Assigned to Mordor RPG

[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.