Thread: ATM II RPG
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Old 05-30-2006, 08:39 PM   #53
Celuien
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Join Date: May 2005
Location: Assigned to Mordor
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Celuien has just left Hobbiton.
Sniffling and rubbing her nose with a piece of disintegrating Kleenex, Panakeia watched Skittles scurry and backflip out of the billiards room. Panakeia had come to accept that oddity reigned in Mordor, but this insane child was the oddest thing she had encountered yet. Except for her own placement under a pool table. Panakeia couldn't remember entering the room, much less huddling under furniture. Of course, in her distraction over Anakron, anything was possible. She couldn't really remember anything clearly between Anakron's last words to her and Skittles' dangling over the edge of the table.

Panakeia burst anew into tears at the memory of Anakron's harshness. She knew that some of the fault was her own. Her insinuations about the blonde were entirely unjustified, and not even relevant to her visit. Not in the least. She only wanted to speak with Anakron and to hear an explanation for his cancellations. But in her weariness and frustration, she foolishly had allowed the words to be spoken. And words were dangerous, perhaps even more dangerous than the switchblade she had spotted on her bizarre visitor.

But maybe, just maybe, it had all been for the best. Anakron clearly no longer cared for her. Better to know now than to wait through another year of dates and games, pleasant though the meetings would have been. They always were. Her lip quivered.

Of a sudden, Panakeia noted that the world looked as though she viewed it through the swirling waters of a fishbowl. A sound like that of a pipe-organ faintly echoed in her ears, and her gaze seemed to search far away. In other words, she was having a flashback.

~*~

Panakeia stood in a green field watching her father jump his horse as the horse jumped a hedge. He missed.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, father. You shouldn't be jumping horses."

"I'll not have me own daughter telling me what I shall jump and not jump. It's my own neck, so it is."

"Whatever."

"If anyone's to do the telling here, it's me that'll do it."

"Whatever."

"Just remember, Miss Panakeia O'Harad. TaršÍ - land - is the only thing worth fighting for - worth dying for! Except for prime-time advertising slots, which make an entirely different category altogether. D'ye understand me?"

"Whatever."

~*~

The music faded, and Panakeia stood glassy-eyed in its aftermath. Yes, that was the answer. Though her father's lectures often rambled and made little sense, particularly after a missed saddle left his wits scattered, sometimes he did make a good point. She would go back to TaršÍ. The tests to allow her egress from Mordor were passed a year ago. There was nothing to stop her from leaving. She would tell Anakron of her decision, and say her farewells to him. For the last time. The thought made her nose and eyes twitch. But tomorrow was another day. Anakron could hate her, but she would always care for him. And perhaps, when enough tomorrows had passed, he would regret leaving her. Then he would come to her. But he would be too late. She didn't need him. She didn't need anyone. She would survive, even if she used every box of Kleenex in Mordor, which was a distinct possibility; her tears were pouring again at the image of an aged, pitiable Anakron seeking his long lost love.

She would tell Anakron after the conference ended for the day. She would tell him, and then go home.
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