Well, a very belated Happy New Year and Merry Christmas. Sorry for the lack of updating (once again) but it's the holidays here in the real Middle-Earth (New Zealand Rocks!) and I've been busy. Here is the 'plot twist/turning point' I've been talking about.

I know I promised decorations, but it's past Xmas, so I'll give chocolate instead! (Chocolate rains on reviewers) There you go!

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Life in the grove continued normally (or as normally as possible) for the next few days. March 25th had come and gone, and the Companions knew they had to look now to the future, and not linger on the past. After all, whereas the past was clear as glass, the future was still cloudy and uncertain.

Faramir had bought up the idea to keep moving. The Companions had stayed for a while, and, although the grove now seemed like home, the idea to move was seriously considered.

After a short debate, the Companions decided to move on. Faramir said they should continue down the Anduin to Lórien. It was Merry that saw the flaw – pointing out Lórien was on the other side of the Anduin – on the Western side. Mirkwood was on the Eastern side. They would need boats.

"What about walking North to the Carrock? We could cross there." It was Sam's suggestion.

"Maybe, but that would take a week, at the minimum. Is there no other place to cross?" Eowyn furrowed her brow in thought, trying to answer her own question.

"There's Osgiliath…" Pippin suggested, but knew it was long shot. Osgiliath was still deserted.

"Too close to Mordor."

"What about the Old Ford, South of the Carrock?" Merry suggested, trying to remember the map he had seen at Rivendell

"Yes, the Old Ford…we could reach that in under a week, cross, then head South to Lórien."

"Then that's probably the best way to go."

Agreed on a route, the Companions gathered the possessions that they carried, donned their armour and weapons, and began to head North.

They walked at a leisurely pace, although it was quick. It was almost as if coming out from the glade had re-awoken old fears and had reminded them of the present situation and danger. They were subconsciously listening for the sound of black wings in the air.

There was no sign of the Wraiths, so the Companions could rest easy that night. The set a watch, all the same.

The next morning was cloudy and cool. The Companions were undisturbed during most of the day, with the exception of a fox and a few rabbits.

A strange feeling had been growing in Frodo's mind most of the day. He knew the Wraiths were airborne, still searching. He couldn't tell how, he just knew.

He felt them before he saw them. In the early afternoon, he was suddenly gripped with a feeling of coldness and pain. He stopped walking, one hand on his shoulder. It was the recognisable pain.

"Wraiths." He murmured through gritted teeth. "Coming this way."

The companions immediately looked for shelter. The edge of Mirkwood was about seventy meters away, so they started to run for it. There was a wraith scream, but it was still a bit for off.

The companions managed to reach the safety of the forest. The Wraith, now visible in the sky, screeched again. It had lost its prey. It turned its airborne steed and darted back towards the southeast.

Slowly, the companions came out of their shelter, Frodo last of all. His warning had not been much, but it had been enough. The cold pain was now gone.

Eowyn was watching in amazement. "How did he…?"

Faramir saved Frodo from explaining. "Eowyn, at the beginning of the last Quest, Frodo was stabbed by the Witch-King on Weathertop. His wound has never fully healed."

Eowyn interrupted. "Where were you stabbed?" she asked Frodo.

Frodo showed Eowyn his scarred shoulder. The scar itself was almost transparent.

Faramir continued. "Whenever a Wraith is near, Frodo feels pain in his shoulder – it seems to act like a beacon. When we were travelling to Rivendell, we were attacked by four Wraiths. Frodo collapsed and spoke in elvish, alerting us to their presence. We drove them off, but not before I had begun to contemplate why it had happened."

Frodo nodded. "The pain seems to increase and decrease with how many there are. Four, the pain was unbearable and I fell to my knees. One, and I could still run. It doesn't last long, just long enough. I would hate to think what could happen if all nine appeared."

The latest Wraith had reminded them fully of what could lie ahead. They continued quickly and quietly, keeping to the shelter of Mirkwood, should they need it.

Night was beginning to fall over Edoras. The four riders had reached it in the early afternoon, as cool wind was sweeping over the plains of Rohan. It was evident that Eomer was pleased to be back in his own land, and evident that the people of Rohan were glad to see him return.

On their arrival to the Golden Hall, Eomer summoned messengers to him and sent them out to gather what ever army he could to assault Mordor once more. Once the messengers were gone, all bearing the summons of war, Eomer called for refreshments for himself and his companions. As they ate, each was trying to estimate the size of the possible army that they could call upon. All except Gandalf, whose thought went Frodo and the others – just like it had so many times in the year passed.

That had been some hours ago. Eomer was holding a council with some of his captains, and Prince Imrahil had left with a fresh horse, trying to get to Dol Amroth as soon as possible. Aragorn and Gandalf were standing outside, looking over the plains of Rohan to the north as they began to fall into darkness.

"You're thinking about Frodo and the others?" Aragorn asked, without turning to his friend.

Gandalf nodded. "I only pray that they are faring well, and have not had any delays or trouble. I also pray that this war is not in vain."

This time, Aragorn did turn to Gandalf. "In what way, Mithrandir?"

"Aragorn, or, should I say King Elessar, have you thought what it is exactly we will do when we reach the Morannon? We will fight Melkor's orcs. But we do not have a Ring that can end, and break, his power. Not this time. This time, we have no purpose but to try and stop him. Yet we will never fight him. Only his army. Many men will die in this attempt. So, I put the question to you, King Elessar. Why do we go to the black gate?"

Aragorn thought about this question for a moment, before replying. "We go to stop history repeating itself. We go to stop Melkor, before he comes to power."

"And if you manage to break through his ranks, and get to the Black Tower? What will you do with him?"

Aragorn's grey eyes clouded with uncertainty. "That I do not know."

Gandalf nodded. "Nor do I. That is what troubles me."

The two were silent, each absorbed in his own thoughts. They stood at the edge of the Golden Hall until the great plains of Rohan had vanished into blackness, lit only slightly by the stars glinting across the sky.

That same night the Companions warily set a watch over their camp. Any sign of danger and the watcher was to rouse the others as quickly as possible. All six of them were on edge after the afternoon attack, and the fear had not subsided.

Frodo could not sleep, for his dreams were haunted with old fears and best-forgotten memories that the Wraiths had rekindled. He had taken an earlier watch, but still lay awake, wrapped in his blanket, staring up at the starry night sky.

After a while he closed his eyes, trying to find an undisturbed restful sleep. A dreamless sleep that would allow him to pass the rest of the night away in peace. His mind was falling into peace when his nightmares started again. But this time, there was no escape. There was pain that seemed so real he could hardly think, shadow that no light could penetrate. He felt as if he were trapped, unable to move.

Frodo's pained scream had woken the rest of the companions. In a few seconds they were around him, trying to work out what was wrong. It didn't take long until the answer was presented. The initial Wraith screech was echoed by at least six more.

The Companions shared a quick glance. They all understood, now. The pain from the presence of seven Wraith must have been overwhelming – enough to make a person pass out. But it was almost as if Frodo was in a deep sleep that he couldn't get out of – he was whispering and tossing, and couldn't seem to hear them.

The others quickly armed themselves for battle, drawing sword and retrieving a few smouldering brands from their weak fire. These they quickly coaxed into torches, then placed around Frodo in a ring. Fire was the best protector they could use.

The Wraiths swooped low, trying to scare their prey. The Companions stayed strong, although it was terrifying – the Wraiths could hardly be seen in the blackness of night, becoming almost invisible until they swooped and tried to attack.

Some had dismounted, coming at them on foot rather than on wings. Faramir and Eowyn dealt with these, while Pippin had un-slung his bow and way trying to shoot some of the Fell Beasts. Merry and Sam were covering him.

As Sam was watching for the Nazgul that would come at them next, an idea occurred to him. A light in dark places – what was darker than night?

He ran back to Frodo, and, reaching through their torch-ring, and found what he was looking for, in a pocket near Frodo's heart – the Phial of Galadriel. Why it had never occurred to him before he did not know. Whispering in elvish, Sam held the Phial up and illuminated their battle.

The Wraiths screeched at the first hint of the light, and baked away. It gave the Companions precious seconds to re-group. Sam still held the Phial, its white light unwavering in strength and continuity.

As Sam held up the Phial and its light grew, it had also reached Frodo. He saw the light in his dreams, and clutched at the chain on his throat. The Evenstar glittered under his fingers and cleared his mind. He awoke, and saw the battle. Drawing Sting, he moved to the others to help.

"Frodo! You're awake!"

"Yes, but what will we do? There are seven of them…and the light will not keep them off for long."

"Force a retreat. It's our only way."

"We actually only have six to deal with – Pip made one turn after a well placed shot in his mount."

Their conversation was cut short as an airborne Wraith dived. It skimmed the ground and made the Companions duck for cover. As it did, though, the Phial was knocked from Sam's hand and it went out. The Wraiths' cover of darkness was returned, as was their advantage.

They swooped as one – in the time that was given by the light those on foot had remounted. The Six Wraiths forced the mortal fighters to the ground. Then, they swooped, almost as a parting gesture, and left, hading southeast.

But Sam did not get up to retrieve the Phial. Neither did Merry. No one moved. For the Wraiths had played their last card, used their last weapon. Swooping together, all six had used the Black Breath, and had caused the Companions to sink into the dark dreams of unconsciousness.

After walking through black dreams of death and despair for what seemed like days, Sam felt light, and life, coming back to him. Slowly opening his eyes he found he was not alone – his other Companions were with him, lying still, but breathing; their minds filled with dark thoughts and visions.

Reaching out to Merry, who was closest to him, Sam shook him by the shoulder. Merry, in his dreams, felt Sam's hand and heard Sam's voice, telling him to wake, and to come back. The dreams of despair seemed to fade, and he woke to find Sam next to him.

"What happened?"

Sam shook his head. "I can't answer you."

The two Hobbits woke their other companions. Everyone was still a bit disorientated and confused from the Black Breath, when they got a fire going again, Faramir remembered a parting gift for Aragorn – Athelas, though both rangers had prayed there wouldn't be need for the remedial plant.

Their minds and hearts were cleared of darkness and confusion when the sweet smell of Athelas came from the leaves. All except Sam, it seemed. He didn't speak, nor make much movement. As soon as the Companions saw him, they all knew the same thing.

It had been right in front of them, but the Black Breath had stopped anyone from seeing it as a reality. Now it had been realised, there was nothing they could do. No one spoke. Pippin had his head in his hands. Sam just stared, into the newly rekindled fire.

There was nothing to be done. They had come through to much. And for nothing. Sam stood and walked away from the camp, stopping at a large rock about fifty meters away from the fire.

It was now, out of sight, that Sam's mask gave way and his tears flowed freely. He had promised to follow him, follow him to wherever. Now, he was gone. Sam turned to look in the direction of Mordor, and silently cursed the Nazgul, and their winged steeds.

He was just one Hobbit. What could he do, but grieve? Mourn the loss of his dearest friend, his best friend, his brother.

He would never see Frodo again.

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Oh no! Frodo's been taken! I feel sorry for Sam.