Chapter Four: Hope Given and Hope Lost

A glorious spring day had risen over the land.  The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky, and no sound, save that of a few birds, touched the still afternoon air.

No sound, that is, that could be distinguished by mortal ears.

Legolas stiffened.

“What is it?”  Aragorn whispered.

Rather than replying, Legolas leapt into a nearby tree and disappeared into its branches.

Aragorn sighed.  He wondered with a sinking heart how many further delays they would face before this journey’s end.  Already, he felt they had wasted too much time in fighting that should have been spent in tracking.

Legolas’ head appeared in the branches a few feet away.  “Come,” was all he said.

Wordlessly, Aragorn tethered the horses and followed his companion into the tree branches, keeping as silent as he knew how.

Legolas led him through the trees for several minutes.  Finally, he came to a halt on the edge of a small clearing.  “Look.”  The elf’s voice, though soft, carried a current of hope tinged with pain.

Slowly, making as little noise as possible, Aragorn crept forward on the tree branch and peered through the leaves into the clearing.

A group of six men knelt around a small fire, cooking something over it.  All six talked coarsely, with many rough jests and short, barking laughs.  Seven horses grazed at intervals around the clearing; six of them looked as rough as the men around the fire.  The seventh, however, was a clean and noble beast who looked out of place among such coarse surroundings.

Then, Aragorn’s gaze was drawn to a seventh figure, this one near the edge of the clearing.  The king’s breath caught in his throat, and a tear sprang to his eye.

Almost exactly across the clearing from him, a slim, female figure was bound securely to a tree.  Long hair the color of the midnight sky concealed her bent head.

The slightest of breaths escaped Aragorn’s lips – “Dómiel!”

Beside the king, Legolas whispered something so soft that even Aragorn could not understand it.

“I must go to her!”  Giving no heed to the danger, Aragorn tensed to spring.  Legolas let out a hiss of warning.

Then, the bound girl raised her head.

Aragorn bit back a cry of utter despair. 

What peered out from beneath the veil of rich, black hair was not the familiar, grey-eyed face he expected, but a younger face, with soft brown eyes.

She was not Dómiel. 

It was only after this realization that Aragorn noticed the girl’s thinly-shod feet.  Both were planted firmly on the ground; both ankles were straight and healthy.

The unique pain of cruelly dashed hope crashed into Aragorn’s heart, and he bit back another cry of anguish.   Despite his pain, he found his gaze drawn inexplicably back to the captured girl.

Clearly, she had not been treated well.  Bruises of varying shades covered both sides of her face, marring the smooth texture of her skin.  Dried blood marked where her lip had been split – more than once, it seemed.  Despite her injuries, however, the girl’s chin remained high, even when one of the men approached her.

“Are you willing to speak yet, vixen?” the man asked harshly.

The girl gave him no reply.

Her silence earned her a slap across the face.  “You shall break, girl,” the man growled.  “Sooner or later, you will tell me everything I need to know…won’t you?”

Still, the girl remained silent.

With a snarl, the man backhanded her viciously.  Then, without another word, he turned and re-joined his companions at the fire.

“Still stubborn?” one of the others asked.

“So far,” the first man replied, “but I shall break her yet.  She has only been away from home a few days now.  We have days and days – as long as we need – to bend her will to ours.”

If the imprisoned girl heard the remark, she allowed no reaction to touch her features.  From his position in the tree across from her, Aragorn could clearly see her eyes as they wandered up toward the sky, as if seeking answers no other could see.

Her eyes leaked despair and utter hopelessness, and they held no illusions.  Whatever circumstances had brought her to these men, she did not expect to ever leave again.  Her eyes reflected the wish of the condemned - a merciful death.

Aragorn turned away.  Silently, he returned to the horses, Legolas close behind.

“We must press on,” Aragorn said, his voice ragged with emotion.  “Our mission has not changed.”  Nevertheless, the despair in those eyes haunted his mental vision.

Legolas sensed the division in his friend’s mind.  “You must choose, Aragorn.  You trade the freedom of that girl for the possible freedom of your daughter.  No other can make that choice.”

“We must press on,” Aragorn repeated softly.  “And yet…” his voice caught.  “And yet…were that girl my daughter, and I merely a passer-by…”  Pain flickered in Aragorn’s gray eyes as a battle was waged within his mind – a battle between his love for Dómiel and his sense of compassion toward one in need.  Finally, his chin came up in determination.  “I cannot leave an innocent to suffer in that manner.  I could never forgive myself if I passed by a child in such need.”

Legolas nodded solemnly, but the slightest flicker of an approving smile touched his face. 

As one, the two warriors moved back toward the clearing.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The six men around the fire kept up a continuous stream of conversation and jesting as they ate.  None stood watch; none noticed slight movements in the trees that could not be attributed to bird or beast of the forest.

Without even a hint of warning, an arrow seemingly appeared in the center of the circle of men, embedded just outside the fire-ring.

“Surrender!  You are surrounded!” a voice cried.

The six men leaped to their feet.  “Who dares to approach us?” one of them called back.

“One who wishes for the freedom of your captive.”

At these words, the girl’s head came up. 

“We will never let her go!” one of the girl’s captors cried.

“Than you shall never leave this place alive,” the voice in the trees vowed.

The group of men in the clearing huddled together and began to whisper, deciding what to do.

An arrow neatly flew through the group, touching none of them.  “The next arrow shall not miss,” stated the voice in the trees.

Suddenly, one of the men broke from the group and sprinted across the clearing toward the girl, pulling a knife from a sheath at his side as he ran.  “She will die first!” he screamed.

The twang of a bow cut through the air, and the man fell to the ground, an elven arrow through his heart.

The other five men instantly dropped to their knees, hands out before them in a gesture of surrender.

A moment later, Aragorn dropped from the trees, Andúril in his hand.  “Leave this place,” he ordered the men, his voice low and dangerous.  “The land of Gondor is no longer safe for you – flee to the evil realm from whence you came!”

The five men wasted no time in scrambling to their feet and sprinting away from the dark-haired vision of vengeance who had so easily defeated them.  Aragorn followed them into the forest for a short ways, ensuring that they did not turn back.

While his companion followed the captors, Legolas also dropped lightly from the trees and made his way to the captive.  Drawing one of his knives from its sheath on his back, he sliced through the cords that bound the girl with one stroke.

Not expecting to be freed so violently, the girl fell forward onto her knees.  As she began to stand, she felt a strong hand help her to her feet.

“Thank…” her words died off as she saw her rescuer’s face.  “You...you are an elf!”

“Indeed,” Legolas replied wryly.

“Forgive me,” the girl said softly.  “I have never met one of your people before…I…”

Legolas shook his head.  “No apology is necessary.  Come, let me take you away from this place.”  Being careful of her injuries, he led her through the trees to where his and Aragorn’s horses had been tied. 

The girl followed obediently, never taking her eyes from the elf’s face.

Moments later, Aragorn joined them.  “How do you feel?” he asked the girl.

A flicker of suspicion mixed with fear leaped into her eyes as she turned her gaze to the man, and her shoulders stiffened, but she gave no answer.

Suddenly, Aragorn realized the cause of both her fear and her suspicion.  “You have nothing to fear from us.  We shall not harm you, and we want nothing from you; we simply want to see you returned to your home and your people.”

The girl remained silent for another long moment.  Finally, she spoke.  “Thank you…thank you for rescuing me.”

“No thanks is needed,” Aragorn replied.  “I am called Strider.”  He purposefully did not introduce Legolas. 

“My name is Doleth.  I am the daughter of the Mayor of the town of Molenth.  Do you know the place?”

“A small town in Eastern Gondor, is it not?” Aragorn responded

Doleth nodded.  “About two days ride from here, as near as I can tell, anyway.”

“How did you come to such a state, Doleth?”  Aragorn asked as he gently sat the girl down on a boulder and began digging through his pack for a cloth and his water-skin to clean her wounds.

After a moment of hesitation, Doleth met Aragorn’s gaze in a gesture of desperate trust.  “’Tis a long tale, good sir, but I am willing to tell it.  Legends hold that a vast store of gold, silver, and precious jewels were concealed in and around the village of Molenth many centuries ago by the great kings of old.  It is said that the secret to the treasure’s location has been passed down from father to son in the line of the rulers of the city.  However, this tale is merely a legend.  If such a treasure horde exists, than my father, the Mayor of Molenth, has never been told of it.  Nevertheless the legend lives on within the minds of many men, especially those who wish to gain wealth through illicit means.  This is not the first time I have been captured by those seeking to obtain the location of the treasure from my father.  Though, it is the first time they have assumed I knew that location.”

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a brief glance.  Aragorn did not need to ask Legolas his opinion on what to do next – he knew what they must do.  “You are free from their clutches now, little one.  My companion and I will see you safely home.”

Doleth looked from one to the other, eyes wide.  “I thank you, kind sirs.  I know you must have far more pressing errands than escorting a girl home to her father, so I thank you all the more for your kindness.”

“Indeed.”  Aragorn could not keep the word from passing his lips.  Doleth did not hear it, but Legolas did, and the elf shot his friend a warning look.  Aragorn nodded slightly in return.  He did not need to burden this child with his own worries and doubts.

That evening, as Doleth slept peacefully and Legolas kept watch, Aragorn lay sleepless, eyes fixed on the stars.  Dómiel, my daughter, do you sleep in peace?  Or do you weep in sorrow and fear?  Keep your hope close, my daughter – know that I come.  Aragorn took a deep breath, steadying his nerves.  Keep hope close.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Blackness.

It was not merely physical, but mental.  It penetrated and enveloped Dómiel’s mind and spirit, clouding all other senses and eliminating all hints of joy as she was dragged – where, she could not tell.  A rough, dirty cloth was bound tightly across her eyes, as it had been since that morning.

Abruptly, the two men dragging her halted their rapid marching.  A moment later, she was flung roughly sideways.  Stubbornly, she swallowed a cry of pain as – for what seemed like the hundredth time since her forced journey had begun – she landed on her crippled legs, which buckled instantly beneath her.

Somewhere in the darkness, near her crumpled form, a violent bang shook the air as an iron door slammed to.

Moving quite slowly, her muscles protesting every movement, Dómiel slipped the blindfold from her face.  She found herself to be in a stone cell, perhaps one-and-a-half times her height across.  A barred window scarcely larger than her hand provided her only access to light and air – and both came from the corridor beyond.  A straw pallet in one corner made up her only furniture.  For a princess used to gardens, open courtyards, and vast halls, the cell seemed no larger than a coffin.

Gingerly, Dómiel stretched, ensuring that each part of her abused body still worked.  Both abused ankles throbbed in a slow, constant beat that echoed the thumping of her fear-riddled heart.  With practiced gentleness, she massaged her ankles and her wrists, which bore thick, red welts from the cords that had continually bound her during the several-day journey.

As she looked about her cell, taking in the bleak stone walls and the absolute stillness, fear mixed with despair in her spirit.  I am alone, she thought with an ever-sinking heart.  I am alone, and no one can help me here.  Fighting the absolute terror that this thought provoked, she lay down on the straw pallet.  Despite her desperate effort of will, two drops of water spilled from her eyes and slid to the straw – the only witness to her utter hopelessness.