Albeit my updates come rather slowly, do know that I am continuously writing this story!

My truly grateful thank-you's go out to the guest reviews from Jane and Diarona, as well as the signed reviews from spring94, Julie010588, and Doria Nell! I really wouldn't be updating if it wasn't for your continued support; it means the world to me, and reading your comments can absolutely make my day. So thank you very much for all the kind words. (You all make me blush!)

Now for a chapter I have really looked forward to, because finally it seems there is light on the horizon after many months of struggles!

And also, I can officially celebrate posting 100.000 words in this story. Holy heck, that's a lot ... And I'm nowhere done yet. Send help.

Little Sparrow

Chapter XV: The Turning of the Light

A new haste had come to them, urging the pair of Rangers forward with pressing, yet careful speed. The mud beneath her feet was half-frozen, slippery, yet deep enough to twist an ankle if she stepped wrong; not cold enough to be completely solid. She guided the horse forward between the pools and mires, while she kept her uncle's straightened back before her. The strength of his will drew her forward. Tenacity left her heart beating and her breath short. Embankments of rock and ooze lay to each side, giving them no other choice but to battle over the wintry path that carved treacherously through the Dead Marshes. Her face was splattered in the gritty muck.

Straggling tangles of grimy hair tugged at her neck.

All that could be seen in front of her were the silhouetted shapes of mounds and marshes. Brown and sullen. Rising and rolling for miles, visible up until a touch of emerald light scathed the horizon. Only glimpses of the sun came as an elusive companion, for a great cover of clouds made their way darkened and difficult. Yet the man before her seemed bent on a path through the marshlands. At times she caught sight of the tracks in the mud they were following; a narrow foot, or toes, the slightest dent in the wet soil by the bank of a lake or stream.

Like a flickering hope every small sight lifted her heart.

Though she dared not speak. Fearful that she would break Aragorn's concentration on the task at hand; that her words would tear apart the little wish they both clung to. A long journey, soon four months of travel through harsh and inhospitable lands, could now – possibly – be for a reason. It had been done with a purpose. What Gollum could tell, Rell knew not, if he could even tell them anything. Perhaps the tale of a magical ring, now in the hands of the most unlikely of creatures – a Hobbit, of all things homely and cheery in the world – would come to make sense. To the Grey Wizard who knew much and many things about the world.

The bitterness of failure galled her, spurred by hopeful aspiration.

It was a jumbled feeling of being tired and discouraged, yet not without an attempt to appear valiant; pulling her forward with every heavy step she took.

Rell rolled her shoulder, feeling an ache and a sting in her broken arm. The white linen of the sling had turned brown, hard with frozen mud and damp air. A numbness had crept over her, trailing touches of cold down to the tips of her fingers. A sense of trepidation was upon her, oppressive, and she felt useless in the hunt. Would he move quicker, if not for her presence? Did she slow him down? The mud felt like shackles around her feet. For a while she watched her squelching steps sinking through the ooze, making sure to follow the deep imprints left by her uncle. They were even, and the strides were long.

Hers were slow and difficult.

Tugging the cloak more snugly around her with some effort, she glanced up. She worked her lip between her teeth, tasting decay and acrid airs, before tightly gripping the reins to increase the pace of her walk. Half a run. It did not take long before she had caught up, and only a few yards separated the Rangers; Aragorn looked back, only briefly, then returned his gaze to the ground below and the horizon ahead.

They walked for an hour, perhaps two. In the indistinct, sullen gloom that hung over the Dead Marshes it was difficult to measure time. Another mile slipped past in a blur of sullen brown, and they came to a place where the path – if she could even call it such – narrowed between reed-grown mires. No echo of movement came to the still surface, no whisper of wind, yet a strange gleam of light fell through the fumes that swathed its waters. She shivered. Dead faces. Waxen and yellowed by times passed, they lay in waiting just beneath the mirror; so serene they would have appeared, if not for the grim vision so many moons ago still clear in her mind.

She glanced to the small stones embedded in the mud and felt an urge to drop one in.

To see if she could hit one of the still faces, lurking and waiting.

Her arm was throbbing, dull throbs that roared in her ears, but the pain sharpened her senses and distracted her wandering – vengeful and curious – mind. With a boot, she lingered close to the edge; considering, thinking, when a voice drew her awake. Near at hand, but oddly hollow-sounding, it drew her from the shore of the pool. "It is unwise to disturb the dead," Aragorn said, face half-turned to the waters. His grey eyes shimmered silver in the glow of the marshes.

Picking at the frayed edge of her sleeve, she banished the thought at once as dusk fell around her and the gloom of day vanished quickly. It grew colder, making mists rise from the pools around them; the stench of the marshes became vile in her nose as her sense of sight began to fail. The air was clammy and, despite no rain, left her clothes perpetually damp. The pair continued only half a mile further before the creeping darkness obscured the path ahead, and it became impossible to go further.

There was no place to lie down, and so they crouched in the mud to eat and rest. Rell fought back a yawn, watching while her uncle carefully examined her arm. He could see very little and was left to prod and touch along the bone. It would heal, Aragorn had told her, but there was a frown on his features as he spoke the words. Low was his voice. Worry gnawed in the pit of her stomach.

The wind changed, and a stench was in the air.

"How blessed it would be to breathe clean air again," she muttered.

Naught but a tired smile came as reply, for they were both left weak with exhaustion; instead they shared only a little of the bread, that had begun to taste strange, and salted meat. The night passed slow. Gurgling and bubbling waters could be heard in the quiet, accompanied by the hissing winds that came cold and harsh. They sat and waited for the sun, though it was still far away over distant lands to the East; visiting Rhûn, where the first Elves awoke many ages passed and were then guided to the West by Oromë. Now it was spoken of as a place of great and many evils.

Rell looked into the darkness. Attempting to wriggle her toes inside the wet, tattered boots. A numbness ached, sending tendrils up through her feet as blood flowed once more; it was cold, and she wondered if they would soon be met with snow. She did not know the lands well enough; back home, Eriador's winters were mild yet always blanketed in white, but now, this far east beyond the Misty Mountains? "How close are we to the Brown Lands?" She asked, voice only a whisper as she turned to look to her uncle.

They were alone, though it felt as if her voice would travel far throughout the marshlands, and she flinched at the sounds. Heard by any and everyone.

She looked to Aragorn, gaze veiled. His face was grey in the night, ashen, and the hood was drawn over his head. "Far, still," he said. "We make only little way in the daylight, and the pools force us many miles around and away. If we made a straight path north-bound then three, perhaps four, days. But we are not." His eyes met hers. Rell nodded. Gollum – it was the creature that chose the way for them; his trek across the lands forced them first one way and then another, following the soft imprints in the mud that were their only beacon to follow. Whether his strange, back-and-forth ways were to shake off their pursuit, or some foulness that drew him forward, the Rangers could not tell.

"Is there any hope?" Rell shifted.

"I cannot say – not with certainty – though it seems we are gaining on him."

Then, in that very moment, something flickered in the corner of the Ranger's eye; a glint of faint and unearthly light. Two pale orbs, it seemed. She turned to look, but found nothing. Heard nothing. "Does he know we are behind him?" Her hand drew across the sword at her belt, skimmed the cold steel of the hilt with the tips of her fingers; Rell did not draw it from its scabbard. Despite her best efforts, resurfacing memories brought terror to her mind and cold sweat to her brow. The sheer rock-wall, the long drop and inevitable impact; the hiss on the wind. The pain.

Aragorn followed her gaze. "Perhaps."

For a while they both peered into the gaping dark, though the night seemed but cold and still. Nothing more than empty spaces. No answer came from their watch, unless it was a silence more dreadful than before. They did not speak again. Of the time that followed, Rell thought only little of it until finally a grey light grew; pale and thin it spread like fingers over the distant horizon, beating against the western faces of the mountains of Mordor. At dawn they made ready to go on.

They did not see the rising of the sun. Rell stood and stamped, flapping her cloak for warmth as her breath crystalized in the air before her; then she took Luin by the reins and went out once more. The shadow of the Dark Land seemed nearer and darker that morning than the day before; where it had been distant, faint, now it was a deep gloom that lay over them. Threatening and vast. Her steps were weighty. The pungent stench, always lingering in the air, had lessened and Rell glanced to leaden clouds above them.

It was some hours after sunrise when the first heavy snowflakes came. But they were strange; there was no softness to them when they tapped against her face, no light touch when they melted on her skin. Ice-pellets, as if the weather had been caught between warmth and cold; the Winter gales from the west, or the eastern air that blew hot with ash. Not long after both Rangers were drenched, and the ground had turned treacherous and slippery beneath their feet. Rell attempted, at best, to wrap her cloak over her injured arm; to shield it from the downpour, for with dampness came the festering of illness. There was little more to be done, and worry settled as a stone in her stomach.

The sleet fell continuously for many hours. Around them, pools turned turbid brown where previous they were mirror-still, swelling their banks and, as the hours passed, they came to wade through inches of water that spilled out over the mud-paths. Their steps were heavy and leaden with mud. Her clothes drenched with every stumble, every fall that hurled her into the deep sludge.

The surface of the water was pitted so thickly that the radiating ripples canceled one another out.

Soon they came to realize that, worse than the torrent, they could no longer see the tracks before them.

A revelation that was as sudden as a blow in the night, and her uncle came to a stop. "We lost him," he whispered. Those three words, with a quiet calm that revealed nothing to Rell, was enough to steal her breath away. She rocked to a halt, grip tightening on the reins as the wintry slosh trickled down her hood. Over her cheeks and nose; dripping into her clothes. He stood frozen, between unsettled pools of murky water, head bowed to the muddy ground; shoulders heavy with an invisible weight.

She asked nothing, knowing well that if Aragorn could no longer follow the trail – the best hunter she had ever met and known – then there would be no other hope to be found. She would be of no help. Unless the Valar came from beyond the great seas, from Aman to Middle-Earth, to bless the path ahead; they were truly and utterly lost. Rell opened her mouth as if to speak, though sounds came not to her. She could think of no words of wisdom, no pretended courage to rally them forward. Her mind was blank.

Instead, she stood there. Waiting.

What now?

They were silent for a while. Rell looked one way, then another; back and forth her gaze trailed, to the sullen horizon and the vast sky shrouded in endless clouds. Sleet came unrelenting, almost spitefully and turned her vision blurry, and she could not see the contoured mountains. Neither the sharp-edged cliffs of Emyn Muil, nor the thin black strip of Ephel Dúath's western slopes. The Rangers were stuck in the middle of nowhere. Was it now time to return, despairing and defeated? It was hard for her to swallow the bitterness.

But a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind.

No pledge had been made, no promise to return only with the capture of Gollum – so no oath would be broken if they chose home over the desolate, inhospitable lands of the Enemy. There were other paths to tread, other ways to find knowledge. Surely Gandalf can seek the truth, she thought, somewhere. Elsewhere. Surely her uncle had hunted to the very limits of his abilities. No one could hold this defeat against him. No spiteful words would follow him if he returned homebound. The thought grew, weaving a web of excuses.

At length Aragorn turned to her. "I ask that you remain here." His words came as a surprise, startled her from her own rampant, busy thoughts that spun threads of crushing misery, and clarity came to her. Unlike her, he had not given up. Not yet.

Rell blinked, bemused. Brow furrowed. "Why?"

"There may still be tracks in the area not yet washed away by the waters. I must move with swiftness, and so I cannot bring you with me." Aragorn held up a hand and silenced her, long before her thought became words; his hooded eyes were dark with determination, smoldering with a stubborn belief she had not seen before. Rell shut her mouth and nodded. "Whether I find anything or not, know that I shall return for you."

Haste was needed – and not her arguments. "I will wait here, uncle," she said.

Aragorn took her bow from the saddle, for it was useless to her, quickly strapping the quiver across his back as he shifted the cloak into place. The last cord of rope was slung across his shoulder. He looked at her one last time, eyes flickering over her covered arm and to her sword, and then he spoke. "Be careful on your own." Rell nodded and knew his choice was unpleasant, but there was nothing to do but leave her alone in the marshes; defenceless as she felt. So it was, that he stepped through the enveloping mists and vanished from her sight, in their last and desperate attempt to not lose the hopeless trail.

For a long time she watched and waited, listening to the gurgling waters and the hissing reeds, battered by the ceaseless downpour. It was cold and dark around her, for the day was waning and night soon falling. Her chilled fingers tapped restlessly against her sword, ever so often grasping the hilt tight to make sure it was within easy reach. She walked back and forth on the little island of partly dry land, surrounded by many small and shallow pools, until she had made a long circular trough in the mud where water could spill in. Around her it had grown darker. More than once she startled to a stop, feeling eyes linger on her; like a hunted prey soon caught in a trap, skittish and twitchy, though she could not locate the watcher in the mists.

Luin stood with its head bowed, coat glistening wet and silvery. The ears, between tangled ribbons of mane, twitched; turned as if to determine the source of a sound she could not hear. Inhaling deeply, Rell listened warily and felt apprehension prickle her mind. Nose runny, teeth clattering in the cold. Again, she started her mindless walk. Back and forth.

She felt naked without her sword in hand, but holding it for too long would only bring fatigue. And certainly, she was tired already; haggard and hungry, so that she could just have easily sat down and slept. Or wept. Rell turned her mind to other things, attempting to bring images of Eriador forth in her mind's eye; to replace the sourness of brown and rot-green marshlands. Hot water of a long bath, the touch of newly-washed clothes; the smells of woodlands and a homely hearth. Anything that could turn away the underlying sense of fearsome loneliness. She could almost hear the Elves singing by the rivers and in the glades of Imladris.

There was a sound of splashing.

Then, so swiftly that she was not entirely sure how it happened, something hard struck her head. A flash of light tore across her vision, blinding her, and Rell felt cold fingers close around her neck. With a scream, torn from her lips, she toppled over. She came to lie in the mud. Disoriented, pain hammering through her head, panicked at the dark silhouette crouched over her. Nothing but bones, skeletal arms, and groping hands; astonishingly strong so that her attempts to overthrow the creature became feeble. Scrabbling, flailing, she dug her nails into pallid skin. Drawing blood.

The creature let out a shriek of fury and a new pain tore through her; teeth sunk into her shoulder. Deeper the teeth drove into her, tearing at flesh until grazing sinew and her vision darkened. There was enough malice in the attack, almost a will to reach and bare bone. Rell would have screamed, if only there was any breath left in her. It all happened so quick. Her mouth fell open, gasping rasps for air that did nothing, the long fingers around her neck pressed down with unwavering strength. In a last effort, she kicked out; trying to hit something, anything, but gangly legs locked around her waist, and she could only roll over in the deep mud.

They plummeted into one of the pools, and she sunk through its chilled waters. Gollum did not lessen his grip.

Once more they rolled. The motion was enough to tear the gnawing mouth from her shoulder, but there was little fight left in her. Unconsciousness beckoned her into a warm embrace, her blood pumping the last air out to her struggling muscles, skin numbing as she was held beneath the shallows. There was a hiss close by her ear, and she could see glowing orbs of pale light in her darkening sight; the hunter had come to claim its prize. Her nightmares had become real. Flickering above the surface of the water. The last bubbles of air trickled from her lips, and her fingers around Gollum's wrists slacked.

She released her grip.

The ghost lights came alive. Growing closer, vivid.

Gollum was torn back out of the water with a sudden force, and Rell jerked up. Sputtering, gagging on mire-waters; head pounding as she leaned forward, urgently seeking air. She could then hear a scuffle. Howls and hissing, like an animal cornered, she understood what had happened. Her hands trembled. Aragorn had returned to her just in time – hauled Gollum off of her as he had tried to drown her in the mere; to have her light a candle of her own amongst the long dead.

Another wave of sickness rolled over her and she threw up.

Ice-pellets battered against her head, yet she barely noticed as she emptied her stomach, and she finally tore her gaze from the ground. Specks of light flickered across her vision, while she attempted to see the fight that unfolded before her. Her sight was still blurry from the blows and mud. Her hand flickered across her head, searching for an injury. A soreness and a swelling met her fingers.

The creature wove around in a dance of defiance, nimbly dodging the larger frame with legs kicking, arms grasping, and nails clawing. Each time Aragorn caught hold of something, Gollum writhed with furious abandon. With screeches and hisses. It was difficult enough to keep him from fleeing, yet alone capture him.

Get up, she thought, cursing the quavering of her body. Stand up!

Her hands sank into the mud as she tried to find a solid footing, to find strength enough to join the fight. Her uncle landed a hit, and his adversary crumbled to the ground; now trying to pin the flailing limbs, dodging hands and feet thrown without aim, Aragorn pushed the shrieking creature further down into the mud. Rell pulled her sword from its scabbard, and the grating sound of steel against steel reverberated throughout the quiet lands. Loud and clear. She hobbled closer.

Gollum heard her.

Hatred was turned upon her, his neck thrust forward and teeth bared in a snarl, but Rell turned her weapon to hover over him. It seemed to gleam, though there was no light about them. "While he would prefer to take you alive," Rell spoke with a struggle, finding words hard to pass through the rawness of her throat, she gave a nod towards her uncle. Whether the creature understood her and their language, she could not tell, but surely the rage in her voice was appreciable enough. And so was the sharp edge of her blade. "–Know that I will happily remove your head, if you give me reason to. I will not mourn your death."

Gollum's back arched, drawn tight like a bowstring, but then it snapped and he fell back. A sign of surrender, accompanied by a long drawn-out wail that travelled far across the marshes. Aragorn did not release his tight hold, panting deeply; with exertion and pain, and all his strength utterly spent. Blood dripped down his face. Then he slipped the coil of rope from his shoulder, using only one hand to untangle it while the other closed around his captive's neck, pinning him in place.

Then Aragorn looked into the pale eyes and spoke. "I need you breathing."

He tightened his grip. Forced Gollum to look at him.

"But one can survive perfectly well without an arm. Struggle, and she will take yours."

There was no compassion in her smile then, and the blade was turned over in her grip to linger only inches from the creature's pale and clammy skin. Certainly, Gollum had no friend in her – nor would he ever, for the hurt in her body was not forgotten. Neither was it forgiven. Her uncle moved with swiftness; first tying the rope like a noose around their captive's neck, making sure it was neither too tight nor too loose, before turning him over in the mud. A hiss came, yet no struggle against the ungentle treatment was heard, for his large eyes were transfixed upon the sword.

The end of the rope was cut, and the string used to tie Gollum's hands together behind his back. The long, nimble fingers were best kept under control; Rell looked him up and down, finding him both filthy and craven to behold. He stank. It seemed he had crawled through the marshes on all fours and was now covered in green muck. Difficult it was to see him between the mud and reeds, and for a brief moment she felt a pang of relief to have been attacked. Had we found him if not? This vile creature ...

She rolled her stiff neck. It hurt, likely abloom with fresh purple welts running like fingers across her skin. Would his teeth leave scars? Or worse, disease?

During the struggle and subsequent fight, the downpour had abated and left their surroundings shrouded in dense fog. It had grown colder. A sound of tearing drew her mind back to the present, as Aragorn shredded a part of his already-frayed cloak; a gag. Gollum would have to be muzzled, for clearly even the Orcs marching to the Black Gate were preferred company compared to the Rangers. It would do them no good to have him screaming across the marshlands.

Gollum looked ready to bite the approaching fingers, lips pulled back in a silent snarl, but Rell cleared her throat and took a step closer. Her fingers tapped the hilt of her sword. She rested more on one leg than the other. Something had been pulled wrong in her fall. "I will see even the slightest gesture as an invitation," she warned. "And I shall be happy to accept it."

When finally Aragorn had completed his task – with difficulty, as Gollum proved less than helpful – he drew their captive back onto scrawny, spider-like legs and pulled him towards Luin. The great horse had remained calm throughout the struggle, but blew a deep breath through its nose when Gollum approached, displeased; as if sensing the malice and evil in a creature it had once before met and fought off. Or, perhaps, it was merely the stench that followed.

The rope was there tied securely to the saddle, so that Gollum could walk after the mare.

It was not entirely dark yet. Though they made no plans to head out at once, despite their preparation. There were new, fresh wounds that had to be tended to. While Aragorn had a gash across his eyebrow, oozing a steady stream of blood down his face; Rell boasted many yellow-blue bruises, dotting both sides of her neck, and crusting teeth marks just above her clavicle. He is lacking teeth, she had noted with a frown. Rell could count six. With some difficulty, she helped clean her uncle's cut with their last water. She hoped it would be enough to avoid festering in the humidity. Digging out small pebbles embedded in his skin and the worst grime from the scrimmage, she left the wound to heal on its own.

She brushed the back of her hand across her lip, sniffling, and it came away with streaks of brown and red. "I believe I have taken enough beatings to last me a lifetime, now." Rell shifted, perched on a tussock of reeds that felt as wet as their surroundings. The weather left her perpetually soggy. Then she touched her broken arm, gentle traces from her wrist to her elbow; it stung but seemed unharmed by the scuffle, if not for the bandages now as soaked as everything else. There was not much to be done, not before the fog and rain cleared, or they found enough shelter to light a fire.

Aragorn was looking North through the grey haze, but turned to face her. Creases of concern, intermingled with weary tiredness, marred his features; briefly he looked to her injury, yet spoke not of it, then gave a short nod. "Our journey is far from over. Also," he paused, gaze flickering to their captive that watched them both with wary, unveiled hatred. When he spoke again, it was in Sindarin. "It will only become more dangerous now."

Pushing off against the ground, Rell came to her full height with a long stretch.

An ache travelled the length of her body, tingling touches of pain through her many injuries, but she drummed her fingers against her sword. "Best be away, then," she answered, likewise changing to the language of the Elves. Gollum needed not know what they spoke of; wickedness was in his pale eyes, a clever alertness that had not gone unnoticed. Certainly, he had understood her threats well enough. Realisation dawned on her. There will be no sleep with him around ... Never again would she wish to feel thin, clammy fingers lock around her neck.

Her fingers crept to the bruises on her skin.

"I will bring up the rear, and keep an eye on the lands behind us."

They were then quick to settle into their roles, where Aragorn pulled the horse – and, with it, their captive – forward through the marshlands; Rell keep her attention on the dim horizon, stepping as quick as she could from one muddy patch to another. Often, she looked back into the hazes, searching for shapes between the grey and brown. Again, the Rangers did not speak, but traveled in a deep quiet only ever broken by the sniffling and growling that came from Gollum.

The rest of the late evening passed uneventful, accompanied by the occasional bout of rain that fell cold and hard, or sleet and snow, and with only one measly endeavour at escape from the tied-up captive. Rell had a feeling it was more out of spite than an actual attempt, when Gollum had torn apart from their little group only to be snapped back by the rope around his neck. The snap and the splash that followed lifted her spirits some. After that, nothing happened, yet she walked with a smile on her lips; the creature plodded along quietly, bearing half a limp that made him look almost pitiful.

Almost.

All it took was one glance to her broken arm, hanging in a sling across her chest – useless – and the feeling was cleanly wiped from her mind. They walked and walked, without much change about them, until the darkened fingers of night crept over the Dead Marshes. The last light smothered in a bleak sky. Aragorn had found a path, somewhat solid to tread, and wide enough for her not to ever-so-often slip her boots into the surrounding waters. It was here they made camp; between dry, yellow reeds that grew in scarce patches, and muddy banks sloping down to a wide mirror-still lake.

There was a hollow sandbank, partly shielded by the wind, barely large enough for a single person to find shelter. But it was warmer and, as such, a welcome change. They huddled together, seeking some comfort from the solitude of the lands. Luin was fed the last of the stale bread, while the Rangers shared the miserable supply of dried meat that was left in Aragorn's bags. They, too, were wet. While she would have been content with Gollum going hungry, preferably starving, her uncle offered a piece of his own to the creature.

The gesture nearly cost him a finger.

So they left him to his own devices, and it was not long before the creature curled into a ball of pallid skin and protruding bones on the cold ground to rest. They both knew Gollum did not sleep. Beneath his droopy eyelids there was a sliver of pale silver. He was watching them, as much as they were watching him. Guarded and always prepared. When they had finished eating their scarce supper, talk fell on their continued journey.

While they spoke in a language that, surely, Gollum did not understand, their voices were low and secretive.

"What do we do now?" She asked, pulling her cloak tight as she leaned into his shoulder. Warmth seeped through her skin, welcomed in the marrow of her bones, and she shifted to find comfort; his arm draped across her shoulder. Eyes were on the creature, following every slow rise and fall as it breathed steadily. There was a constant, dull throb of pain through her head that kept her from sleep. Pain and restlessness, wariness. "What do we do with him?"

Aragorn did not speak at first. His brow furrowed, jaw clenched tight and, like her, he was watching Gollum. Though his gaze held no aversion, no seething loathing, but rather faint lines of interest; he saw something she did not, and it intrigued him. When Rell noticed his strange attention, she breathed deeply in an attempt to regard their captive with unprejudiced eyes. To shake off the mistrust that blanketed her gaze. It proved difficult to see past the gangly limbs, the pallid and sunken skin – corpse-like, of one who had long shunned the sun – but his bound hands caught, and held, her notice.

She ran a tongue across her lower lip. "He is injured."

"Indeed." Reddened and swollen scars, jagged and long, marred his wrists; trailed up both his arms and legs, coated his back beneath the layer of mud. They seemed fresh still, the surrounding skin with a discolouring that told her they had not healed properly. Perhaps completely foregone treatment. From the corner of an eye, she glanced to her uncle. If anything, it seemed Gollum had gone through terrible torment not long ago. "I fear we are not the first to capture him, nor were we the roughest. Far from it. And that troubles me deeply."

Rell was watching him intently then, dismayed by the thought as a chill overtook her. It was a sickening thought, for surely there could be only one reason to target the loathsome, pitiful, creature. To leave such marks; deliberate strokes of someone who knew what they were doing. Where it would hurt the most, to find a truth hidden. The Ring, her mind whispered. "Has he been with the Enemy?"

With a short nod, Aragorn replied. "There is not much else that can explain it. So indeed, it would seem we were too late in our hunt – what he can tell us, without doubt the servants of Sauron already know. If he had told them nothing, he would not have been released." He sighed, deep and long. "It would seem his importance to them has been spent." Aragorn ran a hand across his brow, pausing briefly to school his features to that of poised confidence; if anything, her uncle knew well how she easily came to mirror his thoughts. He masked his worry. "Worse yet is how he came to be free, for strongly I doubt he escaped."

They spoke no more after that, but left the unsettling thought to fester and grow between them, an echo in their minds. For a long time Rell sat there; legs drawn to her chest, the broken arm nested in-between, and gaze turned down at the creature. There was no sleep to be found, held at bay by both concerns and the sullen dampness of the weather. Instead, she awaited dawn and the beginning of a new day; there was little to do but get through one day at a time, to complete the task at hand, and leave the worries for another time.

There was nothing more they could do then, between the mires of the Dead Marshes. In the land of nowhere. Gollum would have to be brought to a place of safety; words had to be send for the Grey Wizard, and many questions needed answers. Nothing else mattered to them in that moment. One step at a time, she thought. With a new thought taking root in mind, she asked Aragorn of their further journey. What had to be done with the morning light, and how they were to leave the marshes.

"We go north," he said as he came to stand.

At this, the Rangers both turned their eyes to the distant North. Such a journey, Rell thought, then rested her gaze on her uncle once more.

Behind Aragorn, naught but a pale and distant glow, morning came to the lands of Mordor; it was the time of departure. Her limbs were rigid, numb from the chill, and standing was difficult at first. The first real movements were agony. Rell stamped, breathing hot air into her palms, before she went forward to prepare Luin. She left Gollum to her uncle. Brow furrowed, she looked into the hazes and further still where she knew they could find open, barren plains. "To the Brown Lands? Would that not set us on a different path away from Rivendell?"

Aragorn sat crouching, keeping an arm's reach from the creature for safety; poised, ready for any sudden attack and with the hand on the hilt of his sword. "We are not returning to Rivendell," he replied at first. "It was agreed that Gollum should be taken to Mirkwood, if by some stroke of luck the hunt proved triumphant." He looked up at her, but then the Ranger returned to the Common Speech. This time, he addressed Gollum with a tone sharp and clipped. "Cease your pretend and stand."

Nothing came of it, for Gollum remained curled up and silent on the ground.

If he had been a lesser man, surely Aragorn's patience would have then come to an end. Though all he did was breathe deeply, squarely as his eyes hardened, before drawing the blade from its scabbard with slow and deliberate movements. Still, their captive said and did nothing, but the tensing of bony shoulders did not go unnoticed by either of them. He knew well what was happening.

Rell kept her attention on the exchange, while her hand fumbled to secure the rope already tied to the saddle; the defiance but a mockery against the Rangers, against those he had no chance to escape. Certainly he would not make their lives easy. She pulled at the cord, tightening the knot, then turned to look at them. "Even if we bind both his hands and feet, I doubt Luin would take him far – if carry him at all." There were many things her horse would do for her, but to carry such a vile thing on its back? She had her doubts.

She pictured Gollum soaring through the air, cast from the saddle, and she fought back an involuntary smile.

"Yet we must be away, and with haste if we do not wish to be caught by the Enemy." Once again they spoke in Sindarin, and there was despair in his voice despite his efforts to quell it. "I do not believe he escaped on his own." Aragorn came to stand, allowing the blade to rest against his side as he with cold, stern eyes watched Gollum's shrinking form. "This will be your one and only warning. Stand, or the next you receive from me will not be words."

Slowly, deliberately so, pale half-lidded eyes turned to them. Hatred shone clear within the whirl of silver, but beyond the muffled snarl no open hostility was shown. Aragorn took a step back, never allowing his grip on the weapon to lessen but gave the creature a wide berth; enough space that the threat lessened to some extent. They would not harm him if he obeyed. To show that compliance would deserve mercy. Gollum scrambled onto his feet, stiffly and with every movement on edge. Not even once did his gaze stray from them.

Rell pulled Luin closer by the reins, and the rope tied around Gollum's throat slackened. The pair watched, waited in quiet anticipation, but while pale eyes flickered to the horse Gollum remained hunched. Silent, suspiciously obedient. Allowing her uncle to take the reins from her, she quietly watched him lead their strange party foward through the marshlands; a tautness to her jaw as their captive did not move at once, though rather kept a look of malicious appraisal on her until the rope grew taut. Then, he moved.

Well, she thought, taking her hand off the hilt of her sword to trudge after them. She did not remember gripping her weapon. I regret this already.

For a long time as they walked, Rell came to dwell on unpleasant and sullen thoughts. She watched Gollum clamber through the deep mud, splashing drops of water as he went; spider-like arms and legs unfliching, despite the sharp touches of the reeds and rocks. Bent. And so they went forward throughout the sullen day, until they reached the waning of the light and the arrival of evening. Aragorn led them with haste, and as darkness came to grow about them she could faintly see the mountains of Emyn Muil to the west.

Lofty cliffs, an impenetrable wall that cut off any chance to return to the Misty Mountains. North was their only path then, until they would reach the plains of the Dagorlad. There was but a small hope of finding an opening through the rock-lands, through luck rather than skill, a way around that would not lead so close to the Enemy. Come morning they came closer once more, until they walked in the jagged shadows cast by tall peaks; around pools of acrid waters, with the cold wind on their backs and a howling through the cracks.

They found nothing that day, nor the days following.

The fourth night after Gollum's capture, there was no fighting the fatigue in her mind; too heavy, a constant throbbing behind her eyes, and Rell could go no further without sleep. It was the stopping that undid her, not because of the footing, but because her legs suddenly wanted to do nothing more than collapse. Her wariness had kept her awake, as if feeling eyes lingering on her whenever she attempted to find rest. So, when they came by some cover that evening, Rell did not argue about the first watch. With the hood drawn up over her face, the ground damp and chill beneath her, she settled.

It proved no adversary against the drowsiness, and she slept throughout the night.

At the break of dawn she was roused by gentle, but insistent hands. Startling awake, her uncle's grey eyes were laced with concern and she was at once alert. First her gaze darted about until settling on Gollum – still fast secured to the rope, glowering right back – and the sudden fear abated. She drew a ragged breath, somewhat reassured, though Aragorn's unease made her stand quickly. While Gollum had not escaped during the night, something else was afoot. "What is happening?"

The light was pale, breaking through a cover of white clouds, and their surroundings stood clear before her. What had been hidden in the gloom of night became then discernible. Through the reeds, growing thickly by the banks of a lake, there were clear signs of heavy footfalls. Many footfalls, so that the yellow-dry turf had been trodden flat. Rell stepped over the trail, measured its length and found it long, looking to where it came from and where it went.

Running a straight and sure path through the Dead Marshes, cutting from west to east in a direct line towards Mordor; they had found a path. The boots had dug deep into the mud. Then she looked to Aragorn for answers. "It is an Orc road, one of many that run through the northern marshes where the pools thin and the ground becomes harder. We have travelled further than what I first thought. We are much closer to the Enemy."

He motioned for Gollum to stand.

"We must be away at once," he said. "This place is not safe."

"Are enemies nearby?" She asked, swiftly falling into line by his side with a final glance back to Gollum; their captive followed soundlessly, almost moving faster than what he had throughout the previous leg of their journey. It was an unexpected show of cooperation. Then again, perhaps the Rangers were better company than Mordor's orcs. They crossed the path, eager to put a distance between themselves and the patrols of the Black Gate. Rell kept a sharp look-out on the horizon, finding her sight clear after the much needed, and welcomed, sleep; it felt as if everything should have been later, though it was still only early morning and the light was dim.

Aragorn's lips were pulled tight, naught but a thin line of white in a dark-grimed face. Shoulders stooped, eyes trained on the ground below his booted feet. He appeared beyond exhausted, as if forcing himself forward only by sheer will where most others would have succumbed. To complete a task not for glory, but for a necessary duty to protect the unsuspecting and the innocent. "The roads are seldom used, though I will not take such a risk and stay."

Rell nodded, although she could feel a thought gnawing in the back of her mind. Just out of reach, intangible but somehow so very important; it slipped through her fingers. A subconscious, intangible call. There was something about the path that felt incredibly out of place to her. Why here? She glanced back, then to both sides with attentive eyes. They were not close to any stronghold; the realm of Gondor lay many leagues behind them, and the regions both to the north and west were unclaimed, inhospitable lands that were of no use – not even to an insatiable enemy bent on conquest.

"The path is out of place," she mumbled beneath her breath, more to herself than anything, yet it was enough to make her uncle falter.

He turned to look at her, thoughtful surprise overtaking his weathered features. "What do you mean?"

Baffled at his interest, Rell motioned to their surroundings; to the endless stretch of marshes, and the towering walls of the impenetrable rock-lands. "What is the purpose of a road, albeit seldom used and almost hidden, when there is no destination of importance to the one that walks it? I do not understand." And it was then, as the words left her mouth and the thought truly took shape, that it dawned on both of them. Clarity had come to the Rangers. There was a purpose behind the path going through what seemed like nowhere, a reason why the orcs passed through.

They had found a way into the Emyn Muil.