A/N Hey everybody! I have no idea where this story came from, but here it is. I hope ya like it! Please review, cause I'm new at this sort of thing.

Disclaimer: Do you REALLY have to rub it in?? ;-;

Frodo was exhausted, Sam could see that. His plunge into the Dead Marshes earlier that day had left him cold and shivery, and now he was clumsily trying to lay out his bed role, his half frozen fingers slipping over the fastening. Sam reached over, already done roling out his own bed, and laid Frodo's down for him, making sure there were no sharp rocks underneath. Frodo gave him a dazed look of gratitude before collapsing onto the blankets, his eyes closed before his head hit the ground. Sam watched his master until his breathing evened out, and he was sure he was asleep. Satisfied, Sam rolled over onto his side, nestling into the blankets. His eyes fluttered close.

He was floating, floating up yet down at the same time. Sam blinked his sleepy eyes open. A thick midst blanketed the air around him. Where was he? Suddenly, Sam was wide-awake, glancing around him with wide eyes. Where was Frodo? Where was /he!?!/

A voice suddenly oozed out of the surrounding fog.

"Welcome to Destiny, Samwise Gamgee of the Shire."

Suddenly, all too suddenly for poor, nervous Sam, a tall, ethereal figure emerged from the spiraling embrace of. destiny?. and glided to stand before him. Sam shuddered, a tingle of confused fear tickling his spine. He tried to inquire as to who, no, what this being was, but all that escaped his throat was a soft whimper.

She (or so Sam guessed, as there was really no sure way to tell) had no features whatsoever. In place of the details and individual traits that make a body belong to one soul specifically, this creature was composed of a complete blackness, putting the supposed emptiness of a wraith's hood to shame. And yet horribly, within the complete nothingness, absolutely everything there ever was, is, or would be seemed to float in and out of perception, waiting just beyond a mortal's reach.

Somehow, Sam could sense that the apparition was smiling.

"I am destiny's muse," she explained, or at least she intending this to be an explanation. The meaning this brought to Sam's senses was decidedly limited. A good half of the frightened hobbit's brain was still devoted to feverishly pondering the identity of this fearfully wonderful reality, which seemed to teeter on the line between things real and the nonexistent.

"This place is destiny," the, the muse?. repeated, sending another round of shivers up and down Sam's back. "It is a place of spirits and ghosts, may- be's and could-have-been's, memories lost and futures to be found." Sam again got that unnerving feeling that the being was smiling. "Things that are, things that were, and some things, that are yet to come to pass." Sam shuddered violently.

The muse gracefully raised her right hand to hover above her head. Sam noticed with no small amount of surprise (or fear) that two bright, slightly over-large eyes were glowing into existence in the muse's face. Despite theirs always being the same set of eyes, Sam observed nervously that they always appeared to be changing. somehow.

Sam felt his heart skip a beat, and all the blood drained from his face. He could recognize those huge, sapphire eyes anywhere.

They were Mr. Frodo's.

"Nine fates, all bearing the likeness of the ringbearer's doom." Sam felt his breathe hitch in his throat. ".will be shown to you. Valar wishes you to see." And with that, the muse with Mr. Frodo's eyes faded into the swirling mists of destiny.

Sam glanced around nervously, suddenly wishing the Muse hadn't gone. He appeared to be floating in a complete blackness, yet he felt something solid under his feet. Sam began to quiver in anticipation. Nine fates? What were fates?

Without warning, colors burst into existence, spiraling dizzyingly, the black still just visible beyond them. Sam cried out in surprise, watching with eyes as big as saucers as the threads of color began organizing themselves and quickly weaving something like a web around him. Sam closed his eyes; the color threads' wild dance made him feel sick.

Finally, all felt marginally still, and Sam peeped open an eye. Next second, his eyes flew open as wide as they could go, as the confused hobbit stared around him, his mouth slowly turning up in a smile.

The /Shire!/

Yes, it was! Sam sprung to his feet, feeling the happiest he had in a long time. There was Bag End, as warm and welcoming as ever, and here he was in the garden, like he had been so many other times. Sam grinned. This was the way things were supposed to be.

Or was it? Sam frowned and narrowed his eyes, as his initial joy muted enough to allow him to properly survey the setting.

Sam's face fell. It wasn't the real Shire. He frowned at the grass below him. In spots, there was no grass at all, and a black nothingness took the place of green. Sam looked closer, and was just able to discern the strings of color, woven together, to create a false reality around him.

The disappointment was terrible. Sam felt as though his heart had been deflated.

It was then that he heard a door opening, and footsteps on the porch. Someone was coming! Sam hesitated, unsure of what creatures would live in a fake Shire.

"Good morning, Sam!" a familiar voice called cheerfully, and Frodo Baggin's curly head appeared around the corner of the house.

"Mr. Frodo!" cried Sam in relief, his heart inflating slightly. "Thank the Valar yer 'ere!" He wasn't all alone in this strange place. Frodo was here. He would know how to get back. Sam never thought he'd say it, but he would much rather be in the Dead Marshes than in a place that pretended to be his home.

"Whatever's the matter, Sam?" Frodo asked, his smile fading as he began to hurry across the dewy grass towards his friend. Couldn't he tell?

"Well, it's just that." Sam began, not quite sure how to explain the obvious to the apparently happily oblivious hobbit hurrying up to him. It was as Frodo came up to stand next to him, that Sam gasped.

"Mr. Frodo, you're." Sam stared at him, mouth hanging open, lost for words. Frodo's brows knit together in concern as he stared back into Sam's unbelieving chocolate eyes.

Frodo's hair was clean and fluffy, flopping down into his crystalline clear blue eyes. His face was pale, the way it had always been, but not unhealthily so, and there were no smudges of dirt or blood smearing his skin or laundered clothes. Frodo was shaking his head slightly in confusion, but the smile still hadn't completely left his face. Sam's eyes fell slowly to land on Frodo's neck. No chain, or ring for that matter, in sight.

This was most assuredly NOT the Frodo Sam had been traveling with in the Dead Marshes.

"Who are you?" Sam whispered, again raising his eyes to be at a level with the unbelievably sparkling and innocent eyes of the other.

Frodo frowned now, and raised his hand to feel Sam's forehead. "Sam, are you feeling alright? It's me, it's Frodo. Who else would it be?"

Frodo drew his hand back suddenly, his eyes going wide as he truly beheld Sam's current condition. Sam remembered then the gash he'd received on his forehead that day, when he'd tripped over a half-submerged rock. He could only imagine the filthy state he must be in. He wouldn't be surprised if he'd lost a few pounds, too.

"Sam, what happened?" Frodo exclaimed, his eyes twin pools of concern. "You shouldn't be out here working in such a state! Come on, let's get you inside and out of this sun. I'll mix up some nice tea." Frodo continued babbling about getting some food in him, and began leading a Sam too shocked and confused to protest by the hand towards the door of Bag End.

"Why didn't you say something?" Frodo was asking as the two reached the path leading to the front door. Sam was trying to get his thoughts organized enough to reply, when he noticed with a jolt of fear that the threads of color this universe was composed of were beginning to unravel. Sam was being pulled backward, away from the open and welcoming door to Bag End and the Frodo of the Shire that would never be again.

Sam's hand was wrenched from Frodo's as he was yanked backward. Frodo spun around, his eyes perfectly round as he surveyed the dancing colors. Sam fought desperately and reached out his fingers for the Shire Frodo, who had been so cruelly ripped away from him once, without his ever truly realizing it.

Frodo squeaked softly and began to run towards Sam, intent on freeing him from the relentless force pulling him back. Behind him, the door to Bag End was expanding and growing deeper, until it was a gaping hole.

"Frodo, look out!!" Sam screamed, his eyes fixed on the trench behind his friend. Shire Frodo's clear blue eyes widened in confusion and fear as he was sucked backwards into the black cavern, and for the last time Sam heard poor Frodo's innocent voice.


It tinkled like rain on glass, the way only the Frodo Sam remembered's voice could, unmarred by all this madness, untouched by the life that had gone so horribly wrong so fast. Frodo of the Shire gave Sam one final, angelic, wide-eyed stare, before he spiraled helplessly into the chasm of things lost, and never to be found again.

"No," Sam whispered, mouth agape, brown eyes shocked and shot through with pain. He looked dazedly down at his hand, which now grasped nothing but air, laden with memory, where Shire Frodo's hand had been but moments before. The force that had held Sam back drifted away softly, and the bright colors of the Shire faded away as new strands of color began to weave themselves together. The color strings feverishly tried to create an imitation reality between the strange mortal in their midst and the angry grips of destiny that floated around him in a sea of black.

Sam barely had time to breathe before another figure materialized from the swirling destinies around him. Clinging to a hope as strong as the suddenly dark, ominous strands of reality knitting themselves around him, Sam rushed forward, praying he hadn't lost his old Frodo a second time.

"Mr. Frodo?"

The approaching figure came into focus. Sam barely suppressed a scream.


The horrible fate opened it's mouth wide, dripping black blood, and shrieked a cry into the air that would rattle one's bones until they shattered into a dust so fine the wind would carry it away and bury the grains in the deepest crevices of the earth. Sam's voice rasped in agony as he clutched his ears and dropped to his knees.

Only one creature could utter a scream so terrible.

As the tenth Nazgul threw back its head and screeched a howl of pure fury at its doom into the cracking air around it, Sam stared in unmuted horror at the most terrible of the ringwraiths. For this one, the smallest of the ten, was proof of what the dead kings were capable of; an innocent life destroyed beyond even the comfort of death. This one hadn't doomed itself to its fate by greed and corruption, the hobbit this creature of malice had once been had fought for all he was worth against the dark.

But he had not won. Worst of all, he had known what was coming. He had known what he once was was dying, and that the hollow husk of himself left over would condemn all he had loved to a life of darkness. For he had the fate of Middle Earth chained around his neck.

Frodo had been dragged, kicking and screaming and sobbing for his Sam to come save him, into the shadow world.

And the tiny glimmer of Frodo that was left knew what he had done. His guilt was a torture worse than any of the other terrifying ordeals the nine had laid upon him, trying to snuff out that last glimmer.

All that he wanted was death. But escape would be denied him for all eternity. There WAS no end to hope for. There was no hope at all.

Wraith Frodo wailed again, clawing in pain at the rotting, wasted limb that was his left arm. Black veins spread from the horrible wound at his shoulder to ensnare his entire dead corpse. The gorge in his arm dripped black blood and decomposed flesh. The littlest Nazgul snarled at the cringing figure shuddering on the ground before him, his black robes billowing and his empty hood turned towards the agonized Sam.

Sam knew, somehow, that no matter how long he lived, he would never, never forget what he was seeing now. This spectacle would haunt his sleep for the rest of his life, and here he was, actually experiencing it all for real. He stared into the emptiness where dear Mr. Frodo's face should have been, and felt something inside him die. Sam was never sure exactly what it was, but it dripped out his eyes in a steady flow of tears and was gone from his soul forever.

Sam whimpered softly. "Mr. Frodo, where have you gone?"

Wraith Frodo felt his dead heart contract. Buried deep under the layers of evil and the effects of unimaginable abuse, the minuscule gleam that was Frodo collapsed to his knees and sobbed his dead blood out.

"Oh Sam, Sam, Sam, sam sam sam sam sam sam sam."

Sam gasped, dragging in his breath in a low rasp that tore his throat. For a split second, and no longer, the flapping black robes faded, and in the emptiness of the quivering hood Sam could just make out the sickening remains of poor Frodo's face.

His decomposed skin was stretched so tightly over his skull, Sam could hardly tell there was flesh covering the bone at all. In places, the skin had ripped and skull was exposed. He was white as a sheet, except the slightest tinge of purple. What remained of his hair was long and filthy, coated in blood and sweat, yet was still dreadfully curly, an agonizing reminder that this tormented creature had once been a hobbit. Rotting, pointed ears peaked out of filthy locks. Black blood oozed from his mouth and dripped from the many lashes and half-open wounds coating his being.

But, worst of all for Sam, were the eyes. They were originally flat, lifeless, black and silver disks, but after half a millisecond they suddenly glowed blue, and Frodo's huge, traumatized, and hysterically desperate forget-me-not blue eyes were staring out at him from sunken, lacerated sockets, begging Sam to bring him back, to save him, to comfort him, anything, anything.

Before Sam could do a thing, however, Wraith Frodo screeched again and whirled around, his black robes billowing wildly, any trace of the old, abused Frodo smothered underneath swallowed by the emptiness. The littlest Nazgul ripped away through the night, howling his wraith scream all the while, undoubtedly called by the Witch King back to Minas Morgul when the Nine realized that the tenth was defying them again. Yet underneath the cruel, furious and vicious crow of the ringwraiths, Sam could just detect a pitch of the scream that was his Frodo's voice; high and pleading and scared. It was a shriek of guilt heavier than any ring could ever be, and terror at what awaited him back in the City of the Dead when the Witch King got his taloned hands on him again.

The long dead king would try for the umpteenth time to squash the faint shimmer that was all the remained of Frodo Baggins from the bleeding husk that was the tenth Nazgul.

The newly deceased part of Sam's soul was squeezed mercilessly. The last drops of the something inside him that had died at the sight of the Wraith Fate poured from his eyes like the pus from Frodo's shoulder.

Sam's stomach did a sickening somersault. He dropped onto all fours and heaved violently onto the marble floor, his tears splattering and pooling into the spaces between the tiles.

"Why!?!?" He screamed into the purple sky and ornate balconies stretched above his head. "Why 'ave you gone and shown me this, this." Another wave of sobs overcame him, and he buried his face in his bleeding hands, bruised from beating the tiles beneath him.

Wait. the tiles?

Sam slowly raised his tear-streaked face and looked around him apprehensively. The woven imitation reality surrounding him appeared to harbor many beautiful, decorative buildings and a magnificent waterfall pouring in the center of the structures, sparkling purple in reflection of the gorgeous sunset overhead.

He knew this place. He'd been here before.

"Rivendell," Sam breathed in immense relief. For the first time since this fearful dream had ensnared him, Sam felt safe. Nothing could hurt him in the City of the Elves.

He staggered, quivering, to his feet, using the railing on the edge of the balcony to pull himself up. Still dizzy from the unimaginable relief of finding himself in Rivendell, he shakily swayed his way along the overhang, occasionally needing to steady himself on the railing or a pillar. Not only was he overcome with the feeling of relative safety, it was just beginning to dawn on him that Mr. Frodo was not doomed to eternal torment as a wraith. No, that fate was only a could-have-been. Sam swayed and was forced to stop all together as a fresh wave of tears blinded him, only this time, they were tears of solace.

/Only a could-have-been/

It was as Sam was rounding a corner, grinning rather stupidly and breathing heavily in relief, that he got the shock of his life. He wasn't necessarily frightened; struck numb would describe his state better.

He stared, open-mouthed and saucer-eyed, at the blonde, chocolate eyed, slightly plump hobbit before him.

Sam was face-to-face with /himself/.

And standing next to his other self, was Mr. Frodo! His old, bright-eyed, wonderfully alive Mr. Frodo! No bleeding torture scars, no wraith robes, no black and silver eyes, no rotting left arm.

But Sam realized with a slight start that Frodo's arm was indeed scarred and bandaged, certainly not oozing black pus or dropping purple flesh, but strung up in a sling and very pale and weak looking.

It was then that Sam understood. This was not a could-have-been. This was a memory.

Memory Frodo and Sam took no notice of the supposed clone of the latter, but carried on their conversation just as normally as had nothing more unusual than a gust of wind blown through their midst. Sam edged closer, trying to hear what he and Frodo were saying. This had to be one of the oddest sensations of his life.

"Packed already?" Frodo was saying, his voice echoing strangely. He smiled slightly at Sam's stuffed backpack.

Memory Sam looked a little embarrassed. "No 'arm in bein' prepared..."

"I thought you wanted to see the Elves, Sam?"

"I do!"

The Sam watching himself shift nervously smiled slightly. He remembered this.

"More than anything?" Frodo prodded gently.

"I did. It's just... We did what Gandalf wanted us to do... We got the Ring this far to Rivendell, and I thought, seein' as 'ow you're on the mend, we'd be off soon, off 'ome."

Frodo's eyes clouded briefly with memories. "You're right Sam, we did what we set out to do. The Ring will be safe in Rivendell. I am ready to go home."

The real Sam felt tears prick his eyes for what had to be the umpteenth time as the full meaning of those words hit him. They hadn't meant much at the time; he was just as eager to get home as Frodo was, but now. now that they had gone so much farther, and still had so far to go. Sam sobbed softly.

And they had wanted to go home /then/.

Yet, even in that comparatively short trip to Rivendel, they had all changed, lost a bit of who they used to be and gained something else, something less hobbity, in its place. Especially Frodo.

"If that journey be enough to change someone," Sam thought, "I wonder if anyone'll recognize us when, when we get back 'ome."


It was as Sam's vision was blurred by tears reflecting the bitter-sweet memories of the Shire back into his soul, that he blinked, and noticed that Memory Sam and Frodo were gone. He glanced around him, wondering where they had gone, and to his complete astonishment found that his surroundings had changed. He was, for the second time in his life, at the Council of Elrond. And, for the second time, he wasn't entirely supposed to be there.

Sam was still blinking, somewhat bemused at this reality's ability to change so rapidly, when Gandalf spoke aloud, and out of habit Sam looked up to listen.

"Aragorn is right. We cannot use it." Sam felt a sob fighting to free itself from his throat. /No,/ he reminded himself. /Gandalf fell./

"You have only one choice. The Ring must be destroyed." Lord Elrond announced.

Gimli growled. "Then what are we waiting for...!"

Sam watched, in building anticipation, for this time he knew what was coming, as Gimli hefted up his ax and swung angrily at the ring. Just like before, there was a blinding flash of power-laden light, and the ax was shattered into a handful of miniature daggers, and the astonished dwarf was flung backwards onto the ground.

What Sam hadn't noticed the first time he bore witness to this moment, was how, just as Gimli struck the ring, Mr. Frodo jerked violently and slumped slightly in pain as though he had just been struck with the ineffective ax, too. The stunned hobbit blinked slowly a few times, as though he'd been concussed.

Elrond was saying something. "The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Gloin, by any craft that we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom. Only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this."

Sam's heartbeat quickened. Now he knew who was chosen as ringbearer. He glanced at the bushes surrounding the terrace, knowing his memory-self was concealed in their sheltering leaves. He remembered how curious he'd been as to which of these strangers would take his master's burden. Well, now he knew.

"One does not simply walk into Mordor," Boromir was saying. "It's black gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep, and the Great Eye." Sam screwed his eyes shut and forced himself to block his friend's voice from his head. His eyes seemed much less inclined to provide him with sight this night, but with a never-ending stream of tears. Would this pain ever end? The Boromir he had know was gone, and he already /knew/ what he and Frodo were up against. He didn't need reminding!

Sam had never known memories could hurt so much.

"Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly!"

The corrupted man's words drilled themselves into Sam's head like a burning brand, despite his best efforts not to hear them. /It is folly, folly, folly, folly./

/Not with ten thousand men could you do this!/ What chance did two halflings have? The blackening sky above Sam's head seemed to explode into a thousand spiraling hopes shot down from their seats in the heavens.

Sam put a hand to his head as he swayed violently. He would most likely never see any of these friends seated around him again. All they were was a memory.

"And what if we fail, what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?" Boromir was demanding angrily now. Sam clutched his ears, as though the words had physically harmed him, but it was entirely emotional pain. /Yes, what WILL 'appen when we fail?/

It was a moment before Sam could bring himself to listen again.

Gimli was on his feet, growling at Legolas. "Never trust an elf!"

Just like before, everyone leaped up at once and began arguing heatedly. Sam braced himself, as though for a physical blow, as his gaze fell on Mr. Frodo, waiting for him to seal their death sentence.

He waited, jaws clenched, tears flowing.

And waited some more.

No death sentence came. Frodo's head was teetering on his neck, a look on his face Sam had recently grown far to accustomed to. The dark haired hobbit's eyes were fixed hungrily on the ring, but judging by his fluttering lashes, he was trying his best to fight It's call.

Memory Gandalf placed a hand on Frodo's shoulder, and Frodo turned to look at him with a start, his eyes still clouded over slightly.

Sam was shivering fit to die. No, he didn't remember this, this was different, this wasn't right. He was terrified. What was happening?

"Frodo," Gandalf sighed heavily, looking down at him. "You may go. The Council of Elrond has obviously decided to use this time to argue over old grudges instead of consider the fate of the One Ring, and us all." With that, the Wizard who would fall but days from then turned from the somewhat baffled hobbit and joined Lord Elrond in attempting to restore order to the bickering council.

Frodo watched the arguing group a moment more, before he his eyes seemed to leap back to the ring of their own accord. Sam saw that light awaken in those blue depths, the light he had grown to fear. Frodo stared, wide-eyed, at the ring, one last time. Finally, he blinked and, shaking his head slightly as though to clear it, awkwardly hopped off his chair and slipped away. He paused for a moment in the arched doorway and looked back, directly at Sam.

Sam held his breath, still shuddering from a fear he did not understand, as he stared back into Frodo's eyes.

Again, they were a completely different pair of blue orbs from the other Fates Sam had seen so far. Yet they had all been the same.

"We can go home now, Sam."

Sam's own brown eyes widened in shock as the Fate smiled at him. The could- have-been turned around and happily walked away from the arguing company and the Ring that was really his to carry, as Galadriel had said. The Ring that would corrupt whoever else was chosen, any one of those arguing beings back there that Sam had grown to love. The Ring that would plunge Middle Earth into a never-ending darkness through the manipulation of its well- meaning bearer.

Sam realized with a horrible, blood numbing shock, that every Fate and memory he had seen so far in this destiny was doomed to die.

And /would/ die, for real, if he and Frodo failed.

The Fate's words echoed through his head, ricocheting off the walls of his skull until it sounded as though a thousand Frodo's were chanting it in his ears.

/We can go home now, Sam. Home now, Sam. Home now. Home now. Home home home./

It could have all ended at Rivendell. If that had been the case, EVERYTHING would have ended but months later. But still, they could have stayed in Rivendell, they could have gone home.

They'd already had enough of ringwraiths and rings, enough of land beyond their Shire, enough of danger and nervousness and being so uncertain. Enough of being on an adventure, enough of so much depending on /them/, little hobbits of the Shire. Sam got a fleeting image of the cornfield, and his first step beyond the safety of things familiar.

Everything was still green, birds still sang, the sun still rose in a blinding burst of hope at the start of each day.

All they had to do was take the ring to Rivendell. Originally all they had to do was meet Gandalf in /Bree/!

Sam's own words echoed through his head. "We're going to see the elves!" So optimistic.

Yes, carrying a simple gold ring through the blooming green wilderness to the gorgeous City of the Elves was a lot different than bearing the One Ring to a Mountain of Fire in the very heart of Mordor, right under the Dark Lord Sauron's gaze.

Snakes and adders, this had all started with just going to BREE!

They were still hobbits then. They still cared more about mushrooms than being cautious on the roads. Cared more about second breakfast than making good time. Cared more about bacon and sausages and tomatoes than wraiths lurking in the dark.

Cared more, or didn't know any better. They'd never had to worry about more than second helpings before.

Had they ever been that innocent? Yes, they had.

And they never would be again. They'd seen too much.

The threads of time began to unravel, the colors swirled in a frantic dance, the Fates from the past and all the memories and could-have-beens that came with them plunged into the surrounding darkness, the midst came back, and the unconscious Sam floated slowly back to Middle Earth.

****************** Sam awoke with a start, his eyes bursting open and his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

Frodo Baggins lay on his side across from him, breathing just as erratically, blinking equally wide yet sleepy eyes. His hand was balled into a white mass of knuckles at the base of his neck.

They stared at each other for a second, each one willing his mind to believe the other was there. And then Sam realized, he was back. He sat bolt upright and enveloped a very sleepy and confused Frodo in a backbreaking hug.

"Sam, wha--?"

"Oh Valar, Mr. Frodo," Sam choked, rocking slowly, his tears dripping off his cheeks and into Frodo's hair. "I 'ad the most dreadful dream."

Frodo smiled sadly into Sam's shirt. He knew what dreams could be like. Suddenly reminded, Frodo relinquished his hold on the ring, wondering when in his own fire-ridden nightmare he had grabbed it. Raising his head, he saw the rivers of tears flowing down Sam's face, and he returned the embrace, shifting slightly so the distraught hobbit could sob into his shoulder.

"It was just a dream, Sam, just a dream." Frodo whispered soothingly, rubbing his friend's back. "It's over now."

But Sam knew it wasn't, and Destiny's Muse smiled, because she knew it wasn't over as well. There were still six Fates to go.


Well, that was weird. But please review and tell me what you think! Flames accepted, though constructive criticism is more appreciated (Don't I sound intelligent? :D)

And if you have any ideas for fates, let me know and I'll probably include them! We have more creepy ones coming up next chapter. *cackles*

Wil!Frodo!Muse: *looks at Silver, who nods* Um. please review!

*tosses Frodo a shroom* Well, you heard the cute wil hobbit! ^_~