Sorry (again) for the wait. I have all kinds of finals coming up for school, so I can't really promise that I'll be updating much more often than this. :-( Review!

Orophin had been watching her as they rode. She had stayed quiet, and her eyes were filled with sadness. He knew not to ask why. She carried herself with an air which no could not be adopted by training, but birth only. He settled his horse a few paces behind hers, to give them both the privacy of their own thoughts. Her mare had wandered to the talan shortly after he had brought her there.

He had asked her what had driven her to come to Lorien at such a time, alone. She had refused to answer him, saying only: Where I come from is not your concern, lord, for never will I return. Her sharp tone had startled him into silence.

Now it was growing late and he knew that they would need to make camp, or else continue riding on in the dark, which was madness. The orcs had not yet been completely exterminated from his lands and some still roamed about at night. Arien was low in the sky, her golden face had begun to sink below the mountains. He urged Losgil forward until he walked shoulder to shoulder with Irime's horse.

"We should make camp." He said in Sindarin. "I know of a place not far ahead beside the road where we can stop." She nodded curtly but did not speak. He sighed, defeated, and Losgil trotted ahead. A few minutes later he guided them down an offshoot path. Eventually it ended in an open area, probably about half of a league inward from the main trail.

They did not speak as he tied up the horses and lit a fire. Orophin had with him provisions enough to last him for a few more days at least, but he did not know how long those would last with Irime taken into consideration. They had a small meal of fruit and bread, meager by all accounts. Orophin had a flask of miruvor which he offered to share, but Irime had ignored him. He might as well have been alone.

There was a shadow on her which he could not name, but was there nonetheless. He played the scenarios over in his head, trying to piece this puzzle together. Yet, always, he drew a blank. Her refusal to speak with him, except when directly asked, puzzled Orophin. He had expected her to open up as they traveled, but it seemed as though, if there be any change at all, she had withdrawn even more. She had a far off look in her eyes, like she was looking through him, not at him. It was unnerving. He had to do something, or else he would go mad.

He began on safe ground, at least, he thought so. "Do you like horses?" The question was literally the same in both languages, so he knew she would understand.

Irime looked at him in bewilderment. Had she not made it clear enough that she wished to be alone? Was personal space something that had been lost on this Lorien Elf? "Aye." She said through gritted teeth.

Orophin looked up at the darkening sky with annoyance. "What is your horse's name?"

Irime whirled around, her eyes filled with disbelief. "Avo bedo!" (Do not speak!) She nearly yelled, in almost flawless sindarin.

Orophin was taken aback. She had yelled at him. It seemed almost habitual for her, that is, yelling at the opposite gender. He huffed and threw another log on the fire, literally and figuratively. "Avobedo!" He called. Her horse did not look up. "Avobedo!" Again, the mare did not even flick an ear. He turned to Irime. "Avobedo does not know her name."

Irime gaped. First he bombarded her with questions about her past, and now he was mocking her! She stood and stalked off. She could feel the tears begin to prick her eyes again. It was not the action that had angered her as much as how alike it was to something Elrohir would have done. Had she not been so preoccupied with her thoughts she may have seen the shadows in the forest around them, or heard the snapping of the twigs, but she did not.

There was a screech and then nearly two dozen orcs sprang from the forest around them. Irime was weaponless except for a small dagger. A large orc rushed at her, a long scimitar in its claws. Taking careful aim, she threw her knife. It embedded itself in the creature's chest. Yanking it out, she looked around for Orophin. He was in the midst of the fray, slashing at the orcs with his knives. She raised her dagger to throw again, but before she could a cold blade cut her down. The last thing she saw was Orophin's horrified expression as he watched her fall.

The Elf stood at the edge of the forest, watching intently. The orcs had stopped to rest outside of Lothlorien in a crevice in the mountains. Their prisoner had been thrown against the rocks like useless baggage. The Elf did not know who they served, and did not care. He was outnumbered, that was all that mattered. He studied their positions with a trained eye. There were only seventeen left, out of what he guessed had been a rather organized raiding party. A few were nursing wounds. Only a few seemed alert enough to grab their weapons in time.

He drew his knives and slowly advanced. They did not hear him approach, and two were dead before the others realized they were being attacked. Three more fell before any had regained their senses enough to reach for any kind of protection. He watched one knock an arrow in its short bow, and could not turn in time before it let the arrow fly. He embraced the pain that hit him as the arrow planted itself deep in his shoulder like a long lost lover. Using his fury to fuel his body, the Elf slew the remaining orcs.

Panting heavily, he collapsed onto the ground. The blood from his wound had soaked through his tunic. He grimaced as he pulled the arrow from his flesh. The flow of blood was renewed. It was not fatal, unfortunately. Wrapping his shoulder in a strip of cloth from his tunic, he turned his attention to the captive. They had long silver hair, a trait of the Galadhrim. He could not tell if they were still alive, but the large telltale bloodstain on their chest made him worry. He walked over and knelt beside the ocs' prisoner.

He was young, for an elf, with fair features. Legolas peeled back the prisoner's blood soaked tunic and looked at the wound. It was not too deep, but its placing could not have been worse. It was deep in the young elf's abdomen. The Prince removed it without causing much further damage. He tore a long piece of cloth from the elf's cloak and wrapped it around his middle. He grabbed the discarded arrow and studied it.

He cursed. It was poisoned.