He hated it here. He hated the stars that weren't quite right. He hated the voices singing on the hill behind him, perfect chords that couldn't hold a candle to a raucous hobbit pub song. He wished he were home. Not in the stone of Minas Tirith or the forests of Ithilien, but in the Shire.
But what good would wishes do him?
He'd dreamed of home again last night, of his parents and his siblings. He'd dreamed of his brother...
He picked up a stone and hurled it into the ocean, cursing at the gods.
He hated them, too.