Chapter VI: A Spot of Luck

Mist in the mountains was very different from mist on the plains. In the low places it was an ethereal creature, retreating before one's eyes and melting away at the first hint of sun. But high amid the crags and pinnacles of the lofty peaks, a fog bank was nothing less than a low-hanging storm-cloud, brought near enough to rock to weep rain upon whatever surface it touched. Two days ago Aragorn might have wished for a raging downpour that would fill his bottles and wash the filth from his garments, but now, brought low by thirst, this vapour was an unhoped-for blessing.

Thus had he laughed, in joy and relief – and in appreciation of the wit of the Valar. In his heart he had evoked the names of Ulmo, of Manwë and of Aulë, and it seemed that all three had sent him succour like the answer to a riddle: water borne upon the air and gathered from a stone. Hastily he dug his bowl from his pack and set about the painstaking task of collecting the fluid where it condensed upon the cold rock wall. Each brush of his hand yielded only a few drops while his parched tongue strained to catch the rivulets trickling down his face, but slowly he gleaned a dram, and then an ounce, and then enough to cover the bottom of the wooden dish. He drank then, in short frantic mouthfuls, and resumed his efforts with fresh vigour.

In the end, he managed to harvest enough to slake his thirst and to fill one of his bottles past the three-quarter mark. By this time, however, many hours had passed and the dark was thick around him. The clouds faded away, blown off, perhaps, to happier climes, and the night was cold. Aragorn's garments were damp, and had it not been for the orc-blood ingrained into the cloth he would have wrung them out until his hands bled, hoarding that water too. As it was he let them be, but the wet cloth chilled him and he shivered in the bleak night air.

It would serve him poorly to remain here, exhausting himself in a fruitless struggle against the elements. If once he got moving, he would quickly warm himself. So Aragorn hung his bottle of treasured fluid from his belt, gathered up his bundle of unlit brands, and climbed carefully to his feet. Keeping his left side near the rock wall so that he would be sure to take the correct path if he passed the fork in the darkness, he set out once more.

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Aragorn moved more quickly now than he had in days. The water had done much to banish the malaise that clung to him, and despite his privations his bruises were mending. More importantly, he felt more hopeful now than he had at any time since leaving Gandalf's company. Whether the coming of the mists had been a mere stroke of providence or a sign from the Valar, he could not say, but he preferred to think it was the latter. He had forsaken the lands of light and freedom for these dark, barren hills, but even here he was not forgotten. If they could not send him good fortune in his hunt, at least they had offered him life. Having seized it with both hands he would not lightly let go.

The sun rose somewhere beyond the gloom, and the bleak grey day greeted him. He sipped but sparingly from his bottle, husbanding his meagre supply of water and praying that he might find some other source before it was expended.

He came upon a place where the path widened a little. There was a niche scooped out of the rock-wall, sheltered on one side by an outcropping of stone. It was as good a place as any to rest, and Aragorn was by this time very weary. He settled down, sitting with his back pressed into the alcove, and leaned his head against the cool mountain wall. Sleep found him swiftly even through the latent tension that demanded he never entirely relinquish his wary watchfulness, and his tired body rested for a time.

He awoke before nightfall and carried on his way. There was nowhere to go but forward, and he could not say how much time he had lost in his half-demented stumbling of bygone days. As darkness gathered once more, Aragorn became aware of an oppressive force, oozing and eddying around him, broken only by the low, steady noise of his boots upon the hard rock. It pressed against his limbs and seemed to steal the breath from his breast, and his head pulsed and ached as his mind struggled against it. At first he could not discern what was amiss; what was preying so mercilessly upon his spirit. It seemed as though this thing, whatever it was, had been hounding him for days – though only now, when it began to trouble his sanity, did he take any notice of it.

For several miles this puzzle gnawed at him, as his pulse raced and his eyes darted furtively through the night. He was frightened by the encroaching sense of madness that was clawing away at his courage. The night seemed at once empty of all signs of life, and teeming with some malicious power bent upon cracking his fragile façade of control and plunging him into panic. It pressed behind him, egging him onward at a great pace, though before him it stood like an impenetrable wall that ever retreated a handspan ahead of his advancing feet.

At last, unable to endure it longer, he stopped, panting and groping for the rock-wall. Instinctively he pressed his back against it. His whole body was trembling and he was all but overcome with fear. He let the torches fall from his arms, and they landed with a clatter upon the ground. Instantly the oppression eased, only to surge swiftly back.

Aragorn let out a thin, nervous chuckle as he understood what was so preying upon his reason. It was the hazard that dogged the lonely traveller wheresoever he wandered, particularly in barren mountains bereft of wildlife or insects or whispering trees, bereft even of the music of the stars.

Silence.

In living lands, a Ranger was surrounded by the noises of the wild. Though alone and often lonely, a wanderer was at least reminded that his isolation was not absolute. Here there might be a cricket, singing in the night. Here the snap of a twig as a badger lumbered past. There a babbling brook; there a rustling of wind in the briars. The call of an owl, the beating of a bat's wings. Yet in this place, high in the Mountains of Shadow, there was not even the whistling of the wind to break the tyrannical silence of the thick, starless night.

'You're a fool, Strider,' he said aloud. His voice was rusty from disuse and recent dehydration, but the stark syllables of Westron reverberated in the hush and eased the pressure on his lungs. 'After all the long leagues you have walked alone, and all the years you have wandered, you should be accustomed to this by now.'

Yet how did one grow accustomed to such isolation, he wondered bitterly. How did one cope, year after year and decade after decade, with spending more time by oneself in dark and dangerous places than one passed in fellowship with comrades and beloved kin? Mortals were social creatures who thrived in the company of others, and yet more often than not Aragorn found himself far from any friendly face, wandering without purpose and fighting without hope in the long defeat. Each lonesome journey wore away at his soul, and it was only the occasional visit to Rivendell, the odd night in the company of his men in the North, or the rare journey in Gandalf's company that kept the madness at bay. Now here he was, walking aimlessly towards an uncertain end. Rivendell was a thousand miles away, and his men walked roads even more remote, guarding the Shire against a danger that had not yet been confirmed, and Gandalf...

He had likely reached Minas Tirith by now, Aragorn reflected. How long would he search in the annals of the Kings before he found what he sought, or despaired of that, too, and went to beg aid from Saruman? Vast were the vaults of lore in the White City built by the sons of Elendil. He recalled well the sight of those libraries; the great rooms filled with venerable records and scrolls so ancient that they were crumbling to dust. Only a fraction of the tomes were catalogued, and no man now living could say with impunity what was contained within that collection, second only to the libraries of Elrond and not so well-kept by half. Gandalf might search for days, or weeks, before he found what he sought – and longer still if it was not there to find.

Trying to tell himself that he did not envy his friend his task, the Ranger moved onward. He wanted distraction, and so he resorted again to an old strategy and plumbed the depths of his mind for some song to bear his spirit away from the emptiness that surrounded him. He had better luck this time, and lighted upon a less dolorous canto of The Lay of Leithian, though his most favoured lines eluded him.

Day came and still he walked, rationing his water as strictly as he could bear to and striving to keep his mind from the dwindling supply in his bottle, and his unbearable isolation, and the uncounted perils that lay ahead.

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Just ere dusk he came at last to a place where the path diverged; one leg arcing left, striking as true a northward path as Aragorn could gauge without a clear sky, and the other vanishing away to the southeast. The second path led most likely down the spur of the Ephel Dûath that thrust towards the very heart of the Black Land and marked the division between the plateau of Gorgoroth and the arid plains of Lithlad. The first – Aragorn could not bear to think where it would take him, but that was the road he was bound to choose.

Yet he did not turn, for his eyes were drawn to the southern path and the way he could not take. Even here, the descent began, and carven between the path and the rock wall there was a gutter, crafted doubtless by whatever wretched picks had fashioned these winding fissures into useable avenues. Yet Aragorn did not trouble to reflect upon the history of this place or the slaves who had been driven to their deaths here during one of Sauron's past ascents to power. He was only aware of the purpose of the narrow trough, for at the crux of the path where the two roads met there was a gully in the wall itself, carved not by the hands of man or orc but by the water that sprang from some unseen source high overhead, trickling and cascading down to fill a small pool. The excess ran down into the gutter, carried away along the path to supply those who marched that road.

Aragorn stared, transfixed by this glad sight. Then suddenly the mastery over his limbs returned and he bolted forward, falling to his knees by the edge of the pool.

Though no more than an arm's length across, it was deep, for the fluid had worn away the very rock itself. The water within was cold and more fresh by far than any Aragorn had found since leaving Harondor. Downstream doubtless it became befouled, smirched with the filth of orc-camps and soured with brimstone and lime, but here it was sweet and as clean as the rills of the Hithaeglir – or nearly. Aragorn cupped his hands and bent low to drink, banishing the thirst of a day of self-denial. He bathed his face, and pushed up his sleeves that he might lave his hands and his arms. He took a handful and drizzled it upon the back of his aching neck. He gathered his bottles and the orc's water-skin, rinsing each thrice before laying them out upon the ground to air. He drank again.

The bandages on his head were long gone, lost at some point during the vague days of suffering when he had thought himself likely to perish from thirst. Moving down the southeast path a short ways, he knelt again and washed the blood and grime and oil away from the crusted wounds. Then, for it might be his last chance to do so for many weeks, he stripped off his garments and bathed himself as best he could. He rinsed his body linens, beating them upon the stones and wringing them again and again until at last the water from them ran clear. Then he shook them out and spread them to dry. His other garments he gathered together, and he pulled on cote and cloak and sat by the pool, bathing his weary feet in the runoff until they grew too cold to bear further soaking. After that he settled with his back to the rock wall and the pool to his left.

He rested there all night, drinking whenever he felt able. He ate thrice in the hours of darkness, gingerly nibbling at increasing portions as he tried to reintroduce nourishment to a shrunken stomach. When at last daylight came, he filled his drinking-vessels from the stream. He hesitated over the skin that held the orc-liquor. He might pour out its contents and rinse it thoroughly before filling it, too, with water, but he was unsure of the wisdom of that course. Who was to say whether the water would be palatable, or what noxious fumes might leech out of the skin to render it unfit for consumption? Furthermore, though he was loath to touch it he knew that the cordial might serve a purpose should he find himself wounded beyond his strength. He remembered its properties well.

In the end he decided that it might prove too precious to waste, even for water. He had his bottles and the other skin, and refreshed as he was he might easily endure for eight days or even ten before the last of this supply was spent. It was enough. It would have to be.

He dressed himself and collected his possessions, then turned and took the northern path, though with each step that bore him nearer to the Morgai the dread settled more inexorably upon his heart.

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His progress was rapid now, for his strength was returning to him. Once more he took long, steady strides that bore him swiftly up the steepening path. His ribs no longer ached, and the straps with which he had bound them were stowed in his pack with the remainder of his food.

His meals were growing increasingly unpleasant. Some of his meat, so carefully dried over campfires in lands now far behind, was beginning to smell faintly, and it had a sour taste that his cache of crumbling herbs could not entirely disguise. Still he deemed it to be edible and with no foreseeable means of replenishing his commons he could ill afford to waste supplies. The orc-bread was hard and dry, and would most likely last for weeks before it spoiled: he left that alone. The nuts he had gathered in South Gondor were buried at the bottom of his pack untouched, for he knew that they would endure longest. He tried not to fret over thought of privation: there was nothing he could do to replenish his stores in this desolate place, and it would serve no purpose to agonize over what could not be helped.

On his second day since finding the fork in the path, he spied a strange outcropping perhaps five rangar overhead. He had been on the lookout for any signs of a cave or passageway since taking this road, and here at last he had found something unusual. He attempted to move further up the path in the hope that he could see what lay above the shelf, but the stone obscured his view.

He halted for a moment, attempting to weigh his options, but he knew even before he began how he would decide. He had come too far and sought too long for Gollum to move on now, and take the chance that this might be an entrance to the underground pools of which the wily orc had spoken. He removed his cloak and his pack and set about securing his belongings so that they would not hamper his climb. He put the skins and bottles into the pack, then rolled his cloak around the torches and used the narrow strips of orc-leather to affix the bundle to the bottom of his pack. He heaved on the weighty burden, adjusting the straps so that it was snug against his back.

Scuffing his boots in the dust, he bent to coat his hands in powder. Then, more nimbly than a lesser man, he sprung upward, his fingers finding firm holds and the toes of his boots choosing crevices in the rock. He began to climb, making his way slowly but skilfully up the steep rock face.

It was hard work and dangerous. Though a fall from this small height would not kill him, he did not fancy dragging a broken leg onward into danger. He focused all of his will on finding the next handhold and pushing his body up another inch, another foot.

At last his shoulder brushed against stone, and he looked up to assure himself that he had reached his goal. A final exertion saw him up onto the ledge, where he pressed himself firmly to the root of the shelf lest it prove inadequate to hold his weight. When his breath returned and his hands ceased their throbbing, he looked around.

He was sitting on a plateau of rock that sloped upward to its edge. At its root it was overhung by the cliff, for there was a low grotto that bit into the rock face, and at the back of it a fissure led down into darkness.

A small smile softened the weather-beaten lines of the Ranger's face. 'Well, well,' he said aloud in a passable impression of a certain (rather small) adventurer whose tales of valour had inspired the Man in his youth; 'it seems we have a spot of luck at last.'

Suddenly thoughts of Bilbo Baggins swirled to the forefront of Aragorn's mind; the courageous little hobbit whose own grand adventure had given rise to this hopeless errand in the first place. Had Bilbo not left the Shire at Gandalf's goading, had the wizard not failed to make a thorough search of a cave one night, had Burglar Baggins not been separated from his dwarven companions deep beneath the city of the goblins, Aragorn would not be sitting here now. Bilbo's serendipitous discovery, the magic ring that had so aided him in his quest to overthrow the dragon and restore the King Under the Mountain to his seat in Erebor, was responsible for this. All the years of hardship and toil, every wound sustained upon this road, every hungry day and every bitter night, all these he owed to a little trinket stumbled upon quite by chance in the darkness beneath the Hithaeglir.

Embittered though he was by the long years of frustration, he begrudged Bilbo nothing. With a fond smile, Aragorn remembered the consternation upon the hobbit's face when he had drawn him aside in the corridors of the Last Homely House to question him about his encounter with Gollum.

'Why, Dúnadan, whatever would you want to know about him?' he had yelped, looking suddenly far less dignified than was his wont. 'He's a nasty, unpleasant creature, and I don't like to think on him!'

'I know,' Aragorn had said gravely, guiding his friend into the gallery and taking up a seat in one of the alcoves. He remembered leaning forward over his knees so that he might – almost – meet Bilbo eye-to-eye. 'I would not ask you to recall such unpleasant things except in direst need, but I must hear all that you have to tell.'

'You could ask Gandalf,' Bilbo had protested unhappily. 'I've told him everything.' He had coloured deeply then, and added with a hint of shame; 'That is to say, he wrung it all out of me in the end.'

'Well, now you have a chance to tell it of your own accord, and to help me in my search,' Aragorn had said pleasantly. 'Even the smallest detail might prove useful, my friend, so I pray you do not abandon your customarily zealous narrative style. Spare not your words, but tell me all.'

But Bilbo, ever eager to share a tale and most particularly those in which he had played some part, had shuddered, eyes wide with horror. 'Your search? You don't mean to say that you're looking for him? Oh, no, no, why would you do a thing like that? He's no good at all, Aragorn: you don't want to look for him, and especially you don't want to find him!'

'What I want is of little import,' Aragorn told him then. A grim light had ignited in his eyes, such as he had rarely unmasked in the presence of his pleasant, bucolic and gentle-hearted friend. 'But this is what I must do, and it shall be done with or without the aid of your council.'

'I'll help you, of course I shall help you,' Bilbo had said, looking quite miserable. 'But oh, Dúnadan, are you quite sure you mean to do this? I mean, looking for Gollum...'

Many years had passed since that conversation, and Aragorn's resolve had faltered and flagged and at times almost broken. Yet now, thinking of Bilbo Baggins and his innocence and his goodness, thinking of a whole land filled with simple, happy hobbits living simple, happy lives unaware of the potential threat to their merry little homes, he knew he could not forsake the hunt. If Gollum could tell him something, anything, that might better equip him to guard these blameless folk from the merciless hand of the Enemy, then Aragorn had to find him. Whether he wished to or not.

With fresh determination he shook out his cloak and affixed it in place. Digging about for his flint and steel, he lit one of the torches that he had borne for so many miles without use. Setting his jaw and ducking his head, he thrust the burning brand before him and took the first resolute steps into the darkness of the cave.