… Frodo had no idea whether he had run two miles or four. His sides ached; his breath came in short, painful gasps. Only his terror kept his legs frantically pumping. The dogs continued their pursuit, their ferocious howls sometimes sounding far away, sometimes frighteningly close. If only he could see where they were! But no. He shuddered. That might be worse.
A sudden scream and a flurry of dark-shrouded movement rose up from the road in front of him. With a strangled sob, Frodo collapsed to his hands and knees.
A Winterfilth Tale--
As he chewed his pork and bread, and sipped the remains of his now-cold tea, (Frodo) thought about all the stories he’d heard about the Old Forest, and lost himself for a time in wondering what it was like for the trees during the Fell Winter.
It’s not such a bad place. He looked around at the faded grey weeds. It might even be almost pretty in the summer, when it’s greener.
Fireweed stalks rattled in a chilly breeze, and an odd groaning sound arose in the trees around him. Frodo shivered, and looked up for the reassurance of the patch of sky above him. A few wisps of cloud drifted across the sun. The sky itself was beginning to fade to grey.
It must be later than I thought.