Assigned to Mordor RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli stopped berating Aimè (who she wasn't that upset with, since he had just saved her, but it was the thought that counted, she always said, and she thought that anyone who'd kill someone who smelled as good as Mardil, in girl-friend-defense or not, deserved not only a run-on sentence but a good superfluous rant) as soon as Mardil came back to life and Anakron lost his.

She stood in shock as Panakeia knelt in the same sort of mental state. She turned to Aimè.

"Did Anakron just die?"

He nodded.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded again.

"So by nodding, you mean to tell me that Anakron's corpse is sitting right there..."

He nodded one more time.

"Damn. How do we fix him?"

Aimè stared blankly, at a complete loss for words. He'd just dealt with two werewolves. His job was to kill them, not to bring them back to life.

"Okay, I've got it." she said, rubbing her hands together. She walked over to Anakron and nudged Panakeia out of the way. Opening Anakron's mouth, she pulled an absurdly large bellows from her miraculously recovered bag. Jamming it inside, she started pumping. Slowly but surely, Anakron's chest began to rise and fall gently. Panakeia looked hopefully at him. A moment later, Alli pulled the bellows out and Anakron's surprisingly mobile dead body remained a dead body and ceased being mobile. She put the bellows away and went back to Aimè, brainstorming a bit more.

Forever later, but really only about thirty seconds, she sighed melodramatically.

"I've got nothin'." Aimè nodded. He was as utterly bereft of nothing as she was. In fact, due to bad grammar of that odd turn of phrase, he logically and obviously ended up having something.

"Illamatar."

"Pardon?"

"Illamatar. We have the One on our side."

"Oh yeah. Illamatar, I need you!" Alli shouted to the wind. The wind did not shout back. Nor did it bleat back, baa back, or even bray. "Um... I think Illamatar turned his back on us."

"Alli," Aimè preached, "Perhaps Illamatar didn't really turn his back on you. Perhaps you turned your back on him."

She turned around. Whoodathunkit, but Illamatar was right there looking as llamaesque as ever, black eyes staring everywhere at once, and standing absurdly tall.

"Ooh, hi Lord."

"What do you want now, Alli?"

"Well, I'm having some trouble keeping my slain werewolves properly slain, but really, the trouble in this case is that we just slayed one and I kind of want him back."

"So you're complaining that Mardil came back to life? I thought you were all over him like white on rice."

"What!?"

"My apologies... I have recently heard the phrase and felt as though using it in this situation would appropriately convey your attraction. Was I mistaken?"

"Um... no, not really. But I really need Anakron back. We can't leave Mordor without him. And... well... I kind of want out."

Aimè looked crushed. Alli hastily kissed him reassurance.

"I mean... I want to come back and all... but... well... I guess I kind of have a request list."

The Allmighty looked at Alli in wonder. Could she really be so arrogant that she would think presenting a list of desired deau ex machinae would result in them actually happening?

"Yes."

"Baa."

"No, seriously, that's what I want, Illamatar. The look on your face... it's obvious you're contemplating smiting me for having the cahones to tell you what I want and expecting you to do it. Basically, to put it simply, I want all of the werewolves Aimè and I killed that came back to life to stop being werewolves. You can't make me a Seer and Aimè a Hunter and then, each time we kill our enemies, bring them back to life. That's so beyond unfair.

"And I want Aimè to be able to come with me when I leave Mordor.

"And I want Anakron to come back to life."

Illamatar looked at her and looked to the devastated Panakeia, still weeping over Corpsakron. He looked at Aimè and then looked blankly at nothing. Alli assumes that he was using his absurdly bulbous eyes to look through space and see Mario et. al. He baaed.

"Alli of Those Destined For An Interesting Life, I will grant you one of your wishes. Choose carefully which, for all plans for a sequel may have to be changed if you make a mistake."

She looked at him in shock. "The sequel depends on... me?!?!?"

"And me. And many others. Choose now, Miss Umfuìl."

She considered. She could simply kill Mario again and again, annoying though it may be. If she played her cards right, Anakron could release Aimè. She might have to get him really drunk in order to beat him at poker, but it could happen. But she'd already tried to breathe new life into Anakron. It didn't work.

"Anakron."

"Bless you."

"No, Anakron. I want Anakron back." Illamatar smiled. Before her he changed, becoming more majestic than ever, his power exuding from every pore. It smelled a little odd, but she was appropriately awed, so the powerful smell wasn't as over-bearing as it could be.

"ANAKRON ISTKON VAYOR!" he boomed. "COME BACK TO THIS WORLD!!!"

The world went black and flared brightly with clear light. Blinded, Alli hid her eyes in Aimè's shoulder. As the world came back to what could only be described as [really impossibly ab]normal, a disembodied voice whispered in the now perfectly healthy and standing Anakron's ear.

"Whatever you do, don't get drunk and play cards with Alli. Baa."

[littlemanpoet]

"Got it," replied Anakron to the voice in his ear.

Panakeia stood near, her eyes wet and staining her face, a look of disbelief and unremitting joy on her face. About me? How unlikely. But if so, why, I could get used to this. Such were Anakron's thoughts. He smiled warmly and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"And now to business," he whispered and winked. She nodded.

Anakron turned. "Mardil! Come near! It is time to review your performance in the Tests!"

Mardil, now in human form again, looking as confident and self-possessed as ever, his stride a little more jaunty than usual (perhaps he recalled from his werewolf state the odd admixture of panic and passion in Alli).

"How do you think you did, Mardil?"

"I think I performed admirably, Grand Anakronist."

"I would expect no other response. Let us see what the results show. The first test saw you arrive at the appointed goal on time to say the least, despite a run-in with a decidedly belligerent Balrog: 10 points. For the second test, you took one of the vehicles offered, and through singular ingenuity, not to mention the use of another of the Offending Party according to your wishes, you drove a hard bargain and got yourself a very find vehicle indeed, and found clever solutions to all the problems of the road. There were a few things that were overlooked by you as well as all the others, and thus you received 6 points. For the third test, you wheedled the plot of the upcoming novel out of J.K. Rowling, which was indeed the most precious thing to her at that time: 10 points. In the werewolf village, you were instrumental in the death of one innocent only: 9 points. For the University of Mordor, you passed your psychological exam with flying colors: 10 points; your course work in the same manner: 10 points. Unfortunately, the formerly late Dr. Hookbill-" At this, said formerly late individual waved from the gathered crowd. "-failed to start, let alone complete, your physical exam and subsequent surgery. However, the Blue Istari performed a physical and surgery by means of certain biological and chemical experiments, which were quite life-threatening in their lycanthropic nature; however, you survived that as well and now stand before me in perfect health: 10 points. And now for the character by which you carried yourself during the entirety of this challenge. You were peerless. You were constantly ingenious, clever, eloquent, and capable in the face of each challenge, as needed: 30 points. Your total score is therefore 95 points out of a possible 100. You are free to-"

"Hold!" cried a pair of persuasive voices, standing between two raised staves. The Blue Istari.

Now what? Anakron wondered, and everybody else understandably did as well.

"This young man," said the slightly less tall Alatar, "was too capable. He did too well. He functioned in ways more appropriate to the time period from which these anakronisms come than our own time, especially outside Mordor."

"Therefore, we have decided," continued Pallando, "that Mardil's reward is not to leave Mordor and return to Gondor, but to be banished to the future."

"But, but, but-" Anakron began while the two wizards raised their staves and spoke in a sudden staccato chant that was over in a moment. Mardil disappeared.

Anakron's face blackened with rage. He threw down his staff. "Sirs, you have flagrantly violated the character of our agreement! Therefore, I am finished with you! Find yourselves another Anakronist!"

"Nonsense," murmured Alatar. "He was too dangerous to be the next Emperor of Gondor. No way to control him. He had to be taken out of the picture."

"How do you expect him to survive in the future?" Anakron asked. "It's a different world."

"He has proven his ability to function quite ably," Pallando replied. "Do not fear. Those who come from that time would have more to fear from him that we would were he Emperor; but that is no concern of ours."

"So you will not allow me to retire?" Anakron growled.

"Don't be silly," Alatar smirked.

Anakron looked around the crowd. Here and there, sprinkled amongst them were the Offending Party members and all those with whom they had dealt over the last few weeks. They all looked shocked, to the last of them. Alli's eyes were wide as saucers. He could just about imagine how the gears were grinding behind that brow.

Anakron shook his head and turned to Panakeia. "I am sorry. This is not how it was meant to be. I hope you understand that." Anakron looked into her eyes, wondering what she thought.

[littlemanpoet]

Panakeia closed her eyes, stood on her toes, and clicked her heels together. "I know there's a Shire, I know there's a Shire!" She opened her eyes again and smiled bashfully.

"What was that all about?" Anakron asked, thoroughly bemused.

"Meowwwwwwer!" Sylvester called from atop Anakron's staff. "Convey why don'tcha?" he said.

Anakron shrugged. "Dweomer, convey."

Sylvester began to hack. And hack. And hack.

"Uh oh," said Panakeia, "that is going to be one big hairball."

Sylvester kept hacking. Finally a wad of paper dropped from his mouth and fell into Anakron's hands.

"Open it, thilly!" Sylvester ordered.

Anakron uncrumpled the mess, which somehow was not all covered in saliva, a great relief to Anakron who was not entirely keen on having a cat's spew in his hands. He straightened out the paper and flapped it in the wind. There was writing in it, in a now famous lettering that had been seen all over Middle Earth for years untold. Anakron smiled. He held it up for Panakeia to read:

Emissary from Mordor arrives with a new Shire resident...

I hereby assign Mardil II, formerly of Gondor, formerly of Mordor, to the Shire for acts of heroism and being a generally good egg.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

~ signed, Celuien, Ghost Prince of Cardolan

"It appears that Mardil II is free and in the Shire," Anakron smiled. "But who's Celuien?"

"Oh, a friend," Panakeia grinned.

Anakron gave her his best Spockú impersonation.

"This," Alatar growled, "is not the end of the story."

"We'll thee about that!" Sylvester hollered, and favored the two Blue Istari with a very wet Bronx Cheer.

[Celuien]

What a day of drama, tears and unlooked for joy! Through a teardrop balanced precariously at the edge of a delicate eyelash, Panakeia saw Anakron alive once more. Rainbows seemed to glimmer in the teary prism. She stepped over them, troubles melting behind her like lemon drops, to stand once again by Anakron’s side, her nose and eyes still reddened from earlier despair. What I need right now, she thought, is some Visine. I must look a sight. A quick glance at Anakron's face changed her mind. If anything, he seemed to appreciate her aqueous response to his apparent demise. Panakeia wouldn't try to conceal her tears then. She laughed rejoicingly, letting a few extra drops splash down her nose, this time from relief mingled with delight. Even in Mordor, it seemed, dreams really could (and did) come true.

In all honesty, Panakeia hadn't expected the suddenness of her new attachment to the Grand Anakronist. Her lachrymose reaction had been entirely genuine, but it surprised her. She hadn't been given to such displays of emotion before – at least not for many years – but everything was different now. She had regained her conscience out of the past, and with it came other unanticipated attributes from her youth. Including a propensity towards falling for Anakron. And why not? Certainly he had behaved nobly recently, particularly in the matter of Mardil. He rescued Mardil before giving any thought to himself. Had Anakron not sacrificed his life in an effort to protect the Party and save the hapless Mardil? Perhaps that was part of the reason for her response to Anakron’s fortunately temporary death.

And what of Mardil? Anakron granted him leave to depart from Mordor. And then the Blue Istari appeared. An overwhelming desire to turn the cruel pair into the Black and Blue Istari with a swift pummeling rose in her. It was entirely their fault that Anakron died. Their fault that she nearly lost her newfound love and would have lost him permanently if not for Illamatar's auspicious intervention. Their fault that her nose was still running in a most unattractive fashion. She would have commenced a gushing flow of reproach, probably with grave consequences to herself, had Anakron not spoken first. Instead, she stood glaring at them furiously, until, in a new twist, Mardil vanished into thin air, or the future, or wherever the Duo sent him. Anakron was irate over their actions, but unable to override their commands. Between her own dislike for them and her sympathy with Anakron, she yearned to do something to help. What could she do?

An odd wave of giddiness passed over Panakeia, and she found herself on tiptoe with closed eyes, clicking her heels, and muttering something about the Shire. Her eyes reopened to catch a glimpse of Nichole, now wearing a checkered-blue dress and holding a basket, at the periphery of the group of spectators. Who inexplicably winked at her, then clicked her own ruby colored shoes together and disappeared, never to be seen again in Mordor. Her vanishing act was followed by Sylvester's paper-producing hacking and Anakron's announcement that Mardil was safely in the Shire.

Then Panakeia thought she heard Nichole's voice, oddly distant, and oddly audible to no one else. There’s no place like home. Panakeia caught a brief glimpse of a book-lined room with a lone occupant. However she had done it, Nichole had made her way back home. And so when Anakron queried her about the mysterious Celuien, though Panakeia didn't know who she was with certainty, she had a fairly good guess. Panakeia quietly exulted at her friend's escape and subsequent defeat of the evil wizards' scheming. Sylvester gave them a Bronx Cheer; Panakeia would have done so too had it not been unladylike.

"Well, Anakron," she said. "Our journey to the edge of Mordor is over. But we have a new one to begin." She smiled brilliantly. "When do we start?"

"What about dinner and a concert tonight?" he replied.

And a giddily beaming Panakeia accepted the invitation. "See you then." She walked away, smiling from ear to ear and singing.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams
That you dare to dare to dream
Really do come true.

Her heart was light. Dreams, hopes and plans for the future stretched out before her, all close at hand. Yes, she was in Mordor, but it seemed to Panakeia that she had indeed gone over the rainbow at last.