The flustered leaves on the ground had moved to the sound of boots and bare feet. They marched along wearily all day; the cold dreary evening eventually bore down upon them. Eventually, they reached a resting point, for the young hobbits had finally grown tired, and dusk overpowered the little light they used to see.
The moon was waxing. The group of five were together around a campfire they had made from sticks and leaves nearby, along with some flint from a nearby river bed. The faint scratchy caw of ravens and flapping in the wind, or the crack of flame from the fire occasionally pierced the deafening silence of the night. Strider contrasted the hobbits’ maintained anxiety; he looked as if what had happened in Bree had left him unmoved.
“What shall we do next?” asked Frodo, staring into the fire.
“I think,” answered Strider slowly, as if he had not quite yet known what to say, “I think our best course of action is to head further east, and make for the line of hills, not straight for Weathertop. It will be safer keeping out of the open field, as there we are far too vulnerable to being seen.”
“By whom?” asked Sam curiously, “if the black riders are searching in the forest, should we not leave it for Weathertop?”
“No” said Strider, “the eyes of evil take many shapes, not all are in a humanoid form.”
Frodo could not close his eyes; all of the other hobbits had gone to sleep; however, at the time, he could not. He laid there still, almost as if he were frozen in ice. There was a quick chill in the air. Strider didn’t appear to sleep, as he stood on a self-imposed watch around the fire through the night. There were flashes of light beyond the vast hill, however it was not the break of dawn nor the strike of lightning. Slowly growing tired and weary, Frodo thought of the Shire. The light continued to flash. He missed the luscious, bright-green grass, the good food, but most of all: the warm hearth of home.
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