Note: Right, this story should give you all the background info you need to know, thank you for taking the time to review Lykairo and Alce-Eruantale. For you this chappie is dedicated.

Chapter 6

The Shadow had been growing. The Dark Lord was gathering all evil to him. No one could long resist the call...

A line of prisoners trudged wearily to the chorus of the whips of their captors. The Dúnedain were a people long hunted for by the servants of the Black Land. The heirs of Isildur were among those of that line. Warriors in hiding, they were the Rangers keeping the peace in northern lands and fighting Mordorians down south when need arose. Driven out of hiding, a small band of those secret, wandering people had been taken as slaves by orcs and now they were headed for Mordor, which would be their new home, and prison.

A little girl struggled to escape from the ropes that bound her wrists tightly together, from the cruel knots that bit deeply into her flesh. From behind her, orcs were laughing at her feeble efforts. One of them, brandishing a whip, moved in closer. The girl, suddenly understanding the orc's cruel intent, stopped struggling and began to whimper, tears welling up in her eyes.

'Leave her alone!'

Behind the girl, stood another, tall with long black hair. Mornaundumë glowered at the orc with bloodshot eyes.

'If you touch my sister again, I'll...'

Mornaundumë fell to her knees suddenly as the whip lashed out on her. Raising an arm to protect her face, Mornaundumë grimaced as blood began to drip down her back where red cuts were being re-opened by the stinging blows. And with every excruciatingly painful blow, her rage was building. Her temper rising, so that she could hear it pounding in her blood, through her veins. Let me kill them, let me kill them, her blood sang, if I had that whip now, oh how I would make them scream... Mornaundumë rejoiced in her anger, she knew it made her strong.

'29!' The orc screeched as the last crack of the whip on Mornaundum's back echoed in the prisoners' ears, 'and let that be a warning to any other of you foolish enough to question who is in charge here!'

Mornaundumë, wiping the blood from her mouth, slowly stood back up again. As the orcs went on down the line, clamouring to get the marching pace going again, she forced a grin and put her arm protectively around the little girl's shoulders.
'They cannot rule forever', she whispered fondly into her sister's ear.

He sat alone beside his bed on which Mornaundumë lay quietly dreaming. Gandalf had left some time earlier, on his own mysterious business. Aragorn knew better than to ask questions. Dark circles were under the Elessar's eyes, but the Ranger was used to having little sleep, and Aragorn nevertheless felt it was his duty to watch over her, at least while she was still recovering from the Morgul-wound.

He stared deeply into the depths of the brightly burning candles, his mind wandering, but his thoughts always returning to Mornaundumë.

'You shouldn't be here you know,' he found himself saying to her, or maybe just to the darkness surrounding him. 'It's death to leave Mordor, especially now with Sauron calling all to him, gathering all his strength for the last war of this Age...'

He passed a hand through her black hair, pulling the tangled knots covering her face away.

'Who are you?' He said, suddenly quite fiercely.

Though the Mordorian lass remained infuriatingly quiet, Aragorn could see the corners of her lips rising in silent smile.

Somehow the whip just felt so right in her hand.

'24! 25!'

The disobedient orc in front of her was learning his lesson the hard way. The cracks of the whip reverberated around the chamber. Behind Mornaundumë, an overseer stood by, a piece of wood in his hand, scratching out numbers and ticking off names. Beside him, a long line of unfortunates stood by queuing up, awaiting their punishments.

'28! 29! 30!'

'No, stop! That's enough for him. 29 for challenging a senior officer.'
'Yes, but...'

'I said that's enough!'

The man shot the girl a warning glance. Mornaundumë let the whip droop dejectedly. It's because I'm the new one, the new recruit, he doesn't think I'm good enough for this, she thought bitterly. She glanced up at him, busy writing something on a separate piece of wood. No doubt commenting all about her. It all comes down to that again doesn't it, she thought angrily, just because I'm a woman he's bound to think I'm not up to the task, they all think that. I'll show them... The orc who had most recently suffered was crawling pitifully away. Obviously not quick enough for she kicked him roughly out into the exit passageway. The man said nothing at this, but he immediately began scratching away more fiercely on the wood than before.

A new prisoner was brought forward, a dirty little individual, this one. But not an orc; this was a human. Mornaundumë found herself twisting the whip's handle around in her fingers uneasily. She had never enjoyed flogging humans, or even elves for that matter, in quite the same way as she did orcs.

'Silmyriën, 39 for speaking out against the laws of the land of Mordor and attempting to flee said land', the overseer droned, in a very bored manner.

But Mornaundumë hardly caught the words. At the mention of the prisoner's name, a sudden frightening realisation had dawned upon her.

It was her sister. After all these years...

After they had been separated, Mornaundumë had thought Silmyriën had surely perished under the backbreaking manual labour that had come out of their slavery. But the sister blood that coursed through Mornaundumë, giving her strength, had also given Silmyriën the same strength to survive Mordor. It had given her courage and also an inherited rebellious streak. One that now, it seemed, got her into trouble with the rulers of the land and served up a punishment no less horrific than to be whipped, by Mornaundumë herself...

'Traitor.' Silmyriën whispered as she lowered her head to receive the blows.

'No,' Mornaundumë whispered back, 'I'm not...I won't... I can't hurt you...';

'You may begin the punishment,' the man said helpfully.

Mornaundumë gazed blankly at him, as if she hadn't heard.

'Go ahead,' Silmyriën hissed scornfully, 'you better not displease your masters now, that won't get you far in this black land, believe me.'

'You want me to?!' Mornaundumë asked appalled.

'Why not? However hard you beat me it is nothing compared to the torment in knowing that you defected willingly in the end. You betrayed us all. You fool!';

A fool. Mornaundumë gripped the whip's handle tightly. A fool? Her temper flared dangerously deep within her, unstoppable, inescapable. I'm not up to the task. They all think that. I'll show them...

'Oh, my brave little sister...'

She raised the whip, and as the shadow fell over Silmyriën, despite all her boldness that came from surviving in Mordor for so long, she could hardly suppress the screams.

Back in the Elessar's tent, Mornaundumë woke all at once.

'Silmyriën I'm sorry!'

Aragorn pulled the pipe out of his mouth as he leapt to his feet.

'Oh Silmyriën I...I didn't mean to hurt you...' Mornaundumë screamed. Her whole being trembled as the buried guilt dug deep into her soul, tormenting her. 'I wouldn't hurt you like that!'

Aragorn, though he had indeed been alarmed at her sudden awakening, kept his surprise masked. Taking the arms of the thrashing Mordorian gently but firmly in his hands, he hummed soothingly to her and lowered her back onto the bed.

'I couldn't hurt...' the sentence died on Mornaundum's lips. His music was calming to her ears. She fell back on the bed, at once at peace.

Aragorn smiled.

'You're safe' he reassured her.

Mornaundumë gazed at him, unblinking. His face before her was one she recognised, like a beacon of light in the omnipresent darkness. He was a truth she could cling to. Mornaundumë closed her eyes as her mind raced, trying to remember the exact events that had led to this moment.

She was no longer in Mordor. A strange joy coursed through her, one she wasn't exactly sure she should be feeling. She had fled her home, to what purpose? Almost impulsively she felt her hand move to her shoulder...

'The poison of the Morgul blade was treated to before it could prove fatal,' Aragorn spoke for the both of them. He put a hand over hers, which stayed over the scar on her shoulder, 'you have been healed.'

Again Mornaundumë gazed at him, this time smiling gratefully. Of course, he was the man that had sworn to protect her. She sighed. What had she ever done to deserve such kindness?

She moved upright into a sitting position. Now that she was awake, Mornaundumë wasn't going to lie idle. She was going to have to be alert and careful. She was amidst the Enemy now, she remembered. The kind man was only one of the thousands. But the strength was returning in her arm...She glanced round the tent, taking in the surroundings, familiarising herself with the place, trying to see if she could only find...

'If you'll looking for your sword, I'm sorry but it's had to be confiscated, along with the knives as well for the time being.'

Mornaundumë looked sharply at Aragorn, at once ready to punch him for his presumption, before she remembered where she was, her current situation. Foolish...that would have been foolish... She clenched her fists tightly. She was going to have to mind her manners, remember her place. But for one so used to giving orders, it was going to take some time getting used to...

'You are headed for the gates of Mordor?' Mornaundumë asked as casually as she could.

'To attempt to parley with the Lord of the Black Land, yes', Aragorn replied in the same offhandedly way, 'if there is any way to prevent any more bloodshed, I would gladly take it.'

'Mordor does not barter words with the Enemy!' Mornaundumë suddenly shouted out, before she could stop herself.

There followed a dreadful silence. Mornaundumë could feel his eyes staring at her downcast face but she made no effort to retract or elaborate on what she had just said. Eventually, and quite calmly Aragorn replied.

'We can but try. I only hope that...'

But at that moment, a Rohirrim burst through the tent flap, gasping for breath. A hand lay at the hilt of his sword.

'My men heard the screaming, and they called for me to see you, to ask if everything's...

'All right Eomer', Aragorn waved the sword away.

'My lord,' Eomer bowed, and then his gaze turned to stare intently at Mornaundumë who sat on the King's bed watching him.

'So the gossip was true...' he whispered under his breath.

Mornaundumë blinked in surprise. Not so much from the new man's apparent curiosity at her, but more at what he had just called Aragorn.

'My lord?!' She spoke without realising.

'The King,' Eomer corrected her.

Mornaundumë gasped, and, with conflicting interests, turned to gaze at Aragorn again with a new wonder. Looking from the Elessar to the Mordorian, Eomer didn't know whether it wise to draw his sword again. Then suddenly he laughed, shaking his head.

'Permit me to say this Aragorn, but half of my men outside seemed to think that the Mordorian was a threat. That 'he' would only cause trouble for you, and for all of us. I honestly didn't know what to think. But I can see now I won't be having to fear for your life, at least.'

And, still laughing, Eomer took his leave of the two. As he exited the tent, Mornaundumë caught a fleeting glance of another face, peeking into the tent. A smaller face, with brown curls tucked behind pointed ears. Mornaundumë had one moment in which to recognise the creature before the tent flap closed, blocking her view. But she knew what she had seen. A hobbit. How interesting...

'We travel at dawn', the King said once they were alone again, 'that'll be in a few hours time, but for now I need to get some sleep.' Moments later, he had closed his eyes and was sleeping where he sat, in a chair beside the bed.

Such trust, Mornaundumë thought wryly.