Summary: Set of four Frodo drabbles, each 100 words in length.
A/N: Inspired by all the exciting new Hobbit news, of course :) Can be seen as individual or connected little Frodo scenes.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the following characters etc.
He steps out into the cool morning air, privileged to see the dawns rosy fingers stretching welcomingly across the pale sky. The breeze tousles his hair affectionately, sighing gently as he walks slowly on, pausing above the newly grown grass. So green. Almost blindingly so, after months and months of dull grey, angry red, and terrible gold. Green; soothing, whispering with the wind, for as far as his haunted eyes can see.
For a long moment, there is a lump in his throat, and he blinks heavily. Then he falls to his knees, smiling at the newly remembered dew-damp touch.
The night is cool, refreshing; at once easing fevers and lifting spirits, and he hopes it will never end. His youngest friend is singing; drawing in so much air to fill his lungs that it's a wonder his still-healing chest has not forced him to halt.
He realises that of course there is pain, but Pippin is willing it away; fighting it with the same single-minded, passionate determination he has always embodied. His cousin wants to sing, for joy, for healing, for the realms of the free, and so he does. He hopes, in time, he can do the same.
Once upon a time, it was ale that he held preferable above all other liquids. Before that, it had been buttermilk, he supposes, and before, that of his mother's. His cousins admittedly were much more enthusiastic supporters of ale than he, but at the end of a long tiring day, nothing in all of Middle Earth could possibly have done a better job in warming his insides and relieving strain.
But he sits by Sam's side, listening to said ale-inclined cousins and waiting to wake up from the impossible dream of miraculous redemption, and never has water tasted so sweet.
The shadows flicker red upon the wall, throwing fiery nightmares into the air to invade his thoughts. Hollowed eyes track the shapes, memory ravaging his peace, stirring the embers of a fear that has never quite been extinguished.
His fingers flutter hesitantly by the candle, linger too long before drawing back to allow the room to be blackened by a single puff of air. He breathes easier, but is never at ease. He tries his best to contain it, but the wild wind will always bring it flaring back to life.
He knows, one day, it will envelop him completely.