Chapter 1 - The Disorienting Guardsman
"Are you okay?"
Frodo spun around toward the unfamiliar voice. It belonged to a tall man (but then, almost anything is tall to a hobbit) with light, closely cropped hair, carrying a bag made of a brown stuff and wearing an oddly-cut jacket. Frodo stared slightly at this, having not seen anything like a jacket since leaving home, except on a certain ranger from the North.
As Frodo stared at him in shock (and not a little confusion) the man stepped closer. "You look a bit lost," he continued, sounding concerned. "Do you need any help?"
Frodo swallowed, trying to wet his dry throat, to regain control of his reeling senses. "Y-Yes. I - fear that I am," he stammered. "Could you tell me where I am, please?"
"Yeah," the man nodded. "If you follow the pavement that way" he indicated the path ahead of himself, at Frodo's back "about five or seven booths you'll find the ramp that'll take you up to Horse Tunnel Market, or you can go that way" he shifted his bag a little to jab his thumb behind him "about—, well I'm not really sure how far it is, but that way will take you to the Market Hall entrance." His frown deepened into confusion as he looked the hobbit over. "On our way to a Halloween party, are we?" he added casually.
Frodo scarcely noticed the words as he looked back and forth in bemusement. "The horse market?" he muttered, "but that's..I thought that..."
He looked back up at the man, a light flush of embarrassment colouring the centre of his cheeks. "I do beg your pardon, sir, I am..where?"
The man's concern deepened. "You're in the middle of Camden Market," he answered, as if speaking to a young child. "In Camden."
Frodo felt very foolish. "I'm sorry, where is that?"
The man sighed. "Right, where are your parents? Are they around here somewhere?"
The Baggins found himself instantly straightening a little, holding himself a little more stiffly. "They died several years ago," he answered in the most dignified tone that he could manage given the circumstances. "I understand that because of my height you have mistaken me for a child, but I assure you, sir, I am a full-grown adult of my people."
"Your people?" The man's frown became more puzzled, and sceptical.
"I am a hobbit, sir."
"A what?"
"One of the periannath."
The man eyed him again. "Ah-ha," he nodded slowly, in the manner of one who doesn't entirely understand but pretends to. "And what brought you to Camden Market today?"
Frodo found himself looking around uncertainly again as he searched for anything familiar. "I-I'm not sure," he admitted softly. "I'm not entirely certain how I came here."
"Well, it was probably through one of the gates," the man offered, a bit condescendingly to Frodo's mind.
The hobbit shook his head. "I do not remember such a thing."
"Okay," the man shifted his bag to his other arm. "What do you remember?"
Frodo studied the man warily for a moment. Should he really trust him? The man waited. Finally Frodo said, "I was sitting on a bench in one of the guard towers in the fifth circle. When I stood up, however, I was - here." His blush deepened.
The man was frowning sceptically again. "..You were here," he echoed.
Poor Frodo felt as if his entire face must be the colour of one of the Widow Rumble's poppies (although in reality the only colour that the man could see in the hobbit's white face were the two spots of bright pink in his cheeks)."Yes," he admitted softly.
"All you did was - stand up?"
"Yes," Frodo murmured.
"Hm," the man muttered. He leaned closer to Frodo, looking him over; looming over him. The hobbit forced himself to remain still. After all, the man, though rather sceptical, had done him no harm. Yet. The word pounded through his heart and mind.
"Could you direct me to the nearest guardsman?" he asked quickly.
"The nearest what?" the man demanded, sounding confused again.
"A guardsman," Frodo repeated. "One of those who guard the city and protect the people."
The man backed away a little. "That sounds like the police," he said.
Frodo flushed again. "I'm sorry, the what?"
The man's look became sceptical again. "The police. You know, the people who protect people and make sure that everyone follows the rules?"
"That does sound like a guardsman," Frodo agreed thoughtfully. "Perhaps I've simply never heard the name before."
"Never heard the—" the man broke off abruptly. "Right," he muttered under his breath, although Frodo could still hear it plainly. "The pranks kids pull these days." Aloud he asked, in a rather condescending tone, "And where were you headed dressed like that, mister Hob-bob?"
Frodo stiffened. "Hobbit," he corrected crossly. "And I don't intend to go anywhere save back to the tower or to the sixth circle."
"And where are they?"
The hobbit stared at the man incredulously. When he finally found his voice again he said, "Perhaps, sir, you could escort me to the nearest guard post? I'm certain that I can find my way back from there."
"You mean the police station?" the man demanded flatly.
"Yes, if that is what you call it," the hobbit returned impatiently.
"If?!" The man barked. "Look, kid, this joke is..it's really in poor taste. Now, I don't mind you playing Halloween pranks, but don't tell people that you're lost when you aren't. It's not smart. Ever heard of the boy who cried wolf?"
"What makes you think that this is a joke?" Frodo demanded. "I am lost, and no, I have never heard of the boy who cried wolf." He slowed himself, trying to rid his voice of the imperious tone that he wished to take. Drawing a breath he explained, "You do not seem to understand, sir. I am not a child, nor am I playing a prank. I am one of the King's Companions, and I need to return either to the ninth guard tower of the fifth circle, or else my current home within the sixth circle."
"The king?!" the man seemed startled.
Frodo nodded, relieved that the man finally seemed to understand. "Yes, and I suppose that the citadel would do as well as anywhere else, but Sam will be worrying and I've left him in the fifth circle. Unless this is a dream," he added thoughtfully, gazing around at the unfamiliar sights again. How had he come here?
"Right, right," his companion muttered. "Look, do you mind if I ask you something private?"
The hobbit stiffened. "It would depend upon the question," he returned formally.
The man leaned forward again and lowered his voice. "Have you been taking any drugs lately?"
Frodo paused. That wasn't quite the question that he had been expecting. "Any what?" he finally asked.
"Drugs!" the man repeated, again annoyed. "You know, acid, smoke, needles; have you been using in any way? Now, I'm not going to arrest you if you have," he added in a lower tone. "I just want to see if that's part of what's going on."
Understanding hardly any of the man's sentence Frodo latched onto the last part. "Only guardsmen can arrest people," he said.
The man closed his eyes for a moment in exasperation. "You're right, they can." He straightened back up and reached inside his jacket. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. London Metropolitan Police." He frowned and shifted the bag to his other arm and searched the other side of his coat. "But, I'm with homicide," the man continued, "and if you've been doing anything I'm not going to rat you out. This time anyway," he added in an undertone which Frodo was certain he wasn't meant to hear. The man then began to search the pockets of his breeches, muttering imprecations against some type of lock under his breath. Frodo watched warily.
"You are a guardsman," he cautiously confirmed.
The man glanced down at him. "I'm with the police, yeah." Then he rooted through another pocket. Finally he looked at the hobbit with an annoyed smile. "Well, it looks like I've forgotten my badge, but it's my day off," he shrugged.
Frodo flushed again. "I apologise for troubling you," he murmured.
"Don't worry about it," the man waved his words away. "Now," he turned his full attention on the hobbit, becoming serious. "Have you been getting high?"
"High?" Frodo echoed in bewilderment. "What has that to do with anything?"
"Could be a lot," the man returned. "Have you?"
"Well, yes," the hobbit agreed uncertainly. "The guard tower is over a hundred feet tall, and we were on the balcony, so—"
"No. No—" The man held out his free hand to stop him. He seemed exasperated. "I mean - what I mean..." He glowered down at the hobbit. "Right," he finally said. "You do know what drugs are, right?" His tone was condescending again.
"I cannot say that I have ever heard the word before, sir," Frodo returned coolly. "But I am a stranger in these lands and there are several words with which I am unfamiliar."
"Okay." The man assessed him again for a few moments. "Have you ever stuck a needle full of liquid into yourself, or snorted powder up your nose, or taken medicine when you weren't sick?"
Frodo's expression swiftly went from dignified to confused. "Why would anyone in his right mind take medicine when he wasn't sick?" he retorted. "No, sir. I certainly have not."
"Needles?" the man countered swiftly.
He levelled a stern look at the man. "The only time that I ever use a needle is when I am mending something," he returned, "and as for the powder, yes, of course I have, if the flour explodes everywhere while I'm baking, or dirt gets in my nose whilst I'm gardening, or something of that nature."
"Do you smoke?"
"Not since Afteryule. That is, December," he returned frostily. The subject was a rather sore point with him, Aragorn having declared that his lungs were still too weak for his beloved pipe.
"So, almost a year," the man muttered. "What about your friends? Do any of them take drugs that you know of?"
"Certainly not," he returned indignantly.
"Hm." The guardsman eyed him again, looking both puzzled and sceptical.
Frodo felt his stomach rumble. "If you could tell me how to return to the fifth circle, or perhaps guide me to the nearest guard post I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your day off," he offered. And perhaps I will find someone who makes more sense.
The guardsman ignored this suggestion. "Have you had anything to drink recently?"
"Water and fruit juices, mainly," Frodo sighed. His stomach hadn't allowed for much else. Even the small beer at the inn yesterday had been a little too much.
"So you should be clean," the man mused.
"Certainly," Frodo answered indignantly. "All but my feet, for I have been tramping about the circles all morning."
The guardsman looked at him with bemusement and then said slowly, "Right..." He straightened back up. "I tell you what. Why don't you come with me. We'll go to the Met, and they can run a detox, see if there's anything in you that shouldn't be. Maybe we'll be able to find your fifth circle from there." He looked at Frodo expectantly. "All right?"
"All right," Frodo agreed hesitantly. "Where are we going, though?"
"Scotland Yard," the man answered.
-0-0-0-
The guardsman moved briskly through the crowd, causing Frodo to trot in order to keep up with him and reminding the hobbit of long-legged Strider and the tramp through the Midgewater Marshes. The thought irritated him slightly, but most of his mind was still too occupied to become really annoyed. How had he arrived? He remembered sitting down on the bench and thinking about luncheon, but then he'd gotten up. That was all. No walking, no riding. Perhaps he had fallen asleep and this was all a dream? But if that was so, then this dream was unlike any that he had ever had. Then again, if this wasn't a dream then what was it?
He glanced up at someone who brushed past him, actually walking faster than the guardsman, and then grew hot with embarrassment. It appeared to be a young lady; at least, she had the, well, the body of a young woman, a fact that was easily revealed from the tight clothing which she wore, but her hair had been shaved from her head save for a single shock at the top, and that was an unnaturally vivid shade of blue. He quickly looked away. Surely that couldn't be a dream. Why would he dream about, well, young women with blue hair and—
He stopped his thoughts before he could get any further and focused on the man before him. His companion didn't appear to be concerned. Instead, he was nodding at a young woman clad in a tunic which only came halfway down her thighs and skin-tight leggings. The girl took no notice of the attentions of the man however, and continued to hawk her wares; which appeared to consist of more tunics like hers. Frodo looked away, feeling as if he must be red up to his ears, but another stood to his right. In fact, now that he'd begun to notice he saw scantily or inappropriately clothed women, and some men also everywhere. Shamefaced, he bit his lip and fixed his gaze on the back of the man's rapidly-moving black coat, willing it to remain there. It was extremely rare that he hoped to be taken for a child, but right now in the midst of this...seeming brothel certainly was one of those times.
-0-0-0-
Lestrade could no longer hear his strange companion and glanced behind him. The little chap was a good five metres back, looking white as a sheet and breathing hard. Lestrade grimaced and waited until he caught up. When he finally had the blue eyes looked at him accusingly.
"Where, exactly, are we?" he demanded, struggling not to gasp for air.
Lestrade groaned inwardly. Not this again. "Camden Market."
"And what precisely do they sell here?" The boy —he couldn't possibly be a man, no matter what he claimed, he was acting too stupid for that— seemed to be indicating something particular.
Lestrade shrugged. "Almost anything you like," he answered. "Why?"
A pink colour crept back into the boy's cheeks. "No reason," he said vaguely. Then his gaze narrowed. "Would you mind amending your pace, sir?" he added sharply. "It's difficult to keep up with you in this crush of people."
Well, one thing was certain. The kid had the most precise vocabulary he'd ever heard from someone so...young? Innocent? Lestrade wasn't sure what to call him. "Ah. Yeah, I can do that."
"Thank you."
"Do you need to rest a minute?" the policeman offered.
The creature sighed but returned firmly, "No. As long as you slow down I'll be fine."
"Right," Lestrade muttered.
The pair set off again, this time at a much slower pace. The —what had he called himself?— the boy appeared to be doing much better, and was breathing easier. Lestrade nodded to himself in approval.
"Why are you nodding?"
The man grimaced. Caught. "Just glad to see you're walking better," he shrugged.
The boy eyed him sharply. "As I said, you amended your pace," he returned pointedly. Then his face softened. "For which I do thank you," he added quietly.
Lestrade glanced down at him. "You're welcome."
They continued on for a few metres before Lestrade suddenly realised...
"Have you got a phone?" The little creature looked at him in puzzlement. "A box that you use to talk to people far away," Lestrade explained. I can't believe I'm doing this.
The boy shook his head. "Aragorn has something a bit like that," he said slowly. "His is a ball, though."
"Good enough," Lestrade said, feeling relieved that there was someone he might be able to talk to. "Do you know his number?"
"His number?" the boy —he had called himself a hob-something, hadn't he? Or a peri?— frowned.
"So I can call him and tell him where you are."
"Oh." The hob...hob...the boy looked apologetic. "I don't believe that it works that way."
Of course it didn't. "How does it work then?"
"The king will look into it and command it to show him what he wants to see," the boy answered. "I fear that I don't know anything more about it than that though. It's not - something that we are comfortable discussing."
He was getting a worse headache than any that Sherlock had ever given him. Then a thought struck him, and he looked at the little chap, with his medieval clothes and his strange talk, with new eyes. "This ball..." he hazarded. "It's not a crystal ball, is it?"
"Yes, it is," the boy looked startled. "One of the palantíri. Have you heard of them?"
"Yeah, you could say that." Cults. Great. No, he did not want to mess with this. Not on his day off! Why did Halloween always bring out the nutters?
The kid was still talking. "You are one of very few. They are said to have been destroyed for the most part, although the king has taken back the one from Isengard, and of course there was the one which the late steward Denethor used. But I'm told that none can use that one any longer save for a very strong-willed mind." Then he grew quiet.
Lestrade decided to let that subject die a natural death and the pair made their way silently through the market for a while. Until...
"How far is it to - to - Scotland Yard, I believe you called it?"
"About a half hour," Lestrade answered. "Maybe a little more, depending on traffic."
"Traffic?"
Lestrade glanced at him. "Yeah, we're going through Central London. There's going to be traffic."
"Oh," the boy murmured. "Is that before we leave this market, or after?"
"Once we're in the car."
The boy looked at him curiously, but kept quiet. Thankfully.
Unfortunately silence reigned for about fifteen seconds before... "Which of the circles are we on currently?"
Lestrade gave him a tired look. "We're not on any of your circles."
The boy frowned. "We cannot be outside the city," he returned.
What city? "We're in Camden."
The boy glanced up at him warily."I am unfamiliar with where that is in relation to Minas Tirith," he admitted. "Perhaps we should simply return to the Citadel."
Lestrade sighed, stopping and turning to look right at the kid. Did he even want to ask? "What citadel?"
The boy started. "Why," he stammered. "The Citadel; on the seventh circle. Where King Elessar lives," he added meaningfully.
"Right," Lestrade's headache was getting worse. "Let's just go to the Met first and we'll sort it all out there." He started walking again.
The boy, however, took a step back, a stubborn look on his face. "Why?" he demanded.
The DI turned back to him, fed up. "Maybe because I don't know where any of this stuff is," he growled. "Never even heard of half of it. But if we're very lucky someone at the Met might have."
The boy stared at him in disbelief. "What do you mean you've not heard of them?" he demanded, his already high voice rising in pitch. A few people glanced at them and then hurried on.
Someone needed to hit this boy with a dose of reality. Right between the eyes. "Look, kid, I'm not part of your gang; I don't know what your circles, or King Elzaar, or the citadel, or any of these things are, but someone at the Met might. That's why we're going there."
Unnaturally blue eyes stared at Lestrade, not as someone would who was coming to terms with reality, but in shocked incredulity, as if he'd just been told that Paris, France had vanished off the face of the earth. "Where am I?" he demanded. Loudly. Now people were stopping.
That was it. How many times was he going to have to answer this question today?! "London!" Lestrade barked, just as loud. "You're in Camden Market, in Camden, in London, in England!"
The boy became silent. Then he asked very softly, uncertainly, "Is that in Gondor?"
Lestrade sighed, his own anger ebbing as reality appeared to be sinking in. "Why don't we just sort this out at the station, all right?" He placed a hand on the small back and began to guide the child away.
The kid took about six steps before throwing himself to the side, away from Lestrade's hand, his breath coming far too quickly. He stared wildly about, turning around as if he was seeing the world around him for the first time, then turned to the small crowd. "You have heard of Gondor, haven't you?" he asked, a tremor in his voice. "Or Arnor? Or Rohan?" The few that had stopped to watch just gave him sympathetic smiles or shook their heads. Reluctantly, he returned his gaze to the policeman. "You are a guardsman, aren't you?" he asked shakily.
This really wasn't the place to be doing this. "Yes."
"But— How—?"
Lestrade sighed and turned to the crowd. "All right, folks, break it up. The situation's under control." It wasn't, not really, but the crowd at least seemed to think so and most of them began to disperse. He placed a hand on the little one's back again and the child looked up at him, fear and misery in his blue eyes.
"You know of them, surely?" he whispered.
"I'm afraid not," Lestrade murmured, infusing all the soothing qualities that he could into his voice. The little one stared at him, his eyes seeming to plead with the man for understanding, recognition, something.
"What about..Mordor?" he asked finally, rolling the 'r'. There was a stillness about the way that he said it which seemed to scream trauma.
"I'm sorry," the policeman returned as gently as possible. "I don't." The boy continued to stare, his mind clearly whirling. With an apologetic look Lestrade began to shepherd him away again. Numbly, the child let him.
-0-0-0-
Not heard of Minas Tirith or Mordor? How could anyone this side of the Misty Mountains not have heard of either? Even in Bree and the Shire they had heard of Mordor at the very least! And for him to not know of Gondor? Frodo had no desire to contemplate how a Man could be so ignorant of his own land.
But what if it's not your land? a small but nagging voice seemed to whisper. He does not have the look of a Man of the North, nor of the South. Frodo flinched and shook his head. Where would he even be then, if he wasn't at least near Minas Tirith. And yet...
You did not walk. All you did was sit down on a bench to wait for Sam.
"Even had I fallen asleep I would have had to slept for a fortnight before I left the realms that know Gondor," the hobbit murmured to himself. The guardsman gave him an odd look for a moment, but then seemed to dismiss his words. "As for Mordor..." He shuddered and drew his cloak closer.
How many countries had he made dealings with? Rhun, Harad, Umbar, Angmar, Frodo shuddered again as the last name crossed his mind.
The guardsman must have noticed, for he glanced down at the hobbit again. "You cold?"
Frodo gave him a weak smile in return. "Merely a - bit of a chill breeze," he explained. That blew from within.
They left the market and found themselves walking alongside a street crowded with the strangest sort of animals that the hobbit had ever seen. But wait— He looked more carefully. They were not beasts, for they were made of some sort of metal, and some were very brightly coloured too. Several of them were moving, yet Frodo could see no animals pulling them, and if one looked beyond what appeared to be a thin sheet of glass he could see that there were people inside of them. He waved a hand at the strange objects, catching the guardsman's attention.
"What are these that are passing us?" he asked.
The man looked toward the street, and his face changed to disbelief again. "Cars," he returned flatly.
"Cars," Frodo repeated musingly. Hadn't he said something about such things earlier?
The guardsman drew a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself. "If I'd say 'horseless carriages' would you know what that means?" He looked at the hobbit half-expectantly and half-mockingly. Frodo forced himself to remain civil.
"I cannot say that I have ever heard of either," he returned politely.
"Never heard—" the man began, stopping short and turning to glare at Frodo. After a long moment he drew in a deep breath and began to move on again, saying crossly as he did so, "Okay, do you know what a carriage is?"
"Yes, certainly," Frodo nodded.
"Well, this is a sort of carriage that doesn't need horses to move. It goes by itself because it's got a thing called an engine in it that makes it run."
Frodo gazed from the guardsman to the 'cars' thoughtfully. "And one rides in it as he would a carriage?" he confirmed.
"Yeah."
What a fascinating notion! They paused at a crossroads as many cars streamed past them, looking very similar to a family of fish. Frodo eyed them, curiosity burning in his eyes and heart in a way that had not happened since he awoke in Ithilien over a month ago, as if he still did have that Tookish spark. He looked back up as the cars all stopped and the man began herding him across the road. "Do the dwarves make them?"
"Make what?" the man mumbled.
"The cars."
"No, they're made by—" the man stopped abruptly and stared at him. (Thankfully they were already across the road.) After a moment he said, "Why would the dwarves make cars?"
"I've not said that they do," Frodo returned politely. "I was merely asking if they do. They appear to be the sort of thing that dwarves would enjoying making." He glanced up at his companion hesitantly. "They are machines, aren't they?"
"...Yeah," the man answered after a pause.
Frodo nodded and returned his attention to the cars.
"Where did you say you're from again?" the guardsman queried.
Frodo hesitated. He'd been forced to hide his identity for so long that such a question always caused him to pause. After a few seconds delay though he answered, "I hail from the Shire, which is a small land to North and West of.. well, of Minas Tirith," he finished softly. And if this place is not Minas Tirith... The strange buildings seemed to loom over him, and he found himself gazing anxiously around again.
"And you don't have cars or - horseless carriages there?" the man confirmed, sounding a little sceptical.
"No, but then, we hobbits don't care for..machines." Frodo explained distractedly.
"But you do have dwarves."
"Yes. Well," he amended, "not in our land. A few clans do, however, still live to North in the Blue Mountains."
"In the mountains," the man echoed.
The hobbit looked at him in surprise. "Where else would they live?" he asked.
The man shrugged. "Can't really think of a place," he returned, and began to move on again.
Frodo eyed his companion suspiciously, noting the tone of the comment and the stance of the man... A white-hot flicker of anger leapt within him. The man was treating him like a child. Him, Frodo Baggins, head of the Baggins family, who'd travelled all the way to Mordor— On your own, I suppose; without any help or guide. And what after that, Ringbearer? Tell me why you feel the need to berate this man?
Frodo shrank back down at the memory and the voice. When he spoke again his tone was quiet, humble, even. "Where do they live here, Master Guardsman?"
The man gave him a puzzled look. "I never really thought about it," he returned. "Just regular houses, I guess. But, eh, what sort of dwarves are you talking about?" he added suspiciously.
Frodo shrugged. "Any kind, I suppose; although I must admit that I've never heard of different types of dwarves. There are different elves though," he mused aloud, "I suppose that there could be different dwarves. There are the petty-dwarves—"
"Right, right, so, snow white and the seven." The guardsman was eyeing him again. "Tell me something, you said that you live in "Shire", right? Has this "Shire" got a lot of.. nice young men in white coats?"
"No-o," the hobbit returned slowly. "First of all, it is not 'Shire', it is the Shire. Secondly, we would call them young hobbits, or perhaps tweens, but to answer your question, no, it would be a very foolish thing to wear. Even a grown hobbit would likely get it dirty within ten minutes of stepping outside, how much sooner a reckless tween? Now, we do wear white shirts, but they are generally covered by—"
"Never mind, don't answer that," growled the man. He seemed upset again.
Frodo frowned at him in confusion. "I - just did," he returned.
"Yeah. Yeah, you did, didn't you?" the man sighed. "Fine."
The pair travelled on in silence, carefully watching each other out of the corners of their eyes. Finally the guardsman pulled something out of his jacket pocket, and, well, it looked as if he pushed on it. Just ahead of them one of the 'cars' beeped and began to flash light.
"Get in," the guardsman commanded.
"Get..in?" the hobbit echoed uncertainly.
"Yeah, get in the car," the man returned impatiently. "We'll go to the Yard and see if we can find your king Elzaar."
"El-es-sar," Frodo corrected the guardsman with a scowl. Reluctantly, he followed the man—
"What are you doing?" the man demanded irately.
Frodo was startled. "I'm..following you to the door?"
The man closed his eyes briefly. "That might be a good idea." He opened a door with a mock-flourish.
Warily did the hobbit enter that mysterious machine, flinching as the door slammed to behind him. He sank down upon the cushioned bench and stared at his surroundings in shock. The guardsman entered as well, seating himself on a second bench in front of the hobbit and fumbling with various things.
"Buckle up," he barked.
Frodo looked at him in bewilderment.
The man turned around and gestured to a thick strap attached to the seat. A ridiculously large metal clasp was strung onto it. "Sit down and buckle up," he repeated, although with a little less impatience than before. "This car doesn't move until everyone is wearing a seat belt."
With the guardsman's help Frodo was soon securely belted to the seat - a fact which did nothing to calm his steadily-increasing nervousness. He nearly jumped out of the seat in spite of the belt when the machine suddenly gave a terrific growl, and he hastily looked to the guardsman for assurance.
"Sit back, enjoy the ride," the man said casually. Then as the 'car' began to move backward he added under his breath, "It's going to be a long one."
"Why?" Frodo asked softly.
The man didn't look at him. "Call it a guess."
-0-0-0-
nice young men in white coats - taken from "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Ha"
-0-0-0-
A/N: Well, I'm on another writing tangent again. This will be a long one, folks. I intend to post a chapter a week until all of my pre-written chapters are posted, and then whenever I have one finished. Readers of my 'Bracegirdles' story will attest that I am a very slow writer, so if you like this story I'd advise you to Alert it because it may be a very long time between updates. However, I do not abandon stories, (yes, this includes 'Bracegirdles' for anyone who found this from that tale) so, yes, I will be finishing it.