[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."