It has been fourteen days since Gandalf and I parted ways. I had many challenges along the way. First I came across the spider Shelob, who tried to kill me with her sting. Then some orcs captured me, but I could escape and climb down the path at Cirith Ungol. They followed me, causing me to fall down the last bit of those stairs. Luckily nothing was broken and I could still move, but it did slow me down a bit. Those orcs that were following me gave up the moment they saw me fall, so no danger afterwards. I'm now making my way through the Dead Marshes, while thinking about Gandalf. After Aragorn learned that his mother Gilrean had another child with another man, he chose to deny my whole existence. I haven't seen him in years, which is fine by me because the most important person in my life is waiting for me in Mirkwood.
I sigh. I will trade anything for the company of even one of my friends. I would love to hear their advice, even when they're not present to speak it. When I reach the next tussock set upon firm and marginally less soggy ground, I sit, dig out the remains of my comb and make a cursory attempt to restore some order to my overgrown hair. This proves counterproductive, however, far from making me feel more comfortable it only makes me long for a hot bath and clean clothing. Frustrated, I stow the comb away. I have wandered in the wilderness for decades, without such comforts and yet somehow I never grew quite accustomed to being filthy, ragged and unkempt. I eat an apple and tuck a sliver of dried meat into my cheek to gnaw on while I walk. The longer I chew, the more I can trick my stomach into feeling. It will be a long and hungry journey home and I have to contrive to keep myself on my feet somehow.
I resume my journey with a heavy heart, watching the earth with one eye and the land with the other. The treaty mists cling to the swamp-grasses and obscures the path below my feet. Tired and disheartened, I do not immediately comprehend what I'm seeing until my instincts begin to shriek at me to slow, to stop, to look. Swiftly I turn. Hastily I crouch. Long fingers slip forward, almost of their own accord to brush the surface of the mud. My pulse quickens and my throat grows taut as I fight back wonder and disbelief. It cannot be and yet, my senses will not lie. I cast about for some corroborating sign and I found it, not ten inches away from the first. Tracks. There in the soft mud are the marks of broad, flat feet - bare, with long, prehensile toes. Smaller than orc-feet they are, smaller than Man. Unmistakably hobbit-like.
A little further along I find the marks of four knuckles where they had dug into the earth to bear up the passage of their owner. And here is the indentation of a knee. Here the off-foot have dragged after the lead, and here the creature has stopped to root about among the rushes. I move forward swiftly, crouching low to the ground as I pick up the trail. It scarcely seems possible, after fifteen years and more, after all the perils and the hardships and the futile pursuits, that I can change upon what I sought now, now when I have at last despaired of ever succeeding. Yet so it is: tracks clear enough that a child could follow them, and fresh! They are not more than three or four hours old, or the rain would have washed them away. In another hour or two the marks will be unintelligible, even to one of my skills. Swiftly I rise, tracing the path of the imprints where it winds away to the North. My heart is hammering in my chest now, but there is no time to tarry, reflecting upon my astonishment or the senselessness of such a discovery at such a time. Forward I speed, keen eyes racing before me to pick up the next sign, and the next, while the day wanes swiftly and the twilight begins to gather behind the gloom to the East. Weariness and hunger, despair and loneliness are all forgotten. I'm on the hunt once more.
Dusk is falling rapidly as I speed forward, bending low so that I might follow the trail even in the gathering gloom. The creature keeps up a great pace for such a small thing, but still I'm swifter than my prey and the tracks grow even more fresh. It seems that his quarry is following much the same route as I intended to take, skirting around the very heart of the Marshes but remaining far enough within their border that the fens affords cover from any hostile patrols in the bare surrounding lands. It's obvious that Gollum is adept at subterfuge and the arts of survival, or he never would have eluded capture for so long.
I halted, listening to the gurgling of the swamp-waters and the whispering of the dry reeds. Below this sounds I hear another, out of place in these empty lands. Low and sibilant, a keening wine filtering through the haze ahead. The pack is eased to the ground and I grab within it until my fingers close upon the coil of rope that has been fixed around my neck when I flew from the orc-camp. Deftly I knot one end into a three-coiled noose - a good knot for my purposes, being quick to draw tight but easy enough to loosen if one knew the trick, and perhaps most importantly, reliable when wet. As I work, I listen warily but the muttering and whimpering remains constant. The creature, it seems, is no longer moving forward. I slip my cloak over my head and fold it over my pack. I creep forward, exerting every effort to move noiseless through the mud. It's easy to grab my dagger, but decide not to even think about it. After fifteen years of searching I cannot risk slaying Gollum in the struggle to capture him. I pause in my creeping. The creature is near at hand now, and though I cannot yet see him amid the tussocks of dead grass and the broad, I cannot make out the words of his whining lament.
,,And we does, precious, we does! Poor, poor, precious, gollum!" And here he makes a horrid gurgling noise in the back of his throat. ,,Poor handses, poor handses, yes! Hateful, hot, hurting… poor handses, my precious!" There is a sound of splashing and a sharp yelp. I hold my breath, fearful that the creature has heard me, but after a moment the creature continues. ,,How is we supposed to go on, my precious, tell us that! Poor precious, gollum. No foods, no nice fishes in the pool, and nasty orcses, precious! Nasty orcses! Orcses, precious!" Here his voice grows shrill and panicked until it rises to a long, wordless shriek. I flinch involuntarily as my eardrums begin to throb. Just when I think I can bear no more, the ululation of rage and terror cuts off abruptly. ,,Nasty orcses." The creature mutters sullenly. I draw nearer, edging carefully around a clump of weeds. Then at last, after fifteen years I have my target in sight. There, huddled low over a stinking pool, was the pallid, craven creature. Filthy, all but naked, coated in green slime, Gollum squats in the mud with his emaciated legs sticking out to either side and his knobby knees almost level with his rounded shoulders. His head is bowed low, giving him a strange silhouette against the light of the ghostly candles now flickering to life in the pools and the bones of his spine seem ready to tear through his discolored skin. Even in the last light of evening I can see the hollows between his ribs and the sharp protrusion of his hip-bones. More beast than hobbit was he, and as I watch him, keening and muttering to himself, I cannot help but shudder.
I creep a little nearer. The creature is less then three steps away and still he seems unaware of the watcher. I take a firm hold of the end of the rope, holding the loop loose in my other hand. Slowly, cautiously, I stretch my left leg forward, planting my boot firmly in the mud. For a moment I pause, listening for any break in the creature's mumbling that might indicate my presence is no longer a secret. Then swift as a cat I pounce, closing the distance between me and my prey in two swift strides. Gollum whirls, his hands sending up a spray of vile water and he shrieks - but by then I am upon him. The rope slips over his shoulders and I tank it taut, triumph antically. I have him at last!
Only for a moment did the warm glow of success linger. Gollum thrust one bony foot against my leg and hurled his body backwards over my arm that tried to seize him. I overbalanced, falling forward as my right hand shoots out to close upon Gollum's ankle. This brings another shriek of fury and before my left hand can find the rope Gollum has doubled back over himself and is scratching furiously at the fingers on his leg. One long, skeletal arm has worked itself free of the rope and with it he lungs for me. I roll to the left, dragging the creature with me as I struggle to find some more useful hold. Still Gollum struggles, letting me lose my grip on the foot, but then for a moment I have an arm, then an ear. Each time Gollum manages to slip free, though I manage to keep him from gaining sufficient mastery to flee. We are lying in the mud now, grappling frantically while the candles of the Dead Marshes flicker around us. It should have been no contest at all: I'm twice the creature's height, hale and strong and if not well-fed at least neither withered nor emaciated. Yet Gollum is quick and astonishingly strong, and as he howls unintelligible maledictions he beats at me with foot and fist. The scrabbling hands close on my wildly flying hair and I cannot stifle a hoarse cry of pain as my scalp blazes in protest. The noise startles the creature, who twists to backward to fix his pale eyes upon my face. Taking advantage of the moment's hesitation, I strike out with my left arm, driving my fist into Gollum's side. The grip on my hair loosen abruptly as the bony thing crumples into the blow. I force the creature to roll with me, trying to pin the wiry limbs beneath my body. Gollum had his other hand free of the rope now and he reached up the claw at my eyes. There is a hot rush of fluid as the scrabbling nails draw blood. I thrust up my arm, sweeping away the nimble fingers and attempting to immobilize the hand, but Gollum is too quick. His shoulder rotated in defiance of the laws of nature and he evaded my attempt to pin him. Before I can compensate my head is jerking instinctively backwards. As the nails tear into my flesh, glancing off my cheekbone, I realize with a sickening lurch that only my reflexes have saved my right eye.
Again I struggled to catch the flailing hand, all the while shifting my legs in a desperate bid to trap the creature's feet, which were kicking furiously against my hips and lower abdomen. I'm fully cognizant of my absurd position, grappling so desperately with a thing not half my size, but there is nothing for it. I'm fighting now not merely to pacify a prisoner, but to avoid grievous harm. Never would I have imagined that such strength or tenacity might be hidden within such a pitiful creature, but it was plain that Gollum is not to be easily cowed. Then, so swiftly that I'm not entirely sure how I have caught the creature off-guard, I have the advantage again. I press it without reflection, snatching Gollum's arm and trapping the deadly hand under my left knee. Awkwardly I shift forward to improve my hold without relinquishing the tenuous control I had over Gollum's flailing legs. Gollum tries to wriggle from beneath me, but I have anticipated such a tactic. I bare down with my full weight and bow my head as I press my forearm across Gollum's throat, applying enough force that the creature begins to make harsh choking noises and his flailing grows less intense. With my right arm occupied and both legs desperately trying to keep the rest of the creature pinned in place, my left arm begins to reach the rope, which is tangled around Gollum's trunk and leg. If I can only catch the knot, I know I will stand at least some chance of immobilizing Gollum without resorting to baser methods. I almost lose control over Gollum's hand as my back arches against the unexpected agony. For a moment I'm not even certain what quarter of my body has given birth to this pain, but ignorance did not endure long enough. The creature has sunk his teeth into the flesh of my arm. I try to wrench free, but Gollum's jaws are stronger than his limbs. Deeper the teeth drive and I can feel the flesh puncturing, tearing. The twist I make, makes my elbow-joint pop, but I shake off the creature - at least momentarily. Gollum thrust his head forward, his long neck seeming almost to stretch upon command, snapping again. He grazes deep into the sinew of my wrist and my field of vision is obscured with blackness. Yet my left hand is still free and it flies forward almost of its own volition, closing with bruising force about Gollum's strong throat. Tighter I squeeze and tighter until the tearing teeth forsook their quest to strip every scrap of flesh from my bones.