Chapter XXVIII: Strange Eyes

Before dawn Aragorn was obliged to halt, for weariness weighed upon every limb and the ache in his head was now a pounding chorus of agony. There was little cover to be had, so he herded his prisoner into a leeward hollow in the land and crouched next to him – too close for comfort but near enough to seize him if the need arose. Aragorn took a little water, and it seared in his bruised throat. He longed for sleep but he did not dare to indulge that yearning. Instead he drew up his knees, folding his arms over them so that he might rest his chin. This position put a strain upon his aching neck and so he turned his head so that his right cheek leaned upon his forearm. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on Gollum, refusing to allow his mind to wander lest rambling thoughts should weaken the threatening fire within them.

Sitting thus amid the grasses of Rohan he watched as the darkness faded into twilight and the sky grew grey with the coming of the dawn. The Sun rose over the plains, clad in the iridescent ribbons of varicoloured clouds. Aragorn let his stare deviate from his prisoner to drink in the glorious and half-forgotten sight. Moving westward with desperate haste he had not taken the time to thus observe the beauty of daybreak in all the days since emerging from beneath the Shadow. It was a heartening sight, a sustaining sight. Chances ill and good befell him and fortune's vagaries more often than not left him battered and weary, and yet through it all the great celestial travellers trod their timeless paths above him. That at least was unending, unchangeable, beyond the scope of his own small part in the history of Ëa to thwart or alter. He found comfort in that.

Comfort, and the will to continue with rest or without it. He got to his feet, and although Gollum writhed and struggled he began to walk. When his prisoner quailed Aragorn prodded him with his rough-hewn staff. Cutting path almost due West, the Ranger struck out over the plains again. After a while the ache in his legs settled into the dogged rhythm of his stride, and though his pharynx still burned and his head still throbbed both pains were bearable. The tightness in his belly troubled him little now, for though his innards cried out to be fed his mouth was filled with the sour taste of bile and his bruised throat stung at the thought of swallowing.

They made good progress that morning, despite Gollum's recalcitrance. Aragorn wondered what thoughts were cycling through the creature's vicious little mind as he loped awkwardly forward with the halter around his neck and the stick at his back. Doubtless he realized that his treachery warranted stauncher punishment than he had received, and the Ranger wondered if the wretch would view that disparity as evidence of weakness. Hobbled as he was there was no doubt that he was suffering discomfort commensurate to that he had inflicted – but not to that he had intended to inflict. Yet there was no room in this precarious balance of justice and expediency to punish his aims; only actions could be addressed. The truth was that Gollum's attempt upon his life had been thwarted, and a cool contempt for failure was the only suitable response.

Still, by noon Aragorn decided that his captive had suffered long enough. It was clearly an excruciating undertaking for the creature to move beneath the light of the sun, even filtered as it was by the thin clouds overhead. When a copse of alder trees cropped up upon the horizon the Ranger made straight for it.

He did not unbind Gollum's hands, for he had no wish to court further sedition, but he let the creature find his own shade. Gollum squatted in the underbrush, contorting his arms in a vain attempt to loose his melded limbs. Aragorn watched without pity; resentment still burned in his breast and though it did not become a noble heart he could not entirely quash it. He knelt near the bush that almost concealed his prisoner and kneaded his thigh with the knuckles of his left hand. The spider-wound still ached after exertion. He wondered absently if there had been some poison upon the great clawed foot that was preventing timely healing. If there had been, he decided, he would have succumbed to that hurt many leagues behind.

Gollum went suddenly still, his arms falling into his lap and his neck straightening abruptly. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes, and a greedy caste to his posture. The sudden change startled Aragorn and he held his breath, listening.

When he realized what his prisoner had heard, he felt a sour twinge of irritation. Ordinarily he would have been just as quick to notice the interloper so near their little shelter, particularly in his present state of deprivation. Quickly he loosed the knot around his wrist, tethering Gollum's lead to a low-hanging branch. He doubted that the wretch could go far in the time this enterprise would take, but he was not prepared to risk it.

Unencumbered by his captive Aragorn moved forward, creeping low to the ground until he reached the edge of the underbrush. There, in the long grass at the very border of the plain through which he had come striding, he spied the source of the sound he had heard. Squat and plump, its drab feathers glossy and well-tended, the partridge was pecking at the soft earth. Now and again it made a low trilling noise of victory as it caught up some tasty grass-seed. Intent upon its meal it did not hear the Ranger inching up behind it. Yet his shadow stole at last into its field of vision and the round bird ruffled its feathers, short wings arching out from its back – too late. Aragorn's fingers closed about its round little body and even as it began to writhe against his grip he flicked his right wrist and wrung its neck.

Instantly the bird was nothing but a limp weight in his hands, and a grim grin of victory touched Aragorn's lips. He had at last secured useful—rather than hindersome—game.

He retreated into the shelter of the trees, where he found Gollum lying on his back with his feet in the air, attempting to use his toes to yank free the tether. At Aragorn's hard glare he froze, and as the Ranger returned the end of the rope to his wrist Gollum resumed his squatting stance. He watched with malice while his captor gathered kindling and set about laying a fire.

Fire was a risk in the wild, for the smoke might betray a traveller to watchers many miles away, but Aragorn had long practice in taking the proper precautions. He chose his hearth carefully; the hard earth between two broadly spreading roots of a tangled old tree. He cleared away the rotting leaves and the mulch beneath so that it would not smoke. To that same end he chose only the driest fuel, and instead of using grass for tinder he dug out one of his precious linen rags and shredded it. When the little fire was burning merrily he sat cross-legged beside it, intent on plucking his breakfast.

The warmth of the flames upon his hands and face was a strange and welcome sensation. He had not dared to risk a fire since that terrible day in the heart of the Emyn Muil when he had been driven to it by the need for hot water. It seemed an age ago, those days of fever and disorientation. Pensively he flexed his right wrist. The wounded flesh strained a little, and so he laid aside the dead bird and pushed up his sleeve. He had not taken a close look at the bites in several days. The marks at his wrist were nothing more than scabs now, and as he probed them one of the dark crusts came loose to reveal the pink new skin beneath.

The others, where Gollum had torn deep into the flesh, were red and raw. Where he had debrided the dead skin puckered scars were forming, but near the centre the ragged wounds were still open. Aragorn applied cautious pressure beside one fissure and a little fluid oozed out, amber-yellow with only a trace of opacity. The infection still lingered somewhere deep within, but it was no longer festering on the cusp of blood-poisoning. It was troubling that the wounds were still open, but there was nothing he could do to remedy that. He carefully drew down his sleeve and curled his hand over his battered forearm. The steady weight brought only a little pain; he was satisfied that the bites were healing, however slowly.

Aragorn added another dry branch to his fire, which crackled most gratifyingly. Then he settled the bird in his lap and set about the tedious task of dressing it.

Beginning with the downy feathers on the breast of the bird, he plucked tuft after tuft of the copper-grey plumes. Partridge tasted best if left for a few days to cure after killing: the feathers imparted a particular gamey taste that took a while to settle into the flesh. But Aragorn was not about to carry the thing around for three or four days for the sake of a culinary ideal. The niceties of cooking were all very well when one was safe within four sturdy walls, when one had at one's disposal such luxuries as saucepans, salt, thyme, and time. In the wild fresh game was luxury enough, and if it was a little dry or tough or bland it was at least meat caught in free lands and not barely-edible roots scrounged from the soil east of Anduin.

Still as he worked he fancied he could hear Elrohir's laughter as he scolded his inexperienced young travelling companion for his impatience. "We'll sling them across the saddle and let them mellow for a few days, Estel. You don't think they'll taste anything like game fowl tonight, do you?" Even after all these years, it seemed, he was in his own way hasty—though now driven less by enthusiasm and more by long privation.

When the pile of feathers stood nearly as high as lap and the bird lay naked and white before him, Aragorn took up his knife. He removed the waste parts of the partridge: the wing-tips with their long flight-feathers, the feet, and the head and neck. Then he sliced open its belly and dug out the offal. The lungs and intestines he cast away, but he removed heart, liver, kidneys and gizzard with care. His mouth was watering painfully now and his eyes were drawn to the rich red disk of the liver.

Almost without thinking he plucked it up and popped it into his mouth. There was a faint tang of blood as he bit down on the flakey organ. It was no larger than peach pit and he swallowed it quickly, but almost at once the maddening craving was gone. Aragorn arched his brow appreciatively. He knew, of course, that the liver was rich with nutrients; and that a body too long deprived of the necessities of life coveted first that which would most expediently satisfy the deficiency. Although it was perhaps a savage thing to feast upon the uncooked organs of one's prey, he had no doubt that he would benefit.

He had no desire to devour the rest of the bird raw, however, and so he skewered the carcass upon a green stick and set about roasting it over the embers. He held the bird low, that it might cook quickly before too much of the fat was melted out of it. Partridge was a lean bird, and it dried out with ease, but he had neither the means nor the time to stew it.

Behind him, Gollum had been watching with avarice in his eyes while Aragorn dressed the bird. As the mouthwatering scent of roast game began to fill the woods, however, he seemed to lose interest. Grumbling sounds rumbled deep in his throat, though no words could work themselves around the gag. When the Ranger withdrew his spit and set the remaining viscera in the embers to bake, Gollum turned away with a snort of disgust.

Guilt and a faint stirring of pity visited Aragorn briefly. It was a bitter thing to be denied food while nearby another ate. Yet Gollum had earned this punishment, and the necessity of taming him outweighed the laws of generosity. Carefully he turned his back so that at least the creature did not have to watch every mouthful.

One last decision remained: weighing the discomfort of a burned mouth against the time required for the bird to cool. This was a simple choice. Aragorn was ravenous, half-starved from subsisting on roots not meant for man's consumption. With finger and thumb he tore loose a long strip of flesh from the bird's breast, and he sunk his teeth deep into it. There was still some fat in the meat, and the slick sweetness of it slid across his tongue. His hard palate protested the heat, but will and instinct delighted in that first rich mouthful. He scarcely troubled to shred it before swallowing, and that at least he regretted as his bruised gullet protested in agony. He chewed his next portion more carefully, relishing the savoury flavor of the fowl. Perhaps it was neither cured nor cooked to perfection, but to one so long bereft of nourishing food it came near enough.

Eagerly and methodically he ate, stripping every last fragment of meat from a bone before moving on to the next portion. He paused briefly to rake the giblets out of the fire, but even that task did not distract him for long. He denuded the breast and one of the legs before a pleasant feeling of satiety settled in his ribs. He stopped then, using his knife to carve what remained into more manageable morsels. He had no clean cloth in which to wrap them, so he put what he could into his mug and settled the rest among what remained of his roots. He bundled the feathers in a scrap of filthy linen: he could use them to stuff the toes of his boots when he reached colder lands. The remaining organs he ate, for they would not keep long even in these chill days.

He settled then to enjoy the dying embers of his fire, his back against the tree and his long legs stretched before him. Gollum was lying on his back with both knees crooked, wriggling his arms hopelessly against his bonds. Ugly croaking noises filtered around the wool in his mouth as he struggled.

Aragorn sighed and looked away from the unpleasant sight. He would have expected his strange companion's appearance – and his stench – to grow more tolerable with time. It was irksome to realize that such was not the case. A Ranger could not afford an excessively fastidious nature; grime and perspiration could scarcely be avoided in the wilds. Yet the putrescent stench of this creature was quite outside his experience. Even the foul reeking of the spider-caverns could not compare, for that he had been able to escape, to leave behind. The vile smell of Gollum would dog him for many weeks yet. Even the ducking in Anduin had made little difference.

He tossed the remains of the partridge on the embers, letting the sharp tang of burning feathers fill his nose. He stared vacantly as the creeping flames rose up to devour the flesh unfit for eating.

When the sun was beginning to swing low above the horizon Aragorn rose and dispersed the traces of the fire. Gollum had at last ceased his wriggling, and at some point in the afternoon had fallen asleep. Aragorn envied him, and had no qualms about nudging him awake with his toe. Letting loose a string of sounds that were surely intended as a litany of curses, Gollum nonetheless started moving without more than the faintest brush of the staff his captor carried.

That night they made good progress, for the clouds had dispersed a little and the light of the moon allowed the Ranger to move with steady conviction. Yet as the silver orb vanished before him and the deep darkness before the dawn set in an uneasiness settled upon Aragorn's heart.

There was something different about these lands. He could feel the firm earth beneath his feet, and hear the whisper of the wild grasses as his boots skimmed through them, and from the feel of the air he knew he was still on the open plain. Yet there was an intangible change in his surroundings, a silence, a stillness such as he had never felt before. It was as if the land itself were slumbering, rapt in the somnolent chords of some ancient rhythm.

As the sky grew grey and the ghostly horizon emerged from the darkness, a great black mass rose up before the travellers. There, betwixt the rolling fields of Rohan and the endless garden of Elbereth, was a forest.

Aragorn knew well its name, and the tales of a timeless presence that dwelt there, eternally mysterious, beneath the trees. There the woods had flourished through all the ages of the world; it was said that they had sprung up from the earth at the behest of Kementári herself, long before the Eldar awoke on the shores of Cuiviénen. Deep within the earth delved their timeless roots, as deep as the Dwarves in their mines had dug. It was a place of power and glory, so said the Elves, to be venerated with that same awe offered to the Endless Ice or the raging Sea or the fields of stars themselves. An ancient place, a savage place, a wondrous place.

And a place, he reflected in an abruptly practical turn of reason, that he did not wish to visit with a recalcitrant prisoner in tow. He had never come so near its borders, for he walked seldom in these lands. Even during his years in the service of Thengel he had not ranged so far, for the folk of Rohan feared this wood as much as the Wise revered it. Perhaps long decades ago, when his eyes were still bright with wonder at the many marvels of the world, he would have found such an opportunity difficult to ignore. Now, sobered by his long wanderings and the knowledge that the awe-filled and the awful were not as different as one might suppose, he knew that this was not the day when he would learn the secrets of Fangorn.

Yet he might use the forest to his advantage. Morning was coming and the cloudless sky promised a bright day. Gollum had moved only under duress the day before, and Aragorn was in no frame of mind for another battle of wills. If they walked in the very eaves of the forest they could cover many more miles today. Continuing his westward way, he reached the tall border-trees even as the first golden light of dawn stained their doughty trunks.

Northward now he walked, the plains still visible over his right shoulder and the deep grey woods a looming presence to his left. At the edge of the forest the undergrowth was sparse. After days on the hard-packed plains the mossy floor of Fangorn was soothing beneath his weary feet. Despite the lingering unease that walked with him beneath the close-woven boughs, Aragorn found himself growing calmer as he moved.

There was a particular scent to a forest that was unlike any other. The damp, musky sweetness of the earth; the spicy memory of the fallen leaves; the deep, rich aroma of living wood. Aragorn drank them in, and in their delicious wholesomeness he almost lost the reek of his travelling companion. He listened to the unfathomable silence around him, the serene slumber of the forest; and upon his tongue he could taste the very life of the woods. It eased his spirit, scrubbing away something of the stain of the marches of Mordor. Here was a place untouched by the Shadow. Here was a place, however dread and mighty in its own right, that Sauron was unable to touch.

Unable to touch yet.

As the hours slipped away and night fell Aragorn's discomfiture returned. Although he stopped to eat a little of his bird-flesh and to rest his legs while Gollum fretted on the end of his lead, there was no rest to be had. Agitated though he knew not why, Aragorn moved onward.

The woods, formerly serene, now seemed once more a threatening place. They were filled with knowledge and acrimony. Here the trees had grown through all the long, dark years of Middle-earth. They had beheld the coming of Morgoth, the poisoning of the North, the dark deeds of the Noldor and the treachery of Men. They had watched the waxings and wanings of the lords of Gondor and the kings of Rohan. They had seen cowardice and avarice and sloth and deceit. The trees knew all that was black and wicked in the hearts of mortals, and they stood in judgment over all who dared to tread their borders. The trees bore witness to the weaknesses of Men, and the trees did not forget.

The trees could read the contents of his soul. With their strange eyes they could strip away the façade of patience, the careful appearance of hope, the mask of courage. Fangorn knew that he was clinging to his self-control out of obduracy alone. Fangorn knew how he wished he might slay the troublesome wretch he led and abandon this twisting road for the straight path that led home. Fangorn knew the despair that crept into his heart whenever he thought of the journey before him; not only the long road to Mirkwood, but all the bleakness of the years that stretched ahead in labour and danger without a foreseeable end.

And Fangorn knew his fear. The fear that he would weaken; the horrifying knowledge that someday, somewhere, he would reach the end of his endurance; and the deep, dreadful terror that most often hid itself in the innermost recesses of his heart: that when the time came and he was put to the test he would be found wanting. That after all the years of labour and sacrifice he would fail when most he had need of strength. That he would, at the crucial time, bend beneath the yoke he bore and lay by his burden as he had so often in idleness wished that he might.

All this and more the woods could see, and before their scrutiny he quailed. Swiftly, so swiftly that Gollum was left scrambling to keep pace, Aragorn veered to the right, emerging from the trees like one pursued. Away he moved, now striding, now trotting, until the oppressive knowledge of Fangorn was nothing more than a sombre quietude to the West. Yet the scent of the forest still clung to his boots and his hands and his hair, and as he pressed on his mastery of his thoughts returned to him while above the stars danced their eternal pavane above.