Chapter Four: Lady Diyrenë

He had expected there to be more to the caravan, he really had – as in a procession of roughly thirty people, possibly with a few cattle and mules to complete it. However, there were in fact only eleven people, three of whom were women. Their supplies were carried in various bundles strapped to the horses' saddles, as was customary for the Dúnedain, their garb simple and easily fitting with the terrain. Just like Elves, Legolas fancied wryly. The only difference, perhaps – barring obvious style - was that the cloth adorning Legolas' back was very light material, and that of a Ranger tended to be heavier. But it was all designed with one purpose in mind, and that was to conceal.

Cirnan led him over to a tall, proud woman, sat astride a bay mare. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in lengthy blonde waves, which shone brilliantly despite the weather. A thick cloak was clasped at her throat, of such length it rested like a blanket over her horse's flanks. Although she wore a lengthy maternity dress, she was seated with her legs either side of the saddle, to which Legolas gave an inward smile. There is only one lady I know who would do that…

'Mae govannen, Lady Diyrenë,' he said respectfully, frowning slightly at the unmistakable rasp in his tone. He bowed after the Elven fashion, to which she responded appropriately, a smile gracing her lovely face.

'My Lord Legolas,' her voice chimed. 'It is long since our paths last met: we have much to discuss-' but she regarded him for a second, and then added: 'Actually, I think I shall do the talking – you may listen … it would not do to strain your voice. Don't worry; I have already been informed about what has happened to you,' she said, smiling sweetly.'

Legolas merely nodded his appreciation – even those few words had taxed his throat a little too much, and it was currently in the process of punishing him for his flippancy.

'Ellalaín?' she sang out to one of her maids, who instantly became very attentive and abandoned the biscuit she had been nibbling discreetly. 'Could you fetch me the salve for bruising and whelps? And could you also bring over a spare horse – the skewbald will do.'

Ellalaín offered a quick nod of acknowledgement and sprang off to do as she was bid.

'You do not have to go through this trouble on my behalf, my Lady,' Legolas began, as loud as he dared, but he was waved into silence.

'Do not be silly, my Prince,' the woman responded sincerely. She reached down a slender hand and carefully peeled Legolas' shirt collar from his neck. She winced as she analysed it. 'Oh, you definitely need the salve,' she commented grimly. 'That looks insufferably sore to me – no wonder you cannot speak… Still, this salve will help you with it, there is no doubt about that; my mother created it, you know. It's very good for this kind of injury.'

A shallow clay pot was given to Diyrenë, and the horse to Legolas.

'She's old, bless her,' Diyrenë commented on the mare, who did not seem overly bothered by being passed on to a new rider, eyes half closed and head lowered a little. Legolas had no trouble mounting, though he pulled a slight face when he sat in the saddle.

'Oh yes,' Diyrenë suddenly realised. 'I had forgotten the Firstborn ride bareback; we can remove the tack, if you would prefer?'

'Thank you, my Lady, but this is fine,' Legolas answered amiably, shifting slightly in the leather seat in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. Ai Elbereth! How many decades is it since I last did this? I don't know how the Adan can bare to ride like this all the time.

The storm's power lessened a little, but the snow did not cease its decent, gradually strengthening its protective hold over the earth. The horses plodded mindlessly along, caring little for the sea of white they had to wade through. And Diyrenë chatted along with Legolas, each finding the company of the other pleasing enough. She had talked mostly, as the Elf's throat still gave him some pain. But the salve was having a great effect, dulling the soreness significantly, and he soon found himself able to converse back – though still a little restricted…

'We are going to have such a future,' Diyrenë smiled, placing a hand on her swollen belly. 'I've already made the plans: we will live in a nice little house in the village, and I shall grow crops and sew and keep chickens to sell the eggs, and-'

'-So you do not plan to lead an idle life, then?' Legolas quipped lightly.

'Oh no! I could not simply sit around like so many other ladies do; I'd go out of my mind, Legolas, really I would. Being waited on hand and foot is not my idea of a life. Of course, it's all right for you men. Take yourself, or example: you have your responsibilities – and they are not slight, by any means – but you can go out and live your own life. You are not told that you can't do one thing or another because you are "too delicate". Men are afforded all of the privileges in life.'

Legolas frowned slightly at that comment, carefully thinking over his response. 'I agree that you should lead a full life, regardless of you gender,' he replied slowly.

'However?'

'However, life is not all that joyful for us…' He paused, not quite knowing what to say next. But he regarded Diyrenë for a moment, then continued bluntly… 'Would you really want to go to war, my Lady?'

'War? If the situation called for it, then yes. I would.'

'No, would you want to go to war? Could you kill a man after looking in his eyes, seeing him move, knowing he breathed, just like you? Could you put an end to all of that, and listen to his pain as he died? And what of the worst thought of all: what if he had a wife? Children? Awaiting his arrival back home, when in fact you knew he was never going to return, all because of what you did? In times of conflict, men have no choice in the matter. We have to.'

Lady Diyrenë was silent for a moment, clearly thinking over his words. 'I have never viewed it from that perspective before,' she murmured, more to herself than Legolas. But then she turned to look at him, a question in her eyes, which her lips followed up on only seconds later…

'You have lived this out, I assume?'

'Yes,' Legolas responded, though his tone had become a little distant, and his eyes were unseeing. 'Yes, I have. Every time I kill a man. There is nothing worse.' He gave a mirthless snort. 'Sometimes, I envy you women.

'It is rare that it happens, mind,' he smiled oddly. 'But it happens, sometimes, and when it does…' His voice trailed, and when he failed to pick the topic back up, Diyrenë knew for certain that he did not wish to divulge in it any further, and so let it lie.

They rode in silence for a time, Legolas still shifting occasionally in the saddle he was so unused to. 'I seriously doubt that I shall ever be able to understand the Adan and their love of riding with these things.'

Diyrenë smiled. She knew he was making an attempt at lifting the silence, and she openly embraced it… 'Saddles are practical devices – are you telling me, Thranduilion, that Elves never ride with saddles?'

'Some do,' Legolas replied after some consideration. 'I know that Lord Glorfindel of Imladris uses one; then again, Lord Glorfindel also rides with bells attached to his tack. I don't think he is the best example to use … I can think of no-one sane that normally rides with a saddle.'

'I shall tell him you said that when I next go to Imladris.'

'I should think he would agree with me, actually.'

Dol Guldur's shadow stretched over this part of the forest, even though they were over a league from the fortification. The chill fingers of the darkness groped at covered flesh as it snaked wickedly through the tiniest gap in clothing. It bit deep, and Gwareth was actually looking forward to leaving the dank cloak of misery the Black Fortress evoked in his mind. It is such a very depressing and drab hole, he thought to himself. All in that place was designed exclusively to go against everything normal living creatures thrived upon; it had done nothing for his mood, and it had made his horse exceptionally difficult to handle. The beast simply could not cope with the sheer fear it felt under the Necromancer's secondary fortress, and the dapple-grey's muscles were tight as coiled springs beneath him.

The men that had been selected to accompany him on this most benign of missions were clearly relieved to be leaving. Gwareth scowled with disgust as they practically cowered like dogs on their horses under the darkness. Pathetic children.

The Orcs, on the other hand, seemed to be quite excitable. They skittered along in front of the horses, constantly shifting their dark eyes into the pressing stillness of the forest, hunting for the man-flesh they had been promised. Orcs. He detested the loathsome wretches. Gwareth harboured no love for Elves at all, but even they were better than these grotesque atrocities, and he still found it hard to think that something like these could come from a people so completely opposite. Still. Orcs were as close to hounds as he was going to get, and their keen noses would most likely come in useful for seeking out his quarry.

As for the mission, he had never accepted anything so humiliating in all his life – the next time his services were hired, he most certainly would not mention this to his employer. A baby. He had been hired – for a considerably large amount of gold, mind – to kill a baby. It was an embarrassment, and further more an insult. Finely honed skills such as his should not be wasted on such meagre trivialities. He found it very difficult to perceive exactly how an infant could be of any threat to the great Dark Lord Sauron, whom he felt about as much respect for as he did his stinking servants.

He had received no intelligence to suggest the child had actually been birthed yet, which would mean to indirectly slaughter the baby, he would have to take down the mother. That was certainly no great task. Women bore no challenge to him: his father had taught him well about them … they were there for one thing and one thing only – but it was wise to chose carefully before taking any for mating purposes. Gwareth's mother had been very carefully selected, and his father had spent a full month spying on her. As she was a maid in the Mirkwood King's palace, he had been forced to take extra care when he watched, memorising the guard shifts and the times in which the maids went on their certain errands. The hardest part, his father later confessed to his son, was getting her on her own so that he could successfully steal her away without being stymied … but once he had, she was his, and nothing either she or the numerous search parties that were sent out could do would change that.

Immortality. That had been his chief goal with his heir, hence an Elven maiden for a forced wife – but he had never truly grasped the fact that immortality was something achieved only with solely Elven pairings, or, at best, a gift from the Valar. The closest thing to immortality that could be gained with such coupling was prolonged life, and Gwareth certainly had that; seventy-four years he had walked the earth, and his face told the story only of a man of thirty. The strong jaw was well structured, covered by a finely trimmed beard. His eye shape came from his mother, as did his overall striking features – his father had never been anything special to gaze upon. But his eye colour came from his father: cold, pale blue, chill as an icy morning in deepest winter. They were assassin's eyes.

Although being related to Elves was something he was far from proud of, it did hold its advantages. As well as inheriting a good appearance, Gwareth also sported the infamous pointed ears, which he covered in his shame with his hair, keeping them concealed by confining his dark locks in a long queue passed his shoulders. They were an atrocity, sullying his perfection in his eyes … but there were advantages to his heritage. His ears were keener than those of any fox, and his eyes were sharp as the greatest of eagles. He also governed a fantastic sense of smell, and he moved with such cat-like grace and lightness of foot that he was imperceptible to any he chose to advance upon.

Which made him the best assassin in Middle-earth that money could hire.

It was such a fabulous gift, really, to have Elven blood running in his veins. It enriched his abilities, making him a truly deadly adversary. A natural talent with bow, sword and dagger gave him that extension of his body that was so desired to take life. A simple cut, a single shot to the heart, that was all it took. However, he could not help but find it very entertaining when his prey fought back. The longest a man had managed to elude him for had been three days, and those hours had proven to be most amusing. He could not help but chuckle when his victims were so disillusioned as to think they were actually capable of getting away. Fools. When a wolf pack picked out a particular deer from a fleeting herd, it never got away. He was just the same…

This child and its mother would have no option of escape, either. At least this task would be over and done with shortly, and then he could go and find some real work.