Trapped Mind

Trapped Mind 7














Disclaimers: Everything is Tolkien's - thank you, dear. ;) However, Cecilie and her world is mine.

*
She had no idea how she had got from the dirty and bloody streets into her old room at Bag End. But that was where she found herself to be when she woke up. Not that she recognised the place so easily when she opened her eyes. The room was a mess, the glass and window frames broken and the beautiful woodwork damaged beyond repair. What the hell had happened?

Her concern about the room was momentarily disrupted by a very cold sensation round her feet. How odd. This bed had never been cold. Then she almost jumped as she felt hands clasping her icy feet and rubbing them. Warm, familiar hands. But smaller than she remembered.

"Your feet are so cold now," a voice said, "they didn't use to be this cold. And naked."

She looked up painfully forcing her eyes more open.

"Fr-o..do."

It came out as a croak. A small hand grabbed a glass on the bed table and led it to her lips. She tried to sit up and was reminded that she had been shot.

"AH!"

Frodo looked at her with concern.

"Be careful," he closed to snapped, "you were penetrated by two arrows and we had a very hard time stopping the bleeding."

The pain had temporarily robbed her of her breath and therefore her speech. She willingly lay back and let him lift her head for drinking.


As he eased her head back on the pillow a satisfied smile graced his face. She blinked and had a good long hard look at him and at what he had become. She had no idea what he had been through, just as little as he knew her story. She only knew that they both had endured their own private hell and developed accordingly. Generally he looked older. As if a covering veil of youth had been lifted from him and revealed the true years of his age. He appeared thinner, but more sinewous, and he had a strange paleness underneath his sunburned hue. His hair looked as if it grew more wildly than before, and … he had lost a finger. Yet the biggest change was within him. Fine lines now curved his cheeks that were once so young and spotless, a frown had nested itself permanently between his eyes, wrinkles from squinting at a blazing sun erupted from each corner of the eye – and the eyes themselves. The eyes.

What the hell had happened to him?

Without realising it she had voiced her question. She tended to do that a lot around him.

A soft sigh escaped his lips.

"I have been where no one should ever go," he said, but his voice was devoid of self-pity.

"There is so much I don't understand," Cecilie said, now with a stronger voice as the water did its job, "why did those Hobbits s at at me? Have you had terrible dealings with humans?"

He nodded.

"Things have not been pleasant for my poor countrymen," he admitted, "we are trying to outline what has happened here, but so far it appears that Saruman with Snake Tongue in tow brought mischief, terror and grief to Hobbiton to feed his lust for vengeance."

She shook her head. She didn't know anything about Saruman or Snake Tongue, or anything about the reason they had for bitterness.

"It is a long story," Frodo said, understanding her frustrated shake of the head, "you should rest and explanations will follow. When you are stronger we will exchange stories. I can see you have a lot to tell as well." The last line was accompanied by a smirk. Oh, good. He had not lost his humouristic sense completely.


Cecilie had been shot once in her original world. A 9 mm bullet had drilled its way into her left side, just missing her organs, and it had taken her about one week to recover from that. This proved to be much, much worse. This was the world of Middle Earth where they had no antibiotics, no sterile surroundings and no efficient pain killers. Frodo and a nurse tended to her wounds every day, but she used most of her strength fighting a fever and the healing was slow and exhausting. She wanted to get up, to get her body going, but her host wouldn't let her. Their healing procedures were extremely old-fashioned. Nevertheless, as Frodo was very rarely there being highly busy with tidying up the ruined Shire and his own wrecked Bag End, she managed to get up now and again, and slowly her body got stronger eventually.

At one time he did catch her in the act as he suddenly rushed in in the middle of the day at a time while she was building a fire. He stopped dead.

In front of him on the carpet before the fire place sat the woman he had loved before going on his mission. She was wearing a much too short night shirt of his with her arm still in a sling; her hair was loose and long and fell over her shoulders like a shawl to complement her pale skin that shivered a tad at the cool air that his opening the door had brought about. He caught his breath. The last time he had seen her there, she had been petite with much thicker hair, larger and furry feet, a lusty glance, full red lips andshedshed velvet skin. Now she pretty much took up the entire place and her limbs looked completely out of proportion. The glance… was no longer lusty, it was tired and slightly worried.

Had he, he wondered, changed as much as that himself?

"What are you doing out of bed?" he asked her brusquely, partly to conceal his contemplations and hesitation.

"Um..." she stammered, feeling stupid like a kid caught redhanded. But that was silly! She was her own boss and was free to decide if she would saty up or lie down. She was 47! – now 49, for crying out loud. However, there was something about him now that made her feel like a schoolgirl every time he looked at her. Damn annoying. It was as if the tables had turned.

"Well?" he opted and took another step towards her. She finally managed to answer with a quivering voice.

"Take it easy, Frodo, I'm feeling quite okay."
"I didn't give you permission to get up. You could get seriously ill again."

"Permission??? Are you for real?"

He kneeled in front of her, cupping her chin. It felt so much larger than it used to.

"I'm dead serious," he closed to snarled, "too many people have died in this war, and I will not accept you to be the next casualty!"

In the old days, she would have started to laugh about now. But she didn't now.

"I… I… wait!"

The last exclamation was due to his lips coming closer. And of course his kiss was just as different as he had become. It had lost its innocent, youthful zest and passion and was now firmer, authoritative, more profound, adult and longing. It made her heart flip over.When he released her lips, he gave her no chance to berate him.

"I will make sure you get well. You are my life now. Whom do you think I fought for and returned for? Your life belongs to me."

Earlier she would have become raging mad at possessive words like that, but having been through interesting times, she understood what he meant. It made her feel calm and more self-confident again.

"We have to deal with our changes, Frodo," she rasped, "there are certain… alterations that might be a serious obstacle in our relationship.&;
;

He kissed her again, claiming her lips in a most commanding way. "Well," he murmured into her mouth, "obstacles exist to be conquered."

Then he rose swiftly and went out the door, saying "go to bed" in a no uncertain tone.

She didn't. Instead she remained by the fire, smiling despite of herself.


*


The following months were busy with rebuilding the Shire. Frodo had been appointed mayor and had accepted this temporarily. He was most concerned with recreating his home country the way he recalled it and with keeping Hobbits from killing each other. There was much blame on all parts and some Hobbits had grown quite bitter and revengeful. Frodo felt he couldn't bear that. He had had his share of hatred and evil.

Sam had been particularly devastated to find his beautiful garden all demolished, and it wasn't until he remembered the gift the elven queen, Galadriel, had bestowed on him that his heart felt lighter. She had presented him with magical seeds; enough to clad the entire Shire in ever green trees and restore Nature to its former glory. Happy as Larry, Sam went on with it and left his master to join Cecilie, who had been allowed to relax in the meadow where they used to play. She was wearing a long woolen dress and her arm was relieved of the sling. She nodded at the dilligent Sam that could just been spotted over the top of the hill.

"He's really psyched."

"Psyched?" Frodo asked with a smile as he sat down beside her.

"Thrilled."

"You know, you use more and more strange expressions that I do not recognise."

"Do I? Perhaps that comes with the wrapping."

He looked at her, eyes wide with question marks. She sighed inwardly. They still had a long way to go.

"I have changed a lot, Frodo."

He took her hand and squeezed it as he would a little girl.

"There is nothing there that wasn't there before. You are just expressing it more, perhaps."

"And you?"

"I?" He suddenly fell disconcertingly silent.

"Tell me what happened to you, Frodo," she urged softly.

For the first time since they had met again, she saw him falter and appear uncertain. She held her breath. Whatever he had experienced it had been cruel beyond belief. Even before he opened his mouth, she wondered in a flash if he would ever heal to recover.

He left nothing out. In fact, the Hobbit insisted on being so merciless honest that his listener began shaking imperceptably. The Ring's gradual effect on him, his pity for Gollum, Shelob's gruesome bite, the orcs flogging him for singing, his desire for the ring and his insanity if someone tried to take it from him – and last, but certainly not least, his announcement of taking the place as Lord of the Ring and Gollum attacking him.

When he had ended his tale, he dared not looking at her. He felt her shivering and her shock, but could not bring himself to face the expression in her face. When she spoke, she said something completely incomprehensible.

"What date was that?"

Doubletake. What the … was she talking about?

"What?"

"What date was it… the day the Ring fell into the forge?"

"Um…" he was now looking at her without hesitation. Her words were too outlandish to be feared. "The... the 25th of March." Frodo was too perplexed to ask her why she had asked that particular enigmatic question. She gazed into the air, concentrating and said:

"Well… that explains it – I think."

"What explains what?" Frodo exploded, suddenly able to vent his confusion.

"Explains my experience."

"Which was what???"

She smiled at his consternation. Clearly he had been expecting her to shun him after having told her about his fallen soul. However, though not fully understanding the power of this mythical ring, her own adventure bore witness to its effect. As far as she could interpret. She started her tale.

She wasn't quite sure when Frodo had grabbed her hand; she just realised at some point that he was clinging to it – and that she was squeezing it. As she reached the scene with the mutilated female corpes on the wall, she heard him sigh and felt him stroke her hand in sympathy. Her throat felt thick. She still dreamed about that sight at night. When she described the Master Yggve in detail and intent, she felt him squeeze her hand a little harder and heard his jaw work, gritting his teeth. She felt his thrill at the death of the murderer and his subtle surprise at the way the wizard had left this world. And then he was quiet for a while.

"As you said," he finally commented silently, "that explains it."

She nodded. "He must have been in conspiracy or otherwise linked to Sauron and/or the Ring, as I understand the story."

"Yes, thus his evaporation – and thus your automatic transformation back into a human."

"All evil by Sauron undone with the Ring's destruction?"

"Yes, - it does, however, leave one question…"

"How I got here!"

"Precisely."

Their minds worked along the same paths. More so than they had before their quests. It was quite interesting. There was just this minor detail about size differences.

"Frodo," she whispered.

"Yes, love?"

"You said that I am your life."

"Yes." A mere whisper.

"But have you considered that I am a human now?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "And that is important… how?"

She smiled. Bless him for being so innocent in that area still.

"Well – we may not be a comfortable match anymore – physically."

"Do I look like I care?"

His firm straightforward reply surprised her to the state of muteness.

"Um…"

"My point exactly."

She widened her eyes. "Besides…" he added with a mischievous smirk. "I say we put the issue to a test."

And with those words he pushed her back into the soft grass and spread out her arms. She chuckled. "You know, I could definitely flatten you now?"

His smile broadened.

"Do your worst," he challenged. As she did. They tumbled for a while, but she was quickly fatigued, not having fully recovered yet. Scant of breath from both laughing and fighting, she surrendered and lay still, her eyes fixed on that one frown in his brow.

"Come here," she whispered. He leaned down obediently. She brushed away an untidy curl, framed his now relatively smaller head with her now relatively bigger hands and kissed the offending frown. He looked back with something smouldering in his eyes. It almost looked like fire. The strain in his pants were becoming unbearable. She looked so beautiful. Not beautiful in the traditional sense. But marvellous and wonderful and tall and big and full and female and … perfect. A very inviting mouth adorned the lower part of her face. There should be a law against such indecent invitations. But fortunately there wasn't. So he lowered his mouth over hers and tasted her sweet lips, fresh like strawberries with morning dew. Slow movements with his jaw and wet niplings in her delicate lip skin made her thrust out her wicked tongue. Oh, he remembered that tongue. It might be bigger now, but it was still naughty and active. He had dreamed about that tongue. He extended his own to greet hers. It tasted like honey. Had she had honey for breakfast? Not fair. She should share.

Frodo's hands started sliding up her torso. There was another difference; the last time he had done this, he had slided his hands up her thigh. Now he would have to slither further down to reach that part of her body. So he took obvious advantage of his current position and started stroking her rounded breasts teasingly and maddeningly through the soft woolen fabric. A soft gasp soon disclosed to him that his strategy had been successful. Oh, but he had so missed this. He felt the perky niple through her dress. It was already standing attention in eager anticipation of his clever ministrations. He wanted to lick that forthcoming niple, but the wool was in way way.

*Ritttsh*.

Well, you couldn't accuse him of being patient. He heard her cry out with a surprised voice. She hadn't expected him to rip her dress open. It aroused him. The ripping. She arched her back; it had aroused her too. A funny sensation as she lifted him up with the back during the arching. He was now so much lighter than she that her slightest movement would have an effect on him. He smiled into her soft skin just by thinking of it. Underneath the dress she was wearing an undershirt; well, it was autumn. It was ripped open just as easily, and her left breast was freed from its confinement. Frodo stopped a second fascinated to watch the delicate skin of the breast develop goose bumps as it connected with the frisky air. It was cold, and he would have to warm it. In honour of his taciturn promise he therefore lowered his head to warm up the shivering breast with his mouth. The niple strutted even more in the coldness and leapt into his mouth readily and impatiently. He moaned in sheer pleasure as he began to suckle.

Her hands had not been idle. In response to his dilligence, Cecilie had snuck a hand round his slim hips and underneath the band of his breeches. He shivered for effect. She giggled girlishly. As her index finger began tracing the intriguing cleft between his two perfectly rounded cheeks, her other hand started tugging at his shirt, freeing one inch of his bare skin after the other. She keenly felt how his muscles were moving in synch with his suckling. It excited her!

Frodo reached up to engulf her mouth stormingly. He had grown more and more impatient, and the need to bury himself in her had become intolerable.

"I want you so much," he panted as he reached in and pulled down her underwear with a rather violent movement. She winced as the band of the panties drilled itself into her flesh from the rough treatment. It snapped, of course. She would soon need a new wardrob he he kept this up.

Suddenly he disappeared from her vision almost. After a second of surprise, she realised that he was sliding down in order to reach her southern zones. She jerked in delight. His dripping tongue had found her sensitive nub. In flat, slow strokes he expertly teased it to a pulsing state, and the he drew back. She lifted her head to object when he replaced his tongue for his fingers. Another difference. In the old days, two fingers had been enough….

And he didn't replace his fingers for his cock. Instead, he took her completely by surprise by simply joining what was already there. She yelped in unexpected ecstacy. He had foreseen that she would be bigger now – and he had already laid a plan.

Why, that two-faced, double-crossing… woah – that felt good. Her little lover lowered his head on her and started gently biting her niples one by one while still maintaining a gradually increasing pace. He moaned, close to release.

She came before he did, and her arched back almost threw him off. But he rode her effectively and spurted his seed of life into her moments after.


*


When they walked back towards Bag End that afternoon, he held her hand openly. She was twice his height, almost, and she giggled a bit inwardly at how they must look. It didn't seem to bother Frodo one bit, and though it was in her thoughts, she didn't feel uncomfortable or awkward about it herself. Who would have known it to be so uncomplicated.

Of course, there was still this detail about hrigirigins… and that portal.

Was it still a threat to the fragile balance between the worlds? The old scriptures had warned against messing with it. She needed Gandalf, now the White, to advise her in this matter. He was not, however, in the vicinity, and she wondered idly if he ever would be again. Apparently the King had sent out an notice that humans were to forbidden to enter the Shire without permission by the Hobbits – but Gandalf, she suspected, would always be welcome as long Hob Hobbit from the Fellowship was mayor.

As for the rest of the Shire, the inhabitants didn't really know about the Ring or Frodo's trials and tribulations. They paid more homage to Merry and Pippin, who had been very active in the purging of the fair country. Frodo had mostly made sure that Hobbits would not kill nor get killed. He saw his home land as a place of innocence, and he would like it to remain so. His own innocence was long gone, but he felt it would all have been in vain if the innocence of the Shire could not be maintained.

"I wanted to save the Shire," he later told her in a sad voice.

"And you do not feel you have?"

"Yes – no – I'm not sure. I suppose I have… but."

"But?" she probed gently, and he directed those stunning eyes at her.

&quut Iut I feel it was not saved for me."


Months passed and the weather changed with them, winter came with its brilliantly white and bluish colours, mixed with cream grey. Never had the Shire been so beautiful during winter time. Family life thrived at Bag End with Sam and Rosie moving in. Frodo was reluctant to let go of him and very fond of Rosie as well. As he said: There was plenty of room at his residence for all the lasses and lads that they wanted to have.

Despite this celebration of life at Bag End, Cecilie understood more and more what he had meant by 'her life belonged to him now'. It was truly all he really had. Sam and Rosie eventually got a little girl. Elanohe whe was named after Master Frodo's suggestion. But the naming and the uncle status was all he had in that respect. He otherwise felt no part of it.

It was in Cecilie's bossom he felt completely at home. Everything stilled – gossip, the nightmares, his dreaded inner feeling of a barren void – when she embraced him and whispered sweet and tender words in his ear. She was his retreat. But the Shire and even his friends felt lost to him. Not that they or the Shire had changed.

It was him. He had changed.

And then there was the pain. An uncontrollable agony and cramp that sometimes gripped him. One day when Cecilie came back from the market, she found him in a convulsive condition, clutching his shoulder where the ring wraiths' morgul weapon had penetrated his tender flesh. She understood immediately and went to cradle him. He hardly noticed her efforts, but it was still as if he slipped into a calmer state.


Other times he would find her sitting with her face in her hands, her body shaking and her limbs stripped of strength. She didn't know what it was. Her arrow wounds should have been healed a long time ago. It had to be something else that she could not identify.

Whatever it was, it seemed to be haunting her dog as well. Ronja would sometimes lie in a corner, shiverish as if suffering by fever with glazed eyes and a tiny whimper.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and Frodo felt his heart turn icy whenever this happened to either her dog or herself.


More months went by, winter abated and the first spring flowstubstubbornly fought their way up through the snow – only to be beaten back and perish as the frost had not released the ground yet, and Frodo had an attack on the day of Shelob's bite. Feeling weak herself, Cecilie wasn't much help. She dully watched his pain, felt her accustomed grief at the sight, then winced and concentrated on getting better herself. Particularly in this week they both felt the uncanny sensation of impending doom closing in on them and their relationship like an unstoppable merciless tide.

When they made love thllowllowing week after having recovered, Frodo suddenly implored her:

"Let's have a baby!"

She looked at him with bemused amazement.

"Blimey, Frodo… um… do you think that's actually … possible?"

"You mean – are we compatible?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Why shouldn't we be? There are half-elves, you know."

"Yeah, but…" she cut herself short. There was no way he would understand what she meant by inter-species breeding etc. This was not a world where even learned people would know about DNA and the more detailed aspects of genetics. Even so – it appeared that humans and elves could procreate. Why not human and Hobbit?

But then, … there was the problem about her origins.

"Very well," she said softly and rolled over to rest on her belly. A small hand started rubbing her shoulder blades. "Then there's the question about me being from another world."

Frodo sighed softly. "Must you be so practical?"

"Well, Nature kinda is in this respect," she said wryly, "even if you don't want to be."

He kissed her temple. "I suppose so," he murmured into her hair. "Meanwhile… why don't we ask Her… by action?"

And his remaining four fingers of his right hand crept very aptly further down her back and into the secret valleys of her strutting buttocks. She gasped softly. He really was *good* at that. She closed her eyes and submitted herself to pure pleasure while the fingers still did their damnedest to drive her crazy.


Cecilie showed no signs of getting pregnant even as March was nearing to an end. She hadn't expected to. Frodo looked anxious and his heart fell as the months passed. His hope for a family had perhaps been a desperate move, he realised, as he thought about his motives: a panicky way of delaying what appeared to be irreversible. But this was what he lived for at the moment; his battle against Fate, who apparently recked lives as She saw fit.

Predictably, Frodo got another attack on March 25, - the worst so far, where he was impossible to rouse from an eerie trance of pain and soul flogging agony. He kept clutching a beautiful elven stone he always wore, repeating the same words again and again: "it's gone, it has disappeared forever, and Life is empty and hopeless".

Cecilie frowned. He was talking about the Ring. She sighed and wiped his moisty forehead with a wet rag. He would never really heal, she realised. The Ring had been too close to its creator for Frodo to resist it on his approach to Mordor and had had too much time to eat away his will to live without it. As for herself, she keenly felt herself grow weaker and weaker. She had not discussed the reason with him, but by watching her dog suffer from the same symptoms, she deduced that – damn her detection abilities – it had something to do with her having been transformed back into what she really was: a human. And in this form she simply did not belong in Middle Earth. It was as if her old world was calling to her flesh, and it hurt since she could not return.

She smirked in grim humour. They were indeed a fine couple.


As summer passed over a golden and beautiful Shire that looked radiant from its rebirth, gossip prevailed amoettyetty Hobbits who did not care for Frodo or his achievements. They took great offense in the fact that he was living with a human female. He might be the mayor (and a good one too, even they had to admit), but he could not continue to ignore public opinion on this point. It was a mitigating fact, however, that the good and valiant Samwise and his family were living at Bag End too, but it still couldn't take all the sting out of such a disgraceful liaison.

Cecilie knew about the ill reports, of course, but she didn't care one bit. In that respect she hadn't changed one iota. Frodo might sometimes stare angrily at a stupid Hobbit who was cheeky enough to utter a sarcastic comment right into his open face, but he rarely wasted time confronting it. At some point, however, it must have bothered him, because one day he asked Cecilie:

"Can we please marry?"

The question took her so completely by surprise that she forgot to dodge the ceiling in the kitchen and rammed her brow right into the upper part of the circular doorframe.

"OUCH!"

"Sorry, love!"

She sat down and rubbed the sore spot.

"Never mind, it was just my head," she grumbled. Frodo grinned at her. "Well?"

She stopped rubbing, took a deep breath and looked at him.

"Any particular reason?"

"I love you."

"And I love you. We both know that."

"I want to have children with you."

"Apparently that can't happen."

"I want to live with you."

"We already do that."

He fell silent. The frown between his eyes suddenly growing considerably deeper. She leaned forward and took his hand.

"So what's the real reason?"

He kissed her, looking at her with very serious eyes.

"You are getting a very bad reputation in town."

"That never bothered you before."

"But now I feel compelled to knock over each and everyone who speaks ill of you."

"Getting married will stop that?"

"No. But perhaps it will stop the gossip."

"I doubt it," she said in a dry tone. She leaned back. This society was considerably more old-fashioned than her old one. Though a very much different Hobbit both in his elvish look and his 'outrageous' behaviour, Frodo still wanted to make 'an honest woman' out of her. It was touching. But in the long run rather impractical.

She knew she was dying.


*


She succeeded in evading the question. She didn't want to seem too rejecting, and she didn't want Frodo to know that she believed herself to be dying. However, somehow he must have felt it himself. In July she just got weaker and weaker by the day, and the first days in August he took her on a picnic, her ailing dog by her side.

Frodo was extremely attentive to her that day. He nursed her, stuffed the blanket round her legs to shelter for the now more lively Shire winds, patted her poor dog, who licked him gratefully in return, and poured her some of his famous Bag End wine. This was when she knew that he knew.

"You know."

It wasn't a question. The world stopped turning for a while as her harsh and to the point words stood vibrating in the air. He looked down, trying very hard to force back the lump in his throat.

"You are getting weaker and weaker. I think your body is simply leaving me."

"But my mind is not."

He looked up, now openly crying.

"I swore I had no tears left," he whispered. She grabbed his hand; a little roughly maybe.

"My soul will never leave you, love," she said hoarsely. His tears fell on her hands, and he leaned down to cover them with soft kisses.

"I need more than a dream and a fantasy. I need you. In flesh. I have nothing else."

"No, no! Fight, Frodo-dear. Fight for your life and existence! Live!"

He shook his head vigourously. "There will be nothing left for me to fight for. You are my life."


Cecilie didn't know what to say. Her throat was too thick to function, and her intellect had run out of arguments or clever philosophical comments. She knew damn well what death was. After having lost half her family and plenty of fri and and colleagues in the line of duty, she knew that though they lived in her memory, they were indeed gone… and not coming back.

She half rose to fully embrace him.

Nothing was really eaten at this picnic. Instead they drank of each other comfort and support as they sat rocking in the grass, both refusing to let go.


*


August 16.

She woke up to find herself stunningly … transparent. It was almost as if one could see right through her – literally. When she gasped, she couldn't even hear it herself. It was very, very frightening. She turned to look at her dog. It too looked transparent. She opened her mouth, wanting to scream, but still nothing left her mouth.

As the door was opened, she saw her lover enter, saw him stop, saw the panic surfacing in his eyes – and saw him leap to the bed, trying to catch her elusive hand. He did manage to hold it, but it felt very strange. She could hardly hear him talk either.

"My love… don't leave me. Squeeze my hand. Can you hear me, love?"

She opened her mouth again. This time she succeeded in squeezing out some words.

"Frodo – it cannot be stopped. Look for me in your dreams. We will meet when you sleep."

She wondered if he could see her at all. His eyes were so filled with tears which threatened to run down his cheeks every moment that his vision must be impaired by a veil of salty water. Then he grabbed the stone he always carried round his neck and tore it off.

She only just felt the hard artefact in the palm of her hand as he pressed deep it into her flesh.

"Take it! We will meet again. Hold on to it. See you in the world of…"

She felt herself fading and saw in his eyes that she must be close to disappearing altogether. She vaguely heard her dog howl from a distance.

…. NOOOOO – CECILIE! MY LOVE…!"


And then there was nothing.


*


One month later Frodo sat on Strider looking at the shapes that were approaching Sam and himself. Familiar shapes that he would know no matter the place or time. Sam was ecstatic to recognise old friends. He didn't know yet. He had been so magnificent after Cecilie's "death disappearance", but it was not enough. So Frodo had taken his decision. He would go to the one place in this world where he might reach his love. His life. His breath.

But for now he must stop breathing.


*


SHOCK


… check it… I think we have a pulse… not yet … clear…


SHOCKPAIN


… got it. Stabilising? Oops. Clear…


FLASHHURT


Got it! She's stable. Well done, people, now stand back!


Eyes hurting. Sand in them? Can't breathe. Chest hurting beyond belief.

Why they do that. She good girl. Never hurt anyone. Sand in eyes? Lungs bad.

Chest so hurts. Sleepy


Ten CC? You sure? What's her weight? Oh, that's a good guess. Good, then. Stop messing with the IV stat and roll it closer. Her mother is still here? Good. Somebody tell her that her daughter is stable, but not to be visited yet. Status, people, what's her blood pressure? Heart rate? Well, better anyway. We happy? Good. Let's get her to the recovery room.


*


When she woke up, the sounds were the first sensation she had. Machines appeared to be beeping and alarms went off all the time. It was very irritating. She felt herself blinking and all of a sudden she became aware of the highly uncomfortable tube sticking out of her throat. She started coughing and gagging. Immediately someone was by her side.

"Tut-tut, dear, don't cough up the oxygen. Hang on a sec… we'll get you a more comfortable tube."

The kind voice was as good as her words. The tube that violated her throat was soon replaced by an ordinary oxygen conduit round her ears and into her nostrils.

Her mind was getting clearer, but she couldn't remember very well what had happened or how she had ended up in this situation. The rational part of her brain concluded she was at a hospital and that she must have suffered a vicious blow of something. Her chest was hurting to an incredible extent, and her skin felt creepy crawly. Almost as if it had been stretched – like too little butter over too much bread…

………….!

… a cold sensation spread throughout her rib cage. And everything she had experienced in there cre came rushing back at her with a vengeance.

Frodo…

She gasped.

"No need to gasp, dearie, - you get plenty of the good ol'e H2O," said the kind voice by her bed side. "You had us worried there for a while, but you're in fine shape now. Steady as she goes and still getting stabler by the minute. Your mother has been informed."

Her mother???

Yes, that's right. She had a mother. In the other world. In her original world… where she was… attacked? Yes, that's right. She was attacked, but she couldn't recall the details.

"Mother," cro croaked.

The experienced nurse looked at her sternly over the rim of her glasses.

"You wish to see your mother? Isn't that a tad too early, dear? I think not. Rest. Your mother will be here when you are stronger."

It was clearly not up for debate, and Cecilie just had to rest, relax and wait.


*


The next day – or so she presumed – she was allowed to see her mother. The poor lady had dark circles under her eyes, and her thin grey hair hung limp round her shoulder that drooped. Cecilie sympathised. After all, this woman had already lost plenty of family.

The surgeon who had performed the procedure was also present, informing both daughter and mother of the latests events.

"You were shot, my dear," her mother began gently, "a man that you were investigating. He was afraid you would find evidence enough to arrest him."

She remembered that. And he was right. She had enough evidence about his terrible abuse of his own child to lock him up and throw away the key. So it had been a weapon that he had raised. And he had managed to shoot before she could get to hers. Damn!

"He knocked down Ronja too, but she's recovering, - don't you worry about that."

How about a coincidence like that, she mused, the dog too had been in her dream.

"The bullet went straight through your chest," the surgeon interjected, "the surgery went fine, but just as we thought you were out of it, you went into cardiac arrest and we had to give you electrical shock to get your heart going again. It was touch and go there for a while. In effect, you were technically dead for some minutes."

"Do you have to tell her that?" the mother asked, annoyed with the lack of empathy the doctor showed.

"I want to know," Cecilie assured her mother.

"So… you came back to us, and now you are in spiffing shape," the surgeon pointed out, trying to appear more reassuring than before. Cecilie smirked. Well, that was fine. She rubbed her sore right hand that must had taken a scrape when the shot dropped her.

"Oh, yes," the ever-present nurse said, "we managed to extricate you of that."

The detective cocked an eyebrow.

"What?"

"The chain with the pendent. You were clutching it so hard."


Cecilie felt very keenly how her face was drained of blood.

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you remember? You must have have yanked it off your neck in the fall. We found it deeply imbedded in your palm – that's why your hand has scabs.

"What pendent?" her throat and palate felt dry.

The nurse frowned in mild confusion and pulled out a drawer by the sickbed. With her left hand she gently took out a silver chain…

… with a shining white stone attached to it.

Cecilie widened her eyes and felt her heart stop again.

"It's so beautiful," the nurse said wistfully, "I an quite understand why you held on to it the way you did."

Her mother leaned forward with a puzzled facial expression.

"I haven't seen that before," she murmured, almost accusing her daughter that there was something she had kept secreom hom her old mother.

"It's almost like something from a dream," the nurse smiled and put it down on the hospital duvet that covered the patient. Cecilie looked at it in fascination. What the hell….??


The chain was fine and of almost incandescent silver. The pendent consisted of a brilliantly white stone attached to a very beautifully crafted silver branch with protruding little leaves that were almost too small to exist. It was otherworldly. And awfully familiar. Cecilie felt the icy sensation move down her spine while she turned and turned the blinking piece of jewelry in her hands. She reached out and turned her right hand and compared. Oh, yes. There, in the centre of her palm was a perfect match for the pendent: same shape and she could even see the indent of the miniscule leaves. She had definitely been clutching this stone hard.

She looked back at her mother, trying to come up with a plausible explanation.

"Um… an old… friend gave me this. I was admiring it while I was walking Ronja right before the shootist came towards me. That's how the fella could surprise me."

Well… it didn't sound that hopeless.

"An old friend? Frode Bagger, perhaps?" her mother asked shrewdly, her eyes suddenly twinkling youthfully. Cecilie almost fell out of the bed. Wh… what?

"Who? Wh… what are you talking about?"

Her mother laughed. It had been a while since her daughter had last seen that toothy grin of hers.

"Oh, your old mother isn't all that gullible, you know. I know of him because he called while you were resting."

"He… he did?"

"Yes, silly – and he was frantic with worry when I told him you had just emerged from surgery."

Cecilie winced, having completely lost track of what was happening. It all felt so psychedelic – almost as if she was participating in a surreal theatre play and was improvising the lines.

"Woah, - back up there, Mum. I truly – and I mean truly – do not know what you're talking about. Who the hell is Frode Bagger?"

Her mother looked at her in reproach.

"Oh, come now – you remember. Your old friend, Frode Bagger from elementary school."

She blinked in confusion and her mother finally understood that she wasn't putting her on.

"I'm sure you remember, dearest. The miller's son? His father died in a drowning accident."

Cecilie blinked a bit more and then widened her eyes in sudden recollection.

"OH! – Frode!"

"Precisely, luvvie."

"But his surname wasn't Bagger," she murmured, her eyes becoming vacant with reminiscing.

"Wasn't it?" her mother mused in mild surprise.

"No… and what's more… he died when he was 15!"

"Impossible," her mother stated firmly. After all. She had spoken to the lad only hours before.

"Mother – it must have been another Frode."

"No – I tell you, I recognised his voice."

"So many years after?" her daughter said in disbelief.

"Yes, I remember it clearly. He was so soft spoken – yet with authority."

Cecilie shook her head gingerly. This was perhaps more than she could take in. Frode had died of leukemia when he was 15. This was beyond discussion. She had attended the funeral herself. His mother had been devastated, and she had helped comfort her. She was so young! And had their last name really been Bagger? Not an unusual name in Denmark, this was true – but she remembered something more simple, like Andersen.


She shook her head. Another conundrum to be added to the collection. She was too tired to think of it now. To try and sort out the intricate threads. Her mother sat smiling at her, still with traces of dried-up tears on her cheek. She had already lost both one other daughter and her husband. Losing Cecilie would have been the last straw. Even now that she knew her little girl would survive, she couldn't help noticing how infinite tired and exhausted – and old she looked. She needed someone. Someone to support her and comfort her. A partner who would take care of her and whom she would take care of. She sighed.

She sincerely hoped this Frode might arouse her daughter's interest. She had always had a hard time falling in love. Well… was that a smile on her oval face? Her mother smiled back at her.

Yes, it was a smile, albeit a weak one. She had barely come home before mysteries and enigmas came rushing down on her head. The odd dream about Hobbits that she had never read about. A shiny stone in her hand that shouldn't be there; a childhood friend who should not only have been dead, but also wear another surname. All very strange.

But, then she loved mysteries.

After all. She was a detective.

The smile broadened.


The End?


A/N – for last chapter. Please note that the name Frode Bagger is not uncommon in Denmark as stated in this story. Frode is an old Danish name that derives from the Norse 'Frothi* which means 'wise'. The 'd' in Frode is pronounced softly like the English 'th' which makes the link to the ancient 'Frothi' even more obvious. Tolkien used a lot of Norse mythology and names (eg. Shadowfax = of 'Hrimfaxe' – famous horse from the mythology), and it is not unreasonable to think that he might have en ten the name of Frodo from 'Frode' and/or Frothi.

As for the surname, Bagger is simply the name in Denmark I thought would resemble Baggins the most.

Anyway, that was it. You can weave your own story on from here and let it end any way you like. It is an open ending. Could be a string of coincidences, or could be there still is a link between the two worlds. You decide. :-) Thank you for reading!


HyperHenry