Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my story! Ten reviews already- I'm really overwhelmed, honestly. It really makes my day to see that there are some people following and enjoying these chapters. Here is the next one- just don't get used to weekly updates any time soon. Unfortunately I've got a lot of real-world responsibilities and I can only procrastinate so much. Don't forget to leave me a review or PM to let me know what y'all think!

Chapter 3: I Can't See Texas From Here

My apartment was gone.

The lime-green sofa, the stained carpet and cluttered coffee table, the walls with chipped paint and crooked posters—they were nowhere to be seen. And in their place was a cavernous room that I had never seen before in my life.

It was gloomy and dark, with the smell of smoke and old paper in the air. A weak ray of evening sunlight trickled down from a high window, casting the whole room in a sickly pallor. Thick swirls of dust caught in the dying light, and I fought the urge to sneeze. I squinted, my eyes having trouble adjusting from the brightness of the strange white fog that had clouded my vision moments ago.

This was far too detailed to be a dream, I decided. But what was happening?

My brain was still struggling to make sense of my surroundings when I heard footsteps: there was a man in the doorway! I scrabbled to my feet, my empty violin case tumbling onto the marble floor.

"Hello?" My voice echoed in the cavernous room. "Where am I?"

The man stepped closer, and I shrank back. As he moved into the dim light I saw that he was wearing robes—honest-to-God Harry Potter robes—and had a long white beard. He opened his arms wide in greeting, flourishing a weird sort of walking stick in his hand, and said something I didn't understand.

"What?" I said, my voice coming out more like a squeak this time. The man repeated himself, his voice deep and his tone mocking, and I realized he was speaking a different language.

There was a smile on his face as he walked towards me, an unsettling mix of intense glee and smug satisfaction. Somehow that look frightened me more than if he had been glowering in rage—something about his face, sallow and hook-nosed, with cold black eyes, didn't seem to be made for smiling.

"I…I don't understand," I said, feeling unnerved. "Don't you speak English?"

The man ignored me and said something else in his foreign language, his tone triumphant, and gestured to a raised dais in the center of the room that I hadn't noticed before. Something was resting on it—it looked almost like a large black bowling ball. I tried to get a closer look, but the man stepped in front of me.

He spoke again, more insistently this time, and closed the rest of the space between us until I was nearly backed against the far wall of the room.

"I-I don't understand you," I repeated shakily, craning my neck to look up at him; he had to be nearly seven feet tall. His invasion of personal space was deeply unnerving. "Just—just back up, and tell me what's going on!"

The man—Creepy Dumbledore, as I decided to name him—didn't answer. Instead, without warning, he rolled back one of the trailing sleeves of his robe and grabbed me by the shoulder.

My heart nearly leapt out of my chest and I tried to jerk away, but the man held me in place and pointed his walking stick at me. He's going to bludgeon me to death with it, I thought wildly. I'm going to die here in this creepy room, murdered by Creepy Dumbledore with a walking stick—

I struggled desperately, but the man merely rapped me on the forehead, muttering more words in his strange language, and released me, alive and un-bludgeoned. I staggered back, colliding with a bookshelf behind me and clutching at the wall to stop my knees from buckling. What was that? Crazy Dumbledore might be a more appropriate name, I thought, before the man grabbed me by the shoulder again.

"Speak!" he commanded.

I stared at him in surprise. I understood the word as clear as day, even though I could distinguish the sound of it in my ringing ears: it was decidedly not English.

He shook me roughly. "I told you to speak!"

"Let me go!" I gasped, tugging my shoulder free and staggering away. My words echoed in the room, but they weren't the same—they weren't English—I wasn't speaking English. "What…what's happening? Why don't my words sound the same?" My voice sounded childish and faint in my ears.

"It was merely a translation spell," said the man impatiently. "It would do me no good to have brought you all this way only to be stopped by a simple language barrier."

All this way? "You kidnapped me?" I repeated, my voice shaking desperately. Kidnapped—the word echoed through my brain, making my head pound. I'd been kidnapped, honest-to-God kidnapped, and taken to some ridiculous place…the kidnapper's hideout, for all I knew. Or maybe he was some wealthy eccentric and this was his mansion? Panic rose up in me like bile. Were we even in Dallas anymore?

Crazy Dumbledore stepped towards me again, and I dodged—I dived for my violin case and ran towards the door, digging in the case for my phone as I went. The man didn't seem to be armed, except for his weird stick, so I should be able to make it outside and call for help—

Just as I reached the open door, it slammed shut so forcefully that my hair blew back. I whirled around to see the man holding his walking stick in the air like a giant baton, pointed directly at me. How did he do that? The doors must have been automated or something. I pulled on the handles with all my might, but they were locked.

"You aren't going anywhere," he said severely. "Not until you answer my questions."

"Your…your questions?" I repeated, my voice shaking as, once again, I heard words come out of my mouth in a different language.

The man had drugged me somehow, there was no doubt about it. That explained all that fog I'd seen in my apartment, the headache, the voices: I was hallucinating before passing out. And that would explain the weird words I was speaking now; it must be an aftereffect of whatever drugs he'd used.

And if it was all true, if I'd really been kidnapped and drugged, then I needed to get out of here and get help—immediately.

"Okay…I'll tell you what you want to know," I said slowly, keeping eye contact as steadily as I could while digging through my violin case. Crazy Dumbledore spoke again, but I merely nodded distractedly; I'd just pulled my phone out of my case, and it had no bars. Now what? Damn it! And the battery was only at fifty percent. I had to get in range of a signal, and quickly, if I wanted to—

Suddenly my phone was knocked out of my hands. "Hey!" I exclaimed, flinching as it landed with a crack on the marble floor. The crazy old man was suddenly towering over me, his black eyes bulging in his bloodless face. Fury was twisting his features inhumanely.

"You will answer my questions!" he roared, his voice ringing unnaturally in the still air, so loud I was surprised the window by the ceiling didn't shatter. "I did not bring you through mist and darkness for nothing. Now, identify yourself!"

"M-my name is Beatrice Smith," I said quickly. I tried to back away from him, but my legs didn't seem to want to obey. "I'm…I'm a market researcher for a tech company…and, uh, I'm a violinist." With each word, the man seemed to swell with impatience, but I didn't know what else he wanted me to say. "Uh…I'm from Dallas, but I was born in West…I'm twenty-four years old…I majored in business, with a minor in violin performance…"

"What else?" he snapped.

"What else?" I repeated, unable to stop myself. "What, d'you want my social security number too?"

Crazy Dumbledore silenced me with a dark look. "What is this company you worked for?" he demanded. "Were you responsible for the creation and manufacture of weaponry? Electric methods of long-distance communication? Or horseless transportation, perhaps?"

I stared at him for a moment, speechless. "I…no, no, I mostly do research on the changes in our clientele base. I mean…" I felt like I was missing something important. "I'm not an engineer or anything. I've never had anything to do with weapons or, uh, horseless transportation."

"Is that so?" The man sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. He turned away.

"I don't know anything about weapons or mechanics," I insisted. "Please, can't you just let me go home?"

Crazy Dumbledore ignored me. "I have one more question for you, girl." He narrowed his eyes, studying my face closely. "What can you tell me of The Lord of the Rings?"

"What?" I was sure I'd misheard him.

"The Lord of the Rings. If I am not mistaken, it is a famous tale in your homeland."

His words hung in the air for a long moment as I stared at him. "Are you joking?" I said finally. "Are you…I mean, is this some kind of prank?" The old man stood silently, as if waiting for me to finish. I saw a vein twitch in his jaw. But I didn't care, I'd had enough; my hands were shaking with fury. "You realize this is ridiculous, right?" I demanded, my voice rising hysterically. "You kidnap me to ask me weird questions about engineering and then want me to explain a fantasy story to you?"

The man raised his hand for silence and my voice broke off. I tried to speak again, but found that I couldn't make my mouth move properly. "You will find, girl, that I do nothing without reason. Do not question my motives again! Furthermore, you will speak to me with respect, Beatrice Smith, if you wish to keep your life."

I froze, my anger shifting to terror in a split second. Was he serious? Would he really kill me? I took a step back from him, my violin case still wedged under my arm. Stay calm, I told myself. Breathe. He's definitely serious. Just look at him—he certainly looks murderous enough. So don't do anything rash. He won't hurt you if you just answer his stupid questions. Take a deep breath, stay calm, keep him talking, and above all, don't freak out.

I took a deep, calming breath—and abruptly freaked out.

"P-please, just-just let me go," I begged, bursting into uncontrollable sobs, clutching my violin case to my chest. I was at my wit's end. "I d-don't know anything about weapons, or…or The Lord of the Rings, or whatever, I j-just wanna go home, p-please." The scene I was causing must have been pathetic; I didn't care much at the moment, honestly. I could feel my nose running and my eyes puffing up as I gasped for breath between my shuddering sobs. "I…I'm supposed to be p-playing a gig at The Fiddler's Elbow right now, my-my friends are gonna be wondering where I am—I s-swear I won't call the police or anything, if you just let me g—"

Without warning, the man swung his walking stick through the air and struck me across the face.

Stars exploded in front of my eyes. I clutched my face numbly, hardly daring to get up from where I'd fallen, hard, on the marble floor. No one had ever hit me like that in my life, and I sat in shock for a moment, not fully registering the pain. Gingerly, I prodded at my nose—it was bloody and hot and felt broken. Horrified, I looked up at my attacker.

"Answer me! Now!" The man's eyes were demonic. His voice shook the very walls of the room, and I felt the blood freeze in my veins, the tears in my eyes drying instantly. "Tell me what you know!"

"I…I don' doh anyding abou' The Lord of the Rings," I said hurriedly, my voice coming out rough and congested. I sniffled and coughed and wiped at the blood dripping down my face. "I never read th' books, and I only saw a bit o' th' firs' movie," I added hastily, hoping that would be enough.

"What do you mean by 'movie?'"

I flinched as he folded his arms across his chest. "A movie," I repeated as clearly as I could, between more sniffles and coughs. He stared at me blankly, as though he'd never heard of them. "Y' know, like a story on a television?"

"A television…" he repeated slowly. "Yes, I believe have seen glimpses of such creations—glass screens on thin boxes, projecting light and color into moving shapes…A movie, then, is a kind of theatrical production displayed on such a device?"

I stared at him. "Uh…I guess?"

"It seems to be no matter: book or 'movie,' the story is in essence the same. Tell me, then: do you know the outcome of this story?"

"The outcome?"

"Yes," he said impatiently. "Does the Dark Lord Sauron emerge victorious from his war? And what is the role of the great wizard, Saruman the White?" He drew himself up, his pointed chin jutting out.

"Saruman?" I repeated, thinking hard. The name Saruman was vaguely familiar—I knew he was one of the bad guys, at least. I'd been awake for that part of the movie—a wizard dressed all in white, with a white staff in his hand. "Oh, my God." I stared up at my kidnapper, finally understanding.

This guy thought he was Saruman.

A new sense of unease filled me, and I flinched at the waiting look on his skull-like face. "Um," I stammered. "Well, Sauron loses in the end, obviously." I didn't need to see all the movies to know that. Nathan would never love a story so much if it didn't have a happy ending.

The man barked out a laugh, humorless and cold. "Speak truthfully, child. You cannot be in earnest."

I frowned. "Of course I'm in earnest," I snapped, mimicking his ridiculous formal tone. "What story actually has the villain win in the end?"

"Ah," he frowned. "So yours is a biased account, I can presume. Riddled with falsehoods and ridiculous notions of the perseverance of Men and Elves…am I correct?"

"Um…I don't know. I guess?"

"Well, how then does the supposed victory of Men come about?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm now. "What circumstances could possibly bring about the Dark Lord's end?"

"I…I don't know!" I exclaimed. I was out of my depth here—Nathan was the Lord of the Rings geek, not me. "Why are you asking me this? I mean, why don't you just read the books and find out yourself? Or, I don't know—can't you just watch the movies? Hell, just google it!" My voice was small, more desperate than angry, but it didn't stop me from clenching my fists and standing up to look the man in the eye. "Why do you even want to know?"

Like a snake, the man's hand shot out and grabbed my throat. I felt my feet leave the floor as he held me effortlessly in the air, black eyes narrowed in cold disgust. "I had thought you would have guessed by now, Beatrice Smith. I had hoped to bring back a person of intellect from your homeland—an inventor, a historian, a warrior—or at least one with knowledge of the text itself. Someone who could help me change the course of all Middle Earth! But instead," he snarled, his fingers tightened on my throat, and I gasped for breath. "Instead, I find myself with nothing but a little girl. And not just any girl—" He gave a sharp, mocking laugh. "—a musician! How truly quaint."

"Stop!" I gasped, kicking feebly at him, scrabbling at the long-fingered hands choking me. My vision clouded as the man shook me roughly. I felt the blood rushing to my head, and my nose throbbed painfully, bleeding freely again.

The man's voice grew more agitated with every word, and I wondered if he was going to kill me right then and there. "After all the time I wasted studying your world through what limited glimpses my palantír offers me, I find that my efforts have rewarded me with nothing but this unintelligent—insolent—uneducated—slattern!" He shook me violently with each word, until I felt unconsciousness drifting over me. "Fool! Do you truly not know who I am? Do you still not know where you are?"

I looked at him uncomprehendingly, my head spinning wildly from lack of air.

"I am Saruman the White," he said slowly, drawing himself up to his full height and giving each word a cruel weight. The man—Saruman—tightened his grip on my throat before throwing me heavily onto the floor. "And I have brought you to Middle Earth, Beatrice Smith."