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A Long and Weary Way  by Canafinwe

Note: This was a difficult chapter to write. Indeed, it was in danger of being flung aside in frustration, and the story with it. Please weigh in, whatever your opinion.

Chapter XL: Nine Strokes

Long into the night Aragorn sat in a fever of torment, his fingers writhing nearly as much as Gollum's were wont to do in endless vain attempts to ease the pain of thawing. His feet, though no less wracked, were at least content to remain still, pressed deep into hard earth dampened by the ring of melt that surrounded the little fire. Despite the advantageous position of his cote over the fire it was his shirt that dried first, and he managed somehow to get it over his head. The delicate linen of Lothlórien did little to warm his back, but at least with something to wrap around his body he began to feel less savage. Even that small comfort did not last long, however, for as the agony in his limbs began to abate a little the capacity for reasoned thought returned.

He had to do something about Gollum. Thrice now the creature had tried to do him grievous harm, and thrice he had succeeded at least in part. The first time, when he had torn into the Ranger's arm with his noxious teeth, he had been acting out of the terror and necessity of the moment – beset from behind by an unknown and far larger assailant in debatable lands but a short march from the place where he had been imprisoned and tortured. Turin Túrambar himself had lashed out and slain a friend under slighter duress. That Gollum had subsequently been taken captive, gagged and tethered had been punishment enough for any fair hurts inflicted in the struggle. After the second time, the very nearly effective strangling on the edge of Eastemnet, Aragorn had contented himself with the measured response of entrapping the captive's hands so that such a thing could not occur again. Yet this time not only had Gollum once more done his utmost to destroy the Man; he had also actually managed to escape, however briefly. A moment's hesitation, or one swim-kick gone askew, or a single fickle eddy in Gladden's depths, and sixteen years' labour would have been lost: and with it any hope of gleaning what the creature knew about matters that might decide the fate of Arda itself. It was unacceptable, and while Aragorn might eventually be able to convince himself that his own suffering since emerging from the water was adequate punishment for the sin of carelessness, Gollum had to answer for the far greater crime of malice.

Yet although he understood the necessity Aragorn was reluctant to mete out the punishment warranted by his captive. He was weary beyond telling and the thought of striking the next blow in a battle of attrition that now seemed like a strange, unending nightmare filled him with hollow despair. And there was still some small part of his heart that whispered that the creature had suffered much: that whatever his spite and whatever his transgressions no living thing deserved to be used as the Black Númenórean with eyes like the Endless Ice had surely used Gollum. The wounds on his hands had long since healed – aided, no doubt, by the many days his fingers had been firmly wrapped as a deterrent against throttling – and the marks of torture were beginning to fade, but he would carry some of those scars until the end of his days, whenever that might be. In the firelight Aragorn could see one mark curling down the back of one hand to the emaciated wrist that was entirely too familiar, and the stinging in his thawing feet redoubled. Would a wretch like Gollum, having been so maltreated, even understand the distinction between the torments of Sauron and a just punishment?

The same questions had plagued him last time, Aragorn knew, and then he had erred on the side of lenience. A grievous error it had proved indeed, for here they were again and this time only luck and a lifetime of scraping survival out of any weather had saved him. A crafty gust of wind chose that moment to find its way into the hollow of the bank and a chill ran up his spine. He knew what he had to do, and still – still – he was loath to do it. He was weary of playing the part of the unyielding captor; weary of constant watchfulness without surcease or quarter for even a moment's weakness. He was weary of this road that had worn so hard already against his patience, his temperance and his pity. Yet here he was, called again to surrender his nature to his duty and to choose between walking beneath the threat of murder and struggling to quell the unwise stirrings of his conscience.

At least he could wait until sunrise. He fed the fire, stirring up the embers and closing his eyes against the welcome flare of heat. He was still far from warm, and comfort was an unattainable thing scarcely to be imagined, but he could not deny that he was no longer cold to the marrow. It had been a long while since last his tunic had dripped river-water onto the fire, and he reached to feel it carefully. It was as dry as he could reasonably hope, and he got up onto his knees to remove it from the ramshackle rack and stretch the blanket in its place. He resumed his crouching seat on the log and examined the garment.

He had ripped open several mended rents in his clumsy haste to remove it, and the stitching in the left armscye had given way so that the sleeve hung from a tenuous finger's length of stitching at the top of the shoulder. Here he picked one of the torn threads loose so that he could knot it securely against unravelling further. He would have dearly liked to put right the damage he had done, but the means to do so were somewhere at the bottom of the river. Instead he eased his arms into the garment and settled it around him. It was still warm from the fire and it smelled strongly of dry wood-smoke. Again he closed his eyes, imagining himself far away from this miserable glade and this murderous companion and the hated task that awaited him on the morrow.

He thought of the ruins of Amon Sul, and the caves and hills amid which his men might shelter on a snowy night. Stores of firewood were laid by to serve a wanderer at need, and at this time of the year there was often company to be had there to break up the loneliness of a long patrol. If three or more chanced to gather there would be short watches and restful sleep for all, bundled in cloaks and bedrolls and lying back to back for warmth. Rations would be pooled and shared out anew, that he who had a little might bolster the provisions of he who had nothing – never in the winter months could any man be said to have plenty, or even enough, but there was comfort in the most meagre meal when it was shared with a friend. There would be song and laughter about a well-hidden fire, and tales of hard labours made light with sardonic jokes and understatement that everyone understood. Though such simple respite could never last long, one went forth from it with greater resolve into the timeless toil in the defence of Eriador – the toil to which his Rangers were bending their blades tonight.

Aragorn had left his men in good hands, the best of hands with Halbarad to lead them and the Sons of Elrond to ride with them. He was not so vain as to believe that he was indispensable to his men and that they could not cope in his absence, but over the years as he had journeyed farther and farther afield and stayed away ever longer he had come to realize that his men were indispensable to him. His heart ached for their camaraderie in the secret places of the North; for a chance meeting on a lonely road; for a scrap of gossip about a friend caught in the market at Staddle or gleaned from a pedlar coming down to Sarn Ford; even for the knowledge that even if he walked alone there was another man somewhere within a three-day march, quietly and valiantly doing the same and thinking from time to time of his Chieftain as his Chieftain thought of him.

Instead he sat alone, many hundreds of leagues from the nearest of his folk, a chill at his back and an ache in his heart and only Gollum for company. The creature was retching again – natural enough after a stunning blow – and Aragorn kept his eyes studiously on the little drifts of ash that had formed in a ring around his fire. He stretched his right hand out towards the flame, feeling the tingling ignite anew in his nerves. His eyelids were heavy and he yearned for sleep, but the cold was deep behind him and there was no one to guard his rest. Too weary to call to mind a song to ease the emptiness of the night, he listened instead to the noises of the ice in the riverbed below, creaking and shifting and settling again where its thick hide had been broken by a hapless wanderer and his hateful burden. Blinking stubbornly against the urge to sink into slumber, Aragorn tried to resign himself to the long and bitter watch for a dawn he did not much care to see.

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By the time the sky began to lighten the heap of fuel had shrunk to a few broken twigs and scraps of bark, and the fire was a quiet bed of brooding embers. It would have been perfect for roasting a bit of venison or baking to softness a wild tuber or two, but of course there was nothing to eat. At least Aragorn's clothing was dry at last, though as the hours of night had dragged on his exhaustion had only deepened. There was an ache behind his eyes that would not soon dissipate, and he had little hope that the tasks of the day would do anything to ease it. He had put off until dawn what he had dreaded through the darkness, and he had to muster himself to it at last.

First, however, he had to contrive to put on his boots. His feet were thoroughly thawed and once more a healthy colour, but they were tender and they were swollen. Finger and thumb, an anxious calliper, pinched at his left ankle. Badly swollen, he amended, not quite able to remember his gratitude that they were not dead of frostbite. His eyes slid to his boots, lying on their sides with their tops to the fire. They too had dried well, but the leather would be stiff and shrunken after its soaking. One or the other he might have been confident of overcoming: bloated feet or tightened boots. Both together were going to make for a difficult and painful struggle.

He had not donned his hose as they dried, for he only would have soaked their soles through again on the melted ground of his hearth. So there was nothing to remove as he reached behind the log for a handful of snow. His fingers were suddenly alight with fiery protest, and again he was seized with a pointless longing for mittens. He packed a tight ball of snow and lifted his left leg so that his calf was propped against the opposite knee. Setting his teeth he took the fistful of snow and began to rub it vigorously over his foot and his ankle.

The pain was terrible and he had to fight with all the might of his will to keep from surrendering to his body's tormented pleas that he cease this wanton cruelty. Apparently of its own accord his foot jerked and tried to pull away, but his hand did not relent. After perhaps five minutes of intense misery he began to notice some small abatement of the inflammation. Finally he stopped, casting the snow aside and flexing his chilled hand. He dried his foot quickly but thoroughly with a corner of his blanket and pulled on his hose: wool over linen. He hooked his boot with his third finger and set about trying to ram his heel down into place.

The leather creaked and squealed, and there was an ominous groan from the thick linen sinews that held the sole to the vamp. The pressure upon his foot was almost unbearable, and his whole lower leg was afire with piercing pain from the cold-nipped flesh. He grabbed the cuff of his boot with both hands and leaned back over the log, straightening his long leg slowly but with all of his strength. The burden on his ankle grew so that he was not at all certain he would be able to bear it, and then with a sudden soft sucking noise the leather relented and his toes went sliding into place as his heel crashed down against the sole of the boot.

He let his foot fall to earth by the embers of the fire and his hands retreated into his lap, aching fingers curled in over smarting palms. He sat for a minute or two with his head bowed, breathing unevenly and trying to muster his courage before facing the ordeal of the other boot. Unable to endure it quite yet he tugged his hose up from where they puddled at his knee and tied the points with care to the band of his braies. Then he spent a little time looking at his bare right leg, foot resting quietly in the drifting ashes, seemingly unaware of what awaited it.

Gollum was watching him, pale eyes glittering in the grey half-light. His lips were twisted almost gleefully. The sour thought that at least someone was enjoying all of this rose to Aragorn's mind, and he was both dismayed and disgusted to find that it was almost satisfying to know that the creature would not be so smug for long.

The right boot proved the greater struggle, which was hardly surprising. In the end, however, the leather yielded before his tendons did and he was able to finish dressing. He spared the time to experiment with folding the Lórien-blanket about his shoulders to approximate a hood, or at least a collar. In the end he managed an awkward bunching that was something like a cowl: it would shelter his ears and the back of his head, at least. For the rest his tangled and overgrown hair would have to serve. When at last he was bundled as warmly as he had any hope of being, with his cloak gone and his tunic in rags and not a garment among them suited for winter even when new, he dragged himself onto sore, stinging feet and reassured himself that Gollum was still well-secured before hobbling away from the dying fire.

His mind was on the grim business of discipline, but he kept his eyes open for any sign of game. There was a chance of squirrel at least, though not much of one. Away from the fading warmth the air was perniciously cold; far colder than he had felt yet in his northward march. Aragorn's breath was thick and curdled before his eyes, and almost at once a fine frost began to form between the hairs over his lip. Absentmindedly he scrubbed at them with the back of his hand, and a dark clot of blood dislodged from his right nostril. It had been clogged all night, and now he knew why; when Gollum had struck him with his arm during the first frantic seconds after his fall he had done so with sufficient force to make his nose bleed. It started up again now, trickling maddeningly. Aragorn left the nostril alone and felt the cartilage of the bridge with care. Not broken; scarcely bruised. A minor discomfort and nothing more.

Still, his annoyance dulled the disappointment of finding what he sought. A drooping willow leaned out from the copse of trees towards the river. Aragorn shuffled over to it and began to explore its branches with care. When he lighted upon one that seemed a likely candidate he dug his knife out of its sheath and cut himself a slender stripling wand. He tugged off the smaller twigs and the few shrivelled leaves that winter's wind had not stripped away. Then he swept it experimentally through the frosted air. It whistled merrily; a hateful sound, but precisely what he needed.

In part because he was so near the river and it seemed sensible to take care of all his chores at once, but chiefly because he had no wish to hurry back to his prisoner, Aragorn moved towards the bank. He ducked under the willow-boughs, using one friendly bough as an anchor as he slid one foot towards the edge of the ice. He stopped short of it and scuffed with his toe in the snow. Soon enough he could see what he wanted, and he bent to retrieve it: a flat, smooth stone of a size to fit perfectly in his palm. He retreated to more level ground and leaned his shoulder against the obliging tree. Tucking the willow-wand into his belt he took up his knife again. He spat upon the stone and with swift practiced strokes set about whetting his blade.

When the edge of Elven steel glittered keenly again he sheathed it with care. He flicked his wrist as if to toss the stone away, but his fingers would not loose their hold. Reconsidering, Aragorn tucked it into his pouch. He had little enough by way of baggage now, and it would save him the trouble of finding another rock next time.

He had now delayed as long as he reasonably could, and in any case he was uneasy with the notion of staying too long apart from his prisoner. He trudged reluctantly back to the place he had passed the miserable night. Gollum was still lying on his side, licking now at his fingers and shivering as the embers grew cold. He did not look up at the Ranger's approach, even when Aragorn went to the hawthorn and began to untie the knot that secured his tether to the tree.

He tied the rope tightly about his own wrist, allowing only enough ease to keep the blood flowing through the veins of his arm. He had granted himself the paltry comfort of a loose loop before, and it had proved well-nigh disastrous. Grimly he reflected that he was as much a prisoner of Gollum's obduracy as the creature himself, and a great weariness of spirit settled like a lodestone on his shoulders. If at any time in these dreary weeks his captive had given the smallest sign of cooperation, if he had met him only partway in his attempts at a truce, if he had simply refrained from open hostility, how much more bearable the journey would have been! Had Gollum ever appeared less than belligerent, resentful, or outright murderous Aragorn would have been happy to be kind. Yet it could not be so, and their war of wills had come to this. He doubled the knot, dragging it to with his teeth. Then he squared his sagging shoulders and took the supple crop from his belt.

'On your feet,' he said. His voice was hoarse with the cold but his tone was unyielding. He was standing with his back to his prisoner, the cord between them coiled around the side of his leg. He stared fixedly at the rise of the riverbank and waited three measured seconds before repeating himself. 'On your feet at once.'

Gollum made a derisive noise deep in his throat. There was a noise of shuffling limbs in the snow, but he did not rise.

Aragorn felt his jaw tightening. His patience had been worn to its limit time and again on this wretched road, and the trials of the last day had left him wrung out on the verge of lunacy. Yet if he was going to do this as it ought to be done, he had to retain the smooth control of a consummate commander and the restraint of an emissary in a difficult arbitration. Brief pain and lasting fear were his goal. Both called for faultless control.

'On your feet, or I shall compel you,' he ordered sternly. Then he waited.

The rope did not stir. There was no sound of mustering feet. Gollum did not rise.

Swift and sure the Ranger turned, the blanket he wore sweeping with him. In a single fluid motion he swooped, his left hand flying out to close upon Gollum's right shoulder. In the creature's moment of slack-jawed alarm he was able to drag the wasted body up without resistance. Bare toes scrabbled against the border of snowmelt and wide, startled eyes fixed upward on the grim face above. A noise something like a keening whine started up in the captive's throat and then mounted to a howl as he saw the willow-switch. He quailed and tried to fling himself down into the snow again, but Aragorn held him fast.

'I have warned you,' he said, enunciating so that each syllable bit into the cold air and struck home with the full force of his will. 'Time and again I have warned you: such acts as you committed on the river yesterday cannot be tolerated. You are my prisoner, and my prisoner you shall remain. If you attempt to harm me I shall best you. If you run then I shall catch you. If you hide then I shall find you. Obedience I would have rewarded. Defiance I will punish.'

He released his grip on Gollum's arm and before the wretch could react he closed his left hand over both bony wrists. His fingers strained, but he held fast. His right hand tightened its hold on the willow staff, and the cold light of Westernesse shone out from shadowed eyes. He looked down where he had intended to strike, at the bare, ropey palms exposed by his stern grip. And he hesitated.

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It was a practice of discipline that he had learned in Gondor: a punishment for common soldiers guilty of minor infractions, meant to inflict memorable hurt without any true harm – a penalty that exacted greater humiliation than damage, and took its chief strength from that. A dozen quick, stinging blows with a supple rod upon the palms of the hands; at their very worst lightly bruising but always sharply painful in the moment. Most often a young man whose lieutenant chastised him thus would never again err as he had, and even those whose repeat offenses warranted a higher number of blows would be able to hold a sword the next day, though not always without some discomfort. It was the shame of being whipped before his peers that proved the greatest deterrent to a soldier. Even so, Thorongil had preferred less corporal means of disciplining green recruits, and he had meted out the blows only when all else seemed to fail.

Thus Aragorn had thought it would serve him here, where all else had failed indeed - reason, restraints, deprivation and threats. Though Gollum had no fellows to make him feel ashamed, the fear of the rod might drive him as for a time weeks ago the fear of Aragorn's boot had done. Certainly he expected that the craven creature would quail at the first bright pain, and might think of it when next his mind turned to hateful plots. Yet towering now over his captive, with the darkly scarred hands laid bare before him, he found he could not do it.

Swift and temporary the pain might be, but the toll upon Gollum's spirit when he was struck in the place that had been the focus of the tortures of the servant of Sauron would be dreadful and lasting. Still he writhed his hands through the night, and licked at cuts and blistering burns long since healed and faded. Still he whimpered and fawned over his hands. Still the terror of Mordor hung heavy on his heart. Whatever the need for discipline, whatever the desperate stakes of the struggle with his prisoner, Aragorn could not allow any act of his own to be so bound with the malevolent brutality of the Enemy. He could not compound such suffering; he would not stoop to such base cruelty. Had he but paused to think of it before, he never would have considered this.

Gollum was still watching him, startled terror in his eyes. The span of two scant breaths had passed and the spell of authority still held: it was not too late. With a flick of his wrist Aragorn sent his prisoner's body tilting away from him. He released his grip on Gollum's wrists, and closed his fingers instead around the wasted circle of his left arm, just below his shoulder. With this leverage he turned the shrivelled body, though Gollum's neck swivelled so that his eyes could still track the Ranger. Then, firmly and with perfect economy of motion Aragorn brought the willow-wand down across his prisoner's back, striking six stinging blows in swift succession where the shoulder blades met bare ribs.

He was careful to keep high enough that he avoided the tender flesh over the kidneys, where even such a modest beating would linger long in agony. From the sound of the slender stick against the lean flesh he knew that his charge was feeling it well; feeling and remembering, he hoped. Yet despite the unearthly yowls now tearing from Gollum's lungs he knew that he had not caused undue torment or any lasting harm.

He paused a moment, his tongue sliding along cold lips, and then dealt out three more passes of the switch; these somewhat lighter than the ones that had gone before. Then he let go of Gollum's arm and allowed the creature to collapse into a huddled heap, hands scrambling over the back of his skull as he wept and wailed and gnashed his few deadly teeth. Aragorn slipped the green willow stave into his belt again, feeling it bend with the contour of his body, and he stood immobile as he watched his captive.

'Beats us and kills us, precious!' he keened, twisting his spine and rearing back as he beat with one fist upon his breast. 'Whipses and kniveses and hateful handses, gollum! Hurts us! Kills us!'

There was nothing in the brief beating that warranted such histrionics. The thin discoloured back was not even showing a single stripe of red; certainly the skin had not been broken. Yet it seemed that the passing pain had achieved the desired result: Gollum was frightened and horrified and indignant, and it was certain from his gibbering that he now believed his captor capable of doing him harm. It only remained to drive home that he had brought this on himself.

'Three strokes for striking the ice,' said Aragorn, raising his voice to be heard over the shrieks and sobs and thrashing. 'Three strokes for attempting to fly. And three because you did not rise when I ordered you to do so. You would be wise to obey me in future.'

Gollum gave no sign that he had heard. Certainly he did not pause in his wild tantrum. He was hollering now about hateful manses and the various unpleasant ways they could be choked, blinded and disemboweled. Yet he did not bestir himself to retreat to the limit of the halter, nor even to roll out of range of the tall black boots. The consuming remorse that he felt at the thought of flogging his prisoner was beginning to retreat a little into the depths of Aragorn's heart. He was beginning to ache with nostalgia for the loneliest roads he had walked in far countries where even the stars were strange. At least in the vast empty desserts he had enjoyed a little quiet.

'Enough,' he said at last. When Gollum did not seem to hear, he cleared his throat with a shallow cough and repeated; 'Enough!'

With a shudder and a hiccough the creature fell silent, cringing in the snow and twisting his shoulder to ogle up at the Man.

'Be silent,' Aragorn commanded. 'Your wickedness has cost us a full night's march, and you will make up for it today without complaint, let Yellow Face burn you if she will. If you are cold, remember that you might have frozen us both; and if you are hungry, recall that what food we had is now at the bottom of the river.'

He crouched and picked up his one remaining bottle, packing it tightly with snow before tucking it between his cote and his body to melt. He made quick work of scattering what was left of the fire, but did not trouble to do much to obscure the signs of their presence. If there were any to see it the gaping hole in the ice and the deep, crawling trail from the bank would be proof enough of their passage. Then with a last cold look at his captive he set out into the merciless wind.





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