Assigned to Mordor RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli took Aimè's outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet. She threw her arms around him, kissing him on the mouth. As he stared in shock, she completely didn't notice, busy as she was dancing victoriously now across the blood-soaked floor.

"Two down, two down! You did it, Aimè!" Her voice took on a singing quality and her words danced melodiously through a pair of octaves, making Aimè laugh as he watched her caper. "Sai got J.Lo. by the tushy, Mar-yo tried to be real pushy, Aimè came and settled his score and now we're left with just one more!"

They laughed together, unnoticing of the growing crowd of angry and war-like parents outside. Teenagers had begun to gather, swinging moods and sharpening their tongues. Had she noticed, Alli would have hoped really hard that Flein would take care of the situation for her. But she didn't, therefore the world would have to hope really hard that Flein would take care of the situation for her, hint hint.

Still jubilant, Alli took Aimè by the hand and ran, pulling him laughingly down the hall. It was assumed that the janitorial staff of the building would take care of the dead werewolf. Alli pulled Aimè into one of the campus's many conviently created coffee shop and bar dance parties.

"Hey," she laughed, the thrill of success continuing to drive her. "This is just like where we met. I'll have a white chocolate mocha latte, please. You're out? Okay... a steamed milk with a shot of caramel? Sweet."

Aimè's mood was equally carefree. He ordered a cup of tea and drank it with his little finger appropriately extended. They laughed over victory.

Roggie had been avenged... Hookbill the Goomba's attacker had been taken care of. The "hero" of the world had been shown as the demon he truly was, and the Seer and the Hunter celebrated. Aimè was no longer an outlaw and Illamatar's will was being carried out. All thoughts of the third wolf were left for another time.

That time came about thirty seconds later.

"Aimè... who do you think the last wolf is?"

His mood sobered immediately. He swore, thought for a moment, and spoke.

"We leave Mordor very soon... there is no time to search. What..."

Alli interrupted. "Shh... we'll figure it out. It will be an adventure for another time. Right now... let's celebrate the defeat of Mario. We've been waiting all game for this."

They ordered more drinks, this time less non-alcoholic than their previous, and Alli quickly lost a few inhibitions that weren't very strong to begin with.

Her professor found her this way, watching her dance with Aimè the Hunter with an odd look.

"You've passed." he muttered, handing her a slip of paper. She read it several times, still had no idea what it said, and told him as much, cheeks pinker than usual. "You passed, idiot girl. You got an A on your final. I've raised your participation grades to passing. You're done with my class. Don't come back ever again."

He disappeared and Aimè yelled into Alli's ear. "Passed! That's a GOOD thing. What's that other thing the paper says?" She handed it to him and he read it. "Congratulations!" he yelled over the loud music. "You're completely sane, if a little crazy once in a while. Freud got arrested as a fraud. Who'd have guessed it?"

And so the afternoon continued into night, the jubilant pair celebrating the defeat of a monster. The more drinks Alli had, the less she cared about that third wolf. Except for a few random moments when she really, really did care. She simply drank more to drown out those times. She'd think about it another time.

[Celuien]

Boom, bang, crash. A raucous chorus of cheers. Panakeia was awakened from a restful sleep by a noisy mob outside her window. "Whath's going on?" she mumbled sleepily. Rubbing her eyes and yawning, she stumbled towards the window and, ladder style, climbed up Freud's couch to peer outside. No objection to the light came from the room's other occupant - she was nowhere to be found.

Outside, Panakeia quickly spotted the source of her disturbance. An open area adjacent to the dormitory building had been transformed into some sort of sports field. On one side there was a white net. The other side had a tall yellow post that terminated in two parallel rods. As if the teams couldn't agree on what game they were playing, one kicked a round, black and white ball while the other threw a brown-red ovoid object through the air. One ball or the other kept hitting the side of the dorm with a clunk. Panakeia continued to mutter grumpily as she went outdoors to investigate further.

At the field, she pushed her way through the assembled crowd to come up next to a reality-show kamura-orc who was narrating the events. "Welcome back to Celebrity Sports Coach II: Battle of the Titans. The football...erm...soccer...erm...football game between the University of Mordor, coached by that great star of the sports world, David Beckham with his famous lucky shoes, and the University of Lost Angles, coached by our other celebrity sports luminary, Donovan McNabb, wearing his favorite jersey, is well under way. The score is currently tied at 0-0, we think, since differences in British and American dialects have led to some confusion about which game is being played today. Oh, look!" The round ball flew over the yellow posts. "Score for U of M! I think. We'll have to let the ref decide how many points that was worth." The teams, coaches and referees huddled together on the field to debate the score.

Panakeia, feeling like her old self for the moment, saw her chance to both interrupt the noisy game and guarantee that Anakron would accept her second attempt to claim a celebrity's treasured possession. She grabbed a sticker that read "Official Representative" and hurried out onto the field. Coming up to David Beckham, she tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me," she said.

"Yes?"

"I am from the...um...um...yes...Mordor Football Association. Yes, that's it. I'm here to take your football shoes for inspection."

"What?" Beckham's eyes went wide in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?" To herself, Panakeia repeated the question with a different emphasis. "What am I talking about?" She went on. "Yes, well, the thing is, there's some debate as to whether or not your footwear is in keeping with regulation. So I've been sent here to take them for examination."

Beckham snapped at her. "That's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? You're calling the Mordor Football Association ridiculous? Do you want to be suspended?" She imitated her professor's threatening gaze.

Beckham whined. "But I like these shoes. They're my most important...thing."

"They'll be returned to you," Panakeia replied. She held out her hand. "The shoes, please." Beckham removed the shoes and handed them to her.

"Just make sure you give these back to me in the same condition that I gave them to you." Panakeia looked at the shoes. They were filthy and gave off a vaguely unpleasant odor. It would take all of her effort not to throw the shoes away, let alone tamper with them.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'm sure no one will do anything to them. Thank you." Then she went over to McNabb.

"You," she barked. Panakeia pointed to his jersey, a green shirt printed with a white 5. "Give me that shirt now."

"Yo! What are youse talking about? This is my Eagles jersey. I love it. It means I'm on the team. I wouldn't give it away for anything." He stared at Panakeia.

Panakeia walked closer, nose nearly touching the top of the 5. She bent her neck upward. "Do you know who I am?" she yelled. "I'm an official with the Mordor Football Association, and we think that jersey might not be an officially licensed garment. Hand it over now."

"Aw, come on. Youse guys know it's official. The team gave it to me. It's licensed."

Panakeia didn't back down. "If it's licensed we'll give it back to you. Hand it over."

McNabb pouted, then took off the jersey and gave it to Panakeia. "I want it back. I can't wear this on the team." He waved his hand over a T-shirt with a smiley face print.

"Don't worry. I'm sure the inspection process won't take more than a few months. Thanks." She hurried back to the dorm while McNabb howled in protest over the 'few months.'

Panakeia put her room key into the lock. The door opened to reveal a strange group, comprised of a beaver, a sparrow, and a man in a black cape, hat, and mask. Panakeia turned on her heel. "Excuse me. I must have the wrong room." She tried to leave but was intercepted by the odd trio. The man took the shoes and shirt and put them on the couch.

"Are you with us or against us?" he asked.

"What? I don't know what you're talking about," Panakeia replied.

"A Slan is returning. He is on the move again," said the beaver. Panakeia stared at the talking animal.

The sparrow chirped. "Your roommate has joined the other side. War is about to begin."

The man spoke again. "Where do you stand?"

"I have no idea what any of you are talking about. Where do I stand? I suppose I stand wherever my roommate doesn't."

The beaver spoke again. "Then you are with A Slan."

"What exactly is A Slan?" Panakeia asked.

The sparrow squeaked. "He is."

The beaver said, "A Slan is returning."

Great. Just what I need. Animals that give me riddles. And now I'm on the side of something called a Slan, whatever that is. Wonderful. Panakeia wasn't very happy with this turn of events.

The man slashed a 'Z' into Panakeia's roommate's blanket. "Come with us," he said.

"Wait. Come with you? I can't. I have to give these things to Anakron."

The group stepped back in horror. The man spoke. "Anakron? Then you are on his side. You are against us."

Oh no. Here we go again. "No. I don't like Anakron. But if I upset him, I don't get out of Mordor. Look, can't you let me be neutral?"

"The time for neutrality is past. The times are changing. What side are you on? Choose quickly."

How do I get out of this? Think! "Neither A Slan, nor Anakron. I side with Kirk."

The trio held a quick conference. Then the beaver spoke. "Kirk? Who is Kirk? Which side is he on?"

Panakeia decided to join the riddle game. "Kirk is."

"Kirk is what?"

"You'll have to ask him," she said. "Seek for the Captain! He will tell you what you need to know."

The three returned to their private discussions. At last, the sparrow gave a reply. "We will find this Captain of yours. But we will be back. A Slan is returning."

"Fine." The strangers filed out of the room.

After the door closed on her visitors, Panakeia gave a sigh of relief. Hopefully, the ploy would keep her out of whatever trouble was brewing. Her goal was to stall for enough time to leave Mordor before the sides, whatever they were, and the Slan, whatever it was, started their battle.

[Encaitare]

By the time Wilhelmina reached the lecture hall, which was, of course, on the opposite side of the campus, the exam was just about to begin. The troll teacher moped at her. "The Environmental Protection Agency threatened to sue us to Valinor and back if we didn't stop cutting down the rain forests to make so much paper for this class."

"I didn't know there were rain forests in Middle-earth."

"Apparently there are," the troll shouted sadly. "So for your final, you just have to fingerpaint a nice picture. Everything you'll need is on your desk."

Wilhelmina went to the desk and found a large piece of paper and pots of paint in red, blue, and yellow. Sighing, she tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, took off her rings, and dipped her fingers in the paint.

Actually, it was quite fun. She didn't feel young, as the teacher had implied, but there was something satisfying in the act.

On one half of the paper she painted Mr. Swanky at the beach, complete with little sunglasses and a drink with an umbrella in it. On the other half, she drew a fairly accurate depiction of Anakron getting crushed in an avalanche.

Suddenly, her nose itched. Maybe fingerpainting wasn't so fun, after all. As she indiscreetly wiped her messy fingers on the desktop, she noticed the late Doctor Hookbill's perky blonde nurse coming though the door. The nurse tossed her hair and handed a note to the teacher.

"Ms. Brochenbach," the teacher screamed across the hall, "you've a message from the Grand Anakronist. He says that Dr. Freud is now fully reassembled and will see you now so you can finish your psychological evaluation. Only if you're done with the exam, of course."

"All done," she said, cheerily gesturing ith paint-stained fingers at her magnificent work of art.

~*~*~*~*~

Dr. Sigmund Freud was much less fragmented this time, but just as annoying.

"And how has the patient been?" he asked, scribbling on his notepad before she even opened her mouth.

"She's been just fine," she said mockingly. "She just took a final exam."

"Perhaps... suffers from... multiple personality... disorder," he muttered as he wrote. Then he said louder, "Do you think you did well?"

"I suppose so," she said, reclining on the couch. "I got to fingerpaint."

Freud lit a cigar and smoked it with relish. "Tell me about your painting."

Wilhelmina very much hoped he wouldn't try to glean some asinine profundity from a fingerpainting. "I painted Mr. Swanky at the beach, and Anakron being crushed by falling rocks," she said matter-of-factly.

"Sharp contrast... of... peace... and violence," the doctor said to himself. The sentence was punctuated with a loud boom in the distance, yet he didn't seem to hear it. "Any unusual dreams since we last met?"

She decided not to tell him about the dream with her parents -- she knew he'd have a field day with that one. And was that another booming sound she heard? "No, none. I haven't had any dreams at all."

"You know, everyone has dreams," he said. "We just don't remember most of them."

"How fascinating," she replied, listening closely for another noise.

When the next sound came, now more of a crash than a boom, Dr. Freud nearly jumped out of his chair. The cigar fell from his mouth and burned a hole in his pants.

A few seconds later, a large ape punched a hole through the wall of the office.

"Queen Quon?!" Wilhelmina shrieked. "I thought she was dead!" Atop her head, Mr. Swanky poked his nose out from him hat-house.

"Begone! Begone, you gorilla creature!" Freud shouted at Queen Quon, waving his arms in what completely failed to come off as a threatening manner. She picked him up in one enormous fist and tore him into pieces which fell to the ground and began to creep about the room in an attempt to reunite.

Queen Quon then turned her eye on Wilhelmina. She reached out with two thick fingers and plucked the hat from her head. With a triumphant bellow, the monstrous gorilla turned and loped off.

"Mr. Swanky!!!" the old woman cried. On the ground all around her were the creeping pieces of Dr. Sigmund Freud. She located a hand, and a head -- luckily, Queen Quon had not demolished the psychologist quite as much as Dr. Hookbill's botched attempts at medicinal practice. Picking both parts up, she carried them to the desk and found the evaluation form and a pen. As quickly as she could, she checked off the "healthy mental state" box and thrust the pen into the disembodied hand.

"Sign it!" she demanded.

"But--" protested the head.

"Do it!" she shrieked. "My best friend has been ferret-napped, and I don't have time for this! Sign the form or I swear I'll impale your skull with my walking stick!"

The hand hastened to do so, and even stuck the form in the doctor's outbox.

"Thanks, Doctor!" she said, and then she ran out through the hole in the wall.

[the guy who be short]

On the grounds of the campus, battle was brewing such as Mordor had not seen for centuries. Fléin, at the great gates of the old stone building, peered out at the scene, astonished at the speed with which the world was mobilising itself.

A mob of students stood on one side, murmuring so that though no voice was discernible, the overall effect was like the humming of either a few million ordinary bees, or one really, really big one, whichever analogy you prefer.

And in the centre of the mob stood Anakron. Fléin looked around, but could see no other members of the Offending Party on the field yet, though he could easily have missed somebody in the thousands massed there. He noticed, however, that Ketchupkin, along with the other four Dwarves, numbered themselves amongst the Parents. They looked quite out of place, kitted in mail, axes in hand, amongst the parents.

The Parents, Fléin noted, seemed a lot better organised than Anakron. They stood in ordered ranks, and many bore banners. "A Slan Comes!" some claimed. Others displayed anger at Anakron and the sybaritic lifestyle students were offered. And also - Fléin reflected that their faces did not bear the downtrodden look typical of Mordorians. These were an invading force.

Fléin walked out and drew his axe. Few noticed the Dwarf joining the Parents, but Fléin noted Anakron's eyes following him. The glare from his eyes near paralysed the Dwarf, but he tore himself away from their gaze and joined Ketchupkin, who nodded.

Amongst the parents, Fléin noted that, as well as being prepared, they actually bore many weapons. Staffs, sticks and everyday household objects seemed prominent. Several people has soap spears for some reason. Women carried kitchen knives, men held D.I.Y tools.

Fléin peels his eyes away from the arms of his allies to note Anakron stepping forward and advancing towards the parents. A man had also peeled himself off from the Parents, and advanced towards Anakron. They met in between the two armies.

Anakron ignored the Parent and turned to face Fléin. "Fléin!" he cried across the field. "Do not involve yourself. You know not what happens."

Thousands of eyes turned on the Dwarf. "I saw you! I saw you murder A Slan! I saw you slaughter him!" the Dwarf bellowed back.

An uproar ensued. Anakron's reply was lost in the Parents' stamping their spears and roaring insults at the dark figure before them. Their leader appealed for calm, but the insults continued to flow for minutes. Anakron merely laughed.

Finally, they died down, and Anakron turned to face Fléin once more. "You have chosen. But I have slain A Slan, and my victory is certain."

At this, the ranks of the parents could hold back no more. As one, they charged forward. The Students in turn rushed forward, unruly as ever.

Anakron struck down the Parental Leader, knocking him to the ground. Then, he raised his staff, and for all the noise of screaming thousands, Fléin could hear him as clear as riverwater. "Anakronism Commence!" he yelled.

The ground all around Anakron erupted. All around him, the fell creatures Fléin had seen on the night of A Slan's cold-blooded murder appeared, howling and drooling. The Students cheered.

Anakron bashed his staff again. There was a flash of light, and several winged Balrogs appeared, again accompanied by cheers.

A final slamming of the staff into the ground, and teachers and professors came into being.

All the time, they were getting closer and closer as Fléin rushed on. Each banging of the staff brought his heart closer and closer to failure: he didn't even know what he was fighting for. What was A Slan? But momentum carried him forwards, and the knowledge that, if he should do anything so foolish as to doubt himself, he would be crushed by the oncoming hoards behind.

With a yell of anticipation, fear, apprehension and a myriad emotions before unfelt, Fléin hit the ranks of those who would stand against him and A Slan.

[Celuien]

Panakeia sat in her room, puzzling over the meaning of the visit from A Slan's followers. Who or what A Slan was, and what the battle against Anakron meant (although she could easily understand why someone would want to fight the aggravating Grand Anakronist) were all problems beyond her knowledge. One question was most important to her, however; the question of how all of this would affect her ability to leave Mordor. If Anakron turned out victorious, things would be unchanged. Her fate would still depend on his judgment. But if Anakron fell, what would this Slan do? Panakeia wasn't sure she wanted to find out, although she did find herself wondering which side was in the right and wishing she could join the right side. It seemed that her conscience was still at work.

A din of shouts drifted through the air to disturb Panakeia's concentration. Stupid sports fans. I thought I took care of them earlier. She looked out the window. Indeed, the football field was deserted. The noise came from a more distant location. Listening more intently, she realized that the sounds were different. The football fans had been rowdy and excited. These voices were angry. Panakeia couldn't see where the noise was coming from, so she climbed to the roof of the building to gain a better vantage point.

Off in the distance, Panakeia saw two vast opposing crowds, their banners flying in the wind. The banners were too far away for her to read, but she thought she heard the words "A Slan" amidst the roar. And she was almost certain she spotted Anakron's billowing robes at the head of one of the groups. The battle had begun before Anakron could give his decision to the Offending Party. Panakeia cried aloud, "No! It's too soon" and ran back to her room at top speed. She bolted the door behind her and pushed Freud's couch against it to make sure no emissaries from A Slan could enter uninvited. Then she pulled the curtains shut and hid in her bed, covers pulled tightly around her ears. She was going to do her best to stay out of the whole mess.

[the guy who be short]

Battle roared. Really, it roared. Like a lion, but a thousand times louder, and another thousand times more intense.

The Parents were not faring well, though Fléin himself had slain many of the dark creatures arrayed against them. With his fellow Dwarves, he had formed a ferocious little party that acted as a vanguard and cut down all those in their way.

Replicating this, but on a much larger scale, was Anakron, surrounded by a guard of Balrogs, bulldozing through the centre of the Parents' Army. Every now and then, a Balrog would try jump, trying to fly, and fail; the effect would have been comical if dozens had not been burnt by their flames as they fell to the ground.

Fléin continued hacking in front of him, keeping an eye on how Ketchupkin was doing. Though he could not see past the steam and smoke of the Balrogs, he knew that the outpost of Parents on the far side of the field would be surrounded. He knew this because he was on the outpost on the near side of the battlefield, and was being surrounded. Anakron's attack on the centre had resulted in the Parental Army assuming a very weak concave shape, the ends of which were now being brutally assailed.

Swish! A flash of silver, and Fléin felt metal connect with his unmailed legs. Fortunately the Student had missed his knee, finding only his shin. Fléin kicked him off and swung his axe, but he ran back in fear, only to be replaced by more.

To his left, he saw a Dwarf - not Ketchupkin - fall. This was not going at all as planned. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he tried to move over to help, but it was too late to do anything but avenge his or her death.

There was a great cheering from the opposition, and Fléin realised that the bulk of the Parent's army was routing, fleeing from the wanton destruction that is war. He had no option but to turn himself, or face the enemy alone. Much as he rued it, he too ran back, ignoring his leg.

Anakron's forces cheered louder; a great cry went up, though Fléin wasn't quite sure what they said. All he knew was that all hope was gone. All around him he saw nothing but men and women running with tears running down their faces, knives and spears forgotten, weeping for the Fall of A Slan and their own fate.

And as the Students, with all their foul allies, came at last to end it all, when hope was lost, when all thought of anything but despair had left the stout heart of even the Dwarves, the Heavens opened and light bathed them all. There was a tremendous roar, not of war this time, but of a lion, and His noise was greater than all the racket of war and Men and beast alike.

In the centre of the field, a great light announced the Return of the Antilion. Another roar, and dryads, Pandas, beavers, lemmings, Roggie, hundreds of beasts loyal to A Slan rushed out and pushed into the armies of Anakron.
Those who were fleeing turrned and drove into the enemy, who recoiled; many turned themselves.

But Anakron grabbed his staff in both hands and stamped ferociously in the middle of the field. Fire and devilry erupted around him one again.

And in retaliation, A Slan roared, and yet more beasts and men emerged, seemingly from nowhere. Stamp and roar, stamp and roar.

Fléin rushed on, not knowing what was going to happen, nor whose force would be greater. All he knew was that he must fight on, he must fight against those who murdered cruelly, he must fight for Good. That was what this was. An ideological battle. And he was on the right side.

Then he felt his body bathed in light, and his limbs dropped like lead to his side. Struggle as he might, he was unable to move! This would be the death of him!

But... the enemy, too, were frozen. Fléin directed his eyes in puzzlement first from A Slan and then to Anakron. The Antilion was frozen in midroar, his canines bared at Anakron. Anakron, in his turn, was frozen slamming his staff into the ground. The battlefield was a tableau. Eyes roamed everywhere, seeking explanation.

Then there was a great bleating from above, and a voice boomed in Fléin's head, and in all the heads of those arrayed there.

"Now, children, you know you shouldn't be fighting! Baa!"

[the phantom]

Mardil paced from wall to wall in his jail cell. It was small- three steps, turn, three steps, turn. A psychologist was supposed to arrive at 4:00 to give him his psych eval, and Mardil was anxious to get it over with. A lone orc stood outside his cell sharpening a knife.

"What time is it?" Mardil asked.

"You still have another ten minutes to wait," grunted the orc.

Mardil closed his eyes and leaned against the wall with a groan. Time was barely moving.

"Don't go groaning and moaning," said the orc. "You could've had this taken care of hours ago if you would've just left with Anakron. I can't figure why in the world you want to stay here in jail."

"I have my reasons," said Mardil. Mardil sat down on the cell's little cot and began to polish his favorite knife, though it didn't really need it.

"I'm going to get a drink. I'll be back," said the orc. Mardil ignored him and continued polishing his knife.

Right after the orc left, there was a sudden popping sound and Mardil found that there was someone else in the cell. He looked up, and standing right in front of him was the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, Denethor IV.

"Father?!"

"Hello, Mardil," said Denethor, sitting down beside Mardil on the cot.

"But how-"

"How am I here? Oh, it's rather simple. There's some sort of parent versus children battle going on here, and so all parents of residents of Mordor can pop in to see their children, so long as they intend on fighting with them a bit, or at least criticizing them."

"So you're here to criticize me?" asked Mardil.

"Yes, yes, I have to. It's part of the rules." Denthor smiled at his son. "But before I criticize, let me just say that I'm very glad to see you," he said, putting his arm around Mardil's shoulders. But as he did this, he began to fade. "Oops," he said, withdrawing his arm. "I must be getting too nice. Anakron told me if the parents and their offspring got along too well the parent would disappear back out of Mordor."

"All right. Well, what do you have to say, father. I haven't got long until my psych eval."

"Yes, I know. Well, as far as criticism- what is with you and the ladies?" asked Denethor.

"What do you mean?" returned Mardil. "I thought I was rather good with them. I mean, did you see on television how I got that werewolf book away from that Fea girl? Now that was a nice bit-"

"I wouldn't call that nice at all!" scowled Denethor. "Sure you got the book, but you led that poor girl on. I'm sure after a couple of weeks with no calls from you, she's beginning to wonder if you really meant everything you said."

"She doesn't matter. She's not even from this world. I mean- she's not real," argued Mardil, turning away from his father.

"And what about that TA?" continued Denethor. "You really did a number on her, just to get an A in a class!"

"She'll get over it, mumbled Mardil.

"So that makes it all right?" asked Denethor.

"Why do you care?" asked Mardil, annoyed.

"Why don't you?" countered Denethor.

"Why should I?" shot back Mardil.

"You used to," answered Denethor. "Mardil wasn't cruel."

"He is now," said Mardil, now thoroughly over his initial happiness at seeing his father.

"You mean you are- not Mardil," Denethor said, poking Mardil in the chest.

"I thought I was Mardil."

"Oh no you're not. You're a bitter, angry young man," said Denethor, poking Mardil in the chest again.

"I think I have the right to be," argued Mardil.

"Not anymore, you don't." Denethor stood and spread his arms wide. "You're about to leave Mordor! You're about to pick up your life again! You'll be able to see your friends and family again- everything and everyone you love!"

"Not everyone," said Mardil through gritted teeth, but his father didn't hear him.

"You should be acting like Mardil II, the future Steward of Gondor!" declared Denethor, "Or possibly the future you-know-what," he added with a smile. "But enough criticism. You were always a good lad. I know once you get back you'll rectify your behavior. But now, we have business to discuss. Everything is prepared. I have a couple thousand men hidden up on the south side of the valley, less than a ten minute march from here. If something goes wrong and they aren't letting you out of Mordor, I'll be there with my men to cover your escape. Now, your message said you already had your escape route planned?"

"Yes, father," said Mardil confidently. "I'm sure that Anakron already told you that I have access to all of Khamul's power, henchmen, and information, right? Well, this cell that I'm in- one of Khamul's top men was in here once, and Khamul had him snatched from out of here by means of a tunnel. The authorities never found it, so it's still here, and I know how to get down into it. The other end is in a park south of the main gate, right next to the border wall. They would've tunneled out of Mordor, but there's some sort of spell that keeps anyone from doing that along the wall. But that doesn't matter. If I can get to the gate, you and your men can take the gate quite easily."

"Yes, indeed. So, it's all set?"

"I believe so."

"Good. I'll see you soon." Denenthor disappeared with a pop.

"What was that noise?" asked the orc guard as he came in the door from the hall with a cup of coffee.

"Oh, nothing," said Mardil.

An orc entered and tapped the orc guard on the shoulder. "The psychologist is here."

[Celuien]

Noise from the battle continued to wash over the dormitory, and Panakeia remained firmly ensconced in her fortress of blankets. She was beginning to think that she would escape the fighting when a sharp rapping at the door made her heart skip a few beats. Panakeia stayed quiet and held her breath, determined to stand by the notion that if you ignore a problem long enough, it will go away. The knocking kept coming; her caller was persistent. But Panakeia still failed to respond. Finally, the knocking ceased. Panakeia started to breathe again, and a loud crash announced that her door and the couch had been pushed inward.

Three pairs of feet padded over the floor. Panakeia's heart sank. A Slan's messengers appeared to have returned. Maybe they wouldn't notice the shaking lump of fabric on the bed. No such luck. The footsteps drew nearer. Panakeia's blanket was pulled off of her head. She turned her face to the pillow and shut her eyes.

"Jim! Here she is! You no-good, scheming, rotten..."

"Stop it, Bones."

Panakeia's head spun around. Instead of A Slan's messengers, she saw Kirk, Dr. McBones, and Spockú of the formerly glorious brows. Panakeia was glad to see that he had the good sense to remove the brow Valde left behind. His face was even now, stubbly fragments of eyebrow just starting to form a scanty 'V" on his forehead.

"Captain! What are you doing here?" Panakeia cried. His toupee was carefully reattached to his head. Her package had evidently been delivered.

"The messengers came to us. They said there is trouble here. And that you follow me. We are here to solve the problem. Follow me."

"Wait. Are you with Anakron or A Slan?" Panakeia didn't want to get herself into trouble.

The Captain stood tall. "We represent the United Federation of Drekkies. I will always be on the right side. Come on!" He pulled Panakeia to her feet. "We're going to fight." And irresistibly, Panakeia was pulled out of her room in the direction of the raging battle. So much for neutrality, she thought.

Spockú spoke. "Captain, may I remind you that any interference in this matter is in direct violation of regulations? As well, may I remind you that you already have a considerable number of outstanding violations on record?"

"Regulations? Is that all that matters? We may violate a few orders, but I'm not going to stand by while the world is destroyed."

Dr. McBones said, "That's right. You cold hearted..."

He was interuppted by Spockú. "Really. You must learn to control your emotions, Doctor."

Dr. McBones' face turned beet red and he said something in reply, but it was drowned out by the noise of the battle, the brink of which they now stood on.

Panakeia moaned. "Please. I know that you have to do something, but can't you just leave me out of it? I'm no fighter. I'd be no help." She looked pleadingly at Kirk, but he ignored her.

"That's what we'll do," Kirk said. "We'll contact the ship and tell them to destroy the planet unless they stop fighting."

McBones and Spockú exchanged glances over Kirk's head. They stepped back a few feet.

"Do you think we should tell him?" whispered McBones.

"I see no logical alternative," Spockú replied.

They came back to Kirk. "Jim," McBones said, "Jim, there's something we have to tell you."

"What is it?"

"There is no ship, Captain."

Kirk's stared, an expression of despair on his face. "No ship? What do you mean?"

"We didn't have the heart to tell you before, Jim. There isn't a ship. There never was. Just a few cardboard sets in a fantasy world."

"No ship?" The look of grief on Kirk's face was beyond description.

"No. No ship."

That was enough. Kirk turned and ran off into some tall weeds at the edge of the battle, all the while sobbing, "No ship. No ship." McBones and Spockú set off in pursuit, leaving Panakeia behind.

Oh, what a bother! Panakeia ran after them, hoping she could help when they caught up to the Captain. She felt terribly sorry for him. And assisting the broken-hearted Captain would keep her away from the battle. She vanished into the weeds and leapt over a pile of discarded fast-food wrappers.

Suddenly, in a flash of light, time froze. Panakeia was suspended in mid-leap.

A disembodied voice echoed over the land. "Now, children, you know you shouldn't be fighting! Baa!"

"Illamatar!" Panakeia exclaimed. Or would have exclaimed had her mouth not been frozen.

"Yes, children. You shouldn't be fighting. Nor should you, parents. You, of all people, should know better. We just can't have this. I am very disappointed in you. All of you. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Baa!" There was another flash of light and a rumbling as the ground opened. Anakron's beasts vanished under the earth. Another flash of light transformed all of the weapons on the field into bouquets of posies. "Now I want all of you to behave yourselves. Play nicely with each other. Don't make me come back and give you another time-out. Baa!" The blinding light vanished, time unfroze, and Panakeia landed on the ground with a thud. She was torn between running to see what would become of the battle and continuing her search for the Captain. The decision was made for her by the reappearance of the Captain and his two friends. To Panakeia's amazement, Spockú and McBones were walking together, chatting and laughing.

"How could I have ever been so cruel to you? I can't believe it."

Even Spockú was grinning. "No, you weren't that bad. It was my fault for being stubborn." Both laughed and patted each other on the back.

If Illamatar's pronouncement had such an effect on the dueling pseudo-shipmates, what had it done to the battle? Panakeia raced to find out. She gazed out over the field and rejoiced.

Parents and children stood together, hugging, laughing and crying at the same time. They finally understood each other. For the time being. Flowers were tossed up in the air with the general air of good cheer.

But what of Anakron and A Slan? Panakeia searched for them in the crowd. Then she spotted them at the edge of the crowd, not far from where she stood.

"Um, sorry about all that, old chum," said Anakron. "About killing you before, I mean. And everything else. It was just a misunderstanding. Do you think you can forget about it?"

The Antilion looked at Anakron, wisdom and forgiveness in his kind eyes. "Of course I can. It has already been forgiven. But you must reform and learn patience, kindness and understanding."

Panakeia hurried away, not wanting to see the rest of the scene. She thought it was better to let Anakron and A Slan work out their problems alone.

She came up to the Captain. "Well, it seems that everything is going to end happily."

"Of course it is," he replied, a beatific smile on his face. "I came to help, didn't I?"

Panakeia decided to let him keep his dream.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had followed the massive foot- and knuckle-prints that Queen Quon had made until at last she spotted the creature on the horizon. Apparently she had stopped and sat on the ground to reunite with her ferrety lover. Cautiously, Wilhelmina came closer, fearing that Queen Quon would detect her presence and get angry, but all of the ape’s attentions were focused on Mr. Swanky. She watched Queen Quon hold the ferret up to her face and pat him on the head ever so gently with a finger that could bend an iron bar. She couldn’t bear to watch this.

“Hey! Queen Quon!” she shouted. The ape grunted and stood up, turning around to glower at her. Wilhelmina cleared her throat and mustered her courage. “Please give me my ferret back,” she asked boldly.

Queen Quon made a sound that had the same attitude as someone sassily saying, “In your dreams.”

“He doesn’t belong out here!” she said. Queen Quon cocked her head to the side. “You see, if you give Mr. Swanky back to me, he’ll have the chance to get out of Mordor! Don’t you want what’s best for him? Don’t they say ‘If you love someone, set them free?’” Wilhelmina had never actually believed in that dumb old romantic cliché, but it sounded convincing enough.

Queen Quon scratched her head thoughtfully. She looked sadly from Mr. Swanky to Wilhelmina and back. Finally, and with great deliberation, she held the ferret out to the old woman.

“Thank you, Queen Quon,” Wilhelmina said happily. “We won’t forget you. In fact, we’ll send you a postcard if we get back to Minas Tirith.”

Suddenly she found herself up in the air, and then on Queen Quon’s upper back. The ape slowly started walking on her knuckles; Wilhelmina grabbed onto the fur so she and Mr. Swanky wouldn’t fall off. Queen Quon then took off at a run towards the university.

“Oh!” she exclaimed to Mr. Swanky. “Queen Quon’s a celebrity, right? And you were the most important thing to her, yes? Maybe we will get out of here, after all! I hope Anakron’s in a good mood…”