Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, and followed my story so far. Y'all have been so kind and supportive and it really makes my day knowing you like this fic! I hope you enjoy this chapter as well; it's super long to make up for the delay between posts. My life has been pretty busy lately, but don't worry- I will keep updating this story, even if the updates are sometimes irregular.

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Chapter 7: Spoiler Alert

The book was in Saruman's hands before I could blink. Dimly I realized I had grabbed it and held it out to him without a second thought, and I shook myself angrily. What are you doing, Bee? Focus!

"At last," Saruman said, the eagerness in his voice making me shudder. He held the book up to the light from my window, studying it closely. "The Fellowship of the Ring."

"Wait," I said, trying unsuccessfully to force down my panic. "How can you read it? It's in English." Saruman sent a withering glare in my direction, and I felt myself flush. Translation spell, of course, I surmised, wondering when such things had started to seem so normal.

The wizard ignored me, admiring the book's thin pages and the neat, even print; I supposed for a world that didn't even have the printing press yet, the book was pretty remarkable. "A Fellowship," he mused, examining the cover and then flipping through the prologue. "Interesting. Now, come with me, Beatrice."

"What? Why?" I demanded, even as I found myself slinging my violin case over my shoulder and heading out the cell door obediently. I shook my head again to clear it, but it was no use.

"I will not examine this book while standing in a prison cell," the wizard replied loftily, sweeping off down the hall.

I followed reluctantly, glaring as I watched Tarbyn skulk away down the hall in the opposite direction. Slimy scumbag, thanks for ratting me out. "Why d'you need me, then?" I asked the wizard. "I already told you, I don't know anything about those stupid books."

"Books?" Saruman repeated sharply. "There are more than one?"

I winced. Nice going, you idiot. "There's three," I said reluctantly.

"This is precisely why you are going to help me, girl. I underestimated you once, but it will not happen again. You clearly know a great deal more than you claim, even if you have not read the text itself. And if you refuse to aid me willingly, there are other ways of discerning your secrets."

I swallowed with some difficultly, my limbs turning to lead as I walked. He didn't mean torture, did he? But I didn't know anything! "How long are you going to keep me here?" I managed.

Saruman didn't spare me a glance, walking even faster now. I had to jog to keep up, my sandals slapping ominously against the stone floor. "For the rest of your days, perhaps, short as they may be," he said dismissively, as if there was no point in lying to me any longer. "At the very least, until your usefulness has run its course."

I stopped in my tracks. "But you said," I stammered, "you said you'd send me home if I helped you. Down in the storerooms. You said…" I bit back a panicked sob. "Please, can't you send me back? You have your precious book, just let me go!"

"It is not simply a matter of letting you go," the wizard snapped. "Such a spell is immensely difficult to create; it took me years of effort to bring you here. I am not about to lay aside my other works merely to return a lost little girl to her homeland, especially for one as useful as you. No, Beatrice Smith, you will not be going back."

Oh, God. The hall seemed to spin suddenly. I snapped my eyes shut, willing myself to calm down without success. It had never once occurred to me that I couldn't get home from here in Isengard, that the wizard would outright refuse; what was I going to do?

"Beatrice!" The wizard's voice shook me out of my thoughts. "Keep moving."

No…no, no, please…Tears were welling in my eyes despite myself. With immense difficultly, I moved my feet forward again, a wave of horror threatening to consume me. If my stomach hadn't been so painfully empty, I might have gotten sick in the middle of the hall.

I followed the wizard numbly as we entered a room lined with high, narrow windows. Belatedly, I recognized it: the watery beams of light reflected off the thick dust in the air exactly as they had several nights ago, when I had appeared shaking and numb on the marble floor, clutching my empty violin case and wondering if this was all a dream.

"What are we doing here?" I breathed. It seemed unnecessarily cruel, somehow, to take me back to the room I'd first arrived in when he was never going to send me home. And if Saruman can't get me home, then who possibly can? If he won't let me go, then I can't stay here, I just can't, not a moment longer—

Saruman ignored my question, stalking away to stand before a marble plinth in the center of the room. On top of the dais was a large orb, like a bowling ball; Saruman rested a clawed hand on it like a fortune teller and closed his eyes. I hadn't given the orb much notice when I'd first arrived, but now it drew my eye, despite myself.

As the wizard murmured under his breath, the orb began to swirl with white light under his hand. He held up Nathan's copy of The Lord of the Rings and the light in the orb seemed to intensify, turning a fiery red.

It was mesmerizing—horrifying—I couldn't tear my eyes away, and if some part of me had still doubted the existence of magic, well, now I believed wholeheartedly. There was nothing else it could be—magic hung thick in the air around this orb, the…what had Saruman called it? The palindrome? Whatever it was, I felt a strange, unpleasant prickle on the back of my neck as I looked at it, as though it was looking back at me, through me…I shuddered and forced my eyes away.

"Well," Saruman said, his deep voice jolting me out of my thoughts. "It seems that this book is even more valuable than I had imagined."

"Oh," I said weakly. "That's good."

"Yet you claim it is the only the first of three. Tell me, what events are recounted in its sequels?"

"Uh…" I froze under the wizard's gaze, feeling the familiar, forceful compulsion to speak but not knowing quite what to say. "I don't know what happens in the sequels. There's battles, I think, and horses…" I cast my mind around desperately for anything Nathan might have told me. "Uh, there's hobbits, elves, probably some swordfights…Orlando Bloom running around in a wig…" my voice trailed off at the impatience on Saruman's face. "I'm sorry, alright?" I exclaimed, completely overwhelmed. "I never read the books, I didn't even see the other movies!" I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking hard. "Just…lemme get this straight," I clarified. "So, nothing in the books has…has happened yet?"

"You tell me," Saruman snapped. "It is the Third Age of Middle Earth, late in the summer of the year 3018—"

"That doesn't mean anything to me," I cut him off, suddenly angry. God, I didn't understand anything here! Nathan would have been better suited for this than me; he knew these books inside out and sideways, and would probably have weaseled his way back to Dallas by now, and stolen a new flat-screen TV from Saruman's storerooms for good measure.

"It matters not," Saruman said impatiently. He was leafing through the book's pages now, a hungry gleam back in his eyes. "Concerning Hobbits," he muttered to himself, eyebrows furrowing dangerously; he seemed to have forgotten I was there. "Why would such a text concern itself with hobbits? Unless…no. Surely not…" he began to flip through the pages with renewed fervor, and I swallowed. I may not have understood anything about this world, but I was pretty sure one of the main villains wasn't supposed to be reading ahead in his own story. What kind of horrible things could he do with that kind of knowledge?

I shook myself angrily. Well, and what was I supposed to do about that? I wasn't even supposed to be here! It wasn't my business, the fate of Middle Earth—none of this was supposed to exist, anyway! I was just some kid from Dallas, I had to focus on getting home!

But those thoughts weren't enough to keep me from shuddering as Saruman read on. "Bilbo Baggins…and a Frodo Baggins…halfling names? It must be true, then—this is why the Nine ride for the Shire—"

"My lord!"

Saruman snapped the book shut so violently that I jumped. Einar stood in the doorway on the opposite side of the room, looking as pale and homeless as ever. His eyes flickered toward me in surprise, but I couldn't read his expression. "What could possibly be so important that you disturb me here, fool?" Saruman spat, tucking The Fellowship of the Ring into a pocket of his robes.

"F-forgive me," Einar bowed shakily, "but a visitor has arrived to see you, my lord."

A stranger swept into the room, thanking Einar in a quiet voice. The guard bowed again, looking quite petrified, but my eyes were fixed on Saruman's visitor. The man didn't cut a very impressive figure: he was stooped with age, his gray robes frayed and his beard windblown from travel. A patched, pointed gray hat was perched over his wizened face. But the stranger's eyes met mine as he walked forward, and suddenly I knew him. The man may as well have stepped directly out of a storybook; I knew who he was, it was really him, he looked the way I'd always imagined him when I was young—

"Gandalf?"

Both wizards turned to me in surprise. "Have we met, child?" Gandalf asked, raising a wild-looking eyebrow at me.

I gulped, feeling rather star-struck. "I—well, n-no—I just…"

"Gandalf the Grey," Saruman's voice rang out in greeting, cutting off my stammering. "You have come to Isengard at last. Forgive me for not greeting you at the gates, my friend," he said genially. "I have had a great deal on my mind of late."

Gandalf gave a small bow. "Think nothing of it, Saruman."

"Guard," the White Wizard snapped. He turned toward Einar, who nearly jumped out of his skin. "Take the girl back to her rooms."

I jumped as well. "What? No, wait—"

"But who is this, old friend?" Gandalf interjected mildly, turning his eyes on me. "By her dress, she is no Dunlending, nor one of the Rohirrim." I looked down at myself, flustered, wondering how I must look in Gandalf's eyes: a bony, gawky girl in ripped blue jeans and a stained purple blouse, bruises on my face and arms and my hair hanging greasy and tangled around my shoulders. I felt myself flush.

"No one of consequence," Saruman replied, and I glared up at him. Gandalf raised an eyebrow, which Saruman ignored. "Go now," he snapped at Einar and me. "The hour grows late, and there is much to discuss."

I faltered as Einar beckoned me urgently from the doorway at the far side of the room. I couldn't just leave—how could I go back to that horrible cell now, when Gandalf was here—the real, actual Gandalf—possibly the only other person in this whole ridiculous world who could help me?

Gandalf must have seen some of the helpless panic on my face, because he stepped forward suddenly and offered me his arm. "Come, child. I will walk you to the door," he said kindly. Saruman shrugged impatiently and turned away, surreptitiously picking up The Fellowship of the Ring again.

Gandalf's steps were slow as we walked, and I wondered why he had wanted to escort me across the room—it seemed a strange request to make, since the door wasn't far.

"Are you well, child?" Gandalf's voice was low, and I raised an eyebrow—he clearly didn't want the other wizard to hear. I shrugged uncomfortably; anyone could see that I wasn't well, but I didn't know how to reply without seeming rude. "You seemed to know me," Gandalf added.

I nodded faintly. "I…I'm a big fan, sir," I blurted out in a whisper, before my nerves got the better of me.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you."

"I—I mean, I've read all about you," I clarified. "The Hobbit was one of my favorite books growing up. When I was seven I used to wait on the front porch, hoping you'd walk by and invite me on an adventure."

"The Hobbit?" Gandalf whispered, eyes narrowing. "My dear girl, are you referring to—"

"Yeah, I am," I interrupted. I didn't have much time now—we'd reached the door, and Saruman would interrupt us soon. "Look, Saruman kidnapped me from far away. Another world, where Middle Earth is just a story. You have magic; can you send me home?"

Gandalf frowned. He was silent for a long moment. "I do not know the nature of such magic," he said finally, his tone unreadable. "I fear that may well be beyond me."

I faltered; I could practically feel my last hopes shattering onto the marble floor at my feet. "But if you can't get me home…" My breath hitched, and I squeezed my eyes shut to calm myself. "Look, at least…just get that book away from Saruman, then. Please. He's evil."

Gandalf didn't answer, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously at me. We stood in the doorway now, Einar hovering near us, looking nervous and pale. "I mean it, he's evil," I whispered quickly. "He's collecting weapons from my world, he's trapped me here, he's working with—with…" Damn, I couldn't remember the name! "He's working with the Eye," I finished in a desperate rush, hoping the wizard would understand my meaning.

"That's enough." Gandalf flinched and took a step back from me then, eyes wide—apparently he'd understood quite clearly. "You cannot say such things, child," he hissed. "You could not know, it is impossible—"

"But…" I shook my head, desperation making me stumble over my words. "I saw it—the Eye, I mean—in the crystal ball, that palindrome thing. And it's in the movie—uh, the story, I mean. You can't trust him, he's evil—"

"That is enough, child," Gandalf insisted, releasing my arm and taking a step back. His voice held a careful pity, but there was suspicion in his eyes too, and I knew I was on my own. "May you fly far from this place, and may fortune be kinder to you than it has been of late. But I must take my leave of you now."

"No!" But before I could do anything else, the door closed with an awful sense of finality. Gandalf was gone.

"Come, miss," Einar's voice reached me as though from far away. I ignored him, pressing my ear to the door to listen to the wizards speak.

"…have acquired many objects from her strange world, and she is perhaps the crown jewel of my collection." Saruman's booming voice was reduced to a murmur through the heavy door. "She is none of your concern, Gandalf."

"So your experiments have been successful? Truly?" Gandalf's voice was barely audible. "You are using the palantír to do this. Do you think it wise?"

Saruman laughed. "Do not speak to me of wisdom! Always you have feared such power. But why?" There was a long pause, in which I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat pounding against the door. "Why should we fear to use it?"

"They are not all accounted for!" Gandalf exclaimed in reply. "We do not know who else may be watching!"

"Miss!" I jumped as Einar touched my shoulder hesitantly. "We—we must go."

"Wait," I said desperately. I needed to hear what they were saying—I didn't remember much from the movie, but I was pretty sure Saruman was going to attack Gandalf, and soon. I should have told Gandalf more…or would my clumsy warning be enough? He hadn't even believed me, had he?

"Miss," Einar hissed again. "Please. Do not—do not meddle in the aff-affairs of wizards, it is said."

"But Gandalf's in trouble," I said hopelessly. "I don't know what to…I don't remember, Einar, I don't remember what happens next." But there was nothing I could do, except hope that my warning had been enough, and that Gandalf managed to get that book away from Saruman. My shoulders sagging, I allowed myself to be led down the hall; Einar looked relieved to put some distance between us and the wizards.

But I didn't go far. I couldn't. "I'm not going back to that cell, Einar." My feet had stopped moving, almost of their own accord.

The guard hesitated, looking flustered. "But miss, the White Wizard said to take you to—"

"No, no—I can't go back, I just can't! I'm not going to waste away in here when the story's going on outside, and Saruman won't send me home! I have to do something, I have to escape, I have to try!"

"Miss, I don't underst-stand, but I cannot let you—"

"I'm sorry, Einar." I took a deep breath, turned, and marched off down an adjacent corridor, stunned by my own bravado. Einar had a sword strapped at his side, after all, and was a servant of Saruman, no matter how kind and timid he'd been with me. But I had to get out. I had to get home. And if no one in this tower was going to help me—

"Miss, wait!"

I whirled around, bracing myself for an attack, but instead found Einar frowning sheepishly, pointing at a corridor to my left. "It…it is quicker—quicker to go that way, miss."

For a moment I was too stunned to move. Then, completely overwhelmed with emotion, I leapt forward and hugged him. The poor guard looked quite flustered and stepped back hurriedly, his face blotched with pink. "Go on, Miss Beatrice Smith," Einar stammered. "I will tell the wizard you c-cast a spell and—and escaped."

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak—I knew, probably as well as he did, what might happen if Saruman didn't believe his excuse. But Einar met my eyes for the briefest of moments, and I hoped he saw the gratitude on my face before his gaze flickered back down to the ground.

I took a deep breath and ran in the direction he'd pointed.

My violin case swung wildly on my shoulder as I sprinted away, my sandals slapping on the stone floors as I flew down hall after hall, skidding around corners and leaping down spiral staircases. I wasn't sure exactly how to get outside, but the grand entrance couldn't be too hard to find once I made it to the ground floor. My breath was coming in wild, heavy gasps, and it wasn't just from physical exertion. I couldn't believe that I was really doing this—I was defying a wizard, I was fleeing from my kidnapper, I was escaping, I was escaping!

The tower was suspiciously empty, I realized, after I'd made it ten or twelve floors down. I was bracing myself at each turn, expecting to see guards or soldiers waiting to apprehend me, but none appeared. Had Saruman sent all his servants away when Gandalf arrived? Or were they all busy in those weird underground forges that I'd seen outside?

It was the storerooms I made for now. I didn't have a plan, exactly—or maybe I did, but it was so far-fetched and ludicrous that I couldn't even form the thoughts properly.

Finally I made it outdoors, laughing breathlessly as I felt a cool breeze on my face. Cool air in the summertime—how did I ever think we were still in Texas? I quickened my pace, trying hard not to break into an outright run, which might look suspicious.

Suddenly I heard a faint rumbling come from the tower. I turned back and saw a sharp flash of white light in one of the high windows. Was that Saruman? Was Gandalf in trouble? I walked faster, my hands shaking at my sides.

The mountains seemed to loom down over me as I went along the path, and I felt a giddy sort of numbness flooding my mind: these mountains were in Middle Earth, there were wizards in the tower behind me, I had made it out and was going to escape from my kidnapper—

But how? I swallowed. The vague plan in the back of my mind solidified suddenly into a concrete thought, and it was so ridiculous that I nearly laughed out loud. But now that I'd thought it, it was impossible for the idea to go away. No, I told myself sternly. That's the most idiotic thing I've ever imagined. But what else could I do?

I paused outside the door to the storerooms, digging through my violin case hurriedly—I had to organize my thoughts somehow. But I'd left my ballpoint pen in the prison cell, and besides, there wasn't really time for taking notes right now, was there?

"Okay, Bee," I muttered to myself, ducking into the storeroom hesitantly; I could hide in here until I came up with a plan. "Mental notes. Think. What are your options?"

I could just run for it, I supplied, before shaking my head. Isengard was surrounded by that tall circular gate, made of stone and probably heavily guarded by Saruman's men; besides, I had no idea where to go after that. I'd probably starve to death in the wild even if I managed to get past the gates.

Steal a gun, and force your way out the gates, was my next plan, but I swept that away immediately. I doubted I'd ever be able to stomach firing a gun, let alone shooting at someone. The thought made me feel sick.

Fine. Just steal a horse, then. Well, that plan was better, certainly. But I didn't know where Saruman kept his horses, assuming he had some that were unguarded and in an unlocked stable, and there was still the problem of getting past the gates; I'd still need to force my way out with a gun. More importantly, I had no idea how to ride: I may have been from Texas, but I was a city girl at heart, and I'd never so much as ridden a pony at a petting zoo.

Well then—I could just take one of the cars outside the storeroom! Saruman had four cars sitting outside the building, five if you included the tank. But the Humvees were out of gas, the old station wagon was missing both front tires, the Prius and the Volkswagon had no keys, and I could no sooner drive a tank than sprout wings and fly.

May you fly far from this place, Gandalf had told me. But there was nothing else I could do—I was out of ideas, except for my first thought, that half-formed plan, too ridiculous to even consider—

A loud boom reached my ears from the tower, followed by a faint, furious shout. The sound echoed eerily off the mountaintops, and I stepped further into the storeroom nervously. Gandalf and Saruman were fighting; of that I was sure now. And as much as I wanted to help Gandalf, there was nothing I could do for him anymore—I could hardly intervene in a magical duel—I would just make things worse.

No, I had to get out of here while I could; otherwise I'd spend the rest of my life helping Saruman wage war on innocent people, and I'd never get home…

May you fly far from this place.

The idea was a ridiculous one, yes, but I found myself clinging to it desperately; I had no other options, and after all, I was in Middle Earth now. Wizards were dueling in a tower behind me, mountains from a fantasy novel were surrounding me, and suddenly my plan didn't seem that ridiculous after all.

And why not? I had spent an entire night, feverish and frightened and exhausted, examining the machines in Saruman's collection.

Unlike the other vehicles, this one had gasoline—not a full tank, but enough to get me out of Isengard, certainly. It was unlocked, keys resting on the seat cushion, ready for use. It even had instruction manuals under the passenger seat, which Saruman had made me read aloud by torchlight.

It could work. I could do this.

"Arm yourself first," I reminded myself sharply, trying to think clearly. With any luck, I wouldn't be back here ever again, which meant I needed to take as much useful equipment from my world as I could. Hurriedly I grabbed at parcels and electronics, stuffing my violin case with as much as I could fit. I went to the mountain of books next, seizing a few from an overflowing box and stuffing them into my arms. These rooms were filled with all I had left of my world; I clutched the armful of supplies to my chest, feeling oddly emotional.

Then my eyes turned reluctantly to the wall on the far side of the room: guns were mounted on it from floor to ceiling, piles of ammunition and explosives strewn about the floor. I hesitated. Some of the electronics began to slip out of my hands as I studied the weapons; I was paralyzed with indecision.

I hated guns. Hated them. It frightened me almost as much as my escape plan itself, but I knew it would be stupid to be lost somewhere in Middle Earth with no way to defend myself. I walked over and picked up a gun with a clammy hand. I didn't know what kind it was—some kind of pistol or other. I didn't know how to tell if it was loaded, either, so I rifled through the cases of ammo until I found bullets that seemed to match the size and style of the barrel—hopefully those would do. Feeling sick to my stomach, I slipped the gun into my violin case, and, because I never did anything by halves, I picked up an army-green case of emergency flares, along with what looked like a Kevlar vest.

Unable to stomach any more, I carried my new treasures out the back door and toward the rows of vehicles behind the storerooms. I squinted back at the tower behind me: silhouetted against the bright sunlight, two tiny figures stood on the very top of Orthanc. As I watched, one of them slipped out of view, struck down, perhaps, or forced backward out of my line of vision.

So far the movie scene is coming true, then, I thought feverishly. I hadn't stopped them from fighting, or Gandalf from getting captured—but if I wanted to escape my own imprisonment, I had to hurry.

This was it.

No more stalling—if I didn't do it soon, I would lose the last shreds of courage I had. It would work, if I acted quickly. It had to.

I braced myself, took a deep breath, and opened the helicopter door.