Frodo stood peering into the mirror of Galadriel. Sauron's eye flicked incessantly. Frodo knew with certainty and horror that of the many things the eye sought, he himself, or rather ring he bore was the chief. But he also knew that it could not see him. Not here. Not yet. Not unless he willed it to. He shivered. Was that the wind he felt?
The ring, dangling on a chain around his neck, grew heavy. Its pull became harder to resist as it dug into the back of his neck. Frodo leaned forward slightly, bending beneath the weight of the world in front him. Steam began to boil off the surface of the mirror, as Frodo slipped forward.
"Don't touch the water!" Galadriel warned. With all the might he could muster from his weary, hobbit body, Frodo strained upwards, towards Galadriel's voice and out of the world he saw. Even if he could resist the ring's pull, he felt as though its chain would tear straight through his neck.
"Do not touch the water!" Galadriel cried, frantically rushing towards Frodo. But it was too late. Frodo's strength gave way. All was lost.
At length, Frodo awoke with a start, sprawled across his bed at home in Bag End, as though the whole thing were a bad dream. He sat up curiously, shaking off the dust, as it were, of such a peculiar dream. A hobbit is unfit for such adventure! Even a dream of such adventure! Shaking his head and breathing a sigh of relief, Frodo made a point to notice his old clothes and, in particular, his red vest. He patted his neck, but was less surprised than he thought when he didn't find the ring. "That's not where I keep it," he mused, smiling. Reaching into his right pocket, he pulled out a silver chain with a golden ring. He smiled as he threw it into the air. He caught it, and clasped it in his hand. He wanted to proclaim in the emptiness of his house that it was good to be home. He wanted to, but he couldn't. He knew something wasn't right; he just couldn't put his finger on it.