The Lord of the Rings, Dystopian Society, elements
There wasn’t much left of the Shire by the time Gandalf stumbled upon it again, but in all fairness, there was not much left of anything, anywhere, at all. Each of the little hobbit holes stood emptied out, no hobbits in sight, and the paths from one to the other were dusty and littered with long-forgotten possessions left behind to moulder. What used to be a land of chanting planes and buzzing bees was now no different than Isengard, than Rohan, than Gondor itself.
Usually, Gandalf did not find it in himself to wail—it was much too late for tears, and there was no use for them in a world so profoundly incarcerated in darkness —but he could not stop his heart from aching so explicitly faced with its loss. Bilbo, Frodo, Aragorn, and even that silly Peregrin Took, all were where he could no longer follow, and, in some ways, the responsibility of it was weighting against his weary shoulders.
Though he was relentless in his search, after years of obstacles hindering his efforts and the remnants of hope fading within him, Gandalf was tired. Upon Sauron’s victory, the lands of Middle-earth were either flooded, burned to the ground, or posed against the destructive forces of ancient winds and rocky giants. What used to be a gracious land was now nothing but a desolated desert, and it seemed unfruitful to expect anything but. Still, he searched. It wouldn’t be the first time hobbits or men surprised him in the most astounding manner, and if that was so, he didn’t want to miss it.