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Anakron was stalking the streets looking for a likely fanatic when out of an alley came two diminutive blue-robed men. Anakron stopped in his tracks.
"Good day, Anakron," intoned the shorter of the two.
"Good day," Anakron responded brusquely. "How may I serve you?" Anakron's tone was not that of one who wished to serve, but to tear limb from limb.
"Come into this alley where we can talk in private."
Anakron exhaled. He followed them, his shoulders suddenly stooped. Just before they reached the end of the alley, the two men parted ways and stood to either side of the alley, their backs to the walls.
"After you," the taller one gestured toward a blank brick wall.
Anakron wordlessly passed between them and turned, his back to the wall. He waited, glowering. The two men closed in side by side and faced him, their faces impassive.
"You have been conveying religions from the future." It was stated as fact rather than query.
"Yes," Anakron said on a wearisome breath. Just then he saw Panakeia in the road; she had stopped short at the end of the alley and seen him. He looked away from her and back at the Blue Istari before they could notice - - he hoped.
"These will conveyances have nothing to do with our purpose for Mordor and the Gondorian Empire. They must stop."
"And if they don't?"
"Then it will go ill with you. We have undone your damage. That is the end of it, or else. Understood?"
Anakron opened his mouth in a grimace. "And if the evil of your dweomer overcomes me? What then?"
"See that it does not."
They turned away from him and saw Panakeia before she could hide.
"This girl," said the taller one, "she is cured. Make use of her to maintain control of your conveyances."
The two men walked by her, the smaller one stopping a moment to say before he passed, "He is upon a knife edge. Do not fail."
Then they turned into the street.
Anakron felt red hot rage within him. It would be easy to konvey something blisteringly damaging to those two, but they would merely flick it away as an afterthought. Anakron took a deep, unsmiling breath, and willed himself to stay standing where he was, to not lash out, to stand and wait before doing anything at all; for if he did anything, there was no telling what uncontrolled impulse might burst from him. He waited, watching Panakeia to see what she would do, hoping that she would flee from him in a sudden unlikely moment of better judgement, knowing that she would come to him and do all that she could, the little that was in her power, to try to talk him into some semblance, some modicum of self-control. If only words could do anything other than chafe against his nerves.
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