Untrodden Paths
by Timmy

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters of Aragorn, Gollum, and some others mentioned in this story. They belong to Tolkien’s heirs. I just borrow them for the fun and put them back later. All the original characters are my creation (with restless help of Mouse, of course).

Rating: PG-13

Note: Tolkien left open many parts of Aragorn’s life. Here is my approach to one chapter in the long row. Those readers, who stay strictly to the words of Tolkien, might consider the story AU, for the Ranger is not able to take Gollum the straight way to Mirkwood.

I do know that the name of ‘Aule’ is written with two dots above the ‘e’, yet my keyboard has no such feature. That’s why the second best solution of the accent above the ‘e’ has to suffice.

Summary: When the quest for Gollum fails due to a mishap, a sick Ranger finds shelter in a small village. But this is only the beginning of a new part of Aragorn’s search.

The story stands alone and has no references to my other ones.

Thanks to Linda the story is beta-read.

My heartfelt thanks – again and with no less vigour – to my best friend Mouse for her help and enthusiasm. You are the one who keeps me going and still preserves the fun of it all. You make me think that sometimes you even know better what I want to write than I know myself. What would I do without you?

-o-o-o-o-

Chapter One: Into the Dead Marshes

Tolkien wrote:

“There is little to tell of them,” said Aragorn. “If a man must needs walk in the sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he will have. I, too, despaired at last, and I began my homeward journey. And then, by fortune, I came suddenly of what I sought: the marks of soft feet beside a muddy pool. But now the trail was fresh and swift, and it led not to Mordor but away. Along the skirts of the Dead Marshes I followed it, and then I had him. Lurking by a stagnant mere, peering in the water as the dark eve dell, I caught him, Gollum. He was covered with green slime. He will never love me, I fear; for he bit me, and I was not gentle. Nothing more did I ever get from his mouth than the marks of his teeth. I deemed it the worst part of all my journey, the road back, watching him day and night, making him walk before me with a halter on his neck, gagged, until he was tamed by lack of drink and food, driving him ever toward Mirkwood. I brought him there at last and gave him to the Elves, for we agreed that this should be done; and I was glad to be rid of his company, for he stank.” (FotR, The Council of Elrond)

And this:

“I too once passed the Dimrill Gate,” said Aragorn quietly; “but though I came out alive, the memory is very evil. I do not wish to enter Moria a second time.” (FotR, A Journey in the Dark)

-o-o-o-o-

TA 3017

A foul stench was in the air, and clouds of thick, grey mist emitted from the moist ground between the marshland’s small islands. No green grass soothed the eyes of the weary wanderer. No colourful flower eased the view over the wasteland that once had been a battlefield. From the western rim it stretched seventy miles eastward with nothing more than grey, dead-like plants amid brown, muddy water that was ruffled by the cool wind. With the deep hanging clouds, which announced the rain to come, it was a place in Middle-earth that no one wanted to walk into or even to pass. Stories were told about this place, and though none of the people alive could tell what truly had happened during the battle of the Last Alliance against Sauron’s forces, the mere mentioning of the Dead Marshes made them shudder.

Wrinkling up his nose and pulling the cloak tighter around his haggard shoulders, the wanderer gazed back the way he had come, ever vigilant to notice the slightest change in his surroundings. He had come to know peril others not even had nightmares about, and in the long years of his service for both King Thengel of Rohan and Steward Ecthelion II of Gondor he had achieved a skill in fighting worthy of lore. There were only a few who matched him in knowledge of warfare and the ability to know the enemy’s action in advance and react according to the challenge. He had earned a reputation, but never claimed the reward for his deeds. With the task done, he had left King Thengel, and, with a heart too heavy to bear more, he had also left behind Minas Tirith, many years ago, though it was the city of his ancestors.

He was alone. Black birds had circled the sky during the early morning hours, but now as noon drew near, not a single sound could be heard. It was a place of the dead. The wanderer tried to encourage himself that he had lived through the worst months while walking the path along the Ephel Dúath to the Morannon, and that he would head westward now to places he knew well and where he would be welcomed. He breathed through the cloth of a scarf he had wound around his neck to ease the smell, but the place itself was saturated with the reek of decay, and there was no escape from it.

The wanderer decided to hurry even more and quickened his strides. His boots made loud sucking noises, and presently he got almost stuck in the fen, when it proved to be deeper than expected. He pulled himself out, only to notice footprints on the wet sand near the adjoining muddy pool. It had not been caused by a boot, but by feet bare of any covering. It was a unique footprint, one he had sought for long and in vain.

His heartbeat sped up, and he straightened to search the area anew with keen eyes. His weariness fell off, and hope sparked anew. Seeing no signs through the mist, he moved on carefully, scanning the ground for further tracks. When he found them, he was astonished to realise that they led away from Mordor. The wanderer followed the trail, his eyes on the wet ground, halting here and there to examine the sediment of a puddle to make sure he still moved into the right direction. Along the skirts of the Dead Marshes he trod a path, and as the day waned he reached a stagnant mere. He hunched over to make himself smaller and halted, breathing through his mouth. From afar he heard a whining, complaining sound, and in the next moment the voice was sharp and accusing, uttering words in the Common Speech. For minutes the wanderer, who had never met the creature before, waited. Then he approached him carefully, causing as little noise as possible, his eyes fixed on the spot from where the whining, now loud and pleading, resounded.

There he crouched: Gollum. A hunched up, meagre beast that once had been a Stoor, but who had been devoured by the One Ring in more than five hundred years of its possession. He was all skin and bone and covered with green slime. His big eyes bulged and shone luminescent in the growing darkness. He was talking to himself, quiet and reassuring now, harsh and aggressive a moment later. The wanderer drew closer, moving behind the being, almost holding his breath. He did not want to alarm the beast for he did not know his strength and abilities. Gandalf had told him only a few details about Gollum, and now that he saw him, pity for the strange creature filled the wanderer’s heart. Nevertheless he would fulfil his task.

Gollum’s lament about his hunger went on, the only sound in the dusk. With his long, bony fingers he searched the sediment of the mere’s shore, groping for anything to eat. The wanderer was close now, and when the beast made a move to his right in search of another spot to try, he leapt forward, threw himself on the creature‘s back to press him down flat into the shallow water. A gurgling sound emerged, then Gollum turned – slippery like an eel under the weight of the wanderer. He threw sand into the man’s face, escaped the fierce grip with a screech, and ran into the marshes again, blind with fear! He ran as fast as his legs and hands would carry him, ran away, not knowing the direction at first. He was dreadfully afraid, and only dared brief glances over his shoulder if the tall being followed.

The wanderer spat sand and shook his head, blinded for a second, but he did not give up. Quickly he was on his feet again, and though his clothes were wet now, he moved quickly, and followed the beast with long strides. Determination shone in his grey eyes. He spat again and wiped his face, but gained on his prey.

Gollum turned, searching desperately for a way out, searching, looking left and right, trying to remember the way he had come. He ran on in haste, but no longer blindly though his heart pounded like a drum in his ears. He tried to think faster than the tall being approaching. He heard him come, heard his breath in his back already! Left, left he ran on, speeding on all fours, running eastward. Another small island. Yes, yes, this was the way! This it must be! He splashed through the mud. Another glanced over his shoulder. Still the ground held him. But it held the man too. And he gained on him! Gollum shrieked, doubled his efforts, and turned right. He knew the way! He was the one, the only one who had ever found a way through the Dead Marshes, but now… now he was under pressure! He had to think faster! And faster still! How could he get rid of him? There… O, he knew the way! He yearned to leave this dreadful place, but sensed that it would be his only chance to escape. No, he must not be captured now by just another tall and ugly enemy! On he ran, stumbled, and got up again. He needed to get away from the tall man’s hands, his angry face, and the threat of torture. There it was! There was the pool that had almost drowned him just hours ago. Gollum looked over his shoulder, slackened his speed. Yes, yes, the man still followed. O, he was so eager to get his hands on poor Gollum, he did not watch. The beast quickened his steps again. He would add the man’s body to the many corpses the Dead Marshes already held!

And then Gollum tripped and fell.

The pursuer’s boots made squelching noises behind him, and, screeching in despair, Gollum struggled with all he had to escape the hidden root that held his ankle. All his hopes that the man would sink in the fen were crushed when the enemy’s hard hands grabbed his neck.

“Hold still or I will throttle you!” the tall being growled in a deep voice, but Gollum had been in a dark prison for too long to give in. He clutched his long fingers around the wrists of the man, struggling in his tight grip, whining as if he would die at any moment. He kicked his enemy viciously in his stomach, fighting with every fibre of his body. When the pressure eased for the shortest of moments, Gollum pulled hard, using all strength to rip away the angry, stinking hands from his throat! He turned and bit the left hand hard enough to make the man shout in pain. Again he thought to have escaped, but this time the hateful man grabbed his upper arm, and when his hand was free again, knocked him out with a hard blow to his temple. The hissing, shrieking, screeching ended abruptly.

Silence settled in the Dead Marshes again.

The wanderer let go of the limp creature. Panting he wiped his nose, and grimaced at the slime-covered bite wound, which bled freely. With the right hand he loosened the pack from his back and took out a small bandage to wind it around his injured hand. He needed to hurry; the creature already stirred again. The wanderer thought it hard to imagine that this pitiable, ugly beast had had possessed the valuable One Ring for such a long time. With a smirk he added that he had never imagined, either, searching for the creature for more than sixteen years to finally get a hold of him.

Having finished the bandaging, he pulled a thin rope out of his pack and placed a sling around Gollum’s neck. He drew up his nose. The creature stank as much as the surroundings and he wished for nothing more than to leave this place immediately. The wanderer stood, gathered his belongings and tugged at the rope, which he had bound around his right wrist. Gollum opened his big, lamp-like eyes, and stared at him with hate and fear.

“Please, no, no, no, don’t tie us!” he then shrieked, and withered on the ground as if the rope was hurting him. His long, bony hand tore at the rope around his throat. “Pleeease, no, don’t! It burns! Burns usss!”

“Get up and walk!” the wanderer ordered sternly, disgusted at the thought of travelling with his captive the long way to Mirkwood. He let another tug follow, but the creature continued tearing at the sling. “Leave it alone, Gollum, or I will bind your hands behind your back! Now move!”

Gollum growled, hissed, and growled again, but – sensing that he had no chance to win a fight at the moment – rolled on his hands and feet. With a last, hideous look he turned to follow his captor westward. But the wanderer was vigilant and careful, and made Gollum walk in front of him. The beast complained ceaselessly, hissing and cursing ever and anon, but throwing himself on the ground wide-eyed and frightened the moment his captor threatened him. The beast knew instinctively that the tall being had nothing in common with the hateful torturers he had come to know in the dark confines of Mordor, but that did not lighten his mood. He could still feel all the tortures they had made him suffer to get the one information he had had to give: the whereabouts of the One Ring. And in the dark hours of his lonely captivity, when the torment by those ugly monsters had become intolerable, Gollum had finally uttered the valuable words.

Gollum shrivelled at the thought of what he had done: betrayed his precious! Now the Dark Lord would get it! And when the Ring was on His hand, he would condemn all living beings to a horrible death… The Ring had shown him. The Ring had told him! But all those memories had not lent him the strength he would have needed to withstand the pain and the malice he had faced for such a long time in Minas Morgul. O, how he hated himself for what he had done! But how… how could he have avoided it? How could he have resisted any longer? Now he complained to himself ever and ever again, and the only thought on his mind was to be faster than the enemy. He had to get back, catch the Ring and… vanish! So that no one would ever get close to his precious again. No filthy Baggins, no one.

But there was that man with the leash behind him, tall and with an impressively fierce look, never taking the eyes of him. Still there was little time left to get rid of him before they left the Marshes. When the thought took shape in his mind, Gollum stopped, and glanced over his shoulder. His captor clad in the weather-worn, dark green clothes with dark, long hair, and short-cropped beard might be an apt fighter or just a pursuer, who – sent by another foe – had captured him out of mere luck. After all he had called him by his name! But Gollum thought that he was more cunning, and would not let anyone hold him prisoner again, no matter what he did or why he did it!

“Move!” the wanderer ordered getting closer. “We will leave the Marshes behind before nightfall!”

Pretending to walk on, Gollum suddenly swivelled around, and attacked his captor with all strength and viciousness he could muster. He stretched out his hands and opened his mouth to catch the enemy’s throat to strangle him. Bite him if he could! The man was forced two steps backwards, immediately grabbing the creature’s bony arms. They struggled, and, yes, the creature was as strong as he was old! Spitting he growled through his few teeth, and closed his long fingers even tighter around the man’s neck while his feet pressed into his belly. He scratched the man’s neck, drawing blood. The wanderer fought back, putting strength against strength in desperate need of air. He clenched his teeth and pulled back his head to evade the creature’s teeth bared only inches in front of his face. Gollum’s eyes shone in anticipation of the victory as he held on, pressing, pressing tighter, ignoring the pain the tall being caused him on his arms. He had to win! He had to escape again! The wanderer fell on his knees, obviously exhausted and close to fainting. Then, when the old beast thought to have won, his enemy broke the grip. Fierce eyes focused on Gollum, frightening him. The man gasped, and let go of Gollum’s left arm for a second to punch him hard across the still slime-covered face. He shoved him away. Gollum screeched, falling on the muddy ground, and was even more infuriated than before, realising he had lost. In his roaring anger he assailed him again, grabbing his coat with a guttural growl, and ripping off the brooch the man wore. The man threw him down once more with even more vigour.

“Do not ever try that again! Get up and move!” the enemy commanded hoarsely, but he did not see the hideous glare in Gollum’s eyes as the beast opened his dirty hand for a moment, only to let the man glimpse at what he got, before he threw the brooch into the water. “No…” It was the decision of a split second as the wanderer stretched out his hand to grope for the valuable brooch, and looked on the surface of the pool.

Gollum’s eyes widened and his thin lips curled into a terrible smile as he watched his enemy stare at the water with his eyes open wide. He had found the brooch, held it in his right hand, but still he could not turn away. He looked into the darkening pool like mesmerised by something only he could see. Slowly, like in trance, he bent forward, frowning, parting his lips as if he was about to answer an unheard question. Then, suddenly, he lost his balance and fell face down into the water. There was a single splash, a surfacing of bubbles, and nothing else. He did not stir anymore.

The beast chuckled malevolently, jumping from one foot to the other, praising himself for his slyness. Quickly he took the grey rope between his teeth and gnawed on it. Gnawed and spat, and found he could not bite it through! Gollum’s joy turned to horror: he was stuck! Still captured! He screeched, and tore at the man’s wrist desperately, screaming for release, but only hurt himself. He stomped the muddy ground in panic. He could not get away! He tore and whined even louder, but that did not change his fate.