Thank you for all the reviews, favorites, and follows I've gotten on this story! It just makes my day knowing there are some people who are enjoying what I'm writing. In case it's not super obvious, I don't really know what I'm doing when it comes to pacing, plot, character development, or writing in general, but I'm trying my best. So if y'all take a sec to review this story, I'd really appreciate it!

Also a side note for this chapter: I'm trying to make this as realistic as possible. Characters who accept that they're in Middle Earth right away, especially ones who are super calm and mature about it, just don't usually work for me. So hopefully y'all don't mind reading about poor Bee freaking out for a while.

Chapter 5: Friends in Low Places

I opened my eyes groggily, and squeezed them shut again when my head started to spin.

Where was I? The ceiling above me was unrecognizable. The bed in my apartment wasn't this scratchy and thin, surely. My whole body ached, too, as though I'd tumbled down a flight of stairs. What had happened to me? With an enormous effort, I sat up and looked around, hoping to make sense of things.

I was in a prison cell.

Melodramatic, yes, but there was nothing else it could be. The bed I'd been lying on was more of a lumpy pile of straw, held together by a mildewing mattress that looked like it had been chewed on by something. My violin case was on the stone floor next to the bed, and a small tin bucket rested in the corner, but other than that, the cell was empty. A heavy wooden door stood at the far end of the room, and I walked up to it, untangling pieces of straw from my hair. The door was locked, unsurprisingly, but there wasn't even a handle on my side.

"So it wasn't a dream," I said numbly. My words came out in that strange other language I had spoken the night before, and my breath hitched. "It wasn't a dream."

I wondered if I should pinch myself, just in case, but my body already ached so much I decided it wasn't necessary. "I was kidnapped," I said out loud, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "I was kidnapped, and now I'm locked in a medieval-looking prison cell."

I had to say the words out loud, just to assure myself it was real; it seemed unbelievable that less than a day ago I'd been at work, sneaking onto Facebook when my boss wasn't looking, then meeting up with my friends, practicing my violin…

Fighting the urge to scream—or maybe vomit—I turned to the window above the bed. It was too high to see much out of, but I stood on my violin case, jumped, and managed to grab onto one of the window's bars and pull myself up high enough to peer out.

Mountains. So I hadn't imagined that, either.

With a wince, I dropped back down to the floor and put my head in my hands. "I've been kidnapped, and I'm locked in a prison cell, and I'm in…I'm in Middle—"

I choked on the words. It wasn't true. Of course it wasn't true. What was wrong with me? Even saying it out loud seemed ridiculous.

No, sooner or later I'd find out what was really going on, and make it back home. After all, I'd been missing for a while now; my friends must have called the police when I hadn't shown up at the bar for our gig.

Was there a team of investigators looking for me? I imagined them breaking down the door of my apartment: maybe they would find a long white hair on the carpet and they'd be able to track Saruman down. I laughed hollowly; it seemed impossible that they'd have his DNA or fingerprints on file or anything, but you never knew. I imagined myself pointing at the wizard in a police lineup: That's him, officer. The one with the beard and cloak.

I laughed again, louder this time, on the verge of hysteria. Panic was threatening to overwhelm me. No, no, I had to keep my head! There had to be something constructive I could do.

I dug through my violin case. My phone was still there, the case cracked from where Saruman had thrown it onto the floor last night. Still no bars. I waved it around desperately, trying to find a signal, but I wasn't really surprised anymore when it didn't work.

I opened the camera on my phone and used it as a mirror, rubbing at some of the dirt and dried blood on my face with a sigh. I looked absolutely horrible. My nose was swollen and deeply bruised, and yesterday's mascara was smeared, raccoon-like, under my eyes. "Looking good, Bee," I muttered.

Suddenly my cell door unlocked with a thunk. I scrabbled to my feet as the door creaked open.

A young man stood there, looking for all the world like he'd just come from a Renaissance fair. He wore a threadbare tunic, some kind of thick brown leggings, and muddy boots. A long knife was strapped to his hip. He looked like he hadn't bathed in weeks, and his long stringy black hair fell into his thin, sunburned face.

I backed away from the door. "Who are you?"

"A s-servant of Saruman," he muttered, his eyes trained on his boots. I winced; his teeth looked as though he'd never been to a dentist in his life. "I've—I've brought you your food, miss."

I hesitated. He certainly looked crazy, with the whole medieval getup, but he couldn't be completely insane, could he? "Hey…you don't believe in all this, right?" I asked, hardly daring to hope. Maybe, just maybe, this guy could help me. "You don't believe this whole…'Middle Earth' thing, do you?"

"I…I do not understand," the man said, sounding wary. He still refused to meet my eyes, looking instead at a spot on the floor. "J-just take your food, miss." He tried to shove the tray of food into my hands, clearly wanting to leave as quickly as possible.

"Wait, hold up," I crossed my arms, not wanting to miss my opportunity. "Just tell me, where are we? I mean, where are we really?"

He hesitated, now staring determinedly at the ceiling. "I do not understand," he repeated, his voice shaking. "S-surely the wizard has—has told you that you are in Isengard."

I wanted to scream. "No, no, no! I don't care where he says we are. I want the truth! I know Isengard isn't a real place, you know it's not a real place, and you know that man isn't a wizard! He can't be! Can't you just—just please, please start making sense?"

The man shook his head, looking baffled.

I took a deep breath, clenching my fists. I didn't want him to see how close to tears I was. How could he have the same exact delusions as my kidnapper? "Look, let's…let's just try again, okay? We'll start out simple. My name is Bee. Beatrice Smith. And I'm from Dallas. Now then, what about you?"

The man's hands were shaking now; he looked positively terrified. "My name is Einar, miss. I—I hail from Dunland."

"Where's Dunland?" Please, please be somewhere in Texas or something, please-please-please—

"Just to the n-north, miss. West of the Mist—the Misty Mountains." Einar was frowning now, as though insulted that I hadn't heard of the place.

I sighed in frustration, and decided to give it one last shot. "Look, Einar, please, I need to get out of here. I've been kidnapped, and I'm really far from home. Can't you help me out? Do you, I don't know, have a cell phone I can use? Mine doesn't have bars, and it's running out of battery." I held up my phone to show him.

Einar leapt back as though burned, yelping something in a language I didn't understand. He made a strange zigzagging movement with his hands over his forehead, like he was warding off an evil spirit. I stared at him in bewilderment. "Your f-food, miss," he stammered, pressing the tray into my hands so hastily that the cup of water splashed onto my shirt.

"Wait, wait!" I exclaimed, sensing that he was about to lock the door and run off. "What's wrong with you? What are you so scared of?"

"Please, miss," Einar said, backing out of the room and staring fixedly at my shoes. "Do not put a curse on me or my family. I did not—that is, I—I want nothing to do with you or your sorcery!"

I nearly dropped the tray of food. "Sorcery?" I repeated furiously. "Sorcery?"

"I did not mean to anger you, miss! I—forgive me—"

The rest of his stammering words were cut off as he slammed the door shut behind him.

I was left alone once again.

I heard his hurrying footsteps retreat down the hall. He was afraid of me the whole time? I thought, stunned. I looked at the tray of food in my hands numbly: a tin cup of water, a hard roll of bread, and a lump of vegetables and unidentifiable meat. Prison food.

I burst into tears. Really, I didn't care about the prison food—Einar could have brought me all-you-can-eat barbecue and I wouldn't have cared—but I couldn't believe that he was just as crazy as Saruman. How could that be possible? There had to be some kind of explanation, something, anything, think, Bee, come on!

With a shuddering breath, I sat down on the floor and did what I always did when I was in over my head: I started taking notes. Digging through my violin case, I dug out a pen, and using the back of some sheet music, began writing.

Things to figure out, I headed the paper. There, nice and simple. Where am I? was the subheading. Mountains, forests + cold = not Texas. How did Saruman get me here—Drugs?

I sighed. Maybe this was hopeless. I felt stupid writing all this down, too. I plowed on anyway. Speaking a different language; writing in a different language—Mental problems?

Kidnapper made me answer questions yesterday; I couldn't think straight—Hypnosis?

Prison guard just as insane as kidnapper. Acts like he never saw a phone before. Thinks I'm from another world—Cult member?

Saruman stolen weapons, electronics, books—plotting terrorism? I shuddered at the memory of the night before. Stockpiles of explosives shadowed in torchlight, the wizard staring hungrily at his collection as I pointed out the various gears and mechanisms of the vehicles he'd stolen—

I shook my head, pressing my fists into my eyes. I'd never been so afraid in my life as I'd been last night—it was horrible, all those weapons still sitting in the storerooms, and none of it made sense, none of it—

Writing all this down was a stupid idea, I decided. I'd hoped that getting it all down on paper would make it seem less ridiculous; maybe I would see a pattern in everything that I hadn't noticed before, and suddenly I'd make sense of everything that was happening. But instead, all I'd decided was that it made even less sense now than before.

Solution #1. You're hallucinating, I wrote, the pen shaking in my hand.

#2. You've been drugged.

#3. You're a contestant on the world's worst new reality show. I laughed hollowly, tears streaming down my face now. I didn't believe any of those explanations, not even for a minute. This was all too vivid, too painful, too detailed—whatever was happening, it wasn't staged, and it wasn't all in my head. Which left:

#4. You're really in Middle—

I stopped. I couldn't do it. I couldn't write it down. I just couldn't.

With a scream of helpless panic, I crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room.

The rest of the day passed slowly.

I barely moved from my spot on the floor. I picked halfheartedly at my prison food, blanching at the taste. I typed out text messages for my mom, for Nathan, Caroline, and John, and pressed send even though I knew they wouldn't go through. I scrolled through my music, listlessly tapping my foot against the stone floor to the melodies and watching as the sun slowly sank beneath mountains on the horizon.

Suddenly I heard my door unlock again. "Einar?" I sat up.

The door opened just a crack, and Einar's face came into view, eyes downcast. He was pale and shaking.

"I have more—more food for you, miss, but please, cease your spellc-casting before I enter." He was still staring at the ground.

"What? What are you talking about?"

He pointed, with a trembling hand, at the bed. My phone was sitting there, music still playing from the speakers. "That, miss, that unearthly noise. It is not natural—"

"It's Tartini's Violin Sonata in G Minor—"

"I—I care not what you call it, but please, just—just cease it at once!"

"Fine!" I snapped, turning the music off. I wasn't in the mood for his strange behavior. "No more unearthly noises. It's safe to come in."

The man let out a shaky breath and entered the room. "Your…your inc-cantations were—were uh, lovely, miss," Einar said carefully, his voice trembling worse than ever. "I m-m-meant no offense."

"It's all good," I muttered. "I never got the hang of that piece myself, it's famously impossible to play. God, I miss my violin." I ran a hand through my rat's nest of hair. "I mean it. I've practiced every day without fail for five years, and now I can't, all because I set my violin down on my stupid couch instead of putting it back in my case before I got kidnapped?" I sighed, seeing the bewilderment on Einar's face, and rambled on regardless. "I mean, I actually kinda like the idea of being stuck in a cell in a tower, playing the violin. It'd be like a fairy tale," I went on, cracking a small smile. "Ideally, I'd be wearing a flowing dress or something, with the wind blowing through my hair, you know, something more princessly than this. D'you know what I mean?"

"I can't say that I do, miss," Einar mumbled, looking bemused. He held a torch in his hand, and the shadows playing across his face made him look even younger than before. I wondered what such a young guy, even one as poorly dressed and dirty as him, was doing working for a man like Saruman.

He handed me a tray of food, identical to my previous one. "Thank you," I said again. "I was worried I'd only get one meal a day in here."

"Aye, well, you—that is, you're supposed to," Einar said awkwardly, now staring determinedly at his shoes. "I just thought, well, even sorceresses need—they need to eat, miss, don't they? And one plate will—will hardly go amiss in the kitchens."

I blinked in surprise. "Oh! Well…gosh. Thanks, Einar." The poor guy looked even more terrified than before, and made a dismissive noise in his throat as he hurried toward the door. "Wait," I stopped him. "Um, look, man, while you're here…I need to use the bathroom."

"You…wish to take a bath?"

"No," I exclaimed. "I need to pee, Einar. Can't you take me to a toilet?"

He raised an eyebrow in surprise, eyes flicking to the bucket in the corner of the cell. I stared at him. "What…oh no." No way in hell. "The bucket?" I said desperately. "You want me to do my business in a bucket?"

Einar's face went slightly red as he backed out of the cell. "Goodnight, miss."

"Oh, come on—" The door slammed shut, cutting me off. I sighed as I heard the lock thunk loudly into place. "Well, that's just great."

I approached the bucket like a prisoner heading to the gallows. Be strong, Bee. I cringed. This was so humiliating. There wasn't even toilet paper! I steeled myself, and managed to do my business without making too much of a mess, cursing Saruman and Einar and Isengard all the while.

When I was done, I sat down on the straw bed and cried into my tray of food. It started slowly enough, just a few self-pitying tears rolling down my face, but soon I was sobbing uncontrollably, my whole body shaking helplessly as I took in everything that had happened to me.

"I wanna go home," I sobbed, burying my face in my hands and flinching when my palm pressed against the bruises and cuts on my face. I curled up into a pathetic ball on the bed, crying in the dark until I could barely breathe.

Maybe, somehow, things would make sense tomorrow.