Note: Alright, some romance will be coming up soon, I had to have a good, lengthy introduction to my main character! And there's more yet to be revealed about her past. Who was she? Where did she come from before being entered into Mordor's service? All that's coming up. Honestly I didn't want some ditzy, two-dimensional character possibly taking Arwen's place, (and before anyone asks, I do like the original pairing of Aragorn/Arwen).

One last thing, if anyone is reading this, and taking pleasure in doing so PLEASE SEND ME A REVIEW! Otherwise it might just take me a bit longer in getting new chapters posted... nah, I wouldn't really blackmail you! Be kind. Go on. Give me your thoughts

NEW NOTE: (as of 28/10/06) Chapter has been 'upgraded', some rewrites

Chapter 4

Light was filtering through the darkness as a darkly clad figure astride a horse came galloping along the west road. Mornaundumë's body slumped in the saddle. Just trying to fight against the darkness inside that was slowly beginning to consume her, was exhausting her to the point that she couldn't sit straight, let alone ride properly. But even though she did not have control of the reins, her stallion had not needed her direction to understand where she wanted to go. Such trust had built up between the two, as they had traversed across the land of Mordor together. Across the land they both knew so well.

Where they were headed now, however, was going to be unknown territory for both of them. Mornaundumë's horse was only following an instinct long denied to him, he was running back into the west from where he had come.

The Host of the West was marching out of the gates of Minas Tirith in full strength and heart. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields had taken its toll in the high number of casualties; but of the survivors there were none who would have rather stayed behind. Aragorn, commander of Gondor's forces, rode slightly ahead of the rest.

This was it, he knew. This was the last stand, as it were. Mordor had, for far too long, strived for the dominion of men, of elves, dwarves, and hobbits. He had fought the war against that land all his life, and now within the coming week the war would be coming to an end, one way or another. It gave Aragorn a sense of peace; that thought. No more waiting. No more waiting for a lot of things…

'Forward! No, not that way, you silly creature… no laddie, I can handle this! Now, forward… Why isn't it moving now?'

Aragorn twisted around in his saddle. He couldn't help but smile. It looked as though Legolas had allowed Gimli to take the reins again, an unwise decision. The dwarf had never managed to gain the trust of a horse since first setting eyes on one as they had entered into Rohan all those months ago. The elf, who had snatched the reins off from Gimli in front of him, to keep the horse moving in line with everyone else, looked tired, but a smile was on his face all the same. Aragorn shook his head, chuckling pleasantly.

'You have to be gentle with him, Gimli… you're expecting too much of the poor beast. Loosen your hand, soften your word, you'll be amazed at the difference it will make.'

Legolas looked up, smiling gratefully. Gimli merely grunted.

'Easy for you to say, up there in front, but all right. You hear that horse? We don't like each other's company, but I'm going to do as Aragorn says. If I do that, will you…walk forward, like a good steed?'

Gimli patted the horse's neck, almost fondly. Legolas handed him back the reins encouragingly. Aragorn turned to look out towards the eastern horizon again.

He frowned. A lone Mordorian Rider was coming charging toward them.

From behind him, the allied Rohan and Gondor archers were drawing their bows, prepared to end this servant of the Black Land's life. But Aragorn was curious. Raising a hand, the bows were lowered. With his Anduril at his side, Aragorn rode ahead of the Host, commanding them to wait, so he could address this visitor personally.

Drawing close, Aragorn saw straight away that the Rider was of no threat. The Rider's body lay unconscious, slumped over his own horse. The horse himself seemed tired, though he tried hard not to show it. Aragorn realised he must have carried his master all through the night to get here. Thoroughbred he must be… too good for any Mordorian.

Aragorn brought his own horse down to a trot as the Thoroughbred did likewise. Well-trained was he, for he seemed to understand clear enough that Aragorn wished no harm to either of them, that he only wanted to speak with the Mordorian Rider.

Aragorn bit his tongue as he saw the state of that Mordorian. He was truly a mess; his skin seemed pale; drained of all blood almost, his long hair was matted and coarse. Dark robes, the colour of his allegiance, flapped around his body, mere rags. One arm was clutching feverishly, the hair of his steed, the other hung limp down the horse's neck. Aragorn frowned, unsheathed his sword and brought the point of it to press on the skeletal fingers.

"Servant of Sauron… what business do you have here?" He murmured gruffly.

Mornaundumë, stimulated by the rough pressure on her fingers, groaned as her mind began to wake up. As she lifted her head, Aragorn saw he had made a mistake in thinking the Mordorian was a man. Suddenly his inhibitions towards the situation seemed to gradually but entirely melt away.

This was a tortured woman before him. Although Aragorn couldn't understand the reasons that had brought a Mordorian woman to him in this state he knew what he felt he should do next, regardless of the circumstances.

So it was Mornaundumë woke to see the bemused eyes of the Elessar awkwardly smiling down on her.

'What have your own done to you…' he muttered sadly.

A tear was falling from Mornaundumë's cheek though she was not aware of it. Aragorn continued to smile at her.

'Are you fit to ride, missy?'

He brushed away her tears with the back of his hands. Mornaundumë remained silent. Speech seemed beyond her for the moment, she felt numb, in both her body and heart. Aragorn sighed.

'All right then, come with me. Do not fear; you will not be harmed. I will make sure that no hurt will befall you.'

It took a while to figure out what he meant and then Mornaundumë tried feebly to pull away, but she was weakened from her wound and Aragorn's grasp was firm. He lifted her gently from her horse and put her in front of him in the saddle, as easy as if she were only a doll in his arms. Mornaundumë's thoroughbred did not even flinch. Aragorn grinned, whistling an unfamiliar tune; the two horses followed him back to where the Host stood by waiting.

A strange, almost unpleasant silence had befallen the men. Aragorn looked up to see the faces of the Rohan and Gondor troops, and his four friends unusually grave. Legolas, in particular, was giving him a most disapproving stare. Aragorn rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He knew what he was doing.

'So this Mordorian then, is he a messenger or a friend? Did he come here to threaten us perhaps?'

A chorus of raucous laughter followed this. The silence had been broken. Aragorn gave the Gondorian who had spoken out an angry glance. Raising his voice he challenged,

'Does the Black Land send the helpless wounded into Gondor's power? This woman from Mordor may well have lost any of her ties to the Dark Lord! And while she remains clinging to life she will be under my protection. Let the first who would kill a defenceless woman come forth now and declare it, to me and to all as witness!'

Mornaundumë panicked, struggling to escape. Aragorn squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. But no man came forward.

'No? I am pleased, I confess, to think no soldier of Gondor, or Rohan would instantly kill a wounded woman, even if she were an enemy…' Aragorn spoke sarcastically

Mornaundumë ceased to struggle, these men were soft hearted she realised; they wouldn't kill her. Yet as her bleary vision picked out the faces of some of the men, she could see real hatred in those eyes. There was hate there she would love to challenge if she had but the strength. It made her both angry and frightened.