragorn and Gandalf and probably Sauron knew – and the creature in his lust could lead Sauron to it. And if he remained free, then Aragorn’s quest remained the same, finding and capturing Gollum before the Enemy. Gollum’s capture he and Gandalf had sought for the last nine years, and the creature had eluded them. Aragorn heaved a great sigh, rising to his feet. His odds would be better playing a game of dice at the Prancing Pony in Bree, hundreds of leagues away at the borders of the Shire.

“If indeed the wretched creature were captured by the Enemy and if indeed he escaped from their clutches,” Aragorn said aloud to desolate Anórien, finding little solace in the sound of his own clear voice in the cold silence. His words mocked him, for the odds seemed wellnigh impossible to beat. “Then what road would he have taken?”

A powerful garrison of orcs, men, and other vassals of Sauron zealously guarded the Black Gate, the Morannon. Its stone ramparts were impervious and sleepless orcs and trolls kept a watchful vigilance from the parapet and the two great watchtowers on the black cliffs flanking the Morannon; any strange movement upon the cliffs they would perceive and slay. And then, the two mountain ranges of Mordor collided in a deep defile from which there was neither escape nor shelter, the Pass of Cirith Gorgor. It would be folly to cross in or out of Mordor that way, a road leading the unwary to inevitable death, either upon the Dagorlad or on Cirith Gorgor. Gollum, though the Ring had twisted his mind and murdered his soul, was not foolish – or courageous for that matter – thus it made little sense to Aragorn that Gollum had risked passage through the Morannon. Another way, then. What other path led to the heart of Mordor?

“The Pass of Cirith Ungol,” Aragorn breathed. The pass ascended the cliffs above Minas Morgul, a treacherous series of stairs, steep and deadly, carved into the toothed rocks. And in the crags and crevasses at the summit of Ephel Dúath lurked an evil older than Sauron himself, as old as Morgoth and the Valar. Orcs feared it too and few patrolled those ancient tunnels. A malevolent path of ancient betrayal, a path that surely would attract a creature such as Gollum, in whose veins treachery ran deep.

Cirith Ungol was no straightforward road. Aragorn feared approaching Minas Morgul, the city of the Ringwraiths. Once a prized city of Gondor’s erstwhile province of Ithilien – Minas Ithil – it had fallen into the hands of the Nazgûl in the year 2002, its defenses failing after two years of siege. It was now the vicinage of the Witch-King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl, a dismal place of grief and despair. A wisp of apprehension clouded Aragorn’s heart as he looked to the East, his gray eyes settling upon the austere Ephel Dúath, framed by a fallow red haze, the ash rising from Mordor lingering close to the craggy peaks. There his road lay, to the very confines of the Black Land, beneath the angry red and gray sky and remorseless black rock. The east road was the one road he did not desire to tread, the one road the Men of Gondor did not speak of, the east winds they did not look to for tidings.

Anduin he intended to ford approximately ten miles south of Cair Andros, thereby avoiding the fort, Minas Tirith, and the ruined fortress of Osgiliath. Another day, a day he did not foresee through the gloom veiling his foresight, he would once again ride into the White City. In any event, the Great West Road could be perilous, for Aragorn had heard that orcs used it on occasion; and even men of Gondor, none too amiable towards strangers in these dark days, posed a threat. Though the wild had its own hazards, it seemed the safer road.

* * *

Aragorn crossed Anórien uneventfully. He met one merchant crossing the plain in his wagon, but other than glowering with suspicion through bristling eyebrows and a dwarf-like beard, the merchant gave no hurt to him and offered Aragorn extra food and a skin of water in exchange for one of the many knives Aragorn carried.

“Alas, it is a foreboding sign of these ill times when Gondorean merchants trade food for weapons in their own lands,” Aragorn said after thanking the merchant for his kindness, mere propriety of course since the man could not be said to have acted out of kindness, but even in the darkest times propriety and law must prevail.

The man scowled, dark gray eyes narrowing as though he thought Aragorn a madman, then he cracked the whip at his lumbering draught horse. Aragorn watched the wagon trundle towards the West, the Drúadan Forest and Ered Nimrais, a speck against the splendid mountain range. Ominous clouds hovered above the peaks. Snow fell in the mountains and in Minas Tirith, constructed on the knees of Mindolluin, the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. Was Minas Tirith the merchant’s destination, a perilous journey from here; unless one took the long way around? The straight road led through the broken fort of Osgiliath, the deserted city on the riverbanks. Once a thriving port, the principal city of Gondor, ere civil war and plague in the early Third Age ravaged and destroyed its great dome, its magnificent bridge and stonework, and its people fled to Minas Tirith and Ithilien. Now its ruins were a haggard bulwark, holding Sauron’s forces to Anduin’s eastern shore.

Another few days found Aragorn standing upon the steep banks of swift-flowing Anduin, pale gray limestone tilted at various cants, burnished by flood and wind, pitching into thin white strips of sandy beach. The river, bluish-gray in hue, running deep and fast, boiling with treacherous white water, spanned a furlong. Not even he could swim that current. Kneeling upon the top of the limestone cliffs, he frowned upon the river, for there ought to be a trestle bridge spanning the breadth of the frigid waters. Serving as a captain in Gondor’s army forty years ago, he had marshaled an assault upon a troop of orcs and routed them across the Anduin, across a narrow bridge several leagues to the south of Cair Andros. He had hoped it would still be here; otherwise he had to cross the river at Osgiliath, which both Minas Tirith and Mordor watched vigilantly, hence passing through its ruins unnoticed would be no easy task.

Finding the bridge had been a tenuous hope anyway, for it had been forty years and someone could have very well smote it and fed its ruins to the river. However, not even an anchor or rope did Aragorn see, no evidence that a bridge once straddled this section of the river. He did not yet rue his choice to cross here. Downstream he turned, thinking he had misjudged the bridge’s position. Fighting thick brush studded with thorns and low branches grabbing at his weather-worn cloak and hair, Aragorn glimpsed through the foliage a bridge traversing Anduin’s daunting width, a flimsy wooden trestle barely sturdy enough to support his weight. A fraying rope anchored the bridge to the sturdy trunk of an ancient birch. But the bridge’s dilapidated condition did not faze him – an improvement it remained over Osgiliath.

Some creature had trampled a path to the bridge, ripping up the brush, tearing soil, and flaying open the net of low branches. Aragorn squatted down upon the makeshift path, examining the tracks. A number of two-legged creatures wearing heavy, iron boots had passed this way in a great hurry. Orcs. Inhaling sharply, Aragorn drew his sword and sprang to his feet. The company of approximately a dozen orcs had milled around here for some time – the ground around the riverbank was torn up for a wide swath in concentric circles and droplets of dark red blood flecked the leaves of trees and a clump of ferns. They had scuffled, no uncommon thing for orcs, who would kill each other as joyously as they would kill a Man or Elf. Then they had bolted down the path leaving a trail of destruction through brush and bough, clear enough for a blind man to trace. Their tracks were not more than a day old. Anxious that they might be nearby, perhaps bivouacked for the day or returning from their errand, Aragorn stretched out upon the ground, ear pressed to the earth, listening for the sounds of heavy boots pummeling the ground. He heard nothing.

Wary even though the only sounds in his ears were the twittering of the thrush, the whisper of the wind through the trees, and the deep, resounding roar of the river, he rose and approached the bridge, stepping lightly, sword raised. He glanced over his shoulder towards the vacant woods and entertained the fleeting thought of pursuing the party of orcs. Not this time. His quarry lay to the East, across the roiling river.

The bridge itself looked more treacherous upon closer observation than it did from afar, two ancient ropes stretched across the water, bound together by rotting wood and rusting nails, supported by gaunt wooden trestles, sagging wearily in the middle where the river ran deepest. Unfortunately, unless one had a boat, it was the only crossing within miles.

“If a dozen orcs can cross it,” he said. “Then surely I can.” And he had no choice unless he prolonged his journey for many more days than he had the time to waste.

With a grim countenance, he sheathed the sword and stepped upon the rickety bridge, gripping the rough, frayed ropes, which cut into his hands. The bridge swayed but it held. He eased over the bridge one step after another, wincing at the creaking of the wood and whining of the ropes under his weight. He did not tarry long on any slat, for small splinters of wood cracked beneath him, a disconcerting noise stopping his heart with each pop. This should be a duty for an Elf, lighter and nimbler than any Man.

In spite of its groaning, the bridge held Aragorn. A tumble of rocks rolling into the gray water reached out invitingly towards him, an easy jump from the bridge. He sprang, the rocking ropes shortening his leap and he landed upon slippery rock, slipping and stumbling to his knees on the hard stone. Ere he managed to scrambled to his feet, he heard the rattle of swords and helms, the stomp of heavy boots, and the harsh guttural cries, the foul speech, of orcs in the woods. On his side of the river. He dropped flat upon his stomach, pressed against the rock, holding his breath. With silent deliberation, he drew his sword from its scabbard. The orcs clattered towards him, hacking down brush and trees. Aragorn rose to his hands and knees and crawled up the bank. Above the rim of the riverbank he peered. A troop of six or seven orcs shuffled through the woods, flaying boughs with their blades, uttering vile curses against the sun and one another. The gentle breeze carried their fetid scent to Aragorn, the stench of carrion rotting in the baking sun. They would go no further. The orcs already on the western shore he had to let go, for a hunt would divert him far from his course, but these he could prevent from crossing into Anórien.

Focusing his mind upon the smooth and solid hilt of the sword, an Elven blade he used until the Shards of Narsil were to be reforged anew, he crouched and abided, seconds trickling past like hours. The orcs stomped out of the trees, snarling in the rank language of Mordor.

Aragorn leapt out from behind the bank, crying “Elendil!” His first blow caught the lead orc in the neck and the creature fell dead with strangled howl. His second blow slashed open the breast of another orc, and it too contorted its face in agony and died. By then, the other four had drawn their axes and notched scimitars and sprang upon him. His blade came down upon the helm of another, shattering it and cleaving the orc’s head in two.

The remaining three huddled together, brandishing their scimitars, in fear of this strange enemy, a wayworn traveler with courage and surprising skills with a blade. Sword thrust forward, Aragorn strode towards them, a gleam in his gray eyes. One orc growled, baring hideous, jagged teeth, and lunged for him, only to die when Aragorn knocked its scimitar aside and plunged his sword through its breast. Its two terrified companions fled, running past Aragorn and leaping upon the bridge, clinging to the cables as it swayed violently hither and thither. Grim and silent, Aragorn watched them stagger across the trestles, and when they had reached the midpoint, he raised his sword and hewed one of the cables. With an ear-splitting whine, it snapped and the bridge shuddered. Eyes wild with fear, the orcs looked back at him and rushed for the western shore, tripping over broken slats and one another. Aragorn hacked the second cable, and with a tremendous groan, the bridge slithered into the water, to and fro, like a giant serpent. Shrieking, the two orcs attempted to scramble towards the opposite bank, but their weight and the grip of the churlish rapids sprung the rope from the birch tree, and bridge and orcs went spinning downstream, bouncing upon the waves until they went over a drop and down into a hole of churning water, forced to their deaths by the tumultuous river.

Aragorn examined the woods for unusual movement; they were empty but for the lark and the thrush. Soon this bank would be overrun with orcs. He worried more would emerge from the trees, searching for their fallen comrades and the bridge, perhaps overbearing hordes of them, more than one Man had a hope of fighting on his own. Aragorn drew his hood over his head. He picked up a fast pace and vanished into the woods.

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[i] According to book canon, Aragorn had given the ring to Arwen in Lothórien when he plighted his troth to her. Even though this story is predominately based in book canon, I have taken some liberties with it and inserted movie canon if it enhances the narrative. This is in fact the only instance where I have done so.

2. The Shadow of the Morgul Vale

The Ephel Dúath, a towering wall of serrated peaks and cliffs of shadow, blotted out sun and stars. Beyond the woods bordering Anduin, the land was desolate, dusty and blemished by cruel, jagged rocks, a bleak sight to behold. Poisonous fumes spewed up from vents in the barren ground, discharging gases searing the lungs and eyes if inhaled. No cool breezes bringing hope and life blew here. The air was stale and oppressive, sweltering, for volcanic fumes from Mordor eddied in the Vale, vanquishing sweet and fresh air. There was no water and the plant life was sparse; spiny cacti, poisonous flowers, brush with barbs that rent like knives, plants struggling for life that would not perish in the toxic wasteland.

Aragorn attempted to steer wide of the vents, but sometimes he had no choice but to inhale the noxious air belching from the foul earth beneath Mordor. Brooding gloom caked the desolate tors, the cragged spurs of Ephel Dúath thrusting down to the broken vale. The summit of the Mountains of Shadow was swathed in cloud and ash and smoke, black as a moonless night. The fumes sickened him; Aragorn stumbled deliriously through the sharp rocks and twisted, bitter brush until he could walk no more, and then he cast himself down upon the sand until the noisome toxins cleared his blood and some measure of strength returned – usually within several hours – and persisted his dismal slog through the Vale. The very air he breathed scalded the lungs and tears stung the eyes.

The morose cloud of ash hugging Mordor and Ephel Dúath veiled his mountains, the mountains of the West, the Ered Nimrais, in an impregnable black and gray haze. How it tempted him to turn away from this desolate place of misery and despair at the ends of the earth, and flee to the North or even Gondor! But he trudged onwards. If Aragorn faltered irreparably on his path, his beloved mountain ranges would be forever concealed by fire and ash. Knowledge of Middle-Earth’s fate should Sauron find the Ring infused strength into his will. He had to persevere, as once did Beren in the dungeons of Morgoth, so he forced himself along another mile.

Four days he proceeded in this manner: four days walking through the inhospitable wasteland, although it seemed an age. In a meandering course he wandered, hither and thither from the foothills of the Ephel Dúath, searching for Gollum’s tracks. Had he traveled straightway, the distance between Minas Morgul and Anduin was not more than a two days’ walk. On the fifth day, the ominous shadow of Minas Morgul itself, the city of the Ringwraiths, lanced him like a spear wielded by a stone-giant. Still, Aragorn could not see the city. It lay one day more to the Southeast, concealed by high ridges and ugly defiles. The sulphuric stench of fumaroles rose to his nostrils and he saw noxious green and gray steam belching from the ground not fifty feet to his right. Covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve, torn and bloodied from scraping over rocks, he turned away from the vent, but it was too late and ere long dizziness swept over him. He sank down upon the ground, head between his knees, resting his eyes from the twirling mirages. As he rested underneath the shadow of a boulder, he heard rough voices, clanking metal, and hard boots stomping against rock and earth. A large company of orcs. For several breathless minutes, Aragorn waited, listening. They spoke a disfigured version of Westron rather than their own coarse tongues. It must be more than one tribe, then, for languages amongst orcs varied enough that orcs from one region or tribe did not comprehend the tongues of orcs from another.

"You smell somethin’?”

Aragorn hearkened the sound of sniffing and growling.

"Manflesh!”

“’ere? What’s a Man doing ‘ere?”

“Spyin’ of course. Hunt ‘im down, boys!”

In wide, concentric circles they searched, drawing ever closer to Aragorn’s hiding place underneath the basalt boulders. He rued the poison fumes fogging his mind – he had not been as careful as he would otherwise have been and left them a trail to follow. The orcs would find him. Hope fled his heart. But not in vain would he die! Weak as he was, they had not found him yet; the element of surprise would work in his favor. He unsheathed his sword. At least he would die a glorious death in battle and not the ignominious death of a poor fool ambushed by orcs.

The moment the orcs came close enough for their stench to furl his nostrils, he gathered what strength remained and rushed at them, sword brandished high. His swift attack stunned them, and he slew two before they besieged him like a pack of rabid curs. Blades clashed. Aragorn maimed a third orc and turned upon a fourth, breathing labored as the air burned and choked his lungs, battling exhaustion and strain as furiously as he battled his enemies. Alas, he failed on both counts. He felt a sharp blow across the back of his head. There was agony and then there was nothing. Death perhaps bearing him away at last.

* * *

Death should have been fair green fields, tranquil and beautiful, liberated from life’s sorrows and toils. Aragorn should have walked into the embracing arms of his mother and father, of long-dead kin, Elendil and Isildur and all those who had died in the Fall of Númenor and in great battles, of friends who had died at his side.

There should be neither pain nor sweltering heat. There should be neither foul odors nor grating voices. There should be no rough hands clawing at his shoulder, jerking him about, flinging him upon his back and forcing vile-tasting, acidic liquid down his throat, which caused him to sputter and cough and thrash in protestation, and brought consciousness back like a blow to the head. He was not dead after all. The hands pinned him against the ground and depraved orc voices laughed at his suffering and more liquid was forced into him. In spite of its astringent taste, it brought warmth to his stomach and strength to his mind and body. He knew enough of orcs to recognize the liquid from stories and scrolls; a powerful tonic that could ease many hurts if the taste of it alone did not kill, sometimes used to enliven a prisoner so that information could be tortured out of him. They will cure me to torment me, Aragorn thought, so I shall not respond to it.

The orcs shook him violently. “It’s not working,” one said.

“Who’s fault is that, Snegrath? You’re the fool who hit ‘im in the ‘ead.” The owner of the second voice kicked Aragorn in the ribs, and it took all Aragorn’s will to not do more than curl up in pain. Lie still he must, for heavy boots in his ribs would be the least of his agonies should his captors think him closer to life than death.

Spitting vile curses upon Aragorn and upon one another, the orcs flung him aside and lurched to their main encampment. Greatly relieved to be let alone, he considered his predicament, and an ember of hope burned. Sharp rocks bore into his side and hip, but he feared movement of any sort would draw their attention again; better to withstand discomfort and prolong his life. The orcs had bound his wrists together with rough rope, which chafed painfully at his flesh, but they had not bound his feet. They had also removed all weaponry, but left him his mail corslet and the ring of Barahir. If hording treasure be their mission, why leave him the ring and the mail? He wondered that he was still breathing, for orcs were not known for mercy or for taking prisoners. A stroke of fortune indeed.

Apparently that was a source of much contention amongst the orcs.

“The Eye wants ‘im alive,” the one called Snegrath grunted. “That’s the orders, lads, to bring anything caught wanderin’ these lands to ‘im alive. For questionin’.”

“This one’s already ‘alf dead,” said a new voice. “He won’t be much good for questionin.’”

“And we ain’t had much to eat ‘cept moldy bread since we left Lugbúrz with you rats,” added a third. “You think the Eye’ll notice if you don’t bring back one prisoner?”

“We ‘ave our orders,” snarled Snegrath, “and intend on keepin’ to ‘em.”

“And we’re ‘ungry! ‘e’s not walkin’ anyway, so we ‘ave to drag him all the way to Lugbúrz? Might as well drag a bloody corpse.”

“Why are you complaining? You ain’t doing the dragging.”

The harsh voices went back and forth for some time. Aragorn guessed that one group of orcs was from Minas Morgul, the other from Barad-Dûr, and the Barad-Dûr orcs ostensibly had orders from their dark master to not indiscriminately kill Men and Elves found wandering within their borders, while the Minas Morgul orcs had less compunction and saw more value in satiating their appetites with flesh than in appeasing Sauron. Either way, death was inevitable if he did not escape. But orcs were not attentive creatures and a distraction, food or a skirmish amongst their ranks, which was brewing in any event, might provide him with an opportunity for flight.

And so did he shut his eyes and abide his time. Only in the vaguest sense was he aware of a shining snake, silver and copper diamonds ornamenting its back as if an Elven smith had hammered jewels into its scales, crawling out from beneath a rock – snakes and lizards were the only life he had observed in the Vale – and coiling against his breast, seeking warmth. A sudden movement would incite the snake to bite him and facilitate the orcs’ decision. The thing might be one of Sauron’s vassals, he thought, but it I can thwart. Were there no creatures in this place that did not hold allegiance to the Dark Lord? He remained as still as a stone.

For a long while, he was left lying on the borders of the orc encampment, but after some hours Snegrath stomped over to him, spitting, “You’re still ‘alf dead. Well, not much can be done about it now and you’re still comin’ along with us.” The orc bent down, touching Aragorn’s face with hands ice cold like a dead fish, prodding him with a scythe-like knife, and he grunted, “Well, you ain’t all the way dead yet. You’ll be of some use.” Grunting some words in the cruel language of Mordor orcs, he grabbed Aragorn’s shoulders and heaved him over onto his back and there saw the wriggling copper tail slithering into Aragorn’s tunic, fleeing from the cold and the light. “Fresh meat!” he said in Westron and grasped the snake by the tail.

For a second, the orc and the snake stared yellow eye to yellow eye, the former drooling ravenously and the latter thrashing in terror. Then the orc took the tail in his slavering jaws and bit down hard upon it, and the snake struck at Snegrath’s unshielded neck. Uttering a strangled cry, the orc fell back, dropping the knife and clutching his throat, gurgling as the poison flowed through him. Aragorn opened his eyes. Not five feet from him the orc lay sprawled upon his back, writhing hither and thither in the throes of death. And glinting like a beacon of hope in the dust was his scythe. Aragorn’s eye fixed upon the knife and he rolled over onto his stomach, wriggling towards the weapon and taking it between his bound hands.

Curious as to the strangled cries, another two orcs scurried towards where Aragorn and Snegrath lay. Lying flat upon his stomach, Aragorn hid the scythe beneath his breast, twisting the blade upwards so it pressed into the ropes binding his wrists.

The orcs shoved Snegrath’s convulsing body aside and stared at Aragorn, gluttony gleaming in their pale eyes.

“Looks as if your little reprieve is over,” one said. “Your protector’s gone. ‘e’s the only one who cared that the Eye ‘ad a talk with you before we killed you.” Grinning at his companion, he added, “Ain’t that right?”

“Right, right,” said the other. “Gut ‘im. Bleed ‘im like a stuck pig.”

Drawing their blades, they reached for him, slavering, quivering with exultation at the prospect of slitting open his belly. As their coarse, clammy hands touched his shoulder and the notched tip of the scimitar prodded his lower back, he rolled over and kicked out with all the speed and ferociousness he had at his command, catching one in the groin and sending him toppling sideways. Yelping, stunned by seeing a Man presumed almost dead spring back into life with such vigor, the other orc shied away from him. Aragorn drew himself to his feet, wielding the scythe and allowing the bonds to fall to the ground before the quavering orc’s bloodshot eyes.

“The only blood spilt here tonight will be yours,” he said and thrust the curved dagger through the orc’s throat. Blood spurted, a great fountain, oozing into the black volcanic ground. Aragorn hardly had time to catch his breath when the other orc lurched across the sands, having recovered from the blow. Swinging his scimitar, yellow teeth pulled back from his lips, he attacked. Scimitar clashed against scythe. Swift as an arrow from an Elven bow, Aragorn feinted and parried, then he leapt away from the deadly iron, flinging the scythe at his foe. It spun like a disk and embedded itself in the orc’s neck. The scimitar clattering to the stones, the orc crumpled with a gurgling moan.

Over two dozen orcs had set up a camp fifty or so yards away, a number Aragorn would be hard pressed to battle single-handedly when in the best of health and strength, and in this moment he had neither. Already their scuffle had alerted those in the camp to something going amiss and in seconds, they would set upon him and unquestionably kill him. He had to flee into the craggy hills at the foot of the Ephel Dúath, a precarious place to hide indeed, but he had grasped at tenuous threads of life, and he had won thus far. Light and hope pierced him, a smiting and transplendent thought that the shadow was no more than a passing thing and the light of Ilúvatar would prevail in the end.

His assortment of weapons had been thrown callously into an immense pile of daggers, swords, knives, and bows the orcs had assembled in their rampaging and pillaging. Though he regretted losing the sword, it was hardly worth losing his life to retrieve. Instead, he collected the scimitar, the scythe of course, three small daggers, a broadsword, and two skins of water from Snegrath and the two orcs he had slain.

“Where are they?”

“ ‘ow long does it take to drag a bloody prisoner over ‘ere?”

The grating voices intensified as the orcs advanced. Hastily Aragorn knelt behind a rock and thrust his arsenal into his belt and cloak, and then he vaulted over another boulder and ran to the lee side of another, situating as many rocks between himself and Sauron’s vassals as he could. Enraged curses floated to his ears: the orcs had found their three comrades dead and their prisoner gone astray. Before they could commence a search, Aragorn crawled over the rocks, clinging to the basalt so as to leave no track, clambering into the nethermost coombs, the vast crevasses and faults slicing through the Ephel Dúath.

A vista of serrated peaks rearing for the dark sky stretched before him, and not more than two miles to the North, high on its rocky seat at the knees of the Ephel Dúath, the gloomy walls and tower of Minas Morgul guarded the mountains and Cirith Ungol. Aragorn gazed northwards, shading his eyes as he oriented his position, well to the south of anywhere he desired to be. He had feared as much. The orcs had carried him some leagues south, for he had been approaching Minas Morgul from the North, aiming to investigate Cirith Ungol while remaining several miles distant from Minas Morgul itself. Now he had to travel just beneath its villainous battlements. All was dark about it, the earth and sky, yet it glowed with a pale light, paler than moon and stars. The mere sight of the Dead City sank Aragorn’s spirit. His ancestors had safeguarded it for a thousand years when it stood proud as Minas Ithil, Tower of the Moon, a gem in the paradise of Ithilien, and the blood of Westernesse infused strength into Men. In these dark days the blood of Númenor was all but exhausted, the Ring found at last, the Enemy’s strength swelling. But Sauron did not have the Ring yet – it was in the possession of a hobbit, a race Gandalf, one of the Wise, had a great deal of faith in -- nor had he yet slain Elendil’s heir.

Below him, Aragorn saw the orcs crawling about, searching for a track, but he had vanished like a wraith, traceless into the shadowy foothills. He hid in a dank crevasse just wide enough for him to brace his knees against one side and his back against the other, the broadsword drawn in the event he was found, his heart beating a heavy rhythm. Find him they did not, though they searched exhaustively. Mayhap a more patient and exacting search would have led the orcs to Aragorn’s hiding-place, but orcs, especially when angered, were impatient creatures and under the best of circumstances, they were not exceedingly clever.

As night fell and the orcs abandoned their search, Aragorn cautiously climbed out of his crevasse, chimnying up the sheer walls and resting upon the crest, concealed from view of any creature below by toothy ridges jutting from the hogback. Minas Morgul glowed a dim and pallid green in the dark. Aragorn gazed at the sky seeking Eärendil, a flare of hope, but no stars pierced through the ashen sky. The only visible light being the evil green glow cast by Minas Morgul on the side of a long, tilted valley, a deep gulf of shadow reaching far back into the mountains. Tomorrow Aragorn would venture to its gates, hunting for a sign that Gollum had traversed the Pass of Cirith Ungol and waylaying festering doubts that Gollum had gone that way at all. Tonight, he would rest and examine his wounds as best he could, given that he loathed the idea of removing his cloak or mail in this noxious place.

His body ached and the toxic air had sapped his strength, but to his astonishment he had suffered no grievous injury; the pain afflicting him no more appalling than what he had suffered in countless battles and errantries. Dried blood encrusted the back of his head and neck, and blood oozed from raw and painful flesh on his wrists. He tore off two strips from his cloak and wrapped his wrists. Until he reached Ithilien, where the flowers were not deadly to the touch and the water not poisonous, and there clean the wounds with fresh water and salve them with the athelas plant, these makeshift bandages would have to do. Better to wrap the wounds in the soiled cloth than let them be infected by the falling ash and dust. Tired from his ordeal, he tried to sleep upon the rock face, a restless sleep, ever and anon tossing and turning, listening fearfully to the night-noises with one ear open.

Thus Aragorn was still exhausted when feeble tendrils of morning sunlight pushed their way through cloud and ash – what would, by some, be called dawn. It was always dark here. Menacing black clouds clung to the tower of Minas Morgul, casting the valley where the city huddled against the Ephel Dúath in shadow, a faint bloodied light glowed sullenly within the dark clouds and mist covering Mordor beyond the mountain range. Rest had stiffened bruised muscles, his wounds and fatigue harried him as he trudged over the rocks. Should orcs or other chattel of Sauron attack him now, he felt sure he could not withstand it. Yet his luck did not forsake him and he encountered few living creatures in the crags of Ephel Dúath, not even snakes and lizards. Only crows circled high overhead, spies of Sauron they well might be, but they would not harm him themselves.

By his will alone, he pressed onward, holding a course high above the long valley, climbing wearily over the black volcanic rock, sharp and unforgiving, scraping his flesh every time he slipped or stumbled; his breath coming in laborious gasps as he drew closer to Minas Morgul.

As he crouched beneath its southernmost wall, terror keener than any he had ever known in all his long life clutched him, an icy clasp crushing the breath from his lungs. He crawled along the wall, shoulder pressed against chilled stone, until he reached the gap in the bulwark where the road proceeded through the gate, two hideous stone sentinels, gaping, disfigured demons baring vicious fangs, atop intricately filigreed columns guarding the causeway. The gate itself was a cavernous maw in the northward walls. Cirith Ungol lay on the other side of the city, two miles down a road crawling deviously up the side of the valley towards the gate, crossing a stream from which steam rose in insalubrious wisps and wrapped around the ghostly white bridge. Behind the walls of the city stood the tower, once the Tower of the Rising Moon, a beautiful and prized possession of Gondor, but now gleaming with a ghastly fallow light illuminating nothing. The top tier of the tower rotated, a steady back and forth motion like some unblinking pale eye surveying its realm.

A steep drop-off from the road to a culvert alongside it afforded Aragorn some scanty protection. On his hands and knees, he crept through the culvert lest he be espied by the evil fortifying Minas Morgul, the Nazgûl and other fell things dwelling behind the battlements. His eyes he averted from the hideous tower until he reached the white bridge and the wide flats flanking the stream, the polluted, steaming tributary of the Morgulduin trickling silently from the city. Luminous flowers speckled the flats, beautiful yet disfigured and corrupted, the images of a nightmare. They stank of rotting flesh, of death and decay. Who knew if they were deadly to the touch? If Aragorn did not cross the bridge, he must pass through the flowers and jump the rill. From where he huddled on the bank, he felt a chill colder than death brush his face -- the deadly touch of foul steam wafting from the rivulet. He must cross the road, and it seemed wiser to cross in the dark instead of upon the pale bridge in full view of the city. Holding his breath, he negotiated the flat, stepping over and around the flowers, hopped across the water and dropped upon his stomach on the other side of the flat, crawled to the road and stared across it towards the toothy cliffs concealing the road from his eyes.

All warmth fled from his body. The steam of Morgulduin’s tributary had brushed him and cast a chill, a black shadow, upon him whilst he had jumped the stream. For several minutes he lay on the stony bank. He knew what watched the gates and what malevolence inhabited this place. His keen vision blurred, the rocks and fulsome green tower shimmering in a netherworld of haze. A lesser man would have despaired utterly days ago in this forsaken place, but Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, was blessed with great courage and stamina and thus had traveled further into this desolate land; yet alas, he too would fail.

Just as the realm of Lothlórien brought hope and life, merely by breathing in the fragrant air, listening to the breath of the wind through the mellyrn trees and the singing of the Elves, and beholding its illustrious beauty, the Morgul Vale brought despair, its toxins infiltrating body and mind until death appeared inviting, indeed, the only refuge from unbearable misery. Aragorn knew this – he had known it for many years and thought he had a staunch enough heart to withstand it. “I cannot die here,” he whispered. The chief weapon of the Nazgûl was terror. Terror coalesced in a shapeless and invisible wall about the city, a weapon more frightful than any arrow or catapult. Rising to his knees, he crawled up to the road and stared keenly into the gate. Dismay crossed his heart, shadows lengthening under a setting sun. “You will not take me,” he said to the cavernous ruins.

He listened attentively for the clatter of hooves or feet, but the only sound in his ears was his anxious breathing in the ghoulish silence. Silently Aragorn raced across the road, making for the cliffs on the other side. He collapsed amongst the rocks and lay still for a time until he perceived shadows slinking about the walls, reason to withdraw further from Minas Morgul and climb behind a pile of jagged boulders fallen from the cliff. There, his eyes failed him and the shadows rending the tors deepened, darkness accursed and forlorn and more fearsome than the deepest chasm in the Mines of Moria. Aragorn shivered. It was cold, so very cold. And Minas Morgul itself glowed, a translucent light growing ever more luminous, a lance brighter than the sun stabbing his eyes, and yet he could not forestall his gaze, though hot tears coursed down his cheeks and the pain was unendurable. Then a bloodcurdling screech arose from the city, freezing Aragorn’s blood and shattering his ears. Six figures swathed in black robes riding black horses sprang forth from the gate. Terror overcame him and wrenched him from his torpor, and he flung his forearm before his eyes, blocking the stabbing light. Abruptly the shrieks fell silent and some great force cast Aragorn upon his back so that he came to lie gazing at the pitch black, starless sky. The haziness clouding his eyes dwindled, and while things remained blurry round their edges, his sight came back to him. All was silent as a tomb, but for the breath sobbing in his throat. Trembling, he crawled to a cumbrous gap between two rocks. The pale city held its venomous breath and did not stir. No horsemen rode hence from its gates. “Tiro nin, Elbereth,”[i] he whispered.

What were the six horsemen Aragorn had seen galloping from the leering gate? A vision, then, the foresight of his Númenorean lineage troubling him with premonitions of the terror Sauron would unleash. Mayhap it was no more than delirium, the poisons from the Morgulduin and the deadly flowers contaminating his mind, dissembling his sight. Whichever it had been, it had passed like a lethal yet swift-moving squall. If it was delirium, then he should let it be and if not, it presaged an uncertain future and he was more concerned with surviving the present.

Furtively he crept down the rock wall just abreast of the road towards the stairs of Cirith Ungol, keeping his body pressed to the ground and rocks. Alone in this dreadful place, he had not the palest hope of survival should one of the watchers in the towers pierce him with a well-aimed arrow. He considered the chances that one had shot Gollum, putting a quick and just end to the wretched creature’s miserable life. A fainter hope than Aragorn’s hope of tracking Gollum, for the little footpad was too wily to be easily slain from the watchtowers of Minas Morgul. Too long had he scratched out his despicable life beneath the very eyes of the orcs in the Hithaeglir.

At long last Aragorn arrived at the pass, a series of treacherous, steep stairs carved into the sheer cliffs rearing their jagged heads above Minas Morgul. The pass reached to the looming clouds at the top of the mountains, beyond Aragorn’s sight. Few creatures, good or evil, hazarded the precarious stairs, for a single misstep caused a deadly fall for a thousand feet or more.

Aragorn knelt upon the bottom stairs, looking for a track or any sign in the iron-gray dust suggesting that some creature had recently passed this way. For all he saw, the pass was long abandoned. Neither orcs nor anything else had trod the fatal stairs. Gollum, if he had been in or out of Mordor at all, had either traveled by a different road or crept so stealthily that not even a Ranger could hunt him. Breathing a curse at Minas Morgul, the Pass of Cirith Ungol, and his own foolishness, Aragorn climbed surreptitiously up the stairs about one hundred feet, often bending on one knee, brushing the rock with his fingers, studying every mark and depression. Drained and disconsolate, he rested upon a flat ledge overlooking the wan city, catching his laboring breath and wiping sweat off his brow with his sleeve, muscles taught and tremulous and a fierce headache brewing, the affliction of the Morgulduin’s fulsome poisons.

He could continue to search the pass for Gollum, but exhausted and ill as he was, the ascent would prove arduous and dangerous. If Aragorn had found neither track nor trace of Gollum down here, he doubted his odds of finding it closer to the summit of the pass. The sluggish pace aggrieved him. When hale and vigorous, Aragorn was an adept climber, quite capable of scrambling up or down nearly any rock face with swiftness and nearly Elvish agility, no matter how fearsome the cant.

Once he stood upon firm earth again, he searched for signs in the dust near the head of the stairs, but he expected to find naught and indeed, his expectations did not fail him. Resting his back against a boulder, concealing himself from the dead tower’s watchful eyes, Aragorn entertained the idea that Gollum had exited Mordor via the Black Gate after all. He did not understand how the craven creature would be so courageous, for the Morannon was heavily guarded and afforded few hiding places. The Pass had seemed to him a more likely route to Gollum, a secret way through the Ephel Dúath into Mordor. Though he desired to dismiss the idea as ludicrous and leave this blackened land, he could not cast it aside without regret. Stranger things had happened. While the chance remained that Gollum had passed through the Black Gate, Aragorn would uphold his duty and seek him there.

Continuing his journey through the foothills of Ephel Dúath until they intersected with Mordor’s northern mountain range -- Ered Lithui, the Ash Mountains -- at the Morannon was a fatal undertaking. Not too much longer could he walk through the desolate, poisonous land alone and injured without food and substantially more water than the inadequate skins he had pilfered from the dead orcs. His heart ached, pining for glittering snowcapped peaks, for cold and clear rushing rivers pounding glorious music against the rocks, for ancient and beautiful forests of fragrant trees, for windswept plains rolling to the horizon, rising and falling like the sea.

A spiral of dust, disturbed by a whisper of air expelling its last breath in the stale valley, settled near his right hand. Absently he scooped up a handful, black and sooty, and let it sift through his fingers. The only way to survive then was to prolong his quest by swinging around through Ithilien and then approaching the Morannon through Dagorlad, the Battle Plain. In Ithilien, he could replenish his food and water, treat his various wounds, and recover his strength ere he imperiled himself at the Morannon. The Black Gate itself did not devour the soul as did the Morgul Vale, but armies passed daily through its ramparts and raised a substantial risk of getting captured or killed. And traveling through Ithilien’s glades without leave from the Steward of Gondor or in the very least the captain of the Rangers of Ithilien violated the law of Gondor, but was a safer road than journeying in the confines of Mordor. Aragorn had faith in his ability to talk his way out of a confrontation with soldiers of Gondor. Although these dark days and the heightened activity in Mordor gave them grounds to be suspicious of strangers, they would not shoot a man first and ask questions afterwards. At least Aragorn hoped not, though Gandalf had spoken darkly of an evil thing eating away at the mind of the Steward. Nevertheless the Steward’s son, Faramir, commanded Ithilien, and the stories Aragorn had heard described him as fair of heart and clear of mind. Perhaps not so swift to shoot.

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[i] Sindarin: “May Varda watch over me.” Translation by Taramiluiel at http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm

3. Ithilien

The road dropped steeply into the Morgul Vale for several long miles, a series of sharp switchbacks incising the mountain, a giant gash upon the rock face. While the road was a straightforward down climb, Aragorn dared not risk it, for orcs and other fell beasts trod its rough-hewn surface and the Valar only knew how diligently the Ringwraiths surveyed the solitary entrance to their lair. Instead Aragorn scrambled through the jagged, washed-out rocks abreast of it, tottering and slipping upon loose rubble, plodding downhill like a footsore soldier. On one calamitous stumble, loose rock avalanched beneath him; he slid down a rock face about fifteen feet and landed roughly, twisting his right ankle between the fangs of two boulders. Defying pain, he bore weight on it nonetheless. He could not descend this mountain on one leg.

At length the road flattened and bent northwards towards a massive rock overhang, a shelf throwing across it an impermeable shadow. Exhausted by toil and illness, weakened by hunger, and wracked by occasional tremors skewering him like Morgul spears, Aragorn halted beneath a smaller overhang, rubbing sore legs and knees. The right ankle throbbed, distended with heat and pain and tender to the touch, but as with all of his other wounds, nothing could be done for it until he arrived in friendlier country. What little water remained in the orc skins was warm and tasted sick and vile, as though the Morgul Vale’s taint of decay and corruption had saturated it, but Aragorn, throat and mouth parched with thirst, swallowed a few unsatisfying drops all the same. Then wearily he rose and hobbled towards the massive overhang. He had not the time to rest here.

Though the towering walls of Mordor now stood at his back, the land remained black and forbidding. To the west, a dim light glowed in the mist; muted hope shining far off in the sad land of Gondor. The light vanished when he passed beneath the looming rock shoulder. Concealed by the murky shadow, he rested for a few hours, stretched out upon his side, exhausted but unsleeping. Evil remained oppressively close; he still felt its foul breath.

One day moved into two as he plodded along the road, which began a slow ascent out of the valley and curved into a primeval forest of widely spaced ash trees and giant oaks of enormous girth. To his left the far off Ered Nimrais shimmered, blue and gray in the ever-present twilight, and behind him was darkness, the Ephel Dúath’s hard and menacing ridges. Not a living creature stirred. An eerie silence enveloped this place. Aragorn abandoned the road and flitted from one shadow to another, his heart chilled by silence and torpor. Though he was accustomed to solitude, the tomb-like stillness and loneliness of the forest made his bones ache. He thought perhaps that a fire had consumed this forest, destroying all life but for the trees whose fathomless roots ran deep and strong. The tops of the trees were gnarled and bent, contorted into grotesque shapes, playing tricks upon the eyes in the lackluster glow of unceasing dusk. Mystical demons rather than trees sneered in the dark and raked at the sky with curving, bone-white claws.

Aragorn searched through the sparse vegetation for herbs with which to soothe his injuries, but the only plants growing here were woodland hyacinth and celandine, neither one a medicinal herb. Athelas he did not expect to find until he crossed into Ithilien’s borders, for it was not a native plant of Middle-Earth but rather one brought across the sea by the Númenoreans and thus only grew where Dúnedain had dwelt. On the western eaves of this dead forest there should be water and woods blossoming with plants of all varieties, ancient trees covered in moss, and air fresh with a thick fragrant scent bringing joy and casting away sorrow and toil. Ithilien. Aragorn breathed the word aloud and shivered. A gray mist clung between the dead trees, and he felt the chilling bite of the Morgulduin delving into his bones. If he stopped here and walked no further, death would close its grip at last; against all odds he had beat it in the Morgul Vale and now he neared the succoring borders of North Ithilien. The darkness had not yet seized his heart! He limped steadily along beneath the twisted, pale branches, oft using the orc broadsword as a crutch.

When it seemed as though he could go no further, when the hazy film of fatigue passed in front of his eyes and the black shadow impaled his breast like a knife; when the furious pain in his ankle flamed, the song of water falling over rock chimed through the forest. Pain and fatigue had blinded his eyes from the life springing forth round him: groves and thickets of flowering buds, soft moss spread upon the ground like carpet in a royal hall, tamarisk and lilies, pungent sage and junipers, ancient oaks and birches planted by men long ago and then forgotten and allowed to grow untamed; a cacophony of groping vines and gnarled branches ensnarling and entangling one another.

Aragorn fell to his knees beside the banks of a clear and cold stream. Oblivious to its icy bite, he scooped up water in his hands and swallowed gulps of it -- sweet and fresh water, the taste of life. He splashed it upon his face and then unwrapped the tattered cloak binding the wounds on his wrists and held his hands beneath the frigid water, gasping in relief as the stream washed over the chafed skin, cleansing and bearing away the ache of the rope burns. After Aragorn had satiated his thirst and felt some vigor flowing through his battered body, he crawled through the brush searching for herbs. Sweet water did not cure all ills – his ankle caused him much discomfort and his profound weariness and soreness did not abate – but it threatened to push to its last throw the shadow that the Morgul Vale and Minas Morgul had spread across his heart. Bushes and thorns scraped at his flesh and perforated his cloak and got matted in his hair, but he ignored it, and beneath pungent sagebrush he found athelas at last.

Aragorn would have liked a pot to heat the herbs in boiling water, but most of his gear had been lost, confiscated by the orcs. Heat strengthened the potency of athelas. Yet even when crushed into icy water it would alleviate the sharpest pain and hasten healing. He unlaced his tall riding boots and painstakingly removed the right one, holding his breath as he eased the boot over his ankle, swollen and red, burning to the touch. That astringent orc tonic would be welcome now, he thought, vile as that was. The leaves he then crushed between two rocks he had unearthed from the streambed, soaked them in water, and massaged them into his leg, shuddering as fire coursed through him. Afterward he held his foot beneath the bubbling rill. It was cold and stung bare flesh, but the heat it bore hence. Within several minutes, the sharpest edge of the pain dissipated, shorn off by the athelas and clean water. Though his ankle throbbed at each beat of his heart, it was no longer a severe hindrance. The same treatment he gave to the rope burns on his wrists and the deeper bruises across his ribcage.

The worst of his hurts assuaged, he continued hiking through the woods, favoring his right foot but bearing weight upon it. At length evening fell across the forest, darkening the woods and hollows. Here the night was serene, the gentle breeze riffling through the boughs soothing and fresh. Stars glittered above the canopy, points of light amongst the tangled net of branches, Eärendil shining brighter than any. It brought hope to Aragorn’s spirit. Yet enemies were still afoot and small bands of orcs and Wild Men haunted these woods; Aragorn slept lightly and fitfully in spite of his weariness.

* * *

In the morning, silver dew clung to branches and leaves; it soaked into the moss carpet upon the ground. Aragorn awoke wet and shivering, damp cold seeping into his bones. He draped his cloak about his shoulders, raised his hood over his head, and for ceaseless and uncountable hours he walked beneath the glistening boughs. The forest had a dulcet, fragrant odor and in spite of the cold, the drizzling mist felt cleansing and pleasant. At last his path intersected with the South Road, which ran straight and true through the woods, old and weathered stone built by stonemasons long ago. Distrustful of what might travel the road, he limped half a furlong alongside it.

The sounds of hooves clattering over stone came to his ears and he dropped to his knees behind a wall of brush, drawing the orc broadsword from his belt. Five or six horses were cantering up the road towards him, all shod and wearing heavily ornamented tack that jangled with each stride. Horses of Gondor. The Enemy’s horses wore plain tack that did not jingle. For a moment, Aragorn listened to their approach, a brisk canter indeed, nearly a hand-gallop as if they raced forth on an urgent errand. Dare he ask for their assistance, or should he remain hidden and allow them to pass unhindered? If he had not been in need of food or hot water and new supplies, it would have been wise to let them go, but he deemed it worth the risk to speak with them.

As they came over a small rise, he stepped out into the road before the riders, the sword in his hand in the event he needed it, but held down, tip pointed towards the ground. Soldiers of Gondor, Rangers of Ithilien, Dúnedain of the South they were, proud men with flowing dark brown hair and beards, clear gray eyes; bearing upon their breasts and their horse’s saddle blankets the sign of Gondor, the White Tree outlined by Seven Stars; wearing forest green cloaks over their shoulders; their tack silver and gold plated, from the shanks of the bits to the high cantles of the saddles. One rider slumped in the saddle, head lolling limply with the movement of the horse, feet bound to the stirrups, and one of his companions ponied[i] his horse.

Upon seeing Aragorn standing proudly in their path, they yanked upon the reins, hauling their horses to a halt, and the horses snorted, flinging up their heads and flaring their nostrils in fear of the foul place he had come from and surely smelled of. They fanned around him, enclosing him in a small semi-circle. The riders drew their swords and two raised longbows, pointing arrows at Aragorn’s breast. Ithilien Rangers were skilled fighters and Aragorn alone, on foot, and with one good leg had no prospect of winning a skirmish with five of them, especially on horseback. He let fall the sword, a clatter upon the stone at his feet, and held up his hands.

“Hail, Soldiers of Gondor,” he said. “I am not a foe, but merely a weary traveler passing through.”

“There are no travelers in Ithilien,” said their leader, holding the tip of his sword a hair’s breadth from Aragorn’s throat, “merely spies and servants of the Enemy. What be your name?”

Aragorn did not speak his real name, for there were those in these lands who knew or suspected the significance of Aragorn son of Arathorn. Nor did he offer them the name he had been known by in Gondor and Rohan many long years ago, Thorongil, the Eagle of the Star, for then he had led the Gondorean army in battle against the rebels in Umbar and counseled Ecthelion, the Steward and the father of Denethor. Then evil stirred again in the North, a beseeching plea for the Chieftain of the Dúnedain to return to his former lands to defend the simple people who inhabited the Shire and its surrounding hamlets in blissful ignorance of the foes stalking their borders. For those reasons and in fear of fame and of curious minds in Gondor, such as the sharp and suspicious intellect of Denethor, discovering his real name and lineage, Aragorn departed. No one knew whence he came and no one knew where he went or what summons he had received. Many had loved him, and the name was well known. In any event, Thorongil had been a great captain, a leader of men, not a wayworn vagabond, battered and lamed, wearing tattered raiment and carrying orc weapons.

“I am a friend of Gondor, your kin,” Aragorn said at length. “Strider I am called, one of the Dúnedain of the North.” Strider folk of Bree and its surrounding marches called him, a name he had little affection for, but it surely had not reached the ears of Gondor.

“I am Damrod, Lieutenant of the Ithilien Rangers,” said the man, his sword unwavering and blue-gray eyes harder than the glinting steel of the sword. “If you indeed do not serve the Enemy, what be your business in Ithilien?”

“Hunting for a spy of the Dark Lord, if you will-“

A shadow passed across Damrod’s face. “A spy?”

“This creature could bring great evil to us all if he is not found, I fear. I don’t think he would have traveled through Ithilien, but I must, for I have searched for him in lands no man should wander, and I am weary and in need of rest and clean water and food.”

“Is it an orc?” asked Damrod, his blade unmoving under Aragorn’s chin.

“No. It is a creature whose mind and body have been misshapen and corrupted by the foul work of the Enemy. I cannot say more than that.” He met Damrod’s suspicious stare with his penetrating gaze, clear gray eyes steadfast, though drawn with weariness.

“Sir, I believe him,” said one of the soldiers. “I see no lie in his eyes.”

“The Enemy comes in all guises, Baranor,” warned Damrod.

“Do you not know, sir?” pressed Baranor. “The Rangers of the North, the Dúnedain, are of the northern bloodlines of our kin, of Elendil, of Valandil, long rumored to have perished. I doubt in my heart that Faramir would want this man slain.”

“Does Captain Faramir lead the Rangers of Ithilien?” Aragorn said. “For I greatly desire to speak with him.”

Slowly, Damrod withdrew the blade from Aragorn’s throat, but he did not sheath it; he held it offset from Aragorn’s breast, mistrustful in spite of his comrade’s faith and the courageous assurance in Aragorn’s voice and gray eyes, unblinking and impassive. “Captain Faramir is on an errand to Minas Tirith,” he said. “He left two days ago upon receiving a message that Mithrandir had entered the White City. He appeared greatly disturbed.”

“Mithrandir,” breathed Aragorn. In Gandalf’s coming shards of hope remained, ere the tides turned and darkness fell.

“You know of Mithrandir?” Damrod said.

“He and I have been great friends for many a long year and through many toils,” said Aragorn.

“On what business does he come to Gondor? It was of great concern to Faramir.”

Aragorn shook his head. Often Gandalf spoke in riddles, but here he knew what Gandalf sought in Minas Tirith. But to Damrod he said, “His movements can be mysterious and puzzling. Often you cannot understand his motives until some time after he has vanished on another errand.”

Narrowing his eyes, Damrod at last sheathed his sword and said gruffly, “I have many questions for you, but we must ride hard and fast to our camp. Our comrade has fallen to orc arrows, we have tarried too much, and I fear he shall not survive the ride. By the law of our land, I should take you in, but we have not the horses to spare in our company. You may go free, but do not tarry long in Ithilien!”

“Your comrade was wounded?” said Aragorn, looking to the Ranger who slumped over his horse’s neck, face pale as death and blemished with sweat, a raging fever ablaze, the poisons of Mordor burning life away. “I have some skills as healer,” he offered. “Perhaps I can stave off the poison long enough for you to reach your camp.”

The men exchanged apprehensive glances and whispered amongst themselves in Sindarin, in low voices that they believed below Aragorn’s hearing, but his ears were keen – he heard their hasty discussion concerning his trustworthiness and what devilry the Enemy’s forces had unleashed upon them and what risks were worth the lives of their comrades. And then they turned their weathered faces towards Aragorn again.

“If indeed you serve the Dark Lord,” said Damrod, “You shall have your throat slit before you can touch your weapons. But alas, we fear for our companion’s life, and you do not seem like a man the Shadow would place in our path to snare us with falsehoods.”

Aragorn bowed his head. “I would not snare you with a falsehood. You and your kinsmen are merciful and wise.”

Two of the Rangers dismounted and untied the ropes binding the wounded man to the saddle, and then they gently removed him from the horse and rested him upon a bed of soft moss beside the road. Here, Aragorn knelt down beside him, a hand upon his feverish brow. The wounded man seemed hardly to breathe. He was nearly spent. Man and horse formed a ring around the two on the ground, watching intently, hope etched with fear in their eyes.

“What is his name?” asked Aragorn.

“Aldamir,” said Damrod.

“Aldamir,” said Aragorn softly to the wounded man. “One of the kings of old.” He asked for a pan of water and one of the Rangers produced one for him. He steeped the athelas leaves he had collected earlier in water, producing a fragrance that enlivened all who inhaled it, and then he took a cloth soaked in the aromatic water and laid it across Aldamir’s sweaty forehead. Upon opening Aldamir’s shirt, he found two arrow-wounds in his breast, angry and red, oozing blood and pus and the rotting stench of an orc’s poisoned arrow. Would that the Lord Elrond were here, the eldest of their race! Aragorn bathed the wounds in the water and whispered a gentle plea for Aldamir to come back from where he wandered in his dark fever. “Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen. Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lín enin 'raw hen. Suil Ennui, erio thûl lín i faer hen.[ii]”

Aldamir’s eyes opened and beheld Aragorn’s weathered and lined face and kingly eyes, the blue-gray of the sea before a storm. He grasped Aragorn’s forearm with a gloved hand, and behind him, Aragorn heard gasps of relief from the other Rangers.

“Who are you?” asked Aldamir. “Am I not dead?”

“Nay, you are not,” Aragorn said softly.

“You speak the Elven tongue!” exclaimed one of the Rangers. “That relieves my doubts, for no Men but Dúnedain speak Sindarin as if it were their own. But it has long been believed that the Dúnedain of the Northern Kingdom perished in the time of Arvedui, when Angmar at last defeated Arnor.”

“We are not many, but vigilantly we protect the Northern lands from evil,” replied Aragorn. Then he raised his eyes to Damrod’s wondering face and said, “He needs rest now and he will mend.” Healing the wounded man had purloined his final reserves of strength and he rocked back against the gnarled roots of a great oak tree, his forehead resting upon his knee, tired beyond all reckoning, beyond the aid of athelas.

“You look as though you need healing yourself,” said Damrod.

“Merely rest.” He closed his eyes. “I have not slept for many days.”

“We are greatly in your debt. Come with us to our refuge. Orcs and Southrons roam these woods. Long ago, the woods of Ithilien were a paradise, a peaceful glade where one could seek solace and nourish his spirit, but no longer. The Tower of the Moon – now Minas Morgul – has long been the city of the Ringwraiths, taken by the Enemy over a thousand years ago, and South Ithilien tainted. As his strength grows, he impinges upon the borders of North Ithilien and our strength fails. It seems that there is little we can do, but what little we can do, we do it.”

Most of Damrod’s words bespoke a tale Aragorn knew well, and he half-listened to the Ithilien Ranger’s premonitions of doom, but at the words “Minas Morgul,” a chill coursed through him and he shuddered. In the darkness behind his lids, he saw the luminescent tower staring from its perch upon the knee of the jagged cliff, an eye malevolent and unblinking, great in its malice.

“You do not look well,” said Damrod. “Come. Anborn,” he turned to another Ranger, “you shall carry Aldamir with you, and Strider shall ride Aldamir’s horse.”

“That is not necessary,” said Aragorn, rising to his feet, braced against the old oak tree. But Damrod placed the reins of a bay gelding in his hand, saying,

“This is Flame. He will bear you safely. You do not look as if you can walk another mile, much less the ten leagues to our refuge, Henneth Annûn.”

Aragorn bowed his head and assented. His journey to the Morannon would fail if he did not replenish his strength, and not even in Ithilien’s evergreen and picturesque wood would he find rest. Though the forest appeared peaceful despite the gloomy rain, it was but feigned serenity. At the front door of Mordor, few places were wholly safe. He graciously thanked Damrod and hobbled over to the bank sloping down from the road, leading the horse and positioning the animal downhill from himself so he could mount without aggrieving his wounded leg.

After he had climbed into the saddle, the riders spurred their horses into a brisk canter and clattered down the road. Flame had a soft, undulating canter, like a boat swaying upon an even swell on a calm sea, and Aragorn found himself drifting in and out of peaceful and indistinct dreams. Rich green forest floated alongside him, horses snorted and breathed deeply, iron-shod hooves struck the road in a steady rhythm, swords and knives and bows rattled. There was no need to guide the horse or drive him forward, for the gelding was content to follow his companions home. Onward they pressed until the overcast day plunged into evening, and the moon shone eerily through the clouds, a ghostly galleon rocking on stormy seas. To Aragorn, it seemed as if they would ride forever into the dreary night, he blinked his eyes and roused himself awake enough to ask the rider beside him, “Is it wise to travel at night? Orcs and other fell creatures stir in the dark.”

“It is not far now,” replied the rider.

Aragorn nodded and again he slid into those indistinct realms between sleep and wakefulness. For how much longer they rode, he did not know, and dreams impinged ever closer until they became almost coherent, and then were abruptly shattered when the horse jolted into a trot. They had turned off the road and come to a small river and a narrow gorge. It sprang over rocks, cleaving through sheer cliffs. Looking to the west, Aragorn could see Anduin glinting faintly in the distance beyond the dark swath of forest, a silvery ribbon cutting through the shadowy plain.

“We dismount here,” said Damrod.

Aragorn pressed his fingers to his eyes and stifled a yawn. He wrapped his arm around the high pommel of the saddle and slid off the horse, leaning against the gelding’s shoulder or his knees should have given way when he dismounted. Tired and sore limbs complained, and his aching head swam as he slowly shuffled to the horse’s head. A root caught his foot and he stumbled hard, crashing face first into a hyacinth, and there he lay still, as though struck down by a blow

“Strider?” said Damrod, kneeling down beside him and shaking his shoulder. “Strider?

The Ithilien Ranger’s lined face was shrouded in a black haze and falling away from Aragorn. A vast distance stretched between them, and Aragorn could no longer hear Damrod’s voice or see his face or feel the gloved hand gripping and shaking his shoulder. Falling until darkness enveloped his sight and his thought and swallowed the pain.

* * *

Aragorn was in Rivendell. Somewhere beyond his sight, Elves sang a plaintive dirge about wandering and leaving beloved lands in Middle-Earth to distant Valinor. Though the words were sorrowful, the music brought peace and warmth to his heart. The Bruinen, curling and rushing through a smooth channel, cackled against the rocks below, a wondrous sound. Sunlight shone through the silvery mist, thin rays stretching through Rivendell like Elvish fingers upon a harp. The spectacular snow-capped peaks of the Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains, held their heads high above the clouds, marching across the horizon. Above his head, birds flitted and the fine structures of Elves, towers and terraces ornamented with intricate metal and stonework, wound up the side of moss-covered cliffs. On one of these terraces, Aragorn rested upon a soft bed overlooking the river, his pipe in his mouth. He breathed deeply, inhaling the succulent fragrances of the plants and incense burning in the tiny lamps strung throughout Imladris. Here he had been raised and here his heart dwelt, in spite of his long years of wandering to distant lands, as far south and east as Harad and Rhûn, as far north as the Carn Dûm and the Mountains of Angmar, and fighting wars for Gondor and Rohan. Rivendell’s tranquil beauty and splendid vistas held him captive. Merely basking here beneath the radiant sun and listening to the river and Elven songs soothed his many hurts.

Arwen stepped onto the terrace; queenly she looked wearing a deep blue satin dress with gold embroidery across the sleeves and breast, her rich dark hair falling about her like a waterfall, with two fine braids tied together by a silver cap, adorned with white jewels and silver lace. In her glittering blue-gray eyes was the insight of one who had seen many years, ages come and go, and knew many things. Her smile upon seeing Aragorn lit up her face like a star. The Evenstar, the light of her people indeed. She sat beside him, brushing a wisp of dark hair out of his eyes, and he took one of her fair, soft hands in his rough, battle-hardened one and placed it against his breast.

“Too long has it been since I last saw you,” he whispered in Sindarin.

“Do not speak,” she said, placing a finger against his lips. “It will wound my heart, for you must journey hence again.”

“Yes, but not now. I have time to rest here, to recover my strength before I face new trials.”

“No,” she cried suddenly, startling him. “You cannot stay!”

“Arwen,” he said.

“Already the shadow covers the lands of Gondor and Rohan, and you must ride forth! There is no time.”

“I need time,” he said.

“You cannot stay until you have cast aside the Ranger and become who you were born to be, Elessar. There is but one road for you to take.”

“I fear that road. I do not want it.”

“You have no choice. It will come to you whether you desire it or not.” She squeezed his hand and then stood up and stepped away from him, withdrawing from the terrace.

“Where are you going?” Aragorn asked.

“I would give up the Undying Lands for you,” she whispered. A breeze teased long strands of dark hair and bedazzling light shone on her face, as if Eärendil itself glowed upon her brow. “I would spend one lifetime with you rather than a thousand alone in Valinor. But alas, I cannot give it up for the Dúnadan, however fair he may be. Only for the High King of Gondor and Arnor.”

“Do not weep,” he pleaded. “It is like a spear through the heart, seeing you weep.”

“I weep for a future that is but a dream; no more than a wisp of smoke.”

“It is a long road,” he said. “I might die before the end upon the sword or spear. Let us have time together now.”

“There is no time.” Arwen withdrew further from him until the boughs shrouded her features, beautiful and sad; she and Rivendell seemed to fall away from him as he plunged down a chasm, wheeling and spinning in circles, reaching for a ledge or anything with which to arrest his fall, but his fingers slipped.

“Arwen!” he cried, “Don’t leave!” His voice echoed in the vast emptiness, but both Arwen and Imladris had faded from sight and he was alone in the dark.

He lay sprawled upon the white bridge, steam colder than death rising and curling around him. The luminous tower of Minas Morgul glared at him, flaying open his soul, its many eyes like a thousand tiny knives, the windows on its lower levels black, faceless, gazing inwards. Terrified, he tried to get up, but his limbs refused to answer. A great roar emerged from the city and bluish-white lightning sprang up the tower and leapt into the sky, illuminating the noxious black clouds. Aragorn squinted and blocked the blinding light with a forearm as it stabbed his eyes. A bloodcurdling screech arose, a cry stilling his heart. Then, a great beast ascended from the city, a reptilian creature with magnificent leathery wings, a long neck, and a cavernous, gaping mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth. Upon the base of the neck sat a rider, a Nazgûl bearing a malformed crown upon his head; the Witch-King of Angmar, the ancient enemy of Aragorn’s lands to the North.

The creature spread its immense wings, leapt into the air, and then descended upon the bridge not five feet from Aragorn and smote his senses with its foul breath. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm. He tried to rise to his feet and draw his sword, but his muscles were paralyzed; he could do nothing but gaze in horror at the Chief of the Ringwraiths. “I am sorry, Arwen,” he thought. For his death would be here, murdered by a Morgul-blade on the bone-colored bridge before the gates of Minas Morgul.

The Nazgûl dismounted, sword drawn. Slow and deliberate, he approached Aragorn, his virulent presence freezing Aragorn’s blood, oppressing him with mortal terror. The notched blade rose above him, and the Witch-King’s deathless voice breathed, “So ends the time of Isildur’s heir” and brought the sword down upon him.

* * *

Aragorn snapped opened his eyes and sat up. He was disoriented, drenched in sweat, gasping for air, trembling. His mind was caught in the web between sleep and wakefulness, and reality was indistinguishable from illusion. A firm, warrior’s hand grasped his forearm in the dark, and a baritone voice said kindly, “It was but a bad dream. Something so accursed that you woke me and others in your restless sleep.”

It had been nothing more than a nightmare, the infernal Witch-King astride the winged beast a figment of his imagination. Perhaps such horrors existed, but not here and now. He was in Ithilien, swathed in blankets on a low cot, a dark ceiling of smooth stone arching over his head, the tranquil noise of water tumbling down a cliff somewhere in the background. How he came to this place, he could not say, for his last cognizant memory was of stumbling to his knees after he had dismounted the horse.

“I tried to wake you,” said the man. A name came to Aragorn: Baranor, one of the Rangers who had met him on the road. “But you would not stir. What dark dream plagued you?”

Aragorn shook his head. His breath steadied and the frenzied beating of his heart eased. “I care not to tell of it. It would dampen your spirits. How long have I slept?” He felt strangely more alive than he had for many days. The Black Shadow of Minas Morgul had come with him since he left that accursed place, and like a gray rain cloud rolling aside, it lifted, a clear shaft of hope pierced weariness and dejection. Sleep and herbs had rent the blackness.

Baranor touched Aragorn’s left hand and said with a smile, “It is warm again.”

Querulous, Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “How long have I slept?”

“Not more than twenty hours. You have been to some dark place indeed, for when you fell, you were ice cold. We feared you had suffered some grievous injury and stood upon death’s very doorstep. But though we are in the wild, we have healers here. They spoke of darkness and of fell things, but no fatal hurts, and rest would be a cure beyond every herb and healer’s voice.”

“My ears catch the sound of water upon rock,” said Aragorn. “I have heard stories of the most beautiful waterfall in Ithilien.”

“It is indeed,” replied Baranor. “You shall see it if you walk down that passageway, though it is dark now – no moon tonight -- and difficult to see.” He gestured towards a gap in the smooth, gray rock wall, a tunnel opening to murky blackness. There in gossamer sheets, like the sail of a ship from Valinor but threaded with pearl and silver thread, hung a curtain of water. Baranor added, “Perhaps you should wait until morning to have a closer look. You have been through much and should rest.”

“Are there any pipes and pipeweed about? I am afraid I lost my supplies.”[iii]

Baranor nodded and rose to his feet. Then he dissolved into darkness; only his soft and even footsteps could be heard as he treaded down one of the tunnels, fading out of Aragorn’s keen hearing. A few minutes later, he returned with a pipe and some weed, which he set beside Aragorn’s cot. Aragorn proffered his thanks and took the pipe and dried leaves.

“I am wearied,” said Baranor. “And I shall sleep better knowing you are on the mend.”

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, I am mending. Your kindness is much appreciated.”

For several long hours, Aragorn sat alone in the dark, knees drawn up to his chest, puffing at the pipe, listening to the thrumming of water against rock, transfixed by the dazzling veil of the cataract, the jeweled curtain of silver and pearl spray. All around him in the great rock-chamber, the Ithilien Rangers slept fitfully, aware even in sleep of the omnipresent threat smoldering on their eastern borders. They were Gondor’s first and foremost defense against Mordor, the first to fall when the hosts of Sauron poured forth, but long had they been resigned to their fate. Warfare against Mordor had been nearly unremitting in Gondor since the Stewardship of Túrin II. It was in his reign that Sauron again declared himself openly and the folk of fair Ithilien fled west over Anduin. But Túrin never wholly ceded Ithilien to the Enemy; he built secret refuges for the soldiers of Ithilien, of which Henneth Annûn was one, and always a small garrison fortified the green woods.

Come morning, Aragorn would begin trekking north, following the Ephel Dúath until he reached the Noman-Lands, desolate and battle-scarred, and then heading due east through heaps and hills of slag and blasted earth to the Morannon. The journey inspired little hope, yet energy and tenacity leeched into him as he huddled against the wall, pipe in his teeth, the cold of Minas Morgul ebbing away like a tide. Aragorn inhaled deeply at his pipe, filling his lungs with the saccharine leaves and fresh air of Ithilien, thrusting aside dark reminiscences.

It enlivened his spirit to know Gandalf had passed through the gates of Minas Tirith two days ago. Gandalf should have, by Aragorn’s reckoning, arrived in the city weeks ago. It mattered not. Something in these evil times could readily have delayed him.

Aragorn cast himself down upon the cot and lay on his back, hands folded across his breast, but now that he had roused after fourteen hours of sleep, he was wide-awake. After a time, he rose to his feet again and padded barefoot across the cold stone floor to his supplies in a hollow corner. There, he sprinkled the dust of crumpled athelas leaves into one of the orc water skins, which he had earlier filled with water from one of the luscious streams in the grove. He soaked a torn piece of cloth in the water for a few minutes and wrapped it firmly around his ankle, still swollen and sore, but much improved from the anguish and fire of three days ago. He cringed and gasped at the icy water touching his flesh, for a nipping chill was in the air. And then the athelas soaked into the flesh from the makeshift poultice, excising soreness.

Though he was hungry, he ignored the pangs in his stomach and crawled into the cot, furling himself in the blankets. His hosts had been more hospitable than he would have expected from them, and he was too polite a guest to take advantage of it. In any case, Aragorn understood enough Gondorrim law to feel grateful for the honor Damrod and his companions bestowed upon him – a night’s rest in Henneth Annûn and leave to travel through their lands free and unhindered. Strangers were prohibited from roaming freely in Gondor without express permission of the Lord and Steward, and Aragorn had no aims of approaching Lord Denethor or Minas Tirith until such time as he was ready to fulfill his rights as Elendil’s heir. If indeed that time arrived before it was too late for both Aragorn and Gondor, a distant future Aragorn could see but dimly. Denethor would remember Thorongil with bitterness, the man who had held a more esteemed place at his father’s side than he, Ecthelion’s own son. Aragorn thought, there are few in Middle-Earth whom Denethor -- wise and learned in lore but cantankerous and irascible in temperament – thinks well of, but he disliked me more than most. After a time he shut his eyes, for if sleep eluded him, in the very least he could rest and wait out the night.

* * *

The rising sun illuminated the rock chamber. Men stirred and then set up tables on trestles, and then threw down cooking gear upon them; pots and ladles, bowls and dishes, platters and mugs, all unadorned but solidly fashioned.

The activity, the rattling of dishes, the crashing of tables, the hushed voices, awoke Aragorn. He blinked his eyes as they adjusted to the gloomy light and looked about the chamber, a disorderly mess of scattered cots, weapons, clothes, and other supplies, as if a great windstorm had tossed everything heedlessly across the stone floor. After awakening in the middle of the night, he must have fallen back into a dreamless sleep, for he remembered nothing after ministering to his leg and then returning to the cot. Had he drifted off for one hour or ten? Rare was it that he slept for so many hours. He could not, in the cavern’s dim light, discern the precise time of day, though he figured it was morning. Henneth Annûn meant “window of the sunset” in the ancient tongue and the falls looked to west, to the sunset. Spears of light were not shining into the falls, but glancing off it, thrown from a different direction. In the radiant glow of dawn, the waterfall shimmered with diaphanous threads and jewels of red and gold and blue, an array of ever changing colors. It seemed a relic of another age, of the gossamer waterfalls of Gondolin before the devastation of Beleriand.

Most of the men in the chamber were moving about, lighting torches, readying breakfast, and sorting through weapons and other supplies. A small fire glowed in the corner, fenced in by three tables piled high with cooking gear. Shaking himself free of his blankets, Aragorn rose to his feet and crossed the great chamber, now unfettered by lameness and the shadow. Baranor and Damrod hurried to meet him.

“Strider,” Damrod said, laughing. “You look much improved from yesterday. We feared you might not survive the night.”

Aragorn smiled at them and followed them to the tables. “What is the time?”

“It is just dawn,” said Baranor. “We did not wish to wake you. Come. You need to eat.”

“I have little time to spare,” Aragorn said. “I must eat and fly. My illness or whatever it was has waylaid me longer than I intended.”

The Ithilien Rangers stood facing the west in a moment of silence before sitting, an ancient Gondorean tradition recognizing the lost past. Aware of his royal Númenorean blood, Aragorn cast his eyes to the stone floor. It was his heritage these men looked to, though they did not know it; the heritage of Elendil and Isildur that instilled hope in Men in their war against the Shadow. But in their hearts, they felt themselves to be a failing people, an autumn without a spring, the blood of Númenor all but spent. Spent in all but Aragorn, son of Arathorn, though little did he resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stood carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. What hope was there in him anyway? Had his ancestor Isildur destroyed the Ring instead of keeping it, Sauron’s spirit would not have survived the victory of the Last Alliance. Then the troubling moment passed, and Aragorn turned his thoughts away from the past.

The meal seemed a feast; salty meat and bread and butter, dry wine and fresh fruits. It was no royal feast of a king’s hall, merely what could be brought or cooked camping in the wild. But it tasted more succulent than anything Aragorn could then recall, more luscious and mouth-watering than any fine meal in Meduseld or the Citadel in Minas Tirith. He no longer felt sleepy and his heart was lighter than it had been for many weeks. Convivial tales and songs were told of battles, won and lost, of great adventures, of mishaps with crazy horses. Anborn played lively reels upon a fiddle and several of the Rangers sang of happier times, of fair maids and of alcohol. Aragorn told a few tales, careful to steer widely around anything even obliquely referring to the Ring, Thorongil, or his real name and lineage. They asked him to sing, and he obligingly did so, a plaintive air he had learned in Rivendell long ago.

Meleth e-guilen,[iv] when you're far away
Far from the land you'll be leaving,
It's many a time by night and by day
That your heart will be sorely grieving.
Though the road is toilsome, and hard to tread
And the lights of their cities will blind you.
Won't you turn your heart to Imladris’ shore
And the ones that you're leaving behind you.

Meleth e-guilen, when the evening's mist
Over mountain and sea is falling,
won't you turn away from the throng
And maybe you'll hear me calling.
For the sound of a voice that is surely missed
For somebody's quick returning.
A ruin, a ruin, oh won't you come back soon
To the ones who will always love you.[v]

When the meal ended, Aragorn rose to his feet and bowed to his hosts in heartfelt gratitude. His life he owed to the Ithilien Rangers. He smiled, a brilliant flash of sunlight crossing the deep shadows of his face. And the Gondoreans could not help but gaze at him, awed, wondering where this travel-worn, bedraggled vagabond came from and what his real name might be.

He said, “I am in need of haste and I am afraid I must ask you for some supplies. Mine have all been lost.”

“Anything,” said Damrod. “Come with me. We shall give you some weapons as well. That orc blade you have with you is quite dull and notched.”

Aragorn followed him to a hollow in the back of the chamber, separated from the common area by haggard canvass tacked to the rock, draping across the entrance. In the hollow sat two unornamented wooden chairs facing one another. A small rug was spread out beneath the chairs; otherwise the recess was bare except for a little earthenware lamp burning in a corner.

“This is the Lord Faramir’s private chamber,” explained Damrod as he sat in one of the chairs. “But as he is not here and I am acting in his stead, it is my sanctuary. As you can see, we have all the trappings of a royal hall here at Henneth Annûn.” He laughed.

“Indeed,” said Aragorn.

“Before I release you, I must ask you a question you are loathe to answer, it seems. What is your destination? Our law does not even permit me to let you go. At least I should like to know where you travel and that you shall not remain in Ithilien longer than necessary.”

“I know your law.” He took a deep breath and beheld Damrod with a level gaze. “I came to Ithilien from Minas Morgul, where I searched fruitlessly for this creature of whom I spoke. Alas, there was no sign of him there, so I intend on hunting for him at the Morannon, the Black Gate. That is where I am going.”

Damrod’s face grew pale and he averted his gaze.

“On the foothills of the Ephel Dúath, I had an encounter with orcs that turned ill and lost what little gear I had left,” Aragorn continued. “I escaped, but I had no choice but to take their weapons and their water. It would have been too perilous to retrieve my own.”

Damrod waved him silent. “Do not speak more of this,” he said. “We feared some great evil had befallen you, for you were quite ill. You survived Minas Morgul! You are lucky to be alive.”

“So I hear,” said Aragorn.

“You should stay another day and rest,” Damrod suggested.

“I cannot. For most of my life, I have ventured alone in the wild on journeys to lands at the edge of the map. This has not been my first expedition to the Black Land, though it was by far the worst. The evil there has strengthened since two-score years ago. In any case, I shall be fine.”

Misgivings still shaded Damrod’s features. “Is it necessary-“ but the uncompromising gleam in Aragorn’s eye silenced him. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Weapons, food, cooking supplies, water, and rope.”

“Rope?”

“Should I survive the perils of the Morannon, the least treacherous way out is the little used path through the Dead Marshes and over the Emyn Muil. I do not think any man can walk across the desolate plains of Dagorlad, unprotected, and not be captured or killed. Orcs use those passages. I shall need the rope for negotiating the cliffs of the Emyn Muil.”

Upon hearing the Dead Marshes, Damrod’s face showed horror; he appeared to not have heard the remainder of the reasoning behind the need for a rope. “You ventured to the gates of Minas Morgul and survived the deadly flowers of the Morgul Vale. Now you intend upon journeying to the Black Gate itself and then, should you survive that unscathed, leave by way of the Dead Marshes. You either have the courage of our forefathers, of Elendil, or you are completely addled.”

“Perhaps both,” said Aragorn with a wan smile as Damrod led him out of the recess and to a stack of weapons high enough to reach Aragorn’s waist.

As he looked for sharpened and well-balanced blades and a bow, he pondered Damrod’s repealed question. Is it necessary to go to the Morannon, had surely been the words on the tip of the Gondorean captain’s tongue. Aragorn was not sure himself if the Black Gate was a necessary peril or merely a fool’s errand. Perhaps he was addled. It panged his heart to know he would leave the evergreen glades of Ithilien and again encounter the desolate and wretched Ephel Dúath and crawl beneath the baleful red eye of Mordor. In the depths of his soul, he did not want to do it and would have joyfully remained here or turned west, back to his homelands. Alas, he could not convince himself to surrender his mission and turn around. The resoluteness in his blood and his own heart spurred him forward. To his death, it seemed.

Clad in a new cloak, forest green like those worn by the Ithilien Rangers, carrying a bow and a full quiver of arrows, a sword graven with the Seven Stars and Crescent Moon, the insignia of Númenor, as well as three daggers, and provisioned with food, water, rope, and some menial cooking gear, Aragorn bid Henneth Annûn farewell, doubting he would ever look upon its fair waterfall, luscious forest, and glittering pools again. Adhering to the law of his land, Damrod blindfolded Aragorn and led him out of the cave. The blindfold Aragorn expected – the secret paths to the last refuges in Ithilien must remain secret, even from a Dúnadan of the North. To the High King of Gondor they could be revealed, but that time was neither now nor near.

The Gondoreans guided him up a steep incline following a sheer and smooth cliff wall, the sound of rushing water cackling at his heels. He rarely faltered, for he did not need his eyes to be surefooted. By the time Damrod removed the blindfold, Aragorn had lost all sense of direction. About him he saw a forest of ancient, wide-girthed trees in colorful raiment of flowers and shimmering green leaves. Here the land was an indistinct memory, muddled and dreamlike, the place where he had slid off the horse half-unconscious two days past. He stood upon the flank of a low mountain; behind him the narrow gorge and swift river, and to his right, Anduin snaking across the plain like a mithril band, veiled beneath a thin layer of mist hanging low over the valley. Beyond the great river, the Ered Nimrais reared their white heads towards the sky, flushed blue and purple with the rosy hues of the morning. Gondor, Gondor, between the mountains and the sea, he thought, the mournful lyrics to an old song. Aragorn turned his gaze northwards away from the bright mountains. His road did not lie south. North he must travel, and to the north the forest descended into flat, washed-out plains of the desolate stretches of Dagorlad and beyond it, the festering, stinking Dead Marshes. And to the East the serrated ridges of the Ephel Dúath clawed at the ashen, bloodied sky of Mordor.

“Here we part,” said Damrod, “Though I beg you to reconsider your choice to travel northeast. Nothing good can come from those evil lands.”

“Indeed, nothing can,” agreed Aragorn. “But it is there I must tread whether I like it or not.”

“You could stay a while longer,” said Baranor.

“I would, but the world is changing faster than you know, and I have not the time.”

Damrod sighed. “I do not think we shall meet again, but if we do in happier times, perhaps then you can tell us your secrets – why you so earnestly hunt this creature, your real name... I do not think it is Strider.”

“I am known by many names,” said Aragorn simply. Laying a hand upon Damrod’s shoulder, he added with a smile, “I too hope for such a time. Farewell. Navaer.”[vi]

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[i] To pony: To lead one horse while riding another.

[ii] Sindarin: “Golden sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart. Great earth, may you give your strength to this body. Western winds, may your breath lift this spirit.” Translation by Taramuiliel. http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm

[iii] Tolkien indicates that pipeweed was predominately smoked in the Northern Regions of Middle-earth and Eriador, and though it grew in Gondor and Southern regions, smoking it was not a common practice amongst Men. However, it is not wholly unreasonably to speculate that such practices would have diffused throughout Middle-earth to at least a small extent. Hobbits were not a completely isolated population, for travelers and trade passed through Bree and similar towns, and it is clear from the text that individuals like Aragorn and Gandalf did smoke and also traveled widely. So while the text suggests that Ithilien Rangers (and anyone else not living in Eriador) did not in fact smoke, it is not entirely improbable to assume they had no knowledge whatsoever of it, as no population in Middle-earth was isolated. For the purposes of this narrative, I am diverging from explicit canon suggesting men of the South did not smoke based upon the aforesaid reasoning.

[iv] Sindarin: “Love of my life.” Ibid.

[v] This is an Irish tune called “A Stór Mo Chroí,” written by an Irish patriot who participated in the 1916 uprising. Since LOTR has such a powerful infusion of Celtic culture, I thought it would be pertinent to include at least one Irish song and change necessary words. In this I changed the word “Erin” to “Imladris” and I changed the Gaelic phrase at the beginning of each stanza to Sindarin. “A stór mo chroí” approximately means “darling of my heart” and via the wonder that is the Internet, I found an Elvish phrase meaning more or less the same thing at http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm.

[vi] Sindarin: “Farewell.” Ibid.

4. Journey to the Morannon

Aragorn’s road after he departed Ithilien took him through tangled heathland, shrubs, fronds, and mosses overgrown with ling, broom, and cornel. No longer did he walk beneath a tumbled canopy, a grotto of deciduous trees, oaks and birches and cedars and cypresses. Here and there, clumps of tall pine trees dotted the otherwise open space. The road, little more than a poorly maintained county cart-road overgrown with capricious vegetation, ran straight as ever, built with the handiwork of the Men of Old. He knew the lands surrounding Mordor better than he cared to, but not well enough to navigate sightlessly. With reluctance he followed the road, for it was the swiftest path through Ithilien to the Morannon and perhaps the main corridor for the legions of Mordor. It seemed little used, unsullied by armies and other travelers, but Aragorn trod it warily, lest his sight and the hosts of Mordor deceive him.

There were parallel ruts in the soil -- wagon tracks -- worn smooth by wind and rain and obscured by irascible vines and roots. Wagons had once traversed this road, but no longer. Nevertheless, Aragorn traveled cautiously, attentive to every sound, every birdcall, every shudder of the brush. It was extraordinarily still here; the wind breathed shallowly and few living creatures disturbed the shrubs and ferns. Sometimes ravens crowed, harsh voices shattering oppressive silence, but otherwise he heard only his light, swift footsteps and the occasional breeze rustling the fronds. If walkers or riders trailed him, he would hear their approach.

Always to his right, the Ephel Dúath cast an ominous shadow veiling the sun as his course took him closer to the towering mountains. Trees like dark clouds spotted the hillsides as the land rose towards the mountains, the vegetation sparse and the terrain uneven. It did not matter how many journeys Aragorn risked to the foothills of these mountains, the withered feeling in his heart never abated when the sun waned behind the blood-flecked ash rising from Mordor. He only traveled by day, for the nights were blacker than the chasms in the depths of Khazad-Dûm, and he mistrusted what might travel this road under cover of darkness. When the sun fell behind the lofty moors to the west, he found cover for the night, hedges, rocks, or close-knit clusters of pine trees, and settled in for the night. Often he built a small fire and cooked over it, vigilant for the fire might serve as a beacon to his enemies. It could also protect him. Servants of Sauron, such as Nazgûl, avoided fire. After having eaten he would curl up beneath the forest green Ithilien Ranger cloak and sleep fitfully until the gray light of morning roused him.

Aragorn held a steady pace along the road for four days until the infringing foliage overrunning the road receded and the ancient stonework had been reinforced. Fresh tracks criss-crossed the old wagon ruts, tracks belonging to orcs, men, horses, and unidentifiable creatures with tracks over ten times as large as the foot of an eighteen-hand draught horse. Mûmakil, he wondered, legendary war animals of the Haradrim. In his time in Harad he had never once seen any, but they proliferated in tales, songs, and artwork. For a while, he knelt over a massive ball of rotted dung, festooned with southern plant shoots, concerned about a thing headed towards Mordor that not even he, Lord of the Dúnedain, one of the finest trackers in the West, could identify with certainty. Whatever it was, it had passed this way several weeks ago and many orcs and men, on foot and on horseback, had followed. Of course, he found no sign that Gollum had traipsed through here, but he had no illusions about discovering any traces of Gollum. The creature, stealthy and swift, would not dare use the road.

Aragorn too must be stealthy and swift now that he had left the quiet lands at Ithilien’s borders. The Black Shadow of Minas Morgul had been cleansed and he had the strength to stand and fight, but he did not deem it wise to draw attention to himself. Like a specter he faded into the broken country abreast of the road, leaving no trace, nothing arousing the curiosity and hunger for blood of orcs and wild men. Under the black, starless nights he dozed, one ear tuned to sounds in the brush, and he only reluctantly lit small, inconsequential fires if cover was thick enough to obstruct the flames from the road. Wolves often howled, sometimes distant, at other times nearby; and he was aware of fell things lurking about in the murky gloom, hidden from sight and imagination by tangible darkness.

His decision to leave the road proved shrewd indeed. A few days after he cut through the jagged desert, hordes of heavy boots marching across stone reached his ears. He scrambled behind a bramble and lay flat on his stomach, holding his breath, as immobile as a stone. Only his eyes moved, watching the road, now a dike slashing through the earth itself, steep banks rising upon either side of it. A legion of men arrayed in the war garments Aragorn recognized from his journey to Harad traipsed beneath him. The leaders rode fine-boned horses and the others marched on foot in two lines straight as the mast of a ship. Horned helms covered their heads and faces, armor with ornamentation like the wings of a dragon protected their bodies, and they carried painted spears and curved scimitars. Not until the Haradrim had gone round a bend of the foothills did Aragorn exhale. Warily he drew himself up to his hands and knees and crawled away from the road. How many legions passed through this barren country every day? The army amassing on Gorgoroth must be astounding, large enough to still the hearts of men if they knew what doom awaited them. A shiver of fear knifed between his shoulder blades. What terrifying onslaught was Sauron preparing behind the ridges of the Ephel Dúath? The thought of it burned Aragorn’s heart like a brand; carnage would be inevitable, battles bloodier and more prolonged than any he had seen in all his long life. Whether they lost or beat the formidable odds and won, many would die before the end.

Now was not the time to despair. Even the darkest nights see sunrise. As long as Gandalf let embers of hope kindle and placed a great deal of faith in the sturdiness of halflings, Aragorn too would hold out and refuse to break before the oncoming storm, not ere death claimed him. Every day the Ring remained out of Sauron’s grasp, hope blazed all the brighter. Aragorn recollected himself, vexed that emotional torrents unnerved him so. Sterner than steel he must be. Knowledge of the emergent might of Mordor must not unsettle his resolve.

Since the road had transformed from an abandoned cart-road into a highway for the servants of Mordor, Aragorn parted from its swift and straight flight for the Morannon and treaded a roundabout path through the wasteland of broken rocks, dust, dried grass, dark thickets, and jumbled trees like clusters of smoky clouds. No longer did the road guide him, but it had been superfluous anyway. The looming Ephel Dúath led him to the Morannon, the craggy, barren peaks sweeping northwards until it butted heads with the Ered Lithui. The black mists, the fumes of Mordor, grew thicker and darker. With each passing day, the lands of the living retreated behind him, and his good spirits remained there as well, gone astray in this black place.

A troubled feeling did little to ease his dismal mood. Often he gazed over his shoulder or crouched in a thicket, motionless, straining eyes and ears for a sign of what pursued him, but he saw nothing. This place could drive a man into madness, into the depths of a hideous dream from which he could not awaken. Aragorn had been here before, but the years had been lighter then and evil less insidious. But he had also survived the Black Shadow of Minas Morgul with his mind intact. Surely the northern foothills of the Ephel Dúath would not have a more virulent effect upon him than the Morgul Vale east of the Crossroads. Then if hallucinations and madness did not plague him, some fell thing trailed him. It twisted his stomach into knots tight enough to hold together the rigging of a ship, and disallowed sleep.

On a pitch-black night, Aragorn lay curled against a rock outcropping, the cloak pulled about his shoulders, the small fire flickering upon his face offering him some warmth and inspiring malformed shadows to flit hither and thither on the sandstone wall. He did not sleep. His fingers were wrapped around the hilt of the sword. Something skulked in the darkness. Every muscle in his body was taught as a drawn bowstring.

He heard the snorting breaths of a large animal snuffling through the brush and sand, pawing, prowling about his campsite, afraid of the fire or otherwise it should have attacked him already. A musky scent, fetid and repulsive, infused his nostrils. A warg, he thought. Indeed he had been tracked! For how many days, he did not know. Wargs and other foul creatures roamed this bleak land, hunting for stragglers, orcs and men from the armies marching to the Morannon. They cared not what flesh they feasted on, good or evil. The yellow eyes gleamed in the firelight and it watched Aragorn, jaws slavering. Meeting its gaze, he slowly sat up, squatting on his haunches and notching an arrow to the Gondorean bow.

The warg bared rows of yellow, razor-sharp fangs and uttered a growl from deep within its throat. Unwavering, Aragorn planted his feet and waited, the cool bow pressing into his palm, the string cutting his flesh, his heart thudding. The moment the warg gathered itself and launched, he let loose the arrow and flung himself sideways, landing on his right shoulder and rolling away from the animal’s shriek of pain and its heavy crash as it plowed into the earth. His arrow must have hit it. Alas, his aim had been true but not fatal. As he regained his feet, unsheathing his sword and shaking sand out of his eyes and hair, he saw the warg rising, unsteady and maddened by pain. The feathered shaft of the arrow jutted out from the base of its throat. It lunged at him, blood and foam flying from its gaping jaws, and then darted sideways to avoid his slashing blade. He leapt towards the fire, grabbing one of the sticks he had used earlier in the night to stoke it, and raised it before the warg, a burning brand. The warg attacked again, but shied away from the fiery stick that Aragorn brought down upon it, snarling and clawing the sand in rage.

“Back you filth!” Aragorn said, taking a threatening step towards the animal. It retreated, flinching from the scorching wood and the blazing white sword of Gondor. Malice shone in the glittering eyes. Its fermenting breath, hot and fetid, made Aragorn lightheaded and nauseous, but nevertheless he held his ground, fire glinting in his eyes. The warg retreated another step, trembling with rage and madness. Then, before Aragorn could finish it with a deadly blow from his sword, it shuddered and collapsed upon its side, its muscles seizing in a final protest against death. Taken aback, Aragorn took a swift step away from it. The arrow in its neck must have damaged it mortally after all. Wargs were notoriously resilient – they did not die easily or quickly, but die they did.

Cautiously Aragorn approached the beast, the edge of his sword against its throat should it stir, but to his relief it did not. He bent down, removing the arrow from its neck – a fountain of blood spurted from the wound -- wiping the tip clean and thrusting it into his quiver. Fearing that the tumult had awakened every orc, Haradrim, and Ilúvatar only knew what else within ten leagues, he swiftly extinguished the fire and faded away into the night, furtive and silent. Traveling at night disquieted him, but remaining in proximity to the dead warg was perilous. They would find it, and they would wonder what killed it, and they would hunt for him. He had intended for his presence here to go unnoticed, but alas, that aspiration had eluded him. Unless the orcs never found the dead warg or did not think anything of it, a frail hope indeed. That chance he refused to bet upon and made haste through the night, fearful of what his eyes and ears did not detect in the moonless and lifeless terrain.

Once he stumbled into a hidden, steaming bog and had to vigorously claw his way out, hacking at a long, reptilian arm with his sword, fighting some dark thing pulling him in. Breathless, he hurried away, a backward glance over his shoulder showing him two gleaming eyes glaring balefully at him. His blind course through the night in a northwesterly direction, his only guide the shadowy mountains and dour red glow beyond their jagged peaks, swung him around towards the road. It was a thin line he walked, the road on his left and the Ephel Dúath on his right, and he desired to be close to neither. Too many men and orcs roamed the road and fell night-walkers became more numerous closer to the craggy feet of the mountains.

He had drifted dangerously close to the road in his blind flight and to his dismay, he saw hundreds of small fires flickering like stars in the dejected land and the hunched backs of the Haradrim company he had seen several days earlier bent over them. Most were silent, either asleep or deep in thought, but several stood upon the edge of the encampment, gazing curiously across the escarpment in the direction Aragorn had come. Evading detection, he crawled between several rocky fins and hunkered down there, long legs folded under him.

The conversation of the huddled group of Haradrim drifted to his ears, a strange tongue unlike any language of Elves, Men, or Dwarves north of the Harnen River. Once he had understood assorted phrases and words when he had explored their land, but sixty years had passed since those days and the language of Harad was but a hazy reminiscence. Yet his memory had always been quick, and he caught enough words to understand that they had heard the agonized howling of the warg he had slain.

It seemed wisest to wait out the night here, for the Haradrim sentries might notice unusual shadows lurking in the dark. Though the sun would arise and disperse the murky blackness in a few hours, the remainder of the night felt endless, as if dawn would never again shed her light upon this blighted land. Aragorn remained wide awake, alert to every movement in the encampment and every noise emerging from the heath and rock enfolding him. When dawn’s gray light at last broke through the sullen clouds, the Haradrim packed their camp and formed ranks. A formidable noise they made, crying out for battle and rattling weapons, ere they set upon the road towards Mordor in great haste.

The road swept around a bend, the spur of a great mountain jutting forth from the flanks of the Ephel Dúath. After the men bringing up the rear of the twin columns vanished round the turn, Aragorn crept out of his hiding place, his gait stiff and limbs cramped, for his muscles had not appreciated huddling in the small crawl-space for those countless hours. He blinked the dust from his eyes and sipped the cool Ithilien water, which he had rationed carefully for no streams for leagues carried drinkable water.

The stiffness he soon walked off, and he trudged through the dells alongside the road for many hours that blended together, an endless stretch of time and space through the ageless, wrecked country. On the horizon he saw the high and desolate ridges of the Ered Lithui, the northfacing wall of Mordor. The two mountain ranges enclosed the somber Plains of Gorgoroth and Lithlad and the inland Sea of Núrnen. Behind the gate, a deep cleft cut between them at the point where the Ered Lithui bent southwards and became the Ephel Dúath. On either side of the gate sat the two watchtowers, built by Men of Gondor when they overthrew Sauron and he fled from Mordor. On Aragorn’s last journey here many years ago, the watchtowers, the Teeth of Mordor, had fallen into disuse and decay, but he imagined that the Enemy in his ever-increasing strength had restored them. Thousands of eyes surely kept vigilance upon the gate and Cirith Gorgor. Aragorn could not fathom how Gollum had crept unnoticed past the hordes of orcs, trolls, and other fell beasts guarding the pass, unless Sauron had deliberately released him. That would be advantageous for the Lord of Mordor, as Gollum forever felt the Ring drawing on him. Hence he could lead the Nazgûl and other servants of the Enemy to it. Was the Enemy savvy enough to use an unwitting Gollum as a hound on the hunt?

The sight of four Haradrim and one of their horses halted on the road disrupted Aragorn’s musings. He sprang behind a rock outcropping, pressing his shoulder against an upright stone and unsheathing the sword, fearing that he had reacted too late for stealth. Alas, he should be on his toes, attuned to all sights and sounds. Mordor set the minds of mortal men adrift, lost in a waking nightmare should they lack the strength to resist. One of the Haradrim held up the left front foot of the horse, palpating the tendons in its leg, his brows – indeed the only visible part of his face – drawn in vexation. The other three restrained the horse, two by the bridle and another by the stirrup. Nervous, the horse attempted to dance around on three legs, head held high, the whites showing in its terrified eyes.

“What ill turn of fortune is this, that one of their horses should go lame here?” Aragorn said to himself as the man who had been at the stirrup clambered up the bank, spear thrust forward, gaze probing the tors and crags for the movement that had drawn attention. If he must fight for his life, at least Aragorn only faced four of them so long as the remainder of the legion did not turn back. Four he could defeat, but as adept a swordsman as he was, he had no expectations of withstanding an onslaught of several hundred. If he embattled these four and fled before the others backtracked, he might escape them. He watched the Southron pursue a zig-zag course across the rough terrain, closing in upon him. But the Southron did not yet see Aragorn, and while he still possessed the upper hand, the advantage of surprise, Aragorn uttered his war cry of Elendil and leapt out from behind the rock, the first blow of his sword colliding with the Haradrim’s spear and the second slaying the man.

The sudden noise spooked the horse, who proved his handler’s bane. Held too firmly to run, the horse tried to rear but his hindquarters slipped on the loose rock beneath his feet and he crashed onto his side, crushing the man who had been holding his foot beneath his great weight. The horse regained his feet and bolted down the road, reins and stirrups flapping, and the handler remained prone. In the ensuing confusion, the remaining two Haradrim charged Aragorn. He parried their spears with his blade, withdrawing towards the foothills, his heart galloping like the panicked horse in fear that the echoing of clashing steel springing off the sheer cliff walls and the loose horse charging through their ranks would rouse the entire Haradrim legion and every orc within earshot. His masterful swordplay deflected most blows. Then an aggressive lunge towards one of the Southrons left him vulnerable. The sword slashed through flesh and the Haradrim fell dead, but a blow to Aragorn’s shoulder from the side of the other’s spear sent him reeling, off balance, pain lancing through his arm. Angered, he whirled upon the second Haradrim and attacked him with renewed fury, sword clashing with spear. The Haradrim was slow to parry a swing and Aragorn thrust the sword through the man’s gut. He fell back, clutching at the wound, and died.

Without a backward glance, Aragorn sheathed his sword and ran, crossing the road so he did not venture deeper into the Ephel Dúath while avoiding detection and disappearing into the heath and rocky fissures. He feared his arm might be broken, but he had not the time to examine it. Enduring the shooting pains, he furtively scrambled through rocks and thickets, placing as much distance between himself and the site of his skirmish with the four Haradrim as he could muster the energy to travel. When at last the road vanished from sight and the sullen bloodied glow hanging between the mountains flanking Cirith Gorgor was no more than six leagues away, he desisted his desperate flight at an old broken statue, a great king or lord, resting between two battered columns. The tops of the columns had been shorn off and the king’s face and hands were eaten away, whether by battle or by the unforgiving wind and storms, Aragorn could not say.

Up the statue he clambered and made an emphatic obscene gesture towards Mordor. His gaze set upon the mountain ranges. The Teeth of Mordor rose from the dark cliffs, two ominous sentinels, silhouettes against the sallow light of the sun and rising plumes of fire from Orodruin. To the south the ruined battlements of Durthang leered at him, a fortress like the Teeth-Towers of Cirith Gorgor built by the Men of Gondor at Sauron’s last defeat to guard the passes of Mordor. It sat high in the mountains, upon the great spur of the Ephel Dúath keeping vigilance over the valley of Udûn. Like Minas Morgul and the Cirith Gorgor towers, Durthang was a chilling memory of the failing strength of the west, something once fair and noble overthrown by evil. Aragorn shuddered. Should they fail, Minas Tirith and all the lands beyond her fair walls would fall into shadow, many replicas of the evil that had befallen Minas Ithil and the towers guarding Cirith Gorgor.

Resting his back against the statue, Aragorn examined his wounded shoulder, probing the sore flesh with his fingers. There was a cruel laceration on his upper arm a few inches below the shoulder, but he did not believe the bone had been fractured, for though it hurt, the arm was mobile. He spit upon a few remaining athelas leaves from Ithilien and massaged them into the cut. Within seconds, the weed alleviated throbbing pain and he felt cool relief washing through his arm, from the bruised shoulder to his fingertips. Then he had a few bites to eat and a few more droplets of water and lay down against the foot of the weather-beaten statue, wearied beyond all cares of what might befall him come twilight.

* * *

Whether or not the Haradrim or orcs found their slain compatriots and what they did upon their discovery Aragorn never cared to find out. His flight from the road had brought him nearly to his destination. The gray hued light of morning had woken him from a restless sleep, plagued with disturbing dreams, which flitted away from his waking mind. Soreness and stiffness had revisited his wounded shoulder in the night, and he applied more athelas, frowning at the purple, blue, and black splotches surrounding the gash, deep contusions delving all the way to the bone. After a hasty breakfast of Ithilien bread, he resignedly trod the path towards the barren ridges and towers, eyes cast down in defense against the occasional whirling dust eddy stirred up by the fetid breezes that roused the stagnant air. Though he saw tracks of orcs and other things, for a few hours he encountered no living creatures traversing the lonely plain.

When the pallid sun touched high noon over the torturous ridges of the Ephel Dúath and Ered Lithui, he heard the great thundering roar of a company of orcs running across the plain. They were behind him! He diverted from his route, surmounting the jagged flank of a rock buttress rising from Dagorlad. Here, he squatted amongst brambles and slabs of granite and watched about fifty orcs charge through a cloud of dust below him, making haste towards Durthang. He remained immobile until the dust had settled and the orcs had vanished beyond the buttes and low ridges of the red and black landscape at the Ephel Dúath’s foot. Then he climbed down from the buttress. Enemies, orcs and wild men and other evil spies and servants, overran the southern reaches of Dagorlad. The last few miles around the spur of the Ephel Dúath between here and the Morannon would be beneath the very Eye of the Enemy. His luck was stretched thin and he feared it would not hold out much longer.

Aragorn swung wide around the spur and Durthang, a meandering course adding several hours upon his expedition but avoiding heavily used orc trails winging towards Durthang and the Morannon. Sometimes the sound of trumpets and horns bellowing from the ridges froze his blood and at other times, he narrowly slipped past roving patrols, darting from shadow to shadow in the fissures and dells across the final stretches of Dagorlad as it ran up against the mountains.

Time wore away as he slogged through the rough country until at last he looked upon the Morannon, an iron gate below a great rampart. Sheer cliffs rose on either side of it and the Teeth of Mordor, Narchost and Carchost, stood upon the steep hills thrusting from the cliffs. Hordes of orcs manned the towers and unsleeping sentinels paced back and forth on the rampart above the gate. Aragorn beheld their steel glinting in the sunlight. Nothing could navigate through the gate without suffering the bite of arrows from the towers and ramparts.

His ears caught the thud of hundreds of steel-shod feet marching across rock and hundreds of weapons rattling against armor, a throbbing roar like great waves pounding upon a rocky shoreline. A prodigious army approached. Apparently nothing could navigate through the gate without encountering armies of Mordor pouring through its parapets like debris in a flood, either. Pilous boulders and slag mounds concealed the army from Aragorn’s eyes, but judging from the clamor, he guessed they were not more than half a mile away. He sought cover in a rocky hollow amongst the reeking slag mounds west of the road. From there he surveyed the gate, the cliffs, and the mountains, searching for a secret path to the pass. The deep gash rent in the gnarled, black rock and bubbling, steaming slag heaps in which he took cover would be a predictable hiding place for Gollum, but no trace of the miserable creature did he see. Nor did he see a defensible passage towards the pass. Any attempt to reach the gate from here brought one out into the open, an easy target for the archers in the nearest tower.

Battling disconsolation, he threaded his way through the fissures to the eastern side of the gate and the buttresses of the Ered Lithui. A discordant trumpet call ringing from the rampart shattered the air, and a horn -- many horns -- responded. Startled, Aragorn took a short intake of breath. The gates swung open and the army of men and orcs emerged from behind a sharp ridge lying across the slag as if an angry Vala had thrown a giant knife that had embedded itself in the black and dusty red earth, and they marched into the bleak defile, swallowed by Cirith Gorgor. Aragorn lay motionless beneath an overhang, holding his breath, watching the army’s deliberate march, feeling the rock beneath him quaking with the vibrations of hundreds of steel-shod feet, imagining a stealthy creature slinking through the gate just as it thudded shut. Could it be done? There was an open bowl devoid of cover a hundred or so feet in front of the gate, and once through, Cirith Gorgor’s sheer, narrow walls enclosed, the Teeth Towers and Durthang watched all. The Men of Gondor had designed them to keep evil at bay and let nothing slink undetected in or out of Mordor. Indeed, nothing did.

It was folly to venture to that accursed vale seeking Gollum and folly to then risk his life at the Black Gate when he had found no trace of Gollum near Cirith Ungol. All hope he had of finding the wretch evaporated. Then as swiftly as it consumed him, his ire diminished, for this mission had not been as completely futile as others he had embarked upon in his life. What he had found at the fences of Mordor enthused very little optimism, but it was better to know it than not. The Enemy was amassing an army that would be the doom of Middle-Earth. Even the Wise, Elrond, Gandalf, and Galadriel, were not yet aware of this intelligence, though they had foreseen it. The armies of Gondor and Rohan as they stood would be rent apart like the hulls of ships in a gale.

Perhaps Isildur’s heir could unite men and make them strong again, as in the glorious days of Elendil and Gil-galad when the Shadow had fallen, defeated. But Gondor and Rohan were weak, Théoden of Rohan was an impotent ruler and Denethor of Gondor was mad and looking to consolidate his power rather than relinquish it. Aragorn could not foresee how to gain the throne and reunite men, waging a successful war against Sauron, without tearing asunder Gondor in civil war. In the face of the massive armies gathering strength on the Gorgoroth plain, his wild hopes seemed further from fulfillment than ever.

Nothing could be done for the present; the time was not yet ripe to fret over Minas Tirith politics or future wars. Events would play themselves out as Ilúvatar willed. While he lived, while Gandalf lived, while Arwen loved him and clung to hope, and while the Ring remained hidden and Minas Tirith stood strong and splendorous, there remained a chance that the free peoples would prevail.

There was no reason to linger until his enemies slew him. To Lórien – one hundred fifty leagues to the north – he would go to offer his counsel and forewarnings to Galadriel and Celeborn. The borders of Lothlórien were well protected, and there he could forget about his burdens and worries for a little while. Traveling through the borderlands of Mordor had exhausted him and wounded him in body and in spirit, ailments for which he would find relief in the tranquil, nourishing groves and streams of Lórien. Then if he did not have tryst with Gandalf for a long while – the wizard’s movements were mysterious and Aragorn never knew with certainty where and when they would meet – the Galadhrim would pass the warnings on to him.

Not without regret could he turn his back to the gloomy walls of Mordor. He had but two choices, to seek Gollum on the Gorgoroth Plain itself, a suicide mission, or turn back. The wretched maggot was not worth dying for. There was no question in his mind as to whether he should even entertain this choice, but failure tasted bitter nonetheless. Nine years scouring Middle-earth for Gollum, and he had failed. It stung his pride that fate should force him to at last give up, though his duty lay elsewhere now; it was just as important, if not more so, to get word to the Wise forewarning the amassing strength of Mordor.

His decision made, he crept out of the dell in which he had hidden. He took a secretive route across the arid moors of the Noman-lands, loathsome mudflats pockmarked with dying, poisonous pools of gray ash and gas and fire-blasted rock. Green shoots would never sprout here, even as spring, grim and sickly, arrived in the southern reaches of Dagorlad. Aragorn raced swiftly across the flats. He did not intend on spending an unendurable night here – the despoiled and tainted moors shed too dark a gloom upon his heart, and he felt ill.

Eventually his path would bring him into the Dead Marshes, the site of great battles between men, orcs, and elves. There, the slain of the Battle of the Last Alliance were laid to rest, the growing marshes had swallowed up the graves. Traversing the Marshes, one saw the faces of the dead in the water, some fair and noble, others foul, all corrupted and all holding candles, flames flickering atop the putrid water. Lore held that the Dead Marshes were impassible, that anyone who stumbled into the water would die and join the dead faces beneath the murky meres, lighting their own corpsecandles. Fearful of their perfidious reputation, orcs and wild men bypassed the Marshes by many leagues across the flat, stony Dagorlad. At any rate, Aragorn believed he knew of a passage through the Marshes, a secret path unknown to the hosts of Mordor, dangerous in its own way but far safer than the heavily-used trails crossing Dagorlad and then swerving to the east and west of the Marshes. The dead did not frighten him as much as the living.

At the northwest corner of the Marshes, the Emyn Muil rose up from the formless lowlands, a series of sharp and steep cliffs and deep ravines as the land plunged from the plateau of the Anduin to moors and plains at Mordor’s fences. Aragorn banished thoughts of the Emyn Muil as he plodded across the stagnant mudflats. With an injured shoulder, climbing up the unforgiving and razor-sharp cliffs would be an arduous endeavor he did not relish. Green and gray haze veiling the Marshes concealed the remote Emyn Muil from his eyes. It was a rotting wall of steam wafting from the meres and smoke born by the foul winds from Mordor that perennially lay across the low vale.

5. The Dead Marshes

The thick mist embraced Aragorn as he passed into fens and bogs of the Marshes, a shroud cloaking the Ephel Dúath and Ered Lithui; they loomed on the easterly horizon, a wall of indistinct mountains from a dream. He turned northwards, seeking his passage through the treacherous quagmires. The pools were loathsome, and they stank of rot and decay and noxious mist curled into the dim and gray sky. But as noisome as the Marshes were, at least Aragorn could take a breath now without the air stinging the lungs and throat. By now night was falling. The Marshes were plunged into a gloomy darkness – what starlight and moonlight pierced the ash and clouds hugging Mordor fell short of breaking through the fog.

Hundreds of lights sputtered across the black fens before him, an array of stars shivering before they expired. The corpsecandles. Aragorn cast himself on the ground beneath a lonely tree cowering on a patch of reeds, and he stared at the lights. In the water he saw faces, shining white in the dark pools, corrupt and sad, faces of men, elves, and orcs slain during the Siege of Mordor. They were like shadows, the faces seemingly tangible whilst nothing more than auras of the dead swallowed by the infringing marshlands. So many had died, and so many would die again. No Elendil and no Gil-galad walked this Middle-earth to lead the combined strength of Westernesse and the Eldar to overthrow the Shadow. And even if Aragorn, Elendil’s heir, had the valor within him to defeat Sauron, the carnage remembered by the flickering candles of the Dead Marshes would be unavoidable nonetheless.

The dreary dawn wrought little levity upon his spirit. He stumbled through the sticky ooze and moss, battling reeds snapping at his cloak and sidestepping around the meres, searching for firm places to walk and not sink into knee-deep mud. Often he floundered from one island tussock to another, sliding into stinking cesspools. Firm footing was an illusion. He hopped or crawled onto patches of pale reeds, and for every moment he readily traversed to the next patch, the reeds gave way and he staggered into the fetid black pools. Polluted mud and water splattered on his face, in his hair, on his cloak and pack and weapons. He was wellnigh coated in it.

As he circumvented a broad fen, tangled reeds caught his foot and he tripped, falling to his hands and knees on the banks of the muddy pool. Stinking black muck squished between his fingers. As he attempted to stand again, his eye caught something in the black slime. The marks of soft and bare feet. They resembled those of a halfling but no halfling would be anywhere within thousands of miles of this desperate place. His heart beat faster.

“Gollum,” he whispered into the bleak Marshes. By fortune’s machinations, had he stumbled into his quarry at last, after so many trials and much pain? What irony this was! Aragorn had relinquished hope of ever finding the wretched creature and had longed for the glorious woods of Lórien, but if indeed these tracks led him to Gollum and he found him, he must bypass Caras Galadhon. The tracks he could ignore and no one would know he had found and not pursued them. It seemed folly to chase the creature, for he had a day or two on Aragorn and could traverse the marshes faster than he. He had a duty to warn Galadriel of the armies building in Mordor, did he not? But alas, his sense of duty, his will to complete what he had started should the opportunity arise, would not be so lenient. Should anyone ask if he had found signs of Gollum, he had to either lie or admit that he did find tracks and disregarded them, and both choices soured his stomach. At any rate, the tracks led away from Mordor, skirting the northern edges of the Dead Marshes, Aragorn’s intended path towards the Emyn Muil. They were fresh and swift, appearing and disappearing, weaving through the noisome cesspools and bogs. So Aragorn too fought his way through the Marshes, staggering across the wet, unsound islands of pale reeds and tussocks.

Through the grimy glass the dead faces leered at him, and he avoided their eyeless and fatal stares. Always, the ghastly faces inquired whether he was a mighty enough lord to lead a great army to its doom on the slopes of Orodruin, whether he bore the courage of Elendil and Isildur, or merely their blood. Had he the valor to wield the light of a reforged Narsil? Aragorn averted his gaze, for that question was unanswerable. He did not yet know what strength flowed in his veins.

The sun did not dare show her face here, shedding no heat upon the blighted marshes. Every so often he found himself at a loss for where to go, facing a mire wider than he could jump, then he backtracked around until he found a less impassible route. On occasion he lost Gollum’s trail for several miles and roamed in lost circles, slogging through the intolerable muddy islets until it reappeared. Two days ago the Marshes had seemed an improvement over venomous fumes and fire-blasted rock of the arid Noman-lands, for at least some form of life existed here. But doubt cast a pall upon his heart and he wondered if he indeed knew the path out of the marshlands, whether it existed, or if he would find Gollum here. The creature weighed less than he and could take passages where Aragorn faltered.

Evening fell and the temperature sank as the sun withdrew what modest light and warmth it had offered through the invulnerable clouds and mists. Biting cold cramped Aragorn’s muscles, and he no longer felt his fingers and toes. Stiffly he crawled across a marshy islet towards the skeleton of a bramble, shelter for the night. To his left, a corpsecandle flickered, like the white canvas sheet of a loose sail flapping in a breeze. He saw a movement in the corner of his eye, and he turned his gaze towards the stagnant mere on the other side of the isle. There, a gangly creature crouched over the black pool, peering into the water, hissing, “My precious, my precious, where issss it, my precious?”

It was oblivious to Aragorn’s presence. Aragorn remained motionless for a time, barely breathing, quelling his shivering. Slowly he drew his sword and then crept towards the creature, which was covered from head to toe in stinking green slime. The fetid smell made him almost retch, but he swallowed hard. Then the creature raised its luminous yellow eyes from the pool and saw him. It uttered a strangled yelp and attempted to flee, but Aragorn sprang to his feet, the sword of Gondor glimmering in the dying light of day. “Do not move!” he cried.

Gollum, for it was Gollum, frantically stumbled backwards at the sight of the sword and almost fell into the torpid pool. He shrieked, an ear-splitting wail rupturing eerie quiescence with hatred and terror. With his back against the mere and Aragorn and his bright sword blocking the one escape route over the sodden island, Gollum was trapped. Uttering a torturous screech, which was only eclipsed by the deathly voices of Nazgûl, he lunged at Aragorn, pale eyes smoldering, and Aragorn sent him sprawling into the murky water with a blow from the flat side of the sword. The craven creature whirled upon him, baring yellow fangs and staring down the gleaming blade of the sword, graven with the markings of Westernesse, the crescent moon and seven stars. He froze in terror, as if the markings woke some fear deep within his heart, and then sprang into the mere. Aragorn gave chase into the shallows, sinking to his knees in the black muck and cursing Gollum and his ill fortune in finding him here. Into the mere he would not follow his quarry, for he had no desire to learn whether legends he had heard of the fate of those who fell into the Marshes were true. Neither did Gollum, who had shied from the depths of the black pool and the corpsecandle and skittered through the reeds on its shores.

“Halt there if you want to live!” snapped Aragorn. He notched an arrow to his bow, aimed it, and fired. Then he loosed a second. They whistled through the air and dove into the mud not an inch from Gollum, one after the other: thunk, thunk. Gollum leapt away from them, splashing into a shallow fen. It was a contest now, a skirmish Aragorn intended to win. Whatever be their fate in Lórien, whatever the message Aragorn sent Galadriel, this creature would not see the other side of the Marshes free. If he did not submit to capture, Aragorn had few reservations about slaying him. He fitted a third arrow to the bow. This one would be no warning shot. Gollum withdrew into the pool and then looked to the arrow’s tip as Aragorn slowly drew back the bowstring. Forsaking flight, he dragged himself out of the pool, curling into a ball on its shores, weeping.

“Don’t hurt us,” he whimpered. “Don’t hurt us. Nasty Man and nasty long sword and nasty arrowses hurts us, my precious. It hurts us. gollum, gollum.”

Disgusted, Aragorn lowered his arrow and took up the sword again. The Númenorean engravings had struck the fear of Ilúvatar in Gollum, which had for a moment overcome the fear of the corpsecandle, an effect Aragorn did not rue. He said sharply, “Get up, you wretch. Over to the bramble there. Now.” He indicated the broken brush with the sword.

Gollum paid him no heed, as if Aragorn had commanded him in Quenya instead of Westron. “It hurts us, the nasty sword, it bites us, precious, bites us cruelly. We hatess it.”

“It will ‘bite you’ again if you do not heed my words,” said Aragorn, raising the sword. He should slay the vile creature, put him out of his misery once and for all, succeed in what Bilbo Baggins, Sauron, and surely others before them had failed. But Gandalf had insisted that Gollum should live and made plain that he thought Gollum had a part to play in this, though what it was or why, the old wizard could not say. Aragorn had been skeptical, and as he looked upon Gollum, this corrupted, miserable creature whose spirit the Ring had defiled and warped beyond all redemption, his skepticism grew. Pity had stayed the hand of Bilbo and perhaps clouded Gandalf’s judgment, and indeed, Aragorn felt it too. Gollum’s life was a sorrowful tale and the creature had been an unwitting victim of Sauron’s malice, but he had born the Ring for too many long years – it had devoured all that was noble and fair – and the formidable malice and hatred that Sauron had poured into the Ring was all that remained. Regardless of who or what he had been before he discovered the Ring, Gollum was a villain now, too dangerous to be on the loose and in Aragorn’s mind, not as deserving of life as Gandalf believed. But Gandalf desired Gollum alive and at any rate, wanted him questioned. Until he reconvened with the wizard, Aragorn would abide by what he and Gandalf had agreed to.

“You owe your life to Gandalf,” Aragorn told Gollum, who had heeded the threat and upraised sword and skulked to the thorny brush, eyes downcast, sniveling and muttering curses to himself. His sword at Gollum’s throat, Aragorn unwrapped the rope he had received from Henneth Annûn and loosely bound Gollum’s slimy hands with it, sullying such fine rope. Gollum wriggled in protest and there was murder and wrath in his pale eyes.

“He puts the sword to our necks and he puts the ropes on our hands, precious,” cried Gollum. “We did nothing, oh, yes, we did nothing to him and he treats us to cruelly. The rope, it burns us, it burns us, precious. We hates it. Men, men of the west twisted it, fierce men with long swords. Curse them, precious, curse them.”

Ignoring the protestations, Aragorn wrapped another loop around the creature’s scrawny neck, a halter of sorts, though he thought a noose would be more fitting. Then he sank down beneath the skeletal bush, beset by weariness yet he warded off sleep, the sword resting across his knees. Grimly he watched Gollum paw at the knots, but they were seamen’s knots and few knew how to untie them. The pitiful creature gurgled in despair, wrapping his fingers around the rope on his neck and then casting himself upon the ground, writhing about and yammering and bemoaning his lost “precious.” So long as Aragorn had Gollum in his charge, the wretch would not taste freedom or the sweet succor of death.

A black veil shrouded the Marshes, as it would a lady at a funeral. The cold deepened. Aragorn, breathing into his abraded hands to warm them, languished for the warmth and light of Lórien or Rivendell or any place but here. Gollum, for his part, seemed unaffected by the weather. Back and forth he rocked, weeping and casting occasional furtive glances at Aragorn.

In spite of Gollum, Aragorn would hold to his intended course: out of the Marshes undetected and then up through the treacherous northern spires of the Emyn Muil, following the Anduin upstream a hundred leagues towards Lothlórien and crossing the Nimrodel and Silverlode on its most western fringes. Disappointment left a bitter taste in his mouth. To Caras Galadhon he could not bring his prisoner. There would be no respite for him in the fairest of all cities, little likelihood of alerting Galadriel and Celeborn to Sauron’s movements. The power of Galadriel, who had communed with the Valar in Aman, battled evil and kept it from the forest. Leading Gollum through Lórien’s outermost borders on its western eaves risked Aragorn’s life and his relations to the Elves as it was, yet he had little choice. The fortress of Dol Guldur stood at the edges of Mirkwood on the eastern shore of Anduin, a dark sentinel, the stronghold of Sauron where he had dwelt in secret for a thousand years after the Gondorrim had driven him from Mordor. While Sauron himself no longer resided in Dol Guldur, an outpost of Mordor it remained, a place of great evil. A Nazgûl dwelt in its terrible battlements, keeping close vigilance upon Lórien and the Mirkwood Elves. Only once during his many travels had Aragorn explored the realms of the wicked fortress, for few who went there came back alive. No, the safest route for hundreds of miles passed through Lórien.

Then his route continued upstream for many hundreds of miles to the northern reaches of Mirkwood, the kingdom of Thranduil of the Wood-elves, and there he would leave Gollum in the hands of the Elves. Mirkwood he and Gandalf had deemed the most suitable place to imprison Gollum in the event they found him. For many hours sipping ale in an inn near Fornost, a time and place hundreds of leagues and many years distant, they had debated and deliberated and discarded other choices. Leaving him with men would be perilous. Aragorn distrusted his kin; he saw no strength in Rohan and Gondor and did not dare reveal to them why Gollum need be kept prisoner. Théoden was aged and sickly, a weak king, and while Denethor was strong, Gandalf suspected he had used the palantír in the White Tower, which had bent his mind towards madness. Aragorn, recalling Denethor’s intense dislike of Thorongil and suspicion that he might be the heir of Elendil, did not believe the Steward would be overjoyed to see him under any circumstances. And his own kin, the Dúnedain of the North, had not the facility to confine the cunning and deceitful footpad. Dwarves they had forthwith dismissed. To the Elves then Gollum must go. But Lórien and Rivendell did not want him nor had they the prisons in which to confine him. Neither could Aragorn bear to sully the fairest realms of Middle-earth wherein his heart rested. And Gandalf had reviled the thought of bringing a bearer of the One Ring to the realms of the Three. Mirkwood, however, had dungeons deep within its caverns, and the Silvan elves, at times more concerned with perils facing Middle-earth than were Rivendell and the Noldor Elves, might feel more obliging of detaining Gollum. Thranduil’s people already knew of Gollum; they had begun the hunt for him seventeen years ago, following his trail through Mirkwood and back, though never catching him.

For now, Aragorn hovered between waking and sleep, shivering in fear of the shadows, strange phantoms, creeping through the meres and across the opaque sky whenever his mind drifted too near sleep and forgetfulness. When he blinked away cobwebs of sleep, the night was quiet and still, the only sounds the hiss of the foul wind through the reeds and Gollum’s irrepressible snuffling. He floated away again, as though borne on a ship, and he saw mountains, the Ered Nimrais rearing their heads beyond the shimmering water of the Bay of Belfalas, the sky blue and clear, the wind fresh. There were faces all about him, shining, joyous faces, faces of men and elves who had died at the gates of Mordor and on Orodruin’s fire-blasted flanks in great battles long ago, and they were calling his name, Elessar. Something moved. Abruptly he fell back into the waking world of the gloomy Marshes and raised himself up on his elbow; at once he saw Gollum skulking towards him, hatred and loathing burning like the fires of Mordor in his pale eyes. As though unaware Aragorn had wakened, Gollum leapt at him, hands clammy and wizened grasping for his throat, but Aragorn nimbly rolled sideways and struck Gollum in the head with his fist. Livid, Gollum whirled upon him and found himself face to face with the sword, its blade graven with the serpentine markings of Númenor. He cowered, trembling, the rage in his eyes vanquished by terror.

“Do that again and you will not live out the night,” snarled Aragorn, holding Gollum by the throat. The putrid stench of the miserable wretch inches from his nostrils dizzied him, and he tossed Gollum roughly aside in repugnance.

The remaining hours of the long, and dark night brought Aragorn neither slumber nor peace. He lay curled on his side, wide-awake, though Gollum huddled dejectedly on the other side of the island and did nothing more to threaten him.

* * *

At morning’s pale light, Aragorn had a swift and cold breakfast of dried pork, dried fruit, and Gondorean waybread and then jerked Gollum to his feet with an unkind tug on the rope. The creature had been cringing beneath the broken bramble. As Aragorn pulled him along, faltering through fens and bogs, he shrieked, a piercing racket shattering the tomblike silence of the Marshes. They walked in this manner for several hours until Aragorn found a skeletal chain of tussock isles crossing the cesspools. Herein he had a moment’s respite from intently concentrating on his path; turning to Gollum, he demanded, “Tell me, were you in Mordor?”

“Why should we answer its questions when it treats us so harshly, preciouss?” Gollum said.

“Were you captured in the Black Land?” repeated Aragorn.

“So cruelly he tortures us,” wept Gollum, “So cruel to us. He wants the precious from us, yes, that is what he wants, but we mustn’t let him have it, oh, we mustn’t, precious. We’ll keep it, yes, yes, and hides ourselves from it, from the eye! It watches us!”

“Who tortured you? Sauron?” said Aragorn, unsure if Gollum referred to Sauron’s minions, himself, or both. Ungently he yanked upon the rope, for Gollum had balked in a patch of dying reeds, hid his face in his slimy hands.

“No, no, don’t make us walk beneath the eye!” howled Gollum, throwing his weight against the rope. “Nassty man makes us show ourselves to the yellow face, nasty cruel man hurts us with his swordses and his ropes. We hates it, precious, we hates it. In the dark they won’t see us. The eye sees all; it will see us and take us back there.”

“I know you understand me,” snapped Aragorn, taking a deep breath ere his patience frayed. “You understood Bilbo Baggins well enough to bandy riddles with him. I shall make this even more unpleasant for you if you do not tell me now whether or not you were in Mordor and what they did to you there.”

“Baggins, yes, he stole the precious, he did. Thieves, filthy little thieves. They stole it from uss. We hates it, we hates them all that steal the precious, we wants it and we will find it. Baggins stole it from us, precious. Very tricksy he was, very false, but we’ll find him, we’ll get it, won’t we? gollum, gollum.”

“Did you tell the Enemy that Baggins stole ‘the precious?’”

“But we can be tricksy, too, can’t we? We survived, we escaped.”

“So you were in Mordor,” said Aragorn. “And you got out? Is that what you are saying?”

“But the ropes are burning uss,” wailed Gollum. “The yellow face hides nothing from him, my precious, he sees all, he sees, he sees. The Eye sees and he wants the precious! But if nasty man lets us go we will keep it from him, we will, keep it safe, keep it for us.”

“Did you escape from Mordor?” pressed Aragorn.

“We will finds it, we must finds it, but the light hurts us. The cruel nasty light.” Gollum hid his eyes in his hands and writhed about in the tussocks. “Why does he do this to us, precious. We was minding our business and he puts the ropes on us. The cold, cold ropeses that burns out neck! Must take it off!” He clawed uselessly at the rope.

Aragorn gave up for the present, exasperated by the futility of pursuing Gollum with questions. Mayhap he was cunning enough to spew inanities at Aragorn with every query, but not even in his most aggrieved nightmares did Aragorn perceive the torment and woe of the dungeons beneath Barad-Dûr. Whatever horrors they had inflicted upon Gollum could have warped his mind beyond the bounds of lucidity. Nevertheless it remained clear that he desired the Ring and posed a threat to the one who carried it. If indeed Sauron had spared him from the dungeons, Gollum must have been released upon an evil errand, unwittingly since the creature was more terrified of the Dark Lord – his adversary who desired ‘the precious’ – than he was of Aragorn and would elude Sauron’s will more readily than he eluded Aragorn’s.

Gollum continued his prolonged crying and whining about eyes and yellow faces, making a racket loud enough to rouse the curiosity of every orc within a hundred leagues. He weighed naught, but lugging him through the bogs and meres grew wearisome as the shadows lengthened. Aragorn bade him to be silent and held the gleaming dagger to his face.

A bolt of courage struck the creature, and he hurled himself into Aragorn and sank his teeth into the vambrace on Aragorn’s left forearm. Sharp fangs burrowed beneath cloth and leather. With the hilt of the knife, Aragorn struck him hard, again and again until he tore away with flesh and leather in his teeth, recoiling from the blows, covering his head and whimpering like a whipped hound, as though he had done nothing to deserve it. Blood, hot and sticky, surged across Aragorn’s arm, soaking through the vambrace and cloth and dripping onto his hand. Her unbuckled the vambrace and rolled back his sleeve, examining red teeth marks driving into the flesh, unsightly lesions oozing blood and yellow fluid. A moment of dizziness and nausea impinged upon him and then swept past. The wounds needed bathing, but the water here caused deadly infection, and he had no drinking water to spare. So he did what he could, crumbling his few athelas leaves on the lesions and then binding his arm in cloth. In pain but tolerable pain, he would contend with it until he reached the cleansing water of the Anduin on the other side of the Emyn Muil.

Then Aragorn turned his attention to Gollum, who squirmed amongst tussocks in fear that Aragorn intended to slay him, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Suppressing barely concealable rage, Aragorn tugged sharply upon the rope and when Gollum shook and gibbered incomprehensibly, grasping at the reeds, Aragorn raised the knife towards Gollum’s head. If ever he was going to slay the maggot, he should have done so there and then. Hitherto he had trusted the foresight of Gandalf, and stayed his weapon in spite of his better instincts. Instead of striking him with the steel, he unkindly shoved the creature into a fen with his boot. Gollum quieted his shrieking and wailing. Nonetheless, he refused to walk willingly and suffered to be hauled along like a plow behind a horse.

“Enough of this.” Aragorn said, fixing Gollum with a piercing stare, and Gollum flinched away from the steely gray eyes. “As you are no cart and I am no horse, I will not suffer to drag you to Mirkwood.”

At the name of Mirkwood, Gollum goggled and he fawned pathetically at Aragorn’s cloak, whimpering, “Elveses... No, don’t take us to the elveses, fierce nasty elves that hurts us, precious, they hurts us. We be good, we be very very good if he doesn’t take us to the elveses... We tell him anything he wants to know, yes, about the Black Land, even. gollum, gollum.”

“I will not bind myself to a promise I cannot keep,” said Aragorn. Gollum felt the terrible call of the Ring; he would make any promise and betray it just as swiftly if he thought it advanced his agenda of finding his precious. Deceit was the one thing Aragorn was certain of in his dealings with Gollum. “And you will walk or I shall tie you up here for the carrion-eaters or servants of Sauron to find and pick the meager flesh off your bones.” He unsheathed the sword. For reasons unbeknownst to him, its Númenorean etchings disturbed Gollum more than did the White Tree on the dagger. His point made, he returned the long sword to its scabbard, for wielding it was nigh impossible as he floundered through cesspools.

The threat seemed in earnest and Gollum bowed his head, cowed by the cold steel of the Westernesse sword and the thought of whatever Aragorn’s words wakened in his imagination. Willing he was not, but he resisted less and showed a great deal of obedience when Aragorn laid a hand upon the hilt of his sword.

The dead faces grew ever more mesmerizing as his weariness and the ache in his injured arm beleaguered him. The cold and damp marshes aggravated his wounds, both the new teethmarks in his forearm and the older lacerations and bruises from the Haradrim spear on his shoulder. He thrashed and slipped through mud and ooze, grim and stoic, stooped over, footsore and cold from water soaking through his boots, straining his eyes through the thick mists.

When night fell, he found himself gazing into the proud, fair and corrupted face of a fallen Elf lord in the dismal pool, the pupil-less eyes open, haunted, the golden hair streaming about the shoulders. The candle danced in Aragorn’s intense gray eyes. He could not turn his gaze from the dead face; the ghoulish eyes seized his heart. Kneeling upon the muddy shore of the mere, he reached for the pale face, his blood-soaked fingers disturbing the grimy glass of the water, distorting the grave image beneath it.

“Tricksy lights,” hissed Gollum. “Mustn’t follow the tricksy lights.”

Startled, Aragorn abruptly withdrew his hand, as though the water stung him, and turned to Gollum, aghast that the creature who surely wished for his death had spoken helpfully. A conflicted soul indeed. What deep fissures had the Ring rent through his mind that drove him to sink his teeth into a man’s flesh in one moment and save him from peril the next? Isildur had desired to make the thing into an heirloom, passed down to all of his heirs, a grim thought sending chills coursing down Aragorn’s spine, a visceral fear of what might have been had Isildur not perished in the Gladden Fields.

Gollum at any rate had resumed rocking himself and muttering effusive gibberish below Aragorn’s hearing, as if someone else had warned against looking into the pools. His eyes were half-lidded, and he made no response to Aragorn’s querulous stare. Though Aragorn had no intentions of sleeping, he rested his eyes and behind his closed lids saw the colorless face of the dead Elf lord in the mere. He could not rid himself of it. Softly, he sang a few verses of a sad and befitting tune in the ancient tongue telling of the death of Gil-galad in the days of the Last Alliance.

Gil-galad was an Elven king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realms was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.

His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven’s field
were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.[i]

Above him the heavy clouds shredded and the shimmering moon cast a pale, white light through the deep blue strips of cloud and smoke. Not a glimmer of moonlight had he seen since he had departed from the Morannon; the ashen specter elated him, sickened from too many days in gloomy gray light. In the blue-tinged glow, he saw the Emyn Muil, a jagged, murky mass to his northwest perchance a day’s walk away. The same moon shone upon Gondor and upon Rivendell and Lórien and upon his homelands in the North, the lost kingdom of Arnor. Beyond the rugged rocks, it shone upon the Anduin as it cut through the Argonath and Sarn Gebir and plunged down the Falls of Rauros.

Neither the moon nor the Elvish lay mollified Gollum, who buried his head in his hands and cried, “The white face, it hurts us, precious. Its eyes watch, always watching, it sees us. gollum, gollum. It is painful, yes, beneath the white face, yes, he makes us walk beneath it he does... Cruel men, cruel elves, they don’t know, they don’t understand, they think the light is their friend, but its hurts us, it burns us, doesn’t hide us, doesn’t keep us safe...”

On this went for some time until Aragorn, too wearied and in too much pain to listen, cuffed Gollum in the side of the head with the hilt of a knife and told him to be still. He swore to himself that he would gag the little wretch or abandon him tied to a rock or tree if he continued his endless whining and babbling into the ominous and silent night. With a murderous and sullen growl, Gollum obeyed and curled into a dejected ball as far from Aragorn as he could manage on their tussock island.

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[i] The Fellowship of the Ring, Book One, Ch. XI.

6. The Passage Over Emyn Muil

After slogging through the final stretches of fetid bogs and meres, Aragorn and Gollum at last reached the borderlands of the Marshes, the lowlands of the Emyn Muil. The fens and mires narrowed and knee-deep bogs grew shallower, turning into mossy mounds, firm footing at last. The stench of Gollum and of the Marshes was so fierce that it scorched Aragorn’s breathing passages, like fires blazing behind his eyes. But a great relief it was to have the Marshes behind him and the menacing Ephel Dúath no more than a remote, hazy shadow at his back. Up a gully he marched. The sides of it rose on either side of them. Then an impregnable cliff, a looming imposition of rock of gray and rusted hue blocked their path, and Aragorn had to tread along its base for some time searching for a climbable incline.

“We know a way up, yes, we do,” said Gollum. “We found the way, my precious, down the cliffs, we did. Down the cliffs... We finds it again if he asks us, if he lets us go and keeps us away from the nassty elveses. Then we finds the way, my precious.”

Aragorn eyed Gollum askance. “You would just as soon lead us into a trap.”

“Yess,” hissed Gollum. “Trapped.”

He walked along the gully for a long time – at least it seemed that way to his tired feet – until the slant eased into a more favorable slope, and then he turned away from the vast fens of the Marshes, his heart lighter. The solemn and disturbed images of the dead in his mind faded as he climbed up the stony slope, a reprieve from ghosts of the distant past haunting him in the Marshes. Wind murmured through the crags and dells of the toothed ridges, a breeze from the north that did not smell so foul as the east wind.

Though the northerly winds carried hope, several days’ worth of rock-climbing tore at the wounds in his left arm. But up he clambered during the day, the pain a mist clouding his vision, thought gone astray in a bleak fog from which he only awoke to snap the rope at Gollum when the devious creature trailed too far behind. At night, he rested without sleep, for Gollum muttered sinister riddles in the dark and Aragorn distrusted him more than he distrusted Sauron himself. Sauron at least he trusted to be evil, but Gollum, enslaved by the Ring, hung in a thin shaft, far from good but not entirely villainous. While he waited out long nights, Aragorn applied his ever-dwindling athelas to the hurts, but it seemed all the leaves did was stave off a threatening fever, a distant storm approaching and he counting seconds after lightning bolts to discern its pacing.

Gollum, awaiting an opportune moment to strike, surely paid attention to the exhausted lines carved into Aragorn’s weathered face deepening with each passing day, and Aragorn saw it, menacing connivances, treachery and vengeance, whispered into the cavernous shadows beneath the rugged fins of the Emyn Muil. Under one such shadow he took respite from a protracted and steep ascent up a hogback, his breath labored and left arm hanging useless. His prisoner sang a nonsensical song, which he paid no mind to and had not even the energy to snap the rope and demand Gollum keep his tongue behind his teeth. It was day, but the smoke from Mordor continued to veil this land from the sun, and the gray light lingered, even though many leagues lay between Aragorn and Mordor’s towering walls. Then raucous noises from Gollum alerted him to something amiss. He half opened his eyes.

“Kill him,” Gollum was hissing. “Yes, kill him my precious, and cut nassty ropes from our neck. Wrap our hands around his neck and wring the life out of him, yes, yess. Deserves it, yes, so well deserved, for he hurts us, precious, he burns us with his cruel rope.”

“No,” Gollum continued after a pause. “No. Too dangerous, my precious. He’s quick, he is. Too quick, too cruel, will hurt us if we try.”

“He’s hurt now. The climbing, it hurts him, he can’t do it. We can sneak up and do it and he won’t know, he won’t stop uss, then, then we can use his nassty knives to cuts the ropes, yes, cuts the nassty ropes.”

Even as Gollum debated whether or not to throttle Aragorn, the creature crept towards him, slinking across the rock, pausing often to consult and question the wisdom of his choice. “What if he sees us, precious, what if he knows? He’ll cut us with nasty rope and cold sword, bleed us, take us to the elveses. Too risky. Too risky.”

“But we’re going to the nasty elveses anyway. Doesn’t matter, that’s what he says we’re doing, that’s where we’re going, precious. Only one way to save usss, one way. Kill him. Kill him.”

Aragorn gripped the hilt of his sword with his good hand and through his eyelashes watched Gollum slink towards him on all fours. The northern borders of Mirkwood, Thranduil’s kingdom, lay more than eight hundred miles to the north, and not even he had the strength to travel eight hundred miles without rest. Yet he must always sleep with one eye open, ever watchful of his treacherous prisoner, an insurmountable task for eight hundred miles. He must coerce Gollum into submission, whip the fight and treachery out of his perfidious spirit until he had naught left in him but obedience. Aragorn detested cruelty, but he had to bow to necessity and do whatever he must. There would be no more kindness or mercy.

When Gollum was close enough for Aragorn to smell his foul breath – the stench of rotting fish and carrion -- Aragorn pulled himself up on his left elbow, ignoring pain lancing through his shoulder, and unsheathed the sword in Gollum’s astonished face. Howling in despair, Gollum backtracked with such haste that he tripped and fell hard against the rocks. There, he cowered, trembling. A harsh radiance gleaming in his eyes, a glorious light springing from the shadows of pain and weariness, Aragorn pressed the edge of the sword to Gollum’s throat.

“I have been more merciful than you deserve,” he said. “If I had my will, I would end your life here, but I must get us both to Mirkwood alive. I am beyond caring how.” He kicked Gollum in the side, and the miserable creature cried out, doubling up and writhing in pain. Anguish at beating on a creature unable or unwilling to defend himself impaled Aragorn’s heart, and he involuntarily averted his eyes from Gollum’s misery. Gollum put him at a loss. There was no doubt in his mind that Gollum was a villain, a murderer, and deserved more vindictive punishments than Aragorn would inflict. He had little compunction about killing Aragorn in his sleep, yet he quailed before Aragorn’s rage and had no hope of overcoming his sword. The manipulative little wretch curled up and cried, and the more punishment he received, the harder he would weep, passively accepting the blows until nightfall when stealthily he took his revenge. But there were other ways to coerce cooperation.

Aragorn tightly bound Gollum’s hands and then gagged him with a shredded piece of his old cloak, the one he had torn and used to bandage wounds in the Morgul Vale. He had his knee dug into Gollum’s back, restraining him though he twisted, shrieked curses in both the Common Tongue and the coarse language of orcs, and tried to bite again. Once he had bound Gollum firmly enough so he could do little more than walk, Aragorn roughly shoved him against the rock shelf, pinning him there. Brimming with malice, Gollum glowered at him, murderous snarls bubbling up from his shriveled throat.

“Yes or no,” Aragorn said, “Did you take the Stairs of Cirith Ungol out of Mordor?”

Gollum muttered muffled and indecipherable insults and flailed his legs.

“Answer me,” Aragorn growled. “The Stairs of Cirith Ungol. Was that your path?” Gollum made no attempt to answer him, and did nothing more than cry into the gag and thrash like a snake caught under an eagle’s talon. Thoroughly perturbed, Aragorn let him go and wearily turned towards the path he must tread through the maze of jagged cliffs and fins and tors. A few hours of daylight remained. He hoisted his pack and jerked tiredly upon the rope.

Henceforth the next few days’ travel was sluggish, scrambling across treacherous climbs through drop-offs and crevasses, exploring the slopes of the Emyn Muil for passable routes. When the flat gray clouds overhead fissured and slivers of sunlight dappled the pale gray and rust-colored bands of the fins and cliffs, Gollum screamed and cried, earsplitting wails resounding through the cliffs and columns. Aragorn did not know what fell things inhabited the desolate cliffs, what eyes and ears watched them. He pointed the Westernesse sword at Gollum and bade him to desist his whining. Gollum whimpered, “Don’t hurt us, don’t hurt us.”

“Alas, I would not only hurt you but kill you if it were my choice,” said Aragorn, gesturing up the slope with the sword. Head down, Gollum scurried past and scuttled up the shorn rock face ahead of Aragorn. They made far better time, though Aragorn’s wounds and the labyrinthine contours of the land that often lead him astray for several miles, hindered their progress. Always he worked westward, though he often diverted from his course when sheer cliffs obstructed him and he had to work back west again, a zig-zag line through the barren and stony slopes. The Ephel Dúath, a cloud of blackened smoke sitting upon the horizon, and the reddened sky of Mordor he kept at his back. Frequently he made use of the rope – the part not haltering Gollum – to negotiate treacherous precipices, and felt greatly in debt to the Ithilien Rangers for giving it to him. Without a rope, this would be an impassable trail.

Come twilight, a sudden storm sprang forth from the dismal sky, unleashing its fury. Clouds burst overhead, lightning danced across the pinnacles and across the murky black lowlands stretching towards the mountains, thunder roared like a great army, and rain poured down in sheets. Rivulets of water flowed down cliff faces and the rock became slick. Small streams rushed through gullies and eddied around the feet of Aragorn and Gollum. Driving Gollum ahead of him with the threat of his ever-drawn sword, Aragorn sloshed through the streams and puddles and clambered cautiously up the slippery rocks. In spite of the hard going, the lashing gale and the thunder roaring like the rage of the Valar against Ar-Pharazôn sent a surge of excitement through him. “What a glorious storm this is!” he said aloud, turning his face to the howling wind. “In such gales Númenor could have been swallowed by the sea!” Bolts of lightning ripped open the sky, setting ablaze the deep clefts and ridges of the Emyn Muil in white light, so brilliant that it lit even the distant crags of the high Ephel Dúath and Ered Lithui. Waiting out the storm underneath an overhang seemed a wise choice, had Aragorn more time. Crows, hawks, and other beasts whose eyes not even a Ranger could slip past spied for Sauron, and Aragorn thought it inevitable that the Enemy would eventually learn of Gollum’s recapture. As Sauron indisputably had some pernicious design in releasing Gollum, he would be incensed to hear of his plans foiled. The last thing Aragorn desired were orcs, or Ilúvatar forbid something worse like a Nazgûl, on his heels for the long days of travel to come. His best defenses against the eyes and ears of Sauron were speed and stealth. He had not a moment tarry. So long as he had the strength in him to press forward, forward he must go.

A steep and rocky incline rose before him, a daunting cliff-face, yet not an impassible one had the weather been kinder and he uninjured. There was no time to rest, but the chances of being struck by lightning upon the exposed ridge were quite good. The chances of Sauron’s spies being out in this weather were considerably lower. “Alas for this storm,” Aragorn said to himself. No more did the storm thrill him now that it hindered his flight. “But climbing that rock whithersoever it goes now is a good way to get killed.” Frowning in vexation, he leapt out of the small stream roiling round his ankles in the wash he had been following, and thence took cover in a cleft in the cliff wall, a seat gouged into the limestone face somewhat protected from the lashing gale. While waiting, he counted the seconds between the lightning flashes and the roar of thunder. Often he barely reached the number one ere the thunder shook the Emyn Muil. Unless this was some storm brewed up by the wrath of Morgoth himself, the heart of the storm ought to move off in an hour or less. If he stopped moving for more than an hour, his sore muscles would stiffen and make the ascent up the rain-slicked rock far more challenging than it already was. Thus he reckoned he would climb at once after the lightning withdrew.

The moment Aragorn counted fifteen seconds – three miles – between the lightning and thunder, he abandoned his shelter and paced along the foot of the cliff, searching for a gully or wash or rockfall, a trail up its torn flanks. None appeared. He squinted through the dark rain towards its summit, and a dazzling flash of lightning set it alight and showed no easy path. Merely deep cracks rent into the limestone, broken hither and thither with sharp ledges and folds.

Gollum said something, though between the roaring thunder and the gag in his mouth, it was incomprehensible to Aragorn’s ears. But the creature looked straight at him and appeared to be speaking to Aragorn instead of about him to his other selves.

“What did you say?” asked Aragorn.

Gollum repeated it and Aragorn still did not understand, so he knelt down before the creature and pulled the gag away.

“This is the last long cliff,” Gollum said. “The very lasst. The only way up. Then we walk, walk a short way to the River. Not far now. Almost out of the cliffs. But this iss the only way, precious.”

Narrowing his eyes, Aragorn retied the gag and said, “What reasons have you to tell the truth?” The creature had every reason to lie, and Aragorn would have firmly believed entrapment was his agenda had it not been for that single moment in the Dead Marshes when Gollum had, perhaps inadvertently, saved his life by calling him back from the alluring corpsecandle. But that moment did not displace nor shake the deep distrust with which Aragorn regarded Gollum, and he turned away from the creature, resuming his pacing beside the unyielding and barren rock face. On its northern and southern edges, the cant increased, a sheer escarpment, high and insurmountable. Aragorn sighed deeply. It seemed Gollum was right – there was but one way up the escarpment.

Pointing the sword towards the high summit, Aragorn compelled Gollum to climb the stony face ahead of him, and then sheathed the weapon and began his slow and toilsome crawl.

Gollum scrambled effortlessly over the rocks, unhindered by slippery footing or even by the ropes binding his wrists, as far ahead of Aragorn as the rope round his neck permitted. Envious of the creature’s dexterity amongst the rocks, Aragorn labored up the cliff, clinging to the waterlogged and broken stone, favoring his left arm. In better circumstances, he was a skilled climber, but the rocks were slippery and the pain was scalding and the sheets of rain were obfuscating his vision. He rested for a little while on a ledge, catching his breath, gazing upon the spectacular vista; the sullen red sky above the dusky Ephel Dúath; the plain, formless and murky, at the foot of the mountains; the gnarled mass of serrated pinnacles, ridges, and deep clefts and gullies of the Emyn Muil. Wild lightning in the distance continuously set the sky aflame with lances of white fire thrusting from the tumultuous dark clouds.

Steeling himself against pain, Aragorn continued upwards. Fingers slipped and the toes of his boots shakily held the rock. One step at a time, he dragged himself along, up and up, pressing his body into the slickened limestone and at every step questioning the wisdom of his decision. Would it not have been better to wait out the storm underneath an overhang or boulder? The adversity of this climb seemed hardly worth the few hours he had gained. Had the desire to flee the confines of Mordor addled his common sense? Aragorn raised his eyes and squinted ahead through the rain and saw Gollum’s dim shape perched above him on a lip overhanging the cliff face. The summit of the escarpment at last. He scaled the last few feet of broken rubble, a final exertion and then lay flat on his stomach on the ledge beside Gollum for a while, in more pain than he thought he could bear. “It would have been wiser to have ascended this on the morrow,” he said to Gollum, who crouched on the ledge well away from Aragorn.

In the very rock itself, he felt the thunderous roar of an immense cataract, a deep thrum pulsing through the stone and earth. Not even the blackened night, the wild storm, the sheets of rain in his eyes, concealed the solid plumes of spray rising from the Falls of Rauros. There to the west, the escarpment fell away in a sheer precipice, a deep gorge in which a silver and gray cloud churned and roiled as the Anduin plummeted down the falls in roaring tongues of rushing white water. One stage of his journey was over. From here, he had to march northwards until he could ford the Great River somewhere between Sarn Gebir and the South Undeep, a dangerous road for orcs watched the eastern banks of Anduin, but he had no boat, and no man nor elf could swim Anduin’s swift currents south of Sarn Gebir or the wide lake of Nen-Hithoel.

Aragorn drew himself up to his hands and knees and crawled to the lee side of a boulder, clutching his throbbing arm to his chest. So long as the storm raged, no orcs would come and in the lashing wind, the roaring thunder, and driving rain, he would be safe to rest for the night, to replenish his strength for tomorrow’s race to Sarn Gebir.

7. Flight to the Riddermark

Sometime in the night, the tremendous storm blew itself out and dawn broke through the heavy clouds shrouding Mordor and stretched thin fingers of light through the mists furling atop the Emyn Muil. The thrumming of the falls roused Aragorn from the dreamless sleep into which he had fallen. He blinked in the sun, a strange and heartwarming sight after many days traveling in flattened and sallow light. He had not intended on letting deep sleep claim him, but it seemed to have done him good and he felt none too worse for wear. His prisoner had not throttled him in the night. The ruinous wretch crouched beneath a nearby boulder, malice gleaming in his eyes but his bonds were tight and firm and the fear in his heart potent. Blood trickled from Aragorn’s arm, the wounds re-opened by the grueling climb, and the shoulder ached as though a horse had kicked him, but neither wound was serious enough now to concern him.

When Aragorn looked to the west, the view elevated his heart. There, the escarpment on which he rested descended steeply for hundreds of feet to the Nen-Hithoel, Anduin’s silver and white lake. The pent-up waters spread out in the elongated, oval basin and then sprang off the edge of a cliff in jets of white water, thunderous and foaming. Wafts of coiling white spray rose from Rauros, a cloud of mist parrying with sunlight in the forms of rainbows and golden beams of light. Gazing south, Aragorn saw three lofty hills rearing above the brown and gray strata of the cliffs and deep canyons, a labyrinth of burnt and naked stone rending the Emyn Muil. They were Amon Lhaw, and Amon Hen and in the center, surrounded by rushing waters, Tol-Brandir. In the days of the kings of Westernesse, Amon Lhaw and Amon Hen had been great watchtowers, but now they sat empty and abandoned. Ever did Aragorn desire to set foot upon the high seats of Amon Hen and Amon Lhaw, but his road lay in the opposite direction. He had no time for deviations. High above Nen-Hithoel a hawk circled, a dark silhouette against the pale sky. Whether it served the Enemy or not, he had no idea; nonetheless the sight unsettled him.

Aragorn stirred and got up. As he had feared, wounded muscles had stiffened in the night and his limbs ached. In his pack he found breakfast, soggy bread and nuts and dried fruit. It was not good, but it was food so he ate it anyway. His last remaining athelas leaves he applied to the swollen, oozing lesions in his forearm.

Though stiff and sore, he did not linger upon the overlook. He drew his sword to assure Gollum’s swift obedience, and then hurried along the rim of the escarpment. With a twinge of regret and sorrow for the glory of the days of kings, for Isildur and Anárion and their successors, Aragorn cast a longing glance over his shoulder at the three temples of stone and it seemed that a mantle of gold rimmed the cap of Tol-Brandir. Perhaps a day would come when that glory returned to Gondor, but that would not be this day. This day the last heir of Elendil ran for his life, driving his ruinous prisoner ahead of him. No longer did the wild storm, a torrent of darkness, shelter him from his foes; the splendid sunlight was his greatest foe against stealth.

The yellow sun, the breathable air, and the glorious river running alongside him in the dark canyon renewed his vigor and set his heart afire. Before his wounds harangued him into taking a brief rest, he covered many miles scrambling through the brambles, weeds, and fallen limestone boulders, over ridges, deep dales, and rocky spires, elaborately serpentine and smoothly sculptured, colored in horizontal bands of gray and rose. He took cover in a dell beside a bottomless gray pool, splashing water upon his face and cleansing the cuts on his arm.

Gollum was wroth about the sun’s emergence; he had scuttled forward sullen and silent at the tip of Aragorn’s sword, but now he protested noisily, howling muffled curses into the cloth gagging his mouth, making enough racket to draw the attention of every orc within earshot. Aragorn shoved him against the rock, pressing his blade to the creature’s throat and stared into Gollum’s pale face.

“Be silent, you miserable maggot!” Aragorn said. “You think to get me killed by rousing every orc along the Anduin’s Eastern shore to your aid?”

Gollum frantically shook his head, but deceit shone in his eyes.

“I do not believe that. But it matters not. If you do not hold your tongue, you will suffer worse punishments than you already suffer, at my hands and at the hands of the Elves should we make it that far. You will wish Sauron had never released you.” Ending Gollum’s miserable life while his blade touched his throat tempted Aragorn – Gollum was a danger and a burden, a sly villain – but Gandalf’s admonitions again stayed his hand and when he looked upon Gollum trembling beneath the sword, he saw a forlorn, wretched creature whose mind and body had been shriveled by the Ring, and a pang of forbearance stirred in his breast. He let Gollum go and stepped back against the side of the hollow where he sat down and ate a bit. The sword he did not sheathe.

His prisoner crawled hesitantly to the edge of the pool, but bound and gagged as he was, he could not fish. Silvery shadows of fish flitted sumptuously about beneath the murky gray water. Whimpering, Gollum looked up at Aragorn beseechingly and mumbled into the gag, “Release us, and we will be very, very good. Release us.”

Face impassive, eyes harder than steel, Aragorn shook his head. When Gollum began whining again, Aragorn swung the blade of the sword towards him, the Westernesse etchings glinting like blue fire in the sun. Gollum cringed in terror and crawled to the far side of the hollow.

After his brief respite, Aragorn clambered out of the hollow and went on, ever and anon afraid of tarrying too long in one place. He feared Gollum’s cacophonous crying had drawn the Enemy’s attention, or the crows and hawks oft circling overhead were spies of Sauron, or the smoke from small fires he lit at night captured the gaze of shadows he sensed in the dark, or something noticed what few tracks he made.

They marched across the rough and broken landscape of dells and crests in peace for a day and a half until they reached the Argonath, giant statues of Isildur and Anárion on each bank of the river, proud and stern, forged by the handiwork of men of old, guarding the long-vanished kingdom. Between them the river rushed at great speed through a dark chasm, boiling and thrashing in tumultuous rapids, but Aragorn, a mile away from the sheer and dreadful cliffs rising on either side of the river, only heard the rushing water and saw two great pinnacles thrusting from the shorn off ridges of the Emyn Muil. For many years he had desired to look upon the proud, weather-worn visages of the Númenorean kings. Unlike a diversion to Amon Hen, the Argonath did not lead him too far astray from his intended course, so westward he turned, towards the roaring river.

The junipers and firs rustled. It was not the wind that stirred them. Aragorn paused. A bow whined and an arrow zinged by his ear and implanted itself in a tree not three inches from his head. He flung himself to the ground, rolling behind a low brush and then crawling on his hands and knees to the cover of a broken, wind-worn statue. It was unrecognizable as anything but offered protection on all sides. Nearby Gollum uttered a strangled cry and cowered behind a jagged limestone boulder. A barrage of arrows bounced off the wrecked stone, plowed into the hard, rocky earth, and embedded into trees. Aragorn cautiously crawled to a gap between two ornamented stones and peered through the evergreen forest. There he saw faint shapes moving about in the trees, dark and disfigured. Orcs! They had him pinned, for their arrows blockaded his northerly road, and they would soon move in on him if he remained beneath the old statue. It had no entry but one and would be a deathtrap if they found him.

He crept away from the statue, bidding a terrified Gollum to follow, and crawled through brush and sharp rocks that scraped his hands and knees, ignoring Gollum’s supplications to go another way. Arrows hailed above his head. By the light of the Valar, he thought as arrows struck the ground perilously close, and his heart leapt. Down a small gully he crawled until at last he saw the bowmen, three large orcs shooting arrows into the forest, aiming in his general direction. Three more sat upon rocks and stumps, sharpening swords and scimitars and drinking some sort of potent and vile drink that reeked of strong alcohol when the breeze wafted the scent of it to Aragorn’s nostrils.

Did he fight or flee? Fighting with an injured arm worried him. But they knew he was here and would hunt him, and a fight would come to him whether he wanted it or not. He had survived great battles injured before. Just then, the middle Orc raised his sword high and as it examined the blade in the light, it caught Aragorn’s eye. Aragorn darted behind a tree but it was too late. They had seen him and there was no place to run.

Aragorn let loose a volley of four arrows, but his left arm was too weak and the pain too sharp to hold the bow steady, hence the arrows swung wide of their targets. His enemies returned fire, and he flung himself to the ground behind a rock. The sword was a better choice of weapons than the bow; easier to wield injured.

“Elendil le nallon sí di'nguruthos!”[i] he cried, springing to his feet, leaping down the gully, swatting arrows with his sword as though they were mosquitoes in the Midgewater Marshes, and hurling his right shoulder into the foremost orc. Aragorn agilely scrambled to his feet and thrust his sword through the orc’s breast before it could rise, and then he turned upon the others, a fierce light glittering in his gray eyes and a star seeming to shine upon his brow. In him at that moment as he faced his foes, the majesty and pride of the Argonath, of Númenor, blazed again. The orcs fell back in fear, as though one of the great kings of stone stood before them. Brandishing the bright sword of Gondor before him, Aragorn charged them in their trepidation and brought the force of his blade against their scimitars. Steel clashed against steel, a tremendous noise shattering the peaceful silence but for the river’s roar and bird’s songs. He parried and wove amongst the six of them, swift and light on his feet, a far better swordsman than they. Two he slew, cleaving open the head of one and disemboweling the other, and then their four companions retreated, firing arrows as they withdrew into the woods.

Aragorn gave chase, dodging arrows which were not aimed truly anyway since his foes were moving and so was he, and they were not skilled enough bowmen to slay a running target while they too ran. The stragglers he caught up with and after a brief skirmish, he brought them down and then ran after the latter two, headlong at first and then he eased his pace. He must not be reckless. He had no idea if the two orcs fled into the lonely woods or into an entire legion, and if the latter were the case, pursuit would bring death. But two living orcs would report his presence to their masters. Did stealth justify the immense risk of running into a substantial company of orcs? I can outrun them to the river, if indeed they report me and try to follow me, Aragorn decided. Once he crossed Anduin, his foes would lose his trail. Breathless, he broke off pursuit and returned to where he had left his pack and Gollum if the filthy wretch had not taken the opportunity to slink off in an effort to escape.

His pack had not moved from the gully and Gollum squatted underneath a rocky overhang, rubbing the ropes on his wrists against the jagged teeth of an old stump, which he ceased as soon as he saw Aragorn trotting over the dell, and he glared at him through lidded eyes. Aragorn hoisted his pack, and then to his surprise fell to his knees clutching his left arm as a fearsome bolt of pain shot from his shoulder to his wrist. In the midst of battle, he had forgotten about his wounds and the reminder was violent, wrenching his entrails. Gasping, he doubled up, fearing he was going to be ill, but the intense nausea finally passed and left him lying on his side upon the pine needles and rocks.

Mindful of danger but in too much pain to move, Aragorn rested for a while until the blinding white light cleared from his mind, and then he arose, fashioning a sling out of a vambrace and what spare cloth he had left. Time pressed upon him, a heavy burden, and he had many leagues to travel before nightfall. Herding Gollum ahead of him with his sword, he made haste through the silence of the late afternoon, not the silence of peace but rather the menacing calm before the storm. His arm throbbed at each step and heartbeat, but he bore it undaunted and pressed on briskly until the sun sank behind the rugged and rosy cliffs and the light faded into pale dusk and the star-studded curtain of night at length crept over the northern reaches of the Emyn Muil and Sarn Gebir.

* * *

The country changed dramatically three days out from the place Aragorn had fought the orcs. The hilly, rocky land gradually crumbled away into bleak steppes, withered and formless slopes as far as the eye could see, brown and lifeless, as if blasted by some pestilence that had left no stone nor living tree nor blade of grass. The Brown Lands they were called, a wasteland stretching from the northern hills of the Emyn Muil to the southern fringes of Mirkwood. On the other side of the river, rolling plains of grass and tussock stretched to the distant peaks of the Hithaeglir. It was the Riddermark, the plains of Rohan. Few folk of Rohan ventured near the river in these dark days, for the orcs overrunning the eastern shore could shoot arrows across the wide water and crossed it in the shallows between the North and South Undeep as the river sluggishly crawled through the Brown Lands.

Aragorn too must cross the river, though he intended to do so within the next ten miles, where the foaming rapids dissipated and the river slowed her swift pace and he could swim across without being carried far downstream or to his death against the sharp black rocks jutting from the water. A chill wind blew, an east wind from Mordor, and the bitter air nipped his flesh. He did not eagerly anticipate swimming the frigid currents, yet he had but one choice before him – certain death or the river. The formless slopes offered no more cover than Dagorlad, and the forces of the Enemy regularly patrolled the wasteland and the stony banks of the river. Danger lurked on the western shores as well, but the rolling South Downs of the Riddermark, its rocky outcrops and scattered clumps of trees proffered a measure of protection from unfriendly eyes. And the Rohirrim defended their borders. Weak King Théoden might be, but his cavalry remained one of the finest in Middle-earth. Orcs did not idly cross the Anduin and did well to travel by night and remain unseen.

Fearful of the vast wasteland, Aragorn raced upstream, never resting until nightfall and then only halting for a few hours before he continued through the dark, the river an argent ribbon guiding him northwards. Ahead of him Gollum staggered, wearied and surly. Often the creature wept, mumbled obsequious pleas, sorrowfully watching the river, starving from lack of drink or food. Aragorn wearied of his company and his stench of decay and rot; how he yearned for solitude! It rent his heart to know he had hundreds of leagues yet to travel before he entered Thranduil’s kingdom. Lothlórien was not more than one hundred fifty miles away, but he would gather no hope or take up strength again there, for he only planned to slip through its western borders and in any case, he could not abandon Gollum to the Galadhrim.

Fortune smiled upon him for once, and no calamities befell him during his brief flight across the open hills until at last the river became unhurried. He stood upon a gravel shoal thirty miles upstream of Sarn Gebir, looking out upon the downs of the Riddermark and the wide gray river and the gray sky, foreboding sleet or snow. A faint breeze from the northeast lifted his dark hair. His breath steamed. Swimming with an injured arm did not concern him, but the frigid water and the icy breath of the northeasterly wind did. This was no ford. The river ran deep. But there was nothing he could do, for he must cross now ere his luck gave out and a troop of orcs trapped him on the open steppes.

Gollum posed another quandary. With the ropes on his wrists and the gag in his mouth, he could not battle the deadly currents of Anduin, yet Aragorn dare not release him; he was too able a waterman. For countless years he had survived in the wet, dark caves and tiny rills beneath the Hithaeglir and he understood the nature of river currents and shoals far more fundamentally than did Aragorn. Given his freedom in the Anduin, he would vanish beneath her dark waters and not be seen again.

Aragorn paced along the riverbank, surveying the flat, gray and brown water, at a loss for an answer to his riddle. Even as he paced, distant cries reached his keen ears, and when he looked out over the formless slopes, he saw a dark cloud, a troop of orcs, marching slowly towards the river. He stiffened. Leave Gollum or untie him? As he struggled to choose quickly between unhappy choices, his foot struck a piece of driftwood that had washed upon the shore. A raft! Smiling, he knelt beside the log. The river had brought him a way out, a method to float his prisoner across its wide waters without releasing him. Aragorn hoisted the front end of the log and dragged it to the gravel spit where he had left Gollum. Here, he commanded Gollum at knifepoint to clamber aboard the driftwood and then he lashed the creature to it with sailor’s knots. The knife he held against Gollum’s throat while he swiftly bound his hands and feet to the log, hissing, “One word and you shall be dead.” Any unctuous noise, even muffled by a gag, would bring those orcs upon them at speed, and Aragorn desired to avert a skirmish he might very well lose and slip away from the hopeless eastern shore unnoticed.

Aragorn sheathed the weapon, inhaled to the very depths of his lungs, and waded into the glacial water. Immediately his toes went numb, and as the water rose, icy bands constricted his chest. The rope he wrapped around his hand and towed the driftwood with him. The fierce current tugged it downstream, and the rope crushing his hand severed the flow of blood to the veins. Imperiled by the deep cold settling into his bones, he swam for his life, gasping for air, vying and thrashing his way towards the opposite shore. When it felt as if the river would claim his life, his feet touched soft sediment and he lurched forward, splashing through the shallows and floundering upon the stony bank, teeth chattering and shivering. The pernicious cold had permeated his bones and had frozen the very blood in his veins. His arm and shoulder were numb; sharp pain no longer harried him. The driftwood bearing Gollum he heaved upon the shore and for a moment reflected upon deserting the creature, leaving him bound to the log before he untied the rope and cast the wood into the river.

Quaking and faint, Aragorn wrung water from his sodden cloak. Then he swiftly turned from the river and faded like a ghost forthwith into the undulating hills of the Riddermark. If he continued moving, his blood would stir again. His soggy clothes weighed him down, and he walked stooped over and found no warmth walking the miles of the Riddermark, but made his legs keep going for a few miles.

In a rock outcropping he stopped for the night. His flint, steel, and char-cloth were still somewhat dry, wrapped in their oil cloth. He broke twigs off a juniper and used them and dry grass as tinder, striking a spark with the flint and breathing upon the tinder until flames billowed. Gollum, disturbed by the leaping flames, hid behind a rock and buried his face in his bound hands, uttering hissing breaths. Paying no attention to the miserable wretch’s antics, Aragorn huddled over the fire, the heat licking his face and hands. Drenched gear he spread upon the ground beside the fire and there he lay, cold holding back sleep until the fire’s warmth leached into his chilled blood and bones.

At dawn’s first gray light, Aragorn arose after a quick breakfast of what little food had not been ruined by fording the river, strode across the rising and falling plains, empty but for small cliffs and outcroppings, long-abandoned dwellings, and clusters of trees huddling together against the wind that ever blustered across the Riddermark. Once the northern provinces had been vast studfarms, pastures burgeoning sweet, green grass sustaining hundreds of horses, broodmares and foals and breeding stallions. Aragorn remembered it as green and vibrant fifty years ago when he had served under King Thengel. What blight had befallen this land? Not a single living thing did he encounter, and he found the silence eerie and distressing. The Rohirrim had forsaken the benighted Eastemnet to the Enemy and their dwellings and cities were in the south beneath the high ridges of the Ered Nimrais. “All is falling under the Shadow,” he said aloud to the barren downs. Blinking his luminous eyes, Gollum cast a glance backwards towards him, but Aragorn’s gaze was distant – it was not Gollum to whom he spoke.

He and Gollum traveled at speed for many days, toiling over small cliffs and low ridges, heedless of Gollum’s misery and the ache in his left arm. A league or so adjacent to the southern fringes of Fangorn Forest, he at once came across signs that something else had passed through here, a wide swath of trampled and burned grass. Only orcs caused such wanton destruction as they traveled. Aragorn wondered that the tracks led from west to east, from Isengard and the Gap of Rohan instead of from Mordor and the eastern shores of the Anduin. Evil must be afoot in Isengard, but he did not know what. Last he had spoken to Gandalf, the wizard believed that Saruman was a friend and ally. At any rate, the burned incision in the plains swung north, Aragorn’s intended course. Warily he followed it, for he had little choice unless he swerved into Fangorn itself, a brooding, wrathful forest as old as the forest by the Barrow-Downs in Eriador and carrying some deadlier secret.

The next afternoon brought him to a rise overlooking a deep dish in the land and the stench of orcs rising to his nostrils. His heart beat faster as he and Gollum trotted down the side of a trough in the plains, downwind from the source of the foul odor. Through the gully Aragorn furtively crawled, and with his sword as an ever-present threat, commanded Gollum to be silent. Rough sounds of orcs, a substantial number of them encamped nearby, reached his quick ears. Investigating the size and strength of the company, Aragorn crept towards the hideous noises, edging forward though thorny brush and grass on his hands and knees. Shadows lengthened as the sun dipped behind the remote peaks of the Misty Mountains. Wispy clouds swirling high above the mountains glowed a deep red, as though drenched in blood. And then he came upon the camp, a large enough legion to take the heart and valor of most men, perhaps two hundred or more orcs scattered about in the bowl, drinking ale and eating foul-smelling meat and bread, cursing and fighting. Then, before he had a chance to inspect the encampment, another sound reached his ears and made the earth beneath his hands shudder. Horses galloping across the plain.

An arrow flew over his head and landed near Gollum, who uttered a strangled cry and retreated to the end of the rope. Another arrow landed some ten feet to Aragorn’s right. He dropped flat upon his stomach as two more sailed overhead, but none were aimed at him and Gollum. Too widely and too randomly did they fall. The hoofbeats pounding the ground grew louder, an approaching storm, and a shrill voice cried, “Forth Eorlingas!” Cries of men and whinnies of horses ruptured the still evening air, arrows whistled overhead in both directions, some falling perilously near Aragorn and Gollum. The earth trembled as if a quake ripped it asunder and to the west, Aragorn saw a silhouette of horses’ heads and flying manes and helms of riders backlit by the setting sun, a great wall of galloping legs and slashing hooves charging straight towards him, several éoreds of no less than three hundred riders. To the east, the orcs scrambled to attention and formed ragged ranks of spears, swords, scimitars, and broad shields. Foam flew from the horses’ mouths and the light of rage and eagerness burned in their riders’ eyes. Horns rang out, a glorious resonance shooting chills down Aragorn’s spine.

Blood drained from his cheeks. Any movement would likely get him shot by one side or the other. Thus Aragorn lay still as a corpse against the sloping flank of the gully, heart thudding against his ribs, breath shallow. He hoped the horses saw him and leapt over him, or he would at last encounter death beneath the hooves of the Rohirrim. Nan belain![ii] Arwen, forgive me, I shall not return to fair Imladris. His hand leapt to the hilt of his sword, grasping it so its silver edges gouged into his palm, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the horses reached the edge of the gully and sprang aloft.

The roar was deafening. Three hundred horses pounded the ground. Yet there was no pain, no bones cracking beneath iron-shod hooves. The hooves struck the ground a hair’s breadth from Aragorn’s face and sprang away, long tails whisked him, the broad bellies of horses sailed overhead. Not a muscle did he twitch and not a hoof scored him. Like a rainless storm they passed, lightning and thunder darkening the sky but touching nothing.

When the rearmost guard bounded over the gully and a swift and sudden silence befell Aragorn, he unfurled his fingers from the sword and found red marks in his hand. Then, the cries of the battle rang in his ears and he was aware of his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. He glanced to where Gollum had lain, expecting to see the creature pulverized, but Gollum was as unscathed as he and shared with him an astounded look upon his face. Turning away from his prisoner, Aragorn crawled on his belly up through the rocks and trampled brambles, up the side of the trough to its lip.

The Rohirrim had shot through the orcs like an arrow, fleet and deadly, slashing a swath through the scraggly and disorganized ranks. At once they wheeled around with masterful skill and fanned out amongst the orc company, cutting them down with arrows and swords. Screams and cries of man, orc, and horse rose from the sortie. Some riders and horses fell, but their foes suffered more losses than they. Around the camp they raced, rounding up the orcs and slaying them with fury. In their language they called valiantly to their captain, Théodred son of Théoden, of whom Aragorn knew, “To hope’s end and to heart’s breaking!” And they galloped once more around the rim of the decimated camp before racing eastward in pursuit of about seventy orcs who had fled. Their steeds were swift and they soon caught up to their prey and hewed them down, leaving none alive. Great cries of victory arose from the now darkened Riddermark, swords and shields were shaken, horses neighed. Then, they turned southwards and galloped away, vanishing into the fading light, the horses’ neighs and the thunder of their hooves upon the grass growing fainter in Aragorn’s ears.

He leapt out of the dell well after the Horse Lords had traveled even beyond the range of Elven eyes and ears. Though he held the Rohirrim’s valiance in high regard and had been proud to fight alongside them, Aragorn thought it wise to avoid an encounter on his errand of secrecy. Brave warriors they were, but they were not learned in lore and understandably were suspicious of strangers crossing their lands. Alone, Aragorn believed he could convince Riders of Rohan of his good intentions and royal blood, but bearing the burden of Gollum he did not think he had a chance. They would take but one look at Gollum and slay him and Aragorn then and there.

Head bent down and sword unsheathed, he wandered through the carnage of the orc encampment, though what he searched for he knew not. The dead and the dying were sprawled across the site of the battle and already it reeked of decay and rot. Aragorn stepped around mostly orc corpses, now and then prodding one with his sword, but amongst the slain he also found several fallen horses and riders. A sorrowful pang of loneliness and desolation grieved his heart, for here he stood, one living amongst the hundreds of casualties of war, and he felt strangely self-conscious.

Awkward movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention and he strode to where a mortally injured horse attempted to rise to its feet, though one front leg had been shattered and half its face shorn off and blood gushed as though from Rauros. Its rider hung by one stirrup to the side, bleeding profusely from a head wound but nonetheless alive. Agony contorted his sweaty, pale face and in confusion, he looked to Aragorn and strove to speak as Aragorn knelt down beside him.

“Who are you? I do not know you, but you are not one of the Enemy.”

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn,” Aragorn said in a low whisper. “And I am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan, descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil’s son of Gondor.”

The dying man uttered a choked, coughing laugh and blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. “’Tis a strange day indeed that our enemies so boldly enter our lands and legends spring to life in the very hour of death. Perhaps you are no more than a vision, but nonetheless I shall go in peace knowing the king has returned.” With that, he gave a shuddering breath and expired, his lips slightly parted, a look of repose upon his proud face with no trace of the pain he had suffered.

Aragorn touched the soldier’s cooling forehead, saying, “You fell bravely for Rohan and so you shall pass in peace.” Then he rose and with a swift blow of his sword to the throat, he put the horse out of its misery.

The blood-soaked plain squelching beneath his boots proffered him nothing more than slain orcs and their gear, destroyed and scattered carelessly across trampled grass. His search for a sign, for an indication to guide him and answer the riddle of these orcs’ strange crossing from west to east over the Riddermark, proved fruitless, and he sickened of death and grief. This place stank of it. Uneasily he beckoned Gollum from his hiding-place in the culvert, and the creature crept out from the brambles and skittered on all fours amongst the blackened corpses, hissing and gurgling muffled gibberish.

“The Enemy is not idle,” said Aragorn. “We cannot rest for many hours yet.” Reluctant, Gollum skulked towards him, hunger and bile written plainly across his grotesque features, white fangs gleaming with lust and rage. A sudden desire to slay the murderous, treacherous thing seized Aragorn’s heart and with the force of all his will, he restrained his hand.

Far into the evening he journeyed. Bitter frost stung his flesh. The crescent moon shining overhead cast down a feeble light. Ahead of him a thin line of trees marched across the plain, an army of pale ghosts bound for Rohan. There, the lands of Rohan at last ended and beyond his sight, Lothlórien lay hidden in its vale, a lustrous jewel beneath the high peaks of the Misty Mountains. On he sped through the night until a weariness no Ranger should suffer bent his back, and his knees and feet refused to walk another step, and his prisoner, lamed by their endless flight across the Riddermark through the ageless darkness, hobbled miserably ahead of him, weeping bitter tears.

* * *

For a few hours, Aragorn slept fitfully, often waking and pacing or puffing at his pipe. And then at dawn’s first light, a drab sunrise alighting the clouds to the east, he ate a hurried breakfast and set off again. As the sun rose towards high noon, the distant band of trees drew near; the loosely knit forest of The Wold, the uplands of Rohan between Fangorn and the Anduin. Like a misty shadow to the west, Fangorn sloped up the Hithaeglir, its green eaves fading to hazy blue on the flanks of the great mountains. In the clear and pale light of day, Aragorn now saw Methedras, the southernmost peak of the Hithaeglir, a vague white star shimmering in the distance.

Dark memories plagued him – somewhere in that vast wilderness Sauron searched for the Ring, and if Gollum had been captured and revealed all he knew, the name of the Shire would be emblazoned in Sauron’s thoughts. His servants would seek out the Shire and the Dúnedain would fall defending it from them at its borders. Alas, he was not there to lead them. After he left Gollum with the Wood-elves, to the West he must fly, to Eriador.

The land rose beneath his feet and the ghostly trees of the plateau enveloped him. For several uneventful days he passed through the forest, unnoticed by the tendrils of shadow from Mordor that had crossed the Anduin. The chill in the air deepened as he traveled north and the deciduous trees were bare and dry, firmly caught in the icy clutches of winter. Dull gray hours passed without event. Crows, heard but unseen, cried and wheeled overhead. Through the gnarled and twisted trunks and groping branches, he trod over dead leaves and peat moss, arising when the black sky paled in the sunrise and resting for a few sleepless hours late at night beside small fires.

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[i] Sindarin: “Elendil to thee now I cry, here beneath the shadow of death!” The Two Towers, Book IV, Ch. 10. Translation by http://www.fa-kuan.muc.de/SINDARIN.RXML.

[ii] Sindarin: “By the Valar!” Translation by Taramiluiel at http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm

8. On the Borders of Lothlórien

A week out from the battle site, the ranks of the Hithaeglir drew closer, marching in a file of white-capped peaks high atop the undulating green hills and gullies of Fangorn. The sound of water, a rushing stream foaming over rocks, sang in Aragorn’s ears. The Limlight, a creek pouring from the high glaciers and crests of the Hithaeglir that divided Fangorn from Dunland, cutting through the dark northern edges of Fangorn and then emptying into the Anduin. Across the little river lay the Field of Celebrant, the gravesite of a battle of old, where the Rohirrim had ridden to the aid of Gondor in the days of Cirion the Twelfth Steward and had destroyed their enemies. Lórien guarded the Field of Celebrant’s northern border, a mere sixteen leagues from the Limlight.

Aragorn drank the refreshing water of the bubbling stream, and he splashed it upon his face where it cut furrows through the dirt caked on his cheeks. Fresh water rejuvenated his worn spirit, and he refilled his skins, for the water had long since become tepid and stale. Gollum crouched upon a rock protruding into the stream, gazing fixedly upon the water and the fish flourishing in its cold and clear currents. But the taught ropes binding his wrists and the gag across his mouth made fishing nigh impossible, and he whimpered and begged Aragorn to untie him. Rising to his feet, Aragorn chased Gollum across the river with his sword and then forded it himself, hopping over rocks and sloshing through frigid water knee-deep. He would have liked warmer feet and the feel of the sun drying his wet clothes, but a thin gray cloud cover veiled the sun and the light remained flat and the air cold as if snow were imminent.

Here he cut straightway west along the contours of Fangorn’s northern eaves, for Dol Guldur loomed over the eastern banks of Anduin. The more leagues he had between himself and the outpost of the Nazgûl, the better. Then north he turned, racing alongside the white-rimmed peaks of mountains dissolved into low clouds. In two days Aragorn crossed the Field of Celebrant, open rolling plains of windswept grass, whilst on the horizon a golden mist clung to a wood in the fair valley below.

In the final stages of his flight across the ancient battlefield, the old graves were swallowed up by the plains and grass, trees appeared alongside him; at first scattered and thin, buffeted by high winds blustering off the mountains, but gradually the forest grew dense and the girths of the trees mighty. Their boughs arched over his head, and in the dim moonlight the leaves glistened pale gold. Mellyrn, they were called. Only in Lórien did they grow, and they bore a radiant yellow blossom. Aragorn inhaled their dulcet fragrance, the vapors that washed away the stain of travel and ameliorated weariness.

Night fell peacefully but for Gollum’s quaking and mumbled rhyming and the hushed roar of the Nimrodel a mile north of them. The creature had become more troubled and sullen since they entered the realm of the Golden Wood, the nonsense he whispered to himself in the dark less coherent and often punctuated by long, uncanny silences. These woods were perilous to evil or those who brought evil with them. Surely Gollum’s dark and shriveled mind sensed impinging peril and the power nestled and harnessed by the Lord and Lady in Caras Galadhon. The wretch collapsed upon a gnarled tree root as though smote by an arrow.

Aragorn had wished to slip unnoticed through Lórien’s eaves; alone he had hunted many wild and wary things and could remain unseen if he wished, even by Elves, but Gollum destroyed stealth. Yet if they sacrificed rest for the night, Aragorn believed speed would be his ally where stealth failed. Hence he jerked the rope, dragging Gollum off the root, but he may as well have been dragging a corpse. He prodded Gollum with the sword, which should have elicited violent shuddering and thrashing for Gollum could not stand to be touched with the steel of Númenor, but to Aragorn’s surprise the creature weakly attempted to crawl off, but did not flail, cry out, or shy violently from the blade.

Aragorn’s keen senses warned him something else was near. He stiffened. A presence stirred the hairs on the back of his neck. In his mind, the voice of the Lady Galadriel, a voice like a stream falling over rock, a melodious sound he had not hearkened for seven and thirty years, said, “Aragorn! What evil have you brought here?” Only it was foreboding and angered. Startled, he inhaled sharply. His passage through Lothlórien had not gone unnoticed by the all-seeing and potent defenses of the Galadhrim. They would not be thrilled that he brought Gollum to the fringes of their realm, the very predicament he had sought to evade.

“Daro!”[i] a voice called, firm yet fair. Aragorn found himself face to face with three silver-tipped arrows. His senses, though keen for a man, were nevertheless those of a mortal, and he had not seen nor heard the Elves.

“Suilaid,”[ii] he said, dropping the sword upon the mossy earth and holding up his hands. Not even the most traitorous servants of the Enemy spoke the Elvish tongue, and forthwith the arrows withdrew from his breast and throat. “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn,” he said in Sindarin. “Known to the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim.”

“Aragorn,” said an Elf, emerging from amongst the boughs. He was familiar to Aragorn, Orophin, a sentry of Lórien. The bow he cast aside and beheld Aragorn’s face. Astonishment shone in his clear eyes and he called to one of his comrades, “Haldir! It is Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

Orophin’s brother Haldir melted out of the silvered trunks. “We detected your presence on our borders,” said Haldir gravely. “Many years have passed since you last wandered beneath our fair eaves. It eases our hearts to know Isildur’s heir lives.”

“So the eyes of Lórien are so watchful in these days that they can detect even a Ranger,” said Aragorn. Alas for a covert passage through Lórien.

“Watchful indeed,” Haldir replied. “But a Ranger alone might yet slip past. But we sensed wickedness in your companion. Did you think you could get him through our defenses unnoticed? You surely know you cannot bring him here!”

“He is a prisoner,” explained Aragorn. “A spy of Sauron. I am taking him to Mirkwood, to your kindred in the northern realms. I also bear news of the movements of Sauron.”

“Whatever be your reasons,” stated Haldir, “He cannot cross our borders.”

“I would have bypassed Lothlórien entirely but for the danger lurking in Dol Guldur on the opposite shore of Anduin.”

The Elves exchanged a swift glance, their smooth and fair faces inscrutable.

“We cannot linger,” insisted Aragorn, stooping to pick up his sword and sheath it. “I fear the Enemy has not been idle. I must fly to Mirkwood and then to my lands west of the mountains.”

“You shall remain at least overnight,” said Orophin. “It is not safe to linger upon the ground here in the darkness. Orcs have dared to approach our borders and hide amongst the mellyrn. Come. There is a flet not thirty yards from here, though your skulking prisoner shall spend the night well-guarded upon the lower branches.”

Without giving Aragorn leave to argue, Haldir and Orophin turned and led him through the trees of silver and gray in the dim night. Uttering gasping moans as if the Elves choked him, Gollum tottered along listlessly. Beneath a mighty tree, the gray trunk smooth and wide, they halted and a rope ladder, silvery in the starlight, dropped down before them. A third Elf sprang agilely to the ground and took Gollum’s rope from Aragorn. Then Haldir bade Aragorn to climb the ladder. The rope was thin and light, yet strong enough to support the weight of an army of men. Aragorn cast a glance at Gollum, huddled against the tree hiding his eyes. What chance had he that the Elves would let him and his prisoner leave unhindered? Orophin’s words made his heart weep. So not even Lórien was free from encroaching evil. Seven and thirty years ago he had plighted his troth to Arwen on the hill of Cerin Amroth, and there his heart ever dwelt; he had seen things as they once had been; and now the gray trees seemed forlorn and weary, the Elves fearful and suspicious, the exquisiteness and serenity of Lórien fading beneath the shadow.

It did not escape the attention of the Elves that he favored his left arm climbing the rope. “You are injured,” said Haldir as Aragorn pulled himself over the rim of the flet, a sturdy platform of silvered wood lashed to the branches of the tree. “You were once an agile climber, for a mortal, and though the years have surely been hard on you and you are no longer young, they cannot have been that hard on one of Númenor.”

Aragorn evenly met the Elf’s eyes. Time had dulled pain, as was its wont, and he had grown accustomed to the lingering soreness in his arm and shoulder. At length he said, “I escaped the confines of Mordor with my life, but not unscathed.”

Haldir shuddered and a look of horror marred his fair features, a cold light shining in his eyes and a pallid sheen glancing across his cheeks. At once it passed and he said, “Indeed we feared you had been to an evil place. Let me see your arm.” He took Aragorn’s left hand, caked with dirt and blood from multitudinous cuts and scrapes, in his own, unbuckled the vambrace and rolled back the sleeve. Though the wounds were several weeks old, hard travel had hampered healing. Crusted blood had crept over the chunks of torn flesh, tangled dark knots and twisted figures climbing his arm, oozing and outlined in angry red. Lightly, the Elf prodded the ugly wound with gentle fingers, sending forth a course of pain, and Aragorn cringed. “Those are foul cuts,” said Haldir. “Where did you get that?”

“Gollum bit me,” Aragorn answered simply, withdrawing his arm and covering the wounds. “But it is healing. As best it can given my circumstances.”

“It should be cleansed.”

“It has.”

“Here we have a basin filled with the waters of the Nimrodel. It can heal the wounded and weary. Healing would be hastened if you washed those gashes in the soothing water.”

Aragorn relented. Indeed, he knew of the healing properties of Nimrodel, the stream of Lothlórien. In the water he soaked his tattered forearm, and it drew out the pain as though leeching poison from his veins, softening crusts of blood and mud and staunching oozing fluids creeping from the lesions. Then he exposed his lacerated and bruised shoulder and bathed it in the cleansing waters. While he tended his injuries, Aragorn raised his eyes from the bowl of glimmering water and met the gazes of Haldir and Orophin, wise and full of deep and sad memory. “By your leave, I should like to continue my quest ere the sun rises,” he said softly.

“No decision need be made until then,” Orophin replied.

“What decision?” Aragorn asked doubtfully. “I have wandered in these lands free and unhindered, and it saddens my heart that in these times, even an Elf-friend, Elendil’s heir, is distrusted by your people, who have long been as kin to me.”

Unmoved by Aragorn’s complaint, Haldir said, “Aragorn, it is not you whom we distrust. Had you come here unaccompanied we would have welcomed you into our realm with open arms, as we once did. But with you came a creature reeking of malice, of betrayal, a creature who should not have been brought within leagues of the Golden Wood-“

“The creature is in my custody, a prisoner, bound and gagged, and he can do no harm to you now. What would you have me do, Haldir? Take him by the perilous road of Dol Guldur and surely get killed by the evil lurking in Southern Mirkwood? Not even Thranduil’s people venture there! Or would you have me travel through the parched wasteland of Rhûn on Mirkwood’s eastern borders, where if one does not die of thirst and hunger, one risks a fatal encounter with Easterlings, the wild men who roam that dismal place. If those are my choices-”

“Peace, Aragorn,” said Orophin, raising a hand, his voice mild and unflustered. “All will be resolved come morning. Do not trouble yourself now.”

“How can I not?” Aragorn asked and eyed the Elves with dismay and sorrow, despairing that it should be them and not the Enemy waylaying his journey. “There is little hope if I do not make haste,” he said sadly.

“You are weary and it has fogged your mind and your common sense,” said Orophin. “Much you have endured. You are agitated, and that is not like you. Rest, sleep in safety you have not seen for many weeks, and tomorrow will be all the brighter.”

Weariness assailed him, and he bowed his head as the heaviness of grueling miles and sleepless nights buffeted him. Though he desired to comment that it burnt like scorching tongs in the chest that he should survive the perils of Minas Morgul and the Morannon only to be belated by the Elves, he contained his tongue. The expressionless faces of Haldir and Orophin invited no argument. Aragorn sighed and lay down on his side, enshrouding himself in the Gondorean cloak against the icy breath of winter. At once he fell asleep.

* * *

Up through the terraced flets of Caras Galadhon Aragorn climbed. All around him silver lamps swung from the boughs of trees, the faint singing of Elves filled the sweet air, a white stream spilled into a silver basin. Slowly he climbed until the stairs ended and the ground was but a remote dream below him, veiled by the shadowy boughs of the mellyrn. He stood in a great oval-shaped hall, the structure soundly supported by the strong branches arching high over his head, the walls glittering green and silver, the roof gold. It was the chamber of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel in Caras Galadhon, vacant and quiet, the singing silenced and the sound of water forgotten. But Aragorn was not alone. Before him stood Galadriel, adorned in a pearl white gown, her hair falling to her waist like a golden waterfall and her eyes deep and luminous wells reflecting the stars shining in the night sky. He cast his gaze downwards and she smiled, a blazing light illuminating her fair face.

“Do not be consumed by despair,” she said kindly. “You have triumphed over an evil that would take the heart of mortal men, and you are weary and grieved in body and in heart.”

“The Enemy is moving,” he answered. “Capturing the creature Gollum was in vain, a small stone thrown into a swift-moving river to dam its flow without effect. I fear he was captured, tortured in the dungeons of Barad-dûr, and he told them what he knows. And I foresaw that the Dark Lord will send out his servants, the Nine. Armies of thousands of orcs, Easterlings, Haradrim and others march through the Morannon every day. What hope do we have then?”

“Indeed,” said Galadriel. “There is a shadow growing across my heart and darkness strengthens its grip upon all lands, yet when have you been one to relinquish hope? Your road is long, and you shall pass through much darkness yet, but all is not lost. Look to the North, to your homelands, beyond the high peaks of the Hithaeglir!”

“And see what? The Dúnedain weaken, our numbers dwindle. We cannot stand against Sauron.”

“It is not to the Dúnedain you must look.”

“Then to whom or what?”

She merely looked at him, the keen light in her eyes piercing his thoughts, and he defied his desire to shy away and beheld her gaze. His folly for expecting a straightforward answer from the Elves! They spoke in riddles, saying both no and yes and yet nothing at all.

All of a sudden the chamber of Caras Galadhon and Galadriel dissolved from Aragorn’s sight, and he stood shrouded in shadows in a hazy place he did not remember, and terrifying images wheeled around his head: a great flaming eye, unblinking; Arwen kneeling against the bone-white walls of Minas Tirith with the Tower of Ecthelion at her back, a veil drawn over her face, weeping harsh tears; horsemen in black robes mounted upon black steeds galloping for all they were worth down a road weaving through foggy barrows; the pale, luminescent walls and cavernous gate of Minas Morgul grinning at him; a blood-soaked battlefield stretching to the horizon, covered with the dead, orcs and men by the thousands; ships bearing black sails and high prows skulking down a river; the ghostly visage of the dead Elf lord in the glassy mere; his ancestor Isildur wreathed in flame before the Cracks of Doom, the wild light of madness in his eyes, claiming the Ring as his own. Entranced, Aragorn could not wrench his sight from the abhorrent visions, though he trembled and fear held him in a vice, squeezing the air from his lungs.

Somewhere, beyond all the horrors laid out before him, Galadriel’s treble voice called, “Be at peace here. Lay your troubles to rest.”

And he tore his thoughts from the visions, and when he blinked his eyes, he found himself gazing out upon a canopy of silvery leaves and stars, halos shimmering in the soft, blue-gray sky, partially concealed by a thin wrack of clouds. He was lying on the wooden platform, wrapped in the cloak of Gondor, and the wide boughs of the trees swayed gently around the flet. With him lingered two Elves, Orophin and an unfamiliar face, dim gray forms in the misty night, blending in with the trees and shining wooden platform. Tremors shook him, cold sweat soaked through his tunic. He found it difficult to order his thoughts, focus his mind, and calm his thundering pulse.

“Nightmares should not besiege you here,” said Orophin, who had sensed Aragorn stirring. His face was impassive, the calm of the sea on a windless day.

“They already have,” said Aragorn, turning the ring of Barahir around on his finger. “I do not even know what it was I saw.”

“Morning is not for a few hours,” observed the Elf. “Go back to sleep and such dreams shall plague you no more.”

Aragorn raised himself up on one elbow, looking to the Elves, but their attention was drawn to the peaks rising above the Dimrill Dale, pale and craggy wraiths shrouded by vaporous cloaks. He fell back to the wood and lay awake for some time, fearful of what he might see when he shut his eyes, listening to his heart throbbing a heavy rhythm, until fatigue defeated fear. Involuntarily his lids shut and sleep again claimed him. No nightmares besieged him. The great circles of trees of Cerin Amroth, the outer leafless but gleaming with snow-white bark and the inner pale gold mallorn-trees, embraced him as he stood beside Arwen beneath the arching boughs, the yellow and white flowers shaped like stars ever in bloom. A radiant light sprang from her eyes and her fair cheeks were aglow. “Arwen vanimelda, namarïe,”[iii] he whispered as she clasped his bloodied hand in one of hers and stroked his brow with the other.

* * *

When dawn came pale in the East, the drab white and gray clouds parted, breaking to reveal blue sky peering through holes in what had seemed an impenetrable wall. Flecks of sunlight streamed through the mellyrn leaves and sprinkled the wooden platform with pinpricks of yellow light.

The Elves had prepared a breakfast, fresh fruit and sweet bread, a far better meal than the crusty dried fruit and stale bread in Aragorn’s pack. Gratefully he accepted it, and as he ate, he felt the shadows of the night, the despair and sorrow, lifting and leaving him in peace. The sun shining on his face brought warmth and hope. The dismay he had suffered in the long, dark hours seemed nothing more than what Orophin had called it, exhaustion muddling thought and sense. He did not doubt that Orophin and Haldir would release him and Gollum, for his words with Galadriel seemed more than a dream, and she had been full of hope rather than reproach. Unless it had been a dream of false hope, but her words were too vividly emblazoned in his memory to be a mere dream, whilst the nightmares that had laid siege to his sleep afterwards were vague and disingenuous.

“Word has come from the Lady Galadriel that you and your burden are not to be detained further,” said Orophin. “And that you are to make the greatest of haste out of this land. The Lady knows your purpose, though I do not see it clearly.”

Aragorn did not see his purpose clearly, either, for the avalanche he and Gandalf had sought to forestall in capturing Gollum had already fallen. Nevertheless he would pursue his duty to the end, to Mirkwood. Appreciatively, he clasped Orophin’s hand between his own and said, “Indeed, I should have been less quick to anger last night.” As he recalled the night with a clear mind freed from the tangled threads of exhaustion, foolishness and guilt for snapping undeservedly at the Elves stirred in his breast.

“You are forgiven,” Orophin said, remote and dismissive, as if it did not matter to him now and had not then. “You have fresh food and water and lembas in your pack that should last for some days.”

“Your generosity is much appreciated,” said Aragorn. “However, I ask of you one more favor, to deliver a message to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel and Mithrandir, should he pass this way.”

“What message?” Haldir said.

“Tell them that behind the walls of Mordor, Sauron prepares an onslaught of such strength as has not been seen since the end of the Second Age. I saw legions of men from Harad and orcs marching through the Morannon, and the armies of Gondor and Rohan such as they are have little hope once Mordor unleashes its forces against them.”

“Gondor is not what it once was in the days of Kings, but what makes you think it will fall should Mordor attack?” said Haldir.

“I have not been to Minas Tirith for years,” admitted Aragorn. “But even nine and thirty years ago when I served Lord Ecthelion, it could not have withstood the full strength of Mordor if what I saw is any indication of the armies Sauron gathers. You would need an army to rival that of the Last Alliance, and Gondor is no stronger now under Denethor than it was under Ecthelion.”

“Then Sauron believes Isildur’s bane has been found?” queried Orophin. “For I can fathom no other reason why he would amass an army like you describe.”

Until he and Gandalf were certain that the ring in the Shire was the One, Aragorn deemed it prudent to say nothing of it. “I had hoped my prisoner could tell me,” he said. “Hence my desire to get him to Mirkwood where he can be imprisoned and questioned.”

“Well, we shall give the Lord and Lady your message,” said Orophin.

“It will gladden their hearts to hear of it,” added Haldir humorlessly. Then he sprang down the rope ladder with all the grace of his kin.

“Better to know of the Enemy’s movements and not be taken by surprise,” Aragorn replied. Taking his pack and his cloak and weapons, he climbed after the Elves, agile and swift, but even he had not the elegance of the Eldar.

Gollum had spent the night huddled upon the lowest boughs with his guard, weeping wretchedly, from twilight’s silvered light to dawn’s shining beacons through the thick canopy. The Elves who had guarded him were disgusted, yet in spite of Gollum’s abject behavior and his stink and his shriveled appearance, pity had moved their hearts nevertheless, and they had loosened the gag and the bonds around his hands. At any rate they were glad to be rid of him.

Before the trunk of the great mellyrn tree, Aragorn took Gollum’s halter and retied the ropes and the gag. The creature glowered at him, hatred and malice more pestilent than any Aragorn had seen in him yet burning in his eyes. Aragorn’s stomach soured with detestation as he wrapped the rope round his hand. Then he turned to the Elves and bowed, offering his profound gratitude and saying in farewell, “Namarïe. Nai hiruvalyé Valimar.”[iv]

“Anar kaluva tielyanna, Elessar,”[v] said Orophin, bowing in return. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[i] Sindarin: “Halt!” Translation by Taramuiliel. http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm

[ii] Sindarin: “Greetings.” Ibid.

[iii] Quenya: “Fair Arwen, farewell.” Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Ch. VI.

[iv] Quenya: “Farewell. Maybe thou shalt find Valimar.” Ibid., Book Two, Ch. VIII.

[v] Quenya: “The sun shall shine upon your path.” Unfinished Tales, Part One, Ch. I.

9. Loeg Ningloron

Bidding farewell to Lórien’s tranquil groves and resplendent trees knifed Aragorn, and doggedly he trudged along the cracking stones and heather of the valley below the Dimrill Dale, feeling worn and gloomy. The ruined stonework, broken statues, toppled columns, and a cracked road slowly being gnawed away by vegetation did not lighten his heavy heart. Once this region had been a splendid Dwarf kingdom until ancient evil had awoken in Khazad-dûm -- the Mines of Moria -- and the Dwarves had long since fled. The place seemed especially forlorn, abandoned to the wild and to the evil stirring within the mountains. Forgotten conversations with Gandalf about Khazad-dûm came to Aragorn’s mind, debates about the demons the Dwarves, in their greed and hunger for mithril, had awoken in the bowels of the Hithaeglir. Though neither he nor Gandalf knew with certainty what dwelt in the caverns of Moria, they had agreed that the Mines were hazardous. In his many wanderings he had once passed through the Dimrill Gate, an evil memory of the darkest places in Middle-Earth, and he cared not to ever go that way again. The reminiscence alone chilled him. And the presence of evil had strengthened since those days when he had been young and reckless. A nipping wind blew through the fir trees, sweeping across broken gray rock, biting exposed flesh and driving water to the eyes. Looking towards the towering peaks as they plummeted away into deep ravines and grim cliff walls, Aragorn sensed a foreboding malevolence.

In the long journeys and toils of his life, he had witnessed horrors and faced the vilest evil; rarely did it plunge his spirit into such gloom. Mayhap it was Gollum. Over the miles between the Dead Marshes and Lothlórien, Aragorn had become almost accustomed, or at least grimly resigned, to Gollum’s insufferable presence. But his single night spent separated from the creature had left him with a keen awareness of his loathing. And Gollum’s behavior had worsened since they had parted from Lórien and entered the hills and steppes of the vales at the feet of the mountains. He mumbled to himself more, barrages of bitter curses about Elves and Men; he reeked of reckless malice and hate kept contained only by the rope about his neck, the bonds around his wrists, and the gag in his mouth. Sullenly he skulked ahead of Aragorn, prowling along on all fours. The Númenorean sword Aragorn had drawn from its scabbard, and it glinted in the sun, vanquishing any thought Gollum had of escape or murder. Often Gollum looked back, shrinking away in fear and resentment at the sight of the sword, the Westernesse markings blazing in the sunlight, and at Aragorn’s face, as unforgiving as the visages of the Argonath.

His enemies seemed to breathe upon his heels. There was no telling which creatures he saw crossing his path spied for Sauron. In the open steppes, Aragorn felt like a hunted beast surrounded by a ring of unseen foes. He knew orcs inhabited the somber cliffs of the Misty Mountains, and he did not doubt that some of the ravens, hawks, and other fowl circling above the peaks were the eyes and ears of the Enemy. How soon would it be before the orcs and wargs in the mountains became aware of his presence and set upon him?

Anduin he followed at a distance. On the opposite shore the dim plains melted into Mirkwood, the leading edge of dark shadow forty leagues to the East. Aragorn kept a wary eye upon the sinister shadow as he trod along a narrow path between Anduin’s western shores and the wild, rough country of the Hithaeglir’s foothills. Peril lurked there, and it lurked in the clefts and rims at the knees of the mountains. The orcs and wargs roaming this land grew bolder as the power of the Elves waned and the power of Mordor swelled.

At dusk, the howling of wolves rose on all sides of them, a chorus of packs singing to one another, yearning and mournful cries of sadness and lonesomeness. Aragorn forsook sleep for many nights and lay awake beside small fires he kindled, his sword and assorted daggers unsheathed and at hand. His heart brimmed with the sadness carried in the refrain of howls, pining for the hearth of Rivendell or the gardens of Lothlórien. But he was a Ranger, Lord of the Dúnedain, and there would be no home and hearth for him until he took up the throne in Minas Tirith or died by the sword. The White Tower in Minas Tirith; the tall pillars and marble floors and statues and graven images of men and other beasts carved into its stately stones; the high dais on which the throne sat and the black, unadorned seat of the steward below it, was no more than a faded memory. In the bleak and sleepless nights in the wilderness, listening to the wolves’ howling, Gollum’s half-mad incantations, and the wind whistling through dry grass and bent trees, Aragorn contemplated whether he would see the White City again. Long ago had he resigned himself to this fate, when Lord Elrond of Rivendell revealed to him his lineage and decreed that only if Aragorn were King could he wed Arwen. For the most part he stoically bore it and did not forsake hope, for he was Isildur’s heir and such was his burden, but there were times when it depressed him beyond words of hope and comfort.

He sat still before the fire, his back against a toppled pillar, broken in two, his head bowed to his knees. The sun had fallen behind the Hithaeglir, the clouds shifted from bloody red and orange hues to soft blues and purples. The Westernesse sword, unsheathed, rested upon the ground beside him, and the firelight shone red on its blade. Something stirred in the darkness and he raised his head, alertness and fear unsettling his thoughts. Though the nightly chorus of wolves had kept him company every night, he had not seen any, but alas it seemed as if his luck would not last. Vigilant, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword and guardedly watched the inky blackness surrounding the flickering fire. With his other hand he grasped one of his daggers. His intuition he trusted, and he knew that he and Gollum were not alone.

There, creeping between the campsite and the mountains, dim forms took shape, six pinpoints of light gleaming in the dark; a pack of wolves lurking and snuffling just outside the circle of light. Aragorn leapt to his feet, the two shining blades upraised, his eyes alighted by the reflection of the flames. He stepped towards the wolves. They shied from the weapons and his boldness, skittering backwards and then fearfully turning tail to him and vanishing into the shadows.

On his toes more than ever, Aragorn returned to his seat against the shattered pillar, intently scanning the black hillsides. Those had been ordinary wolves, dangerous hunters but rather skittish of prey with the will to fight them, and Aragorn had little fear of them. It was the wargs that concerned him, intelligent and fearless beasts with little compunctions about the strength of their foes or the force of arms. Absently he fingered the blades, running his thumb and forefinger against smooth, cold steel, shifting his gaze from the mesmerizing, dancing flames to the shadows beyond reach of the fire’s diffuse light. Whilst he watched the fire, he mulled over the wolves and could not stem festering uneasiness in his heart that those creatures served some dark master. Had they visited the camp to attack him at all, or merely to investigate? For their own purposes or for someone else’s? Whatever has poisoned Gollum’s mind must be infecting me, Aragorn thought wryly. This persistent fear of being hunted, which had grown since Lórien, seemed disturbingly like that of his prisoner. He attempted to quell it, but ever he wondered whether those wolves slunk into the night to warn their sinister master of his presence.

When Menelmacar fell behind the shadowy mountains, Aragorn at last succumbed to his concerns, rising to his feet, nudging Gollum with the sword, putting out the fire. His fear was not ridiculous. If Sauron discovered he had captured Gollum and sent a substantial force after him, he did not stand a chance. He faded into the country of dark hills and dales, sloshing through a shallow mountain stream to avoid leaving a scent and tracks until he came to a massive boulder that had fallen from the shoulder of a cliff. It provided cover from any eyes above. The remainder of the night he spent beneath the rock, cold and shivering for winter’s bite was sharp, but too cautious to risk a fire.

* * *

If wargs and orcs inhabited the northern half of the vale, they left Aragorn and Gollum in peace or went by unnoticed. The incessant howling was a constant companion at night, but only in that one night did wolves actually appear; and as Aragorn raced across the rocky hills and splashed through the clear and swift-running streams cutting a maze of dikes and gullies through the valley, no fell creature harangued him. In spite of Gollum who loathed the speed at which Aragorn drove him, they readily made up whatever time had been lost in Lórien and satiated Aragorn’s will – indeed, that of all Rangers – for great haste. Beneath his feet the land rose up an incline, climbing out of the vale. The broken shelves of rock and heath were swallowed by dry grass, leaving only scattered outcroppings and lonely white cliffs.

The ground became wet, for water from the Gladden River, a tributary of Anduin, seeped through many tiny rills and troughs, pooling in small ponds and marshes, islets and beds of reeds and rushes. In warmer seasons the land was green and lush, donning wildflowers like fireworks of radiant color exploding across the hills. Now the grass was dead and brown, grim patches of snow speckled the marshland. Ice crunched beneath Aragorn’s feet. His breath steamed, wisps of smoke puffing in the frigid air. At knife’s tip Gollum limped ahead of him, even further withdrawn into his madness and cravings for the Ring than was usual for him.

As they drew nearer to the Gladden River, unease pierced Aragorn’s breast, shards of the memory of Gandalf and Elrond telling him of Isildur’s demise in its waters.

Grim and forlorn, he toiled through the squishy footing. Elves had once lived in the Gladden Fields, which they had called Loeg Ningloron for the yellow irises that grew there in profusion, some of them taller than a Man. But the Elves had fled long ago, in years barely within the reckoning of even Lord Elrond. Then the Stoors, a halfling-like folk, had inhabited the banks of the Gladden but in the course of many years and many wars flooding their lands, they too had vanished. The fields had a sullen emptiness about them, a perturbing and inescapable sadness.

Here Isildur was ambushed by orcs, his company of two hundred Dúnedain outnumbered, and in an effort to escape death and bring the Ring to the Elves, for even besotted by it he had begun to understand its malice, Isildur put on the Ring and dove into the Gladden River. But the Ring fell from his finger, and orc arrows pierced Isildur’s chest and throat. Ghosts haunted the banks of the Gladden River, the wetlands of tussled reeds and watery fissures. Aragorn felt their oppressive company, the presence of his long-dead ancestors sitting in judgment of him, and he withstood the judgment of the dead with all the pride and might of Númenor. I am Isildur’s heir, not Isildur himself. Do not judge me so!

He sighed wearily and said to Gollum, “If it were not for Loeg Ningloron, neither you nor I would be here now.”

Gollum made no answer, but then Aragorn had no illusions he would. “Preciouss...,” he hissed to no one in particular, wringing his bound hands and clawing his face as if blotting horrors from his eyes. What ghosts beleaguered him? What debris of memory of a forgotten life remained in his shriveled and corrupted mind? Before Gandalf had left Aragorn to continue the hunt for Gollum alone, he had stated his unwavering belief that in Gollum’s soul there was but a small corner unscathed by the Ring, concealed in the dark chasms of his ravaged mind but there nonetheless. “Where iss it, my preciouss? They stole it from us,” Gollum cried. “Filthy little thieves!”

Aragorn sighed and swallowed the sour taste of revulsion sickening him. It seemed to him that the Ring had rotted out and devoured what good there was in Gollum and all that remained was villainy and hate.

At Aragorn’s behest – a rough jerk upon the rope – Gollum quieted, his plaintive dirges disintegrated into soft, nonsensical mumblings. The orcs that had slain Isildur here three thousand years ago probably still roamed the marshes or at least traversed it in pestilent hordes pouring from Mirkwood. And while the land seemed bare but for fowl, redwing blackbirds, ravens, and bone-white egrets, other things dwelt in the Gladden Fields, an evil more pernicious than a rabble of orcs. Aragorn did not willingly dismiss his unease as absurd fears of the past and nothing more.

Aragorn liked Loeg Ningloron less and less the further they proceeded into its mires and grasping reeds and rushes, and he was determined to push on through darkness until he reached the Gladden River. From the river it was less than a day’s hike out of the marshes, but there he must rest, for crossing unknown waters by nightfall was treacherous. Alas, the unhappy weather waylaid his travel plans. Night brought with it a heavy fog rolling across the marshes like a wet, woolen blanket, obliterating moonlight and starlight, hiding the ghostly silver and white peaks. The contiguous blackness was an impregnable wall. Each breath seemed akin to inhaling water, and navigation soon became impossible, a blind bearing through reeds and peat bogs. If ever a night proved impregnable to a Ranger, in spite of his keen sense of direction and formidable tracking skills, it was this one. Aragorn gave up on it and opted to wait out the fog near a lonesome standing stone, amongst tangled reeds reaching above his chest.

In the thick blackness, he barely made out the dim shape of Gollum not five feet from him. A wet veil had been drawn over his eyes. Then the cold abruptly intensified, as if he had plummeted into a cave so deep not a trace of warmth touched it. Alarmed, he tried to rise and draw his sword, but a grip as cold and as hard as steel clutched his throat and froze his bones and his lungs. A great weight pulled on his limbs, pressed upon his breast, and he collapsed to the wet earth. Darkness engulfed him.

* * *

Gollum’s disjointed rhymes and ramblings brought Aragorn to. He vied with dread and fog consuming thought and memory. Suddenly, his wits and recollection returned and herein he knew he had suffered the attack of some fell thing and it had dragged him to the cavernous maw of some cave or barrow and then deserted him lying at its mouth, unscathed save for the dire chill. The barrow rose before him, an amorphous dark mass. His limbs remained immobile. Years ago, when he was quite young ere he roamed afield from Eriador, he had fallen prey to the dreadful spells of barrow-wights on the outskirts of the Shire. That seemed like another lifetime, yet nevertheless the paralyses of body, the oblivion of thought, and the deathly cold overthrowing his senses reminded him sharply of that remote incident. He had not heard tales of wights dwelling in the Gladden Fields. But many had died here in wars that had come and gone. Perhaps restless spirits dwelt in tombs beneath the marshy tablelands. Wights were agents of the Dark Lord, and with the shadow falling across Middle-Earth, they walked in the hollow places of the world once more. Aragorn’s suspicions of birds and beasts serving Sauron were justifiable, for how else could the wights have found him? An ill-choice of foes, Sauron, he thought. A legion of orcs could slay a lone man in minutes, but while steel did not stand against a wight’s perilous spells, courage and strength of heart and will did.

A looming form, paler than the moon, rose out of the cave. A stark chill froze the air Aragorn breathed. Whether it was a barrow-wight of the sort dwelling in the Barrow-downs, Aragorn did not know with certainty, but ever he remembered the guileful apparitions, and it seemed the spectral shadow had sprung from dark memory. Somewhere to his offside, a wheedling voice chanted,

In the black wind the stars shall die, beneath their shields here let them lie, till the dark lord lifts his hand over dead sea and withered land.[i]

Gollum, Aragorn thought, feeling anger stir, a hot glow in his chilled breast. The deceitful little creep! How did he bring this about? Mayhap in his wanderings the wretch had befriended the wights – fell creatures of the dark had no allies but one another – but he had been under Aragorn’s eye since Lothlórien. Had the rhymes and murmurings Aragorn had dismissed as half-mad nonsense called out to the wights? He had no time to ponder. The pale wight loomed closer. Not even with Narsil reforged anew could he fight it.

Though short of breath, he let his voice rise in an Elvish lament, for often had the sweet tongue of the Eldar held evil at bay. The mistake had not been Sauron's, but Gollum's.

Men cenuva fánë cirya métima hrestallo círa, i fairi nécë ringa súmaryassë ve maiwi yaimië?[ii]

The wight hesitated and Gollum’s insalubrious mutterings silenced. Louder, Aragorn sang,

Man tiruva fána cirya, wilwarin wilwa, ëar-celumessen rámainen elvië ëar falastala, winga hlápula rámar sisílala,[iii]

Flinching away, the wight retreated, shrieking an earsplitting cry slicing through the night, and it edged into the black maw of its cave. As it withdrew, its malevolent spell lifted and blood poured into Aragorn’s limbs, carrying warmth and vigor. He sprang to his feet, drawing his sword from his scabbard.

cálë fifírula? Man hlaruva rávëa súrë ve tauri lillassië ninqui carcar yarra isilmë ilcalassë isilmë pícalassë isilmë lantalassë ve loicolícuma; raumo nurrua, undumë rúma?[iv]

Then in Westron, he cried, “In my veins flows the blood of Númenor and Westernesse. I am Lord of the Dúnedain, the son of forgotten kings, and the heir of Isildur, Elendil’s son. Do not thwart me!”

The wight uttered a last long shriek that trailed into the dank night, and it dissolved into the mist. For a moment Aragorn stood still, bewildered by the strange mood that had befallen him and the words that had come unbidden to his tongue. His real name – which he had, to his relief, not revealed – and his lineage he kept secret and only with great prudence did he unveil it. He did not know why he did it just then, for the Gladden Fields, barren and unfriendly, was not a place to pronounce that Isildur’s heir had come forth. But the night was still as a tomb. Unless spies of Sauron or orcs patrolled the Fields in the unassailable mist, only Gollum and the barrow-wight had heard him and little could be done for it now. And where had Gollum vanished? Like the wight, he too had dissolved in the mist.

“Gollum!” hissed Aragorn sharply. It would not surprise him if the slippery sycophant had escaped into the murky water and hid amongst reeds, shielded from sight by fog. By trickery had he thought to get Aragorn killed and then make his bid for freedom? Is this desperate flight and living each day in fear of Sauron’s spies discovering I have captured the wretch not enough? Aragorn thought. He swore he would forego his promise to let Gollum live and slay him as soon as he recaptured him. “Gollum!” he repeated. “You maggot! Show yourself or you will not survive the night!”

“Yes, my precious,” hissed a thin, muffled voice from a patch of tussocks. “Nasty steel burns us, so we are very, very good,” Gollum added. Through a mire Aragorn floundered hither, stumbling to his knees when the earth fell away beneath his feet, and he staggered through the muddy fen. He barely made out the shape of Gollum huddled on the other side, clutching his knees, head buried beneath his forearms, and rocking to and fro. When Aragorn nudged him with the sword, he raised his eyes; in them shone a terror keener than any Aragorn had seen in the miserable wretch yet. Fear, perhaps, of Aragorn’s lineage and all that his proud and pure bloodline of Númenor conferred. Obedient to Aragorn’s will, Gollum scrambled forth ahead of him. Aragorn clenched the hilt of the sword and ground his teeth. He could not yet forego on his word to Gandalf, nor could Gollum’s sudden turn to supplication justify the beating he richly deserved. The only thing to do was race the shadow of death to Mirkwood; fly as he had never had the need before.

Heedless of the misty shroud, Aragorn plunged through the fens, anxious to put Loeg Ningloron behind him. The place was fraught with peril, barrow-wights and orcs, fell shadows of the restless dead.

The gurgling and chortling of a rushing stream reached Aragorn’s ears. Suddenly Gollum – a wraith to Aragorn’s eyes – stumbled into water and halted as if a demon had arisen from its depths and barred him from going further. Aragorn too skidded to a halt before he crashed through the stream. The mists rolled away to reveal a brisk river, blacker than the night sky, gliding untiringly through reeds and fog, its opposite shore a formless opaque mass rising from an indistinct, muddy bank. “The Gladden River,” he breathed softly. It had been his aim to spend the night on its shores, and then ford it come morning. But he feared what hunted him on the river’s southerly bank, the attention Gollum had drawn to their passage. No longer did the southern marches of Loeg Ningloron offer solace. The cold touch of the barrow-wight had spread across his heart, foretelling death and torment should he linger here.

Gollum had broken his trance and cast himself into the shallow water. There he lay writhing and moaning, thrashing about in the throes of a nightmare. Silver ringlets of water sprayed into the oppressive gloom. “Give us that, Déagol, my love. Because it’s my birthday, my love, and I wants it!”

What memories had the Gladden River evoked and driven out of the crags and shadows of his ruinous mind? Aragorn had not the time nor the inclination to concern himself with it. That was a riddle for minds more curious than his at this moment. “Get up,” he commanded, and he thrust the sword at Gollum. Crossing the river was hazardous and foolish, for the fog made invisible rapids, currents and eddies, but Aragorn thought it less imprudent than remaining on this shore. Gollum ignored him. Casting a fearful glance over his shoulder, Aragorn waded into the water, which rose to his ankles and bit his toes with icy teeth. Lightly he kicked Gollum in the side. “We cannot tarry here,” he said. “Come along. Get up now.” When the wretch paid him no heed, he overpowered him, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and dragging him into the river. Gollum flailed and his thin wails receded into the night.

Aragorn sloshed through the knee-deep water. Abruptly he staggered off a shelf into water pooling near his breast, inhaling sharply with shock and pain as the angry cold seemed to freeze the very air in his lungs and chill him to the marrow. He gasped for air. His prisoner he flung over his shoulder or the creature, forestalled from swimming or wading, would drown in his bound condition. Half walking and half swimming, Aragorn floundered inelegantly through the water, hindered by his burden across his shoulders. The current was strong and threatened to rip his feet out from under him, to sweep him to the confluence. And the foul odor of Gollum so close to his face sickened him, made him lightheaded, and he fought dizziness and illness as fervently as he battled the river. A wrathful riptide knocked him off his feet like an orc broadsword. With a final surge of strength, he pitched against it, struggling for the shore. Then his knee scraped against a rocky shelf and he scrambled over it. Once again he found himself splashing through the shallows. He flung Gollum into the water and lugged the creature out with the rope.

Up the bank he climbed, for he did not risk tarrying on the muddy flats. Then he fell against another standing stone at the lip of the bank and could no longer bend his will to walking. Against the wet, bone-chilling cold, he must kindle a fire or he would not wake from dreary sleep threatening to consume him. Violently he shivered and his breathing was troubled. It took coaxing fingers that felt as though they had frozen around the hilt of the sword to nurse a fire along, a pitiful flame gasping for air but bringing heat nevertheless. Though the cold had quelled his appetite, he ate lembas anyway. Water he heated over the flames and gladly he swallowed it. At length the shivering subsided and the thick clouds dissipated from his thoughts. With a clearer head, he contemplated his grim choices – to go or wait for morning? The Gladden River was now between him and peril, Gollum was more subdued than ever, and orcs could no more see through the mist than he could. Hence Aragorn decided to wait out the night near this standing stone lest he drift far from his course in the fog.

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[i] Fellowship of the Ring. The barrow-wight in Fellowship chants this verse as it approaches Frodo. However, in the movie The Two Towers, Gollum says the first half of this verse, which is not quoted here. Since I strongly imply that Gollum is on friendly terms with the barrow-wights (there is no evidence suggesting there were wights in the Gladden Fields, but then nothing explicitly says there were not, either), I therefore reconcile Peter Jackson’s decision to give the Cold be hand and heart and bone lines to Gollum with Tolkien’s original work. Also, at my beta’s suggestion, I substituted the original second line for the one here, since it is more relevant to the types of graves you would see in the Gladden Fields.

[ii] Quenya: "Who shall see a white ship leave the last shore, the pale phantoms in her cold bosom like gulls wailing?”

[iii]:“Who shall heed a white ship, vague as a butterfly, in the flowing sea on wings like stars, the sea surging, the foam blowing, the wings shining, the light fading?”

[iv]“Who shall hear the wind roaring like leaves of forests; the white rocks snarling in the moon gleaming, in the moon waning, in the moon falling a corpse-candle; the storm mumbling, the abyss moving?”

Author's note: HTML-ing hates me and won't let me put the things that need to be in verse in verse (everything that is footnoted). If anyone who reads this knows how to do that, let me know.