Unlikely Rescue

Chapter 8 - Taking a Chance

Thank you for reading this! Also thank you to Cynarr who's just gone through and voted and commented on previous chapters! I'm writing this as fast as possible so here's the next chapter :)

Aragorn sprinted as fast as he could from the dungeons. He was seething with rage. How could Thranduil lock a young elf up like that, beat him and torment him? It was - it was - unthinkable! Unspeakable! Inconceivable!

He hated the king. He hated this place. He hated everyone here who put up with such things. He wished that he had stayed in Rivendell, or not walked out of that meeting...

But it was too late now. He couldn't go back, couldn't turn back time. All this responsibility seemed to have suddenly fallen upon him. He couldn't just leave the elfling there to die, not now he'd seen him and the terrible conditions he was kept in. He looked starved to death! He was more of a skeleton than an elf, and that haunted, world weary expression in those blue eyes...

He hadn't know until now that eyes could hold so much pain. That a person could even endure as much pain as those eyes had held.

That's when he'd run. How could he stand to look at those eyes, so haunted with pain and fear? Fear of - what? Of him? Of Thranduil? Of everything?

Aragorn slowed when he reached the entrance to the dungeons and, waiting patiently for the hallway before him to be clear, he quickly marked a small X into the wall of the passageway, which hurt his finger rather a lot more than he'd expected, and darted out into the corridor, turning left and composing himself before walking calmly back towards his chambers.

Rounding a corner, Aragorn jumped back with a hastily suppressed yell of surprise as he almost crashed straight into Thranduil, who was probably on his way to the dungeons, and to the elfling, at that very moment.

The Elvenking continued walking with a look of anger and, without so much as a glance at the human, muttered, "Mortals!" and left.

Caught in a sudden rush of adrenaline, Aragorn followed silently, ensuring he was far enough behind to avoid being spotted and to remain inconspicuous to the passing servants.

Watching from a corner, Aragorn kept his eyes on the passageway the King had entered and walked briskly to it, quickly checking the wall. And there it was.

The X.

Aragorn had trained as a ranger, and had, among other things, learnt a great deal of tracking and stealth. Glad once again for the efforts of Halbarad, who had trained him mercilessly, Aragorn crept silently towards the dungeons.

Every other second or so, the ranger stopped to listen, ensuring that he was alone. Nervously, he continued towards the place where he knew the cell was. As he neared, he became more alert, stopping more often.

Suddenly, he froze. He had heard...

There it was again. The unmistakable crack of a whip as it whistled through the air and the soft thud of its impact on skin. Aragorn cringed as he crept closer, half glad for the cover the noise provided and half angered and horrified that Thranduil would do anything like this.

The nearer he came, the more he could understand the raised voice echoing down the corridor.

"How can you live with yourself! You did it, YOU did it and it is you who will have to pay!"

Aragorn's heart skipped a beat. Did what? It must have been something terrible if Thranduil was so angry...

Perhaps he should leave, forget the elfling. It wasn't his concern, anyway. But then again-

His thoughts were cut off by Thranduil's footsteps echoing down the corridor. Was he leaving already? This couldn't be good for the child; even from the short space of time Aragorn has known him, it was clear that the King wasn't finished yet. Aragorn knew he had to do something.

He had to distract him.

Aragorn stepped out in front of the King, judging the distance far enough that his face would not be seen, and moving fast enough to ensure it. Spinning on his heel, he sprinted back to the hallway for the second time that day. Not hesitating, this time he took the right-hand passageway and darted along it without a look back. Swinging wildly around corners and hastily dodging surprised servants, he leapt into a narrow doorway, slipped through, and closed the door behind him. He sat with his back against the door and breathed a sigh of relief before taking in his surroundings.

The room he found himself in was bare, more of a supply cupboard really. It was furnished only with shelves lining every wall, apart from a small space where the door opened, and each shelf was full of boxes.

Curious, Aragorn stood and walked over to the shelves. The first box he looked in was full of newly made arrows. The second, daggers. It was not really an armoury, but more the sort of place where spare weapons would be stored until the armoury needed a new supply.

Aragorn was intrigued as to what sort of supplies the Woodland Realm would use, and so he continued to search. Most boxes just held weapons of various makes, sizes and strengths. He saw intricately carved bows complete with beautiful quivers filled with perfectly crafted arrows, fine white-handled daggers with beautifully balanced, thin and sharp edges, long swords standing guard besides smaller, more usable weapons and even a small stock of long quarter staffs piled in a corner.

And then, of course, there were boxes of other supplies: food and drink, but not much of that, and tools of every sort, from slender, elegant needles and silk threads to hammers and axes.

It was, however, one small box which caught Aragorn's eye and set the idea off in his mind. Opening the lid, he revealed row upon row of lockpicks. They were beautiful.

Through much training and hard work, Aragorn has mastered the art of lockpicking from his father, Elrond. He had been told that 'you never know when it may help you' and 'you should never forget it.'

Now the idea was forming in his mind. It was perfect. He had everything he needed: these lockpicks, a clear route to the dungeons and, most importantly, he was safe in the knowledge that Thranduil was elsewhere, looking for him.

But he couldn't, could he? After all, the child was in prison for a reason; he must have committed some crime, and from the treatment he received, it must have been bad.

Having lived with elves for the twenty years of his life, Aragorn was pretty good at guessing elf ages. Still, it was impossible to get it spot on, but he tried. The elfling looked about fifteen, so maybe... 100? Something close to that, anyway. So from the look of some of those scars, he must have committed the crime at around fifty. That would mean he was about ten years old, by elven standards.

Prisoner for life, from at most the age of ten? It was disgusting. Whatever the child's crime was, it couldn't deserve that treatment. No child could kill or injure at ten.

Mind made up, Aragorn slipped out of the door and headed towards the dungeons. This was it.

He was taking a chance.

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