Chapter XV: The Dead Marshes

Aragorn stirred no further that night. He did not feel able to eat, and though he partook of the water he did so sparingly. There was no telling when he might find more, for the Captain had spoken aright: the waters in these lands were not to be trusted. With his thirst but scarcely dulled Aragorn dug out his cloak and settled on the dry ground outside the borders of the stinking fen. There he passed the hours until dawn drifting in and out of uneasy dreams.

He was haunted by the vast uncertain future, and it tainted the night-roaming of his spirit. In these last months he had seen much of darkness and evil but little of light or hope, and it was despair that visited him now. Though his brush with the Rangers of Ithilien had left him with firm proof that decency and honour dwelt yet within the hearts of Men, he was afraid. These seemed such poor weapons to pit against the might of Mordor. Furthermore throughout his long life Aragorn had oft witnessed the frailty of mortal hearts. There were those, of course, in whom nobility of spirit was as tireless and enduring as the Flame Imperishable, but in others it was like the seed of the beech tree, blown swiftly away by the first strong wind. When the storm came, would the valiant hearts be sufficient to uphold the rest? Or would the innocents quail and the mighty ones fall until all the world was plunged into darkness?

Aragorn had in generous measure the gift of his kindred, and he was held by many to be a man foresighted. But beyond the gathering Shadow he could see nothing. Often in these last years he had felt like one stricken blind, groping fruitlessly forward though he did not know the way.

Before the dawn he forsook his hopeless attempts to find rest within his rambling mind. He sat huddled under his torn cloak, trying to endure the damp chill that hung over the Marshes. His shoulder stung where the orcs' claws had dug so mercilessly into his flesh, and the rope-burns on his wrists were irritating. He wished that he might wash his hurts, but he could not spare water for such a luxury until he was sure of securing his next supply. His legs were sore and leaden after his frantic flight and the healing gash in his thigh ached. The cold did not help any of these pains, and as he waited for the grey gloom of daylight Aragorn found himself daydreaming wistfully of a crackling campfire. He had not had fuel or safety enough for fire since ascending into the Mountains of Shadow, and he sorely missed the comfort and companionship of a warming blaze.

When at last the Sun arose, a pale disc of light behind the grey clouds, Aragorn surveyed his surroundings. It seemed that he had come upon the Marshes at their most south-eastern edge. To the West the fens stretched out endlessly to meet the horizon, while looking to the East Aragorn could see the change from brown to grey that marked the beginning of the plains north of the Morannon.

An unpleasant choice, latest in a long list of unpleasant choices, awaited him now. To pass through the Dead Marshes by the most direct route was the act of a madman: the shifting quagmires and ever-changing tussocks would confound even the most experienced traveller. Aragorn had no desire to be swallowed up by the swamp. Yet in the eaves of the Marshes would he be most safe from any pursuit or patrol. If even the stalwart men of Ithilien dared not chance the borders it seemed improbably that any band of roving orcs would do so. Thus his path would be both long and treacherous, whatever way he went. Westward the Marshes stretched for fifty miles or more before fading into the bleak approach to the Vale of Anduin beneath the Falls of Rauros. There a wanderer would be obliged to follow the river for many leagues before one came to a place where a man might cross without a boat. Eastward he might vanish swiftly into the Emyn Muil, emerging from the mountains where Anduin provided a girth amenable to the efforts of a strong swimmer.

Now that he had made up his mind to return to the North, Aragorn was of a mind to do so with all haste, and the East road seemed the quicker. He gathered up his provisions into the pack, which he tucked under his arm. He realized only after he had dragged himself to his feet that he had made no effort to fashion a clasp for his cloak. Rather than sit to struggle with the puzzle, he merely wrapped the garment around his shoulders, clutching it to him like a blanket. Thus equipped, he ventured forward into the Marshes, watching his feet with one eye whilst he searched his environs with the other.

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All that day he walked, the silence broken only by the burbling of the marshes and the noise of his boots in the sucking mud. Though he stepped with care, ever attentive to the ground before him, he often found himself in muck ankle deep or worse, and twice he sank so far into the mire that the vile swamp-water oozed over the top of his boots. Slowly, inexorably, the wetness crept through the leather also and his feet in their woollen hose grew wet and almost intolerably cold. His clothing was damp and his cloak was heavy on his shoulders, slipping frequently out of the dogged grasp that held it in place. His arm ached from carrying his pack, dangerously light though it was, and his weary legs struggled against the mud.

Despite the miseries of the body, Aragorn found his thoughts straying towards a more philosophical matter: his abandonment of his quest.

The draught of failure was a bitter brew to swallow. Seldom in his long labours had Aragorn been driven to admit defeat. True, victory was often hard-won and not infrequently unpalatable by the end, but nonetheless he most often succeeded in whatever venture he undertook. Though the years had worn on and the trail wound into lands ever more perilous, he had truly believed that in the end he would succeed. He knew well his own skill: he had tracked horses over bare rock, and found Rangers who did not wish to be discovered. He had pursued men through shifting desert sands, and followed all manner of beasts and birds. If there lived a man who could outdo him in the hunt Aragorn had not met him.

Yet his skill had failed him, and with it his hope. It galled him to return thus, despairing and defeated. What would he tell his brothers when they asked how he had fared in the South? How would he explain to his beloved the nature of his failure and the depth of his disgrace? And Master Baggins, who held his friend the Dúnadan in such high esteem – how could Aragorn face him, having failed to capture his old nemesis? What of his foster-father? He dreaded the grave expression that would seep into Elrond's eyes as the unhappy tidings were spoken; empathy and resignation intermingled, and with them a spark of terror, well-concealed but not wholly hidden, for the Lord of Imladris knew better than any other the terrible stake that rode upon the question of Bilbo's little ring.

Worst of all would be the confrontation with Gandalf. For all the wizard's words at their parting, Aragorn knew his friend had yet believed him capable of success: however improbable his triumph had seemed at least conceivable, else Gandalf would never have allowed him to go on. To dash that secret hope would be a terrible blow to Aragorn's heart. And the Istar would never accept that Aragorn had simply tired of the hunt. There would be questions; an interrogation to rival that to which the creature itself would have been put. In the end, Aragorn knew, Gandalf would wring from him every last detail of the fruitless weeks upon the marches of Mordor. Then there would be a reckoning, a tongue-lashing to equal the castigation of Fëanor before the seat of the Valar, followed by a great deal of undue consideration. That Aragorn dreaded almost more than the confession of failure itself, for he knew that he deserved it. At no point in their ill-starred quest had Gandalf intimated that the hunt was worth the risking of life, limb or sanity.

At least, Aragorn thought, he was not an oathbreaker. The wizard had released him from his promise and he was free to return home as best he might. Had been free, indeed, since their parting in Harondor. He half wished that he had turned back then, with his body unscathed and his spirit unassailed and his clothing still whole. Yet he knew now as he had then that to turn back while there was still a chance, however slim, would have driven him to madness. As hateful as his failure was, he could at least say with absolute verity that he had hunted to the very limits of his strength.

That was enough to sustain him. It had to be.

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Dusk fell unexpectedly, the gloom of the day vanishing rapidly into darkness. As the temperature dropped mists began to rise off of the vile meres between which Aragorn picked his way with all the care he could. The air grew denser, and the sour stink of the Marshes only seemed to intensify. Then something flickered in the corner of the Ranger's eye: a glint of faint and unearthly light. He turned his head swiftly, but when he looked the glow was gone.

Again it happened, and again. Aragorn was beginning to fear for his reason when another appeared, a little ahead of him. And there was another, away to his left, and another beyond that. Soon the darkness was filled with them; pinions of pale illumination like the wavering glow of hundreds of sickly candles, shining amid the waters of the Dead Marshes but illuminating nothing. Aragorn's pulse quickened. What devilry was this? He turned about in a full circle; he was surrounded by the lights on every side, dancing dizzyingly in the mists.

They were fair, perilous and fair, and they seemed almost to call to him, but before he could venture a single step his common sense prevailed. This was some enchantment laid upon the land – no wizard-work, nor any contrivance of the Elves, but some more ancient and terrible power, older maybe than Mordor itself, that had settled in this place of death. He could feel the lure of the lights, tempting the traveller to come, to follow, and so to sink forever in the stagnant waters. Resolutely he resisted, closing his mind to temptation and his eyes to the enticing flickering of the ghostly lights.

His mind was filled now with tales of the great battle upon the plains of Dagorlad. He had heard many accounts of that conflict, some even first-hand from those who had fought before the gates of Mordor. Master Elrond spoke with respect and love of the honoured dead. The Lady Galadriel recalled well the glory of the first valiant charge and the bittersweet satisfaction of victory, when the Black Gate was cast open and the forces of Elves and Men swarmed down upon Gorgoroth itself. But it was from Celeborn that Aragorn had learned of the grim work that followed the battle: of the great graves carved into the packed and blood-soaked earth, into which Elf and Man, Dwarf and Orc alike were laid to rest, with their arms and armour still upon their bodies.

Like the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Dagorlad had left no time for the proper disposition of the dead. Yet where the servants of Morgoth, triumphant, had piled high the bodies of their enemies to rot shamefully beneath the open sky, the victorious hosts of Elendil and Gil-galad had made what hasty efforts they could to offer a dignified burial to the slain. Strange, Aragorn thought: the defilement of Morgoth had been purified, becoming the great mound of Haudh-en-Ndengin, green amid the desolation of Angband. Yet by evil had the honourable intentions of the folk of the Last Alliance been twisted into this place of stench and death.

He dared walk no further while the ghostly candles shone, and so he crouched down in the mud to eat a little and to rest as best he might, unable to lie down as he fought back sleep and dark thoughts with equal resolve.

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On the following day it rained. No cleansing downpour was this, but a slow persistent drizzle that dampened the spirits and the garments alike. Even the rain had a foul smell in this hateful place, and Aragorn plodded on in misery, head bowed beneath his hood, one hand still holding his cloak in place. How glad he would be to leave these bleak lands behind! How blessed it would be to breathe clean air once more, and to walk where the earth was fair and unsullied! How his heart ached for home.

He banished that thought. He had a long road before him, a hard and bitter path. His scant supplies would not last him long, and further to the North winter was thick upon the land. He remembered his words to Gandalf about venturing into the snows clad in light summer garb, and a convulsive shiver ran up his spine. He hugged his wet cloak nearer to his body and sighed. He would cope with that difficulty when he came to it. He might walk two hundred miles or more before he saw any sign of frost.

Today he was troubled by the sense that he was not alone. He felt bare and exposed, as if hundreds of eyes were upon him. Yet he saw no sign of bird nor beast, and the grey lands far away to his right seemed bereft of all life. Still an irrational fear of discovery cast a pall upon Aragorn's heart and he moved onward with caution. He was not beyond the power of the Enemy yet, and he could ill afford to fall afoul of an errant company of Uruks. At last, he turned his course in a more westerly direction and picked out a path that led somewhat more deeply into the Marshes.

A little after noon, the rain ceased its merciless incursions upon his health, but the Sun could not be seen and the heavy clammy air smothered all hope of drying his clothes. He was far from the northern snows, but it was cold enough here, particularly with the hope waning so in his weary heart. Not for the first time, Aragorn longed for companionship; for the company of someone, anyone, whose voice might break the wretched monotony of this lonely journey.

'Well, you've done it this time, Aragorn my boy,' Gandalf would have said. 'You've led me down some strange and unpleasant paths these last years, but this is by far the most unusual. Here, have a care where you step: we almost lost you in that last mere!'

'I don't know how you abide that wet hair in your eyes!' He could almost hear Elrohir's jovially teasing voice now. 'Men who don't trouble to keep their tresses in order ought to cut them off!'

'Leave him be, Elrohir: he's not a child anymore and might resent your treating him as such,' Elladan would have rebutted. 'Estel, tonight you really ought to see what can be done with your comb. You'll be more comfortable for it.'

And Halbarad: 'Time to halt and eat a little, I think. Even the mighty Strider cannot walk on indefinitely without his victuals.'

Aragorn would have traded anything for the company of even one of his friends. Yet he supposed that he should heed their advice, even if they were not present to speak it. When he reached the next tussock set upon firm and marginally less soggy ground, he sat, dug out the remains of his comb and made a cursory attempt to restore some order to his overgrown crop of hair. This proved counterproductive, however, for far from making him feel more comfortable it only made him long for a hot bath and a shave and clean clothing. Frustrated, he stowed the comb away. He had wandered in the wilderness for decades, bereft of such comforts, and yet somehow he never grew quite accustomed to being filthy and ragged and unkempt.

This seemed as good a time as any to address the matter of his cloak. Aragorn took inventory of his meagre possessions and settled upon two options. Either he might use the length of rope to tie the cloak to his body, or he could try to contrive some sort of fastening with the wire. The former seemed too much a reminder of his recent travels in the company of orcs, and so he settled upon the latter. He had six handspans of wire, and he cut away a length of two. Then, positioning the cloak most comfortably upon his shoulders he wove the wire in and out through the layers of wool until they were held together by stitches of bronze. Cautiously he tugged at the makeshift clasp, then more insistently. It held. His tired arm throbbed gratefully.

He ate the second apple and tucked a sliver of the dried meat into his cheek to gnaw on while he walked. The longer he chewed, the more satiated he could trick his stomach into feeling. It would be a long and hungry journey home and he had to contrive to keep himself on his feet somehow.

He resumed his journey with a heavy heart, watching the earth with one eye and the land with the other. The thready mists clung to the swamp-grasses and obscured the path below his feet. Tired and disheartened, Aragorn did not immediately comprehend what he was seeing until his instincts began to shriek at him to slow, to stop, to look.

Swiftly he turned. Hastily he crouched. Long fingers slipped forward almost of their own accord to brush the surface of the mud. Aragorn's pulse quickened and his throat grew taut as he fought back wonder and disbelief. It could not be, and yet his senses would not lie. He cast about for some corroborating sign and he found it, not ten inches away from the first.

Tracks.

There in the soft mud were the marks of broad, flat feet – bare, with long, prehensile toes. Smaller than orc-feet they were, smaller than Man. Unmistakably hobbit-like.

A little farther along Aragorn found the marks of four knuckles where they had dug into the earth to bear up the passage of their owner. And here was the indentation of a knee. Here the off-foot had dragged after the lead, and here the creature had stopped to root about among the rushes. He moved forward swiftly, crouched low to the ground as he picked up the trail. It scarcely seemed possible, after fifteen years and more, after all the perils and the hardships and the futile pursuits, that he should chance upon what he sought now, now when he had at last despaired of ever succeeding. Yet so it was: tracks clear enough that a child could follow them, and fresh! They were not more than three or four hours old, or the rain would have washed them away. Even now the groundwater was seeping into the deeper imprint made by the ball of the foot – for a creature that scrambled rather than walking left little by way of a heel-mark. In another hour or two the marks would be unintelligible, even to one of Aragorn's skill.

Swiftly he rose, tracing the path of the imprints where it wound away to the North. His heart was hammering in his chest now, but there was no time to tarry, reflecting upon his astonishment or the senselessness of such a discovery at such a time. Forward he sped, keen eyes racing before him to pick up the next sign, and the next, while the day waned swiftly and the twilight began to gather behind the gloom to the East. Weariness and hunger, despair and loneliness all were forgotten. Strider was on the hunt once more.