Early the following morning, Strider took the group of little ones into the wilderness, not telling them where they were headed or why they were going. An old pony named Bill was bought to carry their luggage, lead by Sam. Faolan felt right at home in this environment as she was used to it, however the same couldn't be said for the Hobbits who grew tired quickly and had a tendency to fall behind, especially the youngest and littlest, Pippin.
On days when it was cold and flurries of snow fell from the grey sky, or the terrain proved to be challenging, Faolan would use her shape-shifting abilities to her advantage; her thick pelt providing protection from damp and cold, her agility and balance to bound through the deepest snow or marsh. Faolan would also hunt for them, while Strider kept an eye out for the Nazgûl, and was rewarded with each member of the group's trust every time she brought a young deer or a few hares.
The Hobbits had strange meal habits. At the beginning, they insisted on having up to seven meals a day – breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner and supper. Faolan wondered how people so small could eat so much. Strider would not tolerate this; they were to have one meal in the morning, stop for a short break in the afternoon, and have their evening meal when the day's travelling was done.
More than once did Frodo or another Hobbit ask Strider where he was taking them, to which he would reply with "Into the wild," every time. This began to irritate Faolan and she couldn't help but ask, "But where are we headed?"
Instead of ignoring her, like she thought he would, Strider replied with, "Rivendell, wolf friend. To the house of Elrond."
The Hobbits were most pleased at this news. Elves were respected throughout the land by most people, except the evil creatures such as Orcs, of course. Faolan too very much liked the idea. She had never met an Elf and only heard tales and stories about them, but would have loved nothing more than to meet them, although, she did feel rather nervous. Elves live for over thousands of years and see and remember much. She could not anticipate how they would react to her presence, whether they would cast her out or hospitably accept her. All the she-Varg could do was to wait and see.
As evening began to descend on Eriador, the travellers came to a hill with a stone ruin atop it. "This was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl," Strider paused, gazing at it before turning to the little ones, "We shall rest here tonight."
The group sheltered beneath a rocky overhang, under where the tower once stood. The Hobbits collapsed in an exhausted heap. Strider placed a piece of cloth with something inside it on the floor, unwrapped it revealing four short swords, handing one to each of the Hobbits, "These are for you. Keep them close. I'm going to have a look around." Some of them examined the blades wonderingly, while the others hesitated, nervous about handling a blade.
The remaining accomplices ate something small and uncooked quietly together, since lighting a fire to cook would have been a bad idea in such an exposed location. Faolan sensed the Hobbits trusted her enough to know she was not an enemy, but not enough to call her a friend; however she was content that she was no longer seen as a threat. After the small supper, the she-Varg climbed to the top of the tower where she could see over much of the landscape to keep look out while Strider was gone. Faolan sat down and sighed heavily. How on earth had she managed to get roped into this mess? If she had just let the Hobbits pass by while she was on look-out duty and not interfered, she wouldn't have anything to do with Strider, the Hobbits or that confounded ring! As soon as they got to Rivendell, after a short rest, Faolan was adamant that she would immediately go home and no longer be involved.
The smell of frying bacon interrupted her train of thought, making her mouth water, until the sudden realisation of what was happening beneath the overhang occurred to her. As she hurried down to the lower level she heard Frodo yelling at the others to stop. She observed the scene giving disdainful glances at the Hobbits half way through chewing something. A shriek sounded from the foot of the hill – the all too familiar shriek that sent chills down Faolan's spine. Five Nazgûl approached the tower purposefully. Faolan whimpered fearfully. There was no way the little ones could fend off the wraiths by themselves. The wraiths already knew that they were there so howling wouldn't cause any more harm, so Faolan howled for Strider to return, hoping that he would understand the message. The Hobbits drew their swords, made their way to the top of the tower and formed and circle with Faolan, their backs to each other. Faolan switched the her Man-like form wielding her sword knowing she will be able to better protect herself with a blade than with tooth and claw. "Great. I'm going to die here because of your ridiculous need to have seven meals a day," she growled, elbowing the nearest Hobbit.
The she-Varg turned, upon hearing something's heavy metallic footsteps, to see the first of the Nazgûl close in on them, followed by the four others. They drew their long swords and held them in front of their faces, if they even had faces. As they converged ever closer, Faolan felt her muscles go weak from fright, her instincts yelling at her, commanding her to run. Despite how feeble she felt at that moment, Faolan stood her ground, feeling compelled to protect the Hobbits also since Strider had not returned. Did the Nazgûl kill him too?
Sam, the bravest of all of them, stepped forward. "Back, you devils!" he commanded, attempting to strike at a wraith. The Nazgûl parried his blows with ease and cast him aside. Merry and Pippin then valiantly stood between Frodo and the Nazgûl in an effort to protect him, and also unintentionally showing him as the important one. They too were thrown aside. Frodo dropped his sword and fell backwards out of fear. Faolan could completely empathise with how he felt. Deciding that a final act of courage is better to be remembered by than a final act of cowardice, Faolan leapt between the Nazgûl and the Hobbit, ears turned sideways and laid back, the tip of her tail curled up. Her skill with the sword was more than that of the Hobbits, but her strength would not match the wraith's and soon she was flung to one side too. Her entire body ached from colliding with the stone wall with such force. There was little she could do for Frodo now, she thought despairingly as the magnetic pull of the Ring's power beckoned to her, but she hurt too much to react.
An orange light appeared over the rise of the hill as Strider returned, wielding a flaming torch and his sword. Faolan breathed a sigh of relief; he was alive and well, and this fight was not over yet. The man fought of the Nazgûl with great skill, parrying their blows, dodging their blades and setting them aflame one by one. The air resounded with the Nazgûls' frustrated and angered shrieks as they retreated, their black robes scorched and burning. The last one was dealt with by the torch thrown directly in, supposedly, its face.
Frodo reappeared leaning against a large piece of stone, screaming in agony. Merry helped Faolan to her feet and they knelt by Frodo with the other Hobbits, examining the wound. The Nazgûl had stabbed him in the shoulder. The wound was deep and, to Frodo, was extremely painful. Faolan thought it would take a lot of power to heal. Strider also knelt by Frodo, examining the blade with which Frodo was stabbed, "He's been stabbed by a Morgul blade." The blade disintegrated and Strider threw the handle to the ground. "This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs Elvish medicine."
Strider scooped Frodo up, carrying him over his shoulder. The Hobbits quickly grabbed their essentials and hastened after the Ranger towards Rivendell. Faolan wasn't sure how long it would take for them to reach Rivendell at this pace, until Sam spoke up gravely, "We're six days from Rivendell. He'll never make it!"
Faolan had to agree with him; there wasn't a chance in Arda that Frodo would survive six day's travelling in his state. Yet they still soldiered on in a desperate effort to save him.
They had been walking at a fast pace for most of the night. It must have been some time after midnight when they stopped for a few minutes in a wooded area with three stone trolls. At first Faolan froze until she noticed that they had no scent. Frodo lay on the ground wrapped up in his cloak, shaking. He had turned pale and his eyes began to cloud over. Sam placed a hand upon his brow. "He's going cold!" he called out in despair.
"Is he going to die?" Pippin, who held a flaming torch, asked shakily.
Strider stood a few yards away from the Hobbits, also holding up a torch, looking through the darkness, "He is passing into the Shadow World. He'll soon become a wraith like them."
On that note, the noise of the Nazgûl resounded throughout the wood, the echoes bouncing off the trees. Faolan let out a low growl; she won't allow that to happen. She remembered that in her tribe, the Vargkyn used a weed called Athelas to heal wounds that they acquired such as snake bites from adders. Perhaps it might help to heal Frodo's wound. The she-Varg then turned and darted back into the wood purposefully, searching for Athelas plants. They had a very distinctive scent, so they weren't too difficult to find. She found a clump of them in the undergrowth and pulled off a bunch of sprigs. It seemed that Strider and Sam had a similar. Great minds think alike. Faolan handed some of the Athelas sprigs to Strider, who tilted his head at her approvingly, before dashing back to the Hobbits to treat Frodo's wound. Nudging Pippin aside, Faolan revealed the stab wound. The scent of Athelas calmed their nerves, as Faolan gently placed the torn off leaves and tiny flowers onto the wound. Frodo yelped and winced – of course the wound as sensitive. The she-Varg apologised under her breath, but it had to be done.
Sam and Strider returned to the clearing, however they were accompanied by another being who seemed to emanate a graceful and peaceful aura. She was a fair skinned and dark haired elf who arrived on a handsome white stallion. As she approached Frodo, Faolan backed away, wolf ears lowered, however, the she-elf took no notice of her or the other hobbits.
"He is fading. He is not going to last," the she-elf spoke in a soft voice, "we must get him to my father." Strider scooped the injured hobbit up and sat him on the elf's stallion. He and the elf exchanged words in elvish, which the others did not understand. Faolan guessed that they knew each other well from the way they talked and looked at each other.
The she-elf mounted the horse and galloped away into the wood towards Rivendell. Sam snapped angrily at Strider, "What are you doing?! Those wraiths are still out there!"
Strider did not reply, but Faolan understood that Frodo had more of a chance to survive with the elf than with them; the horse galloped at great speed, but the hobbits, man, pony and Vargkyn trudged slowly. All they could do now was make their own way to Rivendell and hope that Frodo would still be alive when they got there.
