NOTE: All "Elvish Translations" is under "Reference" on the "Incidentals, Credits, Reference and Acknowledgements" page.
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INTO THE DARK AGAIN
by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)
One
Shadows In The Mirk
Aragorn sprinted over the fields, pleased there were no signs of pursuit. Softened by the spring rain, the ground retained faint proof of his passage even as his pace quickened.
His laboured breath told of his exhaustion, his weakened body aching from the efforts of the skirmish by the riverbank days ago: the fever had returned, caused by the re-opening of the gash on his hand. Not for the first time, Aragorn rued his carelessness when he first chanced upon the creature.
Suddenly he stopped, grey eyes alert and watchful; arising out of the North and piercing the morning mist was a sudden flurry of moving specks -- the passage of a flock of birds winging its way South.
Very still he stood, and wrapped within his grey-green cloak, he looked much like a little knoll to the casual roving eyes of the ravens as they flew high overhead. As he clenched his robe tight, he began to worry, for if indeed they were on his trail, it could only mean the diversion of the Beornings had failed. He resisted the temptation to fit arrow to bow as the birds hovered and wheeled, thankful for the scant cover the fir tree provided with its spreading branches.
For a time, the flock milled together, and then began rapidly to descend. Aragorn's dismay grew as the birds drew closer, for they were heading for the very tree he stood under!
He was striving to control his wheezing breath so that it would not give him away when a strong wind bellowed. It surprised even the birds, throwing them off course in a mess of indignant black feathers.
Down from the Mountains of Mist the chill wind had gusted, racing over the Anduin to unsettle the fields he was standing on, rustling the drowsy grasslands and piercing the groves of oaks and birches standing like little eyots in a sea pf green and brown. The trees shook with the force of the wind, dislodging leaves from loose perches and scattering them far and wide. In a mighty rush, the confused capers of the orphaned leaves mingled hues of yellow and brown into the brightening sky, further aiding Aragorn's disguise.
Grateful for the respite, Aragorn endured the bite of the mad gale. At other times he would have scoffed at the wind, when he was hale and free from hurt. But now he stood shivering from the cold while the lingering fever kept his brow moist.
Disarrayed by the strong wind, the shrieking flock reassembled, and resumed its flight southwards once more. Not until the birds disappeared did Aragorn move, and then his long stride bore him quickly to the clump of trees that stood close.
Just as he reached the trees, his keen ears discerned noise masked by the howling gale -- the birds had turned around!
Aragorn strove to remain motionless as the strengthening gust pushed and pulled at him, shuddering even more at the icy touch reaching into his cloak. His brow furrowed as he watched the birds swoop low, and wheel overhead.
Not now, with the Forest only a few strides away! Fevered desperation wracked his ailing body. At that instance, Aragorn yearned more than ever for the comfort of a healer's hands.
The urgency to reach the Elves pressed in on his fevered thoughts, tempting him to abandon caution and try for the Forest with all haste. Ruefully, he wished he had prevailed upon the Beornings to let him keep the horses until they reached the Forest edge; instead he had agreed to their advice, and they had departed during the night to lay more false trails to throw off any pursuers, taking the horses with them.
Aragorn shook his head, his thoughts suddenly clear from the fever. He would not lightly concede defeat while the tide was yet in his favour. The Beornings had counselled well, it was wiser to complete those last miles on foot.
So he waited. At length, the raucous cries of the flock faded away, but still, he waited as he strained, fearing to hear their cunning return. Finally satisfied that the dark flock had truly left, he moved, swiftly and casting his gaze about for a moment more, vanished into the tangled maze of cold damp trunks.
When Aragorn re-appeared, he was not alone. He was preceded by a hunched being that was covered completely by a hooded robe. The creature fussed unceasingly with the garment, complaining in a voice coarse and thick, for he was ill-tempered and easily troubled by light. He swallowed often, and nosily, making a thick unpleasant sound: 'Gollum.'
While he struggled with the robe, Aragorn waited, patient, alert as ever to the fields sprawled before them. Despite the wind, they were heavy with the morning mist. Far and wide the fields spread, scattered with early flowering bushes among new grass. To the east the fields ran, sloping upwards to become a frowning wall, a broad swath of trees squatting on the horizon, trees of such girth that it seemed an outstretched hand would meet the rough grain of their barks.
They were but a few hours away from the Forest, and Aragorn's mind was heavy with thoughts of all that could go awry between the wide expanse lying between them and the trees.
Darkling those trees were, but for a moment a bright line of silver traced the treetop outline, cast by the still unseen sun as she continued her climb into the sky. In that brief instance, it seemed to Aragorn he descried the bright green life of mighty Greenwood the Great. Then he blinked, and the Forest was reclaimed by shadow.
'Mirkwood,' he sighed. 'The safety of a guarded roof is near at hand.'
Gollum was shielding his eyes, pained at having to walk again into the light of the hurtful Yellow Face; barely attending to Aragorn's words, he remained unmoved, and it was not his wont to respond to the Man.
It had ever been thus during the long walk to the Forest, and Aragorn was accustomed to it. Certainly, there was no love lost between the reluctant companions, with the creature travelling against his will, leashed like a dog.
Gollum was lost in the smells on the wind, which seemed strangely familiar. A green thrill lit his eyes, and his stomach responded at some newly recalled taste: 'What's this we smell, precious --gollum-- food? But it's not fish, what could be as nice as fissh we wonders?'
Aragorn tugged on the leash. 'Come now, Gollum,' he said. 'The way is clear for the moment. And the faster we gain entrance to the Halls, the quicker we will be rid of each other. Surely that is enticement enough to endure each other's company for one more day?'
Gollum licked his lipless maw, and with grudging effort, got off his haunches, and began to walk, continuing the chatter to himself. 'Halls, precious? What's that? Can it be too silly from sickness? Is it too sick to knows what it says? Will it really go away and leaves us be? Doesn't it wants the precious too? Sss, is it making us go into the trees? Gollum - why? Many terrible Elfses in there,' he muttered with a shudder. Shaking his head, he scolded himself: 'Ach, so many questions! O no, precious, we becomes as silly as the nasty Man.'
Aragorn took no note, for he did not care to delve into the dark thoughts in Gollum's head then -- his mind was bent on reaching the Forest before the sun began westering.
The day progressed, and the sun lightened the sky as only she was able to, flooding the Vales as if it was already Summer. Still, Aragorn basked in the cool rays of the morning, knowing that he would not have the sun to grace the daylight hours for quite a measure of days once they gain the Forest.
The travellers made their way cautiously to the great cluster of brooding trees. Shadows danced in languid parody of their slow progress: the long sedate stride of the Man and the shambling walk of the hunched creature.
An unnatural stillness grew as they climbed toward the forbidding Forest -- the cold wind that had blown mightily across the fields on the eastern bank of the River dwindled into a timid breeze eddying on the edge of the shadow realm. The air became stark, emptied even of the songs of robins and wrens, and the earth seemed barren, for the rabbits that were in abundance elsewhere would not go within a mile of the trees.
When they reached the Forest border, the sun had already reached her peak, and the shadows that trailed them had hidden, tucked under their soles.
Uneasy with the rigid tranquility that seemed to seep through the trees themselves, Aragorn walked along the feet of the trees, searching for the secret entrance -- a gate concealed by the undergrowth that spilt from the Forest's edge. Finally his keen eyes found it. He pushed at it, strangely confident of its condition. And truly, it swung open with neither creak nor protest as one would expect; but then it was only disused, not neglected.
They stood at the threshold, two thick gnarled trucks that stood apart, the sturdy pillars of an imposing archway. The twisting branches met overhead, twined so tight it seemed they formed the roof of a gaping mouth, while the path resembled a lolling tongue, an invitation for the hapless to enter a predator's cunning trap.
Aragorn braced himself, and the travellers plunged into the dark entrance. Instantly they were blinded by the overwhelming dark, and the silence deafened them.
The clammy embrace of the enfolding dark constricted his breath; unable to see the creature, Aragorn suddenly felt vulnerable. Phantoms of light danced as his eyes accustomed themselves reluctantly to the lightless path. Already, his mind was screaming for the colours forfeited at the edge of the Forest. Slowly, as his eyes learnt to see in the heavy gloom, the sense of helplessness retreated.
Guided by a familiar rustling, he located the shapeless lump of Gollum's robe. A pair of pale orbs adorned it, reflecting the odd shard of light that had stolen through the high forbidding eaves, miraculously eluding the grasp of the dark leaves and thick coarse boughs.
Aragorn motioned with exaggerated care for his captive to walk forward: 'Keep to the path.'
He followed, attention on the swishing cloth as he tried valiantly to avoid stepping on the trailing robe of the creature as it swept the ground, dragging dead leaves in its wake. The stiff protest of the leaves' passage sounded thunderous in the stillness of the silence. Furrowing the ground with his shuffling gait, Gollum's heavy steps disturbed the undergrowth, waking the dank mustiness that had lain long in the ground. The raggedness in Aragorn's breath diminished, only to leave his lungs open to the invasion of the sullen earth smells.
They were only on the verge of the woodlands, but already the tall trunks were immensely coarse; age contorted the boles, and some were crumbling in blackened death. Thick lodes of lichen vied with vines of ivy, weighing upon gigantic boughs. The vines reached forth rope-like fingers that trailed thickly to the ground, slowly strangling trees that were yet alive as they twined sinuously around the unresisting trucks.
The ancient trees were of such a height that the Forest rafters seemed to spring away into deepest black, too far to discern in the gloom. Yet the travellers could feel that the interlaced wood limbs were not the only cause for the darkness wrapping them; it seemed they were inside a sick giant, limbs flung up in mute imploration for the sun to shine through and burn away the grim touch of the dark.
Gollum pulled his robe tighter and began to chatter, a little unnerved. Used as he was to seeing in the dark, the trees were disconcerting in their seeming sentience, watching him even as he tried to watch them. He was convinced that they would reach down those thick branches, or whip forth the wicked vines and crush him for daring to step into the Forest. He wanted to wave his fists in defiance, to shout that their wrath was misguided, for he was only a captive this time, with no desire to be in such a place where there was neither water nor fish -- that it was the hateful Man who had forced him into their world. But he dared not, for he could feel overlying their awareness, something he had learnt to fear, the touch of another.
With a nervous tug on the robe, he swallowed and whispered: 'Feels it, precious? It's Him - gollum - all around, all about. He wasn't this near the last time, was he? Sss.'
'Is He looking for me?' asked the other voice.
'We doesn't know, precious,' he said as he turned from side to side, trying to watch the crafty trees. The memories of His power caused Gollum to whimper. 'But we hassn't found it, we can't be caught with it, but we can't be caught without it. Musst be careful, gollum,' he whispered furtively, uncomfortable.
Gollum trembled, memories crowding his fear that if He came to know of his presence here, it would be a mercy to be strangled by the vines right there, instead of being delivered into His hands again. But then, he would be well and truly separated from his Precious forever, and that he could not bear. Perplexed by his predicament, Gollum prudently swallowed the false words of bluster that were on his tongue.
Then, with courage he did not possess, he said: 'Scare us and dare us, but we're not easily frightened by silent trees, are we, precious? Sss sss ss.'
'No. But why is He here?' asked the other, fretting over the Presence.
'He wants the Precious, our Precious,' he said. 'Wouldn't stop asking poor Precious questions about nasty hobbits.' He began to rub his wrists amid more mutters: 'Took a long time, such a long time before He let us down from that nassty place, and remove the painful bangles. Ach, the pain! Our poor hands, they hurts so much. He can't catch uss with nothing in our poor hands. Bind us and grind us again, He would. No! Not the Black Hand again, please Master -- gollum.'
'O no!' the other cried. 'He would hurt us again.'
A green glint of cunning appeasement crept into his eyes: 'Yes, he would, stretch us and use those nasty biting shackles on us - poor poor Sméagol was crying so loud, wasn't he? Why should we tell Him about the Precious? We wants it, it came to us, our own, our lovely present! Yes, we does, precious! We wants what is ours - my own present, my Precious - gollum.'
He paused, almost afraid to say that which had been churning in his mind since the Man captured him.
'Perhaps we can save it, saves it for ourselfs again, once we get rid of the nasty Man,' Gollum whispered. 'Ss, ss, it's useful, nasty Man, it killss His people, gollum. Slit them and split them! And hides us from Him. Yess! Better the Man's bright eyes than His Eye, sss. Maybe, maybe we can evens throttle him, precious, when we're away from the nasty treess - gollum.'
He chortled as he continued picking his way through the uneven ground, using both hands as much as his feet. With little effort, he followed the faint outline of the meandering path as the Man directed. Gollum felt such delight at the morbid thought of His servants dead, by the Man's hands, that he began to sing. He was careful to keep his voice low, both to avoid provoking the wrath of the hateful Man and drawing the attention of the offensive trees.
Snatches of the unwieldy song shambled their clumsy way to the Ranger's ears, a little rhyme about the trail of His servants that lay dead, left behind on the bank of the fast river they had crossed days ago.
Oh Hie
What a night! Silly scolding fools,
Careless Orcses so quickly dead;
Cold steel bites and make bloody pools,
Bodies slit, split, and rolling heads.
Oh Hie
What a day! Silly howling fools,
The maddened Wolfses quickly dead;
Swift jaws crunched and make bloody pools,
Bodies slashed, ripped and rolling heads.
...
Dust motes danced, sparse and languid in the increasingly rare shafts of sunlight. They brightened the Forest floor, breaking the monotony of shadows with mottled areas of greenish grey. The mingling light and dark played tricks on Aragorn's vision; spots cavorted across his eyes, making him see moving shadows in the stagnant spaces.
The path led them into the woodland depths, suddenly plunging into deeper gloom. The travellers stopped, blinded yet again, but it was only momentary, for their eyes were learning the art of gathering the Forest pall. The thinnest of sun rays were still able to pass through the dense Forest roof, dancing down to the Forest floor in pale slender beams.
Once they could discern the grey lurking shapes again, they set forth. It became easier after a time, for the Forest had acquired a faint greenish yellow cast -- the travellers were grateful for the traces of colour that varied the unending grey of the shadows.
Drearily, they trudged on, lulled by their own rhythmic gait. Apart from the occasional butterfly of utter black that came fluttering across their path, there was no sign of life. So quiet was it that Aragorn could almost hear the movement of those delicate wings.
After a time, the Ranger frowned, squinting. It seemed the sunspots would never cease troubling him. Restless shadows abounded, shifting though there was no playful draft to disturb the darkness. Perturbed, Aragorn strained to listen even as he strained his eyes, irritated by the creature's sibilant mumbling, thick as beeswax that filled his ears.
'Is it just the fever trying once more to claim my sanity?' he wondered aloud. Of course, there was no answer, neither from the brooding trees nor the blithely croaking creature.
Was I expecting a reply ... from myself? Ai! It is a certain sign that I am keeping the wrong company for too long! A fine sight it would be -- Aragorn confiding in his best friend, Estel? He smiled at the thought, his exhaustion and aches forgotten for the moment. The shadows began to behave again and Aragorn hoped it was only the fever boiling behind his eyes that caused the moving phantoms.
Slowly, the deafening silence began to be suppressed by shy squirrel chatter; the inhabitants of the Forest had resumed their bustling. With time, it grew, swelling to a chorus that pierced the heavy drapery of the air. Aragorn was glad of the noisy animals, for it eased the desolation of the gnarled trees, providing a welcome foil to the harsh voice of the creature.
The black squirrels scampered along the thick boughs, agitated but determined to keep the travellers in sight; Aragorn perceived their defensive posture toward Gollum.
Gollum, too, was discomfited by the squirrels' attention; he grew quiet, and sang no more.
But the squirrels trailed them, scolding ever louder. Aragorn felt sudden concern at the noise they were making. Then he paused, straining at a new sound; his brow knitted with effort. He wished the squirrels would cease for a moment.
A faint smile shaped his lips as he caught some strange birdsong mingled among the cacophony, faint and far away. He dared to hope for a moment as he tried vainly to place the hidden singer.
There! Aragorn felt excitement as glimpses of movement came to his eyes. But, they were only more black squirrels, scampering on the great boughs overhead. Their chatter fused with the heavy stillness, filling his ears much as the musty air filled his lungs. But to his disappointment, the mysterious singer was nowhere in sight. Indeed, it would not be easy -- nonetheless, Aragorn was hopeful of an encounter, for though he knew not the meaning of the faded song, he was sure it was wrought by one of those he sought -- Elves.
A few protracted hours later, or so it seemed to the usually stolid Man, he called for a halt. The sprawling monotone of the shadowy Forest was wearying, intruding upon his careful composure. He had grown heartily tired, and in a fit of fevered temper, wished that he had an arrow strong enough to make a hole in the forbidding roof and be done with the gloom dragging his heart down.
But sense overruled his wild impulse and they simply sat at the feet of an immense oak, or rather Aragorn sat alone, contemplating the wisdom of his decision to walk the hidden path, the mysterious singer still unsighted.
The creature was stooped at the edge of the path, peering into the dimness. The noisome squirrels had ceased their angry admonishments, though a few were still trailing them. And there were things were lurking beyond the path; things that had big eyes, with promises of fat juicy bodies.
'See the shadows, precious? Gollum. Remember how they tasted? Bitter, yes, but better than being hungry, no?' He licked his parched lips, recalling the thick taste of those fluids rolling down his throat, so long ago.
The Man had warned him against straying from the path, but Gollum was curious and he was hungry still. The black butterfly he caught at the Forest edge left him thirsty and hungry still. The powdery taste of its wings evoking memories of that first time he had crawled into this Forest; he recalled other things that he had used to quell his gnawing hunger. Finally he admitted to himself the source of the squirrels' begrudged anger. The memory of young flesh caused him to lick his lips again as his stomach began to rumble.
He was still hoping for one of the lurking things to draw nearer when he felt himself being pulled backwards. The hateful Man was tugging on the leash, calling him to move forward. Sighing querulously, he stood up, and with a wistful glance toward the gloom, padded on.
Aragorn was breaking out a loaf filled with a wholesome honey when he noticed the creature's fascination with the gloom. Hackles stiff upon his nape, he became aware of watching eyes. And he was not pleased to catch sight of the yellow, green and red eyes lighting the shadows for they heralded the presence of other less savoury company. It was best to move on, he decided.
The creature had begun his horrendous croaking again, his attempt at subtle caterwauling grating on the Man's ears.
Cunning and nasty,
It grabs us hasty,
On that careless night.
But its loosely grip,
We easily slip,
Yes, anxious for flight.
Almost clean away,
Then a big dismay,
As it hurtss us quite.
Jump! On us it lands,
And we bitess its hand,
O, the knots so tight!
The cold wicked leash,
It itches, burns, gnash,
Bah! With elven blight.
On and on he sang as he plodded along, until the Man stopped him.
'Quiet! No more wailing,' the Man whispered sternly, as he peered into the darkness.
But Gollum was growing bold as hunger gnawed at his docility. Petulantly, he started to make up new verses.
Under Yellow Face,
Walking to this place –
O, It don't feels right.
Look, the path is bare,
But what does it care,
For our hungry plight.
Ah, we see some eyes –
Hoping for mouses,
To come cross our sight.
Yes, if only they bring,
Some necks to wring,
Ha, for our delight!
He gurgled the last, choking as the leash went suddenly taut.
'One more mangled note and it shall be all you have for dinner!' said Aragorn.
Insulted by the Man, the creature simpered, hissing his unhappiness. He cast about, stroking his thin fingers across a nearby thicket.
He pulled at a protruding clump, and the air echoed as a dry branch yielded suddenly. Green light glinted in his eyes as he whipped the thicket with it, venting his anger. Then, at a loss as to what to do with the faggot, he hurled it into the darkness with a vengeful 'Gollum!'
A yelp of pain echoed in the distance. He blinked as the stick came back at him, flying out of the gloom. A dark grotesque shape followed, on it was a set of eyes: eight glinting shells, six small ones surrounding two bulging spheres. A spider! Alarms rang in Gollum's head at the frightening shape. He panicked but could not move.
'Gollum.' He swallowed, and suddenly the thrall was broken. Skittering in dismay, he cast about for refuge. Quick as a fieldmouse dashing for the safety of its burrow, he scrambled and hunkered down into the thick roots near at hand, reduced to a limp pile of trembling cloth.
So swift was the spider that the shout of warning was still taking shape in Aragorn's throat when it swung over the path, its mandibles clacking ominously.
'Fool! You'll be hanging by your feet soon!' hissed the spider.
Aragorn's long stride brought him swiftly up behind the spider as it scuttled to where the creature cowered. He gave it a savage kick, overturning it; it squealed as it felt the bite of his sword severing its legs. Then he thrust the blade into the gaping maw of another.
Sword aloft, Aragorn jumped upon a bulbous root as spiders swarmed down the old tree, surrounding the travellers.
On a branch further back sat a spider, noticeable for its uncommon girth, even among its kind. "Beautiful! Be careful not to damage 'em, especially the Big One now, they'll have to hang for a few days but I want the meat fresh for the new ones."
Hissing in evil glee, the spiders attacked.
Aragorn braced himself, and with a shout swung the blade upward in a mighty two-handed stroke into the first spider as it jumped at him. Aragorn staggered a little at the impact, disgusted as jets of sticky fluid splashed onto his chest.
He looked up to find himself isolated amidst an angry sea of dark humps -- the spiders jostled for choice places nearer the tree. There were spiders every way he turned, but with pure fool's luck, Gollum had given him a slight edge in his choice of refuge. It was defendable with its overhanging fold, and with the trunk at his back, there was time yet before he had to look to defense on that flank. And the spiders' tactics aided him, for they heeded their matriarch's command, attacking only singly or in pairs. He had a meagre bit of time yet.
Hoping against reason that the commotion would draw forth the ones he sought, Aragorn engaged them in earnest. With speed greater than the common man could ever hope for, his blade swung through spider bodies, sundering heads from torsos. Still, he was only the one, and the spiders too were quick and they were many. He was hard put to keep them away as his hands became snarled in sticky trails of webbing. He struggled to free himself from the stinging threads even as another spider scuttled up to him. Untangled in time, he threw his knife with the free hand, pinning the monster to the spot, and with a rapid thrust, plunged the sword into another, twisting the blade as it waved its hairy legs, noisily protesting its death.
At the same moment, an arrow flew past, nearly grazing his cheek as he turned. It separated a spider from its silken rope, embedding itself into the gnarled oak trunk behind him. Bereaved of its thread the fallen spider quickly righted itself, and rushed through the undergrowth toward the Man.
Another arrow followed quickly in the wake of the first; one of the monsters was pinned to the trunk as more squeals filled the air. Then Aragorn saw him -- an Elf! Straight and tall, he stood before the Man. Coolly, the Elf sighted another target above Aragorn's head, letting fly another missile with fatal accuracy. He gave a cursory nod to Aragorn even as he bent his bow for another score against the hairy beasts.
Other Elves became visible, moving swiftly through the trees, grim with purpose.
'Diola lle!' Aragorn shouted, and then turning swiftly, he skewered the rapidly approaching spider as it exploded onto the root near him. It was attempting to inject his foot with poison when he stepped out of range and plunged his sword into its abdomen. Th1e ranger was hard put to keep his guard up from attacks even as he tried to protect his charge.
Elves soon joined him, brandishing spears and swords when their quivers were spent. Their swifter strength gave him relief, and he poured his attention in keeping Gollum safe. Yet, even with the blinding speed of the Elves, it seemed to Aragorn that it would take an eternity to cleave through the swarm for the spiders were attacking in earnest, and no longer cared if damage was done to their precious meat.
Suddenly, the path was plunged into stillness again, empty of spiders and Elves. The ground was wet with a dark viscous liquid, bearing silent witness to the affray, scattered with broken spider legs, and twitching bodies.
Winded from the effort, Aragorn stayed on the path, patiently awaiting the Elves' return. He was relieved that the skirmish was over, but also regretful, for he felt a stirring within -- the thrill of precarious odds had wakened the warrior.
--- --- ---
Hidden among the boughs of the great trees, the archers, who had held the travellers in their keen sight for the past hours, watched their progress intently.
They had been searching for the spider colony when the ribald singing of the creature reached their keen ears. Piqued, they had searched for the travellers even as they tried to locate the spider nest. When a scout had found the spiders trailing them, he had called to the others, using his masterful mimicry of birdsong to convey the details. It echoed through the trees, disguised as innocuous bird chatter, decipherable only by one trained in the craft.
And so, the silent Elves had trailed the hunters even as they trailed their prey, biding their time. But the creature's tantrum had forced their hand.
Swiftly their arrows had flown, straight into spider eyes and abdomens, filling the musty air with grating death cries of the hideous beasts. Though the spiders far outnumbered the Elves, their agile leaps and tangling webs offered them no edge over keen arrows and blades, not when wielded by elvish hands. Dead and dying spiders strewed the ground, and a handful of surviving spiders were soon fleeing, their pursuers close behind.
Presently, many Elves appeared and graced the lowest branches of trees by the fringe of the path where the Man stood waiting.
The swaddled creature was still nestled among the great roots where he had taken refuge. He was fidgeting, perpetually shifting under the heavy robe. He gave forth a constant and barely intelligible chatter, a craven monologue that served as release for his pent-up fears. For the single Elf who comprehended the Common Tongue, it seemed the creature was indignant about the loss of some treasure or something he held dear for the word 'precious' was uttered frequently, though his speech was coarse and punctuated with a harsh swallowing sound.
However, intriguing as the creature was, it was the Man that commanded the Elves' attention. He had pushed his hood back, and then he spoke in a clear, deep voice.
'Mae govannen!' he said.
The Elves did not respond; and no wonder, for he was not familiar to any of them.
'I have been long on the road,' he continued, 'on an errand for Mithrandir. It grows ever late and I am expected to bring my ... companion to the Elvenking's halls.'
'The name of Mithrandir is certainly known to us. But what of your own?' called a voice rich in timbre.
The Man turned to the speaker: 'The Dúnadan am I, my name is Aragorn.'
Surprised by the Man's calm at his Elvish audience, in such times when they were fading, relegated to myths and mad imaginings in the minds of Men, they were more interested that he had spoken in their tongue, an eloquence that told of familiarity that had come from long use. It was most unusual -- not many among the other peoples of Middle-earth could even understand their speech.
The Elves waited while their leader considered the situation. He stared at the human, appraising him silently. The Elves of Mirkwood were not an insular folk. He and his brethren knew of Men, though the ties between the two peoples had diminished with the passage of time -- they still maintained tenuous links with some: the Bardings of Dale and the folk of Laketown beyond the Wood's eastern borders, the hulking Beornings who dwelt upon the shores of Anduin and aided the Elves against wargs and goblins from the Hithaeglir, and the quiet woodmen, their allies against the dark creatures of the forest.
But this was certainly not a Beorning, nor man of the Lake, and no Woodman. This Man stood with easy grace. Very tall he was, as tall as an Elf. He bore an air of confidence, as one long accustomed to leadership, despite his obvious exhaustion. His demeanour spoke of nobility though his travel worn raiment proclaimed otherwise. A long wicked knife was held in place by his belt, and a sword with a well-worn hilt hung at his side. On his back was evidence of one used to life in the wilds: a hunting bow, a quiver filled with short arrows, and a slim sleeping mat above his pack. He held a long leash that disappeared inside the creature's robe -- the Elf noted that it was a rope of elven make. An ugly gash glistened on that hand, looking in need of attention. His dark hair was flecked with grey, a shaggy mane that was shorn short above the shoulders. And he wore a beard that was neglected, unkempt. Despite the facial hair and the lines carved by weather, the Elf surmised that it was a face that would be deemed more than fair among mortals, even though it was lent to sternness. But most of all, it was his eyes that held the Elf's attention. They were grey, and the Elf perceived an uncommon brightness in them, and if a light had shone from them, as of starlight, it would not have been surprising. Perhaps he was who he claimed to be, perhaps.
The Elf conferred with another near him. A messenger was dispatched while another trilled a melody, much like the birdsong Aragorn had heard -- the song was soon echoing through the Forest, cresting upon hoary boughs toward the north and the east.
Then the Elf leaped onto the path.
'Aaye Dúnadan, I am Calendring,' he said. With a blunt look, he continued: 'Mae govannen indeed, if you are truly the Lord of the Dúnedain.'
'Aaye,' Aragorn said.
It was not the response the Elf expected. Calendring considered the Man anew as he nodded toward the arrow embedded in the oak trunk, decorated with its wispy trophy of spider webbing.
'Your artistry with the bow is extraordinary,' said the Man. 'I am glad of your steady hand and keen sight in this infinite gloom.'
The Elf smiled, mirthless. 'It is my duty, of no moment,' he said. 'If tribute be due, it is to the long years of hunting spiders that have helped to hone my craft.' His eyes strayed to the trembling pile among the old oak's feet. 'We have yet to thank your companion for drawing the fell creatures forth,' he said.
Aragorn knew Calendring did not speak the words he intended. 'He does have the uncommon gift of attracting precisely the attention I am wishing to avoid,' he said with wry resignation. 'Yet, for this once, I cannot fault him for rousing such overwhelming odds, for it has worked a miracle, for a change. I had feared that birdsong was all the assurance I would have yet that Elves were near. Gladly, my tired vigil shall come to an early end.'
There was such relief in his voice that Calendring wondered at the tale he had to tell.
Aragorn turned to the carnage. 'I wonder that spiders should dare to hunt on the path, here where the Forest is yet shallow,' he said.
'Ai, their numbers have been growing, and dark things such as yonder spiders gain courage in strengthening numbers,' said the Elf. 'We are hard put to keep up with the sudden proliferation! The lair of this colony was a mere two miles from the path. But you may rest easy, for their nest is being destroyed even as we speak. Let us not linger here. There is a little glade where these stinking carcasses will not trouble our sight.'
He wanted patiently as Aragorn tried to get the creature to move. With cajoles and not a few threats, Aragorn succeeded in dislodging the shaken creature from his nook. They followed Calendring while his troop went around retrieving arrows and silencing spiders that were still alive.
They were brought into a grove of silver birches that stood tall, rare in the western regions of Mirkwood. Unlike the hoary twisted trunks that framed the path, they were not dark and brooding. The air too, felt lighter, loosening its stifling hold. Aragorn soon learnt why. They came to a little dell lit by the sun looking down upon the carpeted ground.
A little breeze eddied in the natural air-well, stirring and mixing the stale breath of the Forest depth with the clean air it brought down from the sky. Encircled by the birches, the clearing was awash in sunlight. The bare limbs of the trees swayed in benevolent welcome, an invitation to partake in the feast of light. The sun caressed Aragorn as he stepped forward into the tranquil clearing. He breathed deeply, drawing into his starving lungs air that was not musty and dank.
'Ah yes, a little gem in its own right is it not?' said Calendring. 'You will not be troubled in your rest here.'
Aragorn thanked the master bowman. Then he said: 'The spiders were not this bold when I walked the southern watch with the captain. It must displease him indeed to have the beasts so deep in the realm.' He turned to Calendring and asked: 'I wonder, did he really mount that hideous trophy?'
The Elf looked keenly at Aragorn as he weighed the Man's words. 'Indeed, he did, and for days the curious would surround it, and to hear the captain's own words of the mighty battle. All of Mirkwood was astir with excitement and every warrior made certain to pay a visit to the captain.' Then, memory stirred and Calendring smiled as he said: 'It was heard that Legolas vowed that he would bring down a larger one, even were he to begin his hunt without the Dúnadan!' He laughed, and at the thought of Legolas swearing such a vow in fervour, Aragorn laughed with him. After a moment, Calendring said: 'But though the captain himself enjoyed the attention and the chance to share the great tale with young and old, it was removed soon after, for a difficult choice was presented to the captain: keep the ugly prize or keep the family peace.'
'Ah, needless to say, he chose to disappoint the masses, wisely staying in his lady's favour,' said Aragorn.
'Truly!' cried Calendring. 'And it seems you are who you claim to be, and not an imposter with shady purpose. Let us begin our acquaintance anon. I am honoured, Dúnadan. Mae govannen indeed! But you will understand that I must set a guard for you, and our peace of mind.' He proffered a flask, 'This will quench your thirst, and help restore your spirits somewhat. It is mead, wholesome and strong.'
Aragorn hesitated. 'You are yet on patrol, and I am sure that such a meagre measure of the precious brew will not last even for your watch,' he said. 'Much as I am tempted, I cannot accept it.'
'There is naught else we can offer here at the borders, and it would be poorly regarded if I were to allow you to continue to sit in ill health. Please, take the flask and rest for a bit,' Calendring pressed. 'You will not have long to wait, for already your guide is on his way. Now, you will excuse us for we have to resume the watch. The day grows old, tenna' ento lye omenta.'
'The honour is mine,' said Aragorn. 'Quel fara.'
He stood watching as the Elf vanished, blended into the trees. Were it not for the other leaning casually against an overhanging branch, he would have thought him a ghost of his fevered whimsy.
Aragorn sat down on the path's edge, away from his captive, who had entrenched himself in the crook of another mighty old tree, beginning his incessant complaining anew. Even here in the shadowy world of the Forest, Gollum was not content with the abundant shade.
He sighed as the constantly throbbing welts that laced his arms intruded upon his thoughts. Fifty days it had been since his struggle to contain his captive, but the passage of time did not dull the pain he had been enduring. The potency of the athelas salve he had managed to prepare during the long walk to Mirkwood had faded and served only to provide short relief. The scratches still itched and the burning sensation had not subsided. Worse yet was the numbness that had taken over the hand the creature had bitten. Aragorn was only thankful it was not his sword hand the creature had marked.
He turned his mind from the annoying scratches, more alert to how vulnerable he was, for he was still a stranger to these Elves; they would not hesitate to aim their arrows at his heart if they deemed him a threat in any way. For them, he was as dangerous as the spiders.
In addition to the laconic sentry set on him, Aragorn was aware of the hidden eyes of more watchers in the foliage above. Still, it seemed they were more curious than hostile. After all, visitors to the Forest were rare, and here was one claiming to be Dúnedain, keeping queer company.
Despite the gruesome business of the spider slaughter, Aragorn felt the tranquility the Elves brought with them; a bit of their grace that seemed to make the shadows less sinister and the trees more alive. It relaxed his mind, and Aragorn was relieved that he did not have to be on his guard against his captive, for the first time in many days.
These Elves would not comprehend why Aragorn felt safer under the darkened eaves of Mirkwood, but for him, their appearance signalled the end of a journey that had been overlong. Despite his hurts, he rejoiced at the fulfillment of his old promise. To reward himself, he drew his pipe forth with deliberately slow movements. Soon the scent of pipeweed filled the air. He leaned back to while away the wait, taking care that the smoke blew away from the Elves.
Seventeen years, thought Aragorn, amazed at the length of time that had passed. He was filled with wonder at the realization, the precious years of his life that he had poured into looking for the creature.
'Gollum,' said the creature again.
Unbidden, Aragorn's hand strayed to his neck. The signs there had faded, but he would forever remember the circumstances of their first meeting. Meanwhile, lulled by the comfort of his pipe, his long legs outstretched, he turned his mind to stirring memories of days long distant. His thoughts flitted swiftly through the years and settled upon the meeting where it all began.