Author's Note: This is the first of a series of Hobbito-centric pieces I've suddenly started scribbling. Many thanks to Dreamflower and Baylor for being such inspirations in their works!

Whilst this is mainly focused on the protagonist, see if you can figure out certain things that are being implied *g* One of them can be found in the wording of the summary!

And all to ruin fell the world…

'If he regains it, your valour is vain, and his victory will be swift and complete: so complete that none can foresee the end of it while this world lasts.'
- Gandalf, The Last Debate, Chapter IX of Book V

Ruin claimed the land utterly, and the choking fog of soot and sulphur coloured the world a dead grey. Occasionally thunder would shudder through the rocks, and in the distance distorted shapes marched an unseen road. They were machinations of metals and wheels that spurted a killing smoke, and left in their wake a trail of crushed rocks and dead roots. Here and there decaying tree trunks littered the obscured landscape, perhaps the last memory of a Sun and another Age.

But the lone figure in this desolation was relieved that the Sun had gone away, for even a single ray from Her golden face would drive daggers into his eyes. For this reason he had grown a habit of stooping and looking only at the ground, even after the source of his agony had been covered by the perpetual storm clouds. The clouds themselves brought prevailing winds and lightning without rain, and thus he had taken to placing himself as low upon the ground as possible. In the distance where the darkness was most concentrated, he thought he could see a great storm raging, like a heavenly battle being waged at some far-off realm amongst the clouds.

He would watch it if the dust-clouds eased for a time. It helped him forget the raging fire in his belly, and the worse hunger that gripped his soul. Most times, when there was nothing to take his mind off of the pain, he crawled along the charred earth like some forgotten insect heading towards an unknown destination. If a cloud of the choking dust rolled over his patch of land, he would be forced to walk upright. He could not maintain such a posture for long, though, due to the phantom heaviness that rested on his chest.

This time he tripped over a lump on the ground first. He sprawled forwards, and the wind was knocked out of him. More out of habit than curiousity, he looked back at what his blind foot had caught, and saw what might have been a small pale head topped with curls, peeking out of a thick blanket of dust and gravel. The small form, much smaller than his emaciated own, did not move. A droplet spattered below his chin and was greedily drunk by the thirsty land; he scrambled up and continued on.

One thing only remained in his mind now- the knowledge that he could not die. He sneaked and hid from the prowling shapes, but in truth he was protected from harm by the will of the Master. He could shout and caper in front of any of the various minions that crossed the cursed land, and the worst that could be done to him would be a strong shove off the path. He carried the Master’s Mark, and it was instant death to any who even let him touch a weapon, death dealt by the winged shadow that never left him.

If he thought hard about it, he would gain a vague remembrance of why the Master kept him alive. The missing finger that Marked him still burned when he was reminded of it, as if it was covered in flames, though flesh and bone had long been burned away and the wound seared close by unholy fire before his very eyes. Punishment, proclaimed the terrible echo in his head, punishment for taking what was not his. He had a feeling it had belonged to the Master, this Thing which he had unrightfully stolen, though he could not fathom how such a mean thing as himself could have managed it. It must have been precious- ah, such pain!- indeed, for the Master to grant him so much attention. He could not remember what this Thing was, except that it had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, nor what had become of it. And so his dreadful ignorant existence continued without any hope of change.

Sometimes his wretched contentedness was disturbed by fragments of sound, sight, taste. Memory. They frightened him the most, these kindly voices, the scents that made his stomach burn even more fiercely, the warmth of another hand enveloping his. They never lingered long, and he would forget them in a matter of heartbeats, as if some silent force continuously wiped them from his consciousness. But his secret heart knew that came from deep within, from a core of strength no hand of darkness could ever reach, and sometimes he would hear his name on the lips of the faceless shadows.

Frodo.

His lungs took in a full breath, and the air that filled them was clear and cool, carrying the scent of early morning dew on grass and fresh linen and seed-cakes for breakfast.

The world retreated, and the dream returned.

“Mr. Frodo!”

‘Well, here we are, just the four of us that started out together,’ said Merry. ‘We have left all the rest behind, one after another. It seems almost like a dream that has slowly faded.’
‘Not to me,’ said Frodo. ‘To me it feels more like falling asleep again.'
- Homeward Bound, Chapter VII of Book VI