Note: The wisdom of Hamfast Gamgee from "Journey to the Crossroads", The Two Towers, J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter XIX: Onward and Upward

That night the rain came. There was a roar of thunder that seemed to shake the mountains to their very roots, and the clouds that had been menacing for days were torn asunder. Instantly an icy deluge engulfed the Emyn Muil, battering the peaks and stirring the stones and drenching the Ranger and his captive with ruthless efficiency.

Aragorn's first instinct was gratitude. When the skies opened, he was able at last to gather water and to drink his fill. But soon enough his thirst was slaked and his bottles were heavy once again, and the warm euphoria of relief gave way to grim reality. His hair was already sodden, grimy rivulets running into his eyes and over his cheekbones, and his cloak afforded little guard against the chill of the storm. With a nudge he induced Gollum to move, and picked his way through the blinding rain towards the towering cliff. The rocky ground beneath his feet was slick and treacherous, and more than once he almost fell, but at last Aragorn found himself against the sloping wall of stone. Here he crouched in the lee of a ragged outcropping, hood drawn over his bowed head, to shiver until the storm passed.

Gollum retreated to the end of his lead, cowering against a boulder and watching his captor with eyes that glinted even in the darkness. He seemed to give no notice to the rain or the cold, but he had plenty of attention to lavish upon the Ranger. Again Aragorn wondered what was going on inside the creature's insidious mind. What did he make of the afternoon's revelation? More importantly, what was he going to do about it?

There were no answers to be had. Aragorn tucked his infected arm against his chest and drew up his knees. He could not sleep here: if the rains prompted a landslide he would have to flee from this poor shelter. Yet he tried to rest his mind, listening to the feral roar of the wind and the mighty percussions of the thunder.

From out of the noises of the storm came another sound, a horrible squelching slurp. Aragorn stiffened, his head snapping up as he cast about, wondering what manner of strange creature might make such a sound, and, more importantly, how dangerous it would prove. But in the flash of sheet lightning that illuminated the rocky landscape for a moment he saw nothing.

The sound was heard again, wet and rattling, and Aragorn cast his gaze in the direction of the noise. When he realized what it was, he let loose a hoarse chuckle. Gollum was sucking upon his sodden gag, drawing in the rainwater to slake his thirst.

'Make good use of this respite,' Aragorn warned, a rueful note creeping into his creaking voice. Though he knew that any water Gollum salvaged would only prolong their war of attrition, he could not begrudge the wretch his poor drink. It eased his conscience to know that his prisoner might have water without undermining his authority. 'Next time you may have to purchase water with obedience.'

Gollum lolled his eyes scornfully at his captor and sucked all the harder.

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By morning, the rain had seeped through the cloak to soak the back of Aragorn's cote and the shredded shirt beneath. His front was little more than damp, but the chill of the wet garments and the weight of sodden wool were something of a torment. Yet he knew that the cold had done a little to alleviate his fever, and he made a conscious effort to count the storm a blessing. He set out across the slippery stones, driving a recalcitrant Gollum before him. The ever-present threat of the Ranger's foot seemed less effective now than it had been, and Aragorn wondered grimly how soon he would have to find some other method of motivating the captive.

As he walked, he kept a sharp look-out for some means of scaling the cliff. Alone and in his ordinary state of health and hardihood, he might have attempted a climb at any one of half a dozen places he had passed. Feverish and exhausted, with a captive in tow and one arm all but useless, he needed some easier place of ascent. If he could not find it, he would be obliged to make a broad detour eastward, out of the mountains and up into the Brown Lands. Such a delay would surely mean capture, and that he could not allow. He could almost feel the heavy tread of pursuing Uruk-hai in the lands behind. Though his stride remained as steady as the uneven terrain allowed, his heart began to hammer against his ribs.

The rain had spent much of the thick cover of clouds, and as the sun climbed higher the dark lands grew light. Aragorn cast his face skyward, drinking in the glow of the Sun beyond the thin greyish haze that still obscured her face. How he longed to walk beneath clear skies again! How long it had been since he had seen the blue vault of noontide, or the endless field of stars uncounted. Not for the first time his heart ached for home, and he drove back the yearning. Clear skies he might have soon enough, if once he found a way out of these hateful hills. For the rest, he had long ago come to accept that it was not his lot to dwell in peace in the fair places of the world. Pining for them would serve no purpose.

As they walked Gollum's back grew more stooped, and time and again he would spare his hand from his strange scrambling gait to cover his eyes, whimpering behind the gag. At first Aragorn was puzzled as to what might be the cause of the creature's distress. Then he grew anxious. He could hear nothing behind them, but he could not disallow that Gollum might possess instincts that he lacked.

Halting beside a great spur of stone, Aragorn knelt, taking hold of one bony shoulder still coated with a memory of slime. At such close quarters the stench of his captive was overpowering, but the Ranger closed his nose and leaned nearer. His eyes locked with Gollum's and he held the creature's gaze with the full strength of his flagging will.

'What is amiss?' he demanded. 'What troubles you? Is there someone on our trail?'

Gollum whimpered and tried to look away, but he could not; the last scion of the House of Kings would not allow it. Aragorn tightened his grip. 'Nod your head: is there someone behind us? It will serve you ill to prevaricate: your life is in my hands, and I will not suffer either of us to be taken captive by the Enemy. What you have told him in the throes of torture I cannot guess, but be assured you will not be permitted to tell him more. Now answer: do you sense some pursuit?'

Gollum was trembling beneath his hand now, and Aragorn was just about to take this development as an affirmative answer when the skull-like head lashed from side to side with such force that it was a wonder it did not fly off of the scrawny neck.

'No?' Aragorn exclaimed, the syllable coming out harsh and startled and betraying more of his own state than he would have wished. 'Then why are you cringing in this way?'

In his surprise he had quite forgotten that the creature could not answer open-ended questions with a rag rammed into its mouth. He closed his eyes, sighing softly. 'Are we in imminent danger?' he asked.

But in his moment of weariness Gollum had torn his gaze away from his interrogator, and though Aragorn tried the creature refused to look at him, screwing his eyes tightly shut and resolutely ignoring any further attempts at questioning. His patience wearing thin and his nerves rattling badly, Aragorn forced the creature to move forward.

As he walked, egging Gollum on, Aragorn reflected anxiously that the prisoner's denial did not mean that they were not being pursued. Gollum was a craven and deceitful wretch, bound neither by the constraints of honour nor even those of good sense. As he picked his way forward through the barren mountains, it seemed that Aragorn could feel the breath of Sauron upon his neck.

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Gollum was cowering in the shadow of the cliff, both arms thrust up over his head, emaciated hands clutching at his lank shreds of hair. Aragorn stood nearby, the line between them slack. The Ranger's shoulders were stooped, grey eyes deadened with dread. He reflected that at this moment he surely looked as unlike his puissant ancestors as any man now living. He had been walking for only a few hours, but he was weary beyond telling. His head ached, and his right arm, tucked close to his body, thrummed with hot discomfort. His clothes were dry now, his cloak stiff upon his back, and from the tremor in his one good hand he knew that the fever was once more raging through his blood. Yet he could not submit to his body's weakness. There was a terrible task ahead; not until it was accomplished could he rest.

He had found a place where the cliff dipped low, not more than seventeen or eighteen ells in height. Here the rock face was no longer sheer, but sloped slightly away towards its summit. The surface was pitted with fissures and handholds, and two-thirds of the way up there was a ledge that looked as if it might bear the weight of a man. That was important, Aragorn knew. Though he would have counted this an easy climb as compared to some he had made in his long journeys, in his present state he would need to rest.

The shadow of the cliff cast a gloom over the rock wall. If Aragorn waited too long, the Sun would sink low and it would become too dark to hazard the climb. Steeling his resolve, he twitched the rope. 'Gollum,' he said, as firmly as he could; 'do you think you can make this ascent?'

The creature made no move to answer, but his whinging ceased and he cast a critical eye at the cliff. It took all of Aragorn's resolve not to show his desperation. If Gollum could not or would not climb, there was no hope at all. He was too weak to carry such a weight upon his back as he climbed, and any wriggling on the prisoner's part would then send him falling to his death.

But Gollum, it seemed, felt this a worthy challenge. He cast a cold, disdainful look at his captor and picked himself up, hopping forward to the end of the rope. Startled by this unexpected show of cooperation, Aragorn followed him. The creature scurried to the face of the cliff and stood, almost straightening his back. Then, with the agility of a spider, he began to climb.

Aragorn lost himself in a moment of slack-jawed astonishment, but he rallied his wits and hastened after his prisoner. He took hold of a crack in the stone with his left hand, and stepped into another with his right foot. His leg trembled as he attempted to shift his weight, but after a dreadful moment when it did not seem he would be able to lift himself, Aragorn was off the ground.

He gained the first ten feet one-handed with Gollum clinging to the rocks above him, hurrying swiftly on when the rope grew slack and then waiting impatiently for his captor to follow. Yet quickly his left hand began to cramp, and Aragorn knew that he had to offer it some aid.

Gritting his teeth, he stretched out his right. To move his fingers was painful. To grip the rock was excruciating, but when he tried to put weight upon his wounded arm he was engulfed in unspeakable anguish. Desperately he clutched the rock with his left hand and his toes, keening softly as his vision grew dark. He thrust his right arm against his chest, pressing it between his body and the rock. Frantically he waited for the agony to pass, but it only dulled into a hot, aching torment.

Let his left hand cramp, then. He could not use his right.

With only three useful limbs his progress was tortuously slow. His arm and his legs were aching, his feet quivering as they found their next hold. And whenever he looked up to seek a fresh niche in the rock there was Gollum, hanging from some impossibly small crevice like a great malicious bat, glaring impatiently downward.

At last he reached the ledge, hauling himself onto it with one last valiant effort. It was smaller than he had hoped, but wide enough nonetheless for him to balance his torso and thighs. His calves and feet hung off the edge, but he had no strength to sit up. He lay there long, his chest heaving and his muscles twitching.

Presently he collected himself, tucking in his tired limbs and leaning his head against the rough stone wall. He raised his head and there was Gollum, not three feet away, clinging like a limpet to the rock and leering at him with something like triumph in his great, cold eyes.

It was that, more than anything, that roused Aragorn from his stupor. Though his legs protested and his left shoulder sobbed in protest, he got to his feet, clinging to the wall. Here its angle was more pronounced, and for that he was grateful. It would make the rest of the climb easier.

His unsteady mouth curled into a wry smile as Gollum scurried upward a few more feet, as far away from him as the creature could contrive. 'I am not defeated yet,' Aragorn said. 'Though I confess I lack your considerable talent, I think we shall both make it safely to the top.'

After a few feet more, however, he was beginning to doubt his earlier confidence. He was exhausted and his overtaxed body could not take much more. A despairing heavenward glance told him that he had several ells yet to travel, but though there were footholds aplenty he was not certain that he could find the strength to continue.

Gollum, of course, had been waiting for this moment. As Aragorn once again hauled himself upward with his left hand, the creature took hold of the rope hanging from its neck and tugged violently upon it. As it bit into Aragorn's wrist, his left hand slipped.

Instinctively he thrust out his right, ramming his fingers into the nearest crevice. He drove his boots against the rock, and even as the cry of anguish tore from his lips he arrested his fall. Blinded by pain he could not move, but he did not let go. He could feel the wind at his back, flattening his cloak against his body, and there was a tug at his wrist.

Swiftly he seized the rope, yanking insistently upon it. A shower of loosened pebbles rained down upon him as Gollum hastily compensated. Aragorn released the cord before his prisoner could fall, and threw back his head, fixing pain-filled eyes upon his adversary.

'Do not be a fool!' he snarled between teeth clenched against his torment. 'If I fall I cannot but take you with me: you have no means of cutting the rope. Either both reach the top, or both fall. Do not hinder me.'

This speech, it seemed, took the last of his strength, for he could not move. His legs were shaking and so great was the pain from his wounded arm that he doubted that he could induce the muscles to work at all, even to release his hold on the rock. Perspiration was blinding him and his breath came in shallow, stunted wheezes.

Again he felt something tugging on his left wrist, but he had no strength to react. Then suddenly soft, sticky fingers were closing upon his flesh, taking hold of his hand and guiding it upwards. His fingertips felt a fresh hold and closed upon it. There was a sound of scuffling feet and another downpour of debris, and something gripped his right hand. Instinct drove him and he hauled himself up, fumbling with one foot to gain the next hold. In the critical moment the force that held his right hand pulled, offering the extra leverage that he needed. Then the pressure released, and as Aragorn blinked to clear his vision he caught sight of two enormous eyes not six inches from his face. Then Gollum scurried on ahead, this time leaving the rope slack.

Momentum drove him now. Aragorn clambered upward, oblivious to the agony in his right arm or the weakness in his left. He could scarcely make out the features of the rock, and it seemed the climb would never end, when his left hand reached out for the next hold and found only empty air.

The shock of this unexpected change was almost his undoing, but before he could overbalance Gollum hauled on the rope again, pulling his arm forward. His elbow struck the cliff's edge and bent, and Aragorn's hand slapped down upon flat earth.

Whence came the strength for that exertion Aragorn never learned, but somehow he found himself slithering forward, bent first at the arm-pits, then at the waist. Then he was prone upon the ground, breathing in dust and gravel as his left hand dug into the earth against the unbearable anguish coursing through his body. Hot tears ran from his eyes onto his forehead as his body was wracked with a spasm of utmost exhaustion. His right arm was a burning brand of torment unknowable, and his heart was thrumming as if it would burst.

Then slowly, so terribly slowly, all this ebbed away. He lay there motionless in the dirt, subsisting in a fog of indistinct pain. But his pulse slowed and his panting leveled off, and finally he was able to roll to the left, landing on his back with a heavy huff of breath. He craned his neck, following the line of rope with his eyes. There, three feet away, Gollum squatted amid the stones, picking at his left great toe with the fingers of one long hand. Feeling Aragorn's eyes upon him, the prisoner raised his head. He scowled blackly and shuffled further away, drawing taut the lead between them. Then he resumed the study of his feet as if he had never before noticed them hanging there, of all places, at the end of his legs.

Aragorn let his head fall back into a position that took no effort to maintain. He stared dully upward at the hazy sky stained red with the setting sun, and the right corner of his mouth twitched. He had survived another day, a most difficult day. Somewhere in the cobwebs that enshrouded his mind, he could hear Bilbo's voice over the crackling of a bright, inviting fire.

'Do you know, Dúnadan, my old gardener used to say where there's life, there's hope. I quite think he was wiser than he knew, wouldn't you agree?'