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The rainclouds dispersed in the heaven of Arda slowly as the expedition rode. Faint remnant of moonlight could still be seen lingering in the pale sky before fading into darkness. Heavy silence settled amidst the expedition and nothing but the steps of horses cantering along was heard.
Soon stone-paved road of Minas Tirith ceased to be. The way they took was a winding forest trail that weaved in and out of dark grooves of trees. The very strangling gloom seemed to choke them to silence for none spoke aloud. Ferethor thought, 'This brooding silence of the woodland does not bode well. I deem it strange that no usual forest sound could be heard, such as hooting owls and squirrels scampering.
But Ferethor did not speak of his doubts for darkness seemed to press him on all sides and he feared to shatter the heavy silence. All seemed to be immersed in their own dark thoughts and their countenance was shadowed by feelings Ferethor could not discern.
Even the very leaves seemed to droop as if like an aged men bowed down with grief, sorrow and long toil. The stumps cracked with time, sorrowful remembrance of the olden days when they must have stood tall and proud, was scattered among withered and scrawny pines and thorny trailing vines. Craggy and crumbling cliffs towered over them and dark shapes of ravens could be seen wheeling over the granite cliff ridges. Even Apple's ardour seemed dampened.
The expedition reached the end of the dirt road which opened out into a barren waste by the time Ithil was sinking. Yellow Nimphrendils were blooming amidst the fissures of the barren rocks and the golden blossoms brought a slight measure of gaiety in this desolation. 'Bloody Morgoth,' Ferethor thought, 'Void itself would be more full of life then this place...'
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