Assigned to Mordor RPG

[Celuien]

After an hour long adventure of being directed and redirected to every building on campus (it seemed that Sales and Marketing in a Futile System had been moved several times), Panakeia found the correct classroom. She stepped inside the classroom, and finding that all of the seats in the back of the room were taken, sat at a desk in the front row. The student next to her, a girl with long dark curls framing a tired face that was pale from too many hours under fluorescent lighting, had an ominously thick pile of notes on her desk. Under the desktop she was playing a round of Solitare. Panakeia chuckled. Her neighbor looked up and smiled, brown eyes twinkling.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Nichole, with an aitch. Most people want to spell it n-i-c-o-l-e, but I don't. I rather like the aitches. Are you looking forward to this class?"

Panakeia introduced herself. "Well, Nichole with an aitch, it's nice to meet you. I'm not really looking forward to this course, but it's all I could get." Panakeia continued to study her neighbor, amusement increasing every moment. Nichole seemed to have no fashion sense, or if she did, it wasn't in Panakeia's style. She wore a plain brown skirt with a blue sweater, blue suede boots, and hardly a trace of makeup.

Nichole nodded. "I know exactly what you mean. I'm only here because I couldn't register for my physics class. At least Sales and Marketing in a Futile System is supposed to be easy. Terribly, terribly dull, but easy." Nichole gestured at the stack of papers on her desk. "Notes from last semester, taken by a friend of mine. Would you believe it? He wrote a 50 page paper that basically said the same thing on every page and got an A plus for originality and creativity." She broke into laughter. "But that's what lectures are like too, or so I hear. And so these notes seem to indicate."

Panakeia smiled in a friendly manner. "You know, I've never taken a class before. Any tips?"

"Try to look interested. Write as much as possible in your notebook, even if you don't actually write notes all the time. You'll need some notes to study, but in this class, I'm guessing you can get everything you need in the first 30 seconds. After that, it's all about looking enthusiastic about the lecture for the next hour so the professor doesn't wind up annoyed, if that makes any sense."

It didn't, but further discussion was interrupted by the entrance of the professor, an imposing troll in blue jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. He lumbered into the room and set a briefcase, bulging with papers, on the desk at the front of the room. Then he cleared his throat and, picking up a piece of chalk, turned to face the blackboard.

"Sales and marketing are dead," he droned in a monotone. "The system is futile because it has no point; therefore and thusly, it is pointless to sell or market anything in the futile system that is pointless." Panakeia glanced at Nichole’s notebook. She had scribbled "sales/marketing = dead" at the top of the sheet. That appeared to be the end of her notes. The rest of the page was occupied by sketches, including one of a troll lecturing to rows of stick figures that had collapsed on the ground. The troll droned on while Nichole began a scrawl from right to left in runes Panakeia didn't recognize. "Why, may I ask, is the futile system futile?" Without waiting for an answer from the class, he went on. "It is because sales and marketing are pointless when no one wants to buy. No one wants to buy because no one is interested in a futile system."

Panakeia decided she’d had enough. "That's just not true," she cried. "Why, I’ve been selling things to people for almost 30 years now. They buy, believe me they do. You just have to make them think they need what you have to sell. That's the trick. I can sell anything just by making the buyers believe it’s what they need. I make a fairly good living at it too, by the way, so I must be doing something right. Futile, my foot."

The professor focused a dull eye on her. No one had dared to challenge his authority before. "Class, this is someone who thinks that experience in the market outweighs the theories taught here. What is your name?" Panakeia proudly identified herself. "We all know that your statement about the market is not true. It is not true because the system is futile. And why is it futile? Because it is pointless."

Panakeia interrupted. "Oh please. Just stop. I must have heard that same redundant, say-nothing statement 30 times in the past 5 minutes. And you're flat out wrong. I have the Trolls and sales record to prove it."

The professor looked at her in disbelief. "Did I hear you say that I am wrong?" Panakeia shouted out in the affirmative. "That is what I thought I heard. You fail the course. That is the price of your challenge." He turned impassively to continue the lecture.

A new voice unexpectedly entered the debate. "That's just not fair," Nichole protested. "You haven't even given her a chance to prove her point or turn in assignments or anything." Panakeia couldn’t believe her ears. Someone she had met no more than 10 minutes ago was coming to her defense?

The professor gave his attention to Panakeia's new friend. "She is arguing with me. I am infallible in my classroom, so Panakeia must be wrong. If she is wrong, then I am right, and if I am right she is wrong. She has nothing to learn here and therefore will fail."

Nichole wasn't ready to give up the fight. "But what if Panakeia proves that she's right? What if she makes a great sales demonstration? You'd pass her then, wouldn't you?"

"If Panakeia can prove that I am wrong when I know that I am right, she will receive an A. If and only if she manages this feat, her grade will be changed. That will be all for now." He packed the chalk into his briefcase and stalked out of the room.

Panakeia looked at Nichole, still amazed at what had transpired. "Thank you," she said. Then she asked, "Why did you help me?"

Nichole replied eagerly, "I've been waiting for years for someone to stand up to nonsense like that. And do you know what? I wish I had the courage to do what you did just now. It was beautiful, and I've never enjoyed a scene in class so much in my life. I couldn't leave you out to dry, so I spoke up too." She shook Panakeia's hand. "You, Panakeia of Harad, are my hero." She paused. "But can you do it? Will you be able to make your sales pitch?"

"I'll have to." Then, in a confident voice, Panakeia said, "Yes, I think I can. I know I can." She stood and put her hand on the door to leave. Nichole followed. "But I'll have to make plans. Here's what I'm going to do." Panakeia quickly outlined her ideas. Nichole listened in delight. If the plan worked, the professor would surely have grant the promised A.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had never really thought of herself as being old. Sure, she was a bit deaf, and her joints sometimes ached when it rained, and she'd never say no to a senior citizen discount (given the othewise ridiculously high price of movie tickets), but on the whole she didn't feel old. Also, she didn't want to have to sit in a room full of dribbling, diaper-clad people while an oddly perky troll lectured them in an extremely loud voice. Unfortunately, that was just what was happening.

"You'll find your textbookz next to your chair!" the troll shouted at them. "They're in large print zo it'z eazy on your eyez!"

Wilhelmina looked down and picked up the tome, which shared the name of the course, Old Timers' Dizeaze and How to Cope. Opening the cover, she realized why it was so bulky: apparently, large print meant three words per page.

"In thiz clazz, we hope to help you underztand that aging is a natural part of life'z progrezzion," the teacher buzzed. "And although you may feel that your body iz betraying you in itz old age, there are plenty of wayz to think young! And what are theze wayz, you want to know? Let me tell you!"

Wilhelmina sighed and wondered if she should start taking a tally of every swapped Z and S that came out of the troll's mouth.

"One method iz to do zilly thingz juzt for fun. Finger paint! Blow bubblez! Yez, you in the big hat!"

She lowered her hand. "Do we have to think quite that young? I think most of us would prefer 25 rather than 5."

A few of her classmates nodded in agreement.

"When I was twenty-five I had legs to die for," one of the old women said listlessly. "I had a sailor beau and everyone said I should go into pictures..."

"That'z nice," boomed the troll. "But we have to live for the now! You muzt realise that dwelling on the pazt only makez you age fazter! Any queztionz, clazz?"

"If your incessant shouting makes me go deafer, can I sue?" asked Wilhelmina just for the sake of being annoying. (She sometimes had these nasty streaks when she was irritated.)

The teacher grew pale at the thought of a lawsuit, as Mordor was full of lawyers who were only too eager to press charges for the most asinine things. "Well, I think we've done plenty for today! Pleaze have Chapter One of your bookz read for next clazz!"

Wilhelmina scooped up the enormous book and left the room in triumph.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin was rudely awoke in the morning by Anakron. His first feeling was one of confusion: How had he actually been able to get to sleep after what he'd seen? He must have been awake until the wee hours crying.

His second emotion was fear as he realised it was Anakron who had shook him awake; the murderer, the slayer of the Antilion.

His third feeling was confusion once more, as he realised that it was still the wee hours, so he couldn't have been awake through them.

Reluctantly, he got up and set off to class, aiming to meet the five 'o' clock deadline. He got lost and ended up wandering the corridors aimlessly. He was sure he crossed the room where A Slan had been murdered, and bowed in respect. The inside was now brightly lit and a gaudy purple.

Finally, he found the right classroom, and knocked on the door, knowing that he was fully an hour late.

[Celuien]

Panakeia returned to class the next morning with her sample case in hand. Scoping the hallway outside the classroom, she picked an empty spot in clear view of corridor traffic and proceeded to set up her sales display. Just as she finished, Nichole came down the hall. She greeted Panakeia cheerfully.

"It looks like this is the big day. Are you ready?"

"I am. And I can't wait to put that troll in his place. Where is he anyway? Class is supposed to start soon."

They didn't have long to wait. A rumbling at the end of the hall announced his approach a few minutes later.

"Good morning, professor," Nichole chirped, an huge grin on her face.

Panakeia echoed the greeting. "Yes. Good morning." Looking down the hall beyond his cowboy hat, she called out, "Ah, I see we have another visitor." Her roommate was hurrying down the hall, calling to the professor. She held a slip that mysteriously appeared in her room during the night to inform her that she had been transferred to his course in futility. Only the half smirk on Panakeia's lips could have told her that the notice was a clever forgery designed to bring her to the class on this particular day.

"So, are we ready to begin?" Panakeia queried.

"Begin what?" replied the troll.

"My demonstration that marketing and sales are not futile."

"You continue to resist the truth? Begin if you wish, but remember this: resistance is futile." He stood aside and watched Panakeia start her sales pitch.

And what a sales pitch it was. Half an hour later, the sample case was empty and Panakeia's scarf was filled with coins. Better yet, the professor had been a major purchaser. His pockets were filled with Forest Fresh Moisturizing Hand Lotion and several packages of perfume. Panakeia's roommate bought a few boxes of Rosy Blush foundation and a frilly floral dress that Nichole had donated to the sale. As for Nichole herself, she retreated to a corner of the hallway, face buried in a handkerchief, shaking with silent laughter.

"Well, professor. It seems that my marketing is not futile after all. Just look at yourself. Did you really need those bottles of hand lotion? Or that perfume? No. But you bought them just the same. And what about you, my nameless roomie? Would you ever buy a dress like that on your own? Of course not. But I convinced you that you needed it. And my case is empty. I sold something to everyone who walked past, even though shopping was the last thing they were thinking about when they came by." Panakeia basked in her triumph. "What do you say? Do I get an A?"

The troll glowered. "Yes. Take your A." He threw the bottles of lotion on the floor. "You have your grade, but A stands for more things than a letter on your report card." He held out a threatening hand. "Panakeia, ape of the futile system, become Pan Akeia. A for Ape!" A shadow passed over the corridor, and the troll seemed to grow taller. Just for a moment. Then the shadow passed. Panakeia stood in the hallway unchanged. She laughed.

"What a nut! Come on, Nichole. Let's go for lunch. I'm hungry." They walked away.

Then Panakeia noticed that the people they passed were staring at her. She nudged Nichole. "Can you believe the way those people are looking at me?"

It was Nichole's turn to stare. She gave a little scream. "Panakeia! Look in the mirror. It can't be, it can't be true!"

Panakeia looked. An unfamiliar image looked back at her. She still wore a green dress, but it had turned olive green with a brown leather inset at the bodice. And her face was that of a chimpanzee with hair bobbed at the chin. Worst of all, she had a beard clinging to her face.

The professor came up behind Panakeia and grinned maliciously. "Panakeia, meet Pan Akeia. Don't be surprised if anyone calls you Zira. Resistance is futile." He strolled away, leaving Panakeia to stare after him helplessly.

"What are we going to do now?" said Nichole. For once, Panakeia was at a loss for an answer.

[littlemanpoet]

"Troll!"

The troll professor stopped in his tracks. Pan Akeia the ape stared in disbelief; which was odd; Anakron had never seen an ape stare in disbelief. He shrugged. The troll turned.

"Yes sir?" asked the Troll.

"You have been teaching a mockery of this course."

The troll looked confused. "That cannot be. Sales and Marketing in a Futile System. It is quite obvious."

"You ninny. I thought you trolls knew better than that. I can see that someone has mis-spellt the name of the course, and you have not questioned the matter. The course is supposed to be "Sales and Marketing in a Feudal System." Anakron raised his staff, the cat meowed, and a piece of chalk appeared in Anakron's hand. He raised it and wrote on the corridor wall, saying the letters as he wrote. "F-E-U-D-A-L. Feudal. Have you any idea what this course is supposed to be about now? You vermin. Nincompoop!" Panakiea had never seen Anakron get angry, but his ire seemed to be rising with each new derogation that came to mind. "You - you - TROLL! Don't you understand that she's being prepared, supposedly, by your course, to survive in the great big middle earth out there?!?"

The troll looked wounded. "I - I'm sorry, Grand Anakronist. I shall change my syllabus immediately."

"I want that ape taught how to survive!!"

"Yes sir!"

"See to it!" With that, Anakron turned on a dime and passed Panakeia with a smile. "Good morning to you, and nice work. Um, you might want to shave...."

[Celuien]

Anakron walked away, cloak billowing in front of a distracted, nervous troll. The professor scrambled off in the direction of the library and disappeared. Nichole and Panakeia sat on a bench to think, elbows propped on knees, heads resting on hands and paws.

Time passed in silence, finally broken by a frustrated Panakeia. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she cried. "Look at me. I'm a walking anakronism now. There's no way I'll be let out of Mordor like this. Even if I did get away, I'd be sent back as soon as anyone saw me. I've got to find some way to change back into myself again."

Nichole was a hopeless optimist. "Maybe the professor will do it. He changed you in the first place. He should be able to change you back."

Panakeia was more realistic. "Able and willing are different things. It's my fault Anakron is here, and my fault that he was scolded about the course. Add that to my original offenses and I'm lucky if he doesn't change me into a frog. You're a nice girl, Nichole, but awfully naive. Where are you from?"

Nichole sighed. "That's just it. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. Not really. Other than a few scattered pieces, I don't remember anything before I came here. Somehow, though, I think I'm an anakronism myself." Her eyes gazed far away. "There was a city, a vast city built of metal and glass. Towers reached to touch the sky by day, and at night, there were lights shining by the edge of a wide black river. The lights were mirrored there in the dark water until dawn came and the towers stretched out to greet the sun again." Nichole fell into musings.

Panakeia looked at her thoughtfully. "You must have loved that place very much."

"I don't know. I suppose I did, but not enough. The last thing I remember of the city was moving quickly beside the river. I think I was driving. Something hit me from behind and I flew toward the lights. Everything went black. Then comes the strangest thing of all. I know I was given a choice of two doors. One would have sent me back to pick up where I left off. The other, well, the other sent me here. And so it's my own fault that I'm here, although I'm certain that Mordor wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I picked the second door. That's all I remember of my old life. That and the letters you saw me scribbling in my notebook. Otherwise, I might as well have been born at the edge of a Mordorian gravel pit with a shovel in my hand."

"What a strange story," Panakeia murmured. "I hope you find your way home one day."

"I hope so too." Nichole continued in a cheerful tone. "But let's get back to your problem. I was thinking, maybe we could ask the author what to do."

"The author? You mean Illamatar?"

"I don't know exactly what I mean. But we're all in a story after all. Our whole lives are a story. Someone has to be writing it, right? So let's ask the author."

Suddenly, there came the sound of clicking on a keyboard followed by a loud 'ding.' A small boy riding a bicycle materialized out of nowhere. He walked up to Nichole and handed her an envelope. "Message for you," he said and pedaled away, disappearing as quickly as he arrived. Nichole tore open the envelope with shaking hands.

"What does it say?" Panakeia asked eagerly.

Nichole read the note aloud. "I haven't given you free will for nothing. Do you think I write out every minute of your lives for you? How uncanonical. You'll have to figure this one out for yourselves, but I'll give you hints along the way if you look for them. Signed, The Author P.S. There are some interesting shops around campus. Why don't you check them out?" She looked at Panakeia. "Not very helpful, is it?"

"Not very. But we'll have to look at those shops. There must be something there."

Panakeia glanced up to see the professor hurrying towards them with a stack of books. "What can I do, what can I do?" he said. "I could speak on futility, and that is what I spoke about, but what now? How can I create an entirely new course in just one day and do it by tomorrow? How, how? I don't know anything about feudalism."

Panakeia was about to remark that he didn't know much about the futility of sales either, but checked herself. The troll looked too sad and pitiable to tease. "I don't know. Why don't you just read something out of one of those books and then cut the class short? You'll have satisfied Anakron by teaching about feudalism and given yourself a few days to rework the course."

"That is an excellent idea. We will reconvene at once. Follow me back to the classroom." They hurried along, calling to the other students as they spotted them. Soon, the entire group was back in their seats.

The professor stood at the head of the room. "Class, a most grievous error has been called to my attention. It would appear that I have been given the wrong course title. Thus, I have been teaching the right class to the wrong course." A chorus of chuckles erupted, all quickly silenced by a glare from the troll. "However, all is not lost. This will be our final meeting, in which I shall propound to you the information required by our administration and then conclude with a final exam. All grades that I have given you will stand, which means, Panakeia, that you still receive an A, although you must take the new final to prove participation in the new course material. We will now begin."

For the next hour, the professor read out of books on lords and ladies, nobles and serfs, princes and paupers. Panakeia was bored to tears, but she did prefer the new material to the old. Only once did the professor slip into his old lecture, when he remarked on the futility of marketing to peasants when money was controlled by the nobility. This, of course, led to a discourse on futility and pointlessness in a futile system, but only briefly; the professor quickly switched back to feudalism at the loud meowing of a cat.

The professor shut his book. "We will now take the final." He passed out a single sheet of paper, face down. "Do not turn your paper over until given instruction to do so. Are you ready?" Ignoring several shouts of "No," he said, "You may begin." Papers flipped over with a noisy rustle to reveal four questions:

1. What is your name?

That was easy enough. Panakeia wrote her name.

2. What is your favorite color?

Another easy question. Lime.

3. What is your quest?

Simple. To get out of Mordor.

4. Has this course helped your quest? Give examples. (Extra credit)

Panakeia thought for a minute before writing yes. Examples were slightly harder. She decided to list the emptying of her sample case. It was much easier to carry without its heavy contents. Besides, she felt better about herself without the burden of dubiously useful products. And that was a relief too.

She handed in her exam. The professor hardly glanced at the paper before writing 105% at the top of the page. "A+" he hissed.

"Does this mean you could, well, maybe see your way clear to changing me back?"

He glared and waved her out of the room. "No." She left the classroom, slamming the door behind her.

Nichole followed a few seconds later. "That has to be the easiest final exam ever written. What do you think? Should we go look for those shops now?"

"Sounds like a good idea." They walked to the shopping district with no clear idea of what they were searching for, but glad to be doing something other than sitting in class.

They walked and walked. Then Nichole gripped Panakeia’s arm and pointed at a tiny storefront. “Look. Do you think that’s what we’re looking for?” Psychic Readings. 10 Trolls. Also see us about our special services. All problems solved. A neon hand blinked in the window.

Panakeia had her doubts but didn’t have any better ideas. “I guess we’ll find out,” she said.

Inside, they met a woman who wore almost as much jewelry as Panakeia. A brightly colored bandana covered her wild hair. Skirts swishing, she approached the pair and blinked at Panakeia’s strange appearance. “Read your palm? Tell your future?” she asked in a thickly accented voice.

“Actually,” Panakeia said, “we were hoping you could help me with this.”

“With what?”

“This. Someone put a spell on me or something. I’m not really a chimpanzee. Can you help?”

The fortuneteller gulped. “I can fix anything. Follow me. Alone.” The last word was directed at Nichole.

Panakeia smiled at her friend. “Wish me luck.” She walked into a back room with the fortuneteller.

Shouts and flashes of light came from the room, followed by a hush. The fortuneteller emerged. “You may come in now,” she said dramatically, waving her arm at the door. Nichole rushed back anxiously. And there sat Panakeia, no longer a chimp, but not looking quite the way Nichole remembered her, either. Her makeup was gone and, most noticeably, her hair was no longer blonde.

The fortuneteller spoke rapidly, losing her accent in her excitement. “It worked. I can’t believe it, but it worked. She’s back. But she’s back the way she naturally appears. She wasn’t very happy about her hair at first, but it’s better than being a monkey, she must admit.”

Nichole smiled. “I sort of like your hair that way.”

Panakeia wasn’t convinced. She thought that she looked too much like an older version of her conscience for comfort. But there was nothing to be done and it was true, at least she wasn't a chimp. She paid the fortuneteller and walked back to the dorm to await further instructions from Anakron. She hoped that she would soon be on her way home.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"I can't believe I'm spending all of this money on tuition and you're skipping class! Sleeping in the hall! Why aren't you in class and what have you to say to yourself? Look at the state of your clothes. Did you even get out of bed in time to put on clean clothes this morning? I'll bet your room is filthy. What time did you go to bed last night? You've been having entirely too much fun. You need to be concentrating on your school work, not on boys!"

The voice of Alli's mother startled her to wakening. A nightmare... she thought... my parents can't be in Mordor. I left them in Gondor.

"We've been looking everywhere for you!"

Alli looked up and groaned.

"Don't you roll your eyes at me, young lady. You're grounded."

Alli jumped to her feet, instantly angry. Of all of the people in the world, only her parents had this much affect on her.

"I am EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD!" she screamed in a way that conveyed less maturity and more impatience reminiscent of an angry fourteen-year-old. "I've been living alone for ages, experiencing things you could never even imagine."

Alli's parents looked at her condescendingly. "Oh, and I suppose we were never eighteen? I suppose we don't know what happens at college?"

"No, Mom, things have changed since the STONE AGE!!!!" Alli couldn't help but think about her job, winging balrogs. She'd started there, and since, she'd been through things her parents couldnt' possibly understand. Had they ever been on speaking terms with Illamatar? Did they hunt werewolves? Did they ever have sorded ties with the Mordorian Underworld, or screaming matches with lords of Gondor? No. Her parents had no clue. Her mother glared at her in the way only mothers could. Alli's father stood brooding, probably considering the best way to blame his children for his computer's techonoligcal malfunctions. Her mother spoke in a deadly soft voice. The class Alli had so recently been kicked out of was watching through the glass window of the door.

"You don't appreciate what it's like to be a parent. You don't appreciate the sacrifices we've made for you. You couldn't possibly understand what it's been like to have you in Mordor. All we want is what's best for you, Alli, and you just don't get it."

"No, Mom," Alli threw back at her. "You don't get it. I'm not your little girl any more. You can't keep me locked up now. It worked when I was five! The world didn't know I existed, much less know me as someone famous on television. You know what, Mom? You just don't want me to live my own life! You're trying to keep me from making the same mistakes you did, but you know what? I have to do it myself. I can't be who you want me to be. I can't be YOU!"

Her mother looked crushed, but her response was anything but predictable. Alli had meant to make her cry, awful as that was. She'd meant for her mother to see the error of her maternal ways and let Alli live her own life (dangerous and stupid though her choices may be) without lecture. She figured that whatever mood her mom was in would be inflicted upon her dad anyhow, so it wasn't worth battling them both.

Now, though, they did not yell. No more threats of grounding, no more lecturing on the disrespectfulness of youth... they turned mean.

"We..." Alli's mother hissed, "Are not going to pay for your cell phone any more. Your bank account is about to be closed, and you can go buy your own horse instead of borrowing one of ours all the time. You can pay for your own food, your own shelter... we're cutting you off. Isn't that right, dear?"

Alli's father looked startled and quite nervous. "Yes!" he agreed instantly to save himself trouble. "Of course! Exactly what your mother says."

Alli glared. Her parents had followed her into Mordor to yell at her? Who did that, anyway? Alli looked up and down the hall and saw the parents of other university students infiltrating the halls.

"No way." she breathed. She spoke louder, promising... threatening. "This.... is.... war."

[Durelin]

Valde had been unable to control himself, and had sprung up from his desk, in order to better slam his fist upon the top of it in clear agitation. He narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows as he frowned, so that the two furry bars formed a v-shape that was forever after known as the ‘angry eyebrow,’ and used in many a crude drawing without Valde Delego’s permission, which he would have frowned upon immensely. For he knew artwork. All true artists were tragic, to the heart, and he knew tragedy. And this class was a true tragedy in the making. O how it pained his heart.

“Modernization, Mr. Delego?”

“That’s surely what it is. I have never seen a more wretched country! Even it’s educational system is weakened by the machinations of modernization that tears up the roots this land was founded on!” He slammed his fist down with a rattling thud. “Just look at it! A Casino, a den of debauchery in place of a glorious...though volcanic...mountain! A massive and overly intricately difficult to maneuver spider’s web of roadway filled with aggressive and predatory orcs in place of what was once home to orcs who peacefully, and clearly with less aggression, prepared for war! A University that instructs its students in the ways of taking something that was adored and altering it till it is unrecognizable! Dark Lord or not Dark Lord, Mordor has gone from bad to worse. No wonder you were all sent here! It’s despicable.”

The troll eyed him. “Are you quite finished, Mr. Delego?”

“No, I am not!” he cried, his voice suddenly ringing with pride. “Shakespeardil, the Bard that almost but did not quite slay Smaug, cannot suffer any longer!” he shouted, raising a fist in the air, and holding his head high. “He was beloved in his time, let him be loved again, just as he was so long ago!”

There was scattered applause, and Valde flourished a bow, while the troll professor simply looked on. He seemed much more shocked now, perhaps by the sudden show of support for the Lead Tragic Actor’s cause from three whole people. Valde looked surprised as well, but continued on without hesitation. Swirling his long coat with grace and grandeur befitting one of his standing, he seized the plumed hat from atop the professor’s head, and donned it himself. “Now...we are going to do this properly...” He looked out over the classroom from the front of the class, ignoring the professor, who was now clutching his obviously bald and clearly buffed daily head, embarrassed by its uncovering, and thus doing his best to disappear into a corner. Valde frowned at the three faces that he saw, counting them over a few times to make sure he was not missing anyone. “Properly...with four players...somehow.”

He was liking this less and less, and had raised a pondering hand to his chin when the door suddenly flew open, and he turned to see the horror that had entered what was now his classroom.

Raising a trembling hand to what had just passed through the door, Valde cried out, attempting to banish it with strong words, and a violent wave of his hand. “Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with!”*

“What on earth are you shouting about, boy?” the man who had entered asked.

“Valde Delego! You dare speak to your father and I that way?!” cried the man’s counterpart in a shrill voice.

The parents of the Lead Tragic Actor had entered, and it seemed that their arrival was as if they had come from the grave to Valde, who had turned even paler than normal, and who trembled with both fear and anger, a hint of madness in his eye that strikingly resembled guilt. If one did not know the man’s background, they would think he was feeling a kind of guilt that resulted from stealing cookies from a jar, but it was indeed far different, as Shakespeardil knew well.

“But mother...” Valde began, his voice much smaller, with a higher pitch to it that seemed to diminish any power in his act. Perhaps it was the cookies, after all.

“Don’t you give me that!” The woman approached him, and gave the man a good smack to his head. She had never been one for modernization, and so felt that a good ol’ fashion smacking around of her children was the best way to raise them right. The poor woman felt she had failed with this one, particularly since he had ended up in Mordor. And, even more unfortunate for her, was that her physical reprimand did not good. In fact, it did quite the opposite.

“Do not strike me, foul spectre!”

“Spectre?!” his father cried out, striding toward his son to join his wife. “How dare you call your mother that!”

“You are but foul shades, reflections of memories long past that haunt me still!”

His mother and father turned to each other with inquisitive looks. They muttered to each other words such as: “What is he saying?”; “Has he gone over the edge then?”; “Well I bet it was you that did push him.”; and the like.

“I’m saying you two are just ghosts,” Valde informed them, clarifying. “You can’t be here. You’ve long been dead, and that’s why my childhood was so tragic, left as an orphan at the wee age of four years...”

His mother burst out laughing, while his father simply stood in shock. “Four years?” his mother inquired, gasping through her wheezing laughed, “Oh my dear, you know very well you weren’t out of our house until you were well near thirty...”

Valde simply stared at her, returning his eyebrows to the v-shape that he would later so regret not trademarking and copyrighting for all its worth, though that would have modernized even his broodingly angry stare. His mother trailed off in her giggling, and his father’s shock lasted only until the two burst into tears, each wailing about how they had failed their son, sobbing about repressed memories and how they should have had him psychoanalyzed when they had the chance. Valde rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and trying very hard to ignore his parents’ presence.

“Oh fine,” he finally said begrudgingly, and with a heavy sigh. “I know, you exist. We’ll just say you were abusive to me as a child. That will explain everything.” He eyed them. “Though that doesn’t mean you are now. We’ve reconciled, okay?” He seized each of their hands in turn, and gave them a quick shake. “There, reconciled. Now, I need players for Shakespeardil’s King Fëar. You, father, will…” he trailed off. “Wait…how did you get to Mordor?”

“You assigned us, silly boy.”

“Oh.” Valde eyed his parents uneasily. “Remember we’re reconciled…” he said nervously, before quickly turning back to the rest of the class.

“Now, I hope only one of you Fools can sing.”

*Again, apologies to the Bard

[the guy who be short]

Fléin entered his classroom, walked a few paces, then stopped short.

He looked around the room, awestruck. Seated at three tables at the front were... five Dwarves! Dwarves!

In all his sejourn in Mordor, Fléin had never seen more than three Dwarves, himself inclusive, at the same time. This was amazing.

The professor did not seem to share the enthousiasm spreading across Fléin's face. "Wipe that grin off you face," he rumbled in an odd voice, fluctuating wildly in pitch. "I don't see anything funny about being late for your first lecture. Take a seat."

Fléin sat down next a Dwarf who had, for some reason, decided to coat his or her axe edge with ketchup. He smiled and shuffled into his seat.

"As I was saying," the professor turned around, "before I was rudely interrupted- WHERE IS YOUR PAPER BOY?"

Fléin carefully addressed his apology to the floor two feet in front of the professor. "Sorry sir... I didn't think we'd need any."

The professor, a squat stone figure, made a sound similar to that Fléin made when producing cats from his stomach; Fléin interpreted this as a laugh. "No paper? How are you to learn the Theory of Defense for Short People? Hah! I'm sorry, but there's little physical activity in this class!"

He didn't sound very apologetic - more gleeful than anything else - and apparently, Fléin was not the only one to suffer from this misconception. The other Dwarves murmured, annoyed, but the professor ignored them.

"You will have to borrow paper from another student. You will pay this back tomorrow, with a 50% interest rate, and I shall take 500% of the total repayment personally in Forgotten Paper Taxes to attone for your lack of effort." He turned back to the board, and finished off his sentence. "I am Professor Trunchbull."

[Kath]

Grumbling about bossy adults and being dragged out of bed far too early, Sai made her way back to class. Slamming the heavy stack of books that had mysteriously appeared on her bed that morning (though she wouldn’t bet against Anakron having put them there) down on the desk, she fell into a seat and prepared to act the epitome of a student in a class they did not want to take – bored, unsociable and bordering on rude. She promptly achieved all three, falling asleep in the chair just as her professor entered the room.

When she eventually woke up again she was surprised to find that someone had joined her, but was less surprised to find that the newcomer had also succumbed to the temptation of sleep, especially when she heard the droning of the professor in the background. Leaning over to get a look at her companion, Sai noticed a pad of paper lying on the desk. Picking it up she skimmed through a few note-filled pages. It looked as though this girl had managed to stay awake a little longer then she had! As she read, Sai absentmindedly corrected the various spelling and grammar mistakes she found in the writing, not really noticing she was doing so until the owner of the writing suddenly sat up and snatched the pad off her.

“Hey! What are you up to?”

Sai began to explain, but tripped over her words in her haste to assure the girl that she had not meant any harm. It didn’t matter though, as she had taken one look at the pad of paper and was now beaming at her. Confused, Sai stopped trying to explain, and questioned instead.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Are you kidding? You’ve just done me a huge favour. I knew I was going to have to work out what I’d done wrong later, and you’ve just done it all for me. I never wanted to take this course in the first place – grammar and diction? So not my forte. I’m Lucy by the way, and you are?”

A little stunned by the sudden U-turn in behaviour Sai didn’t reply for a moment. She wondered whether she’s picked up Alli’s natural distrust of new people, or whether even her short time in Mordor had led her to view those who seemed nice with a wary eye. Nevertheless, she could see no harm in at least trying to make friends.

“I’m Sai. And if you really are ok with me correcting your work like that then you’re welcome. It’s just an automatic thing, but I’m sorry I didn’t ask first.”

“Seriously it’s not a problem, like I said you did me a favour. In fact I’ve got a proposition for you. I’ll stay awake in the lessons and make notes if you’ll correct my mistakes and help me with any essays or stuff like that, agreed?”

Not believing her good fortune, Sai agreed on the spot. Of course, she argued with herself, Lucy could be tricking her. She might not even be taking notes, just making it up as she went along. But then, she argued back, that was a pretty ambitious scheme, and the girl seemed nice. Anyway, whatever the case there was no way she was going to stay awake in a lesson that started this early!

And so the week’s lessons passed in a gentle blur. Sai arrived on time and went back to sleep as soon as Lucy arrived. After class the two would go to one of their rooms where Sai would correct any mistakes and write essays for the both of them, as she had discovered that was simpler than trying to help. Thanks to this little partnership both girls kept in the professors good graces, and since they caused no trouble within the class they weren’t discovered.

The tranquil state of things was shattered, however, on the last day of the week – finals day. Sai and Lucy found themselves on opposite sides of the room as the students had been seated according to surname. Onara and Perks would normally be close to one another but, this being Mordor, there were 13 other candidates in between. Hoping that Lucy would cope on her own, Sai settled down and opened her paper.

2 hours later she exited the room. The questions hadn’t been hard and, thanks to Lucy’s notes, she had at least been able to write something for each one. She had a mild panic attack though as before she could find Lucy and ask her how the exam had gone, she was called back into the room.

Her professor stood before her brandishing her paper.

“Just what do you call this?” He demanded, shoving it under her nose and pointing at something she had written. Peering at it, Sai realised what he meant.

“That, sir, is a correction.”

“This is MY exam paper. I do not make mistakes!”

“I’m sorry but I think you’ll find that you have. You see . . .”

She was interrupted by a sudden bang, and turned to see her parents marching through the door. Perhaps 3 or even 2 weeks ago this would have made her jump, but now she just accepted their appearance with a weary sigh of resignation. Her mother was already reprimanding her as she walked.

“Don’t you answer back young lady! This, um, man is both your elder and you better and you should treat him accordingly. Honestly, I don’t know what today’s youth are coming to.”

“Yes!” Came her father’s voice. “And what is the point of carrying a mobile if you never have it on!”

After smiling at her father, who had become a bit addled in his old age, Sai turned her back on them and tried to continue her conversation with her professor.

“Here it is, look. You’ve written ‘was’ when it should be ‘were’.”

“That’s it! You are grounded!” Her mother’s voice sounded in her ear.

“You can’t ground me! We’re not even at home.”

“Oh? So now you challenge my authority! You’re going off the rails missy.”

“No, mum, I’m just trying to complete this task so I can get out of here. If you’d just go talk to Anakron . . .”

“And who is this Anakron – a boy?” Her father interjected suspiciously.

“Well, a man really but . . .”

“You are coming home with us right now! I don’t know, cavorting around with boys at your age.”

“Mum! Dad! I am not cavorting! And I am perfectly capable of looking out for myself, and even if I weren’t I have made friends here who certainly can.”

“Oh look, she thinks she doesn’t need us anymore. Who was it Sai that gave you life? Who was it that raised you? Who looked after you from the day you were born, forsaking any kind of life I might have had so that you might have a mother? Who worried about you all day every day simply out of love?”

“Yes. Who was it that marched across the frozen wastelands to bring you food? Who kept you warm all winter . . .”

“Darling do be quiet. You won’t be allowed to watch things anymore if they’re going to confuse you so.”

Shaking off the bemusement that arose from this little interlude in her mother’s attempt to guilt trip her, Sai allowed her anger to develop, and used it.

“I’ll answer your questions, mother. You gave me life, even if it was willed by Illamatar, but if you claim that then you cannot blame me in any way for your life going down the drain after I was born. You chose to have me! And I know that you worry about me but that’s your job! You are my parents, you worry. But you can’t stop me from living my life! It’s mine to live and I have to make mistakes in my own way. Speaking of which, professor, have you found yours yet?”

Turning away from her parents she directed fierce eyes at her professor, who rolled his and scribbled an A+ on her exam paper.

”Just take it and go. I’m fed up of arguments like this between my students and their parents. Maybe if you walked a mile in each others shoes you’d understand each other better.”

And with that he stormed out of the room. 'Well', thought Sai, 'at least these nutters are useful for something!' She was sure the professor would have been able to argue his way out of a paper bag if given the chance, and was glad that her parents had taken that opportunity from him. She heard her mother enthusing about something, and tuned her thoughts back into the present.

“Oh what a wonderful idea! Sai, give me your shoes.”

“Mum, you shouldn’t take these things so literally.”

“Now, Sai.”

Doing as she was told, Sai removed her shoes and put on the ones her mother passed her. As she did so she felt a searing pain go through her whole body, finally coming to rest near her heart. She gasped and clutched her chest.

“Mum, I think you’re ill or something. My chest is killing.”

“Well of course it is. I missed you, and I was so worried. You disappear and all we get is a note saying you’ve been taken to Mordor!”

“You can’t possibly be blaming me for the insensitivity of bureaucrats!”

“Well, you did speak an anakronism out loud, you did know what would happen.”

As her mother spoke, Sai felt something gentle wash over her, though it was tinged with sadness. She realised with surprise that it was love mixed with regret, and quickly yanked her mother’s shoes off her feet. She was a teenager for goodness sake! She wasn’t supposed to understand being a parent.

Taking her own shoes back she put them on again and sighed with relief as the familiar sensations of indignation and youthful know-it-all-ness flowed through her. Smiling she hugged both her parents.

“I know I worry you, but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to put up with it. I have to go but I’ll see you when . . . if . . . I get back. Bye!”

Leaving them standing there, she ran out of the room and headed off to find Lucy.

[Encaitare]

It had been a long and trying week for Ms. Brochenbach, between her idiot teacher shouting at the whole class for hours on end and the nagging worry of how she was possibly going to complete that pesky third task. (Oddly enough, whenever she thought about it she had the sudden urge to explore a hedge maze, but she’d never been overly fond of shrubberies and therefore ignored the unusual thought.)

Now it was the night before her final exam. She’d considered studying, but the textbook only had a few words per page and therefore actually contained the same amount of useful information as a supermarket tabloid.

“Well, Mr. Swanky,” she said to her hat, which was sitting on the bedside table in her cramped dorm room, “I’m sure I can do just fine. Real college students wing it all the time. Old Timers Dizeaze, my foot.” Feeling pretty confident in her abilities, she turned off the dingy lamp, rolled over on the squeaky bed, and went to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

“Wilhelmina!” she heard a man’s voice say. Slowly regaining consciousness, she saw two fuzzy figures standing by the bed – so much for blaming Anakron for disturbing her slumber.

“Minnie, my child, wake up.” This time it was a woman’s voice. With effort, Wilhelmina sat up and squinted at the two people – she wasn’t squinting because her eyesight was poor, but rather because the pair was see-through.

“Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad,” she said somewhat lamely. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Mandos or wherever?”

“Normally we would be, you see, but we’ve heard some disturbing rumors,” Mrs. Brochenbach said mysteriously.

“More disturbing than one’s dead parents showing up in an already eerie dorm room?”

The ghosts looked hurt. “We wanted to see you,” said Mr. Brochenbach. “It’s been so long since you were taken away from us.”

Wonderful, now I feel like a horrible person, she thought. Nothing like reproachful parents to do that to you. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said apologetically. “It’s nice to see you both, too, even if it’s a little… odd.”

“There’s not much time for us to stay, Minnie,” said Mrs. Brochenbach. “We’ve heard about the impending war between parents and teenagers, and we want you to stay out of it.”

Wilhelmina raised her brow and scoffed, not unlike a sassy teen. “Why would I pick a side? I’m not either one.”

“We know that,” her father sighed. “We just don’t want anything to happen to you – it’s probably going to get pretty messy. You wouldn’t want to spoil your chances to get out of Mordor, would you?” He winked, just like he used to back in Minas Tirith…

“We might even be able to help you with that third task,” her mother said in a confidential tone.

“Does it involve a hedge maze?”

“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Brochenbach laughed like the young woman Wilhelmina remembered from her childhood. She suddenly realized that she had missed so much during her exile in Mordor – family, friends (of the non-ferret variety), the possibility of giving her parents grandchildren. She’d missed her parents so much at first, she remembered. The two smiled knowingly, and leaned in closer to give her their otherworldly wisdom –

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

She woke up to the offensive sound of an alarm clock.

Blasted dreams! She fumed, thinking how wretched were these unconscious musings over which she had no control. And how stupid Freud was for spending all his time thinking about them. She hadn’t even gotten any information out of the dream, except some false hopes and irritating sentimentality. Frowning, she put on her hat, picked up her walking stick, and left for her final exam.

[the guy who be short]

The lessons - entirely theoretical - went on for a week. So many notes were required that Fléin ended up owing the professor a few hundred trees in paper tax.

The Dwarf of Ketchup - Ketchupkin was his/her name - became Fléin's close friend. It turned out s/he actually shared a room with Alli, which Fléin thought was rather coincidental. They sat next to each other and, in the intermittent periods of the professor's relative quiet, talked a lot. The thought of Wilhelmina faded from Fléin's head quickly, and so did thoughts of A Slan. All he needed now was to ensure Ketchupkin's gender, and then... who knows?

The newly forged friendship kept Fléin's spirits up throughout what would otherwise be a very gruelling time. He absorbed none of his notes, and the pair spent much time discussing their respective childhoods at the feet of the Orocarni.

And, all too soon, it was finals day.

Fléin approached it with a brave face. The other Dwarves went first, none of them exactly sure what they were doing. The exam was a practical - against the professor. Nobody even knew any self-defence moves, yet alone how to harm a troll.

The tables were piled against a wall and a fighting arena prepared.

Four broken Dwarves were led away, one by one, each with a big F spray painted into his or her beard. Ketchupkin was up next.

Fléin thought the other Dwarf put up rather a good fight. Ketchupkin managed to get ketchup into professor Trunchbull's eyes, both blinding and enraging him. He staggered around whilst Ketchupkin hacked at his feet, but eventually, the professor stepped on the unfortunate Dwarf's beard and caushed him or her to cry out in pain. Quickly located, Ketchupkin was duly bashed on the head with a stone fist. An Orc assistant sprayed an F on the Dwarf's beard and hauled the body away.

Fléin was so enraged he attacked right away. He found himself yelling strange words that he didn't know before and that he couldn't explain. Afterwards, he deemed himself possessed. While he hacked at the professor's feet, he distinctly remembered yelling "lumos!" and blinding the troll with a flash of light. This gave him a perfect chance to hack the creature in the stomach.

The battle raged on, with Fléin yelling odd words every now and then and swiping with his axe, and the professor staggering around in a blind rage. Then, Fléin yelled "expelliarmus!" - Illamatar knew what it meant - and the professor's arms fell off!

"Okay! I surrender!" he shouted, unfortunately before Fléin could decapitate him. He had an odd urge to find a length of wood and stick it up the professor's nose.

The troll seemed to have no such intentions. He ordered an orc to hand Fléin a card declaring his passing with distinctions, then had him shoved out of the room into the corridor.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was kicked out of class the second day as well. This time, reflecting her writer's life story once more, it was because in an effort to avoid waste of paper, she'd read the homework assignment ("An Essay of Epiphanies: Why the Lord is a Llama") on her computer without printing it. Since she had no hard copy to study in class, although she knew more about the readings and Illamatar himself than anyone else in the class including the professor, she was, without hesitation, invited to leave poste-haste and not come back.

Again, she stumbled into her parents at an awkward time. Alli was rehearsing lines with Aimè ("I love you Aimè") after her class "ended" when they walked up from behind and her father, enraged, demanded to know who Aimè was.

"He's a friend, Dad."

"Sounds a bit too friendly." he said threateningly, flexing his muscles and looking remarkably intimidating.

"Ugh... Dad, you don't get it. We're just friends!"

"You think I don't know what goes through the heads of young men? He's only after one thing."

"Dad, shut it. Of course he's only after one thing: saving the world. Which I'm helping him do."

"Oh, is that what you kids call it these days?"

Aimè looked as though he'd rather not get involved as Alli argued with her father. Her mother merely muttered loudly to herself about how her only daughter, her life and her joy, had not even trusted her mother enough to tell her that she was in love. Alli ignored her.

The next day, Alli lasted a half hour into the class before her professor told her that she was hopeless, gave her a zero on her in-class writing assignment ("Me and My Llama: A Personal Relationship with the One"), and bade her to never return. Her parents waited for her outside.

"Can't you people just leave?"

"Do you hear that, dear? After all we went through to give her a happy life... after all of the anguish she caused us, and yet we still love her more than life itself, and she can only sum it up enough to call us "you people"!"

Alli groaned. Why couldn't parents just understand that sometimes their kids needed to be left alone? Besides... she'd declared war. Why weren't they more upset? Alli had read that morning in a local tabloid that parents were invading the country, searching out their children in a disturbing desire to put them on the Straight Path. Why weren't more children fighting back? Why weren't more parents issuing demands and ultimatums? Why wasn't there some sort of... some sort of action or something?

The next day, Alli survived her class ("Today's topic: the grass is always greener in another Llama's pasture; why you should know about the toxic amounts of chlorophyl in other religions") before her professor told her that she was a lost cause and ought to give up on a university education all together since she'd never amount to more than a slug could. As she gathered her things in an increasingly routine sort of way, she could hear her classmates sniggering. She shot them a salute and left, trying to avoid places she knew she'd run into her parents. She still couldn't figure out why they were in Mordor and what they were thinking, stalking her about the place.

"We're just trying to keep our baby girl healthy and happy." Illamatar above, could they read minds or something? This was getting insane.

"If you want me to be healthy and happy, you'll leave me the freak alone. I'm at uni, Mom. You can't just follow me here! I could have sworn I was far enough away to avoid unexpected parent drop-ins."

"Do you hear that, dear? She doesn't want us here. Well maybe she doesn't want us to pay for her education."

"You aren't paying for it!" Alli yelled. "It's all part of the Anakronism Dweomer. You aren't even paying through taxes."

The fifth day of classes, Alli was beginning to crash. She'd avoided her "room" completely, slightly terrified of the prospect of sleeping in close quarters with an axe-happy gender-inspecific Dwarf that seemed to hate her. She'd been awakened that morning by a security guard of the college that wanted to know why she was asleep on a park bench. She had no reason particularly good enough, so she lied.

Her parents found her at the local jail.

"Lying to a law enforcement official?" her mother sobbed. "I am a failure as a mother. It must be my fault that my only daughter, my life and my joy, is breaking laws and lying to her parents and getting into trouble. The next thing you know, we'll find out that she'd doing drugs or stealing."

Her guard, Biff, turned around. "Hey, aren't you the girl that stole Orlando Bloom's fangirls?"

Alli's mother fainted. Her father refused to pay bail, informing Alli that she'd learn better if they left her there.

The next day, Alli missed her class. She wasn't released from her cell until several minutes after the class ended. Her professor didn't appreciate her situation. She was given a zero for the day and wasn't allowed to turn in her homework ("Baa: Speaking to the Divine").

The morning of her final dawned. Or rather, her final was scheduled slightly before dawn, therefore the sun had yet to rise when she rolled off of her park bench and arrived. Her professor scowled.

"You fail." he muttered. He wasn't a morning person.

"What?!" Alli fought tears. This just wasn't fair.

"You heard me, you failed."

"What have I done to deserve and F?"

"I'm not giving you an F, I'm giving you a 0."

"Baaa. No you aren't." Illamatar intervened. Alli almost cried in relief. "You are passing her with an A. You are passing all of your students."

Alli butted in. "Illamatar?"

"Yes Aluminè?"

"My teacher is a troll."

"Yes... a horrid teacher."

"No... a real troll. Why isn't he stone? It's daylight."

"Blame the Dweomer."

"Oh."

"A war is brewing. Baa."

"What?"

"You might want to seek out your parents and stop them before they convince more people to join their cause... they fight on the side of A Slan."

"But Flein said A Slan is dead."

"It matters not. And it matters not that I'm very fond of A Slan. Wars are not to be tolerated. It is up to you, Alli, to end this." He disappeared.

Alli heard the sounds of a riot from outside the hall window. She looked out upon thousands of angry parents forming a mob. She saw her parents and ran, hoping to stop this war before it could truly start.

As she rounded the corner, she tripped and fell, hitting her head and rendering herself unconsious.

When she woke, several minutes later, a small figure with a large mustache hovered over her, teeth bared. She screamed.

"Aimè... I love you!" she shrieked, desperate. Mario had the high ground.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Mario stood there, with his filthy furry foot placed firmly on Alli's chest—she was trapped. Grinning inanely, he took a cigarette out of his pocket, put it in his mouth and lit it. Alli, gasping for breath, still managed to sass him about it, something about smoking being a filthy habit. Mario blew smoke in her face.

"Hahahaha!!!" he laughed evilly. "You'll just have to cope."

"I thought smoking would be dangerous for a wolf" she said. "It would be most exciting to see your fur catch on fire." At this suggestion, Mario snarled. He looked quite intimidating, and at the same time ridiculous. The short, fat, moustachiod, dribbling, wolvish plumber was pulling off quite the look.

"Bloody teenagers" he growled, and stubbed out his cigarette on Alli's shoulder.

"Why the hell do you want me, you horrible creature!" Alli yelled. Mario was crouching over her now, preparing to kill.

"Because I'm a wolf, of course!" he cackled. "And marvellous fun it is too. So marvellous, that I would like to stay a wolf. I can kill people with these razor-sharp fangs now! Do you have any idea how much better that is than having to jump on people's backs, or shooting little gold coins at them from an indiscernible location?"

"Yea, I did wonder where they came from. How many coins can you stuff..."

"SILENCE!!!"

"Whatever. Your powers suck, your clothes suck, and you suck even more!"

Mario stood stewing. "You know the tastiest meal, my dear? Seer."

Alli's eyes widened. If the wolf's weight weren't on her body she would have liked to scream a good old-fashioned 'NOOOOOOOOOOO', but she couldn't. All she could do was await her doom.

Or her inevitable rescue. Because sure enough, in classic Hollywood style, the figure of Aimé appeared in the corridor.

"I love you, Alli" he cried (somewhat redundantly). "And now" turning to Mario, "it is time to perform my duty."

Aimé charged at the wolf, and great was the clash of their meeting. To and fro they raged, but the cool-headed Aimé was never in real trouble: he had a weapon, a sword strong and true. The foul wolf had nothing but his teeth, claws and lighter. In less than one moment, Mario had lost a leg, and lay bleeding on the deck.

Stooping over him, Aimé grinned victoriously. "Your bloody and painful end is a delight to me, foul Mario. And just so you know..." The wolf looked up in misery. "Peach was never faithful. There've been a lot of other guys, Mario. Trust me, I know for sure." The wolf looked up with such hatred it made Aimé blink in surprise. He really loved her, he thought. Ah, so be it.

He stabbed the wolf through the heart, causing him to howl a forlorn howl. And then he was silent. Mario was dead. Aimé just looked over at Alli, splattered in blood, and flashed her a joyous smile.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli took Aimè's outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet. She threw her arms around him, kissing him on the mouth. As he stared in shock, she completely didn't notice, busy as she was dancing victoriously now across the blood-soaked floor.

"Two down, two down! You did it, Aimè!" Her voice took on a singing quality and her words danced melodiously through a pair of octaves, making Aimè laugh as he watched her caper. "Sai got J.Lo. by the tushy, Mar-yo tried to be real pushy, Aimè came and settled his score and now we're left with just one more!"

They laughed together, unnoticing of the growing crowd of angry and war-like parents outside. Teenagers had begun to gather, swinging moods and sharpening their tongues. Had she noticed, Alli would have hoped really hard that Flein would take care of the situation for her. But she didn't, therefore the world would have to hope really hard that Flein would take care of the situation for her, hint hint.

Still jubilant, Alli took Aimè by the hand and ran, pulling him laughingly down the hall. It was assumed that the janitorial staff of the building would take care of the dead werewolf. Alli pulled Aimè into one of the campus's many conviently created coffee shop and bar dance parties.

"Hey," she laughed, the thrill of success continuing to drive her. "This is just like where we met. I'll have a white chocolate mocha latte, please. You're out? Okay... a steamed milk with a shot of caramel? Sweet."

Aimè's mood was equally carefree. He ordered a cup of tea and drank it with his little finger appropriately extended. They laughed over victory.

Roggie had been avenged... Hookbill the Goomba's attacker had been taken care of. The "hero" of the world had been shown as the demon he truly was, and the Seer and the Hunter celebrated. Aimè was no longer an outlaw and Illamatar's will was being carried out. All thoughts of the third wolf were left for another time.

That time came about thirty seconds later.

"Aimè... who do you think the last wolf is?"

His mood sobered immediately. He swore, thought for a moment, and spoke.

"We leave Mordor very soon... there is no time to search. What..."

Alli interrupted. "Shh... we'll figure it out. It will be an adventure for another time. Right now... let's celebrate the defeat of Mario. We've been waiting all game for this."

They ordered more drinks, this time less non-alcoholic than their previous, and Alli quickly lost a few inhibitions that weren't very strong to begin with.

Her professor found her this way, watching her dance with Aimè the Hunter with an odd look.

"You've passed." he muttered, handing her a slip of paper. She read it several times, still had no idea what it said, and told him as much, cheeks pinker than usual. "You passed, idiot girl. You got an A on your final. I've raised your participation grades to passing. You're done with my class. Don't come back ever again."

He disappeared and Aimè yelled into Alli's ear. "Passed! That's a GOOD thing. What's that other thing the paper says?" She handed it to him and he read it. "Congratulations!" he yelled over the loud music. "You're completely sane, if a little crazy once in a while. Freud got arrested as a fraud. Who'd have guessed it?"

And so the afternoon continued into night, the jubilant pair celebrating the defeat of a monster. The more drinks Alli had, the less she cared about that third wolf. Except for a few random moments when she really, really did care. She simply drank more to drown out those times. She'd think about it another time.

[Celuien]

Boom, bang, crash. A raucous chorus of cheers. Panakeia was awakened from a restful sleep by a noisy mob outside her window. "Whath's going on?" she mumbled sleepily. Rubbing her eyes and yawning, she stumbled towards the window and, ladder style, climbed up Freud's couch to peer outside. No objection to the light came from the room's other occupant - she was nowhere to be found.

Outside, Panakeia quickly spotted the source of her disturbance. An open area adjacent to the dormitory building had been transformed into some sort of sports field. On one side there was a white net. The other side had a tall yellow post that terminated in two parallel rods. As if the teams couldn't agree on what game they were playing, one kicked a round, black and white ball while the other threw a brown-red ovoid object through the air. One ball or the other kept hitting the side of the dorm with a clunk. Panakeia continued to mutter grumpily as she went outdoors to investigate further.

At the field, she pushed her way through the assembled crowd to come up next to a reality-show kamura-orc who was narrating the events. "Welcome back to Celebrity Sports Coach II: Battle of the Titans. The football...erm...soccer...erm...football game between the University of Mordor, coached by that great star of the sports world, David Beckham with his famous lucky shoes, and the University of Lost Angles, coached by our other celebrity sports luminary, Donovan McNabb, wearing his favorite jersey, is well under way. The score is currently tied at 0-0, we think, since differences in British and American dialects have led to some confusion about which game is being played today. Oh, look!" The round ball flew over the yellow posts. "Score for U of M! I think. We'll have to let the ref decide how many points that was worth." The teams, coaches and referees huddled together on the field to debate the score.

Panakeia, feeling like her old self for the moment, saw her chance to both interrupt the noisy game and guarantee that Anakron would accept her second attempt to claim a celebrity's treasured possession. She grabbed a sticker that read "Official Representative" and hurried out onto the field. Coming up to David Beckham, she tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me," she said.

"Yes?"

"I am from the...um...um...yes...Mordor Football Association. Yes, that's it. I'm here to take your football shoes for inspection."

"What?" Beckham's eyes went wide in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?" To herself, Panakeia repeated the question with a different emphasis. "What am I talking about?" She went on. "Yes, well, the thing is, there's some debate as to whether or not your footwear is in keeping with regulation. So I've been sent here to take them for examination."

Beckham snapped at her. "That's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? You're calling the Mordor Football Association ridiculous? Do you want to be suspended?" She imitated her professor's threatening gaze.

Beckham whined. "But I like these shoes. They're my most important...thing."

"They'll be returned to you," Panakeia replied. She held out her hand. "The shoes, please." Beckham removed the shoes and handed them to her.

"Just make sure you give these back to me in the same condition that I gave them to you." Panakeia looked at the shoes. They were filthy and gave off a vaguely unpleasant odor. It would take all of her effort not to throw the shoes away, let alone tamper with them.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm sure no one will do anything to them. Thank you." Then she went over to McNabb.

"You," she barked. Panakeia pointed to his jersey, a green shirt printed with a white 5. "Give me that shirt now."

"Yo! What are youse talking about? This is my Eagles jersey. I love it. It means I'm on the team. I wouldn't give it away for anything." He stared at Panakeia.

Panakeia walked closer, nose nearly touching the top of the 5. She bent her neck upward. "Do you know who I am?" she yelled. "I'm an official with the Mordor Football Association, and we think that jersey might not be an officially licensed garment. Hand it over now."

"Aw, come on. Youse guys know it's official. The team gave it to me. It's licensed."

Panakeia didn't back down. "If it's licensed we'll give it back to you. Hand it over."

McNabb pouted, then took off the jersey and gave it to Panakeia. "I want it back. I can't wear this on the team." He waved his hand over a T-shirt with a smiley face print.

"Don't worry. I'm sure the inspection process won't take more than a few months. Thanks." She hurried back to the dorm while McNabb howled in protest over the 'few months.'

Panakeia put her room key into the lock. The door opened to reveal a strange group, comprised of a beaver, a sparrow, and a man in a black cape, hat, and mask. Panakeia turned on her heel. "Excuse me. I must have the wrong room." She tried to leave but was intercepted by the odd trio. The man took the shoes and shirt and put them on the couch.

"Are you with us or against us?" he asked.

"What? I don't know what you're talking about," Panakeia replied.

"A Slan is returning. He is on the move again," said the beaver. Panakeia stared at the talking animal.

The sparrow chirped. "Your roommate has joined the other side. War is about to begin."

The man spoke again. "Where do you stand?"

"I have no idea what any of you are talking about. Where do I stand? I suppose I stand wherever my roommate doesn't."

The beaver spoke again. "Then you are with A Slan."

"What exactly is A Slan?" Panakeia asked.

The sparrow squeaked. "He is."

The beaver said, "A Slan is returning."

Great. Just what I need. Animals that give me riddles. And now I'm on the side of something called a Slan, whatever that is. Wonderful. Panakeia wasn't very happy with this turn of events.

The man slashed a 'Z' into Panakeia's roommate's blanket. "Come with us," he said.

"Wait. Come with you? I can't. I have to give these things to Anakron."

The group stepped back in horror. The man spoke. "Anakron? Then you are on his side. You are against us."

Oh no. Here we go again. "No. I don't like Anakron. But if I upset him, I don't get out of Mordor. Look, can't you let me be neutral?"

"The time for neutrality is past. The times are changing. What side are you on? Choose quickly."

How do I get out of this? Think! "Neither A Slan, nor Anakron. I side with Kirk."

The trio held a quick conference. Then the beaver spoke. "Kirk? Who is Kirk? Which side is he on?"

Panakeia decided to join the riddle game. "Kirk is."

"Kirk is what?"

"You'll have to ask him," she said. "Seek for the Captain! He will tell you what you need to know."

The three returned to their private discussions. At last, the sparrow gave a reply. "We will find this Captain of yours. But we will be back. A Slan is returning."

"Fine." The strangers filed out of the room.

After the door closed on her visitors, Panakeia gave a sigh of relief. Hopefully, the ploy would keep her out of whatever trouble was brewing. Her goal was to stall for enough time to leave Mordor before the sides, whatever they were, and the Slan, whatever it was, started their battle.

[Encaitare]

By the time Wilhelmina reached the lecture hall, which was, of course, on the opposite side of the campus, the exam was just about to begin. The troll teacher moped at her. "The Environmental Protection Agency threatened to sue us to Valinor and back if we didn't stop cutting down the rain forests to make so much paper for this class."

"I didn't know there were rain forests in Middle-earth."

"Apparently there are," the troll shouted sadly. "So for your final, you just have to fingerpaint a nice picture. Everything you'll need is on your desk."

Wilhelmina went to the desk and found a large piece of paper and pots of paint in red, blue, and yellow. Sighing, she tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, took off her rings, and dipped her fingers in the paint.

Actually, it was quite fun. She didn't feel young, as the teacher had implied, but there was something satisfying in the act.

On one half of the paper she painted Mr. Swanky at the beach, complete with little sunglasses and a drink with an umbrella in it. On the other half, she drew a fairly accurate depiction of Anakron getting crushed in an avalanche.

Suddenly, her nose itched. Maybe fingerpainting wasn't so fun, after all. As she indiscreetly wiped her messy fingers on the desktop, she noticed the late Doctor Hookbill's perky blonde nurse coming though the door. The nurse tossed her hair and handed a note to the teacher.

"Ms. Brochenbach," the teacher screamed across the hall, "you've a message from the Grand Anakronist. He says that Dr. Freud is now fully reassembled and will see you now so you can finish your psychological evaluation. Only if you're done with the exam, of course."

"All done," she said, cheerily gesturing ith paint-stained fingers at her magnificent work of art.

~*~*~*~*~

Dr. Sigmund Freud was much less fragmented this time, but just as annoying.

"And how has the patient been?" he asked, scribbling on his notepad before she even opened her mouth.

"She's been just fine," she said mockingly. "She just took a final exam."

"Perhaps... suffers from... multiple personality... disorder," he muttered as he wrote. Then he said louder, "Do you think you did well?"

"I suppose so," she said, reclining on the couch. "I got to fingerpaint."

Freud lit a cigar and smoked it with relish. "Tell me about your painting."

Wilhelmina very much hoped he wouldn't try to glean some asinine profundity from a fingerpainting. "I painted Mr. Swanky at the beach, and Anakron being crushed by falling rocks," she said matter-of-factly.

"Sharp contrast... of... peace... and violence," the doctor said to himself. The sentence was punctuated with a loud boom in the distance, yet he didn't seem to hear it. "Any unusual dreams since we last met?"

She decided not to tell him about the dream with her parents -- she knew he'd have a field day with that one. And was that another booming sound she heard? "No, none. I haven't had any dreams at all."

"You know, everyone has dreams," he said. "We just don't remember most of them."

"How fascinating," she replied, listening closely for another noise.

When the next sound came, now more of a crash than a boom, Dr. Freud nearly jumped out of his chair. The cigar fell from his mouth and burned a hole in his pants.

A few seconds later, a large ape punched a hole through the wall of the office.

"Queen Quon?!" Wilhelmina shrieked. "I thought she was dead!" Atop her head, Mr. Swanky poked his nose out from him hat-house.

"Begone! Begone, you gorilla creature!" Freud shouted at Queen Quon, waving his arms in what completely failed to come off as a threatening manner. She picked him up in one enormous fist and tore him into pieces which fell to the ground and began to creep about the room in an attempt to reunite.

Queen Quon then turned her eye on Wilhelmina. She reached out with two thick fingers and plucked the hat from her head. With a triumphant bellow, the monstrous gorilla turned and loped off.

"Mr. Swanky!!!" the old woman cried. On the ground all around her were the creeping pieces of Dr. Sigmund Freud. She located a hand, and a head -- luckily, Queen Quon had not demolished the psychologist quite as much as Dr. Hookbill's botched attempts at medicinal practice. Picking both parts up, she carried them to the desk and found the evaluation form and a pen. As quickly as she could, she checked off the "healthy mental state" box and thrust the pen into the disembodied hand.

"Sign it!" she demanded.

"But--" protested the head.

"Do it!" she shrieked. "My best friend has been ferret-napped, and I don't have time for this! Sign the form or I swear I'll impale your skull with my walking stick!"

The hand hastened to do so, and even stuck the form in the doctor's outbox.

"Thanks, Doctor!" she said, and then she ran out through the hole in the wall.

[the guy who be short]

On the grounds of the campus, battle was brewing such as Mordor had not seen for centuries. Fléin, at the great gates of the old stone building, peered out at the scene, astonished at the speed with which the world was mobilising itself.

A mob of students stood on one side, murmuring so that though no voice was discernible, the overall effect was like the humming of either a few million ordinary bees, or one really, really big one, whichever analogy you prefer.

And in the centre of the mob stood Anakron. Fléin looked around, but could see no other members of the Offending Party on the field yet, though he could easily have missed somebody in the thousands massed there. He noticed, however, that Ketchupkin, along with the other four Dwarves, numbered themselves amongst the Parents. They looked quite out of place, kitted in mail, axes in hand, amongst the parents.

The Parents, Fléin noted, seemed a lot better organised than Anakron. They stood in ordered ranks, and many bore banners. "A Slan Comes!" some claimed. Others displayed anger at Anakron and the sybaritic lifestyle students were offered. And also - Fléin reflected that their faces did not bear the downtrodden look typical of Mordorians. These were an invading force.

Fléin walked out and drew his axe. Few noticed the Dwarf joining the Parents, but Fléin noted Anakron's eyes following him. The glare from his eyes near paralysed the Dwarf, but he tore himself away from their gaze and joined Ketchupkin, who nodded.

Amongst the parents, Fléin noted that, as well as being prepared, they actually bore many weapons. Staffs, sticks and everyday household objects seemed prominent. Several people has soap spears for some reason. Women carried kitchen knives, men held D.I.Y tools.

Fléin peels his eyes away from the arms of his allies to note Anakron stepping forward and advancing towards the parents. A man had also peeled himself off from the Parents, and advanced towards Anakron. They met in between the two armies.

Anakron ignored the Parent and turned to face Fléin. "Fléin!" he cried across the field. "Do not involve yourself. You know not what happens."

Thousands of eyes turned on the Dwarf. "I saw you! I saw you murder A Slan! I saw you slaughter him!" the Dwarf bellowed back.

An uproar ensued. Anakron's reply was lost in the Parents' stamping their spears and roaring insults at the dark figure before them. Their leader appealed for calm, but the insults continued to flow for minutes. Anakron merely laughed.

Finally, they died down, and Anakron turned to face Fléin once more. "You have chosen. But I have slain A Slan, and my victory is certain."

At this, the ranks of the parents could hold back no more. As one, they charged forward. The Students in turn rushed forward, unruly as ever.

Anakron struck down the Parental Leader, knocking him to the ground. Then, he raised his staff, and for all the noise of screaming thousands, Fléin could hear him as clear as riverwater. "Anakronism Commence!" he yelled.

The ground all around Anakron erupted. All around him, the fell creatures Fléin had seen on the night of A Slan's cold-blooded murder appeared, howling and drooling. The Students cheered.

Anakron bashed his staff again. There was a flash of light, and several winged Balrogs appeared, again accompanied by cheers.

A final slamming of the staff into the ground, and teachers and professors came into being.

All the time, they were getting closer and closer as Fléin rushed on. Each banging of the staff brought his heart closer and closer to failure: he didn't even know what he was fighting for. What was A Slan? But momentum carried him forwards, and the knowledge that, if he should do anything so foolish as to doubt himself, he would be crushed by the oncoming hoards behind.

With a yell of anticipation, fear, apprehension and a myriad emotions before unfelt, Fléin hit the ranks of those who would stand against him and A Slan.

[Celuien]

Panakeia sat in her room, puzzling over the meaning of the visit from A Slan's followers. Who or what A Slan was, and what the battle against Anakron meant (although she could easily understand why someone would want to fight the aggravating Grand Anakronist) were all problems beyond her knowledge. One question was most important to her, however; the question of how all of this would affect her ability to leave Mordor. If Anakron turned out victorious, things would be unchanged. Her fate would still depend on his judgment. But if Anakron fell, what would this Slan do? Panakeia wasn't sure she wanted to find out, although she did find herself wondering which side was in the right and wishing she could join the right side. It seemed that her conscience was still at work.

A din of shouts drifted through the air to disturb Panakeia's concentration. Stupid sports fans. I thought I took care of them earlier. She looked out the window. Indeed, the football field was deserted. The noise came from a more distant location. Listening more intently, she realized that the sounds were different. The football fans had been rowdy and excited. These voices were angry. Panakeia couldn't see where the noise was coming from, so she climbed to the roof of the building to gain a better vantage point.

Off in the distance, Panakeia saw two vast opposing crowds, their banners flying in the wind. The banners were too far away for her to read, but she thought she heard the words "A Slan" amidst the roar. And she was almost certain she spotted Anakron's billowing robes at the head of one of the groups. The battle had begun before Anakron could give his decision to the Offending Party. Panakeia cried aloud, "No! It's too soon" and ran back to her room at top speed. She bolted the door behind her and pushed Freud's couch against it to make sure no emissaries from A Slan could enter uninvited. Then she pulled the curtains shut and hid in her bed, covers pulled tightly around her ears. She was going to do her best to stay out of the whole mess.

[the guy who be short]

Battle roared. Really, it roared. Like a lion, but a thousand times louder, and another thousand times more intense.

The Parents were not faring well, though Fléin himself had slain many of the dark creatures arrayed against them. With his fellow Dwarves, he had formed a ferocious little party that acted as a vanguard and cut down all those in their way.

Replicating this, but on a much larger scale, was Anakron, surrounded by a guard of Balrogs, bulldozing through the centre of the Parents' Army. Every now and then, a Balrog would try jump, trying to fly, and fail; the effect would have been comical if dozens had not been burnt by their flames as they fell to the ground.

Fléin continued hacking in front of him, keeping an eye on how Ketchupkin was doing. Though he could not see past the steam and smoke of the Balrogs, he knew that the outpost of Parents on the far side of the field would be surrounded. He knew this because he was on the outpost on the near side of the battlefield, and was being surrounded. Anakron's attack on the centre had resulted in the Parental Army assuming a very weak concave shape, the ends of which were now being brutally assailed.

Swish! A flash of silver, and Fléin felt metal connect with his unmailed legs. Fortunately the Student had missed his knee, finding only his shin. Fléin kicked him off and swung his axe, but he ran back in fear, only to be replaced by more.

To his left, he saw a Dwarf - not Ketchupkin - fall. This was not going at all as planned. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he tried to move over to help, but it was too late to do anything but avenge his or her death.

There was a great cheering from the opposition, and Fléin realised that the bulk of the Parent's army was routing, fleeing from the wanton destruction that is war. He had no option but to turn himself, or face the enemy alone. Much as he rued it, he too ran back, ignoring his leg.

Anakron's forces cheered louder; a great cry went up, though Fléin wasn't quite sure what they said. All he knew was that all hope was gone. All around him he saw nothing but men and women running with tears running down their faces, knives and spears forgotten, weeping for the Fall of A Slan and their own fate.

And as the Students, with all their foul allies, came at last to end it all, when hope was lost, when all thought of anything but despair had left the stout heart of even the Dwarves, the Heavens opened and light bathed them all. There was a tremendous roar, not of war this time, but of a lion, and His noise was greater than all the racket of war and Men and beast alike.

In the centre of the field, a great light announced the Return of the Antilion. Another roar, and dryads, Pandas, beavers, lemmings, Roggie, hundreds of beasts loyal to A Slan rushed out and pushed into the armies of Anakron.
Those who were fleeing turrned and drove into the enemy, who recoiled; many turned themselves.

But Anakron grabbed his staff in both hands and stamped ferociously in the middle of the field. Fire and devilry erupted around him one again.

And in retaliation, A Slan roared, and yet more beasts and men emerged, seemingly from nowhere. Stamp and roar, stamp and roar.

Fléin rushed on, not knowing what was going to happen, nor whose force would be greater. All he knew was that he must fight on, he must fight against those who murdered cruelly, he must fight for Good. That was what this was. An ideological battle. And he was on the right side.

Then he felt his body bathed in light, and his limbs dropped like lead to his side. Struggle as he might, he was unable to move! This would be the death of him!

But... the enemy, too, were frozen. Fléin directed his eyes in puzzlement first from A Slan and then to Anakron. The Antilion was frozen in midroar, his canines bared at Anakron. Anakron, in his turn, was frozen slamming his staff into the ground. The battlefield was a tableau. Eyes roamed everywhere, seeking explanation.

Then there was a great bleating from above, and a voice boomed in Fléin's head, and in all the heads of those arrayed there.

"Now, children, you know you shouldn't be fighting! Baa!"

[the phantom]

Mardil paced from wall to wall in his jail cell. It was small- three steps, turn, three steps, turn. A psychologist was supposed to arrive at 4:00 to give him his psych eval, and Mardil was anxious to get it over with. A lone orc stood outside his cell sharpening a knife.

"What time is it?" Mardil asked.

"You still have another ten minutes to wait," grunted the orc.

Mardil closed his eyes and leaned against the wall with a groan. Time was barely moving.

"Don't go groaning and moaning," said the orc. "You could've had this taken care of hours ago if you would've just left with Anakron. I can't figure why in the world you want to stay here in jail."

"I have my reasons," said Mardil. Mardil sat down on the cell's little cot and began to polish his favorite knife, though it didn't really need it.

"I'm going to get a drink. I'll be back," said the orc. Mardil ignored him and continued polishing his knife.

Right after the orc left, there was a sudden popping sound and Mardil found that there was someone else in the cell. He looked up, and standing right in front of him was the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, Denethor IV.

"Father?!"

"Hello, Mardil," said Denethor, sitting down beside Mardil on the cot.

"But how-"

"How am I here? Oh, it's rather simple. There's some sort of parent versus children battle going on here, and so all parents of residents of Mordor can pop in to see their children, so long as they intend on fighting with them a bit, or at least criticizing them."

"So you're here to criticize me?" asked Mardil.

"Yes, yes, I have to. It's part of the rules." Denthor smiled at his son. "But before I criticize, let me just say that I'm very glad to see you," he said, putting his arm around Mardil's shoulders. But as he did this, he began to fade. "Oops," he said, withdrawing his arm. "I must be getting too nice. Anakron told me if the parents and their offspring got along too well the parent would disappear back out of Mordor."

"All right. Well, what do you have to say, father. I haven't got long until my psych eval."

"Yes, I know. Well, as far as criticism- what is with you and the ladies?" asked Denethor.

"What do you mean?" returned Mardil. "I thought I was rather good with them. I mean, did you see on television how I got that werewolf book away from that Fea girl? Now that was a nice bit-"

"I wouldn't call that nice at all!" scowled Denethor. "Sure you got the book, but you led that poor girl on. I'm sure after a couple of weeks with no calls from you, she's beginning to wonder if you really meant everything you said."

"She doesn't matter. She's not even from this world. I mean- she's not real," argued Mardil, turning away from his father.

"And what about that TA?" continued Denethor. "You really did a number on her, just to get an A in a class!"

"She'll get over it, mumbled Mardil.

"So that makes it all right?" asked Denethor.

"Why do you care?" asked Mardil, annoyed.

"Why don't you?" countered Denethor.

"Why should I?" shot back Mardil.

"You used to," answered Denethor. "Mardil wasn't cruel."

"He is now," said Mardil, now thoroughly over his initial happiness at seeing his father.

"You mean you are- not Mardil," Denethor said, poking Mardil in the chest.

"I thought I was Mardil."

"Oh no you're not. You're a bitter, angry young man," said Denethor, poking Mardil in the chest again.

"I think I have the right to be," argued Mardil.

"Not anymore, you don't." Denethor stood and spread his arms wide. "You're about to leave Mordor! You're about to pick up your life again! You'll be able to see your friends and family again- everything and everyone you love!"

"Not everyone," said Mardil through gritted teeth, but his father didn't hear him.

"You should be acting like Mardil II, the future Steward of Gondor!" declared Denethor, "Or possibly the future you-know-what," he added with a smile. "But enough criticism. You were always a good lad. I know once you get back you'll rectify your behavior. But now, we have business to discuss. Everything is prepared. I have a couple thousand men hidden up on the south side of the valley, less than a ten minute march from here. If something goes wrong and they aren't letting you out of Mordor, I'll be there with my men to cover your escape. Now, your message said you already had your escape route planned?"

"Yes, father," said Mardil confidently. "I'm sure that Anakron already told you that I have access to all of Khamul's power, henchmen, and information, right? Well, this cell that I'm in- one of Khamul's top men was in here once, and Khamul had him snatched from out of here by means of a tunnel. The authorities never found it, so it's still here, and I know how to get down into it. The other end is in a park south of the main gate, right next to the border wall. They would've tunneled out of Mordor, but there's some sort of spell that keeps anyone from doing that along the wall. But that doesn't matter. If I can get to the gate, you and your men can take the gate quite easily."

"Yes, indeed. So, it's all set?"

"I believe so."

"Good. I'll see you soon." Denenthor disappeared with a pop.

"What was that noise?" asked the orc guard as he came in the door from the hall with a cup of coffee.

"Oh, nothing," said Mardil.

An orc entered and tapped the orc guard on the shoulder. "The psychologist is here."

[Celuien]

Noise from the battle continued to wash over the dormitory, and Panakeia remained firmly ensconced in her fortress of blankets. She was beginning to think that she would escape the fighting when a sharp rapping at the door made her heart skip a few beats. Panakeia stayed quiet and held her breath, determined to stand by the notion that if you ignore a problem long enough, it will go away. The knocking kept coming; her caller was persistent. But Panakeia still failed to respond. Finally, the knocking ceased. Panakeia started to breathe again, and a loud crash announced that her door and the couch had been pushed inward.

Three pairs of feet padded over the floor. Panakeia's heart sank. A Slan's messengers appeared to have returned. Maybe they wouldn't notice the shaking lump of fabric on the bed. No such luck. The footsteps drew nearer. Panakeia's blanket was pulled off of her head. She turned her face to the pillow and shut her eyes.

"Jim! Here she is! You no-good, scheming, rotten..."

"Stop it, Bones."

Panakeia's head spun around. Instead of A Slan's messengers, she saw Kirk, Dr. McBones, and Spockú of the formerly glorious brows. Panakeia was glad to see that he had the good sense to remove the brow Valde left behind. His face was even now, stubbly fragments of eyebrow just starting to form a scanty 'V" on his forehead.

"Captain! What are you doing here?" Panakeia cried. His toupee was carefully reattached to his head. Her package had evidently been delivered.

"The messengers came to us. They said there is trouble here. And that you follow me. We are here to solve the problem. Follow me."

"Wait. Are you with Anakron or A Slan?" Panakeia didn't want to get herself into trouble.

The Captain stood tall. "We represent the United Federation of Drekkies. I will always be on the right side. Come on!" He pulled Panakeia to her feet. "We're going to fight." And irresistibly, Panakeia was pulled out of her room in the direction of the raging battle. So much for neutrality, she thought.

Spockú spoke. "Captain, may I remind you that any interference in this matter is in direct violation of regulations? As well, may I remind you that you already have a considerable number of outstanding violations on record?"

"Regulations? Is that all that matters? We may violate a few orders, but I'm not going to stand by while the world is destroyed."

Dr. McBones said, "That's right. You cold hearted..."

He was interuppted by Spockú. "Really. You must learn to control your emotions, Doctor."

Dr. McBones' face turned beet red and he said something in reply, but it was drowned out by the noise of the battle, the brink of which they now stood on.

Panakeia moaned. "Please. I know that you have to do something, but can't you just leave me out of it? I'm no fighter. I'd be no help." She looked pleadingly at Kirk, but he ignored her.

"That's what we'll do," Kirk said. "We'll contact the ship and tell them to destroy the planet unless they stop fighting."

McBones and Spockú exchanged glances over Kirk's head. They stepped back a few feet.

"Do you think we should tell him?" whispered McBones.

"I see no logical alternative," Spockú replied.

They came back to Kirk. "Jim," McBones said, "Jim, there's something we have to tell you."

"What is it?"

"There is no ship, Captain."

Kirk's stared, an expression of despair on his face. "No ship? What do you mean?"

"We didn't have the heart to tell you before, Jim. There isn't a ship. There never was. Just a few cardboard sets in a fantasy world."

"No ship?" The look of grief on Kirk's face was beyond description.

"No. No ship."

That was enough. Kirk turned and ran off into some tall weeds at the edge of the battle, all the while sobbing, "No ship. No ship." McBones and Spockú set off in pursuit, leaving Panakeia behind.

Oh, what a bother! Panakeia ran after them, hoping she could help when they caught up to the Captain. She felt terribly sorry for him. And assisting the broken-hearted Captain would keep her away from the battle. She vanished into the weeds and leapt over a pile of discarded fast-food wrappers.

Suddenly, in a flash of light, time froze. Panakeia was suspended in mid-leap.

A disembodied voice echoed over the land. "Now, children, you know you shouldn't be fighting! Baa!"

"Illamatar!" Panakeia exclaimed. Or would have exclaimed had her mouth not been frozen.

"Yes, children. You shouldn't be fighting. Nor should you, parents. You, of all people, should know better. We just can't have this. I am very disappointed in you. All of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Baa!" There was another flash of light and a rumbling as the ground opened. Anakron's beasts vanished under the earth. Another flash of light transformed all of the weapons on the field into bouquets of posies. "Now I want all of you to behave yourselves. Play nicely with each other. Don't make me come back and give you another time-out. Baa!" The blinding light vanished, time unfroze, and Panakeia landed on the ground with a thud. She was torn between running to see what would become of the battle and continuing her search for the Captain. The decision was made for her by the reappearance of the Captain and his two friends. To Panakeia's amazement, Spockú and McBones were walking together, chatting and laughing.

"How could I have ever been so cruel to you? I can't believe it."

Even Spockú was grinning. "No, you weren't that bad. It was my fault for being stubborn." Both laughed and patted each other on the back.

If Illamatar's pronouncement had such an effect on the dueling pseudo-shipmates, what had it done to the battle? Panakeia raced to find out. She gazed out over the field and rejoiced.

Parents and children stood together, hugging, laughing and crying at the same time. They finally understood each other. For the time being. Flowers were tossed up in the air with the general air of good cheer.

But what of Anakron and A Slan? Panakeia searched for them in the crowd. Then she spotted them at the edge of the crowd, not far from where she stood.

"Um, sorry about all that, old chum," said Anakron. "About killing you before, I mean. And everything else. It was just a misunderstanding. Do you think you can forget about it?"

The Antilion looked at Anakron, wisdom and forgiveness in his kind eyes. "Of course I can. It has already been forgiven. But you must reform and learn patience, kindness and understanding."

Panakeia hurried away, not wanting to see the rest of the scene. She thought it was better to let Anakron and A Slan work out their problems alone.

She came up to the Captain. "Well, it seems that everything is going to end happily."

"Of course it is," he replied, a beatific smile on his face. "I came to help, didn't I?"

Panakeia decided to let him keep his dream.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had followed the massive foot- and knuckle-prints that Queen Quon had made until at last she spotted the creature on the horizon. Apparently she had stopped and sat on the ground to reunite with her ferrety lover. Cautiously, Wilhelmina came closer, fearing that Queen Quon would detect her presence and get angry, but all of the ape’s attentions were focused on Mr. Swanky. She watched Queen Quon hold the ferret up to her face and pat him on the head ever so gently with a finger that could bend an iron bar. She couldn’t bear to watch this.

“Hey! Queen Quon!” she shouted. The ape grunted and stood up, turning around to glower at her. Wilhelmina cleared her throat and mustered her courage. “Please give me my ferret back,” she asked boldly.

Queen Quon made a sound that had the same attitude as someone sassily saying, “In your dreams.”

“He doesn’t belong out here!” she said. Queen Quon cocked her head to the side. “You see, if you give Mr. Swanky back to me, he’ll have the chance to get out of Mordor! Don’t you want what’s best for him? Don’t they say ‘If you love someone, set them free?’” Wilhelmina had never actually believed in that dumb old romantic cliché, but it sounded convincing enough.

Queen Quon scratched her head thoughtfully. She looked sadly from Mr. Swanky to Wilhelmina and back. Finally, and with great deliberation, she held the ferret out to the old woman.

“Thank you, Queen Quon,” Wilhelmina said happily. “We won’t forget you. In fact, we’ll send you a postcard if we get back to Minas Tirith.”

Suddenly she found herself up in the air, and then on Queen Quon’s upper back. The ape slowly started walking on her knuckles; Wilhelmina grabbed onto the fur so she and Mr. Swanky wouldn’t fall off. Queen Quon then took off at a run towards the university.

“Oh!” she exclaimed to Mr. Swanky. “Queen Quon’s a celebrity, right? And you were the most important thing to her, yes? Maybe we will get out of here, after all! I hope Anakron’s in a good mood…”

[Kath]

Sai arrived at the post-battle site and looked around in shock. She’d heard the noise through the walls while she had been talking to Lucy but hadn’t bothered going to have a look, as the sounds of screaming and fighting didn’t usually mean something good was happening. Now though she could see a total lack of war, or even of good-natured arguing, which she was sure must be unheard of in the real world as well as Mordor! As she watched the parents began to disappear, since there was no fighting they were no longer anakronisms.

“Goodbye darling! We’ll see you soon.”

She turned as she heard her mother’s voice, and saw both her parents standing behind her. She hugged them quickly just before they disappeared, and then made her way toward the middle of the battlefield. She could see Anakron and A Slan talking, and kept a respectful distance from them. As she waited a small figure appeared next to her in the crowd, and she looked down to see Fléin. He looked tired, and more than a little battle-weary, but he was smiling at the sight before them.

Sai found herself smiling with him. She had now completed all the tasks Anakron had set, and simply had to wait to find out whether she had done well enough to get out of Mordor. She thought that perhaps she should be feeling more anxious than she did right now, but the calm atmosphere that seemed to be almost tangible was keeping such concerns at bay. Eventually Anakron and A Slan finished their quiet conversation, and Sai and Fléin moved forwards, noting the remaining members of the Offending Party approaching in the distance, to find out whether Mordor was soon to be just a memory.

[the phantom]

Mardil raised an eyebrow as the psychologist entered his cell and sat in a chair across from his cot. She was in her forties, heavy set, carried a clipboard and a briefcase, and looked at him as if he was a sad, hopeless case.

"Well, well, who do we have here," she said, drawing a folder out of the briefcase. "Mardil II. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Mardil, staring at the wall.

"All right. First, my name is Doctor Freudina, but you can just call me Doc if you want. Okay... it says here that you were cleared by Judge Caan Lupine of all charges surrounding the death of Dr. Hookbill, is that correct?"

"Yes. He was sympathetic to my plight," answered Mardil.

"Then why are you still in jail?" she asked.

"Because I want to stay here for a bit."

"Ah, I see," said Freudina with a knowing look. "Would you say that you feel safe here?"

"Um, I suppose."

"Good...good..."

"Doc- what are you writing?" asked Mardil, trying to look over the clipboard and read her writing upside down.

"Oh nothing, don't you worry," she answered as she finished. "Now, it says here that you were cleared of all charges due to 'temporary insanity', is that right?"

"Well, yes and no," answered Mardil. "I wasn't exactly 'insane', it was a bit different than that. You see, we didn't know what to classify it as for legal purposes, so we just put it under the term 'temporary insanity', but it was actually more like I wasn't myself- or was someone else, or something else... or, at least altered anyway..." Mardil stuttered to a stop, realizing how foolish he was sounding. Doctor Freudina's hand was a blur as she wrote line after line in her notebook.

"So," began the Doctor, "Would you say you were a 'different person' when the attack occurred."

"Yes," said Mardil. "No!" he added quickly. "Actually, no. Not at all."

"Yes and no- very interesting," said Freudina as she scribbled more notes.

"No no, you see I wasn't a different person," said Mardil, wishing she would stop writing, "I was a werewolf."

Freudina stopped writing and looked up at Mardil. "You were a what?"

"A werewolf," said Mardil, wishing that he had never mentioned it.

"I see," said Freudina as she once again began writing. "And how often do you believe that you are a werewolf?"

"Well, never. I have a potion to control it, you see. But I hadn't taken it that day because it wasn't night, but I started changing anyway because I was up in the Tower of the Moon."

"Wow. You seem to have this whole werewolf story worked out," said Freudina, who clearly did not believe Mardil and seemed fascinated by his level of delusion.

"It's not a story!" shouted Mardil. "It happened two years after I got here. There are werewolves in a couple places in Mordor, because in the future someone assigned werewolf games to Mordor. This one particularly nasty wolf named the phantom bit me one night, and so I started turning into a wolf. But I managed to get a potion from this fellow named Severus that kept me from turning. When I leave Mordor the curse should wear off because I wasn't bitten by a Middle Earth werewolf- I was bitten by an anachronism werewolf."

The quicker Mardil spoke the quicker Doctor Freudina wrote. She had already started on her third page when Mardil stopped talking.

"So," she said, "You are a werewolf, but will cease to be one when you leave Mordor. Very interesting. Do you like being a werewolf?"

"No, of course not!"

"So you didn't enjoy throwing Doctor Hookbill to his death?" inquired Freudina.

"Well, at the time I did, but it wasn't me," answered Mardil.

"Then who was it?"

"The werewolf, of course!" snorted Mardil.

"And who is the werewolf?"

"Well... me...I guess."

"But you said it wasn't you," said Freudina.

"It wasn't!" insisted Mardil. "I mean- it wasn't me me. It was... it me... you know..."

Freudina took out a red pen and wrote something. As she wrote, Mardil heard her murmur "multiple personalities" and "delusional".

"Look," said Mardil crossly, "Can we stop talking about the Doctor Hookbill incident."

"Certainly, Mardil. Let's talk a bit about you. Are your parents together?"

"Yes."

"Do you have siblings?"

"A younger brother and sister."

"What is your father's name?"

"Denethor IV."

"And what is it that he does- what is his job?"

"Um, well, he's the Steward of Gondor."

Doctor Freudina blinked heavily and nodded. "Okay, then. Steward of Gondor," she said as she got out her red pen again.

"He is the Steward!" said Mardil angrily.

"Whatever you say," Freudina responded with a patronizing smile. "Very delusional" she mumbled as she wrote in red pen.

"Well, let's stop talking about your family. Let's talk about why you're here in Mordor. Why are you here?"

"Because the King hates me," said Mardil, clenching his fists.

"Problems with authority" muttered Freudina as she wrote in red pen again.

"Seriously, the King hates me! The Kings and Stewards have been rivals for a couple generations- you know that! Anyway, in my first year at Minas Tirith University, the King had me tossed into Mordor though I had not spoken an anachronism!"

"And why did he do that?" asked Freudina.

"He caught me and his daughter making out in one of the palace fountains," said Mardil, staring at the floor.

"Oh- so you were 'making out' with the King's only child, the beautiful Morwen? How interesting. Was it just a fling?"

Surprisingly, Mardil did not respond negatively to the Doctor's obvious disbelief. Instead, he continued staring at the floor and said "No."

"All right," said Freudina. "Now I want to know if-"

"Get out," said Mardil.

"Excuse me?"

"Leave. I'm not talking to you anymore. Write whatever you want to write in that stupid notebook of yours. This psych eval is over." Mardil looked up into her eyes, drew one of his knives, and twirled it meaningfully.

"Oh, goodness, yes, yes, I was just on my way out. Look at the time!" said Freudina as she snatched her briefcase and scampered out of the cell.

Mardil stood up and slammed the door after her.

[Durelin]

“I’m picturing…a raging sea, tormented by a storm that only Ilúvatar himself could spare anyone from. It is a very vivid picture that I have been shaping in my mind since my childhood, so please don’t ruin it.”

Valde was painting a word picture for all to imagine, having obviously and officially commandeered the class. And as easy as it may have been, he was extremely pleased with himself, feeling a natural pride spring up in him stronger than ever, finding himself in what felt to be his rightful place: holding a script – containing great words of tragedy, nonetheless – and telling people what to do. Six people now sat in the desks before him, though the majority of them seemed to find no reason to really listen to him. Perhaps they all knew that doom was indeed impending in its nature, and had seen the signs as if they had been literal meteors falling out of the sky. Perhaps they were. Valde was too busy directing, as well as maintaining his role as Lead Tragic Actor, to notice anything of that sort.

But he was not planning to cast himself as King Fëar, as most expected, for in his title of Lead Tragic Actor, there was nothing about old men, no matter how tragic they were. His dashing looks, and naturally brooding appearance could not be disguised by powder, whigs, or any kind of masking materials that would destroy any of his expectations that people would remember his face. He had considered adjusting the play so that King Fëar was not at all old, but the connotations brought even Valde’s mind to shame, if he was to avoid altering the story completely. And that just was not possible at this point. He knew they did not have much time; whether or not the impending doom was obvious to him, he realized that time was indeed scarce, though he knew not why. Everyone had most of their lines memorized, which were quite a large number, considering the five-act play was originally divided among four players.

“Actually,” piped up the troll professor, his voice cracking slightly as he raised a quivering hand, “I was picturing more of a “Singing in the Rain” feel…only, with a touch of deeply tragic madness.”

Valde turned a sharp gaze to the professor, who immediately lowered his hand. It was amazing that the man’s eyebrows could tame the wildest troll professor, even one with a fashion sense even more trollish than the majority of trolls. Perhaps it was due to the unfortunately non-trademarkéd v-shape, which sent messages of violence and viciousness and vindictiveness, and, possibly the most intimidating of all, vanity.

“I just thought you might want to know…” the professor stuttered out.

“I’m sure you also had a very clear image of what the billboards would look like, too. But we’re not going with a commercially gratifying musical. We’re waging war against the capitalist shadow that has fallen upon this land.”

Valde’s eyes scanned the room, and came to lie on the mousey girl. Only she watched him intently, and he could only stare back for a moment, unblinkingly, his lip twitching, trying to hold back a sneer. He was not sure if her enraptured attention was good or not. Quickly, he decided that he simply did not care, and moved on.

“Now, father, your lines?”

And so the class proceeded, until Valde had performed the ritualistic pulling out of the hair attempt many times over, until the shaggy black mass looked violently disheveled, his purposely ill-kempt sideburns and eyebrows only adding to the wildness of his look. It seemed he had decided to go with a look more akin to that of a frustrated composer, who, feeling under appreciated and meaningless, doubting his existence and finding his mortality shockingly real, sold his soul to the Dark Lord. This was why, possibly, he so missed the olden days in which Mordor had a much more corporeal demon to deal with, no matter how often he existed without a body.

It was a slow and steady proceeding, and they worked their way practically a line at a time, Valde constantly readjusting and questioning, snapping at those who failed to carry out his instructions properly, and often snarling angrily when he realized that even he did not like what he had only a moment before stated was his refined vision. He was discovering that perhaps his envisioning had been rather narrow-minded, limiting all the roles to being played by none other than he himself.

The final eruption came when he determined that his mother playing the Fool was indeed rather fake, no matter how much he wanted to think that it was a realistic role for her. “Grace and a cod-piece!” he bellowed, “that’s a wise man and a fool!” He apparently was getting sick of her forgetting her lines, he himself forgetting that she had only started memorizing them since her arrival.

His mother sighed. “Please, dear, may I simply read them for now?”

“No! You are the Fool! How hard can it be?”

The woman slapped a hand to her face, and her husband followed suit. “We have failed him, haven’t we, my dear?” Valde’s father asked, his voice filled with a sadness that would echo through any void, or through eternity itself, never to be silenced. Valde eyed them angrily, though the inquisitiveness was clear in his gaze.

“What is this nonsense? Let’s get a move on…”

“No, son, we must tell you something,” his father began grimly, his voice firm.

“What now? Do hurry it up…” Valde tried to maintain the sharp annoyance in his voice, but he was faltering. The seriousness in his father’s voice, and the pain and severity in both his parents’ eyes told him something was not right. He now had to admit, perhaps for the first time, that he had inherited his natural tragic tendencies from someone, and it had surely been these two. The emotions that warred within them were clear in their expressions, the simply way that held themselves, and allowed their eyes to convey more than any mere words would, was artistry. Valde was almost troubled enough to have to fight back a tear, but held any blatant sorrow at bay with a furrow of his brow.

“Son…this might be very hard for you…” his mother talked slowly, deep concern in her voice. She approached him, holding out a hand to take hold of his and squeeze it tight, looking up into his eyes. Tears had begun forming in small pools, cupped in her eyelids. Blinking, she turned away, seemingly ashamed. Valde looked on, as his father took several steps forward as well.

“My boy…I’m afraid…” he choked, but pushed himself on, forcing the words out slowly and steadily, his voice wavering only slightly as he tried to keep his head held high, gripping his hands tightly in two fists which he held at his side to steady him. “It is Act V, Scene III, and you have failed to produce catharsis.”

A poisonous ooze of fear ran up his stomach and into his throat, and Valde’s hands shot up to clutch it as if he were choking on the taste of what could only be failure. Supreme and utter failure, for the Lead Tragic Actor, playwright, and amateur director. He, Valde Delego, had failed? His production of King Fëar, before it could even endure one run through of the entire script, had failed? Nay, not just that production: the production, the play, the walking shadow. He, the poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, had finally come to Act V, Scene III, that final scene, that fateful scene, by which all tragedies fates’ are sealed. He felt cut short, but then, it was too late. He had his chance, he had his hour, and he had failed. He would be heard no more, left to be naught more than a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Turning away from his parents, and shrugging off even his mother’s loving touch, Valde began to trudge slowly toward stage right, to make his final exit. But suddenly, applause broke out, and, whirling on his heel, his long coat swirling behind him, he returned his gaze across the classroom that had for a brief time become his stage, and, strangely, found hundreds – no, thousands – of faces staring back at him. The others in the room began to gather down stage from him, in front of the desks, facing out to the audience. Clasping hands, they took a bow. Valde stood frozen in shock, even as they beckoned to him to join them.

“But…” he stammered, “If it is over, why are they cheering?”

His father laughed at him over the noise of the crowd. “Because they have been entertained! You could surely say they are full of sound and fury,” he remarked, gesturing out to the audience, “but signifying nothing? I am no so sure…”

Valde’s lips curled into a small smile, and he made his way up to join his fellow players. They took another bow, before they broke away, leaving Valde standing alone to take a few bows by himself. Finally, on the very last flourishing bow, his face cracked into a full smile, even showing teeth, until the flash of a motionless capturing kamura caused him momentarily blindness, and he stumbled off backstage. There, awaiting him, he found no one. No one with flowers, no one even to remove his makeup or help him with his costume. But then, looking down, he realized that there had been no transformation in this performance. He had remained himself throughout the entirety of it. Perhaps Shakespeardil was right… he considered momentarily, but soon his mind was busied with other things.

He hurriedly searched around backstage, but could find no one, not even his parents. Exiting through a back door, he found himself back in the hallway of the Univeristy of Mordor, and reality suddenly came crashing down. Act V, Scene III was over. The applause of the crowd had made him forget what that meant. Time was up. The Anakron… Had he passed his test? Had he passed any of his test? Had he even been tested? Or had he been forgotten? After all, he had failed to produce catharsis.

He had also failed to secure a pair of eyebrows legally. He had failed to make his way through Lûndûn in the proper amount of time. He had lost his role in Spamlet. He had failed to make it to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort on his own, even with the help of Mr. T. He was almost certain he had failed his ‘psych eval’ due to the simple fact that he had altogether blown it off. And his class… His life was but a tale of failure, and woe was his constant state because of that. If only his parents, if only the Grand Anakronist, if only Mordor, and if only the world knew that, then perhaps his failures would not cause him to…fail. Where was there for him to go, when he was a failure even once assigned to Mordor?

“Where?” he shouted to no one but the wind. He would find Anakron, and demand an answer from him. He cared not what it was; he already expected to find himself cast aside, forgotten, as the failure, the loser of the game. It was fun while it lasted. And so he raged on.

“Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, shall I pay mind!
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
Thou gods who hath treated me as they play thing!
Cast me aside, used; I care not!
Assigneth me – no, by my right,
By the gnarled marrow of my forefathers,
I assigneth mineself…to Mordor!”

~*Exeunt, with much credit owed to Shakespeardil*~

[littlemanpoet]

The tableau was the remains of the battlefield, hemmed in on north, east, and south by the sheer cliffs of the Ephel Duath. To the west was the Gate that led to Ithilien. It was closed. Beneath the cliffs to the east stood the former tower of Minas Ithil, Morgul, now somehow Cirith Ungol, though why in the Dweomer it should be named for a spider was beyond Anakron. He and A Slan met in the middle of the battlefield, which had once been a haven, if have one could call it, for poisonous death-flowers. All the flowers that had grown there were now dead themselves. Anakron and A Slan shook hand to paw.

They were distracted by the repeated chuff of an oversized bug that looked not unlike a dragonfly. It was shiny yellow, and had antennae sticking out from its top, which added to the effect. Both armies backed away from the spot where it was coming down with a great wind of choking dust and now deafening chuff of propellers. It landed, and out popped Karís Mâtiktwít, a big grin on his face and his overly whitened teeth gleaming.

"That was excellent! Incredible! Fantabulous! The best take we've ever had! What a reality show! This'll get better ratings than anything we've done yet!"

"So you got it all?" Anakron asked.

"Yes! Everything! Even the voice of Illamatar! Which I must say," Karis grinned, "was an ingenious idea. You really should consider a career in show business, Anakron. You certainly have that gift, that élan, that creative spark for just the right touch."

"I thought it rather weak myself," Anakron replied, "a deus ex machina if ever there was one."

"Welllllll, it was your idea, Anakron." Karis pointed a reprimanding finger at him.

"Little matter if it was or not," Anakron retorted, "as long as those Trolls are safely in my bank account?"

"Yes, all three million of them."

"Good. After all, I need to have something to fall back on when I retire from this < ahem > less than advantageous profession."

"Less than advantageous!" Karis cried. "Such power! Such notoriety!"

"I was referring to the more, shall we say, enslaving aspects of it, such as being forced into the position by a pair of bellicose and overwheening wizards."

"Well, all's well as ends in great tv ratings!" Karis said, and marched off, giving orders to his staff of lisping orcs.

"So," said A Slan, "you really are just a marionette, as you say, in this whole thing." Anakron merely nodded. "And there are two wizards who control this..." A Slan looked around "...place?"

"So it is."

"And these anakronisms, as you call them, come from your future, and in that future I have already appeared in this world?"

"Well, there is a rumor that this entire situation is a feigned history, and even so there is much debate as to whether you actually did - or will - appear as that which you claim to be, and whether you actually did what you claimed to have done. But for all intents and purposes, it is as you say."

"Well, being who I am," said A Slan, "I'll take it that I will have been here, and therefore there is no more that I need to do here. I'll be off now! And sorry for the little misunderstanding!" There is some debate as to what happened next. Some say that A Slan roared, and the power of his roar made the air shake, and into that shaken air he disapparated to yet another dimension. Others say that Anakron's raised staff, and the cat's 'meower' conveyed the Dweomer, and he thus sent A Slan packing. Be as it may, A Slan was no more to be seen, and this feigned history, if it is that, continued on with no more A Slan to confuse the bliddy issue. (Nevertheless, it was said that in later years, two brothers and two sisters led a rebellion and took over Cair Pairadocks, under the banner of A Slan, and ruled there in pieces until they left as mysteriously as they came.)

"And now!" cried Anakron. "The fates of the Offending Party has been determined! As soon as arrangements for presentations have been made, the determinations shall be announced!"

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Valde Delego! Come forth!" cried Anakron Istkon Vayor.

The dour personage stepped out of the crowd, hat for once in hand. His tall and lanky frame was hunched at the shoulders, and his head drooped.

"How do you think you fared, Valde Delego?" Anakron asked.

"Well to be honest, milord, I think I failed."

"Why do you think so?"

"I never made it to my psychological evaluation, milord."

"That did not help you, I grant it."

"What do you think was your greatest moment?"

"It is hard to say for certain, milord, but being on stage in the classroom, as Lead Tragic Actor."

"Indeed. I will come back to that. Now for the scores. You were late in completing the first test, and won seven points. In the second, you and the others missed some obvious chances to be proper Mordorian drivers. The third, the celebrity hunt, as we call it, you failed and never made up. You seem to have avoided a physical and any surgeries that might have resulted as well, so I cannot consider you to have passed that either. On the positive side, you did not vote for a single lynched victim in the werewolf scenario, ten points; and your final exam was stellar; another ten points. Finally, for overall gamesmanship in all its forms, and any self-improvements achieved (other than the shallow kinds), I award you with twenty-five out of thirty possible points. Your total score is thus ..... sixty-three points out of one hundred. I am afraid that it is not enough. You have not succeeded."

Valde deflated. His shoulders sagged even. His face went sallow, his eyes dimmed. His hat folded in on itself. In a word, he was crushed. Figuratively speaking. "I - I did not expect any better, to be honest, milord."

"Even in that you are wrong, Valde Delego, for one thing has become clear. You are indeed a great performer, and not only performer, but an able teacher of performance in the arts, be they as they are in this Dweomer-ridden land. Thus, I am happy to be able to announce that the University & Hospital of Mordor at Urukapolis has determined that you are the best nominee to replace the retiring (in more ways than one) Dr. Trollianus Tyredazthaykúm. You shall, if you accept the post, become Head of the College of Performing Arts, and Director of all plays, musicals, operas, and skits; and, of course, tragedies. What say you?"

Valde looked stunned. In fact, he was stunned. His shoulders straightened. His eyes cleared. His hat uncrushed and became wearable. He was uncrushed. He was positively bubbling. Indeed, he was uncola. After a fashion.

"I - I - I'll need to think about it, milord!"

"You have time. I have six more dooms to declare. When I have finished, return to me with your answer. Is it well?"

"It is, milord." Valde Delego bowed, turned, and walked away with a bemused and whimsical look on his face.

Anakron smirked. It could have gone worse for that one. No doubt. And these trolls needed replacing. He hoped more Offending Parties might produce such rich surprises for Mordor in its various facets. He was tempted to tell the other six that they had failed as well, then place them where they would be most useful; but that would be unfair, for some of the others had passed as well. He turned his attention to the crowd that waited with bated breath, which was getting to be ridiculous for they were all turning blue, and he readied himself to announce the next member of the Offending Party to whom he would announce doom.

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Alumine Umfoil!" Anakron cried.

Alli walked up, leaning on the left shoulder of just as tipsy Aimé, a dreamy and contented smile on her beaming face.

"You shaid it right!"

"But of course. Do you think I'm a dolt?

"I must inform you, Alli, that < ahem > being in love does not qualify as self-improvement, even though it certainly has improved your disposition, disregarding your current state of inebriation. Nevertheless..." A pained look came over Anakron's face. "I congratulate you on your newfound relationship. May it last as long as it should.

"That said, it is time to settle accounts." This sounded ominous. It was. Anakron raised his head and then his voice. "Complainants! Come forth! Stand on the Offending Person's right."

Alli frowned and looked around Aimé's shoulder. (He almost lost his balance from the sudden change in his equilibrium, and groaned from an oncoming alcolhol induced headache.) Walking toward the threesome were Orlando Bloom, Britney Spears, Feanor of the Peredhil, and Mario.

"Witnesses for the Defense, rise and come forth! Stand on the Offending Person's left."

Tom Felton came forward, followed by a host of fangirls, and Roggie taking up the rear.

Aimé said, "I think I ought to get on your other side." Alli nodded and switched sides with Aimé, so that he stood with Tom Felton and the other witnesses for what apparently was turning into her Defense. What had she done? It was true that she and Aimé had killed the werewolf Mario, but here he was now, alive and as menacing as ever! How could that be? Did everybody come back to life in Mordor? It was so unfair! At least they couldn't accuse her of killing somebody who was standing before them, so obviously alive.

"Just what the doubleyooteeyef is going on here, anyway?" Alli demanded.

"These individuals have complaints that must be answered before your fate may be determined," Anakron replied.

Alli's hands went to her hips. "But you never said anything about that! You laid down the rules and we abided by them (in general), and here all of a sudden you're holding us accountable for all kinds of things that should have been allowed!"

"Who says that they were ever allowed?" Anakron retorted. "Did you think that you could do any blessed thing you pleased, just because you were part of the Offending Party?"

"Wellllll..... yeah!"

"I'm sorry to hear that. You are very much mistaken."

Alli added quickly, "Well, maybe I didn't think I could do just anything."

Anakron raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

Now Alli was at a loss for words. The fact was, she had not even considered the consequences of her actions beyond making sure she passed the tests. She had lived very much in the moment, had done what seemed like needing to be done, and had skated, jumped, wiggled, crawled, stamped, and danced through the challenges, with only the thought of making it through. Well, also the thought of taking vengeance upon Mario for the sake of Hookbill, and listening to Illamatar.

"I had visions!" she cried desperately. "I had a spiritual experience! A change of ... heart...." The final word almost died on her lips.

"Tell me about this so-called change of heart, Alli," Anakron said quietly.

"I -- I -- " Alli was at a loss for words. In desperation she cried, "a change of heart wasn't in the original contract! Nobody said I had to have one!"

Anakron smirked. "That is true. You claimed to have had one, not I."

"Deeyayemen!" She looked at Aimé for help. He was looking at her with great concern, but helplessly. This seemed to be beyond his scope. At last she said, "Well, let's hear the complaints! We might as well get this overwith seeing as I'm probably not going to make it out of Mordor." Which, she considered, wouldn't be all bad, seeing as Aimé couldn't leave.

"Very well," said Anakron. "Orlando Bloom, say your complaint!"

"She took away my fangirls!" he yelled, pointing at Alli.

"Is that the entirety of your complaint, Mr. Bloom?"

"Yes!"

"Is there an answer?" Anakron asked.

"There is!" Tom Felton called, stepping forward. "It was I who took away his fangirls, not Alli. She merely set up the circumstances that brought it about!"

"Is his claim true, Mr. Bloom?"

Orlando Bloom glowered. "Yes, it is." He slumped.

"Your complaint is answered," Anakron said. "Off with you to Kirsten Dunst and New Jersey!" Anakron raised his staff, and Orlando Bloom disappeared.

"Britney Spears!" Anakron called. "Say your complaint!"

"She stole the show!" Britney whined. "I was on stage, recording my new CD, and she just barged in and took over! And then my stage got a big hole in it, which is her fault too!"

"Is there anybody to answer for this complaint?"

Roggie strode forward. "I am the one who made the hole," he said.

"Very well. Is there anyone to answer for stealing the complainants show?"

"I'll speak to that!" cried Feanor of the Peredhil from amongst the complainants.

"Will you?" Anakron queried. "That is odd, seeing as you have your own complaint."

"Even though I have my own complaint, this so-called singer's complaint is a fallacy!"

"On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that I'm the one who assigned her to Mordor!"

"Those are solid grounds. You may speak to the defense of Alli on this point."

Feanor of the Peredhil stood tall and announced, "She's just puke!" Britney gnashed her teeth at this, ready to strangle the Peredhil.

Anakron merely raised his brows. "How do you know this?"

"Easy. There's a test. A demonstration." Feanor of the Peredhil turned to Britney Spears and yelled, "The Only Real Estel!"

Suddenly, Britney Spears' jaw dropped and her eyes went wide with horror. She melted. And turned a sickening green-yellow, and stank of bile.

"Hmm...." murmured Anakron. "Apparently she is indeed!" He turned to Alli. "You are cleared of this complaint, since stealing the show from puke is only right. The next complainant, since she has already spoken, is Feanor of the Peredhil!"

Feanor pointed at Alli. "She voted for my death!"

"Is that the entirety of your complaint?"

"No. She's also me when I was younger and didn't know better, and that's just a horrible thought! She ought to stay in Mordor!"

"Is there anyone to answer this complaint?"

"I will!" Alli said. "First off, I only voted for her fair and square because it was part of the rules! And if I'm her at a younger age, then she's still the same person as me, and if I stay in Mordor, she should too!"

"And if she's not the same person as you, just older?" Anakron wondered aloud.

"Then her complaint's false in the first place!"

"Very good." Anakron turned to Feanor of the Peredhil. "You are answered."

Feanor of the Peredhil gave Alli a dirty look, but slowly it began to change to a smirk, then a grin, then a wink, leaving Alli very, very confused.

"Are there any more complaints?" Anakron asked.

"Yes!" It was Mario. "She killed me!"

"But you're alive, you fool," Anakron answered.

"That's only because of the Dweomer! It still hurt!"

"It is true that the deed was done, and that it was most certainly painful," Anakron acknowledged. "Is there anyone here to answer the complaint?"

Silence ensued. It lasted for two whole moments. Then it lasted for three more moments on top of that.

Finally, Anakron spoke. "Alli, it seems that there is no one who will answer this complaint. What have you to say for yourself?"

"He's an evil werewolf! He killed and maimed people! He hurt Hookbill!"

"Yes," commented Anakron, "and he's not the only werewolf to do so, oddly. Nevertheless, no-one gave you authority for bounty hunting or vigilanti-ism. What is your answer?"

Alli could think of nothing. But she had a question. "If his complaint stands, how does that affect my score?"

"Greatly, for it bears upon how you've handled yourself throughout all the tests."

Alli's head drooped. "I - I - I have no answer."

"I do!" came an oddly familiar voice from the back of the crowd.

"Come forward!" Anakron said.

Up walked a virtual duplicate of Alli. Anakron's lip slowly rose in a hint of a smile. "And who might you be?"

"The real Alli!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes!"

"Explain."

"I made her during the three day rest period between challenges two and three. She was bait, standing for me, while I achieved the challenges."

"This needs proof," Anakron said with a skeptical arch of his brow.

"Easy," she answered. "Surely you noticed that I inexplicably passed the final exam and psych eval, even though it seemed that I failed. It's because while she failed them, I went back and completed them successfully. I may have made her, but that doesn't mean she's as effective as me. She's a little unstable compared to me."

"Illamatar help us all!" blurted Feanor of the Peredhil.

"It must be admitted," Anakron said, "that your evidence is circumstantial."

"What in this Illamatar forsaken challenge is not?" the "new" Alli challenged.

Anakron smirked. "You have a point. Very well! The final complaint is answered. Go away, Mario."

Mario huffed and puffed away, and it is said that he went back to Dol Gaurgauroth and blew a couple houses down.

"Now for the scores. For your first test, Lúndún, you scored a nine; for the road rage trip, six points. For the celebrity hunt, ten points. For werewolf, your votes resulted in the deaths of two innocents, eight points. Your physical and surgery went seamlessly, ten points. Your psych eval netted nine points, which is higher than the original total I had been ready to award you due to the fact that your golem of sorts almost caused you a disaster; the same may be said for your final exam, which would have been lower than the nine points I am giving you. Now, regarding your gameship. You have proven yourself to be unstable and highly explosive, you have had dealings with the Mordorian underworld which raises ethical questions, and yet in spiete of all these negative aspects, you have been defended against all complaints, even murder. Therefore, you receive twenty points out of a possible thirty, and your final score is eighty. You pass. By the skin of your teeth (now go and brush them, ick).

"Finally, I have a sealed envelope for you, the contents of which I am not at liberty to divulge." Anakron handed her the envelope. "Your friend here, if I may so call him," Anakron indicated Aimé, has not achieved the goal that you have, and you must leave him behind, if you choose to leave Mordor. You are free to do so, but it is your choice. Do what you will! But do not answer me now. Wait until I have dealt with all of the members of the Offending Party and tell me then what you have decided."

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Fléin!" Anakron called.

"I'm right here," came a gruff voice. "In front of you."

Anakron looked down. But of course. Fléin the Dwarf stood there glowering, awaiting his doom.

"Yours, Fléin, is an interesting situation. You gruffed, intimidated, befriended, assaulted and battered, religiously fanaticised, and infatuated your way through these challenges."

"I what?!?" Fléin's brows formed a "v" rivaling those of Spockú.

"Trust me. The important thing is that you passed every specific test, although not always to perfection. My reason for describing your methods with a series of adjectives is to reveal the way you approached the challenges. To that end, some of those with whom you had dealings, have requested to speak regarding your case." Anakron looked up. "Come forward!"

Fléin looked behind him. There came a sparrow, an inebriated man wearing bathtubs, a beaver, a pair of bespectacled psychologists, and a Dwarf.

"Ketchupkin!" Fléin cried.

The Dwarf smiled and winked.

"He just about killed me!" came a squawking voice, interrupting Fléin's brief happily infatuated moment. It was the sparrow. "I don't care if I was part of some weird battle regarding the incarnations of Johnny Depp, A Slan, or the swamp thing! He just about killed me!"

"But I didn't!" Fléin asserted.

"But you did kill me!" yelled the Beaver, somehow free of his lisp.

"Oh. Well. Yeah. But you came back to life! That was the werewolf game! And that whole thing was a set-up! And you're only an animal anyway!"

"A talking Animal, Dwarf!" cried the Beaver. "You do not deserve freedom from Mordor! You deserve death!"

"Whoa now, just hold up a minute," Fléin said.

"Do you have a defense, Fléin?" asked Anakron. "Or is there someone to speak in your defense?"

"I do!" Ketchupkin said boldly. "Fléin joined the forces of A Slan."

"And this helps him, how?" asked Anakron pointedly, "seeing as it put him on the opposing side from me?"

"Lesh not confuzhe zhe issue," interrupted SpaM. "I wuzh a lawyer in my preevush exishtinsh, and yer clouding thingshup (urp)."

"Maybe you would care to enlighten us, sir," Anakron smirked.

"Thadeyewood! Shir. Firsh regarding the shparrow. Izh it not ture- tar- - ah - a fact that thishparrow attacked Fléin?"

"It is!" Fléin cried. "It was self-defense!"

"It was not!" yelled the sparrow. "It was a duel!"

"In (hic) that cashe, shparrow, it wuzh ashault between two conshenting parteezh an' theref- (urp) thushly, you have no recoursh!"

"Aw dagnabit!" the sparrow said, and stalked off.

"But he murdered me!" cried the Beaver.

"You don't seem very murdered," Fléin accused.

"You still did it!"

"Dwarf, did you know it wuzh a talking Beaver when you killed it?" said the somewhat not so inebriatedly seeming SpaM.

"Um, yes."

"Oh. Well then. Wuzh it an aksheedent?"

"Um, no."

"Oh." SpaM made a gesture of surrender and backed away.

"One count of open murder," Anakron intoned, "confessed to. That will count against you, Fléin."

"But it's just a beaver!" Fléin roared.

"A talking beaver," the beaver insisted.

"Oh you shut up, you little orc!"

The beaver swore at him.

"Tut tut, Mr. Beaver," drawled Anakron. "Are there any other complaints against Fléin the Dwarf?"

"He is insane," said Sigmund.

"What proof have you?"

"He is delusional, thinking some kind of spiritual being has given him a special purpose."

"Oh shut up," said Jung. "I'm sure he's quite right!"

Freud looked at Jung, scandalized. "You maniac!"

"You atheist!" cried Jung.

"You religious fanatic!" retorted Freud.

"You sex-obsessed lecher!" shouted Jung.

"You traitor!" bellowed Freud.

"Enough! Shut up, both of you!" roared Anakron. They stared at him, confounded. "Get out of here. You're neither helping nor hindering Fléin's case. Go!"

They turned and scurried back to Shelob's Lair to harrass and victimize other unfortunates.

"Are there any other complaints?" Anakron waited. Nothing more was said. "Any good words for Fléin?"

"He voted shmart and came up with the sticksh method for keeping track of votesh back in Dol Gaurgauroth," SpaM remarked.

"He fought on the side that he thought was right," Ketchupkin said.

"These things shall be taken into account. Now to it! Ten points for Lûndûn. Six points for the road rage. Eight points for Johnny Depp's integration. Eight points for DolGaurgauroth (you voted against two innocents). Ten points each for your physical, your psych eval, and your final exam. Of the thirty points I would give for general gamesmanship, I take away two for getting into an unnecessary duel, and twenty for open murder of a talking beaver. But I award ten points back to you for fighting on the side that you thought was right. Total points, eighty-two out of one hundred. You pass. You may pass through the gates and go to Ithilien.

"But he should be tried for murder!" cried the Beaver.

"There is one problem with that," Anakron said, "you cannot produce a corpse, so there can be no trial."

"Deeyayemen!" the Beaver swore.

"Hah!" Fléin crowed and swung his axe jubilantly. The beaver and Ketchupkin ducked.

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

Whilst the cross-examinations of Alli and Fléin proceeded, events unknown to the rest of the Offending Party were occurring in Mardil's jail cell. His psych-eval concluded, he made to leave his cell only to be stopped by two unassuming hooded and cloaked fellows leaning on their staves. Their cloaks were of a blue so dark that they were almost - not quite but almost - black.

"Greetings, Lord Mardil the Second, Crown Prince of Ithilien, Heir of Faramir the Good," said the slightly taller of the two.

"Hello," Mardil answered, slightly taken aback that they knew exactly who he was. "Who are you?" He had a good idea already.

"That shall be revealed, completely," said the slightly shorter of the two, "very soon. Let us move back into this cozy little room and have a meeting of minds." He gestured into Mardil's cell. Mardil turned around and saw that where before there had only been one chair, now there were three. He did a brow creased double take of the two cloaked fellows, then walked in and rearranged the seats so that he could keep both individuals in his sight at all times. He stood waiting behind his choice of seat while the two blue-hooded men sat down; then he sat himself. The two men threw back their hoods to reveal ancient faces with piercing eyes and long hooked noses, bushy eyebrows and scraggly white beards.

"As you may have guessed already, Mardil," said the slightly taller man, "I am known as Pallando, or as Stamo, by various folks, and my counterpart here is known as Alatar or Mori, depending of course upon where we happen to be." Mardil nodded. These were the two blue Istari, the ones who had cursed all of Gondor with the Anakronism Dweomer.

"What do you want?" Mardil asked.

Pallando smiled. "Right to the point as usual. I like that about you."

"But before we get to what we want," said Alatar, "you should know about certain information about which we are aware."

"First," continued Pallando, "we are aware of your chosen weaponry, such as doses of this and that in your little bottles, and your effectiveness with knives. We encourage you not to try to use either weapon against us, as it will only be to your own disadvantage."

"Rest assured on that point," Alatar intoned.

"You've threatened me," Mardil answered, "not to try to harm you or it will go the worse for me. I understand. So, what are you here for?"

Pallando's brows rose. "Threatened? Nay! We have merely warned."

"We have more to tell you," Alatar continued, "before we answer your question. It has, shall we say, to do with 'doing what you are supposed to do, what you should do, and what you can do.'"

Mardil's eyes narrowed. "So you've listened in on conversations I've had with Anakron. Either that, or he has reported to you."

The two Istari merely smiled by way of response.

"We are also aware," said Pallando, "of various organizations that specialize in illegal activities here in Mordor, and their cellgroups and activities throughout the rest of the Gondorian Imperium."

"Indeed," continued Alatar, "we have been keeping tabs on a campaign that denounces the King of Gondor for sending a certain young heir to the Stewardship of Ithilien to Mordor despite the fact that he did not speak an anakronism. We are also aware of a similar ad campaign blaming the King for all the corruption that has engulfed Gondor's government, as well as the weakened state of the military. We are aware of the source of these campaigns."

Mardil's brow furrowed. "Oh? And who might that be?"

"Do not play coy with us, Mardil the Second," Alatar warned. "We are aware of your father's grand ambitions for you."

Mardil sat forward in his chair, outrage warring with his self control. "Have you done something to my father?"

"Not a thing," answered Pallando.

"There is no need," added Alatar, "yet."

"We think," Pallando said, "that it was a minor stroke of genius that you forged an alliance with 'Roggie', as the current Lord of Mount Doom has been nicknamed. He very much looks forward to becoming Prince of all Mordor."

"Not to mention," Alatar picked up, "your clever alliance with Khamul and his criminal organization. It is even quite noble of you to aspire to destroying that organization. However....." Alatar stopped speaking and looked carefully into the eyes of Mardil; Pallando did the same.

What were they up to, Mardil wondered? Obviously, they knew everything he was doing; at least, everything he was doing that he had ever told to Anakron. Had Anakron betrayed him to these two? Or did they hold more power than Mardil had understood until now? And why were they studying him now? Could they read his thoughts? He had never developed the ability to hide his thoughts from those who could do such a thing, so he found himself to be defenseless on that score, and therefore decided that it was useless to worry about it. He decided that he might as well push to the heart of the issue.

"You've had your say, obviously. I'll ask again: what do you want?"

Pallando smiled. But the smile reached no higher than his abundant mustache; his eyes were as coals. "We want to replace the King of Gondor with you."

"Fine, but I was going to do that anyway."

The two chuckled. "But on our terms," said Alatar.

Anger flared in Mardil's heart. "And if I say no?"

"There is something you have yet to understand, Mardil," Pallando purred. "Khamul answers to us. Roggie answers to us. Anakron answers to us."

"Furthermore," Alatar murmured, "there are no High Elves left, no rival Istari (unless you count that bumbling Radagast), no evil Overlord with Rings to enslave others, no King in Gondor with the virtue of character to stand against us. We alone remain of all the powers of the former ages, and none can stand against us. You, my dear Mardil, would be a fool to try."

"What are your terms?" Mardil asked the obvious question, giving no clue as to whether he intended to abide by whatever terms they offered.

"It is simple, really," Pallando said. "Leave the Dweomer alone, and thus our Anakronist alone, and rule as you will except in any way that we overrule your decisions, and we will put our power and wisdom at your disposal. Refuse this offer, and be stopped from even escaping from Mordor, whether you passed the tests or not, whether your father has come to support you or not. These are your terms. Mardil the Second, Crown Prince of Ithilien, Heir of Faramir the Good, Would-be Usurper to the Throne of Gondor, what is your choice?"

[littlemanpoet]

"Wilhe-"

"I'm right here!"

Anakron looked down. There was a little circular garden sitting on a pedestal that had been there since the deliberations had begun. However, it was not a circular garden, but a very garish flowery hat; and the pedestal was not a pedestal at all, but Wilhelmina, looking up from beneath her hat! Mr. Swanky stuck out a wiggling nose and a pair of black coal eyes. Anakron's eyebrows rose while his face remained otherwise expressionless.

"Very well, Wilhelmina Brochenbach."

Wilhelmina grinned. "You said my name right!"

"I should hope so," he said without a smile, though his tone was kindly. "Are there any accusations?"

"I want my dog back!" cried a snippy voice from somewhere back in the crowd. A too thin, arrogant, and not very pretty young woman, wearing ridiculously expensive and too skimpy pink and accessorized clothing, came sauntering up in five inch pink heels and matching watchband.

"Oh. Garish Swilton."

The woman stamped her foot angrily. "Paris Hilton!"

"Ah." Anakron looked down at her through half closed lids.

She smiled coquettishly and batted her overly made up eyelashes. "I'm famous, you know."

Anakron rolled his eyes. "Get on with it."

She pouted, hands on accessorized hips, then pointed overly dramatically at Wilhelmina. "She stole my dog!"

"Your stupid dog," Wilhelmina corrected.

The spoiled snit made a face at Wilhelmina.

"You don't deserve a dog," Anakron declared, "no matter how stupid. Nor the wealth and fame. Get out of here."

The snit's jaw dropped. "I'll have me daddy sue you!"

"He's not here. Now get out of my sight. You are a taint on Mordor."

Her jaw dropped even farther. Hands on hips, she turned around, still staring at the speaker of such terrible news, then turned her head away dramatically.

"Best acting I've ever seen from you," Anakron drawled.

Her jaw hit the ground. Reaching down, she picked it up. While she was bent over, Wilhelmina landed a solid kick on the behind and sent her sprawling, the points of her heels askew.

"One extra point for Wilhelmina," Anakron announced. The crowd roared with laughter, and the young snit lost herself in the crowd.

"Now for Wilhelmina's points earned. For the Bliddy Unnergrind race, nine points; the road rage race, six points; for the celebrity hunt you are awarded nine points, one point deducted for lateness; for werewolf, nine points (you voted someone dead); for your physical and ensuing surgery, ten points; for your psychological evaluation, you achieved the disintegration of the obviously insane Sigmund Freud ... although that did not entirely establish your sanity, it was still worth seven points; and for your final exam-" Anakron's mouth slowly drew up in a grin "-which I personally found quite delightful, ten points. And now, for the final addition. As I said, you did receive an extra point just now for your most appropriately exacted punishment for atrocious behavior exhibited by one particular snitful idiot worth less than one tenth of a fangirl. On top of that, you receive twenty-five points for an although imperfect performance, you showed great resolve, creativity, and ingenuity (not to mention lots of clever writing), and got Mr. Swanky back from Queen Quon to pass your initially failed test - quite well done. Total, eighty-six points. You pass. You may leave Mordor and enter Ithilien."

[littlemanpoet]

"Sai Onara!" Anakron called.

"Goodbye to you to!" Wilhelmina grinned, waving, and walked away.

Anakron clicked his tongue. "Has anyone seen Sai Onara?"

Way, way in the back of the crowd, about a score of people pointed off in the direction of the mountains just behind what used to be known as Minas Morgul. Squinting, Anakron could barely make out three figures running at the foot of the mountains, two apparently chasing one. The one trailing seemed to be a particularly butt-less woman; the middle party was by all accounts a reincarnated Uruk-hai from way back in the end of the Third Age by the name of Lurge, who hadn't really been there but had been dreamed up by Bleater Quackson and thereby found himself in Mordor. These two were chasing a young lady who Anakron could now see was screaming at the top of her lungs, seeking escape or rescue from her two pursuers.... at least the closer and more fanged fo the two.

"Dweomer," said Anakron raising his staff, "convey." The Siamese figure on the top of his staff caterwauled. Somehow, even Anakron didn't know how - nevertheless it happened, suddenly Sai Onara appeared stage left, still screaming and dashing at full speed stage right, Lurge and Jaylo in hot pursuit.

"Stop!" Anakron yelled.

Sai stopped in her tracks, suddenly aware that she was not where she had been. Next instant she was bowled over by Lurge who started licking her face.

"Yuck!" she pulled away, disgusted for some reason.

"You are so good at the mating call of female orcs!" Lurge growled happily.

"If you don't get off me I'll vomit!" Sai threatened

"Ooh!" He chuckled. "Orcish kissing! I'm ready when you are!"

Jaylo started beating on the back of Lurge. "Get off her so I can get my butt back!"

"Stop! All three of you!" Anakron commanded. "Now! Somebody hand her a towel."

"And soap and water!" Sai couldn't get her face to undo its look of revulsion. Lurge got up and offered Sai a hand. "Get away from me! I'll get up myself!"

After Sai had wiped herself down, she looked up expectantly at Anakron. "Please tell me I passed!" She gave Lurge a horrified glance of revulsion.

"Actually," Anakron said, "you seem to have metaphorically ridden on the backs of others for much of these tests. You clung to Alli and Mardil to get you through the first two tests, with Alli on the third and fourth, and only on the fifth did you go it alone, stumbling through as you went. It was only by a stroke of Bagginsish luck that you passed your psych eval, stumbling upon just the 'riddle in the dark' that you needed; and you shared the classload with Lucy, who happens to be standing just behind you by the way, in order to get through your class and final exam."

Sai Onara gulped and looked down. She saw the pattern developing.

"In short, you were very effective in using others to gain your own ends, especially by doing so in such a way that they consider you to be their friend. Very effective indeed, especially for one so new to Mordor."

As Anakron had said these words, Sai had slowly raised her head and met his eyes with her own widening ones, her jaw dropping, looking more hopeful with each word.

"I still want my bottom back," Jaylo interrupted.

"Be quiet," Anakron ordered. "I'll deal with you soon enough."

"So maybe I didn't do so bad?" asked Sai tentatively.

"You scored a ten, a six, a ten, and a nine in the first four challenges. In the fifth triple challenge, you scored three tens. And for general gamesmanship, you scored twenty-four out of thirty; whereas you stuck to the same strategy throughout, it is clear to the Dweomer that it was out of instinct and not strategy. It would take keen strategizing throughout the tests to score higher than twenty-four. Be that as it may, you scored a total of eight-nine. You have passed. You may leave Mordor; that is, once you have made Jaylo butteefull again, more's the pity.

"What about him?" Sai pointed to Lurge fearfully, pleading with her eyes that he couldn't leave Mordor.

Lurge grinned toothily and fangily. "She wants me to go with her!"

"You have not passed the tests she has passed, Lurge. You may not leave."

He frowned mightily, which on an orc is an evil expression indeed. "I'll sign up!"

"It doesn't work that way; you must wait until your name is called from the ATM in Cair Pairadox."

Sai hugged Lucy and Anakron dismissed her to deal with Jaylo.

[littlemanpoet]

"I call Panakeia of Harad to the front!" Anakron announced.

Something toward the back began to move. It looked like an up-ended couch. As it neared the front, Anakron saw that it was indeed an up-ended couch, being moved on a rather large two-wheeled dolly. He raised his eyebrows: he had not been aware that that particular anakronism had been conassigned to Mordor; maybe the two wizards were responsible. Having no control over their decisions, Anakron shrugged and waited until the couch stopped mere footsteps away from him, was let fall with a THUNK, and Panakeia was revealed behind it, hoisting up a shoe and an Eagles jersey for good measure.

"I got these three things from celebrities, and they gave them to me of their own free will!"

"No deception?"

"Wellll.... there was a wee bit of deception... but you didn't say we couldn't!"

"Quite right. Nevertheless, there are a couple of individuals who have been waiting to speak with you in that regard." Anakron pointed stage left, where stood two athletes, staring at her accusingly.

"Oh! Donovan McNabb and David Beckham." Panakeia's eyes widened momentarily, but she looked back to Anakron, becoming fierce. "But they gave them to me freely!"

"Quite so."

"An' we want 'em back!" McNabb said.

"Hold it!" Panakeia cried. "Do I get points for completing the celebrity hunt test?"

"The couch was adequate," Anakron replied. "You receive nine points, one deducted for lateness."

"Okay. I just wanted to be sure."

"And the shoes and jersey were unnecessary."

"Well, I wanted to be sure."

"As I said, unnecessary. However, your sheer gumption and enterprising nature shall be rewarded. Add two points. Eleven total for the celebrity hunt."

Panakeia's eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped in surprise. A murmur went up in the crowd, to the effect of 'I thought there were only ten points per test; what's with eleven points?' Panakeia heard the crowd and flushed. Anakron paid them no mind.

"You may return the shoe and jersey to their owners, Panakeia of Harad."

"No problem!" she said happily, and handed them over. The two athletes left.

"On to the other tests," Anakron announced. With that, four individuals came forward that Panakeia recalled having seen somewhere before, but she couldn't recall precisely where.

"Yep," one of them pointed, "that'd be her. She up an' jus' abaoot ruined our leetle scam."

Suddenly recognition dawned. These were the King's Trio: Willy, Isildil Payne, Dwaine, and Eckaust Fûmës.

"That is what I thought," Anakron responded. "You originally achieved ten points for this challenge. For bringing these four to justice, one bonus point. Eleven points for the first test."

"But - but - I didn't bring them to justice!" Panakeia protested.

"You were being filmed for the reality show; their scam was revealed on kamura, and thus they were brought to justice."

"But I didn't tell anybody a thing about them!"

"They complained about you, and so we looked into it. Caught musically scamming in the Bliddy Unnergrind. Four counts of misdemeanor. Moving along...."

The four King's Trio villains marched off, giving Panakeia evil looks, and were immediately accosted by Lûgnût and his/her cronies. "Pay up!" s/he was overheard yelling at them.

"....moving along," continued Anakron, "I had given you six points for your efforts in the race, as I gave all the others; however, it came to my attention through Bert the kamura troll-" at this point, the kamura wielding troll stepped forward. Impossibly, Panakeia received a conspiratorial wink from a troll, something that she would tell her friends and family the rest of her life, which nobody would believe ... for Bert never made it out of Mordor, at least not in any way that the legends tell us. "-that you singlehandedly rescued Valde Delego: one additonal point awarded, in spite of the fact that Valde squandered his chance not to fail. Total for the race test: seven points."

Panakeia sensed a pattern developing, as did the increasingly loudly murmuring crowd in, and wondered why things were turning out as they were. Had she done so badly on the general rating that Anakron was unbelievably having mercy on her? No, he wouldn't do such a thing. He had failed Valde already; why not her?

Seven more people stepped forward, saluting Panakeia each in their turn: Jim Kirk with toupeé in place, Spockú with both eyebrows now, and Dr. McBones, each wearing bodiform outfits bearing an emblem saying 'United Federation of Drekkies'; there was the Goth roommate, the professor troll, the fortune teller.

And last but not least, Nichole, who smiled brightly at her and came over and gave her a big, mushy hug. "I think you're going to make it!" she cried.

"Thanks!" Panakeia smiled, feeling a bit dazed.

"What is the opinion of you witnesses?" Anakron asked.

"Pass her!" Panakeia had never seen a Goth student acting so positive in all her days in Mordor.

"With flying colors!" Nichole added gleefully.

"Quite so," Anakron said, a small smile forming on his lips. "Although I can find no persuasive reason to change your score for the werewolf test, so that remains an eight. Please have a seat, Panakeia of Harad." Anakron gestured to the couch. Once she was seated, Anakron stepped from his little platform of Grand Authority, and sat down beside her.

"Now what's going on?" Panakeia wondered a little nervously; but she voiced a different question. "Um, what about the triple test at the University?"

"Tens for each. Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes!"

"There is one more witness," Anakron said smoothly.

"Oh?"

Anakron nodded. "Elempí."

"But he's .... you .... isn't he?"

"Indeed," Anakron smiled. "You were right about something, as was my alter-ego, who though he can be such an idiot, still has excellent judgment in ... certain matters."

"Uh, what do you mean?"

"You are indeed beautiful without the hair color and make-up."

"Oh!"

"Thirty points for creative ingenuity, regaining your conscience, and for doing it all with becoming grace."

Panakeia blinked. Something clicked in her mind. "I get it. You're coming on to me and you're beefing up my score to get what you want."

"Not so," Anakron replied smoothly. "I would award you just as highly regardless of my personal inclinations. However, as they say, there is no time like the present. Obviously, you have passed with the highest score of any of the Offending Party; ninety-six out of one hundred by the way, and you may leave Mordor in just a little while..."

Panakeia sensed a following clause. "But..." she said.

Anakron smiled as winningly as he seemed to be able. "...but I would like to make an offer." Panakeia waited on pins and needles as Anakron paused - she was sure they hadn't been the stuffing for the couch until this very moment, but this was Mordor - "Stay with me, join me, walk my path with me, and see if you enjoy it. I assure you that you will not lack for any need or desire..." Anakron nodded toward the Siamese Cat that sat atop his staff. "... for I most certainly have the means to assure your security. Do not speak just yet!" Anakron raised a hand to her lips, for she had been about to speak her mind - she couldn't believe she was letting him touch her lips! - "Do not answer me yet. Give it a little time, think on it, mull it, and by all means dream a bit, and we shall talk of this again." With that, Anakron stood and with cloak billowing in such a way that his form looked more upright and handsome to Panakeia - she was sure it must be a trick of the dweomer - and he resumed his stance on the small pedestal. Panakeia crossed her legs and watched the Grand Anakronist, her thoughts whirling.

[littlemanpoet]

"Mardil the Second, Crown Prince of Ithilien, Heir of Faramir the Good, Would-be Usurper to the Throne of Gondor, what is your choice?"

"I'm no usurper!" Mardil retorted. "I am a direct heir, father to son, of Amandil II, the younger son of the Tarciryan II. Tarciryan's son and every King since has had but one son up till now, and so when King Aranar dies will, by the laws of Gondor, be King."

"Then why," asked Alatar, "do you force your claim with raised armies and publicity campaigns and dire strategy? Why not wait until that which is yours by right of inheritance, if such truly be the case, is given to you in due course of law?"

"Because the current King is trying to bypass my family and put someone on the throne of his choosing."

"And what possible personage," Pallando queried, "have your vain imaginings produced to fill this fanciful challenge to your hollow claim?"

"Prince Curuman of Umbar is King Aranar's mother's brother's son, and is the King's favorite. He has a claim, but not as direct as mine; which is not hollow at all, as can be demonstrated outside of Mordor."

"Why now, Mardil?" Alatar asked.

"If I wait, Prince Curuman may gather enough of a backing to cause a ruinous kin strife. Gondor must remain free of such an evil."

Pallando's eyes almost closed and his lips played in the hint of a sarcastic smile. "And you are the self appointed savior to help all middle earth avoid such a fate?"

"No, merely the lawful heir to the throne."

"That is all well and good," Pallando retorted, "but if you do not do as we say-"

"You are not invincible!" Mardil cried. "You may know about my weaponry and potions, but you are not gods! If I stick a knife into your heart you will die. Saruman, the head of your order of old, was killed by the arrows of halflings. My knives are more deadly than small arrows. If I attacked you, maybe I would be killed, but not until I took at least one of you with me."

"Brave words, and maybe you believe them," Alatar smiled coldly, "but do you really think that we would be so foolish as to allow ourselves to be vulnerable to you and your weapons in this small cell?"

The two wizards did not rise from their seats, but they seemed to grow where they sat until they seemed to have become dark and ancient and threatening, eldritch powers.

Mardil gave pause and thought. They were suggesting and showing that he could not touch them, as if they had cast a warding dweomer or worse: something that he could not bypass. If so, he would have to be careful, for the odds were likely stacked in their favor, and he did not doubt that they would press their advantage if they so chose.

"It matters not," he replied. "What matters most is your demand." The two wizards shrank back to their original aspects as Mardil spoke. "You know very well that I would be no more than your puppet; another Anakron Istkon Vayor. Or would I be named Arbit Rarywhimkon Vayor instead? You could ask me to pass a law sentencing all children to death and I would have no choice but to obey. That is unacceptable. I could not take such an oath."

"Nonsense," Pallando said. "You presume that we are fools blinded by our own greed for power, such that we might do any foolish and evil thing. You do not understand our purpose. Do not presume that we are fools, or that we are blinded by evil."

"It does not matter that you aren't blinded by evil," Mardil cried, "what matters is that you are evil! You did not fight with the Men of the West against the evil of Sauron. Instead, you are following in the footsteps of the wicked Saruman and seeking to be rulers of men. The only one of your kind I'd be willing to place myself under is Gandalf, and he never would ask such a thing of me, which is why he was worthy of the leadership that the peoples of Middle Earth gave him. The very fact that you have asked for rule over a kingdom that is not yours to rule is reason enough for me not to give it to you, to say nothing of the threatening way in which you are asking. And what of my duty as King of Gondor? As King, I would have the great responsibility of protecting and aiding my people. By subjugating myself to you, or to anyone, I would be shirking this sacred charge, given to the first King, Elros, by the Valar themselves! You have not offered me something that I am able to do, even if I wanted to."

Pallando and Alatar's smiles slowly grew into sardonic smirks as Mardil's diatribe ranged through its points.

"Is that what they're saying about us in the Empire these days?" Pallando murmured, and turned to Alatar. "Shall we disabuse him of his illusions?"

"Yes, we shall," Alatar returned, "but shall we do so now through words, or through another test?"

"You know as well as I that he will not take us at our word," Pallando replied, "so a test it must be."

Both wizards rose, walking quickly to the door of the cell, and turned suddenly, their staves raised.

"Ontamandongauro!"

The hair rose on the nape of Mardil's neck. There was a great crash as the door of the cell slammed. They were gone. Mardil heard tinkling around him. Looking down, he saw that all of his potions and bottles had somehow cast themselves to the stone floor and broken, dissolving quickly into smoke and mist.

"Noooooooooo!" Mardil howled.

------------------------------------------

The orc guards watched the two cloaked men leave quickly, and shrugged. Apparently the man was to remain their prisoner for a while longer yet. Suddenly the cell door burst open. A beast came hurtling out. In moments, both guards were dead, lying in their own blood, their necks ripped open and faces mauled. Howling could be heard outside the prison, echoing into the distance.

[Celuien]

Two wide eyes gazed after Anakron’s cloak and settled into a disbelieving stare as he came to a stop atop his pedestal. The Grand Anakronist had asked her to stay in Mordor? With him? It was beyond comprehension. The weather grew gusty. He turned a few times; clothing fluttering dramatically in the wind, white hair blowing behind him. Panakeia was sure he was posing. Anakron looked back in her direction and she quickly stared at the ground. Her cheeks were burning, and she knew she looked pinker than any scalded lobster.

What could Anakron be thinking? Was he serious, or was this a new test? She didn’t know. Anakron was always so austere, distant. The very idea of his proposal (what kind of proposal was this?) astounded her. Panakeia never imagined that he could have such thoughts, although she was deeply flattered that of all the Party, indeed, of all the folk in Mordor, Anakron had chosen to address them to her. And what did Panakeia think of the forbidding figure in black? That too was a muddle. Her first thought, only a few days before, was that she hated him. But that had been after her initial failure in the Celebrity Hunt, while she was still in a high dudgeon over the Shatner fiasco.

Did she have any other reason to dislike him? Yes. There was the matter of all the tests, of Mordor in general. Then again, that wasn’t his fault. Mordor was torture. Anakron couldn’t change that. And of a sudden, it seemed to her that the tests weren’t meant to be malicious. Panakeia’s mind drifted back to Dol Gaurgauroth. The point of that exercise had been not to harm the other villagers, regardless of provocation to do otherwise. Was Anakron trying to teach the would-be escapees a lesson in morality? And no one, not even the fish, had really been harmed in the end. Had all of the tests been meant to teach the Offending Party something important? That seemed likely. She thought she saw him in a new light, and that light was favorable.

Still, there was the whole business of A Slan. Everyone seemed so certain that A Slan was good and conversely, that Anakron was evil. But if A Slan was a mere anachronism, did he matter? Panakeia didn’t think so. And she couldn’t see Anakron as a total villain. Ruthless and overly dramatic at times, yes, but evil, no. Not too long ago, the adjective 'ruthless' had been applied to her. She had changed since then, thanks to...Anakron. She owed him for that. And then it occurred to her that they were akin in some way. Two lonely people, unhappy with the world, trying to muddle through as best they could. But she still didn’t know if she could accept his extraordinary offer. There was a part of her that wanted to stay. At the same time, from another corner of her mind came a cry to go. She didn’t need anyone, especially not Anakron. He was certainly a rogue. No, she didn’t really believe that. She chided herself for the thought. She never really did hate him. Slowly, she realized that her feelings had been more of a respect from afar all along. And she was so very, very lonely.

Her eyes fell on Valde. Here, at least, was one decision she could make. She approached the actor, Anakron watching hawk-like from his perch.

“Hello, Valde,” she said.

Valde seemed deeply absorbed in some train of thought. It took him a moment to respond, and when he did, he sounded as if he didn’t want to be bothered. “What? Oh, it’s you. Hello.” He gave her a look of ennui that told her to be off and quickly.

She looked him up and down, annoyed with Valde’s self-absorption. How could I ever have been so infatuated with him? For indeed, she recognized her earlier feelings as mere infatuation, and they had faded like autumn leaves in the winter wind. Still, she was determined to let him down gently. Panakeia was convinced that he returned her earlier attachment and she didn’t want to hurt his (probably highly fragile) feelings.

“Well…umm…well…well…” Her voice trailed off, bringing a questioning glance from both Valde and the Anakronist. “Looks like we’re going to different places. We may never see each other again.”

“Yes? And?” Valde’s patience was already wearing thin.

Why, that trickster! He never cared at all! She reconsidered. Well, no. It wasn’t a trick on his part. Just my own deluded vanity. And I couldn't see it. She fumbled for a way to end the conversation without causing herself further embarrassment.

“Well, what I wanted to say was that…was that…was that I was going to offer you a job with my sales company. The new one I was going to start outside Mordor.” Anakron’s attention was drawn to the ‘was going to start.’ She would stay! “All legitimate products, of course. Cosmetics. They always were genuine. One of my only genuinely functional products." The irony of her rare genuine products being used to create artifice was not lost on her, or, from the faint curve to his lips, Anakron. "I didn’t think there’d be much demand for Lead Tragic Actors out there, but acting is part of selling. I figured you’d make a great salesman. So I was going to ask you if you wanted to go into business with me. But there’s not much point now. Offer stands, though, if we ever meet again outside.” Anakron drooped. Outside. She was going to leave.

Valde crinkled his eyebrows. “Yes. It’s a generous offer. I’ll think it over.” Panakeia took that as a polite 'no' and silently gave thanks for her escape. Then she went to Anakron, who looked rather dejected on his solitary pedestal.

“Have you decided?” His voice was flat and proud.

“Yes. Yes, I have. This is all so sudden, Anakron. One minute, you’re giving me tests and the next you’re asking me to ‘walk your path’ and such. Why, I hardly know you! And you hardly know me, really. But here’s what I say. I can’t join you.” Anakron raised a hand to silence Panakeia. She clasped the hand and pulled it downward. “Wait. I’m not finished. I can’t join you yet. But I’m not leaving Mordor either.” Panakeia couldn’t believe what she was saying. To stay in Mordor, for Anakron of all people, after all the trouble he'd just put her through to earn the right to leave, was more than inconceivable. And yet here she was just the same. “It’s only that this isn’t how things are done. Properly. I’ll stay in Mordor. Go back to my little hut. Get to know you better. Then, after a while, if you still want me to stay and if I think we get along, then I’ll ‘walk your path’ as you say. I’m not making any promises, but we’ll see what happens.” She smiled, and was shocked to find that she still held Anakron’s hand in her own. As she stood beside him, it seemed to her that the stiff breeze grew a little less cold.

[littlemanpoet]

While Anakron was preparing himself for the final recounting, to be given to Mardil, he kept half an eye on Panakeia. whose comely face slipped from one expression to another as quickly as waves sloughing on the sea shore: surprise, confusion, a moment of mild pleasure - perhaps, then revulsion - Anakron feared, replaced by a tilt of the head in bemusement - of reconsideration, Anakron hoped; then a nod, a fleeting smile, a purse of the lips, a shrug, then a quick glimpse at Valde. Suddenly she rose and wlaked to the lead tragic actor who was apparently musing upon his choices.

This was not good. Anakron had noticed her infatuation for Valde Delego, and much as Anakron held a liking for the ungainly fellow, he had considered it quite farcical that she should fall for him in the least. But now they exchanged words. Ah, it was not going well. Anakron kept the relief he felt off of his face. Now she returned to him, looking up at him purposefully, some sort of resolve having apparently been made, already!

He had noticed something in her from the very first. She wore too much make-up; on that count Elempí had been right. Why? Intrigued by the mystery about her, he had kept his eye on her, though he never let it show; it would not have been good form. Nevertheless, her pluck and verve, as well as her more than pleasant features of face and form, had grown on him ... to say the least. At some point in the middle of the five test - well, seven test - ordeal, she had changed. The blonde hair coloring and gobs of make-up disappeared; this had been the most obvious sign, but there had been others. Sending the toupeé back to Kirk had made him sit up and take notice. He had had the letter intercepted, and read it, and had it sent on to its intended audience. He had been impressed. At some point, probably quite soon, he would have to confess that he had read her mail. But it might not be necessary.

She took his hand in hers and made her speech, which wound between no and yes and no, before settling on what she really thought. She had not let go of his hand. He smiled.

What Panakeia saw was more than a smile. The hard lines of the Anakron face softened as she had never seen before, and there was a sadness that he usually kept well guarded.

"Panakeia," he said slowly, as if relishing each syllable of her name, "you would see past the Anakron to the Elempí." He nodded, still smiling. "I should have expected no less. You wish to know the real man rather than the figure of authority. Very well. Once I was no more than Elempí, a studious man who stayed most often in his chambers, eager for the gaining and dispensing of knowledge. It is so long ago. Too long! I've worn these robes and this face of authority for so long that I had forgotten that there was anyone in here but the austere Anakronist. You have helped me remember who I am. Thank you."

"Um, you're welcome," replied Panakeia, quite taken aback at the veritable transformation of this man. "I-"

A howl broke out from far back in the crowd. Screams shattered the air. The crowd erupted in a sudden mass panic. Anakron grabbed Panakeia and drew him up close, away from the danger of the crowd. Looking out over the frantic mob, he sighed.

"What's going on?" Panakeia cried.

"It is Mardil, turned to a werewolf. He comes this way."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stood slightly off-balance with her fingers intertwined lightly with Aimè's. She watched bemusedly as Anakron propositioned Panakeia and listened confusedly when she heard the words "It is Mardil, turned to a werewolf. He comes this way."

Through her post-inebriation blur of thought, the words sounded slightly more like "Is Merle. Turn dintwa airulf. He comsis ay." It was small wonder she was slightly confused.

Aimè, who had not only had less to drink, but had more substance to him to soak up the alcohol than the slender lass did, heard the words and drew his sword. He carefully unwound Alli's fingers from his and turned her so that she was looking into his eyes.

"Alli, are you listening?"

"Wow... you've got the most amazing eyes."

"Alli! Pay attention!"

"What? I'm listening."

"Mardil is a werewolf."

"WHAT!?"

"He's probably coming after you. You're the Seer and pretty much everyone knows it. I can protect you, but you're still in danger."

"Um..."

"We have to kill him."

Alli stood motionless for a moment, waiting for the meaning of the words to sink in. She knew that it would sooner or later, but it was looking more like later. Aimè stood waiting. Alli's face suddenly took on a look of over-whelmed shock and she fainted into Aimè's arms. Or she passed out. It wasn't entirely clear which.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Aimé, in a most comical and un-heroic fashion, tossed Alli to the side. She groaned as her head bumped off the floor, and lay quite still. Aimé turned to face the wolf, and gasped at the terror of the image. Ferocity personified, he thought it.

And with good reason did Werewolf-Mardil appear this way. Not only was the blue-blooded one a harsh and strict character originally, he had been turned into a Werewolf by one far more callous. Truly, it was the phantom who had bitten Mardil all that time ago. A more devious, villainous, diabolical wolf had never before walked the lands of Middle-earth; and now his evil was manifest once more, in the able vessel of Mardil.

He howled and snarled, pacing hither and thither, clearly as bloodthirsty as they come.

Aimé kept his cool, though. After all, he had his trusty crossbow at hand. Aim, one hit, and the job is done.

Wolf-Mardil paused. He was facing this deadly weapon head-on, and his mind was racing. How could he escape?

Aimé shot! But nothing happened. What was going on? The crossbow: it was jammed! "Blasted Hollywood drama!" he yelled! And within seconds his foe was upon him. Aimé used his hands to protect himself but the wolf ripped and tore with fury. In no time at all, Aimé was lying on the ground and bleeding badly.

The Wolf licked his lips and smiled; then turned towards the still-motionless Alli. He crept towards her...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

She woke up, her mind miraculously clear and her head no longer pounding. Werdil crept toward her. She grinned recklessly, daring him to do his worst:

"Do your worst."

She reached stealthily for the silver dagger normally sheathed to her attractively long leg. Her fingers met with air and then fabric. Her sheath was missing, the blade with it! When had she lost it?

The werewolf was nearly upon her.

Ugh! She'd had it when Mariò attacked her, though she'd been unable to use it against him. He must have disarmed her before Aimè's spectacular and short-lived defeat of him.

Mardil was there... he licked his lips, sharp teeth protruding in a gorgeously vampiric sort of way. Alli cursed herself for thinking about how attractive he was just now. She dared him to do his worst once more, reaching fruitlessly for a can of mace that had quite inconveniently disappeared at the same approximate time that the bag it was in did.

"I say it again, fiend, do your worst!"

He reached for her, grasping her face by the chin and pulling her upward toward him. She hit him hard with the side of her fist, loosening her hand to rake her fingernails across his face with the same motion. He growled angrily, his breath hot against her cheeks. Against all odds, she had a sudden strong desire to press her soft lips against his own.

"Alli, try to duck!" Aimè's desperate voice yelled over Alli's pounding heartbeat. Her chest rose and fell as she gasped for breath, now afraid. The werewolf's attention wavered for a moment, perhaps at Aimè's voice or perhaps for another reason. For a moment, Alli thought she saw a spark of humanity within his feral eyes.

The werewolf, seeing Aimè's repaired bow, stood fully, pulling Alli with him. He pulled her tight against him, a claw positioned across her throat, breathing dark threats into her ear as he used her as a shield. The blood Alli's nails had left behind on Mardil's face felt hot and wet against her own rose petal cheeks. She could smell Mardil's expensive cologne and cursed the designer of it for predicting so well what it would do to poor helpless girls, most especially when coupled with the soft fresh scent of fabric softener, the just-showered smell of soap, and that certain aroma that is apparently bequeathed to good-looking guys by some sort of mojo-god. Her knees felt weak.

If the vicious monster hadn't been using her as a human shield, she would have swooned at how incredibly mmmm he smelled. She was suddenly extremely angry at Mardil for being so attractive, even in werewolf form. She cried out to Aimè:

"Deeayemen it, I'm a damsel and I'm in distress. Somebody save me!!!"

[littlemanpoet]

Some kind of paralysis had come over Anakron as he watched the slow moving tableau below him. Finally, Mardil, with an unexpectedly humanish face for a werewolf, not to mention incredibly good odors emanating from his masculinity, held the femininly swoonging Alli by the neck, having crushed her to his body in an odd sort of half-libidinized playfulness, a half life-threatening grip, protecting his own body from Aimé's waiting arrow. Anakron thought it odd that he was holding Panakeia in supposed safety in much the same way, but without all the aromatic wafting that seemed to emanate from Mardil and Alli.

"A moment, please, Panakeia," Anakron said, and letting go off the relatively safe for the moment beauty at his side, raised his staff and cried, "Dweomer convey!"

Nothing happened.

"Dweomer! Convey!"

Still nothing happened.

Anakron shook his staff as if it were a bad flashlight (which ought to be assigned to Mordor too); Sylvester spit and hacked.

"Dweomer! Deeyayemen it! Conbloodyvey!!"

Decidedly nothing happened.

Exasperated, Anakron brought Sylvester down and looked him in the eye, suddenly wishing that he had never begun a staredown with a Siamese Cat.

"What, pray," he growled, "is going on?"

Sylvester turned furry and black and white and unSiamese, suddenly growing cartoon eyes and a very bulbous nose, and an overly thick tongue.

"Thinth you athked," Sylvester spit, "The two Blue Ithtari are interfering."

Anakron sagged. "Oh."

Trouble was, Anakron's shouting had caught MadrilWolf's attention while his ensuing hot and heavy tableau had stalled. He turned to Anakron, his face suddenly a lot more wolfish, dropped Alli sprawling to the ground, and lunged.

"Run, Panakeia!" Anakron pushed her behind him off the platform. In the next instant, Mardil was upon him, the hastily raised staff knocked away by one huge werewolfish arm. The staff hit the ground. Sylvester came off the end of the staff, bounced on the ground, and stood up to watch what was happening to his Master. Which was that he was being ripped at the throat by the bloodythirsty werewolf. Sylvester jumped in one cartoonishly possible leap, and landed on Mardil's back, hacking and spitting and pounding upon Mardil's back. Mardil let go of Anakron's prone form, writhing, trying to reach the madly hopping, punching, lispily prattling Sylvester. He got him round the neck at last, holding him at arm's length, a toothy ferocious grin on his face. Sylvester looked at him and his eyes popped out then back in cartoonishly.

"Uh-oh," Sylvester lisped. "Do your worthed!"

Mardil popped Sylvester into his mouth by the head and chomped. Suddenly Mardil's head enlarged at a cartoonishly alarming rate, vibrating fiercely (because Sylvester was giving the inside of his mouth a Bronx cheer*). A look of revulsion came over Mardil's face and he pulled Sylvester back out of his mouth in disgust. He reached up a claw to tear the annoying cat head from shoulders, when his face contorted in surprise, and he fell over, bonking the choking Sylvester on the head on the way down.

"Thufferin' thuccotath!" Sylvester said.

Mardil did not move. Aimé's arrow had been let fly, and had pierced Mardil's heart. He was dead.

*A Bronx cheer is achieved by sticking one's tongue out, closing one's lips, then blowing hard.

[Celuien]

Panakeia received Anakron's pronouncement in shock. Mardil turned werewolf? She couldn't believe it. But she turned to look, and there, indeed, stood a werewolf. Despite the horrifying transformation, she recognized the man of Gondor in the furry beast before her. No werewolves, there are no werewolves, echoed through her head in an unending refrain. It just couldn’t be true. But even if it were true, Anakron would solve the problem. He could solve anything. She was delighted by his command to convey the Dweomer. Surely that would fix this little mess and send the anakronism back where it belonged. But nothing happened, and her heart sank at Sylvester's lisping announcement of Blue Istari interference. This was bad. Anakron, it seemed, could do nothing now. Then the worst happened, and Mardil approached them menacingly. The wolf was nearly upon her as she stood with Anakron. He pushed her aside barely in time to avoid Mardil's claws and teeth.

The werewolf flew toward Anakron. In a moment, Mardil had him on the ground. A despairing wail rose in Panakeia's throat, only to emerge as a silent 'o' shaped mouth. The thought to hurry to Anakron's aid came urgently, frantically. But her feet, whether out of fear or from a command of the same force that had stripped Anakron's powers a moment eariler, seemed riveted to the earth.

Mardil fell heavily to the ground, an arrow protruding from his chest. The spell was broken, and Panakeia rushed back to Anakron, who remained face down on his platform. She shook him by the shoulder. "Anakron! Anakron. Dar..." No, it was still too soon to use that word, earlier protective stances notwithstanding. "Anakron, speak to me. Please. Are you hurt?"

A low moan came in reply. "No. I'm fine," he said. But he pulled his cloak tightly around his neck. Panakeia thought she spotted bright red drops on the ground. She gave Anakron a concerned, questioning glance, but did not challenge his assertion.

Meanwhile, a loud debate had started between Aimè and Alli, ex-damsel in distress. "Doubleyooteeff!" she shrieked. "You killed Mardil!"

Aimè shifted uncomfortably. "But he was a werewolf. I had no choice." He paused. "Why are you yelling at me? You wanted me to rescue you. Would you prefer to be in that monster's clutches?"

Panakeia ignored the argument. Let them solve their own problems. She returned her attention to Anakron, and was instantly alarmed. He looked pale, even more than usual. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Anakron smiled faintly. "Of course I am." He stooped over Mardil's still werewolvish form and picked up his staff.

"Is he really dead?" Panakeia queried.

"Yes. For now. As were the victims of Dol Gaurgauroth. But that will be corrected. Sylvester! Do the Istari still block the Dweomer?"

The Siamese Cat shook his head in the negative.

"It is well. Dweomer! Convey!"

And, as if a switch somewhere had been flipped to 'rewind', Mardil's lifeless form arose in the exact reverse of its tumble to the ground, returned to the moment before his death. With a sneer, he lurched toward Anakron.

Anakron spoke again. "Dweomer! Convey!" A treadmill appeared beneath Mardil's feet. The faster Mardil ran toward Anakron, the faster the treadmill spun its belt. Mardil remained in place. And slowly, his wolvish features began to fade. Before long, he stood calmly (if out of breath from his race to nowhere), without a trace of lupine features. As Mardil returned to humanity, Anakron lowered his staff and leaned on it, breathing heavily, one hand clutching his throat.

Panakeia was now really frightened. Something was definitely not right. "Anakron! What's wrong?" She put a hand on his shoulder.

Anakron spun to face her. "Stay back!" he shouted, and pushed her away. "Run!" He dropped his hand to reveal a bloodied bite mark at the base of his neck. Fur began to spring from the wound and his eyes took on on a baleful red glow. His teeth lengthened into fangs. He sprang toward Panakeia with a growl. She screamed.

Quick as a flash, Mardil's knife flew through the air. Simultaneously, Aimé's bow twanged. Both weapons found their mark in Anakron's body. He looked pitifully (gratefully?) at his attackers for an instant, then slowly sank to the ground.

Panakeia hurried to the dying werewolf. "No, no. Not you. Don't be dead! Not now. We'll convey the Dweomer, or whatever you call it. We'll get through this. We’ll fix it all. But don't die on me!" She stared into Anakron's red wolf-eyes, hoping beyond hope for some glint of recognition. But none came, and the red light faded into the dull stare of death. Panakeia was paralyzed. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t happening.

The fortuneteller, forgotten in all the commotion, came forward and recited a verse:

The way you walked was thorny, through no fault of your own.

Fur vanished from Anakron's skin.

But as the rain enters the soil, the river enters the sea, so tears run to a predestined end.

Fangs shrank to normal dentition.

Now you will find peace.

And Anakron's body lay on the platform, a look of perfect calm on his face, as though in a restful sleep.

The sun suddenly shone out, soft rays gently illuminating the scene. But the light was lost on Panakeia. She sank to her knees at Anakron's side and wept.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stopped berating Aimè (who she wasn't that upset with, since he had just saved her, but it was the thought that counted, she always said, and she thought that anyone who'd kill someone who smelled as good as Mardil, in girl-friend-defense or not, deserved not only a run-on sentence but a good superfluous rant) as soon as Mardil came back to life and Anakron lost his.

She stood in shock as Panakeia knelt in the same sort of mental state. She turned to Aimè.

"Did Anakron just die?"

He nodded.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded again.

"So by nodding, you mean to tell me that Anakron's corpse is sitting right there..."

He nodded one more time.

"Damn. How do we fix him?"

Aimè stared blankly, at a complete loss for words. He'd just dealt with two werewolves. His job was to kill them, not to bring them back to life.

"Okay, I've got it." she said, rubbing her hands together. She walked over to Anakron and nudged Panakeia out of the way. Opening Anakron's mouth, she pulled an absurdly large bellows from her miraculously recovered bag. Jamming it inside, she started pumping. Slowly but surely, Anakron's chest began to rise and fall gently. Panakeia looked hopefully at him. A moment later, Alli pulled the bellows out and Anakron's surprisingly mobile dead body remained a dead body and ceased being mobile. She put the bellows away and went back to Aimè, brainstorming a bit more.

Forever later, but really only about thirty seconds, she sighed melodramatically.

"I've got nothin'." Aimè nodded. He was as utterly bereft of nothing as she was. In fact, due to bad grammar of that odd turn of phrase, he logically and obviously ended up having something.

"Illamatar."

"Pardon?"

"Illamatar. We have the One on our side."

"Oh yeah. Illamatar, I need you!" Alli shouted to the wind. The wind did not shout back. Nor did it bleat back, baa back, or even bray. "Um... I think Illamatar turned his back on us."

"Alli," Aimè preached, "Perhaps Illamatar didn't really turn his back on you. Perhaps you turned your back on him."

She turned around. Whoodathunkit, but Illamatar was right there looking as llamaesque as ever, black eyes staring everywhere at once, and standing absurdly tall.

"Ooh, hi Lord."

"What do you want now, Alli?"

"Well, I'm having some trouble keeping my slain werewolves properly slain, but really, the trouble in this case is that we just slayed one and I kind of want him back."

"So you're complaining that Mardil came back to life? I thought you were all over him like white on rice."

"What!?"

"My apologies... I have recently heard the phrase and felt as though using it in this situation would appropriately convey your attraction. Was I mistaken?"

"Um... no, not really. But I really need Anakron back. We can't leave Mordor without him. And... well... I kind of want out."

Aimè looked crushed. Alli hastily kissed him reassurance.

"I mean... I want to come back and all... but... well... I guess I kind of have a request list."

The Allmighty looked at Alli in wonder. Could she really be so arrogant that she would think presenting a list of desired deau ex machinae would result in them actually happening?

"Yes."

"Baa."

"No, seriously, that's what I want, Illamatar. The look on your face... it's obvious you're contemplating smiting me for having the cahones to tell you what I want and expecting you to do it. Basically, to put it simply, I want all of the werewolves Aimè and I killed that came back to life to stop being werewolves. You can't make me a Seer and Aimè a Hunter and then, each time we kill our enemies, bring them back to life. That's so beyond unfair.

"And I want Aimè to be able to come with me when I leave Mordor.

"And I want Anakron to come back to life."

Illamatar looked at her and looked to the devastated Panakeia, still weeping over Corpsakron. He looked at Aimè and then looked blankly at nothing. Alli assumes that he was using his absurdly bulbous eyes to look through space and see Mario et. al. He baaed.

"Alli of Those Destined For An Interesting Life, I will grant you one of your wishes. Choose carefully which, for all plans for a sequel may have to be changed if you make a mistake."

She looked at him in shock. "The sequel depends on... me?!?!?"

"And me. And many others. Choose now, Miss Umfuìl."

She considered. She could simply kill Mario again and again, annoying though it may be. If she played her cards right, Anakron could release Aimè. She might have to get him really drunk in order to beat him at poker, but it could happen. But she'd already tried to breathe new life into Anakron. It didn't work.

"Anakron."

"Bless you."

"No, Anakron. I want Anakron back." Illamatar smiled. Before her he changed, becoming more majestic than ever, his power exuding from every pore. It smelled a little odd, but she was appropriately awed, so the powerful smell wasn't as over-bearing as it could be.

"ANAKRON ISTKON VAYOR!" he boomed. "COME BACK TO THIS WORLD!!!"

The world went black and flared brightly with clear light. Blinded, Alli hid her eyes in Aimè's shoulder. As the world came back to what could only be described as [really impossibly ab]normal, a disembodied voice whispered in the now perfectly healthy and standing Anakron's ear.

"Whatever you do, don't get drunk and play cards with Alli. Baa."

[littlemanpoet]

"Got it," replied Anakron to the voice in his ear.

Panakeia stood near, her eyes wet and staining her face, a look of disbelief and unremitting joy on her face. About me? How unlikely. But if so, why, I could get used to this. Such were Anakron's thoughts. He smiled warmly and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"And now to business," he whispered and winked. She nodded.

Anakron turned. "Mardil! Come near! It is time to review your performance in the Tests!"

Mardil, now in human form again, looking as confident and self-possessed as ever, his stride a little more jaunty than usual (perhaps he recalled from his werewolf state the odd admixture of panic and passion in Alli).

"How do you think you did, Mardil?"

"I think I performed admirably, Grand Anakronist."

"I would expect no other response. Let us see what the results show. The first test saw you arrive at the appointed goal on time to say the least, despite a run-in with a decidedly belligerent Balrog: 10 points. For the second test, you took one of the vehicles offered, and through singular ingenuity, not to mention the use of another of the Offending Party according to your wishes, you drove a hard bargain and got yourself a very find vehicle indeed, and found clever solutions to all the problems of the road. There were a few things that were overlooked by you as well as all the others, and thus you received 6 points. For the third test, you wheedled the plot of the upcoming novel out of J.K. Rowling, which was indeed the most precious thing to her at that time: 10 points. In the werewolf village, you were instrumental in the death of one innocent only: 9 points. For the University of Mordor, you passed your psychological exam with flying colors: 10 points; your course work in the same manner: 10 points. Unfortunately, the formerly late Dr. Hookbill-" At this, said formerly late individual waved from the gathered crowd. "-failed to start, let alone complete, your physical exam and subsequent surgery. However, the Blue Istari performed a physical and surgery by means of certain biological and chemical experiments, which were quite life-threatening in their lycanthropic nature; however, you survived that as well and now stand before me in perfect health: 10 points. And now for the character by which you carried yourself during the entirety of this challenge. You were peerless. You were constantly ingenious, clever, eloquent, and capable in the face of each challenge, as needed: 30 points. Your total score is therefore 95 points out of a possible 100. You are free to-"

"Hold!" cried a pair of persuasive voices, standing between two raised staves. The Blue Istari.

Now what? Anakron wondered, and everybody else understandably did as well.

"This young man," said the slightly less tall Alatar, "was too capable. He did too well. He functioned in ways more appropriate to the time period from which these anakronisms come than our own time, especially outside Mordor."

"Therefore, we have decided," continued Pallando, "that Mardil's reward is not to leave Mordor and return to Gondor, but to be banished to the future."

"But, but, but-" Anakron began while the two wizards raised their staves and spoke in a sudden staccato chant that was over in a moment. Mardil disappeared.

Anakron's face blackened with rage. He threw down his staff. "Sirs, you have flagrantly violated the character of our agreement! Therefore, I am finished with you! Find yourselves another Anakronist!"

"Nonsense," murmured Alatar. "He was too dangerous to be the next Emperor of Gondor. No way to control him. He had to be taken out of the picture."

"How do you expect him to survive in the future?" Anakron asked. "It's a different world."

"He has proven his ability to function quite ably," Pallando replied. "Do not fear. Those who come from that time would have more to fear from him that we would were he Emperor; but that is no concern of ours."

"So you will not allow me to retire?" Anakron growled.

"Don't be silly," Alatar smirked.

Anakron looked around the crowd. Here and there, sprinkled amongst them were the Offending Party members and all those with whom they had dealt over the last few weeks. They all looked shocked, to the last of them. Alli's eyes were wide as saucers. He could just about imagine how the gears were grinding behind that brow.

Anakron shook his head and turned to Panakeia. "I am sorry. This is not how it was meant to be. I hope you understand that." Anakron looked into her eyes, wondering what she thought.

[littlemanpoet]

Panakeia closed her eyes, stood on her toes, and clicked her heels together. "I know there's a Shire, I know there's a Shire!" She opened her eyes again and smiled bashfully.

"What was that all about?" Anakron asked, thoroughly bemused.

"Meowwwwwwer!" Sylvester called from atop Anakron's staff. "Convey why don'tcha?" he said.

Anakron shrugged. "Dweomer, convey."

Sylvester began to hack. And hack. And hack.

"Uh oh," said Panakeia, "that is going to be one big hairball."

Sylvester kept hacking. Finally a wad of paper dropped from his mouth and fell into Anakron's hands.

"Open it, thilly!" Sylvester ordered.

Anakron uncrumpled the mess, which somehow was not all covered in saliva, a great relief to Anakron who was not entirely keen on having a cat's spew in his hands. He straightened out the paper and flapped it in the wind. There was writing in it, in a now famous lettering that had been seen all over Middle Earth for years untold. Anakron smiled. He held it up for Panakeia to read:

Emissary from Mordor arrives with a new Shire resident...

I hereby assign Mardil II, formerly of Gondor, formerly of Mordor, to the Shire for acts of heroism and being a generally good egg.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

~ signed, Celuien, Ghost Prince of Cardolan

"It appears that Mardil II is free and in the Shire," Anakron smiled. "But who's Celuien?"

"Oh, a friend," Panakeia grinned.

Anakron gave her his best Spockú impersonation.

"This," Alatar growled, "is not the end of the story."

"We'll thee about that!" Sylvester hollered, and favored the two Blue Istari with a very wet Bronx Cheer.

[Celuien]

What a day of drama, tears and unlooked for joy! Through a teardrop balanced precariously at the edge of a delicate eyelash, Panakeia saw Anakron alive once more. Rainbows seemed to glimmer in the teary prism. She stepped over them, troubles melting behind her like lemon drops, to stand once again by Anakron’s side, her nose and eyes still reddened from earlier despair. What I need right now, she thought, is some Visine. I must look a sight. A quick glance at Anakron's face changed her mind. If anything, he seemed to appreciate her aqueous response to his apparent demise. Panakeia wouldn't try to conceal her tears then. She laughed rejoicingly, letting a few extra drops splash down her nose, this time from relief mingled with delight. Even in Mordor, it seemed, dreams really could (and did) come true.

In all honesty, Panakeia hadn't expected the suddenness of her new attachment to the Grand Anakronist. Her lachrymose reaction had been entirely genuine, but it surprised her. She hadn't been given to such displays of emotion before – at least not for many years – but everything was different now. She had regained her conscience out of the past, and with it came other unanticipated attributes from her youth. Including a propensity towards falling for Anakron. And why not? Certainly he had behaved nobly recently, particularly in the matter of Mardil. He rescued Mardil before giving any thought to himself. Had Anakron not sacrificed his life in an effort to protect the Party and save the hapless Mardil? Perhaps that was part of the reason for her response to Anakron’s fortunately temporary death.

And what of Mardil? Anakron granted him leave to depart from Mordor. And then the Blue Istari appeared. An overwhelming desire to turn the cruel pair into the Black and Blue Istari with a swift pummeling rose in her. It was entirely their fault that Anakron died. Their fault that she nearly lost her newfound love and would have lost him permanently if not for Illamatar's auspicious intervention. Their fault that her nose was still running in a most unattractive fashion. She would have commenced a gushing flow of reproach, probably with grave consequences to herself, had Anakron not spoken first. Instead, she stood glaring at them furiously, until, in a new twist, Mardil vanished into thin air, or the future, or wherever the Duo sent him. Anakron was irate over their actions, but unable to override their commands. Between her own dislike for them and her sympathy with Anakron, she yearned to do something to help. What could she do?

An odd wave of giddiness passed over Panakeia, and she found herself on tiptoe with closed eyes, clicking her heels, and muttering something about the Shire. Her eyes reopened to catch a glimpse of Nichole, now wearing a checkered-blue dress and holding a basket, at the periphery of the group of spectators. Who inexplicably winked at her, then clicked her own ruby colored shoes together and disappeared, never to be seen again in Mordor. Her vanishing act was followed by Sylvester's paper-producing hacking and Anakron's announcement that Mardil was safely in the Shire.

Then Panakeia thought she heard Nichole's voice, oddly distant, and oddly audible to no one else. There’s no place like home. Panakeia caught a brief glimpse of a book-lined room with a lone occupant. However she had done it, Nichole had made her way back home. And so when Anakron queried her about the mysterious Celuien, though Panakeia didn't know who she was with certainty, she had a fairly good guess. Panakeia quietly exulted at her friend's escape and subsequent defeat of the evil wizards' scheming. Sylvester gave them a Bronx Cheer; Panakeia would have done so too had it not been unladylike.

"Well, Anakron," she said. "Our journey to the edge of Mordor is over. But we have a new one to begin." She smiled brilliantly. "When do we start?"

"What about dinner and a concert tonight?" he replied.

And a giddily beaming Panakeia accepted the invitation. "See you then." She walked away, smiling from ear to ear and singing.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams
That you dare to dare to dream
Really do come true.

Her heart was light. Dreams, hopes and plans for the future stretched out before her, all close at hand. Yes, she was in Mordor, but it seemed to Panakeia that she had indeed gone over the rainbow at last.

[Encaitare]

She was an old woman, and she'd spent a good fifty years in the barren wastes of Mordor. Ever since the ATM had selected her name, practically all she had thought about was getting out of the wretched place. But now that she was free to go, Wilhelmina Brochenbach had a few things to say to some of her comrades.

She made her way over to Fléin, whom she knew looked quite pleased somewhere under his beard. "Congratulations, my dear," she said, grinning as she noticed Mârtha Stewârt's hand-painted, virtually indestructible beaker poking out of his pack. "If you and Ketchupkin should ever find yourselves wanting some licorice and ferrety company, do drop in sometime in Ithilien." She gave the Dwarf a quick hug and bid him adieu.

Noticing Anakron standing off to the side staring wistfully off at Panakeia's retrating figure, she headed in his direction. "Hey, Anakron!" she called. His gaze flicked over to her as if he had been snapped out of a daze.

"Yes, Wilhelmina?"

"Well... let's just say I never liked you much. But I guess you're really not so bad. Maybe the Dweomer is an acquired taste... like sushi, or Wagnerian opera. After all, you did get us out of here. So, I suppose what I mean to say is 'thanks'."

"You're welcome," Anakron replied sincerely. "All in the Grand Anakronist's day's work."

Wilhelmina turned and strode towards the last person -- or creature, rather -- she wanted to talk to, but called over her shoulder, "And I hope it works out with Panakeia, too! Maybe you can talk her out of that horrid Pearie Ockcide Potion!"

Suddenly, there was a kamura in her face -- it was her kamuraorc, who was asking her--

"What awe woo going to do fiwst now that wou'we fwee to weave Mowdow?" he lisped.

"Er... I don't really know," she said puzzledly. She'd focused so much on the things that wouldn't be in the world outside Mordor that she'd nearly forgotten all the nice things that would be there. She could go walking in the forests of Ithilien, go to market whenever she wanted without nearly being run over by Orcs... maybe she'd even meet a nice gentleman, and they wouldn't have to go on dates to bowling alleys.

"I don't know what exactly I'll do first," she admitted to the kamuraorc, whom she found, like Anakron, she didn't entirely hate anymore either. "But I hope the reality show gets good ratings. It had better, after all these escapades. And if it does do well, you know there'll be remakes and an infinite number of seasons... Now if you'll excuse me..."

There was just one more to talk to.

"Yoo-hoo! Queenie!" she called loudly to the gigantic ape, who was still loitering about. "Would you mind terribly taking Mr. Swanky and myself for one last trip?" Queen Quon seemed to grin, and she picked Wilhelmina up and placed her (and Mr. Swanky) on her back.

"The Black Gate, please," Wilhelmina said happily. "One way."

[the guy who be short]

Fléin watched Wilhelmina ride away with a tear in his eye. What a wild time they'd had together! A brilliant woman...

He remembered, suddenly, that she hadn't given him an address. But no matter. He could track her down in Ithilien, couldn't he? Yes, definitely.

He felt somewhat dazed. After two years of this horrendous - but not quite godforsaken, as Alli had shown - place, here, finally, was his chance to leave. To leave it all behind. All of it.

He turned to face Ketchupkin. Was he really willing to leave the Dwarf? Ketchupkin betrayed no signs of emotion, or, perhaps, the emotion was lost beneath the thickly matted beard.

It was time. "Ketchupkin," Fléin started, before choking on his words. "Do... don't think me rash. But, if I am to leave, and even if I am not, I would like to know... I hope you do not think me rude... I think we know each other quite well now... Well..." he sputtered lamely.

"What I mean is..." he drew a deep breath, "are you male or female?"

Instead of the usual look of shock one would expect from a Dwarf asked such a question, there was only a gentle smile. They did know each other well enough. The simple reply seemed to Fléin the most beautiful word in the world. "Female."

"And," she continued, "I can see by the smile in your eyes...?" she let the question hang.

Fléin nodded. He didn't even need to say it. He just nodded. Male.

"I don't expect you to stay on my account."

Fléin nodded once again. "I don't intend to," he replied bluntly. "You're a wonderful person, Ketchupkin, really. If we had met under different circumstances... If you are ever freed from this evil land, come seek me. Seek me in the Orocarni, Ketchupkin."

She bowed her head in acknowledgement.

"You know... I'm not planning on leaving until tomorrow morning," he said.

Night fell. They decided, since it was his last night in Mordor, to do something very naughty together.

They stole Anakron's left shoe in the middle of the night.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, Fléin awoke early. Ketchupkin walked by his side. He wanted to avoid Anakron, for obvious reasons; nor did he much like the idea of saying farewell to Panakeia, Valde, or Mardil. Well, he liked the idea of saying farewell to them - but not of actually communicating with them. They were hardly nice people, and sharing a week with them had done little to mellow his views. Alli and Sai though - nice girls.

They made their way to Alli's quarters. Fléin knocked.

Nothing happened.

He knocked again. Nothing.

She was probably tired from all the excitement of last night. Still, if he waited any longer, the others would wake up.

He left her a note.

Alli,

Thank you for explaining to me about you-know-what. It was really enlightening. I had a wonderful time with you. Thanks for everything. I won't forget you. If ever you should journey to the East, seek me in the Orocarni.

Fléin
He actually managed to catch Sai. She hugged him. He asked her to visit him in the Orocarni, she asked him to visit her in Gondor. And, having said his goodbyes, he trekked off, not to Ithilien in the West, but to the Eastern borders of Mordor with Ketchupkin at his side.

[Kath]

Still smarting slightly from Anakron's accusation that she had simply used others for her own gain, though privately she was quite proud of the fact that she had managed to complete all the tasks and gained enough points to escape Mordor without actuall doing a great deal of work, Sai headed off to say goodbye and find J Lo, hoping that this run on sentence would eventually end. Catching sight of her old kamura orc she moved toward him and his van, but ran into Fléin on the way.

"Come visit me sometime." Came the somewhat stilted voice of a member of a species that famously hated outward displays of emotion. Sai promised that she would visit and returned the invite. She wanted to find Alli to check that it was alright to return J Lo's bottom without her turning back into a werewolf, but the girl was nowhere in sight. She knocked on Alli's door and yelled the question through it, but received no more than a vague groan in answer. Shaking her head she shouted her goodbyes and left Alli to her sleep.

As she continued on toward the orc she heard a popping sound behind her, and turned to find that Mordor had done one of it's strange little things again. She looked over at Anakron but he seemed far too busy to have caused it. Shrugging she silently thanked whatever had done it, and walked over to the rather bemused looking J Lo, who had just appeared in a rather clichéd puff of smoke.

"Now that my task is done
Let the world no more shun
This woman they now all ignore
Return what I took before!"

She did a double take at the awful rhyme she had just come up with, but as she craned her neck she could see a gentle swelling beginning. She stood back and watched for a moment, but couldn't see any sign of wolvishness, so left her to it.

Heading back again she caught Anakron's eye and he nodded to her with a smile, letting her know that she could go. Sai still wanted to say goodbye to the rest of the Offending Party, she knew she'd miss each of them in some small way. Alli's mood swings, Fléin's accusations of lesbianism, Panakeia's insane products, but even so, it was time to leave.

Facing West, she went home.

[piosenniel]

----------- Finis -----------

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~