A drabble is a piece of writing that is exactly 100 words long, with a title of no more than 15 words.
Chapter One: Hobbits
"Frodo, my boy, there's been an accident." Forever will you remember those words uttered by your Uncle Rory on the day your life changed forever. You remember his look of utter grief and know that you mirrored this look yourself for quite some time.
Everything else about that period of time is shrouded in a fog. You don't remember the funeral nor why you came to live with your cousin Saradoc and his wife. You remember nothing until the birth of Meriadoc, two years later.
Holding baby Merry for the first time, you realized that life goes on. You smiled.
Bilbo Baggins (movie-verse)
You stand in the doorway. The Ring, a simple band of gold, seems to weigh more than the pack resting on your shoulders. Though you agreed just moments ago to leave the bauble, you are suddenly loathe to put it aside. You find that you do not have the will or desire to take it back to Gandalf.
Slowly, you tilt your hand to the side. The Ring does not move until your hand is almost perpendicular to the ground. It's almost as if it doesn't want to leave you.
The Ring hits the ground. You wake from a dream.
It hurts, precious, it hurts! Cruel orcses tortures poor, poor Smeagol. We no longer has the precious. Baggins stole the precious! Why does the orcses hurt poor, poor Smeagol? Cold steel hurts us, yes precious, it does. Fire burns us! We hurts!
Orcses are hurting us for the precious. They wants my precious! They wants the precious for the Eye! They cannot have the precious. The precious is ours! Ours!
Ropeses pulls our arms. It hurts, precious, hurts! Smeagol does not have the precious! Smeagol does not have It! It was ours and he stole it from us!
Everyday, you spend at least a moment looking East, the way you last saw your beloved traveling. He told you, though he probably shouldn't have, that after leaving your homeland, he would turn South. You don't know his destination, but you hope he is safe wherever he is.
News has reached you that he entered the Forest. You are told that if he went in there, he must be dead. The Forest is wild, they say. He did not come out where he went in and there is no way he could make it across the Forest.
Still you hope.
I am alone. For the first time since leaving the Shire months ago, I am without Pippin. Gandalf has taken him away to Minas Tirith while I am to remain with Aragorn and the Rohirrim, at least until we reach Edoras.
Why doesn't Gandalf believe that Pip and I can weather this new problem together? We've survived being eaten by Old Man Willow, attacked by Wights and Wraiths, and being taken captive by Uruk-hai. We could get through Pippin's foolishness like we always have: together. But Gandalf thinks it safer for Pip in Minas Tirith.
And so I am alone.
Every spare moment of your day, you stand upon the wall and watch the city burn, fervently hoping to see some sign of the Rohirrim on the horizon. Endless hours pass with no hint of those who would come to Gondor's aid. But then you remember that it ultimately doesn't matter whether or not the White City falls. All that matters is that Frodo succeeds in his task to enter Mordor and destroy the accursed Ring.
You turn to hoping that your cousin is alive and that he and his gardener are safe. They are the last hope for Middle-earth.
"Take care of the Master and the Master will take care of you," my gaffer would tell me at least once everyday. And take care of the Master I did, first Mister Bilbo, then Mister Frodo. I took care of the Master so much that I almost felt more at home in Bag End than Number Three.
Now Bag End is home, in every sense of the word. Gaffer still lives in Number Three, with Widow Rumble taking care of him. I live in Bag End with Rosie, Elanor, and little Frodo-lad on the way.
I'm the Master now.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.