Mistress-Samwise: First of all, I'm going to answer your questions, okay?: Tiggivon: Well, you have it half right. He goes on a "trip", alright. Yes… A "trip". *evil grin* As I said before, it ain't Mary Jane, but it'll do.

Hmm… Looks like that was all the questions. Oh well.

Chapter note: Please, please, PLEASE don't go on and on about all the churchy stuff in his chapter. I know Tolkien didn't say ANYTHING about ANY sort of church system (or organized religion for that matter) in the Shire, but I don't give a rat's butt. This makes for extremely good storyline, does it not? And that's the only thing I care about right now. PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT HE'S DOING AND SAYING!!! It'll come in handy later, believe me. Don't come crying to me like "There was nothing like that in the books!" You know what? I don't fricken care.

I'm going to get some hot chocolate now.

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            The day was very beautiful. The sun hung in a cloudless sky as the birds chirped in the trees. This kind of splendor was commonplace in the Shire, and anyone who wasn't used to it would have been breath taken. Frodo's sable coat, vest, and knickers grew stifling under the sunlight. Rain would have been too cliché, so, for his parents' funeral, he got mockingly delightful weather.

            He stood beside the two caskets while the eulogy was delivered. He looked almost professional; his hands clasped behind his back, his hair neatly slicked behind his ears, his jet-black suit immaculate. He was flanked by teary-eyed aunts and uncles, mourning for their lost loved ones. But his face was gray and emotionless as he stared ahead, his eyes barely shining with a cold light.

            "Dearly beloved… We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of Drogo and Primilla Baggins…"

            The pastor's words floated off into emptiness. Frodo felt nothing, heard nothing. He was digging his nails into the back of his hand as he tried hard not to sneer in pain and anger. It was presumed that he would be one of the saddest persons there, but he was nowhere near to showing it.  His anger was more than just a façade; it ran deep, very deep.

            Sorrow is a weakness. Rage is strong. Rage is powerful.

            But he was so confused. At times, he let his anger slip and he would fall into despair. He would stay there, deep in woe and sadness until he made himself come back. Often he had thought about punishment, punishment for his moments of weakness, but he derived a sort of sick pleasure of watching himself push away his family and friends and watching them get hurt by it. And, for him, that was punishment enough.

            "… But we thank the Father for sparing their son Frodo from the same terrible fate…"

            His façade began to crumble and he could no longer keep the tears from slipping out onto his face. He found himself embraced by his relatives, crying into their arms. Many thoughts streamed through his mind, but there was one that turned up the most often.

            Why was I saved? I killed them… I'm a murderer…I should have drowned with them…

            He brought his hand to the other and mercilessly plowed his nails into his skin. The more he cried, the further they went in. Eventually, he pulled himself away from his relatives and swiftly stuck his one hand into his pocket, hiding a reality he feared. Looking over at his other hand, he found that his fingertips were tinged slightly red, and he quickly concealed that hand also. For a while after that, he felt the sickening sting of the cuts on his hand, the beads of blood rolling off onto the inside of the coat pocket.  He sharply drew in his breath as his hand throbbed with pain.

            Let it flow out… Just let it all flow out…

            He was often more willing to let blood flow than tears.

            Silently slipping behind his aunts and uncles, he quickly strode past the crowd of mourning guests and stepped into the church. He closed the door behind himself and let out a half-sigh, half-sob.

            I can't stand it… All of this is just so… So… Morbid.          

            He shuddered, but then sneezed, suddenly remembering his cold. Grumbling, he tromped over to the washroom, opening the door with his one hand. He grumbled even louder to find out that the washbasin was out of water. Slamming the door again, he wandered out into the rectory. The stained glass threw warm painted light onto the cold stone floor. He stopped in front of the altar, wordless with emotion. Slowly looking over his shoulder, he spotted the ornate holy water basin. He bit his lip as he stepped over to the basin and reluctantly drew his bloodied hand out. Shame consumed his being as he dipped his hand into the icy, crystal clear water. It stung with pain as wisps of blood turned the water scarlet. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes and they soon streamed out over his cheeks, dripping off into the basin. His sobs got louder, his body trembling as he wept. Swiftly pulling his hand out, he fell to his knees, bowed over in sorrow.

            "Eru forgive me!" he cried. For what seemed like hours he cried. He cried in despair, he cried in pain, he cried for what he'd become.

            This isn't morbid… I am.

            Along with himself, he feared reality the most. The truth was painful, almost too painful for him to bear.

            All of this is my fault… The pain… The sorrow… It's all because of me…

            But it was skewed truth, wrought in fear and grief. He sought it too quickly. He didn't take the time to really look at everything that happened, but instead settled with the fact that he was the one who killed his parents. As one would say to him later "Blaming yourself does not offer closure." Until then, he would live his life out in macabre pathos over all of this.

            Frodo looked up from the tear-stained tile at the kaleidoscope of color from the stain glass windows. The light hurt his eyes.

            Oh, God… Send me an angel that shines bright with the Light of Heaven…

            His eyes watered as the painted sunlight spilled over his face. He trembled and turned away. He could not look upon it any longer. Filled with humiliation, he buried his face in his hands and wept.

            I do not deserve to gaze upon the Light of God…

            He stood up, wiping the back of his hand on his pant leg. A shiver shot through his body as he stepped outside of the church. The air suddenly felt cold compared to when he was inside, but he thought nothing of it. For the rest of the sermon, he sat on the church steps. The others found him staring at the back of his hand, at the blood pooling around the self-inflicted cuts.

            "Are you alright?" someone asked him.

            "Yes," he grumbled. "It's nothing." Standing up, he left ahead of the others, sticking both of his hands into his pockets. Right now, he did not want to be with anyone else and wished to be away from himself for a while. Later in the day, it would cloud over and rain, turning the sunshine into gloom. He sighed in aggravation.

            "A little late for that now…"

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Mistress-Samwise: Alrighty then! I'm going to take a small break, a week perhaps, before the next chapter. This is a natural break in the story, because the next chapter will take place six years later (or something like that). Believe me, you're gonna love the next chapter, especially the dream. Fu fu fu! I'm telling you in advance to NOT ASK ME WHO OR WHAT IT IS IN HIS DREAM !!! You must figure it out yourself, so "Bleh". *sticks out tongue* I'm going to go wait to see my brother who's visiting from his college. Yay! Andy! ^o^