Hello people, finally an update. The truth of my long absence was really that life caught up with me, and my lotr craze faded. But when I reread the story I couldnt just abandon it so here's a bit more.

I hope what happens in this chapter isnt thought of as inappropriate to the character and just give me a shout if the story starts to stink of a Mary Sue thingy!

Chapter 8

Mornaundumë slept and dreamt strange dreams.

A silver sword, engraved with words of some ancient elvish speech, lay glittering in her hand, a weapon so beautiful and pure and one so obviously crafted by one of her enemies. Yet Mornaundumë couldn't help but be fascinated by it, how it shone a light so pure, how it lay so perfectly obedient in her hand…

Images flickered in and out of focus, and next Mornaundumë found herself face to face with a Nazgûl. Its eyes shone murderous red at her beneath those folds of black cloth. She tried to turn away from the nightmarish creature but her hands weighed her down at her sides, like blocks of lead…

And then she was running, constantly running, her legs a blur over dark grassy plains. From the East, a long arm was stretching out towards her and a hand, black with cruel claw-like fingers, was reaching out to grab her, claim her.

Panting with her efforts, Mornaundumë's heart beated laboriously and exhaustion seemed to almost overwhelm her. But she didn't stop running. For she knew that if she did, even for a moment, then the hand would enclose around her, suffocate her, and she was terrified, so very terrified of that.

The camp was breaking up. The Rohirrim forward party had already left on ahead; scouts on their horses cantered forwards deducing the best possible route for the Host to take.

Gondorians had immediately set to work taking down tents and dousing fires, preparing themselves for the long march ahead. Aragorn worked as one among his men, fending off any remarks that this was no work for the King of Gondor.

Secretly he welcomed the morning labour, not only in that it felt good to work through the daily routines that were natural to the former Ranger, but that it also gave him the chance to listen to his fellow men's' conversations.

Usually Aragorn despised eavesdropping of any form but since this morning's whispered topic of conversation included the Mordorian women, to the King's mind, it changed a lot of things in the way of how he would normally behave.

The woman certainly was causing a stir among the peoples of the West. His men seemed divided on what to think on it, Gondorians being the most passionate speakers, both for, and with some hurt Aragorn noticed, against their King on his decision of taking her in.

Aragorn had that morning put Mornaundumë in a place where she was least likely to cause trouble. He had smuggled her into the back of one of the wagons. The poor girl since falling into her strange unbidden sleep had begun muttering strange things in the dark, sometimes it seemed to herself, but more often than not her dreaming words were directed to other unseen beings.

It pained Aragorn to the soul, for reasons he dared not delve into too deeply.

Folding the tent canvas in his hands, he walked round to the back of the loading wagon and piled the sheets on top of the towering stacks. Almost time to move out, he thought idly, though his mind would not stay long on any thought except one.

Walking back to the men he had just worked with, he called them all to return to their horses and saddle up for the trek ahead. He himself turned to find Brego but then paused, in indecision. No, he decided. No, he couldn't wait. Especially after hearing some of the accusations being made against her, and… himself.

Aragorn, his mind made up, looked about quickly, trying to find a suitable person. Noticing a broad shouldered, dark haired lad of about eighteen summers passing by with his horse he pulled the boy over, whispering his intentions quickly.

It was a rash action, Aragorn thought, as the boy left on Brego with the King's banner and breastplate armour and cloak, and it wouldn't fool Eomer, Gandalf, Gimli or Legolas riding at the front of the column. They would know he was up to something but at least the majority of the Host would have a visible King's figure to follow deeper into the shadow of Mordor. Strider would just have to hope his friends would forgive him and his Ranger tricks.

Now free of his kingly finery, he proceeded to the wagon where the Mordorian lass had been hidden. Hiding himself in the shadows, he clambered aboard the back of the wagon just before the canvas coverings were pulled down and the wagon shuddered as the horse pulling it started to move.