He has grown thin. Thinner than he had ever been when he was here last, and the lines in his cheeks speak of a hobbit who has lost all weight he had gained during his last stay in the City. Shoulders hunched through the now tattered green cloak he wore constantly, the rest of what can be seen of his skin is caked in dust, bruises and scrapes.

Perhaps what is worst is his eyes, purple, bruise-like lines beneath a gaze haunted, heavier than last before, almost disoriented – confused. Last he was past Minas Morgul, where the Shadow had nearly tempted him to walk towards the bridge, the force so painful it yanked his entire neck. His empty stomach had growled yet his body did not recognize the hunger. His throat was dry, lips caked in dust. 

“……Here – again. ” It seems almost forced out of the Hobbit’s lips, before he takes a few stumbling steps –

– and falls down. As sure as the weight of the Ring would make him crumple, so too does the sudden absence of it yet again make him lose his footing. The ugly, red, welt-like indentions from the chain are afresh, as if he had never been here at all. 

For a moment he lies there, blinking back dust and darkness, not used to seeing the light of the sun once again. 

“….a dream…” It’s mumbled into the stone, the Ringbearer struggling to even grapple the street with cut little fingers. “Or rather it feels as if I am sleeping again….”