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A Long and Weary Way  by Canafinwe

Chapter VII: Beneath the Ephel Dûath

In the dark places of the earth, time had no meaning. Aragorn had burned away his first torch, and was well on his way to exhausting the second, and he was no nearer to finding anything in this hive of caverns. His progress was slower than he would have liked, for he had to pause every three steps to mark the ground. His sign was a deep groove gouged with a sharp piece of shale, and in the end of the groove that marked the way he had come he wedged a pebble. At turnings and intersections he left a cross, again with one corner marked by a stone. In this way, he might find his way out with his hands alone, for if he found nothing in the next hour or so he would be beyond the point of returning in torchlight.

Aragorn did not particularly like caves. He had lived so much of his life under the open sky that he found the closeness oppressive. At least while he yet had light he could advance with only a little unease, but the light would not last. Deeper and deeper he went, wending his way through the undulating passages – here as broad as a chamber, there so narrow that he was hard-pressed to move forward without turning his body and removing his pack.

When at last his second torch fizzled and went out, Aragorn sat down upon the floor of the low corridor through which he had been shuffling. He set his back against the wall and fumbled in his pack for a little food. His water he took but sparingly: subterranean wells and springs could not be trusted. He had almost met his end once when the madness of thirst had driven him to partake of such waters, and he would not put himself in that position again. When he had eaten he tugged his cloak more snugly round him and wrapped his arms about his chest. He intended to rest a little, but he found sleep slow to come. The blackness seemed to press in upon him from every side, and his breath grew laboured. Though he strove to master himself he could not entirely banish his discomfort, and the more he tried the less inclined he became to sit in idleness.

At last, setting his teeth for he knew that by doing so he was condemning himself to a long and wretched journey groping back towards the surface, he lit his third torch and pressed onward again. For another hour or so he walked, until a sound reached his ears and made him halt. It was a strange, whispering noise, like a chorus of distant voices chanting upon the very border of audible sound. Aragorn held his breath, listening. It did not sound like the squall of bats, nor indeed like the noise of any other underground creature. The strange sound reverberated off of the walls, echoing through the passages and niches.

Acknowledging the irony, he closed his eyes so that he might better focus his hearing. He was not convinced of the wisdom of following such a sound, but follow it he did. Carefully divining its true direction he shuffled along blind, acutely aware of each second that the torch in his hand burned uselessly. But then the sound grew stronger, its source more discernable, and he opened his eyes, hurrying forward as swiftly as he could but still halting every three steps to mark the ground.

He came at last to the mouth of some larger chamber: a vast void of darkness filled with the strange sound. Aragorn recognized it now: it was the echo of hundreds of gravid drops of water falling together upon stone and pool. Together they formed a percussion, a strange pattern of sounds that echoed and was amplified in the cavern beyond. Shifting the torch into his left hand he drew his long knife. Then, wary of what he might find in an open place where there was water, he stepped forward into it.

It was a large cave indeed: perhaps as large as the Hall of Fire in the Last Homely House far away. Aragorn's torch offered naught but a paltry globe of light in its spreading gloom. The floor was riddled with pools fed by the dripstones above, and great stalagmites sprung up from the earth to meet them. There were columns of limestone, wrought through the long years, and around these Aragorn navigated with care. Though he glanced occasionally upward to the menacing teeth of rock that hung from the roof above, he kept his eyes most often upon the ground, his keen eyes searching the dust for some sign.

He remembered a place not unlike this, far to the North beneath the snow-capped peaks of the Misty Mountains. In place of the pools that cave had housed a vast subterranean lake; cold and menacing and glutted with emptiness. And in its centre a little island, where some wretched creature had dwelt for an unknowable age, hoarding the bones of fish and rodent, and building heaps of ore-bearing stone for amusement, and breeding malice in a place where even goblins dared not tread. Aragorn shivered at the memory, at the thought of what had dwelt in that place, and the haunting image of a well-meaning hobbit unwittingly stumbling upon the lair of the cave-dweller.

He walked the whole perimeter of the cave, one eye flicking from time to time towards the glowing head of his torch. If he did not find some sign before the flame was spent, he pledged himself, he would turn around and go back. He had no desire to linger long in incapable darkness.

Aragorn picked his way between the pools towards the centre of the cave. There was a great boulder there, by a cleft dug deep by the water within. It was an enormous rock, greater in height than the Ranger and more broad by half than it was tall. And there, at last, he found what he sought.

In the silt by the edge of the pool there were tracks. Very faint and muddled were they, and blurred by the inroads of moisture over many months – even years – but after so long searching without any physical sign Aragorn felt as if he had stumbled upon a great treasure. Careful to avoid besmirching the marks he knelt, holding the torch low as he let fall his knife. His fingers traced the air above the tracks, following the confused contours and picking out useful information. Bare feet had made these marks: he could see the indentations of long, prehensile toes. The feet themselves were broad and flat, but smaller than those of man or orc. A slow smile of triumph spread across the Ranger's face. There was only one thing that could have left such tracks here. He had found some sign of Gollum at last.

The moment of vindication ebbed swiftly. There was no telling how long it had been since the creature had inhabited this place. The marks were old, the trail was cold, and there seemed little hope of ever coming to its end. It was not the first time in the long years of hunting that Aragorn had come across signs of his quarry, but always it was the same: if once Gollum had been here, he was long since gone.

Yet obdurate hope endured. Each time such signs were found they were more fresh. Those first remnants in the cave beneath the Hithaeglir had been half a century old by Gandalf's guess. In Rhovanion they had found a place where the creature had dwelt for a time in a grim little swamp, two or three decades before. The rumours that had led them to Harondor were five years old or more. Yet here, by the orc's guess, the creature had lived as little as two years ago. Though in two years Gollum might have fled to the far corners of the world, Aragorn could not quite quell the hope that he was closing upon his prey at last.

He picked himself up and moved again, bent low to the ground with the torch thrust before him. His hunter's eyes followed the markings. Some led back towards the passage down which he had come, vanishing as the softer silt gave way to hard ground. Others moved in the opposite direction, and where they vanished the sets of advancing and retreating tracks were pointed to a low passageway leading off of the large cavern.

Aragorn approached, crouching to peer down the corridor. The floor sloped downward, gouging more deeply into the mountains. What had Gollum sought in that direction? Food, perhaps, and finding none he had returned to this place? Or was it a path that led to some other way out, to an avenue that the creature had taken when at last it abandoned its refuge and sought some new home? If the former, the hunter would return on hands and knees, clawing his way wretchedly through miles of black tunnel. If the latter, Aragorn might find himself once more on the trail.

He could not waste such a chance. Bending his back and bowing his head he entered the low passage.

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The path did not branch or divide. When his torch died, Aragorn continued on in darkness, his hands groping along the walls. He walked bent double, his chin tucked to his chest. The passage was narrow and scarcely more than four and a half feet from floor to ceiling. A man much less in height than Aragorn would have found the passage difficult. For the tall Ranger each step was a challenge, and before long his back and his shoulders and his calves began to ache. Steeling his will against the discomfort, he pressed on.

The air grew more stagnant, and his breath came in shallow huffs. The heat was mounting, too, and soon rivulets of perspiration were trickling down his temples and over the bridge of his nose and through his brows into his eyes. Aragorn wiped it away with the back of his hand. He could feel the darkness like a menacing presence behind him, and the blackness before was an endless sea through which he had to struggle. He tried to fix his thoughts solely upon the task at hand, but the closeness of the passage and the completeness of the darkness and the hammering of his heart in his chest were soon too much to bear. He stumbled upon a loose stone and fell to his knees, thrusting out his palms to break his fall.

Aragorn bowed low over his lap, panting laboriously as he fought for mastery over himself. Grim memories were clawing their way to the surface from places where they had long lay dormant. That for once they were not recollections of Mordor brought him little comfort. Evil, intangible evil in the darkness; and thirst and narrow passages scarcely broad enough for a man to slither through upon his belly. An endless maze of tunnels, over, under and through; and always that sense that something was lurking far below and yet near at hand, a shadow of the mind, a horror of the past, an unplumbed well of terror in the endless night...

With shaking hands he pulled his pack from his back and dug deep within it. He drew out his oilcloth bundle and plucked out a long shaft of cool tallow. His fingers fumbled and he dropped the flint several times before igniting his rag. As the rush caught alight and the glow of the candle suffused the narrow passage, Aragorn's eyes screwed themselves tightly closed against the sudden light, stinging after so long in the darkness, but his breathing eased. He cupped his hand around the dancing flame as though by doing so he could direct its light into his heart and drive away the scattered memories.

'That is quite enough,' he said, attempting to school himself sternly. 'That is quite enough.' The words came out thin and tremulous, and he clamped his lips closed against any more traitorous sounds.

He blinked several times, rapidly, as he adjusted to the brightness. Though he did not wish to venture forward, he could not justify wasting the rushlight. He worked his pack onto his back again – a difficult task with only one hand free at any given moment – and got to his feet once more, continuing his awkward journey.

A part of his mind wanted to scold him for behaving like a spoilt child and wasting light when he had no real need, but there was another part, a more merciful part, that argued that this need was real after all. The failing of courage could undermine his safety as much as any other threat, and more than most. If it was slightly ridiculous for a hardened warrior to find himself afraid of the darkness, it was also uncommon for such a person, raised beneath the Sun and the stars, to be delving ever more deeply into the pits beneath the mountains of Sauron. So pernicious was his fear that it seemed almost unnatural, as if some malicious will was bent upon destroying his resolve and driving him to despair. He could not submit, and if light aided him in his struggle then the candle was well wasted. Refusing to upbraid himself despite the niggling shame, Aragorn pressed forward.

The passage grew narrower and ever more low. At last, Aragorn could no longer stand and he was forced to his knees. Glad now of the patches so carefully applied to his hose, he crawled forward, using one hand whilst the other held the dwindling rushlight before him. After only a few yards, however, his palm was beginning to sting. He halted, and with his knife cut two narrow strips from the hem of his cloak. With these he wrapped his hands, and he continued on his way.

It took some time for the passage roof to sink low enough that his pack scraped against it as he crawled, and longer still before he could no longer advance upon hands and knees, and was obliged to sink down and propel himself forward with his elbows. He had no choice then but to snuff the candle, wait for it to cool, and tuck it back into his pack, which he pushed before him as he advanced. He could not afford the luxury of panic now: if he moved without thinking or he struggled against the ever narrowing tunnel, he would wedge himself in and might never writhe free. He drew upon his deepest reserves of will and focused only upon gaining another inch, another foot.

Still, his heart raced within him, and he was teetering on the very brink of madness when suddenly his pack tumbled away from his herding arms, and his elbows thrust outward, and he breathed cool air once more. Frantically, he scrambled out of the constrictive conduit and found himself tumbling down a brief incline.

He landed in a most undignified heap, and he groped for his pack. There was a moment of consternation when he could not locate it, but his fingers found canvas at last and he pulled his baggage to him. He sat there for a moment, dazed and disoriented, before it occurred to him that this might be a moment when light would have a greater purpose than the strengthening of a Ranger's flagging resolve. He found the candle and lit it again. The wick sputtered, but it took the flame. Aragorn got cautiously to his feet, swaying a little as the blood rushed from his head, and took in his surroundings.

He was standing in a small cavern, far smaller than the one he had left behind. Though it was similarly adorned with stalactites and the other slow incursions of nature, this room had not been formed entirely by the forces of the earth. The floor was smooth and even, and one corner was squared as though by a skilled stonemason. As Aragorn took two steps towards that junction, his eyes shed the last of their shadows and opened wide in disbelief.

There, in the rock wall, was a door.

It was made of hard, ancient-looking wood bound with bands and braces of iron. There was a large ring beneath a keyhole, bolted to the door by a staple and obviously meant to serve as a handle. What purpose this room had originally served Aragorn did not dare to think, but as he studied the dust upon the floor it was plain that the door had not been opened in a very, very long time. He tried the handle, and was not in the least surprised to find it locked.

Aragorn withdrew to the far side of the room, considering his options. There were only two exits from this room. One was the hole five feet up on the wall, through which he had tumbled so gracelessly, and beyond it the dreadful narrow passage. He doubted that he had the fortitude to subject himself to that ordeal again, at least without rest. But there was that door. He returned to the other side of the room. Upon closer inspection, he spied a third way out; a small vent-like tunnel not far from the door. It was too small to admit him: lean though he was and slender of bone, he would never contrive to get his shoulders through such a narrow space. Yet a creature of hobbit proportions, gaunt and wiry...

He knelt, thrusting his candle into channel. There were parallel marks where something had dragged over the stone, disturbing the detritus of centuries. Thought the dust had begun to creep back, it could not wholly conceal the signs that something had pulled two legs through this space. Aragorn felt another little thrill of victory. So Gollum had come this way after all – or something near enough like Gollum that he was bound to pursue it. He wondered if the vent led to the same place as the door, but since he did not wish to go back and it was plain that his quarry had been here, he had no choice but to try it.

He tipped a little tallow onto a stone so that the candle would stand on its own. It took considerable digging to find what he sought in his pack, but at last he had his coil of wire and one of the copper bangles stolen from the corpses of the orcs. With his knife he sawed through the bracelet, and using a stone he beat the curved copper into a flat tool. It was just the right width, and a little careful tapping rounded the rough edges where he had split it. He cut a length of wire, doubling it over and twisting it. Then he shuffled upon his knees to the door and set to work on the lock.

There were many skills that he had acquired over the years. Most were the talents of a soldier, or a lore master and healer. He had some skill with instruments of music. He could ply a needle and mend a fence. He had any number of proficiencies that had been honestly come by, and were a source of pride to himself and to those who had taught him. This particular talent, however, was not one that he had ever seen fit to share with Master Elrond or his foster-brothers. He had learned it in rather dubious circumstances in the distant land of Rhûn, and though it had on occasion proved most useful he was rather ashamed of his aptitude.

After less than a minute he withdrew his makeshift lockpicks. The plate was rusted and the tumblers would not move. Aragorn rummaged again in his pack for the pot of grease he had liberated from its former owner. He smeared it on the copper tine, and worked it into the mechanism of the lock. When he tried again to shift the tumblers he felt movement. Encouraged, he set to work once more.

Still, it was not easy. The lock was very old, and very heavy. His fingers began to cramp and his wrist to ache. When at last the telltale click was heard he grunted softly in relief, falling back on his heels and slumping his shoulders.

He could not tarry long: his candle was almost spent. Slinging his pack and his one remaining torch back onto his shoulders, Aragorn took hold of the ring and hauled upon the door. The rusted hinges were reluctant to move, but after throwing his full weight into the effort he managed to drag it inward so that there was a gap of about fourteen inches between it and the post.

Suddenly a dreadful stench flooded the small room. It was a smell of decay and indescribable filth, far beyond any staleness of unstirred air. Aragorn's eyes began to sting and his throat constricted. The rushlight flickered and went out. In the darkness he huddled, choking and gagging upon the foul air until at last, as needs must, his body resigned itself to the vile stink. He endevoured to ignite the candle again, but there was no use in trying. Whatever poisons were in the air, it seemed they would not allow him the mercy of fire. Tucking away his flint and steel, Aragorn slipped through the gap in the door and began to grope his way forward. There was nothing more that he could do. He pressed on into the darkness, striving not to breathe too deeply of the loathsome vapour.    





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