9. Loeg Ningloron

Bidding farewell to Lórien’s tranquil groves and resplendent trees knifed Aragorn, and doggedly he trudged along the cracking stones and heather of the valley below the Dimrill Dale, feeling worn and gloomy. The ruined stonework, broken statues, toppled columns, and a cracked road slowly being gnawed away by vegetation did not lighten his heavy heart. Once this region had been a splendid Dwarf kingdom until ancient evil had awoken in Khazad-dûm -- the Mines of Moria -- and the Dwarves had long since fled. The place seemed especially forlorn, abandoned to the wild and to the evil stirring within the mountains. Forgotten conversations with Gandalf about Khazad-dûm came to Aragorn’s mind, debates about the demons the Dwarves, in their greed and hunger for mithril, had awoken in the bowels of the Hithaeglir. Though neither he nor Gandalf knew with certainty what dwelt in the caverns of Moria, they had agreed that the Mines were hazardous. In his many wanderings he had once passed through the Dimrill Gate, an evil memory of the darkest places in Middle-Earth, and he cared not to ever go that way again. The reminiscence alone chilled him. And the presence of evil had strengthened since those days when he had been young and reckless. A nipping wind blew through the fir trees, sweeping across broken gray rock, biting exposed flesh and driving water to the eyes. Looking towards the towering peaks as they plummeted away into deep ravines and grim cliff walls, Aragorn sensed a foreboding malevolence.

In the long journeys and toils of his life, he had witnessed horrors and faced the vilest evil; rarely did it plunge his spirit into such gloom. Mayhap it was Gollum. Over the miles between the Dead Marshes and Lothlórien, Aragorn had become almost accustomed, or at least grimly resigned, to Gollum’s insufferable presence. But his single night spent separated from the creature had left him with a keen awareness of his loathing. And Gollum’s behavior had worsened since they had parted from Lórien and entered the hills and steppes of the vales at the feet of the mountains. He mumbled to himself more, barrages of bitter curses about Elves and Men; he reeked of reckless malice and hate kept contained only by the rope about his neck, the bonds around his wrists, and the gag in his mouth. Sullenly he skulked ahead of Aragorn, prowling along on all fours. The Númenorean sword Aragorn had drawn from its scabbard, and it glinted in the sun, vanquishing any thought Gollum had of escape or murder. Often Gollum looked back, shrinking away in fear and resentment at the sight of the sword, the Westernesse markings blazing in the sunlight, and at Aragorn’s face, as unforgiving as the visages of the Argonath.

His enemies seemed to breathe upon his heels. There was no telling which creatures he saw crossing his path spied for Sauron. In the open steppes, Aragorn felt like a hunted beast surrounded by a ring of unseen foes. He knew orcs inhabited the somber cliffs of the Misty Mountains, and he did not doubt that some of the ravens, hawks, and other fowl circling above the peaks were the eyes and ears of the Enemy. How soon would it be before the orcs and wargs in the mountains became aware of his presence and set upon him?

Anduin he followed at a distance. On the opposite shore the dim plains melted into Mirkwood, the leading edge of dark shadow forty leagues to the East. Aragorn kept a wary eye upon the sinister shadow as he trod along a narrow path between Anduin’s western shores and the wild, rough country of the Hithaeglir’s foothills. Peril lurked there, and it lurked in the clefts and rims at the knees of the mountains. The orcs and wargs roaming this land grew bolder as the power of the Elves waned and the power of Mordor swelled.

At dusk, the howling of wolves rose on all sides of them, a chorus of packs singing to one another, yearning and mournful cries of sadness and lonesomeness. Aragorn forsook sleep for many nights and lay awake beside small fires he kindled, his sword and assorted daggers unsheathed and at hand. His heart brimmed with the sadness carried in the refrain of howls, pining for the hearth of Rivendell or the gardens of Lothlórien. But he was a Ranger, Lord of the Dúnedain, and there would be no home and hearth for him until he took up the throne in Minas Tirith or died by the sword. The White Tower in Minas Tirith; the tall pillars and marble floors and statues and graven images of men and other beasts carved into its stately stones; the high dais on which the throne sat and the black, unadorned seat of the steward below it, was no more than a faded memory. In the bleak and sleepless nights in the wilderness, listening to the wolves’ howling, Gollum’s half-mad incantations, and the wind whistling through dry grass and bent trees, Aragorn contemplated whether he would see the White City again. Long ago had he resigned himself to this fate, when Lord Elrond of Rivendell revealed to him his lineage and decreed that only if Aragorn were King could he wed Arwen. For the most part he stoically bore it and did not forsake hope, for he was Isildur’s heir and such was his burden, but there were times when it depressed him beyond words of hope and comfort.

He sat still before the fire, his back against a toppled pillar, broken in two, his head bowed to his knees. The sun had fallen behind the Hithaeglir, the clouds shifted from bloody red and orange hues to soft blues and purples. The Westernesse sword, unsheathed, rested upon the ground beside him, and the firelight shone red on its blade. Something stirred in the darkness and he raised his head, alertness and fear unsettling his thoughts. Though the nightly chorus of wolves had kept him company every night, he had not seen any, but alas it seemed as if his luck would not last. Vigilant, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword and guardedly watched the inky blackness surrounding the flickering fire. With his other hand he grasped one of his daggers. His intuition he trusted, and he knew that he and Gollum were not alone.

There, creeping between the campsite and the mountains, dim forms took shape, six pinpoints of light gleaming in the dark; a pack of wolves lurking and snuffling just outside the circle of light. Aragorn leapt to his feet, the two shining blades upraised, his eyes alighted by the reflection of the flames. He stepped towards the wolves. They shied from the weapons and his boldness, skittering backwards and then fearfully turning tail to him and vanishing into the shadows.

On his toes more than ever, Aragorn returned to his seat against the shattered pillar, intently scanning the black hillsides. Those had been ordinary wolves, dangerous hunters but rather skittish of prey with the will to fight them, and Aragorn had little fear of them. It was the wargs that concerned him, intelligent and fearless beasts with little compunctions about the strength of their foes or the force of arms. Absently he fingered the blades, running his thumb and forefinger against smooth, cold steel, shifting his gaze from the mesmerizing, dancing flames to the shadows beyond reach of the fire’s diffuse light. Whilst he watched the fire, he mulled over the wolves and could not stem festering uneasiness in his heart that those creatures served some dark master. Had they visited the camp to attack him at all, or merely to investigate? For their own purposes or for someone else’s? Whatever has poisoned Gollum’s mind must be infecting me, Aragorn thought wryly. This persistent fear of being hunted, which had grown since Lórien, seemed disturbingly like that of his prisoner. He attempted to quell it, but ever he wondered whether those wolves slunk into the night to warn their sinister master of his presence.

When Menelmacar fell behind the shadowy mountains, Aragorn at last succumbed to his concerns, rising to his feet, nudging Gollum with the sword, putting out the fire. His fear was not ridiculous. If Sauron discovered he had captured Gollum and sent a substantial force after him, he did not stand a chance. He faded into the country of dark hills and dales, sloshing through a shallow mountain stream to avoid leaving a scent and tracks until he came to a massive boulder that had fallen from the shoulder of a cliff. It provided cover from any eyes above. The remainder of the night he spent beneath the rock, cold and shivering for winter’s bite was sharp, but too cautious to risk a fire.

* * *

If wargs and orcs inhabited the northern half of the vale, they left Aragorn and Gollum in peace or went by unnoticed. The incessant howling was a constant companion at night, but only in that one night did wolves actually appear; and as Aragorn raced across the rocky hills and splashed through the clear and swift-running streams cutting a maze of dikes and gullies through the valley, no fell creature harangued him. In spite of Gollum who loathed the speed at which Aragorn drove him, they readily made up whatever time had been lost in Lórien and satiated Aragorn’s will – indeed, that of all Rangers – for great haste. Beneath his feet the land rose up an incline, climbing out of the vale. The broken shelves of rock and heath were swallowed by dry grass, leaving only scattered outcroppings and lonely white cliffs.

The ground became wet, for water from the Gladden River, a tributary of Anduin, seeped through many tiny rills and troughs, pooling in small ponds and marshes, islets and beds of reeds and rushes. In warmer seasons the land was green and lush, donning wildflowers like fireworks of radiant color exploding across the hills. Now the grass was dead and brown, grim patches of snow speckled the marshland. Ice crunched beneath Aragorn’s feet. His breath steamed, wisps of smoke puffing in the frigid air. At knife’s tip Gollum limped ahead of him, even further withdrawn into his madness and cravings for the Ring than was usual for him.

As they drew nearer to the Gladden River, unease pierced Aragorn’s breast, shards of the memory of Gandalf and Elrond telling him of Isildur’s demise in its waters.

Grim and forlorn, he toiled through the squishy footing. Elves had once lived in the Gladden Fields, which they had called Loeg Ningloron for the yellow irises that grew there in profusion, some of them taller than a Man. But the Elves had fled long ago, in years barely within the reckoning of even Lord Elrond. Then the Stoors, a halfling-like folk, had inhabited the banks of the Gladden but in the course of many years and many wars flooding their lands, they too had vanished. The fields had a sullen emptiness about them, a perturbing and inescapable sadness.

Here Isildur was ambushed by orcs, his company of two hundred Dúnedain outnumbered, and in an effort to escape death and bring the Ring to the Elves, for even besotted by it he had begun to understand its malice, Isildur put on the Ring and dove into the Gladden River. But the Ring fell from his finger, and orc arrows pierced Isildur’s chest and throat. Ghosts haunted the banks of the Gladden River, the wetlands of tussled reeds and watery fissures. Aragorn felt their oppressive company, the presence of his long-dead ancestors sitting in judgment of him, and he withstood the judgment of the dead with all the pride and might of Númenor. I am Isildur’s heir, not Isildur himself. Do not judge me so!

He sighed wearily and said to Gollum, “If it were not for Loeg Ningloron, neither you nor I would be here now.”

Gollum made no answer, but then Aragorn had no illusions he would. “Preciouss...,” he hissed to no one in particular, wringing his bound hands and clawing his face as if blotting horrors from his eyes. What ghosts beleaguered him? What debris of memory of a forgotten life remained in his shriveled and corrupted mind? Before Gandalf had left Aragorn to continue the hunt for Gollum alone, he had stated his unwavering belief that in Gollum’s soul there was but a small corner unscathed by the Ring, concealed in the dark chasms of his ravaged mind but there nonetheless. “Where iss it, my preciouss? They stole it from us,” Gollum cried. “Filthy little thieves!”

Aragorn sighed and swallowed the sour taste of revulsion sickening him. It seemed to him that the Ring had rotted out and devoured what good there was in Gollum and all that remained was villainy and hate.

At Aragorn’s behest – a rough jerk upon the rope – Gollum quieted, his plaintive dirges disintegrated into soft, nonsensical mumblings. The orcs that had slain Isildur here three thousand years ago probably still roamed the marshes or at least traversed it in pestilent hordes pouring from Mirkwood. And while the land seemed bare but for fowl, redwing blackbirds, ravens, and bone-white egrets, other things dwelt in the Gladden Fields, an evil more pernicious than a rabble of orcs. Aragorn did not willingly dismiss his unease as absurd fears of the past and nothing more.

Aragorn liked Loeg Ningloron less and less the further they proceeded into its mires and grasping reeds and rushes, and he was determined to push on through darkness until he reached the Gladden River. From the river it was less than a day’s hike out of the marshes, but there he must rest, for crossing unknown waters by nightfall was treacherous. Alas, the unhappy weather waylaid his travel plans. Night brought with it a heavy fog rolling across the marshes like a wet, woolen blanket, obliterating moonlight and starlight, hiding the ghostly silver and white peaks. The contiguous blackness was an impregnable wall. Each breath seemed akin to inhaling water, and navigation soon became impossible, a blind bearing through reeds and peat bogs. If ever a night proved impregnable to a Ranger, in spite of his keen sense of direction and formidable tracking skills, it was this one. Aragorn gave up on it and opted to wait out the fog near a lonesome standing stone, amongst tangled reeds reaching above his chest.

In the thick blackness, he barely made out the dim shape of Gollum not five feet from him. A wet veil had been drawn over his eyes. Then the cold abruptly intensified, as if he had plummeted into a cave so deep not a trace of warmth touched it. Alarmed, he tried to rise and draw his sword, but a grip as cold and as hard as steel clutched his throat and froze his bones and his lungs. A great weight pulled on his limbs, pressed upon his breast, and he collapsed to the wet earth. Darkness engulfed him.

* * *

Gollum’s disjointed rhymes and ramblings brought Aragorn to. He vied with dread and fog consuming thought and memory. Suddenly, his wits and recollection returned and herein he knew he had suffered the attack of some fell thing and it had dragged him to the cavernous maw of some cave or barrow and then deserted him lying at its mouth, unscathed save for the dire chill. The barrow rose before him, an amorphous dark mass. His limbs remained immobile. Years ago, when he was quite young ere he roamed afield from Eriador, he had fallen prey to the dreadful spells of barrow-wights on the outskirts of the Shire. That seemed like another lifetime, yet nevertheless the paralyses of body, the oblivion of thought, and the deathly cold overthrowing his senses reminded him sharply of that remote incident. He had not heard tales of wights dwelling in the Gladden Fields. But many had died here in wars that had come and gone. Perhaps restless spirits dwelt in tombs beneath the marshy tablelands. Wights were agents of the Dark Lord, and with the shadow falling across Middle-Earth, they walked in the hollow places of the world once more. Aragorn’s suspicions of birds and beasts serving Sauron were justifiable, for how else could the wights have found him? An ill-choice of foes, Sauron, he thought. A legion of orcs could slay a lone man in minutes, but while steel did not stand against a wight’s perilous spells, courage and strength of heart and will did.

A looming form, paler than the moon, rose out of the cave. A stark chill froze the air Aragorn breathed. Whether it was a barrow-wight of the sort dwelling in the Barrow-downs, Aragorn did not know with certainty, but ever he remembered the guileful apparitions, and it seemed the spectral shadow had sprung from dark memory. Somewhere to his offside, a wheedling voice chanted,

In the black wind the stars shall die, beneath their shields here let them lie, till the dark lord lifts his hand over dead sea and withered land.[i]

Gollum, Aragorn thought, feeling anger stir, a hot glow in his chilled breast. The deceitful little creep! How did he bring this about? Mayhap in his wanderings the wretch had befriended the wights – fell creatures of the dark had no allies but one another – but he had been under Aragorn’s eye since Lothlórien. Had the rhymes and murmurings Aragorn had dismissed as half-mad nonsense called out to the wights? He had no time to ponder. The pale wight loomed closer. Not even with Narsil reforged anew could he fight it.

Though short of breath, he let his voice rise in an Elvish lament, for often had the sweet tongue of the Eldar held evil at bay. The mistake had not been Sauron's, but Gollum's.

Men cenuva fánë cirya métima hrestallo círa, i fairi nécë ringa súmaryassë ve maiwi yaimië?[ii]

The wight hesitated and Gollum’s insalubrious mutterings silenced. Louder, Aragorn sang,

Man tiruva fána cirya, wilwarin wilwa, ëar-celumessen rámainen elvië ëar falastala, winga hlápula rámar sisílala,[iii]

Flinching away, the wight retreated, shrieking an earsplitting cry slicing through the night, and it edged into the black maw of its cave. As it withdrew, its malevolent spell lifted and blood poured into Aragorn’s limbs, carrying warmth and vigor. He sprang to his feet, drawing his sword from his scabbard.

cálë fifírula? Man hlaruva rávëa súrë ve tauri lillassië ninqui carcar yarra isilmë ilcalassë isilmë pícalassë isilmë lantalassë ve loicolícuma; raumo nurrua, undumë rúma?[iv]

Then in Westron, he cried, “In my veins flows the blood of Númenor and Westernesse. I am Lord of the Dúnedain, the son of forgotten kings, and the heir of Isildur, Elendil’s son. Do not thwart me!”

The wight uttered a last long shriek that trailed into the dank night, and it dissolved into the mist. For a moment Aragorn stood still, bewildered by the strange mood that had befallen him and the words that had come unbidden to his tongue. His real name – which he had, to his relief, not revealed – and his lineage he kept secret and only with great prudence did he unveil it. He did not know why he did it just then, for the Gladden Fields, barren and unfriendly, was not a place to pronounce that Isildur’s heir had come forth. But the night was still as a tomb. Unless spies of Sauron or orcs patrolled the Fields in the unassailable mist, only Gollum and the barrow-wight had heard him and little could be done for it now. And where had Gollum vanished? Like the wight, he too had dissolved in the mist.

“Gollum!” hissed Aragorn sharply. It would not surprise him if the slippery sycophant had escaped into the murky water and hid amongst reeds, shielded from sight by fog. By trickery had he thought to get Aragorn killed and then make his bid for freedom? Is this desperate flight and living each day in fear of Sauron’s spies discovering I have captured the wretch not enough? Aragorn thought. He swore he would forego his promise to let Gollum live and slay him as soon as he recaptured him. “Gollum!” he repeated. “You maggot! Show yourself or you will not survive the night!”

“Yes, my precious,” hissed a thin, muffled voice from a patch of tussocks. “Nasty steel burns us, so we are very, very good,” Gollum added. Through a mire Aragorn floundered hither, stumbling to his knees when the earth fell away beneath his feet, and he staggered through the muddy fen. He barely made out the shape of Gollum huddled on the other side, clutching his knees, head buried beneath his forearms, and rocking to and fro. When Aragorn nudged him with the sword, he raised his eyes; in them shone a terror keener than any Aragorn had seen in the miserable wretch yet. Fear, perhaps, of Aragorn’s lineage and all that his proud and pure bloodline of Númenor conferred. Obedient to Aragorn’s will, Gollum scrambled forth ahead of him. Aragorn clenched the hilt of the sword and ground his teeth. He could not yet forego on his word to Gandalf, nor could Gollum’s sudden turn to supplication justify the beating he richly deserved. The only thing to do was race the shadow of death to Mirkwood; fly as he had never had the need before.

Heedless of the misty shroud, Aragorn plunged through the fens, anxious to put Loeg Ningloron behind him. The place was fraught with peril, barrow-wights and orcs, fell shadows of the restless dead.

The gurgling and chortling of a rushing stream reached Aragorn’s ears. Suddenly Gollum – a wraith to Aragorn’s eyes – stumbled into water and halted as if a demon had arisen from its depths and barred him from going further. Aragorn too skidded to a halt before he crashed through the stream. The mists rolled away to reveal a brisk river, blacker than the night sky, gliding untiringly through reeds and fog, its opposite shore a formless opaque mass rising from an indistinct, muddy bank. “The Gladden River,” he breathed softly. It had been his aim to spend the night on its shores, and then ford it come morning. But he feared what hunted him on the river’s southerly bank, the attention Gollum had drawn to their passage. No longer did the southern marches of Loeg Ningloron offer solace. The cold touch of the barrow-wight had spread across his heart, foretelling death and torment should he linger here.

Gollum had broken his trance and cast himself into the shallow water. There he lay writhing and moaning, thrashing about in the throes of a nightmare. Silver ringlets of water sprayed into the oppressive gloom. “Give us that, Déagol, my love. Because it’s my birthday, my love, and I wants it!”

What memories had the Gladden River evoked and driven out of the crags and shadows of his ruinous mind? Aragorn had not the time nor the inclination to concern himself with it. That was a riddle for minds more curious than his at this moment. “Get up,” he commanded, and he thrust the sword at Gollum. Crossing the river was hazardous and foolish, for the fog made invisible rapids, currents and eddies, but Aragorn thought it less imprudent than remaining on this shore. Gollum ignored him. Casting a fearful glance over his shoulder, Aragorn waded into the water, which rose to his ankles and bit his toes with icy teeth. Lightly he kicked Gollum in the side. “We cannot tarry here,” he said. “Come along. Get up now.” When the wretch paid him no heed, he overpowered him, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and dragging him into the river. Gollum flailed and his thin wails receded into the night.

Aragorn sloshed through the knee-deep water. Abruptly he staggered off a shelf into water pooling near his breast, inhaling sharply with shock and pain as the angry cold seemed to freeze the very air in his lungs and chill him to the marrow. He gasped for air. His prisoner he flung over his shoulder or the creature, forestalled from swimming or wading, would drown in his bound condition. Half walking and half swimming, Aragorn floundered inelegantly through the water, hindered by his burden across his shoulders. The current was strong and threatened to rip his feet out from under him, to sweep him to the confluence. And the foul odor of Gollum so close to his face sickened him, made him lightheaded, and he fought dizziness and illness as fervently as he battled the river. A wrathful riptide knocked him off his feet like an orc broadsword. With a final surge of strength, he pitched against it, struggling for the shore. Then his knee scraped against a rocky shelf and he scrambled over it. Once again he found himself splashing through the shallows. He flung Gollum into the water and lugged the creature out with the rope.

Up the bank he climbed, for he did not risk tarrying on the muddy flats. Then he fell against another standing stone at the lip of the bank and could no longer bend his will to walking. Against the wet, bone-chilling cold, he must kindle a fire or he would not wake from dreary sleep threatening to consume him. Violently he shivered and his breathing was troubled. It took coaxing fingers that felt as though they had frozen around the hilt of the sword to nurse a fire along, a pitiful flame gasping for air but bringing heat nevertheless. Though the cold had quelled his appetite, he ate lembas anyway. Water he heated over the flames and gladly he swallowed it. At length the shivering subsided and the thick clouds dissipated from his thoughts. With a clearer head, he contemplated his grim choices – to go or wait for morning? The Gladden River was now between him and peril, Gollum was more subdued than ever, and orcs could no more see through the mist than he could. Hence Aragorn decided to wait out the night near this standing stone lest he drift far from his course in the fog.

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[i] Fellowship of the Ring. The barrow-wight in Fellowship chants this verse as it approaches Frodo. However, in the movie The Two Towers, Gollum says the first half of this verse, which is not quoted here. Since I strongly imply that Gollum is on friendly terms with the barrow-wights (there is no evidence suggesting there were wights in the Gladden Fields, but then nothing explicitly says there were not, either), I therefore reconcile Peter Jackson’s decision to give the Cold be hand and heart and bone lines to Gollum with Tolkien’s original work. Also, at my beta’s suggestion, I substituted the original second line for the one here, since it is more relevant to the types of graves you would see in the Gladden Fields.

[ii] Quenya: "Who shall see a white ship leave the last shore, the pale phantoms in her cold bosom like gulls wailing?”

[iii]:“Who shall heed a white ship, vague as a butterfly, in the flowing sea on wings like stars, the sea surging, the foam blowing, the wings shining, the light fading?”

[iv]“Who shall hear the wind roaring like leaves of forests; the white rocks snarling in the moon gleaming, in the moon waning, in the moon falling a corpse-candle; the storm mumbling, the abyss moving?”

Author's note: HTML-ing hates me and won't let me put the things that need to be in verse in verse (everything that is footnoted). If anyone who reads this knows how to do that, let me know.