Assigned to Mordor RPG

[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.