Note: Excerpt from "Old Fat Spider" from "Flies and Spiders"; The Hobbit; J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter X: Down the Long Stairway

Aragorn jerked back into the waking world with an anxious start. He did not want that! Let the spider keep on spinning, in a tree or in a cave or over the very Cracks of Doom, so long as it did not come looking for him!

His eyes opened, and when he saw only darkness he shook with a convulsion of despair. So it had been nothing more than a fevered dream: the lesser spider and the great creature of darkness, the desperate flight, his near escape. He had collapsed in the tunnels, and let slip his hold on awareness, and now that he had found it again he was still lost in the labyrinth of terror.

He was holding his breath and his lungs begged for air, but he hesitated. He could bear no more of the vile reek of this hateful place. If he resisted long enough, perhaps he would lose consciousness once more. But reflex, of course, was stronger than obstinacy, and he drew in a long ragged gasp at last.

The air was still and stale, but free of the filth of centuries. Shocked, Aragorn breathed again, and again, as deeply as his ribs would allow. The effort exhausted him and he lay there panting, curled on his side with his face pressed to the rocky ground. The stones were dry. The air was clean. Far above he could hear the whisper of the wind as it swirled around mountain crags.

Relief so great as to be shameful flooded Aragorn's body as the tension in his limbs ebbed away. He had escaped after all. Where he was he could not say, but he was free and alive and unscathed, and he was not trussed up in spider-silk waiting for death. He raised a trembling hand to his brow and attempted to sit up. When a searing shaft of pain shot up into his abdomen he fell back with a stifled moan. Not unscathed after all, it seemed.

Slowly the memories returned and he reached for his thigh, fingers probing gently amid the layers of sodden cloth until they found the rent. The lightest touch sent forth a fresh wave of agony, and Aragorn set his teeth so that he did not cry out. He knew not where he lay, nor what servants of the Enemy might be at hand to hear him.

He could feel fresh blood flowing from the place where the spider's clawed foot had torn him, and he knew that he had to tend the wound before his life flowed away through it. He had been lying on his right side, and doubtless that had stemmed the tide somewhat, but he could not risk neglecting an unknown hurt, here high in the mountains that looked down upon… where? Morgul Vale, or Gorgoroth? He could not decide which prospect was the most dismal. All that he knew was that at this moment either was preferable to the place from whence he had come, and that wherever he was he would be taking a different path out.

With a tremendous effort and much tugging upon his good leg, Aragorn contrived to sit up. He bowed his head over his lap, panting softly against the pain. When at last he had the mastery, he worked his pack off of his back and rooted around within for his sole remaining rushlight. It had snapped in two, probably when he had collapsed, but having escaped those tunnels with his life Aragorn was not in a frame of mind to be overly disheartened by a broken candle. He cut the rush with care, so that both pieces would be useable, and after a minutes' fumbling with flint and steel he had a flame.

Nothing could be seen through his layered garments, and so he removed his cloak and unlaced his cote, then braced himself against the pain and peeled away the blood-soaked wool and shredded linen that obscured the wound. The laceration was deep and ragged, digging down into the muscle. Unwilling to probe further with filthy fingers, he dug in his pack for the skin of orc-liquor and washed his hands with it, sparing a little of his precious drinking water to rinse the alcohol away. Cautiously he felt the borders of the wound, and was displeased to find them hot and inflamed. He dared not dig too deeply, but he did not think the claw had struck the bone. At least he sincerely hoped it had not. Looking at the wound, he wondered how the spider had inflicted such damage without even pausing to take notice – and how he had fled so far without falling. It was fortunate that the wound was along the outside of the thigh: the major vessels ran along the inside.

Still, he had to pack and bind the wound before he could move on. He considered his options. He might shred all that remained of his shirt to rags, and it would still not be sufficient to stop the bleeding. Yet he could hardly stuff such an injury with dirty wool. A compromise, then, was in order. He made short work of stripping off his cote and relieving his shirt of its remaining sleeve, reducing it swiftly to bandage lengths. With the linen he packed the wound. Then, cutting long strips from the hem of his cloak he bound his thigh tightly.

In the end he had lost almost a foot of the garment, but it was still serviceable, save for the long rent where the spider's claw had torn it. There were matching tears in the skirts of his cote and in his braies and his hose. He had to repair the rip in his cloak, at least, for abbreviated though it now was, it served him as coat, camouflage and blanket. Fortunately this was a swift repair, for there was no need to be careful of fit. Unwilling to squander his last yards of thread, he took sturdy stay-stitches at either end of the rent in his cote and at the base of the tear in his hose.

With his leg and his garments adequately mended, he knew he ought to extinguish the light. But he was sitting half-naked on the path, and it seemed the perfect opportunity to inspect himself for other hurts that might have gone unnoticed in his mad flight. He raised his hands to feel his head, and recoiled in disgust as he came away with a clump of malodorous cobwebs. With spastic abandon he clawed through his hair until he was satisfied that the last of the vile stuff was gone.

For a time he sat motionless, bent low over his bloodied lap. His cheeks burned with shame at the memory of his cowardice, even as his reason protested that had his courage not failed him at the critical moment he would have challenged the spider and been slain by her. He owed his life to a moment's lapse in valour – and to its equally swift return that had allowed him the folly of running after the huntress and her prey. There was no disgrace in survival, if one did not sacrifice the life or freedom of another to save oneself. Still, the memory of his weakness was bitter to bear.

His thoughts were muddled, and Aragorn realized that his unsteadiness was not wholly due to his wound and his humiliation. For uncounted hours, quite likely days, he had not troubled to eat. Small wonder, then, that he felt so feeble.

With shaking hands he hunted by the last glow of the sputtering rushlight for something edible in the depths of his pack. He did not feel quite able to stomach any of his increasingly rancid supply of meat, and the bread he had taken from the orcs was hard as stone and could not be gnawed by mortal teeth without first being softened – an effort to which he felt less than equal. That left only his untouched cache of walnuts. He took a handful and leaned back against the stone bastion beside him to take his poor supper.

He ate slowly and cautiously, drawing intermittent sips from his bottle and trying to gather his strength. The nuts were savoury and tasted distantly of salt, and though his water was tepid and stale it was clean. Gradually he felt the poisons ebbing from his mind as his scattered resolve returned.

By the time he had finished with his meal, the chill of the night was working upon his unclothed torso. He dressed himself quickly and sat shivering for a while with his cloak hugged tightly to his body. He realized belatedly that he had not finished assessing his physical state, but he had no energy now with which to resume it. He knew that he ought to move from here, to discover where and in what peril he was now, but that, too, was outside the bounds of his strength. Exhausted beyond even his endurance, he eased himself back down upon the hard ground, pillowing his head upon his pack. Sleep found him swiftly.

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The first grey light woke him. The perpetual gloom of the Ephel Dûath hung low over the ragged peaks of the Pass, like a rain-filled canopy sagging between its tent-poles. Aragorn's head was throbbing insistently, and he groped for his water, taking two sloshing mouthfuls before he even attempted to sit up.

Every muscle ached, and his bandaged leg was throbbing. Once he was more or less upright, Aragorn squinted against the murky half-light to inspect his dressing. There were two darker patches on the strips of green wool where he had bled through the linen beneath, but both were dry to the touch. It seemed that the worst of the bleeding had stopped.

Resolve alone allowed him to rise, hopping awkwardly on his good leg. He cast about without much hope for a branch or a tree or even a sapling that he might uproot to use as a stave, but of course there was nothing. Tentatively, he shifted a little of his weight onto his injured leg. After the first dreadful piercing agony, the pain deadened to a dull, pulsing rhythm, and he found himself able to hobble about after a fashion, so long as he kept his right hand at the ready to catch himself against the great stone pikes that thrust up from the plateau on which he stood. He picked up his pack and returned his knife to its sheath, then cast a grim backward glance at the towering cliff that marked the entrance to the monster's lair, and began to move down the path.

He had not gone more than a hundred feet when his head began to reel and his vision flooded with black stars that swam and pulsed insistently. Fearful that he was about to collapse, Aragorn staggered inelegantly towards the next mass of stone and thrust his weight against it. He lifted his right foot up behind and shared his weight between his left and the rock as he pressed his face to the cold, rough surface and fought with all his power to keep from toppling over insensate.

When at last the fit passed, he remained thus propped against the stone, trying to force his reluctant mind to work. He was in no fit state to travel, but every minute he lingered here increased his odds of discovery and capture – or worse, that the spider once finished with her ill-starred mate would come forth looking for the lesser prey that had escaped her wrath. Furthermore, he had to determine which side of the mountains he was on, and to try – here his soul shrivelled a little within his breast – to rediscover the trail that he had lost at the forgotten door.

He had to eat something also, he decided pragmatically. Perhaps that would renew some of his strength, and certainly after losing two or three pints of blood he had sore need of sustenance. Not daring to surrender his hard-won upright position, he worried his pack off of his back where he stood and dug out two strips of meat. They smelled unpleasant and tasted worse, but the flesh was not yet so far gone as to be dangerous and he managed to choke all of it down. He waited, at first patiently and then with increasing disquietude, for a renewal of strength that did not come.

Aragorn felt a small thrill of despair. He could not go on as he was, nor could he linger here, in this open and barren place without plant or animal or water to provide for his needs as he convalesced. There was nothing for it, then. Though he had sworn that he would not let himself be reduced to such measures, he rummaged in his pack and hauled out the half-empty skin of orc-liquor. Bracing himself like a child faced with unpleasant medicine, he dug out the stopper and took a swift swallow.

The loathsome brew burned its way down his throat and through his chest before sending out searing waves of discomfort from his stomach, but almost at once his hands ceased their trembling and his head grew more clear and the pain of his wound abated. With the grim satisfaction of one who knew that he had done what was necessary for survival, Aragorn bunged the skin again and hung it from his belt close by his water. The pack he returned to his back, and he set out again with iron resolve.

His progress was swifter now, for he felt little pain and the strength, for a time at least, had been restored to his limbs. He was quite sure that he could push himself harder than he was, for he knew the extent to which the orcs' potion concealed the hurts and weariness of the body, but he had no wish to do unwitting damage to himself. The cordial would not last forever, and when at last his store was gone his one hope was that his wound would have been given time to heal.

Presently he became aware of a red glow in the sky behind him and he turned, looking back. Between two crags in the cliff behind there was a beacon, a harsh carmine stain against the ominous cinereal clouds. It was set atop a great, smooth pinnacle of stone that Aragorn recognized abruptly as a tower on the far side of the Pass, beyond the lair of the spider.

'Cirith Ungol,' he whispered, and he felt the cold hand of dread upon his heart.

He had not passed through the mountains at all, but was still upon their westward flank. Worse still, he now knew himself to be caught between the two places in all the world that he least desired to walk. Behind and above was the Pass with its fearful guardian. Before and below lay the foul fens and deadly perils of Morgul Vale. Through one or the other he must now find his way, and he knew not how to choose. By rights he ought to take the way that Gollum had taken, but Aragorn knew not what that might be, either. He could not comprehend how any creature, however warped and craven, might willingly pass into Mordor unless pressed to gravest need, and yet neither could he see what might draw his quarry down into Imlad Morgul.

Aragorn surveyed the rocky place where he stood. Had Gollum ever walked here, he could have left no clear sign upon these stones. Indeed, it was not inconceivable that he lived no longer, having been consumed by the mighty spider into whose lair he appeared to have crept.

Yet logical though such an outcome seemed, Aragorn could not bring himself to believe it. The long years of labour could not have come to this: that his quarry had come to an ignominious end between the pincers of Ungoliant's unholy offspring, devoured with all his secrets beneath the Mountains of Shadow. Surely one who had eluded capture so long when pursued by a relentless Istar and the mightiest huntsman in Middle-earth could have contrived to escape the shadows of the spider, when even a blindly bumbling man had managed to do so.

If Gollum had come this way he would have left some memory of his passage, however faint. Most likely such evidence would be found in the shadows among the crevices and crannies in the stone, not only because of the rubble gathered there but also because it was in such places that the creature seemed to secret himself. Aragorn could not count the times that he had found the imprints of spindly toes or the mark of a heel or a heap of gnawed rodent bones in such corners. So slowly, methodically, he began his search, working ever downward away from the spider-tunnels and towards the Morgul Vale.

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Daylight – or what in this land passed for daylight, though even when the sun was at its zenith in some forgotten realm far above the shadows it was still nothing more than a murky gloom – slipped away while Aragorn hunted for any sign of his quarry. Twice he dosed himself with the orc-cordial, and once he stopped to force himself to eat a little. When at last he drew within sight of the edge of the plateau, he was swiftly losing what little hope he had.

Furthermore it seemed that he had come to a dead end: there was no further path, but only the mountains above and a ravine far below. Yet as he stood, perplexed, Aragorn recalled another scrap of rumour gleaned in the years of his great errantries, when a bold and valiant young man had delved deep into the hearts of Men to discover both the good and the evil that dwelt within. Cautiously, he drew near the edge and looked down.

The plateau stood across a great cliff, steeply sloping upward from the mountain passage below. From this dizzying height in the gathering night Aragorn could make out little of the path far below, but it took no acuity of sight to discern the stair, a winding way of carven steps that clung to the face of the cliff and wove to and fro as it made its descent. Carved a long Age ago by the stonemasons of Meneldil as an access to the watchtower of Cirith Ungol, these stairs were the only way into the Pass. They were not intended as a means of exit, for in those days Gondor had striven to keep contained the evil things that dwelt in the realm of their vanquished foe. Steep and treacherous and nearly three thousand years old, the stone steps were no fit road for a sane man.

Yet Aragorn was no longer sure that he could be counted among the sane, at least not where this search was concerned. The reasonable course of action would have been to cast aside the hunt in Harondor. The judicious decision would have been to admit defeat and return to the North. His choices since refusing to take the sensible path had all bordered on madness, though it was some comfort at least that he could not be counted reckless. He knew well his limits, and though he had pressed them in this journey he had never yet surpassed them. He did not fear to take these stairs, if only he might find some sign that this course was the one that Gollum had chosen.

Yet his alternatives were threefold: go down, remain here, or turn back. He was not entirely certain that he could have found the courage to do the last, even had he been following a fresh and incontrovertible trail. To venture into those tunnels again, to enter Mordor, upon a half-chance that Gollum might have turned east was beyond senseless. If he remained here he would eventually starve, or worse. Therefore there was no choice after all but to descend.

The first steps were treacherous, for the way was narrow and steep and there was nothing to cling to. Furthermore, Aragorn was putting his off-foot forward, which proved awkward, but he did not dare to thrust his full weight down upon his wounded leg, orc-draught or no. He lowered his left foot first, and then placed his right upon the same step, instead of alternating as he would ordinarily have done. When he had progressed far enough that he could grip the cliff he let fall a soft sigh of relief. He leaned heavily upon the wall each time his left foot lifted.

The descent was excruciatingly slow. Aragorn could not say how long he climbed, ever wary, ever anxious lest he should slip or his bad leg should fail him at a critical moment. He watched his boots carefully until the dark fell about him and he could no longer discern the black leather from the black rock. He attempted to sound each step before entrusting it with his weight, but now and again a stone would give way or crumble beneath him and only luck and lightning reflexes saved him from tumbling into the ravine.

Down and down the stair wound, and the hours of night dragged by. Aragorn measured time only by the failing of the orc-cordial and his need to drink again. Twice he quaffed of the vile potion, then three times and four. The pain was resurging yet again when his left leg jarred unexpectedly upon uneven ground. There was a moment of horror as Aragorn stumbled forward, fearful that he would fall, but then he realized that he had reached level ground at last.

He was still high upon the mountain, for he could hear the wind whistling in the gorge far below, but the stairs had come to an end. The night was black as ink, and he could not even see his own hands, but in the ravine there was a light, a distant sickly glow. As he stared it began to take shape, and he could feel the blood draining from his face as his innards withered and a fist of dread closed upon his heart. Minas Morgul.

Resolutely Aragorn turned his face away, drinking in the darkness of the path. He could not think on that now, weary as he was and half-drunk upon the orc-brew. Best to sit awhile and rest. When day returned, he would scout around for any sign of Gollum, and then seek out a way down into the valley. Though naught but danger and terror awaited him there, he had chosen his course and he would hold to it. Though hope was all but lost, he still had his stiff neck and his obstinacy. His pride would hold him to the course a little longer.

As he eased himself to the ground, knowing that he would not sleep, he ground his teeth against the ache in his knees and the agony stirring in his right leg. He only hoped that his pride would be sufficient to sustain him through whatever ordeal lay ahead.

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Dawn brought little light and less hope. As soon as he could see his own body, Aragorn tugged back his clothes and inspected his bandage cautiously. The pain was nearing the border of unendurable and he was drenched in perspiration despite the mountain chill, but he was not willing to unwrap it. He could not afford to have it bleeding afresh. In any case he had no cleaner dressing and the orc-draught was needed for other purposes now and could not be squandered to wash a wound.

His dried meat smelled worse than ever and his stomach felt bilious after his dose of liquor, so he turned to the orc-bread instead. He pounded it almost to dust between two stones and ate the resulting crumbs with half a dozen walnut-shards. He drank the last dregs of water from his bottle and tucked the empty vessel in his pack. He had only the orc-skin left now; enough for three or four dangerously sparing days. Nor was his thirst slaked even at this moment: his tongue felt thick in his mouth and his throat ached. He would have to be more careful of the orc-brew.

With his meagre morning chores completed, Aragorn took in his surroundings in the grey half-light. The plateau on which he stood overlooked the ravine above Morgul Vale, but he did not turn that way again. A little farther along, twin ramparts of stone rose high above, and the path became a winding passage that disappeared around a corner about a quarter-mile away. The Ranger wasted no time in following that road, if for no other reason than that it hid the valley and the ghastly City from his sight.

He walked for hours, his cloak wound about his arms and hugged tightly to his chest, for in the narrow passage the mountain breezes were whipped to a bitter wind. With his hooded head bowed low, Aragorn pressed on as the spell of the cordial ebbed away and the pain returned. Not daring to drink again so soon he limped forward, placing as little weight upon his leg as he could. While he moved he kept his eyes upon the ground, watching for prints or any detritus that might speak to Gollum's passage. He saw nothing.

At last the path ended, though the walls of stone went on. Aragorn drew near the edge and looking down saw precisely what he had expected: a steep, straight stair descending into the cleft. The angle of descent was dizzying. The steps were at least three times higher than they were deep, and they were by no measure deep enough. He could not walk down: he would have to climb. Aragorn took another mouthful of the orc-draught, steeling his nerves while it dulled the pain of his wound and restored strength to his tired body. Then he lowered himself over the edge and proceeded to descend.

His fingers gripped the narrow ledges as his left boot groped for the next hold. Down he climbed like one descending a ladder of stone. On three sides the rock surrounded him, but behind the gaping openness of the air was a constant reminder that a single misstep, the slightest mischance, would send him tumbling to his death far below. It did not do to dwell upon such things. If he fell, he fell. There would be no help for it.

Despite the numbing effects of the liquor, Aragorn's arms soon ached and his fingers were cramping. His left leg was unsteady after bearing his weight for so long, and his right was growing increasingly useless. The way was treacherous: the stones were worn smooth by the long years, and more than once the rocks crumbled beneath his feet or his hands. At such times only the proximity of the walls saved him; he could brace his long body against them just long enough to find a fresh hold.

He had been climbing long enough for his wound to reassert itself when he came upon a step already broken. There were many that had decayed and disintegrated over the centuries, but he stopped to examine this one, his fingers clinging to the ledge above and his left foot bearing him up from below whilst his right hung limp. For a minute Aragorn stared, unable to comprehend why, precisely, he was so entranced by this particular broken stair. Then he understood. The edges were rough.

Most of the others, broken long ago, were smoothed by time, slippery and dangerous. This step was ragged, coarse. It had been broken recently. Very recently.

Hardly daring to pray for good fortune Aragorn cast about for some other sign, any other sign, of the creature whose weight had proved too much for that one aged stair. He found what he sought on the rock wall to his left: faint grooves scoring a chink in the stone. The marks of fingers dug hastily into the wall to catch a flailing climber. But there was nothing else; nothing to indicate what manner of being – Man or orc or Gollum himself – had passed this way, nor whether they had been coming or going.

Aragorn sighed softly. It would have been too much to hope for a broken fingernail or a scrap of clothing. He lowered himself further, looking for traces of the feet. Nothing.

This was what his hunt was reduced to, he thought sourly as his left foot groped for the next step and his right began to quiver with referred anguish from above. A jagged bit of broken stone, and a few scratches on the wall of a cliff. There was nothing to find, or he would have found it long ago. Why did he keep up this charade? Why did he continue to labour for an impossible end? Had he taken leave of his senses?

'No,' he grunted, gaining another stair and easing his aching arms down a few inches. 'No, I'm stubborn, not mad. Too stubborn by far. Too stubborn to quit, too stubborn to die.' His foot struck stone – not his toes, but a good three-quarters of his foot. The step was deeper: the stair was growing less steep. 'Too stubborn to fall!' Aragorn hissed triumphantly as he realized this trial, at least, was drawing to its end.

After a few more steps he was able to turn. His shoulders screamed in anguish as he lowered his arms and began to walk, slowly and carefully, down stairs that, while still rather more steep than he would have liked, were broad enough to accommodate his feet. As the steps widened further, his pace increased. Before he realized what he was doing he was taking them like a man instead of a tottering dotard: one foot on each step, hurrying downward as though oblivious to his cramping muscles and his aching knees. The relief of making tangible progress at last was so great that he was able almost to forget his pains as he moved forward.

But stubborn or not, his body did not forget. He had not eaten since the dawn, nor had he had the days of rest and nourishment necessary to replenish the lost blood, and the orc-liquor, marvellous though it was, wore off to leave its victim weak and enervated. When his right foot slipped upon a loose stone, wrenching his ankle, his leg could not compensate. In the moment of astonishment he failed to react swiftly enough, and he pitched against the stone. His left hip struck the edge of the step behind and his head barked against the wall as he tumbled down the stairs like a discarded rag doll.