[littlemanpoet]

Anakron made his way back to the mountain, oblivious to anything or anyone else around him. He was disgusted with himself. He had not harmed Panakeia, but he had hurt her yet again. He was no good for her. She should go to Ithilien and escape from the evils or Mordor, past, present and future.

When she had reached her hand toward his, he had wanted with a grievous desire to take her hand, then hold her close and say that all the evil was no more. A fool's pitiful dream. He had tried to take her hand in his, but he knew he mustn't. Or had he known that? Had it been his own choice to draw back his hand? Or had the dweomer overwhelmed his desire and his will, and forced his hand back? He did not know. He had not felt an exterior force, but that did not matter: the dweomer was deep in his bones. Admit it, Anakron, you enjoy the power..

He strode down the mountain corridors, his cloak billowing, caring not a mite for anything that was going on around him, including the insufferably delayed negotiations. Let them deal with it themselves. If they need me, they know where to find me. He both hoped and feared that he would not be needed for the negotiations.

Anakron opened the door to his chambers. The orc corpse had been removed. In its place stood Lûgnût, dressed in pink and lime green, wearing eye shadow and three sets of earrings in each ear. He looked sullen.

"I see you have been freed," murmured Anakron, "from a particularly nasty strain of the dweomer, Lûgnût."

"So it would appear, oh Grand one," the orc sneered. "I would have been most gratified if that particular strain had not been removed, if you must know."

"You liked it?" Anakron moved past the orc to a rich divan covered in sumptuous pillows, and sat down.

Lûgnût rolled his pig's head eyes and raised a his hand in a feminine gesture of dismissal. "Oh, if you must know, I have never, and I mean ne-ever, felt so, so-" he positively wriggled with delight "-manly!" Lûgnût grinned.

"You mean orcish, do you not?"

"Same difference," Lûgnût sighed.

"Make me some tea, will you?"

Panakeia had slapped his cat silly, Anakron considered with a smirk, and thrown it on the ground. If only it were that easy to be rid of. Come to think of it, he had never tried. Maybe he should just leave it somewhere inconspicuous and just stop being the Grand Anakronist. As if it could be that easy. Then again, he had never tried such a thing. Maybe tomorrow.

Lûgnût brought him tea.

"Thank you. Would you like to be orcish again, Lûgnût?"

"We-elllll-" he responded with a swing of his hips, "I did rather like it."

"I'll see what I can do. No promises! Now leave me in peace."

The orc sauntered out of his rooms and closed the door behind him.

Anakron had never considered the possibility of setting himself up in place of the Blue Istari. There was reason. It was impossible. All his power came from them, and it was all he had with which to replace them. They had merely to strip him of his power with a word, and any such attempt would be rendered null. So Panakeia was wrong about that. No, the real danger was to become a mere tool in their hands, doing all the evil they wished, not limiting it one iota. Anakron didn't think that Panakeia understood that part of it. Nor that the dweomer had more and more of his very will in its control. His will was not free; or at least, not as free as it had been, and the longer he remained Grand Anakronist, the less he would have, until he was no better than a ringwraith for them to do with as they would.

Nevertheless, for now his rage had been been deflated. Thanks to Panakeia. That questioning and sorrow in her eyes as she turned from him had doused his ire, and pushed him into remorse. He had half a mind to stay away from her so as not to cause her more harm; and he wondered about just handing in his staff, hat, and cloak and saying he was done. He sipped his tea, refilled his cup, and sipped some more, mulling his choices, aware of the irony that maybe he had no will to choose, regardless of what he desired.