Chapter XXVII: Retribution

A noise like the crash of squalling waves upon the cliffs of Anfalas thundered in Aragorn's ears. His sight was obscured, fading rapidly into darkness as the bony fingers dug further into his throat. Frantic, he threw back his head against the ground, but the moment's relief faded swiftly into anguished desperation; he had driven his assailant to tighten his hold. He was vaguely aware of a sharp knee driving into his ribs from above. Sluggishly he surmised that Gollum must be using his other leg to brace himself against the ground.

He knew that he had no time to lavish upon thoughts as slow as chilled treacle. He had scant moments before losing all mastery of himself, and yet he could neither quicken his reasoning nor act upon blind instinct. If Gollum was kneeling upon him, he realized with agonizing sloth, then he had chosen a manoeuvre ill-suited to a small attacker with a heavier victim. He might exploit that, and with that decision made he found he was able to act more quickly than he would have expected. Striking out with his right hand to distract his foe, Aragorn groped with the left for Gollum's ankle.

The creature hissed indignantly as his victim swatted his flank, and his fingers loosened a little. Aragorn was able to haul in a painful ounce of air that burned in his breast and did nothing to restore his sight. At that moment his questing hand at last found purchase on Gollum's wasted leg. He hauled upon it, twisting the limb outward so that Gollum pitched forward in a struggle to compensate without losing his hold. He succeeded: his hands held fast and squeezed still tighter as Gollum rotated his hands outward so that his fingers flanked the Ranger's spine and both thumbs rested squarely in the jugular notch beneath his larynx.

Aragorn's astonishment was amplified almost to giddiness as this change in position allowed his carotid artery to open again. He could feel the bright blood rushing upward once more, and his vision grew marginally clearer. Above him Gollum loomed, emaciated elbows locked for leverage and shoulders hefted almost to his ears. His mouth, a hideous rictus of vengeance, twisted and contorted with wordless utterances of rage and bloody malediction. Like a spectre of horrors long forgotten in Arda he hung there, suspended, as he thrust the force of his whole withered body onto his thumbs.

There was a moan like an oaken branch straining under frost. Then came a deafening crackle that yet seemed scarcely audible through the floodwaters of agony that rippled from the narrow pinion of pressure. Finally with a soft, sickening pop the cartilage gave way, and Aragorn was consumed in torment as his windpipe collapsed.

A thousand times more terrible than the simple sleep of asphyxiation was this strained and desperate death. Aragorn's chest heaved fruitlessly against the vacuum of his lungs that no air could reach. The glands in his jaw burned with a yearning that put to shame all other corporal urges. He could feel his eyes growing wide, straining against their sockets, and in his mouth his tongue began to swell until it spilled out over his lower teeth. The blackness of encroaching oblivion was gone from his eyes now, supplanted by the searing white light of torture unknowable.

Again he tried to breathe. Again he failed. His left leg spasmed. His heel dug into the mulch. The left arm flailed. There was a strange bolt of fire from his right. Gollum had thrust down one foot upon it. The darkness reared up to swallow him.

In that last instant before the irremediable moment of strangulation, Aragorn's wildly scrabbling left hand struck something that pierced it, digging into his palm with an abrupt pain sufficient to penetrate the smothering mask of torment that consumed him. Unable to remember the word for that which he was touching Aragorn seized it nonetheless and raised his arm high, his wrist twitching with pain and desperation but his hand – in a strange sacrificial gesture – held fast.

Gollum twisted like a hound shrinking from an upraised broomstick. He let loose a hoarse shriek of terror and threw his hands up to shield his head. He scrambled away, dragging on the cord that still tethered him to his captor's wrist. The arm fell leaden across the Ranger's chest, and the knife that he had seized embedded itself harmlessly in the earth.

A squealing hiss raked against Aragorn's vocal chords as he dragged in what little air could squeeze through his compromised throat. Then with a bolt of anguish almost as terrible as the first, his windpipe sprung back to its intended position. The spastic gasp as he drew in twin lungfuls of air echoed in his pounding skull. There was a moment of delicious relief, when the burning deep within him eased and the pain elsewhere was lost in the sweet euphoria of the moment, but then the exhaling wind strained against his ravaged neck and his temples began to pound in time to his hammering heart.

An anxious voice deep within him insisted that he sit up and defend himself, before Gollum's momentary fright passed and he returned to finish what he had begun, but Aragorn could not move. It was all that he could do to lie there, paralyzed with the scourges of his frantic struggle. He breathed again, more shallowly this time and not without suffering. His jaw seemed unhinged, and his tongue writhed a little, feebly, before withdrawing into the safety of his mouth. The next breath came in through his nostrils, which of course brought no more relief to his throbbing windpipe. Casting his eyes heavenwards he saw only a strange constellation of varicoloured blotches – his mind was grappling with the myriad pains of the flesh and could not lend attention to the restoration of his sight.

Another breath and his ribs began to ache. Rolling onto his right side, Aragorn managed to get his head onto his right shoulder. He coughed feebly into the dirt. Drawing up his right knee brought a little relief to his aching flanks, and after three more laborious intakes of burning air he was able to blink. That simple act did something to clear his addled eyes: the walls of bracken appeared as vague masses of shadow, and he could make out Gollum's hunched figure, watching him with menacing eyes from some small distance.

He coughed again, this time too forcefully. A stabbing agony shot forth from his neck where Gollum's thumbs had driven into it. Knotting his fists against the pain, Aragorn was compelled to open his hands again when fresh fire lanced through them. His right arm was pinned beneath his aching head, but he lifted his left so that his hand hovered before his eyes. The palm was bright with thin and swiftly running blood: he had cut himself upon the knife. Gritting his teeth against the sting, he took hold of the hilt again and jerked it out of the soft turf. The blade he angled towards Gollum in an obvious threat that was clearly understood: the creature shrank further away, covering his skull with his arms and whining wretchedly to himself.

Thus insured against further aggression, Aragorn squeezed tightly upon the hilt. The simple, quantifiable pain of the little contusion gave him a point of focus, a standard around which to rally his scattered faculties. Pragmatically, too, the gesture was a wise one. The pressure was closing the shallow wound so that it could begin to clot.

Breathing came now without catastrophic urgency, though each hollow gasp burned on its way in and came out amid a strained wheeze of pain. His left hand was numbed now, either because there was no longer any danger or because his body was slipping into shock. Aragorn wiggled his toes against the firmness of his boot-leather and decided that it was not the latter. His eyes were now as sharp as ever, and he fixed them upon Gollum while he took internal stock of himself. His chest ached from within, and his ribs were sore where he could still feel the imprint of Gollum's knee. His trachea had restored itself to its usual position, but it would be some time, he thought, before he could speak or swallow without pain. He seemed remarkably unharmed in other respects, save for the self-inflicted wound upon his hand and a familiar aching in his lower right arm. Gollum, in his attempt to prevent his victim from struggling, had trodden upon the old bite-marks and the healing abscess beneath them.

Aragorn's mouth moved as if to form words of chastisement, but the strain in his throat from even attempting to speak proved more than the effort was worth. Grimacing against the ache in his chest and the spiral of dizziness that danced in his head, he hauled himself up into a sitting position. He raised his right knee and braced himself with his heel. His left hand with the knife rested on his left thigh.

Gollum was watching him with wary hatred, doubtless torn between anger at his failure and terror of the consequences. Aragorn was too battered and exhausted for rage, but he did not doubt that it would come and he was not looking forward to the struggle between the instinct for revenge and the solemn responsibility he had undertaken sixteen years ago to bring the creature safely into custody. He had often been accused by his men in the North – most notably Halbarad, who suffered from no worshipful awe when it came to his Chieftain – of being too patient, too merciful, too perfect to be human. The sombre truth of the matter was that the countenance of patience, mercy and perfection was the product of a mighty and constant effort to suppress his more ignoble drives and to put forward in himself only those qualities that were best. He was endowed in his own measure with the choler of his race, and although after long years of practice he was most often able to rein in the wild horses of his temper the struggle was seldom without peril and at times took every filament of his will.

Now, at least, weariness prevented him from taking any action that he might latter regret. He concentrated on taking steady, gentle breaths that did not overtax his outraged windpipe. At length the manifold pains throughout his body settled into dull, persistent aches that would dog his steps for many leagues to come. Grimly he realized the there was an evil headache setting in, doubtless in equal part the fruit of the near-asphyxiation and the incompressible magnitude of the challenge still before him.

Nevertheless, he had business to attend to. A carefully measured response to this treacherous attempt at murder was required. As much as he might wish to exact vengeance for his own hurts, his duties as a jailer demanded a stern but not wantonly cruel punishment. He did not know if Gollum was capable of understanding justice, but even if he was not Aragorn did. His own self-worth was greater in value than the respect of any prisoner, and he would not sacrifice it for a moment's bloodlust. Besides, from a purely practical viewpoint, they had a long road yet to travel. He could not carry Gollum on his back all the way to Mirkwood, and so he needed to ensure at least a rudimentary level of cooperation.

He considered the situation carefully before attempting to move. What had worked before would surely work again: deprivation – and a ducking in Anduin – had curbed Gollum's hateful impulses for a spell at least. He would try the same now. His right arm was stiff, and there were fresh patches of wetness soaking through his sleeve, but he could attend to that hurt once his captive was secured. Ignoring the tendrils of pain that crept into his elbow and up towards his shoulder as he worked, he tugged his cloak out from under him. It was a wrench to do so, but he tore loose another breadth of wool and with his knife reduced it to useable strips. It was the time for a wry comment about what tiny remnant of the garment would remain when he reached his destination, but his aching throat curbed his sharp tongue.

He shaped the gag carefully this time, wrapping one piece of cloth around the other. There was no need to cause the creature excessive discomfort; what he had in mind for Gollum's hands would be punishment enough. He reduced the remaining strips to narrow lengths of binding cloth, and then set aside his knife.

Had it not been for the tether between them he never would have closed the distance between himself and his captive. Gollum writhed and wailed, but Aragorn was swift and strong and angry. Soon the piercing cries were muffled behind the wool, the gag tied as tightly as the Ranger could make it without throttling the wretch. He had lashed Gollum's bony wrists together, and now he set to work with the ribbons of cloth.

Because of the need for haste it was not expedient to bind Gollum's hands behind his back. The creature used his arms as he walked – if walking it could be called. Yet if Aragorn left his fingers free and before him, even with his wrists joined, there was a risk that he would try once again to strangle his captor. So he set about wrapping the wizened hands in layer after layer of cloth so that the fingers were all encased in a sort of tight mitten, immobilized against one another in their shroud. When this was done he anchored the thumbs against them too, wrapping and wrapping until from wrist to tips Gollum's hands were wrapped entirely in cloth. Carefully Aragorn pinched the very end of one finger to be sure that it was not engorged with blood. Satisfied that the bindings were not so tight as to cause stagnation and blood poisoning, he sat back to survey his work.

At some point in the proceedings Gollum had fallen into a horrified silence. Now he squatted before his warden, staring in terrified consternation at the bindings. He shot a look of querying fear at Aragorn, as if to communicate his alarm at this innovation in fetters.

Aragorn licked his lower lip and braced himself. With an effort that brought him more pain than he would have expected, he forced his voice through his battered airways. The resulting sound was hoarse and harsh, so cracked and unpleasant that he would have been ashamed to speak before any other company. Yet the desire to express himself proved worth both the ignominy and the discomfort.

"You should have used the knife," he said.

lar

When dusk descended the Ranger drove his captive out of their shelter. Gollum had proved reluctant to move, and so Aragorn had cut himself a stave from the bracken-bushes and used it to prod him along. He drove his prisoner before him now, the stick a constant reminder to press on. Gollum's gait was more uneven than ever before, for he could not splay his palms for support. Yet he was moving and the Ranger moved with him while the night deepened around them and Eastemnet vanished into darkness.

While he walked Aragorn considered the ramifications of the day's events. Clearly he had become complacent, trusting his prisoner's current standards of behaviour and stopping to rest without ensuring that he was properly secured. More troublesome still was the fact that he had allowed himself to slip into so deep a slumber that he did not awaken at the first intimation of a threat. Worse, he knew that "allow" was not the right verb to describe what had happened. He had had little choice in the matter: his body, long robbed of the deep and restorative sleep that even his hardy mind craved from time to time, had overcome both instinct and good sense. So worn down was he by this road that the need for sleep had overpowered his predisposition to self-preservation. It could not be allowed to happen again.

It could not be allowed to happen again, and yet it would. He had been on the road with his captive for more than a fortnight, and he had not even come within sight of the Hithaeglir. The road he had chosen was safer, no doubt, than the path that led by the doorstep of the Nazgûl, but it was almost exponentially longer. Sooner or later he had to sleep, and deeply. Sooner or later, Gollum would have another chance to attempt assassination.

Far away a hunting owl cried. Aragorn's stomach wrenched unpleasantly. Only yesterday, his primary concern had been securing some game to feed them both. Now that goal seemed almost absurd in its simplicity. Yet soon he would have to hunt: the diet of winter roots would not sustain him long on the road that lay ahead, and his hoarded stash was dwindling.

A sudden and profound weariness came upon him at that thought. Was it not enough to travel this unending road, accompanied only by a creature bent on murdering him in his sleep? Why did he also have to struggle even to meet the bare essentials of survival? Could not fortune dispense some little aid to speed him on his path?

Yet he knew no aid would come. This was the road he had chosen, and it was the road that he must walk. The will must be strong, though the flesh might fail. Long years ago, when he was still too young and innocent to fully comprehend the ramifications of his choice, he had set himself upon this path. Whether it ended in triumph or oblivion, his destiny was fixed. He must continue to walk, although he walked in darkness, until he could walk no more. And then, he thought sardonically, he would crawl – until his hands were bruised and tattered and his knees bled. There was no turning back, no wayside inn upon the interminable path of life. He had to walk on.

And on, on, on into the night while the plains of Rohan rolled by in shadow around him, all the time driving his prisoner before him into the never-ending uncertainty ahead.