[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.