It'sa all gotta come to a head, yo.

This is the first part of the end. Yes. Soon, Jaded will be completed. But not before I have it go out with a couple of bangs.

I have had this in the works for… around eight months. This chapter alone. You see, it's actually supposed to be one huge chapter (it's proving to be over 7,000 words, and it's not done yet). But for safety's sake, I'm splitting it up.

Aemilia Rose, Hatshepsut: Pharaoh of Kemet, Blue Jedi Hobbit 009, and Samwise the Brave, thank you for your reviews last chapter. I doubt any of you care about this story anymore. But I do. That's why I'm continuing, after all this time.

So, I say… Enjoy this chapter, but pay careful attention.

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The first thing Frodo felt when he came-to the following morning was pain. His head was pounding. On top of that, he had stayed on the frigid, hard floor the whole night. Then he felt coldness. Weakly, he lifted his head up to see that the window had remained open the entire time, letting the freezing air in. The sunlight stabbed mercilessly at his dry, bloodshot eyes and he stumbled over to the window to close it. He swiftly drew the curtain over the glass and the room was comfortably dark again. Exhausted, he threw himself onto his bed. An even stronger pain throbbed in his head.

            "Ohhh…" he groaned weakly, clasping his pillow around his head. While he had his face stuffed in his pillow, he tried to recollect what he had done the previous evening. Then it all suddenly came back to him. He let out another groan, much louder, and this time, full of anger.

            "Ah, damn it—" Suddenly, his stomach lurched and he nearly went sick. Last night's events were having some very serious repercussions, and he was having some doubts about his decisions. Lying face down in a pillow when you're just about to be sick was not his idea of fun, and that's not even counting his terrible headache, sore body, and a whole list of other ailments. Luckily for him, it was very early in the morning, so he would not have to deal with Bilbo for another hour or so.

            The rigorously uneasy task of going across the room to the door made Frodo situation even harder. Even though the curtains were shut, there was still too much light for his liking. He struggled to grasp a hold of the doorknob under his numb fingers. But he managed to turn it well enough to let the door swing open out into the hallway. From there, he staggered to the bathroom to relieve himself of his jumpy stomach. Painful minutes past, and he was finished with the unpleasant task. Next, he sought out the cellar. Even though it was cold, it was also very, very dark and quiet, the perfect place for him to finish riding out his hangover.

            He picked up a quilt off of the living room couch before going back through the kitchen into the cellar, slowly creeping in the nearly pitch-black darkness. Finding a comfortable spot, he slid to his knees, wrapped the quilt tightly about himself, and waited patiently for his headache to die down. While he sat slumped against the cold cellar wall, he felt like curling up into a little ball and just dying. This was the worst he ever felt in his life, not only because he hung-over and sickeningly ill, but also because he felt like the lowliest, angriest son of a bitch he could ever imagine to exist. He was weak, and a coward, and not fit to stay in such a nice house as Bag End. The Brandybucks were right for sending him away; his anger, let alone mere presence, was too destructive… for not only others, but also for himself.

            There were so many emotions whirling around in his hazy mind, all seeming to fight over the responsibility for his situation. There was his anger, claiming it was all Lotho's fault. Self-hatred declared it entirely Frodo's doing. Sorrow, helplessness, and self-pity only mourned over the depression he was in, refusing to take any of the blame. But, above all, weakness bore the brunt of the crushing burden. Failure at the hands of himself and then his second-worst enemy, Lotho. Failure in front of Sam, the one who looked up to him like his older brother, even. The disappointment Sam must have felt to see his best friend fall in front of him, realizing that the façade of unfaltering strength and benevolence Frodo donned could shatter as easily as glass. Sam's heart must have broke to see this. Frodo couldn't stand to hurt him so.

            Fifteen minutes of undisturbed dead silence passed. He hugged the quilt closer. His fingers gripped at the tightly sewn seams of the patches. Some patches were wool, others flannel and linen. Then, he brushed his fingertips over a fine silk patch. Memories flooded to him like the tears in his eyes. The all-too-familiar cloth belonged to a shirt of his father's. They were roughhousing outside Brandy Hall and it tore off. Rather than punishing Frodo, Drogo instead made him take the tattered shirt to his mother, who was putting together a quilt that she had been working on since the previous winter. Skillfully, she incorporated the shirt into the quilt, spreading the pieces out over the entire piece. It wouldn't be until Yule that he would see the quit complete and finished, when he received it as a loving gift from his own mother. All this happened when he was only seven years old, seventeen years ago.

            Just then, he realized he had been crying the whole time while he was reminiscing. He was reluctantly angry as he brushed them away with the quilt border. Still, the sorrow clung to the mist in his eyes, and he allowed the tears to roll down his face. This sort of sadness was the kind that hurt the deepest; it wasn't shallow like his self-pity or out-of-control like his rage, but overwhelming and mournful. This was the kind of misery that he often felt as a small child back at Buckland… the kind that left him feeling small and helpless, like there was nothing he could do in the whole world. There was also a sickening sense of weakness, like the exhaustion after a fierce struggle and then the surrender… the numbing, peaceful surrender to oblivion, where there was no need and nothing against in which to struggle.

            While huddling compactly under the quilt, Frodo remembered how he used to wake up laying like that in his bed back in Brandy Hall. The summers were hot and balmy to the point of sleep-inducing, and the young Frodo would go to bed early in the evening. The windows to his room were wide open, the curtains drawn back to reveal the twilight peeking over the tall hedges that surrounded the massive smial. He would lay on his bed, drowsy and damp in the humid heat, his nightshirt half unbuttoned, and yet he'd still be under the quilt his mother made him. He always liked sleeping with it, no matter what the temperature was. He always felt safe, comfortable, and close with it when he had it wrapped about his shoulders. In the summer, though, it was only safe and close.

            With the quilt bound around him, he would then wait for the humid lethargy of his sleepiness turn into the slumber he desired. So, he would fall asleep to the dark, hypnotic thrumming of the cicada songs, the high buzzing suddenly drop to a low hum, then diminish, only to start the same chorus again. If he listened closely, beneath the chirping cicadas, he could hear a different sound drifting in from the Old Forest; almost like the trees themselves were joining in the lazy evening melody. All this, combined with the sultry heat, lured him off into often-perturbed sleep.

            One reason his mother always chided him about sleeping with the quilt during the summer was that the heat always gave him bad dreams in the night. They were far from nightmares, but they still had an unsettling feeling to them, as if they were good dreams that had become warped and distorted. They were frustrating, unnerving dreams that made him feel stuck and confused. In them, he didn't know whether he wanted to burst out in vexation or lie down and cry.

            The dream he had that night was one he still remembered vividly for the rest of his life. He was lost… lost in a dark forest, perhaps the Old Forest even, and he was looking for his parents. They had gone on a stroll outside Brandy Hall, and his parents excitedly recommended taking a shortcut through the woods. Frodo was reluctant, but followed anyway. They were his parents, after all. So, they took a small dirt path into the forest, trailing deeper and deeper until the tangled branches of the trees choked off all the light. Frodo then started to panic, and before he knew it, both of his parents had disappeared. Now, he was frantically calling out their names, trying to find them, and fast becoming scared and frustrated. He had the feeling that they were not in danger; he knew that. But he missed them… sorely, and he wanted to go back home to eat the muffins Aunt Esmerelda had baked.

            "Come on!" he shouted into the shadows, nearly weeping now. "It's time to go home now! I want to have a muffin before they're cold!" It was important that he found his parents, because he could never finish his muffin by himself (Auntie always made them very, very big), so Daddy would help him finish it.

            "Please!" he cried again. "We're going to be in a lot of trouble if we don't get home soon…"

            There came no response from the surrounding darkness. The terrible feeling of helplessness set over him, and he sat down on the musty leaf floor and cried. He could feel the crushing weight of his sorrow on his chest, right on the center of his breastbone.

            "Mommy… Daddy…" he whimpered, sniffling. "I don't wanna get in trouble…"

            Suddenly, he felt his sadness slowly turn into a different feeling; one more uneasy and nervous. It was nearly a sense of overwhelming fear, but something told him, a voice heard by his soul's ear, that he didn't need to be afraid, because the light will show you the way back home. He turned around in the direction of the voice. Standing with his hands in his pockets was a hobbit. Frodo could tell he was a grown-up by the way he dressed; a light, light cream-colored suit, almost completely white, with a weskit and a jacket and even a little bowtie. This seemed to contrast his deep skin color and russet hair, with curls that came up under his cheekbones and one that stuck up at his temple. A warm smile set on his lips, and his chestnut eyes seemed unfathomable. And, spanning from his broad shoulders, were a pair of glowing, immaculate feather wings.

            Frodo, as he gazed at this, felt a sudden sense of fear and awe. Overwhelmed with indescribable emotion, he wept uncontrollably. He curled into a tight ball to brace himself against his shuddering sobs.

            "P-Please..." he hiccupped while violently shaking his head. "Please don't get mad at me!" He gasped for air as he choked on his own tears. "I didn't-- I didn't do anything wrong..."

            Again, the elderhobbit softly reassured him to not be afraid, and that my love will keep you safe. The light will lead you back if you let it into your heart. Let it become a part of you. There is no need to be scared of it. My love will then protect the light in your heart and you never become lost in the darkness again.

            Frodo felt his sorrow diminish and disappear like smoke in the wind. He stood up and timidly approached the winged hobbit. Now, Frodo could tell that he wasn't so much of a hobbit as he was a being... something that was, has been, and always will be. Frodo looked up at the tall being in front of him. Trying to look into its eyes, he felt a deep, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he trembled in fear. The being simply looked back and smiled. There is nothing to be afraid of, beloved.

            It took Frodo a few tries to speak to it. "C-Can you take me home?" The being smiled softly, saying nothing, and kneeled down in front of the hobbitlad. It folded its majestic wings behind its back and clasped Frodo's small hands within its own. You must find your own way home. But do not be scared. Trust in your own strength and help the light inside you guide you back home. My love will always protect you, my beloved.

            Frodo nodded his head wearily and gripped at the being. "I know… I know…" His voice began to waver and he broke off into soft weeps, squeezing the being even tighter. "I love you, too…" While in those strong, caring arms, he felt the safest he ever had in his life. The smooth, white cloth of its jacket pressed against his face slowly became wet with his tears. He could feel its fingers stroking his hair reassuringly before it gently pulled him away. You should leave now. Do not linger in the shadows, love.

            With silent and reverent obedience, Frodo picked himself up off the ground. It stood up, too, and placed its hand on Frodo's shoulder one last time. Remember… I am in you, always. You shall never be truly alone. I am grateful to share your soul with you, my beloved.

            Frodo did not know what it was talking about, but he felt a switch in the back of his mind turn on, and everything was at peace. With a sniffle, Frodo took one last look at the angel's ethereal face and turned around. Now, he was suddenly endowed with strong confidence. The forest's creeping darkness seemed to subside as he walked back up the path. He felt as if he was scaring it all away.

            "I need to go back home," he told himself. And he did. He couldn't remember if his met his parents again or not.

            By this time, Frodo had grown very upset and he tugged roughly at the quilt. Why was he remembering all this now? The strange being with wings… He felt painfully ashamed.

            His voice was no more than a breathy whisper. "I'm… still in the dark."

Still in the shadows…

            New stress brought on new illness. All this thought had his head pounding again, as well as a deepening sensation in his empty stomach. Pain seemed to be the only thing he gave to himself. With that, a dull anger diffused in with his headache, with underlying hate and disgust.

…Moping in the dark.

            It always tuned out like this. Darkness. A friend and enemy. He tiredly gave up on thought and obligation and allowed himself to pass out again into raw unconsciousness…

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