Trapped Mind

Trapped Mind 2















Cecilie had managed to settle in satisfactorily with her dog (gruntingly accepted by Bilbo) when Frodo returned two hours later with a bulk of undeterminable fabric, which he handed over to her with a shy flourish. She eyed him with new energy; the impression of the young Hobbit had so far been sketchy at best due to the stressed and unknown situation. He was taller than her current self, his curly hair curlier and his eyes huge and very blue. His skin was much fairer than that of Bilbo, in fact it approximated her own and his build was relatively slim and elegant compared to his uncle/father. As he closed his eyes in discomfort of her scrutiny, she averted her attention to the garments he had brought. Taking it from him, she unravelled it with eyes wide with disbelief. The style looked like something from centuries back, the dresses light and flowerish, the blouses romantic to the extent of puking. She looked at him. And then felt sorry for him as he stood in front of her, flushed and lips trembling ever so slightly.
"I… I don't know what young lasses appreciate," he close to stammered.

She patted his shoulder amicably.

"That's okay," she said softly, "I'll just make some minor alterations."

"Um... remember you age," he cautioned her, feeling somewhat uneasy at her sharp and adult glance.

"Oh, I will," she assured him dryly, "you can count on that…"

Later she emerged from her newly assigned room before Frodo's and Bilbo's disbelieving and stunned eyes. The mauve dress had been cut short right above the knee line, the neckline low and the blouse had been paned out.

"Ce-CE-lie," Bilbo said, visibly appalled.

"I trip in long robes," she said, indicating that the discussion was closed.

Even Frodo shook his head and made his curls dance round his neck.

"You risk being shunned from this society," he warned her.

"I can live with that," she said, her tone incredibly rational. Ronja stuck her head up to be scratched; clearly this beast accepted its mistress no matter what.



*



Long bony fingers. Dark red wet. He was touching his own blood. A cruel smile spread over his facial features, making his high cheekbones higher still. Cold grey eyes glinted in the dark. The sunbeams had stopped penetrating the blinds. Darkness had fallen. He was still fallen.

But give it time. Give it time. He would recover his power, his strength. The blood had already stopped flowing. It was a good start.

Trance.

He would need to go into trance to survive. She had made a good stab at him. The bitch. Why did he chose her? Because she was a stranger. He had thought nobody would ever miss her. He didn't know about the dog. He didn't know about her fighting ability. Where did women learn those things? He didn't even know where she was from. Clearly another world. That's why it had been so perfect.

He had thought.

Must heal.

Must recover.

Must survive.

The silence was ear deafening.



*



Round door frames. Very interesting. Almost runic decoration. Cecilie frowned, reminded of her own Norse ancestry. Had she gone back in time? Surely it was more than that. No history book she had read had mentioned Hobbits. And only legends entailed stories about wizards.

Mainly green and brown colours. Very basic. She recalled their clothes. Same colour range.

Looking curiously at a bookshelf about to tilt over under the load of old leather bound books, her mind went back to her transition from human to … Hobbit. At first she hadn't understood anything. The gibberish the old psychopath was speaking made no sense to her. Then a movement of his wand, enigmatic words. Comprehension dawned on her and she felt herself subjected to the weird sensation of slowly translating alien words inside her head. Eventually the inward interpretation ceased. And words flowed to her and from her as easily as her mother's tongue. So strange. So out of control.

So frightening.

The dark haired Dane suddenly realised she was hungry.


The late supper was very, very quiet. Neither Bilbo nor his nephew knew how to entertain a Hobbit of the opposite gender, so they preferred keeping their tongues rather than blurting out something inappropriate. As for their guest herself, she was still too stunned with recent events to offer any kind of learned conversation. The meal was rich and plentiful, and Bilbo and Frodo exchanged a worried glance at the sight of the amount that the girl digested: within Hobbit standards it was barely enough to survive on. Cecilie herself was surprised that she ate so much. This was much more than was was used to, and it amazed her that she was actually able to physically contain all that.

As they carried the dishes to the kitchen, they asked her if she would join them at the fire for a snack.

A snack? Don't they do anything but eat around here?

"I'll join you, thank you. But I'll settle for a cup of tea, please."

Frodo, in youthful zest, could stay mute no longer. "You must eat! Otherwise you will not stay strong."

"I'll live," she said dryly, "in fact, I feel quite full. But tea at the fire will certainly soothe my nerves. It has been an upsetting day."


And so they sat at Bilbo's warm and cosy fire, drinking hot tea, and at least two Hobbits eating cake and scones. Cecilie sat reclined on the floor on fur, her dog acting as a soft, warm seat and her hands cradling a mug of warm tea; eyeseyes were closed, and now that they were, Frodo realised he was wondering about their colour. Her hair was brown, but fairer than his own; it was wavy, but not as curly as most Hobbits', and certainly shorter than what was appropriate for girls. Her skin was fair as his, her hands and feet impossibly small as the rest of her frame was disconcertingly frail and sleek for a Hobbit. Sitting there, not speaking, not scrutinising him with her sharp eyes, she almost looked elfish. Her oval face had full lips with even teeth, and her female shapes were well grown with graceful lines and looked very soft to the touch.

Then her eyes flickered. Frodo roused himself. She was their guest; it was inappropriate to have boyish thoughts about her.

"You almost dozed off?" Bilbo asked her rhetorically with a kind smile. She half smiled back and stretched her neck; Ronja jabbed a leg at the floor in reaction.

"No, I still have too much adrenaline in my body to truly relax."

Not for the first time that Bilbo had to wonder about the girl's vocabulary. He felt sad for some reason.

"Where are your parents, love?" he asked gently. She widened her eyes in surprise.

"My father died three years ago, and mum is probably home at her house," she answered quite pragmatically. The old Hobbit noticed she called the house her rather than our.

"Where is her house?"

She winced, "why, in Denmark – where I come from. In a small village called Hedehusene near København."

Bilbo and Frodo looked at each other, confused. Not even with the extended travelling knowledge of Bilbo, had they heard of such places.

"How did you get here?" Frodo asked with unmasked curiosity. She winced again and made Frodo mimic her in empathy.

"That's just it… I don't know. Everything has changed. Even my appearances. I have no idea what the hell happened. I don't really believe in magic, but perhaps I should."

Bilbo smiled. "Oh, there is magic."

"I am the living proof," she said wryly, "unless I'm dreaming." Frodo flashed a smile at her. "Then we're all dreaming the same dream." She cocked her head critically; a movement that caused her faithful mutt to stir.

"Not necessarily. I could be dreaming that you just said that. Or you could be dreaming that I said that I was dreaming. Or we could readily be the objects of a fourth person's dreams altogether or simply the centre of a metadream…." She stopped. It was obvious that she had lost them by the look of their jaws unceremoniously dropped on the floor, a hazard to traffic.

"… or I should just go to bed and hope that day day tomorrow will be less confusing," she said and let her words be followed by actions.



*



The room appointed to her was their guest room. Bag End, as the place was called, had plenty of guest space and in Hobbit terms considered quite the palace. She smiled, wondering what she would think of it were she still human. Her smile broadened. She could picture herself bending over, knowing herself silly colliding with the low ceiling and having severe trouble crawling through the door frames that would seem like manholes to her. She chuckled softly.

And yawned.

Ronja whined at her. Not wanting to stay behind as her master turned in.


As she was getting ready to dive deep into the realms of soft linen and blankets, she was suddenly attended by a figure in the doorframe. Frodo sta standing in the light, looking intently at her. He then moved slightly sideways to allow some light to fall on her face. She blinked placidly and was just about to ask him if she could help him when he uttered:

"Will you explain your dream-remark to me tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure I can," she said hesitatingly.

"Will you try?"

She shrugged, "sure, if you're interested."

She could just make out the frame of white teeth smiling. "Oh, I am."

Cecilie yawned for the umpteenth time and went to bed with her dog at her feet. The bed was soft and warm, her 'new' body was tired and her mind distraught. She fell asleep easily.

Frodo closed the door behind him still smiling widely. Her eyes had been dark blue, the colour of the deepest, darkest ocean.

He had always felt drawn to the ocean, somehow knowing that one day he would see it. The sea. The mighty ocean.



*


In the next few days Frodo helped Cecilie to understand her duties as a member of the household. They were not extensive, and having a peek into the Bag End kitchen, Cecilie almost wished they were more extensive. Bachelors, she snorted inwardly. But all she had to do was make sure that the laundry was collected and brought to Ma'am Sunflower, who did all the heavy laundry of Bag End. This left her with amble time to explore the surroundings, and she soon went very far to plot a course to return to the mad scientist magician.


The Shire mainly consisted of small romantic looking creeks, narrow paths that had been trotted flat over the centuries, broader roads to accommodate horses and heavier transport, lots of cosy little sheds and cabins, private gardens with a cornucopia of flowers and vegetable (a matter of pride to the owner, which was obvious) and random domestic animals here and there. In effect, she nearly tripped over a wildly complaining duck as she was trying to cross a road that would lead her to the 'Brandywine', whatever that was. Ronja was out chasing rabbits, she suspected. That dog almost appeared to have reverted to the wild since they had been stranded in this odd area.

Having untangled herself from the duck Cecilie managed to make the right turn to the Brandywine. She knew she had gone far. To make sure she could find her way back, she always carried a piece of paper and a piece of coal to draw a map of her exploration. She could have asked Bilbo for a Shire map, she was sure, but she preferred making her own experiences and learn from that.

Already she had learned that short dresses really WERE inappropriate in this quaint society. The first days Frodo had trotted along in her footsteps to keep her out of trouble and very gallantly protected her and defended her from scornful looks and comments from the less hospitable and polite Hobbomenomen. The Hobbit men simply stared. And stared. And blushed. Not that Frodo blamed them. Those were really short dresses.

Yet as he saw this lass in action, he understood more how pragmatic she was. The kid was never inactive; always climbing, crawling, running for which a long dress certainly would have been most impractical. Her behaviour matched the dress nicely enough. Frodo soon realised that he needn't defend this particular damsel in distress. When some busy lass or madam was delivering a tarty remark on the short skirt, Cecilie would simply approach the woman in question and ask with a smile: "Is there a problem?". If she was addressing a lass, the young girl would blush, mumble and retract. If she was addressing a lemon faced madam, the femme terrible would answer, "Hrumph – there certainly is, young lady. That dress is most inappropriate. It's a scandal that…"

And then Cecilie would smile and leave while the old hag would have a fit.

The first time that happened, Frodo huffed after her.

"Why that was rude," he said, his Hobbit upbringing outraged.

"What?"

"The way you ignored her."

"Really?" Cecilie was intrigued. In her world, walking away from a rapidly developing crisis situation in which one would be a key element would be considered highly adult and mature – and even gracious. It was her training as a detective: ignore troublemakers to avoid a conflict.

"Yes!" Frodo said, his voice incredulous. "You didn't think so?"

"No," was the short and completely calm reply.

And she continued her brisk walk while Bilbo's nephew suddenly found it impossible to move his feet.

He just didn't understand her. How could she not find it rude? Of course, Ma'am Underhill hadn't exactly been nice to her, but Ma'am Underhill was an adult and should be treated with respect by a young Hobbit lass.

Frodo shook his head. This lass did just not behave young.

He wondered….

…. might her story be true?

………..

Nah!



*



Days had passed. Alternating light and darkness had influenced his life. Dust had settled. Rodents were calm.

He was healing. He was growing stronger. More powerful.

He didn't feel any particular urge to revenge himself. After all, it had basically been his own fault. Next time he would be more careful. Perhaps find an orphan girl of this world. One definitely without prowling predators in the wake.

It was just a question of time.

One step at a time. Healing first.

Then the experiment…

The flapping crows outside made their presence clear. Scavengers. He gritted his teeth. No. It was not his time yet.



*


The exploration continued over the weeks. People were talking about this lone short-skirted figure who roamed the country side and seemed endlessly curious about everything. Particularly about nearby towns and what was on the other side of the Brandywine. Folks would wrinkle their noses. Nor proper behaviour for young Hobbit lasses to go asking about them strange folks on the other side. Not proper at all.

Bilbo was getting apprehensive. Worried that he might let his old friend, Gandalf, down, he sent out Frodo.

"For heaven's sake, lad. Find out what she is up to. Do you know where she is now?"

The youngster shook his soft curls.

"No, uncle…"

"Then find out. If she has reached the boundaries of the Shire – Elbereth forbid it – then… do something to make her return."

Frodo couldn't help smirking.

"Do something, Bilbo? Could you elaborate 'something'?"

"ANYthing," the older Hobbit growled, not in a playful mood, "tell her the trolls will eat her alive!"


Yeah, she'll believe that, Frodo thought discouraged as he went out to carry out his impossible task.

It took him nearly three hours to locate her. She was, as Bilbo had feared, very close to the borders of Bree.

She was standing on a very high hill, overlooking the landscape, now and then scribbling something on the sheet she had brought with her. Her dog instantly smelled his presence, of course, and came bolting down the hill, wagging its tail almost out of shape.

But Frodo was watching Cecilie as she stood there her mind fully on her task. Such a serious face. Not drawn. But serious. Concentrated. Why could she not be carefree and young? Her soft hair flowing in the wind and her skirt ntilytily playing catch with her thighs made him feel very adult. But her face…

Frodo shook his head free of hormonal sensations and jogged up the hill to catch up with her.


"Why, hello, Frodo… wow, catch your breath, friend – you appear to have been running."

"That's .. >puff, puff< your fault," the exhausted Hobbit huffed.

"Oh?" she smirked, "how's that?"

As he was still panting, she eased him down on a tree stump and joined him after five minutes of patience.

"Good lord! You almost make me think you're about to croak!"

"I'm… >pant< … better now," he insisted, unsuccessfully trying to sound convincing and in control.

When he was finally able to talk without giving up too much oxygen, he turned to her, his face flushed from anger and exertion.

"It's your fault because you have been away for so long that Bilbo got scared. What are you doing out here so close to the Brandywine?"

She raised her eyebrows partly in amusement at his state of mind and partly at his mentioning of the Brandywine.

"I might be able to tell you that if I knew what the Branne wne was? I have seen signs pointing in that direction. I just don't know what it is."

"The river," he made an awkward movement with his hand, indicating a direction, "that separates the Shire from the rest of the world – thatta way."

"Oh, thatta way?" she said, her eyes twinkling, "well, Frodo, to tell you the truth, I had no idea where I was going – I was simply exploring the countryside."


How and why did she always manage to sound so condescending? She wasn't unkind, yet 5-6 years his junior she was still able to make him feel 20 years her junior.

"Well, that can be dangerous," he reciprocated almost angrily, "if you don't know where you're going."

"Oh? What do you mean? Are there monsters around here?"

Frodo moved restlessly on the scant space.

"Not exactly," hid hid hesitatingly.

"Dragons?"

"No," he said more firmly.

"Wild predators?"

"No, no."

"Then what?"

"Trolls," Frodo finally stammered, feeling more foolish than ever. He cursed himself. Why, oh, why did he have to go with Bilbo's ridiculous explanation? Everyone knew that Bilbo had already petrified the only trolls south of the Shire.

Her reaction was predictable. Her mouth twitched suspiciously, clearly trying hard to hold back uncontrollable mirth.

"I see …. trolls. Well, that's another matter then."

And then she exploded in a volcano of pearly laughter.

"Okay – no trolls!" Frodo cried angrily. "Hell, I had to say something!"

She was clutching her belly, her explosive laughter hurting her stomach.

"Why?" she gasped.

"Bilbo is worried," he sighed.

"Why? What is so dangerous?"

"Life!" he exclaimed as if by sudden epiphany.

"Oh, Life …. naturally."

He felt cornered by her supercilious attitude. She was supposed to be young, gullible and simple, for crying out loud.

"Well, you're young and vulnerable," he blurted out, "not all Hobbits are nice, and sometimes humans cross the Wine… and they can hurt you."

"Believe me," she said, using her dry tone again, "I can handle myself." He shook his head.

"You're a lass," he reminded her, "a young girl with no particular muscle tone."

She surprised him by grinning widely at his words.

"Now, just how is that funny?" he asked, miffed.

"I don't need strength to perform the tricks I know," she chuckled, good-humouredly.

"Oh yeah?" Frodo felt confident again and his eyes glinted at her cheekily, "I bet I could flatten you in one move."

"I don't want to hurt…"

But before she had a chance to finish that sentence, he had pushed her from the stub, grabbed her arms and was pressing them into the turf.

"Now, show me your tricks," he hissed into her left ear. She struggled him for a while with all she had and then relaxed with an oath.

"Okay," she snarled.

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, you…" and suddenly her knee was in his groin, her hand expertly twisted his, and she immediately came free from his grasp. He was still on the ground, gasping for air from his pain when she continued:

"Okay, you took the bait. Point one: pretend you're beaten. Point two: use the moment of surprise – your weakness is your advantage. Point three: strike!"

"Okay, okay," he panted, "I… get it."

"Sorry – but you asked for it."

"I guess… I did…"

Still clutching his groin pitifully, he at least managed to climb back up on the stub; Cecilie supported him.

"And I guarantee you that trick will work on humans too," she smiled.

"You... tried it????"

"Oh, yes," she assured him.


Disregarding the pain, he lifted his head to look at her intently. Such blue eyes she had. Much darker than his own. Her hair was a tad too light for a typical Hobbit, and her facial expression was far too tough. Who was she really?

Without noticing it, he had voiced his contemplation, and her smile had ceased.

"I am Cecilie Skoubo Poulsen, once a human – a fact that no one believes," she said sadly.

"Well, I'm on the verge of conviction," he said firmly. She grinned again. He liked her grin.

"Nothing like good old-fashioned violence to turn people around, eh?" she rose and offered him a hand, "let's return, Frodo. I have wandered enough for today, and you need something cold on that."

Her indicating finger made him blush as he rose to accept her hand.



*


TBC