Chapter XVI: A Prize Hard-Won

Dusk was falling rapidly as Aragorn sped forward, bent low so that he might follow the trail even in the gathering gloom. The creature kept up a great pace for so small a thing, but still the Ranger was swifter than his prey and the tracks grew ever more fresh. It seemed that his quarry was following much the same route Aragorn himself had intended to take, skirting around the very heart of the Marshes but remaining far enough within their border that the fens afforded cover from any hostile patrols in the bare surrounding lands. Of course, Aragorn reflected, this was not altogether astonishing. Certainly Gollum was adept at subterfuge and the arts of survival, or he never would have eluded capture for so long.

Aragorn halted, listening to the gurgling of the swamp-waters and the whispering of the dry reeds. Below these sounds he heard another, out of place in these empty lands. Low and sibilant, a keening whine filtered through the haze ahead.

The pack was eased to the ground, and Aragorn groped within it until his fingers closed upon the coil of rope that had been fixed about his neck when he flew from the orc-camp. Deftly he knotted one end into a three-coiled noose – a good knot for his purposes, being quick to draw tight but easy enough to loosen if one knew the trick, and perhaps most importantly, reliable when wet. As he worked he listened warily, but the muttering and whimpering remained constant. The creature, it seemed, was no longer moving forward. Aragorn slipped his cloak over his head and folded it over his pack. Thus unencumbered he crept forward, exerting every effort to move noiseless through the mud.

Apprehension pricked at his mind, and he rather wanted to draw his knife. Who could say whether Gollum would be armed? Bilbo had seen so sign of any weapon but his quick fingers and his teeth, but that had been more than seventy years ago, and Bilbo had stumbled unwittingly on the creatures' lair. Now Gollum was far from the security of his hideaway, and in country as dangerous as this who would not carry a blade? Nonetheless, Aragorn settled for shifting the knife that he now wore tucked into his belt into a more favourable position. It would easily be seized if he had need, but he earnestly hoped that he would not. After fifteen years of searching he could not risk slaying Gollum in the struggle to capture him.

He paused in his creeping. The creature was near at hand now, and though Aragorn could not yet see him amid the tussocks of dead grass and the broad, squelching meres, he could make out the words of his whinging lament.

'...and we does, preciouss, we does! Poor, poor precious, gollum!—' And here he made a horrid gurgling noise in the back of his throat. 'Poor handses, poor handses, yess! Hateful, hot, hurting... poor handses, my preciousss!'

There was a sound of splashing and a sharp yelp. Aragorn held his breath, fearful that the creature had heard him, but after a moment the resentful soliloquy continued.

'How iss we supposed to go on, my precious, tell us that! Poor precious, gollum. No foods, no nice fishes in the pool, and nassty orcses, precious! Nassty orcses! Orcses, preciouss!' Here his voice grew shrill and panicked until it rose to a long, wordless shriek. Aragorn flinched involuntarily as his eardrums began to throb. Just when he thought he could bear no more, the ululation of rage and terror cut off abruptly. 'Nassty orcses,' the creature muttered sullenly.

Aragorn drew nearer, edging carefully around a clump of weeds. Then at last, at long last after fifteen futile years, he had his quarry in his sight. There, huddled low over a stinking pool, was a pallid, craven creature. Filthy, all but naked, coated in green slime, Gollum squatted in the mud with his emaciated legs sticking out to either side and his knobbed knees almost level with his rounded shoulders. His head was bowed low, giving him a strange silhouette against the light of the ghostly candles now flickering to life in the pools, and the bones of his spine seemed ready to tear through his discoloured skin. Even in the last light of evening Aragorn could see the hollows between his ribs and the sharp protrusion of his hip-bones. More like beast than hobbit was he, and as Aragorn watched him, keening and muttering to himself, he could not help a shudder of revulsion.

He crept a little nearer still. The creature was less than three rangar away, and still he seemed unaware of the watcher. Aragorn took a firm hold of the end of the rope, holding the loop loose in his other hand. Slowly, cautiously, he stretched his left leg forward, planting his boot firmly in the mud. For a moment he paused, listening for any break in the creature's mumbling that might indicate his presence was no longer a secret. Then swift as a cat he pounced, closing the distance between himself and his prey in two swift strides. Gollum whirled, his hands sending up a spray of vile water, and he shrieked – but by then the Ranger was upon him. The rope slipped over his shoulders and Aragorn yanked it taut, triumphant. He had his prize at last!

Only for a moment did the warm glow of success linger. Even as the noose grew tight, pinning his arms to his sides, Gollum was struggling. He thrust one bony foot against Aragorn's leg and hurled his body backward over the arm that was trying to seize him. Aragorn overbalanced, falling forward as his right hand shot out to close upon Gollum's ankle. This brought another shriek of fury, and before the Ranger's left hand could find the rope Gollum had doubled back over himself and was scratching ferociously at the fingers on his leg. One long, skeletal arm had worked itself free of the rope, and with it he lunged for his assailant. Aragorn rolled to the left, dragging the creature with him as he struggled to find some more useful hold.

Still Gollum struggled, writhing with such frenetic energy that it was impossible from one moment to the next to be sure what part of him one held. Aragorn lost his grip on the foot, but then for a moment he had an arm, then an ear. Each time Gollum managed to slip free, though the Ranger managed to keep him from gaining sufficient mastery to flee. They were lying in the mud now, grappling frantically while the candles of the Dead flickered around them.

It should have been no contest at all: Aragorn was twice the creature's height, hale and strong and if not well-fed at least neither withered nor emaciated. Yet Gollum was quick and astonishingly strong, and as he howled unintelligible maledictions he beat at his would-be captor with foot and fist. The scrabbling hands closed on Aragorn's wildly flying hair, and the Man could not stifle a hoarse cry of pain as his scalp blazed in protest. It was as well he did, for the noise startled the creature, who twisted to backward to fix his pale eyes upon the Ranger's face. Taking advantage of the moment's hesitation, Aragorn struck out with his left arm, driving his fist into Gollum's side. The grip on his hair loosened abruptly as the bony thing crumpled into the blow. Aragorn forced the creature to roll with him, trying to pin the wiry limbs beneath his body. Gollum had his other hand free of the rope now, and he reached up to claw at Aragorn's eyes. There was a hot rush of fluid as the scrabbling nails drew blood.

Aragorn thrust up his arm, sweeping away the nimble fingers and attempting to immobilize the hand, but Gollum was too quick. His shoulder rotated in defiance of the laws of nature and he evaded the Man's attempt to pin him. Before Aragorn could compensate his head was jerking instinctively backward. As the nails tore into his flesh, glancing off his cheekbone, he realized with a sickening lurch that only his reflexes had saved his right eye.

Again he struggled to catch the flailing hand, all the while shifting his legs in a desperate bid to trap the creatures feet, which were kicking furiously against his hips and lower abdomen. Aragorn was fully cognizant of his absurd position, grappling so desperately with a thing not half his size, but there was nothing for it. He was fighting now not merely to pacify a prisoner, but to avoid grievous harm. Never would he have imagined that such strength or tenacity might be hidden within so pitiful a creature, but it was plain that Gollum was not to be easily cowed.

Then, so swiftly that he was not entirely sure how he had caught the creature off-guard, Aragorn had the advantage again. He pressed it without reflection, snatching Gollum's arm and trapping the deadly hand under his left knee. Awkwardly he shifted forward to improve his hold without relinquishing the tenuous control he had over Gollum's flailing legs. The mire beneath them shifted under the Ranger's weight, and the shrieking, squirming creature was pushed further down into the mud.

He tried to exploit the inconstant terrain and made an effort to wriggle from beneath his assailant, but Aragorn had anticipated such a tactic. He bore down with his full weight, and bowed his head as he pressed his forearm across Gollum's throat, applying enough force that he creature began to make harsh choking noises and his flailing grew less intense.

With his right arm thus occupied and both legs desperately trying to keep the rest of the creature pinned in place, Aragorn's left had began groping for the rope, which was tangled around Gollum's trunk and leg. If he could only catch the knot, he knew he would stand at least some chance of immobilizing his prisoner without resorting to baser methods.

Piercing anguish shot through him.

Aragorn almost lost control over Gollum's hand as his back arched against the unexpected agony. For a moment he was not even certain what quarter of his body had given birth to this pain, but ignorance did not endure long enough. The creature had sunk his teeth into the flesh of the Ranger's arm.

Aragorn tried to wrench free, but Gollum's jaws were stronger even than his limbs. Deeper the teeth drove, and Aragorn could feel the flesh puncturing, tearing. The next awkward twist made his elbow-joint pop, but he shook off the creature – at least momentarily. Gollum thrust his head forward, his long neck seeming almost to stretch upon command, snapping again. He grazed deep into the sinew of the Ranger's wrist, and Aragorn's field of vision was obscured with blackness. Yet his left hand was still free, and it flew forward almost of its own volition, closing with bruising force about Gollum's stringy throat. Tighter he squeezed, and tighter until the tearing teeth forsook their quest to strip every scrap of flesh from his bones.

Gollum flailed, clawing at the strangling hand. Aragorn ground his teeth against the sting of the ragged nails and the throbbing torment in his wounded arm, resolutely maintaining his hold. It was not an honourable way to subdue an opponent, but he had no strength left for nobler methods. He had to neutralize the creature swiftly, or either he would lose his quarry or be lost himself. Gollum was choking in earnest now, wholly unable to draw breath. Of greater moment, his carotid artery had collapsed beneath the knowing hands of a healer: the blood that his craven heart struggled to pump was not reaching its destination. The malicious eyes grew vacant and his struggles grew weaker every second. Then they ceased entirely: at last the creature was limp.

In the brief window of time between unconsciousness and death Aragorn relinquished his hold. He rolled off of his captive, crumpling in the mud beside him. He lay there panting as desperately as if he had been the one with a hand upon his windpipe, quaking with exertion and pain, his strength utterly spent.

Yet there was little time to squander. Aragorn pushed himself up with his left hand, pressing his bleeding right arm to his chest. He would see to his hurts later. The important thing was to secure the creature before he regained consciousness.

Aragorn disentangled the rope as swiftly as he could. Only now did he realize how his prisoner stank. It was a reek discernable even amid the foul air of the Marshes: a mingling of offal and bodily secretions and rot, and something unidentifiable that defied even Strider's extensive experience with the vile and the putrescent. He tried to close his nose, swallowing the rising bile as he fought to keep his pinched stomach from roiling in rebellion. The green slime that coated his body – at least that which had not been transferred to Aragorn's clothing in the course of the struggle – seemed to indicate that he had made some attempt to swim in the stagnant pools of the Dead Marshes. That, at least, would account for some of the smell, and Aragorn dared not think what the creature could possibly have sought in the waters. All thoughts of binding his prisoner from head to toe fled. Aragorn had no wish to carry him: Gollum would have to walk.

The rope, then, would be needed as a lead. Aragorn undid his noose, his right hand clumsy and his left trying to compensate. He slipped the cord about the creature's neck and tied it awkwardly into a collar, too snug to be removed but not so tight as to be cruel. As he worked he tried not to look at the purpling circles on the creature's neck, four on the right and one on the left: the marks of Aragorn's fingers. The nausea of remorse mingled with that brought on by the stink, but Aragorn subdued it sternly. He could spare no compassion for his prisoner. Hundreds of miles lay before them, and if he was going to reach his goal he would have to be unyielding and pitiless.

With the knot firmly affixed and reinforced, the tail of the halter was less than half again the length of the Ranger's arm. None could be spared to bind Gollum's hands. Aragorn plucked at the skirts of his tunic, but that thought fled almost at once. He had already lost much of his cloak: a few strips more would not make any difference.

Yet he could not leave Gollum alone, unconscious or no. Therefore steeling himself against the hated task, he hoisted the unconscious wretch over his shoulder. When he tried to rise his legs trembled and he nearly fell, but he obdurately refused to submit to his tired body. With his left arm curled in support of the creature, he stumbled back to where he had abandoned his gear. Hastily he deposited his prisoner in the mud, ignoring the fresh ache in his shoulder and arm. With knife and teeth he produce sufficient lengths of dirty wool from his cloak to bind Gollum's hands before him.

He hesitated at the sight of the bony appendages. The slimy palms and the long fingers were marred with abrasions and deep, suppurating wounds, and horrible marks that could be nothing else but burns. In the darkness little more than a cursory inspection could be made, but Aragorn's stomach turned anew at the sight. Small wonder the unhappy creature had yelped when it splashed its hands in the mere, and it was astounding that he had found the strength to fight with them. Even in the gloom such hurts were unmistakable: these were the marks of torture.

They wanted cleaning and proper dressing, but there was no time. As gently as he could Aragorn bound the creature's wrists together, keeping the knots as tight as he dared but ensuring they were still loose enough to admit his smallest finger between the bonds and the arm. He could afford no mercy now, but neither had he any wish to be cruel.

Gollum was stirring now on the brink of consciousness. It seemed he was more resilient than any Man, and many orcs: Aragorn had counted upon having at least a few minutes to investigate his own hurts. Hastily he took another strip of his ravaged cloak and tied the creature's legs together. Though as soon as dawn came they would be on their way the Ranger did not wish to wait out the hours with a prisoner that might try to flee. As his captive's eyelids fluttered and his lips began to work soundlessly, Aragorn recalled himself and hastened to thrust another piece of cloth into the creature's mouth, knotting it snugly behind.

He affixed the gag not a moment too soon, for the pale eyes shot open, glinting with the reflections of the unearthly candles. For a moment there was nothing but confusion in the haunted orbs, but terror and hatred swiftly flooded back. Gollum arched his back and tried to move his bound limbs. Aragorn snatched up the end of the rope and held fast while his prisoner flopped about in the mud like a fish flung onto the land. Though his heart was hammering in his chest, he did not move as Gollum struggled and muffled noises of rage filtered around the cloth. Only when his captive fell back in the mud, emaciated ribcage heaving with the exertion, did Aragorn kneel, taking hold of the halter near the creature's throat and leaning low to fix him in his gaze.

'Do not struggle,' he said, keeping his voice firm but free from anger or disgust. Small wonder the wretch was afraid: he had sprung upon him unawares, and other hands had ill-used him lately. 'No harm will come to you by my hand, provided that you do as I say. Do you understand?'

Gollum's eyes narrowed to malicious slits. He gave no further sign of comprehension.

'I wish to question you. If I remove the cloth from your mouth, will you cry out or attempt to bite again?' the Ranger asked. 'I do not wish to hurt you, but neither will I suffer such assault a second time.'

Still Gollum only stared, but he was trembling and beneath the hate there was fear. Aragorn's eyes flitted once more to the savagely abused hands. It did not look like orc-work: the wounds were too precise, too meticulously executed.

'Answer me yeah or nay,' he said sternly; 'for your life and mine hang upon the answer. Are you fleeing the servants of the Enemy? Are you being followed by orcs? By black Men of Mordor?'

Incoherent sounds filtered around the cloth. 'Yeah or nay?' Aragorn repeated. 'Nod your head.'

Gollum made no attempt to comply.

Bound and gagged the creature was in no position to trust him. If he wished to glean anything from his captive, Aragorn would have to make the first gesture of truce. With hands made studiously gentle despite the pain that shot through his torn right arm as he stretched it, Aragorn reached behind the creature's head and undid the gag. Even as he withdrew it, Gollum strained forward, snapping at his fingers.

'None of that,' Aragorn said sternly, grabbing a length of the lead and wrapping in around his hand. 'Tell me: are you being pursued by the servants of the Enemy?'

'Are we being pursued, precious, it askss us,' Gollum muttered, his voice hoarse and strangled. 'Yes, precious, pursued it iss. Hateful manses hunts us, precious, with cruel ropeses, yess…'

'Orcs!' snapped Aragorn. 'Are you being hunted by orcs?'

Gollum fell silent, glowering blackly at him. Then he curled in upon himself, launching up to bow his head over his lap as he raised his hands to his face. Before his captor realized what he intended, Gollum was gnawing on his bonds.

Quick as flash, Aragorn had the gag back in his prisoner's mouth. Gollum tried to struggle, but with hands and feet bound there was little he could do. The advantage of size was with the Ranger, and with a nasal wail that rang piercing through the air despite the gag, the wretch flung himself back in the mud, curling on his side and whimpering piteously.

Aragorn no longer wished to linger in these fens, even to interrogate the creature he had sought for so long. Gollum had been put to torment, and not long ago. If he had escaped the Enemy's clutches, there would be a pursuit, and who was to say how near the servants of Sauron were at this very moment? Aragorn had no strength for battle, nor any sword with which to stake his claim to the captive. He was not entirely sure that he had the wherewithal to fly, either, but at least he had to try.

A sudden irrational fear clutched at Aragorn's heart. He felt more exposed now than he had even before the Black Gate, for suddenly he had something to lose that was of greater moment than his life. He had the truth within his grasp, if only it could be wrung from the creatures lips. To lose it now would be more than his wayworn spirit could bear, and who could say what attention the noise of their struggle had drawn? He could not take the chance of losing his freedom or his prisoner now, when he had at last achieved his goal. His hands shook as he undid the bonds about Gollum's ankles.

'On your feet,' he commanded. 'We cannot tarry here.'

Questions could wait until they were in some safer place, somewhere they might take cover. Keeping a firm hold on the rope, he scrabbled for his pack and his cloak. Gollum was still lying in the muck, whimpering and muttering to himself behind the gag. Aragorn prodded him with the toe of his boot. 'On your feet!' he repeated more urgently.

The bony back rounded still more dramatically. Gollum's forehead was very nearly pressed to his knees. Aragorn had no patience left. Hundreds of miles lay between this place and the halls of Thranduil in Mirkwood, where it had long ago been arranged that the creature should be brought if ever he were found. If Aragorn did not assert his authority now, what hope had he of driving his captive so far? The Ranger swooped down, seizing the creature by the shoulder and shaking him mercilessly.

'Up!' he commanded, imbuing the word with the full weight of his will.

Gollum's legs worked wildly, splaying in improbably disparate directions. Aragorn tightened his hold and hauled the stinking carcass up, and after a moment's struggle he had his prisoner more or less upright. 'Now run!' he hissed, the light of Númenor flashing in his eyes. Before it Gollum quailed, but he began to move.

To move, but not to run: his gait was more of a stumbling, loping trot and he seemed poorly balanced, like one bereft of some accustomed support. But at least he was propelling himself under his own power, and as Aragorn drove him forward between the flickering corpse-lights the oppressive threat of discovery seemed to ease somewhat. Yet as he struggled through the shifting mires of the Dead Marshes, his head swimming and his right arm throbbing, Aragorn could see neither any chance of escape if indeed the enemy was upon their trail, nor how he could ever tread the countless leagues that lay between his weary body and the succor of the wood-Elves.