WOW! An UPDATE!

Thanks for that review out of nowhere Randomisation, it was really appreciated. Therefore this chappie's dedicated to you, and it's a long one!

There's trouble ahead in the life of the Mordorian Lass, and she isnt half going to make Aragorn's life difficult! Enjoy, and review!

Chapter 10

5 hours earlier…

Mornaundumë had finally awoken from her tormented dreams at the feel of his hand on her forehead.

Shivering, she sat up, knocking his hand off her sweat-strewn face. Wide-eyed she gazed around this place he had put her, her body swaying from side to side in motion to the slightly rocking wagon.

Her mind, confused and irrational as it was at the moment, hadn't had the time to make sense of her current situation before her mouth had opened to screech all the foulest curses she had learned in the black speech.

However the man's sudden placement of his hand over her mouth caused the cries to be silenced before they left her mouth.

Gazing defiantly at him, she had nevertheless allowed him to push her back down gently onto her back and whisper gruffly that he would explain everything to her if she would first hold her tongue. The Mordorian found the anxiety in his voice amusing, and it was an interesting situation to be in, for sure. He was still protecting her then… how very touching...

…And strange how a part of her sneered at the man's compassion, while another part seemed to melt away at the experiencing of the pure concern he had for her.

'There now… this isn't how I would have liked us to talk…' the man was saying, his fingers busy with something on her left shoulder.

Mornaundumë looked across to see that he was carefully unfolding the bandages that covered the Morgul wound that he had healed a week, a day or perhaps a few hours ago, she couldn't remember exactly. To Mornaundumë's befuddled mind, everything since being held by the Ringwraith, mocked and then finally stabbed had become a blur. It was all so infuriating. Closing her eyes, Mornaundumë focused firmly on trying to remember everything she knew. All the facts she had learned from her waking moments in between the fever and then the equally as tormenting strange ideas and nightmares that she had recently been plagued with.

She remembered being visited by various peoples. There had been this man, of course, and then… then there had been that other filthy golden-haired Rohan who had came in to see her, who had laughed at her in her weakness, and he had been called…

Eomer. Her numb mind unexpectedly threw the name up from her feverish dreams. Mornaundumë growled. No one laughed at her expense…

There had been another though… yes, the little one she had seen for only a second but had forced herself to remember… the curly-haired hobbit brat. No name had been given to it in her presence, but Mornaundumë could remember its face well enough. And that was all she would need to know when the time came to find it and take it with her…

'You seem fit enough without the need of bandages now…' the dark-haired man was saying beside her, breaking into her thoughts.

Watching bemusedly, she saw he had unwound the last of the slightly dirty cream linen from around her shoulder, folding them away into a pocket on his person. On her shoulder only a faint silver mark remained of where the Morgul blade had pierced her white flesh days before. Mornaundumë stared at him, silently contemplating for a moment, and then suddenly made a move to stand up.

This time, as she sat up, he made no attempt to push her back down. Mornaundumë dispelled the breath she realised she had been holding, and her dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

''But now, I expect, I am to be held a prisoner…' she said quietly, her anger making her voice escape through her gritted teeth like a hiss. 'To be shown publicly as a humiliated figure before my people…'

Her eyes betrayed her utter revulsion but her voice spoke with utter acceptance of her designated status. Steadily and wearily deceiving.

The man reacted visibly, swiftly taking her by the shoulders, his eyes serious and soulful and full of concern as he spoke solemnly to her.

'I assure you, I am not here as your imprisoner. I never have been. The thought itself is repulsive to me…'

The sentence tailing off, he withdrew his hands from her still frame and sat down beside her. One glance at the Mordorian's still suspicious eyes however, revealed that she still wasn't convinced. Aragorn sighed.

'As you lay in my care, I admit, you have had little choice on the matter of your surroundings and company. However, you are well enough now to make your own decision. Even if you were to flee back to the Dark Land… I will not hold you against your will.'

The sincerity of his words was beautiful. It actually caused Mornaundumë to raise an eyebrow. Never had anyone paid her this much courtesy and attention… Even before…

The Mordorian's black smile reached her lips. Suddenly a lot of opportunities had presented themselves. Mornaundumë thought for a moment carefully, before replying with an appropriate answer.

'The Black Land you speak of has been no home to me of late …' she whispered softly, enjoying the unhidden smile that momentarily softened the man's rugged features. '…why then would I flee back to it so freely? You have healed me, my Lord for a blow my allies dealt… and I am will stay with you, at least for a little while, indebted for the deed.'

Diplomatic hospitality. Her woman's charm had been infamous as to how far it had succeeded in taking her among the other higher-ranking officers in Mordor. It would be interesting how far it got her now among the lines of the Enemy.

The man, however, remained unresponsive.

'You will be welcome with me,' he replied after a moment, although now his eyes were downcast and lost in thought, 'but know that, understandably, not all my men have been as accepting as I…'

Mornaundumë snorted. She had understood that from the outset. Amused she saw the man's head rise in alarm and smirked, her eyes dancing meaningfully about their current location. The man, who swiftly caught her meaning, uttered a low quiet laugh.

'Do you have a name missy? Clearly you're no orc or some other foul creature of Sauron's. Surely you possess a name more becoming than one of the orcs … at least, one would have imagined?'

He raised his voice, along with an eyebrow, mimicking her earlier questioning glance.

Mornaundumë smiled and, surprising even herself, a genuine laugh burst from her lips before she regained control of herself.

'Are you suggesting… I call myself Shagrat? …Or anything similar?'

She laughed in all in a moment, her eyes sparkling in unrepressed mirth. However seconds later her face seemed to lose its glow, and her voice grew stronger.

'No. No, my name is Mornaundumë…'

At her words, she paused suddenly; the revelation of her name seeming to snuff out the brief warmth in her heart like fingers pinching out a candle. Inwardly she stiffened, her face growing more solemn and stiller by the second.

Her eyes grew harsher and crueller.

'… And I am the Commander of Minas Morgul, the Dead City of Mordor; I am the Roving Minion of that land, the Scourge of the wandering Gondorian, the Menace of Osgiliath…'

The cold yet fiery heat was racing through her blood again as she spoke her titles proudly, cruelly; as one spits out a precious truth long clung to and treasured when one has nothing else.

Dumbfounded silence met the Mordorian's sudden proclamation. Aragorn blinked. A long moment passed while he appeared to collect his thoughts. Mornaundumë seemed to be shaking, the heat of her earlier words visibly still affecting her. Aragorn was pained to see it. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed a hand on her shaking one.

Mornaundumë blinked, then shivered, losing all of her body tension in a moment. Her eyes drifted lazily onto Aragorn's face. For a moment their gazes locked and they silently contemplated each other. Then both withdrew, Mornaundumë to inspect her shoulder once more, and the Elessar to close his eyes, something unexpectedly clicking in his brain.

Softly Mornaundumë heard his voice moments later, as if it were invading her mind.

'Mornaundumë… this is not a Mordorian name…'

Aragorn's brow furrowed, his hands gripping Mornaundumë's old bandage tightly, twisting the fabric.

'Mornaundumë… Yes… yes, it is an old name, devised from the ancient Quenya letters of the elves… Such names were passed on from the elves to the Men of the North, to the Dúnedain, blessed humans with the elven gift of a long life…

Mornaundumë twitched visibly. Slowly her eyes were drawn back to Aragorn's concentrated downcast face, as if from a dream.

Aragorn's eyes were racing, moving from one corner of the wagon to the other, even as his mind raced behind them. Abruptly he stood up, pacing the enclosed space for a while. His gruff voice appeared to murmur names, snatches of foreign-sounding genealogy frantically as Mornaundumë watched him dreamily.

A minute passed and suddenly Aragorn stopped, his gaze locked on Mornaundumë even as she looked up at him. With a snarl of anger, he threw the stained piece of fabric to the floor.

'I knew it! I knew it! …There was more to you than I had dared believe! More to your face, your hair, than a mere human Mordorian minion! …More than I had hoped, than I had imagined…'

He clenched his fists, running one shakily over his brow, his eyes elsewhere again.

'Oh but I had heard… I had heard of this… of the eternal hunting, the taking of Dúnedain children in darkness, the weariness of their torture…'

His hands trembling, his shifting eyes locked onto Mornaundumë's quiet form again.

'…But never had I imagined Mordor to break one of their slaves so completely, to corrupt the mind of the innocent so far that they embraced their own demons with a strangled love and perverted loyalty…'

He looked down at Mornaundumë, his face twisted in an expression of deep anger, even as the beginnings of tears pricked his eyes.

'Oh what have they done? What damage have they inflicted on your soul?

…Mornaundumë… Even the name… even the name is afflicted with the darkness…'

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut. Taking a long calming breath, he reached out, placing a strong hand on Mornaundumë's still shoulder.

'My dear… do you understand? Do you understand what has happened? What the Black Land has done, what it has taken from you?'

Mornaundumë's heart thumped wildly. Beneath his warm clenched hand, her body lay perfectly tense, yet unmoving. Listening to Aragorn's words her eyes fluttered shut and her frown melted away from her forehead as words from long forgotten dreams streamed into her conscious thought.

The sounds of voices, laughter, of light from days long past burst across her vision...

She was walking through magical woods with a family that was her own around her. Silver leaves softened the rich earth beneath her bare feet and laughing elven women threaded yellow flowers into her dark hair…

Pale, beautiful sunlight streamed into the glade, alighting the blissfully happy features of the five-year-old giggling as her father stoked the tip of her nose playfully…

Mornaundumë twisted her neck around, and there was Silmyriën beside her, holding her hand tightly and smiling up at her older sister… Mornaundumë felt joy sing in her heart.

Then a shadow fell across her woodland home, and the elves had left. Mornaundumë felt her silk dress being pulled by agitated hands, and through the thunder she heard Silmyriën crying loudly and harsh shouts and thudding feet.

And then there was screaming, endless screaming… and her back was stinging as her younger sister was crying and shouting with deep biting lines… as her vision turned blood red and her heart was pulled and pulled from her ribcage by a cold claw like hand, that took and took…

'Ahhhhh- No!'

Mornaundumë shouted, in pain, in shock, even as a hand was again closed over her mouth, even as a long arm wrapped around her shaking frame, even as a gentle voice whispered into her ear and she was gently rocked into a soothing rhythm.

But Mornaundumë's repressed emotions were building up into a thunderstorm and she tolerated Aragorn's presence only for a minute, then she resisted.

One hand attached itself onto Aragorn's arm wrapped around her frame, as the other snaked around his back and gripped the back of his neck. With a cry, Mornaundumë ripped Aragorn's arm from her, pushing him face first onto the floor, tears streaming from her face as she held him there.

'Lies! It's all lies! Why? Why do you torment me so?'

Her body shook as another convulsion of grief tore through her, and Aragorn took the opportunity to twist his body round, his back now upon the floor rather than his chest. Conscious that any sudden movements might provoke the uncontrolled Mordorian into further frenzy, he instead lay passive, but gently took Mornaundumë's hand again in a way that had seemed to calm her before.

'It is the pain that comes from reconciling yourself with the past that torments you, nothing more,' Aragorn said softly, keeping his voice as calm and gentle as possible, considering the situation. 'The past and the truth of your heritage that you have so long been forced to reject and later fought to deny, and yet at last must come to accept…'

Aragorn stilled for a moment, the ironic impact of his own words affecting him visibly. Mornaundumë stiffened, but was quicker to recover, her face twisting into a curious expression, suggesting a mixture of pain and amusement.

The tears still falling from her face, she leant down, mere inches from Aragorn's concerned eyes.

'And you… you tell me to accept this truth even now when all is darkness? You think these… these words you have spoken can free me from my life? From what I have done?'

Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but Mornaundumë was shaking her head, suddenly a dangerous gleam in her eye. Her hands gripped his arms still tighter.

'No… I didn't think so. I cannot become what, perhaps, I could have been… what I was meant-'

Mornaundumë growled in sudden rage. In a flash of movement, she brought the heel of her palm hard to Aragorn's temple, the action only slightly abating the pain, the anger that flared and ripped across her chest.

The man beneath her groaned, his eyes rolling as he fell into a light unconsciousness. Mornaundumë, well familiarised to the situation took full opportunity of the brief moment to search his body for any article useful to her present need. As her hand brushed the handle of a dagger strapped to his waist, a cold Mordorian smile slowly spread itself across her face.

The Elessar, seconds later, came to with the cold press of metal against his throat. His eyes widened but he remained perfectly still, his eyes locking onto the backstabbing Mordorian's and narrowing.

'Why? After all I've done for you… you choose this?'

Mornaundumë smiled bitterly. 'I am a Mordorian.'

Aragorn's brow furrowed, and now true anger was alighting his features.

'Then I should have treated you like one the first moment you first stumbled into my path. I should have slain you that day. But instead I took you in… as if you were one of my own…As… as you are and still can be…'

Mornaundumë bit her lip, struggled with her emotions. Then she shrugged, pulling the iron-hard exterior she had grown to possess all her years in Mordor around her like a shield, protecting her from the man's words. She snarled at her conflicting feelings, forcing them away.

'Oh, I am deeply ashamed to hear you say that. How very foolish of me to have squandered your pity and offer of hospitality like this. They might have both come in very useful to me later…'

Aragorn grimaced. Mornaundumë lips twitched, but she did not smile. Beneath her lay a good man, a far better person than she could ever hope to be, and one did not overindulge in emotionally torturing them.

Keeping the pressure on the blade as constant as possible, she leant in again close to the Elessar's face. 'I am not going to kill you, my Lord, that would just be a waste and utter folly on my part, seeing as how I am currently surrounded by hundreds of your men. And besides, I would much rather see you as my prisoner and gift to the Dark Lord…'

Mornaundumë felt the pain in her chest couldn't get any worse in that moment, as she gazed down at the pure despair in the King's face.

'Why Mornaundumë? Why to Him…?'

Just then, a piercing sound rent the air outside the large wagon they were both been hiding in.

It was a sound that, once heard, was instantly recognisable to all who later heard it.

Mornaundumë shuddered involuntarily, a hand reaching for her shoulder. 'Nazgûl…'

Aragorn started, but Mornaundumë quickly turned her attentions back onto him.

'Don't move! Let your men fight. We will stay in here until the skirmish is over…'

Aragorn wriggled vainly. 'I must be with my men in battle… What if it is more than just a skirmish?'

'It won't be. Mordor does not fight in the valleys of the Ephel Dúath. The final battle, at the end of all things, will begin before the Black Gates of the Morannon. This is just an eager scouting force, mountain orcs with possibly a few trolls with them…'

Aragorn stilled, frowning. 'Why are you telling me this?'

Mornaundumë's eyes hardened. 'Because… Because I chose to tell you… it is irrelevant…'

'Mornaundumë…'

The Mordorian woman couldn't take it anymore. Drawing her hand back she brought the handle of the Elessar's dagger hard down upon his forehead, knocking him out.

She watched in a daze as Aragorn's features softened into serene blissful oblivion. Surely she felt her walls crumble again, as they had done as she had painfully relieved her past, and she found herself sobbing helplessly.

'I'm… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…'

Tenderly she stroked back that black wavy hair from his face. After a moment's pause, she pressed a sharp kiss to his cheek. Now Mornaundumë knew she must leave.

Rising swiftly she strapped the stolen dagger to her belt, grabbing a Gondorian cloak from a pile in the corner of the wagon.

She exited the wagon stealthily, quickly mingling herself with the panicking Host outside watching for the first signs of an ambush, the cloak's hood covering her face.

Mornaundumë's eyes roved over the mass of men, her eyes hunting for the quarry she sought.

Seconds later back in the wagon, Aragorn came to with a start, his hand rising of its own accord to his cheek. Last memories seemed fuzzy, impossible to recall. Then Aragorn heard the Nazgûl's cry again and in the next instant he was outside, racing to the front of the column of men.