Assigned to Mordor RPG

[Kath]

After a very weird experience with Fléin, which she was still not sure had really happened, Sai made her way up to the Registrar’s office, and joined the extortionately long queue that seemed to have formed in the 2 seconds between her reaching the room and getting inside. Sighing she settled in for a long wait, and saw that some of the members of the Offending Party had got here before her, though neither Alli or Panakeia looked particularly happy with whatever they had ended up taking.

An indeterminately boring amount of time passed, until Sai was finally near the front of the queue. By this time she was tired and close to collapse as a result of lack of blood sugar, and was not pleased to find her way blocked by a couple of students making out in the middle of the path. In no mood to be worried about offending others, she shoved past them.

“Hey!” Cried the girl, ungluing her lips from her boyfriend’s long enough to yell at Sai, who simply rolled her eyes and carried on to the free desk.

“Name?” Came the clipped voice of the Registrar.

”Sai Onara.”

“Course?”

“Uh, I don’t know, I thought that was why I was here.”

This comment was met with a steely glare and a huff of annoyance from the woman behind the screen. Used by now to the little tricks Mordor threw, Sai began to suggest courses, but each suggestion was met by a problem with that particular course. Eventually the woman just gave her one.

“You’ll have to take Grammar and Diction in Modern English, it’s the only one free right now. It starts in 5 minutes though, so you had better get a move on.”

Thanking her, Sai left, grabbing a map of the building on her way out. She didn’t hold out much hope that it would be of any help to her, but you never knew.

- - - - - - - - - -

A few wrong turns and people who don't know directions and give false ones later, Sai found her classroom and entered. She was surprised to see that she was the only person in there, aside from the tall man with the rumpled suit, who was standing behind a lectern at the front of the room wearing a rather bemused expression. Seeing her he threw his arms up in welcome.

“Hello! You must be Sai, come in, come in, I am so looking forward to teaching you, I’m sure we’re going to have a fabulous year together.”

Year! Thought Sai in horror. I can’t be here for a year, what if the chance to leave is over by then? Frantic she tried to think of something that would get her out of here before then, but nothing came to her. She opened her mouth to try and come up with some lie or excuse that would get her out of it, and as she did so, she realised what she needed to do. It would hurt, but it was necessary.

“Professor! I am so, like, you know, happy to be ‘ere.”

“Oh no! A valley girl, and you drop your h’s, I can see I have a lot to teach you.”

“Dis is so kewl man, I never got no English lessons before.”

She fought to keep from laughing at the horrified look on the man’s face, and carried on.

“Cus, you know, I always fort it were some kind of dead language you know, what wif all dem dictionary fings. I mean, you don’t write somfink down ‘less you don’t need it no more yeah?”

“Oh my God.” The poor professor was practically whimpering now. “I don’t know if I can cope!”

“What? Oh ok, gimme your siggy on dis bit o’ paper and I’ll get out of your face.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can . . .”

“Cus, you know, I bet I can start droppin’ pronouns an’ even more le’ers and add should of’s and would of’s and . . .”

“Alright! I’ll do it, just give me the damned paper.”

Snatching a hastily produced slip of paper from some pocket, Sai handed it over and watched as the professor scrawled his name on it. Overcome with relief she took it back and hugged him before running out of the door.

“Thank you! I won’t forget this!”

“Wait! You can speak properly!”

Oops, thought Sai as she passed through the door. Deciding to give the poor guy a break she stuck her head back through and smiled.

“You must be a really great teacher then.”

And she left him with a huge grin on his face.

- - - - - - - - -
Wandering up various flights of stairs as the lifts were, of course, out of order, Sai finally reached the dormitory room she had been assigned, and fell onto the bed. As she rolled over she noticed another bed in the room, and wondered who she would find in here when she woke up the next morning. Her last thought as she dropped off to sleep was that she had done everything Anakron had asked of her, perhaps tomorrow she would be getting out of Mordor . . .

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had never held with psychologists.

She had never wanted anything to do with anyone who tried to decipher her as if she were some kind of code to be broken. And she was pretty sure that psychologists were all a bit touched in the head themselves, and, well, the blind leading the blind and all that.

So it was with some reluctance that she entered the office of one Doctor... what was it, Frood? He certainly didn't look like a very together guy. In fact, he really wasn't together at all -- bits and pieces of him were scattered in every corner of the room. Currently, a hand was slapping a pair of lips back on a skull which was half-covered in flesh and tissue.

"Should I come back later?" she asked.

The lips tutted as the hand lit a cigar. "Ah, I see you have very little confidence in yourself. Tell me, did you get enough attention as a child?" the skull said in between puffs.

"It sufficed," said Wilhelmina, who hadn't thought of her childhood in years.

"Please, lie down on the couch, Ms. Brochenbach, and tell me of your dreams of late," said the doctor, whose skull now had both eyes and an ear. Off in the far corner of the room, a shin was reacquainting itself with a thigh.

Wilhelmina refused to lie down, as five tobacco-stained fingers were doing a sort of dance on the couch in an attempt to establish in which order they belonged, although she was pleased that he had pronounced her name correctly.

"Hmm, let's see," she said. "I had a dream about werewolves trying to eat me, but that's only because Anakron told us there were werewolves who were trying to eat us."

"Cannot... distinguish... fiction... from... reality," he muttered as the newly assembled hand scribbled on his notepad. "Go on."

"And... I had a dream about Mr. Swanky, but that's really nothing special."

"Who?" asked the doctor, raising his brows in interest.

"That's my pet ferret," she informed him.

"Ah, yes. Ferret... as... phallic... symbol..." he said to himself.

That was when Wilhelmina left.

Outside the door, she was apprehended by a nurse with silky blonde hair and a bosom so ample it was quite unfair to all other women. She incidentally had an IQ of 154, but you wouldn't know it to look at her -- the great tragedy of her life.

Wilhelmina did not care very much about any of this. She did, however, care about the message the nurse was giving her.

"Ma'am?" she said with a concernedly friendly tone that people seemed to reserve for the elderly. "The people at registration asked me to take this up to you so you could avoid the complications down there. This is your course list."

A piece of paper was thrusted into Wilhelmina's hands. It contained only one course title in large print: Old Timers Dizeaze and How to Cope.

Silently she cursed the stupid switching of S's and Z's, and the decided lack of apostrophe. She also cursed the fact that when a person got older, other people thought your brain had gone to town.

She sweetly thanked the nurse (for anything but the gentlest treatment would surely break her like a delicate piece of crystal, the poor dear that she was, doubtless with a dark past and troubled thoughts behind that pretty face) and marched off to find her class.

[littlemanpoet]

Very, very early the next morning, Sai Onara was awakened by very loud knocking on her door.

"Go 'way!" she cried.

The knocking continued, even more forcibly, making the door shake.

Sai looked around. It was still dark. "It's too early! Come back when the sun's up!"

The knocking continued even louder, the door threatening to burst from its hinges.

"Just a minute!" Sai cried, then grumbled her way out of bed, and threw on a (conveniently provided) bathrobe. She opened the door yelling, "What do you want at this ungodly hour!"

Anakron stood in the door, smirking at her. He glanced to his right and thanked the troll who had banged on the door for him, then settled a level gaze on Sai.

"You will go back to your class today. I have straightened out the matter with your professor, and he understands that this is a one week crash course now. You will now have to fit five days worth of study into four, because the final exam is Saturday morning, bright and early. Hop to it. Your professor awaits you; he was willing to get out of bed early to give you a few hours extra time this morning to make up for yesterday. Good day."

Anakron turned away and strode down the hall, cape flowing in the breeze behind him, and had turned a corner before Sai could issue a single word of rebuttal, remonstration, or cussing.

[the guy who be short]

After seeing, or rather, carefully not seeing the Death of A Slan, Fléin and Sai mourned a little before parting - Sai was to go to the registrar, Fléin needed to see Freud again to finish his psych. Hopefully, he was better by now.

Fléin entered Freud's office to find, to his surprise, a semi-congealed Freud along with a newcomer. An inquiring glance at the man promped him to present himself as Mr Jung. "I shall be assisting Mr Freud, as he is currently a little, ah, inconvenienced."

Fléin sat back down.

"So, Mr Freud tells me you're a homosexual. I shall help you overcome it, do not worry."

Fléin said "But Mr Freud told me it was perfectly normal!"

The two psychoanalysts started arguing like little children, giving Fléin a little time to himself. He made the most of it by thinking about A Slan, but before he knew it, he was weeping again.

At the noise of a particularly loud sob, the two psychiatrists turned around to face him once more. "He is dead," he sobbed to himself. "And I didn't even get to know him."

"Who's dead?" the lips of Freud asked from a corner of the room.

"Oh, he doesn't actually exist," Fléin replied bitterly. "Just a delusion, don't worry yourself."

"Ah!" Jung exclaimed, "Freud told me of these delusions of yours! You say your imaginary friend is dead? What was he like?"

"He was."

"I see, I see," Jung scribbled frantically. In a far corner, Freud's mostly congealed body picked up its lips and stuck them in a pocket for safekeeping. "But what did he look like? What was his name?"

"He was A Slan." Fléin responded. The scratching of the pen stopped. Fléin looked up; Jung had stopped writing, and his face had gone deathly pale.

When he next talked, he whispered hushedly, "A Slan is dead? You are sure?"

"He was sacrificed on a Stone Stretcher," Fléin responded in kind.

Jung collapsed his head into his hands, distraught. "A Slan! Gone!" Fléin caught snatches of words, little phrases that made no sense to him. After several minutes of this, Jung addressed him again, always in a whisper. "How did you know A Slan? Did you say he talked to you?"

"Yes."

Jung's eyes widened in shock. One of them revealed itself to be made of glass by falling out, but Jung ignored it. "A friend of the Llamasson. Do not worry, Fléin. I shall declare you to be in sound mental health. Now tell me, what was He like?"

The next half an hour was spent recounting Fléin's brief relationship with A Slan in whispers, but too soon Freud had reformed himself, and it was time to go. Nonetheless, Fléin had found yet another follower of A Slan - Jung had hoped to overthrow Freud, whom he condemned as a "commiter of incest" - in this crazy world. Though he was advised to keep his knowledge of A Slan quiet, he couldn't help but feel that not only was he special, he was potent. There were millions of Mordorians, especially Nurnians, who apparently followed A Slan. Perhaps there could be some sort of revolution.

Fléin allowed himself a fell laugh. How could there be revolt against the Dweomer without A Slan to lead them?

[Durelin]

“You haven't even signed up for your classes yet?”

The glasses were creeping down the woman's small nose, and Valde’s lip twitched, wanting very much to curl into a sneer as his eyes were constantly drawn to those spectacles. It irked him that she peered at him over them, just as it irked him that she had the nerve to speak to him with anger in her voice, even raising it a bit. The shuffling paper and the whirring and clanking of a paper cloning device that he had always thought to belong only as a cardboard cut out next to Spockú.

“You should have been informed of my arrival.”

“So? That doesn't mean I have to like the idea of it. What is the point of a Registrar's office if anyone can just walk in here and expect to take a class? Are you even enrolled here?”

Valde deftly avoided the questions. “Well, what is the point of wearing glasses if you do not even look through them?”

With a huff, the woman forced her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, and with a wave of her hand informed him that he was assigned to the class ‘Interpretive Drama: Shakespeardil on Mordway.’ He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her, but it was clear that she was shooing him vehemently, and there was quite the line behind him. So when he had been told which room in which building his class was (For never could a university be located in just one building. That would take all the fun out of it, and diminish the effectiveness of the name ‘university.’ Rather than ‘The University’ being one select building, it was a fertile orchard containing a variety of trees and bushes from which innumerable fruits were ripe for the picking. The use of this rather graphic metaphor as an extended one is of course the only reason why there are so many different buildings. Why these buildings are all named after different people is due to entirely different metaphor which may not be cited here, due to the animosity it might cause).

As soon as Valde set foot in the classroom, he spared a half a moment to gape, and then turned on his heel to leave.

“Oh fool, I shall go mad!” was belted out in a quavering male soprano to music led by a somber but soulful bopping of a trumpet, complimented by the whine of overdone but thankfully under-toned strings. All music and song stopped soon after his entrance, though, and his retreating back of course did not go unnoticed. “Ah, Mr. Delego!” The stout troll rumbled in a voice that Valde had expected to squeak much in the same way that it had when the creature sang. Valde Delego whirled around, and saw that the troll professor wore a suit with a be-spotted bow tie that made the Lead Tragic Actor gag. Over this, he dared to wear some kind of cape, with a floppy forest green hat topped with a large feather that overhung it to the right. “Please do come in!”

“Please, do stay in. I’d rather not.”

A moment later, and he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and he was, at least by his own description, forcibly dragged into the room, and placed in the middle desk in the front row. He glanced around him, and found only four other students in the class. Each held a quill pen at the ready, and eyed him surprisingly casually from beneath plumed hats.

“Welcome, Mr. Delego, it is so good to have thee. It has been rumoured that you are indeed experienced in the art of…playing?” He chuckled to himself, finding himself funny, as any well-respected man instructing in a well-respected university would, what with all the confidence they had that was surely befitting them.

“Oh yeah, he’s a playa’ and he know it!” exclaimed the only student that sat in the back row. He then slunk down in his chair with a hand over his mouth as the professor’s eyes turned to stare at him, flaring up with anger. The troll stared at the young man in the back as if he were a cat had just expelled from either end of it, or perhaps both.

“Get thee to the guilloti—” He coughed. “Grammar and Diction in Modern English. Now.” He pointed to the door, and the man scurried out, leaving his hat and pen behind. After the troll professor had collected the abandoned things, he returned to look at Valde with a smile. “Now, what were you saying, Mr. Delego?”

Any sensible person would simply go ahead and begin saying what they had been going to say in response to what their professor had been interrupted in saying, and even if they had not had a response ready at that time, they would come up with one as quick as they could. But this was Valde Delego.

“Well, that’s a rather moot point, isn’t it professor?”

“No, my dear cos, I am afraid it is rather debatable as to what you were going to say.”

“Then we concur.”

“I assure thee: assuredly not.”

“But you agreed that it was debatable.”

“No, I said that ‘twas debatable, while you did speaketh of it being moot.”

“My point exactly. They are synonymous statements.”

“No they’re not.”

“Yes they are.”

“He’s right,” a voice squeaked from somewhere behind Valde, and he whirled around to look at who had spoken. It was a young mouse-like lady with honey hair that reddened severely in the face when the Lead Tragic Actor did gaze upon her. He thought that she looked rather constipated, but he thanked her nonetheless.

“What did you say?” the professor asked, an angry edge to his voice. The young woman squeaked again, and Valde was waiting for small gray and pink ears to pop out of her head, or at least largely disproportionate black ones. But she managed to hold up a dictionary, opened to the page containing the entry on ‘moot.’

“Why do you think it is called an Entmoot?” Valde asked, turning back to the professor after flashing one last smile at the young maiden, who was now clearly in distress.

“Ah,” the professor said simply. “Well, I believe it safe to say that Mr. Shakespeardil did not initiate use of that word, nor alter the meaning, so of course it would slip my mind so easily as it did thusly.”

“On the contrary. I doubt that you have traced back to the origin of the word ‘moot,’ sir, if you were not even aware of its meaning. In other and more obnoxious terms: how do you know?”

“Well, sir, I believe that is a moot point.”

“There, now you’ve got it.”

The troll professor rolled his large black eyes so much that Valde was certain they would get stuck in the back of his head, and with a sigh, he turned back to the blackboard behind him, where notes were scrawled in a lithe hand. “That’s quite enough, Mr. Delego. Now, wherefore art we here today, class?”

“I was forced to be here by some crackpot wizard and his dweomer nonsense,” Valde blurted out, obviously bemoaning his fate.

“To remaster the masterpieces of one Wilhelmër Shakespeardil so that they may be still worthy of his name, but may bring in loads of cash in today’s entertainment world,” the rest of the class drawled. The enthusiasm was bewildering, over two people muttering words that they obviously could care less about.

“In other words,” the troll professor cried out with a grin, flourishing his cape and brandishing a pointer stick that Valde was sure had been sharpened into a full-fledged poking stick, “we’re making a musical.”

“A musical?!” Valde cried out as if an arrow had just pierced his heart, and not one from the elfin quiver of Cupidrembor. “O untimely modernization!”

[Celuien]

Slipping stealthily along the hallways, Panakeia made her way back to the psychiatry department. She had no intention of running into that Jung character again or of being locked up, thank you very much. She glanced at a directory on the wall to find Dr. Sigmund’s office, then hurried in its direction, her scarf pulled tightly over her cheekbones. A few minutes of walking found her back outside the fateful office door from which she had recently fled. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. “Come in!” came a somewhat muffled reply. She pushed the door open and almost wished she hadn’t. Freud sat in an overstuffed chair, lips in the one hand that had rejoined his body. The other lay in a dark corner, knocking on the wall. “Ah ha! Zere you are,” called the lips. The renowned psychoanalyst walked over to the corner and picked up his other arm. He pushed in back into his shoulder joint, where it settled with a decided ’pop.’

“Forgive zis current confuzion. Have a zeet.” A finger pointed to the room’s large couch. “I have heard about you from my colleague. I find it surprising zat you returned, given his report.”

“Well,” began Panakeia, “I’m somewhat surprised myself. But I came back specifically to see you. After all, you are the greatest analyst of them all. And I do need help. I know it.”

The teeth on the remains of Freud’s face would have formed a smile had his lips only been in place. Panakeia struggled to suppress her disgust at his condition. “Vell, zat is more like it. I zink my colleague may have been mistaken about you. Zere iz just ze matter of zis voice you hear and your delusions. Both clearly ze sign of some childhood trauma.”

She burst into tears, only half feigned. “Yes, that’s right,” Panakeia sobbed. “I never recovered from the shock of learning I came from a family of common thieves! Worse yet, they disappeared, and I never had the chance to say how much I…I…loved them.” She sobbed into the couch’s arm. “Then I turned charlatan, which I always vowed I’d never do. And I just realized what a waste I’ve made of my life. And that‘s when the voice, the voice of my conscience came back.” Freud looked at her sympathetically. “I’m not crazy, am I?”

“Of course not,” came the quick reply. “Zroubled, yes. Insane, no. I am shocked at Mr. Jung’s misdiagnosis. To zink zat he vas my student. No, you may go. I vill handle Mr. Jung.”

Panakeia smiled through her tears. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Oh but I zink I do.”

Panakeia fought the urge to slap the sanctimoniously smiling lips out of Freud‘s hand. Then she thought of something else. “There’s just one thing. This couch. I think it‘s helped me so much. May I take it with me? It would be such a comfort.”

Freud stared at her through a mangled eyelid. “Vat a strange fixation. But that is my most valued couch. In fact, I zink that couch means more to me than anyzing else.”

I guessed right. “I know it’s asking a lot. But it would help me so. I may never be able to come back, but I’ll always have a connection to this place through it to help me through my problems. Please?”

He mulled it over. “Very vell. You need it more zan I. But I vill miss it.”

Panakeia beamed. “Thank you so much. Thank you.” She waved her farewells and dragged her new acquisition out the door. As she made her way to Poisoned Vale, Panakeia hoped the couch would fit in her dorm room.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"No... s'to early..." Alli spoke into her pillow, grumbling at her obnoxiously shrill alarm clock. She wasn't certain what time it was... if a night had passed, or even if she'd had more than a cursary ten minutes or so of a nap. She'd been up too late and it was looking to be a tough battle to roll out of bed.

"I'm skipping." she told herself, snuggling back into her warm blankets.

"No you aren't." came Anakron's voice from the door. She sat up swiftly and pulled her blankets high.

"I locked the door!"

"I unlocked it."

"That's REALLY creepy."

"I don't care. Get up, you're going to class."

Now fully awake, Alli made a rude gesture involving only one of her fingers toward the empty doorway as the door swung shut with a loud crash that caused muffled yells of annoyance from her dorm-mates, none of whose classes begun before noon.

She pulled on the same breeches she'd worn for several days straight, a clean shirt (though it had cost a couple trolls to use the washer the night before), and tied her messy hair away from her face. Somehow she managed to pull the just-got-out-of-bed look off and stumbled around her dorm room (not that it was large enough to truly stumble through) searching for some paper and pens. As she watched the minutes pass by in what seemed a more quick way than usual, Alli realized that she couldn't find her supplies, she was going to be late to her first class, and she'd failed to complete the pre-class assignment ("Get in touch with Illamatar. As him if money really does buy happiness.") She was annoyed about that too... of all the nights for the One to not show up and bug her, it had to be that one. The annoyance drove her to split her infinitives.

Pulling on her boots and giving up on everything she really ought to be bringing, Alli threw open the door and came face to face with a Dwarf. It wasn't Flein.

"Um... good morning?" The axe was putting her off.

"Who are you and why are you in my room?" demanded the Dwarf, fingering the axe-blade lovingly.

"Tell me your name, axe-master, and I shall tell you mine." The straps holding the axe to the belt loosened. "I mean... I'm Alli. I'm rooming here for a week."

"No you aren't."

"You bloody well better get used to the idea."

"Oh really?" The axe was in hand.

"Fine. I'll be back later to collect my stuff."

"No, you'll take it now." The axe was scary looking. Alli was pretty sure there was dried blood... but it might have been ketchup. She backed into the room and gathered her belongings, shouldering her pack. As she backed out the door, careful not to present the back of her head to this insane Dwarf, Alli muttered.

"Wonder doubleyouteeyef put this guy off." The door slammed and an odd howl came through it. If Alli had stuck around long enough, she'd have learned through the sobbing mutters that she had confused the poor girl's gender... a most embarrassing experience all around, but apparently a quite upsetting one for this lady Dwarf. She even went through extra effort to present herself as feminine... extra braids... gold metalwork in her weapon hilts to add that extra bit of bling... She cried now, but the Dwarf was for another tale.

As it was, Alli reached her class ten minutes into the lesson ("First 10 Minutes: The Secret of Life. Next 2 Hours: The Stuff You Already Know about Living and Why it's Not of Much Value."). The professor glared at her and she didn't even bother explaining.

"Do you have an excuse?"

"I was abducted by aliens." she responded with a serious look, mirroring a response her writer had given to a professor only yesterday for skipping class.

"That's not good enough."

"Then next time don't ask."

"Get out of my classroom. You fail for the day."

Alli swore and left. She had no idea where to go or what to do. Her former room was infested with an axe-happy she-Dwarf, her professor had kicked her out of class, and she didn't know where the rest of her group was. And she'd skipped breakfast.

She slumped against a wall looking a bit dejected and waited to see if anything would happen to make things a bit easier. It wasn't exactly the best first day of classes she'd ever experienced.

[the phantom]

Mardil grinned wickedly as he watched Doctor Hookbill soar out the window of his office. His eyes flashed red and he let out a rough sounding chuckle.

A high pitched voice cut across his evil laugh. "What the- Doctor Hookbill... guards!!" cried a shocked nurse who had witnessed the tossing from the doorway. "Help!"

Mardil turned towards the nurse and growled. "Well, hello there. You're a tasty looking morsel," he said in a deep throaty voice. Hair began to grow on his face as he crouched low and began to take slow steps towards the terrified nurse. The nurse screamed in terror and fainted.

Mardil stopped and stood up straight. A confused expression appeared on his face, and he looked from the broken window to the unconscious nurse, trying to figure out what was happening.

At that moment, a troop of twenty orcs filed into the office and stood with their spears pointed at Mardil. Their commanding officer stood forward and addressed Mardil. "I understand that you threw Doctor Hookbill out the window to his death. Is that accurate?"

"Well, I don't think-" began Mardil, but then his glance happened upon the back of his hand. "Oh no."

"What is it?" asked the orc.

"Well, it's all rather complicated, and I'm not sure I understand everything right now," said Mardil, as the tufts of hair shrank back into his skin. "I'm sure you are used to all sorts of odd situations in this land of anachronisms. This is one of those situations." As he spoke, he drew a small flask from his hip pocket, dipped the tip of his favorite knife in it, and cut himself.

The perplexed orc cleared his throat and spoke again. "Well, that may be, but I'm going to have to arrest you."

"Oh, well yes, no question there, but please place me in the West Morgul Correctional Center rather than the Morgul branch of the Mordor Penitentiary or the Minas Morgul City Jail," said Mardil, sheathing his knife.

"Er, well, I suppose I could do that," said the orc. "Well, just turn around and let us cuff you and take your weapons."

"Oh no, absolutely not!" said Mardil resolutely. "There may be too many of you here for me to escape from, but there aren't enough of you to take me without a few of you dying in the process. Any of you fancy dying today?!" No one answered. "Good. I will go along with you willingly to the Correctional Center and allow you to put me in a cell. But first, I will send a message to a couple friends of mine. After they arrive, everything will be sorted out."

"Who are you sending these messages to?" inquired the orc, not entirely sure he should allow Mardil's terms.

"Well, one person is The Grand Anakronist. You know who he is, don't you?" The orc nodded. "You know who I am, don't you? I'm one of the escapees." The orc nodded again. "Believe me, you want to do as I say. You'll regret not doing it, but if you follow my instructions, well- you won't be sorry. What's your name?"

"Mortakh. Captain Mortakh."

"Mortakh, my friend," said Mardil, "Do as I say and you will soon be called 'General Mortakh'."

Mortakh looked Mardil in the eye for a moment. "All right," he said at last. "You can go ahead and write your messages. My men will make sure they are sent. After that, I'll take you to the West Morgul Correctional Center."

"Excellent!" said Mardil happily. "But just one more thing. Could you tell me what this hospital used to be, particularly this high tower we are in? It's an ancient building, I can tell."

"Oh, yes indeed," answered Mortakh excitedly. "History is my favorite subject! This is the tower that the Witch King himself used to lounge around in- the highest tower of Sauron's great western fortress- Minas Morgul. Of course, everyone always calls it 'Cirith Ungol', and calls the sprawling city to the west of here 'Minas Morgul', but that's because they've forgotten their history. In reality, Cirith Ungol was farther to the east, up in a high pass. You can see its ruins if you climb the mountains north of here. This here is properly Minas Morgul. It wasn't always Minas Morgul, though. Before that this here tower was called Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon."

[Celuien]

Panakeia shuffled along the dormitory hallway with the heavy couch and her sample case. Her room was, luckily enough, on the first floor. Unluckily, it was number 13. Ladders formed the doorframe and a wooden cutout of a black cat dangled from the knob. To complete the effect, someone had poured salt on the ground in front of the room. Panakeia was about to go back to the front desk to request a different room when she remembered that she wasn't a superstitious person. She felt in her pocket for the key, a long, spindly creation with large teeth, and put it in the lock. The door opened, squeaking loudly on rusty hinges.

The interior decorating wasn't any more encouraging; cobwebs hung from the ceiling in deep festoons and the mirror on the wall sported a crack from corner to corner. The curtains on the room's sole window, placed high on the wall and crisscrossed by iron bars, were black and dusty. Panakeia looked at the depressing atmosphere and almost missed the sunshine of Dol Gaurgauroth. She dragged the couch inside and found it too long to fit in the tiny room. With a sudden effort, she set it on end, disturbing the dark curtains. A weak ray of sunlight shone through the window, illuminating the room with a pallid glow. A black lump on one of the room's two beds stirred, raising a cloud of dust. Two dark eyes in a pasty face peered out from under the black blankets.

"What are you doing? Get that light out of here." The figure jumped out of the bed and hurried to close the curtains. "Who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Panakeia. I suppose I'm your roommate."

"Roommate? I don't want a roommate. I want to be alone." The eyes glared. Panakeia took a better look at the strange girl. She fit perfectly with the surroundings. Black clothes, hair dyed black, spiky metal jewelry. Panakeia even spotted black lipstick and nail polish, and she suspected the girl's pallor wasn't entirely natural either.

"I don't like it much myself. But it seems we're stuck with each other, at least for now." Panakeia displayed her room key. The roommate continued to glare. "Don't worry. I'll spend most of my time at class."

"Fine. Just remember, this is my space. And don't go changing anything."

"I wouldn't dare. I don't think I caught your name."

"And I don't think I gave it." Panakeia's roommate climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over her head. "Goodbye."

Panakeia stared in astonishment at her roommate's rude behavior. And a plan for mischief stirred in her head. She listened for objections from her conscience, but surprisingly, none came.

Hello, where are you? Still there?

A faint reply came back. Yes, I'm here. But things are changing. This might be the last time you hear from me. Don't worry, I'll still be with you. I'll always be with you now. But I'm going back where I belong. In your subconscious. It'll be harder for me to control what you do, but that's the way it should be. I won't let you get too far out of line, though. And there are always dreams. The gateway to the subconscious, as our friend Freud would say. The voice grew fainter. Yes, things are as they should be. We are truly going to be one again. Remember me! And the voice was gone.

Panakeia stood frozen for a moment, half rejoicing and half sadly missing the voice that had been her companion over the past few difficult days. Then, remembering that there was work to do and a course to attend, she shook herself and walked out of the room to find her class.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin shuffled up to the Registrar's office, carefully avoiding thinking about A Slan or offering any insight into his theological beliefs. It was no good dwelling on the past, after all.

His insides wept, but he ignored them. What use were they anyway?

When he entered the Registrar's office, it was empty. He trampled up to the front where a fierce looking woman was looking fiercely over her glasses at him.

"Oy! You there!" she barked at him, setting her jowls aquiver. Fléin watched them wobbling as she launched a verbal tirade. "Don't mope! Moping should be done outside of University! This is a mope-free environment! And look at your beard, dearie me, get yourself a haircut!"

Fléin rested his head in his arms on her desk and let her continue in this manner. He wasn't sure how long it lasted. The pain inside wouldn't stop hurting.

Finally, he realised she had stopped and was staring at him. He stirred, got up, begged her pardon, didn't get any, asked what course he would be taking, and was told about the times and places for the Self Defense For Short People qualification.

He half absorbed this information before trampling to his new dorm - it was empty, his roommate was evidently out - and curling into bed. He knew it was futile trying to sleep A Slan's death off, but tried anyway.

[Celuien]

After an hour long adventure of being directed and redirected to every building on campus (it seemed that Sales and Marketing in a Futile System had been moved several times), Panakeia found the correct classroom. She stepped inside the classroom, and finding that all of the seats in the back of the room were taken, sat at a desk in the front row. The student next to her, a girl with long dark curls framing a tired face that was pale from too many hours under fluorescent lighting, had an ominously thick pile of notes on her desk. Under the desktop she was playing a round of Solitare. Panakeia chuckled. Her neighbor looked up and smiled, brown eyes twinkling.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Nichole, with an aitch. Most people want to spell it n-i-c-o-l-e, but I don't. I rather like the aitches. Are you looking forward to this class?"

Panakeia introduced herself. "Well, Nichole with an aitch, it's nice to meet you. I'm not really looking forward to this course, but it's all I could get." Panakeia continued to study her neighbor, amusement increasing every moment. Nichole seemed to have no fashion sense, or if she did, it wasn't in Panakeia's style. She wore a plain brown skirt with a blue sweater, blue suede boots, and hardly a trace of makeup.

Nichole nodded. "I know exactly what you mean. I'm only here because I couldn't register for my physics class. At least Sales and Marketing in a Futile System is supposed to be easy. Terribly, terribly dull, but easy." Nichole gestured at the stack of papers on her desk. "Notes from last semester, taken by a friend of mine. Would you believe it? He wrote a 50 page paper that basically said the same thing on every page and got an A plus for originality and creativity." She broke into laughter. "But that's what lectures are like too, or so I hear. And so these notes seem to indicate."

Panakeia smiled in a friendly manner. "You know, I've never taken a class before. Any tips?"

"Try to look interested. Write as much as possible in your notebook, even if you don't actually write notes all the time. You'll need some notes to study, but in this class, I'm guessing you can get everything you need in the first 30 seconds. After that, it's all about looking enthusiastic about the lecture for the next hour so the professor doesn't wind up annoyed, if that makes any sense."

It didn't, but further discussion was interrupted by the entrance of the professor, an imposing troll in blue jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. He lumbered into the room and set a briefcase, bulging with papers, on the desk at the front of the room. Then he cleared his throat and, picking up a piece of chalk, turned to face the blackboard.

"Sales and marketing are dead," he droned in a monotone. "The system is futile because it has no point; therefore and thusly, it is pointless to sell or market anything in the futile system that is pointless." Panakeia glanced at Nichole’s notebook. She had scribbled "sales/marketing = dead" at the top of the sheet. That appeared to be the end of her notes. The rest of the page was occupied by sketches, including one of a troll lecturing to rows of stick figures that had collapsed on the ground. The troll droned on while Nichole began a scrawl from right to left in runes Panakeia didn't recognize. "Why, may I ask, is the futile system futile?" Without waiting for an answer from the class, he went on. "It is because sales and marketing are pointless when no one wants to buy. No one wants to buy because no one is interested in a futile system."

Panakeia decided she’d had enough. "That's just not true," she cried. "Why, I’ve been selling things to people for almost 30 years now. They buy, believe me they do. You just have to make them think they need what you have to sell. That's the trick. I can sell anything just by making the buyers believe it’s what they need. I make a fairly good living at it too, by the way, so I must be doing something right. Futile, my foot."

The professor focused a dull eye on her. No one had dared to challenge his authority before. "Class, this is someone who thinks that experience in the market outweighs the theories taught here. What is your name?" Panakeia proudly identified herself. "We all know that your statement about the market is not true. It is not true because the system is futile. And why is it futile? Because it is pointless."

Panakeia interrupted. "Oh please. Just stop. I must have heard that same redundant, say-nothing statement 30 times in the past 5 minutes. And you're flat out wrong. I have the Trolls and sales record to prove it."

The professor looked at her in disbelief. "Did I hear you say that I am wrong?" Panakeia shouted out in the affirmative. "That is what I thought I heard. You fail the course. That is the price of your challenge." He turned impassively to continue the lecture.

A new voice unexpectedly entered the debate. "That's just not fair," Nichole protested. "You haven't even given her a chance to prove her point or turn in assignments or anything." Panakeia couldn’t believe her ears. Someone she had met no more than 10 minutes ago was coming to her defense?

The professor gave his attention to Panakeia's new friend. "She is arguing with me. I am infallible in my classroom, so Panakeia must be wrong. If she is wrong, then I am right, and if I am right she is wrong. She has nothing to learn here and therefore will fail."

Nichole wasn't ready to give up the fight. "But what if Panakeia proves that she's right? What if she makes a great sales demonstration? You'd pass her then, wouldn't you?"

"If Panakeia can prove that I am wrong when I know that I am right, she will receive an A. If and only if she manages this feat, her grade will be changed. That will be all for now." He packed the chalk into his briefcase and stalked out of the room.

Panakeia looked at Nichole, still amazed at what had transpired. "Thank you," she said. Then she asked, "Why did you help me?"

Nichole replied eagerly, "I've been waiting for years for someone to stand up to nonsense like that. And do you know what? I wish I had the courage to do what you did just now. It was beautiful, and I've never enjoyed a scene in class so much in my life. I couldn't leave you out to dry, so I spoke up too." She shook Panakeia's hand. "You, Panakeia of Harad, are my hero." She paused. "But can you do it? Will you be able to make your sales pitch?"

"I'll have to." Then, in a confident voice, Panakeia said, "Yes, I think I can. I know I can." She stood and put her hand on the door to leave. Nichole followed. "But I'll have to make plans. Here's what I'm going to do." Panakeia quickly outlined her ideas. Nichole listened in delight. If the plan worked, the professor would surely have grant the promised A.

[Encaitare]

Wilhelmina had never really thought of herself as being old. Sure, she was a bit deaf, and her joints sometimes ached when it rained, and she'd never say no to a senior citizen discount (given the othewise ridiculously high price of movie tickets), but on the whole she didn't feel old. Also, she didn't want to have to sit in a room full of dribbling, diaper-clad people while an oddly perky troll lectured them in an extremely loud voice. Unfortunately, that was just what was happening.

"You'll find your textbookz next to your chair!" the troll shouted at them. "They're in large print zo it'z eazy on your eyez!"

Wilhelmina looked down and picked up the tome, which shared the name of the course, Old Timers' Dizeaze and How to Cope. Opening the cover, she realized why it was so bulky: apparently, large print meant three words per page.

"In thiz clazz, we hope to help you underztand that aging is a natural part of life'z progrezzion," the teacher buzzed. "And although you may feel that your body iz betraying you in itz old age, there are plenty of wayz to think young! And what are theze wayz, you want to know? Let me tell you!"

Wilhelmina sighed and wondered if she should start taking a tally of every swapped Z and S that came out of the troll's mouth.

"One method iz to do zilly thingz juzt for fun. Finger paint! Blow bubblez! Yez, you in the big hat!"

She lowered her hand. "Do we have to think quite that young? I think most of us would prefer 25 rather than 5."

A few of her classmates nodded in agreement.

"When I was twenty-five I had legs to die for," one of the old women said listlessly. "I had a sailor beau and everyone said I should go into pictures..."

"That'z nice," boomed the troll. "But we have to live for the now! You muzt realise that dwelling on the pazt only makez you age fazter! Any queztionz, clazz?"

"If your incessant shouting makes me go deafer, can I sue?" asked Wilhelmina just for the sake of being annoying. (She sometimes had these nasty streaks when she was irritated.)

The teacher grew pale at the thought of a lawsuit, as Mordor was full of lawyers who were only too eager to press charges for the most asinine things. "Well, I think we've done plenty for today! Pleaze have Chapter One of your bookz read for next clazz!"

Wilhelmina scooped up the enormous book and left the room in triumph.

[the guy who be short]

Fléin was rudely awoke in the morning by Anakron. His first feeling was one of confusion: How had he actually been able to get to sleep after what he'd seen? He must have been awake until the wee hours crying.

His second emotion was fear as he realised it was Anakron who had shook him awake; the murderer, the slayer of the Antilion.

His third feeling was confusion once more, as he realised that it was still the wee hours, so he couldn't have been awake through them.

Reluctantly, he got up and set off to class, aiming to meet the five 'o' clock deadline. He got lost and ended up wandering the corridors aimlessly. He was sure he crossed the room where A Slan had been murdered, and bowed in respect. The inside was now brightly lit and a gaudy purple.

Finally, he found the right classroom, and knocked on the door, knowing that he was fully an hour late.

[Celuien]

Panakeia returned to class the next morning with her sample case in hand. Scoping the hallway outside the classroom, she picked an empty spot in clear view of corridor traffic and proceeded to set up her sales display. Just as she finished, Nichole came down the hall. She greeted Panakeia cheerfully.

"It looks like this is the big day. Are you ready?"

"I am. And I can't wait to put that troll in his place. Where is he anyway? Class is supposed to start soon."

They didn't have long to wait. A rumbling at the end of the hall announced his approach a few minutes later.

"Good morning, professor," Nichole chirped, an huge grin on her face.

Panakeia echoed the greeting. "Yes. Good morning." Looking down the hall beyond his cowboy hat, she called out, "Ah, I see we have another visitor." Her roommate was hurrying down the hall, calling to the professor. She held a slip that mysteriously appeared in her room during the night to inform her that she had been transferred to his course in futility. Only the half smirk on Panakeia's lips could have told her that the notice was a clever forgery designed to bring her to the class on this particular day.

"So, are we ready to begin?" Panakeia queried.

"Begin what?" replied the troll.

"My demonstration that marketing and sales are not futile."

"You continue to resist the truth? Begin if you wish, but remember this: resistance is futile." He stood aside and watched Panakeia start her sales pitch.

And what a sales pitch it was. Half an hour later, the sample case was empty and Panakeia's scarf was filled with coins. Better yet, the professor had been a major purchaser. His pockets were filled with Forest Fresh Moisturizing Hand Lotion and several packages of perfume. Panakeia's roommate bought a few boxes of Rosy Blush foundation and a frilly floral dress that Nichole had donated to the sale. As for Nichole herself, she retreated to a corner of the hallway, face buried in a handkerchief, shaking with silent laughter.

"Well, professor. It seems that my marketing is not futile after all. Just look at yourself. Did you really need those bottles of hand lotion? Or that perfume? No. But you bought them just the same. And what about you, my nameless roomie? Would you ever buy a dress like that on your own? Of course not. But I convinced you that you needed it. And my case is empty. I sold something to everyone who walked past, even though shopping was the last thing they were thinking about when they came by." Panakeia basked in her triumph. "What do you say? Do I get an A?"

The troll glowered. "Yes. Take your A." He threw the bottles of lotion on the floor. "You have your grade, but A stands for more things than a letter on your report card." He held out a threatening hand. "Panakeia, ape of the futile system, become Pan Akeia. A for Ape!" A shadow passed over the corridor, and the troll seemed to grow taller. Just for a moment. Then the shadow passed. Panakeia stood in the hallway unchanged. She laughed.

"What a nut! Come on, Nichole. Let's go for lunch. I'm hungry." They walked away.

Then Panakeia noticed that the people they passed were staring at her. She nudged Nichole. "Can you believe the way those people are looking at me?"

It was Nichole's turn to stare. She gave a little scream. "Panakeia! Look in the mirror. It can't be, it can't be true!"

Panakeia looked. An unfamiliar image looked back at her. She still wore a green dress, but it had turned olive green with a brown leather inset at the bodice. And her face was that of a chimpanzee with hair bobbed at the chin. Worst of all, she had a beard clinging to her face.

The professor came up behind Panakeia and grinned maliciously. "Panakeia, meet Pan Akeia. Don't be surprised if anyone calls you Zira. Resistance is futile." He strolled away, leaving Panakeia to stare after him helplessly.

"What are we going to do now?" said Nichole. For once, Panakeia was at a loss for an answer.

[littlemanpoet]

"Troll!"

The troll professor stopped in his tracks. Pan Akeia the ape stared in disbelief; which was odd; Anakron had never seen an ape stare in disbelief. He shrugged. The troll turned.

"Yes sir?" asked the Troll.

"You have been teaching a mockery of this course."

The troll looked confused. "That cannot be. Sales and Marketing in a Futile System. It is quite obvious."

"You ninny. I thought you trolls knew better than that. I can see that someone has mis-spellt the name of the course, and you have not questioned the matter. The course is supposed to be "Sales and Marketing in a Feudal System." Anakron raised his staff, the cat meowed, and a piece of chalk appeared in Anakron's hand. He raised it and wrote on the corridor wall, saying the letters as he wrote. "F-E-U-D-A-L. Feudal. Have you any idea what this course is supposed to be about now? You vermin. Nincompoop!" Panakiea had never seen Anakron get angry, but his ire seemed to be rising with each new derogation that came to mind. "You - you - TROLL! Don't you understand that she's being prepared, supposedly, by your course, to survive in the great big middle earth out there?!?"

The troll looked wounded. "I - I'm sorry, Grand Anakronist. I shall change my syllabus immediately."

"I want that ape taught how to survive!!"

"Yes sir!"

"See to it!" With that, Anakron turned on a dime and passed Panakeia with a smile. "Good morning to you, and nice work. Um, you might want to shave...."

[Celuien]

Anakron walked away, cloak billowing in front of a distracted, nervous troll. The professor scrambled off in the direction of the library and disappeared. Nichole and Panakeia sat on a bench to think, elbows propped on knees, heads resting on hands and paws.

Time passed in silence, finally broken by a frustrated Panakeia. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she cried. "Look at me. I'm a walking anakronism now. There's no way I'll be let out of Mordor like this. Even if I did get away, I'd be sent back as soon as anyone saw me. I've got to find some way to change back into myself again."

Nichole was a hopeless optimist. "Maybe the professor will do it. He changed you in the first place. He should be able to change you back."

Panakeia was more realistic. "Able and willing are different things. It's my fault Anakron is here, and my fault that he was scolded about the course. Add that to my original offenses and I'm lucky if he doesn't change me into a frog. You're a nice girl, Nichole, but awfully naive. Where are you from?"

Nichole sighed. "That's just it. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. Not really. Other than a few scattered pieces, I don't remember anything before I came here. Somehow, though, I think I'm an anakronism myself." Her eyes gazed far away. "There was a city, a vast city built of metal and glass. Towers reached to touch the sky by day, and at night, there were lights shining by the edge of a wide black river. The lights were mirrored there in the dark water until dawn came and the towers stretched out to greet the sun again." Nichole fell into musings.

Panakeia looked at her thoughtfully. "You must have loved that place very much."

"I don't know. I suppose I did, but not enough. The last thing I remember of the city was moving quickly beside the river. I think I was driving. Something hit me from behind and I flew toward the lights. Everything went black. Then comes the strangest thing of all. I know I was given a choice of two doors. One would have sent me back to pick up where I left off. The other, well, the other sent me here. And so it's my own fault that I'm here, although I'm certain that Mordor wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I picked the second door. That's all I remember of my old life. That and the letters you saw me scribbling in my notebook. Otherwise, I might as well have been born at the edge of a Mordorian gravel pit with a shovel in my hand."

"What a strange story," Panakeia murmured. "I hope you find your way home one day."

"I hope so too." Nichole continued in a cheerful tone. "But let's get back to your problem. I was thinking, maybe we could ask the author what to do."

"The author? You mean Illamatar?"

"I don't know exactly what I mean. But we're all in a story after all. Our whole lives are a story. Someone has to be writing it, right? So let's ask the author."

Suddenly, there came the sound of clicking on a keyboard followed by a loud 'ding.' A small boy riding a bicycle materialized out of nowhere. He walked up to Nichole and handed her an envelope. "Message for you," he said and pedaled away, disappearing as quickly as he arrived. Nichole tore open the envelope with shaking hands.

"What does it say?" Panakeia asked eagerly.

Nichole read the note aloud. "I haven't given you free will for nothing. Do you think I write out every minute of your lives for you? How uncanonical. You'll have to figure this one out for yourselves, but I'll give you hints along the way if you look for them. Signed, The Author P.S. There are some interesting shops around campus. Why don't you check them out?" She looked at Panakeia. "Not very helpful, is it?"

"Not very. But we'll have to look at those shops. There must be something there."

Panakeia glanced up to see the professor hurrying towards them with a stack of books. "What can I do, what can I do?" he said. "I could speak on futility, and that is what I spoke about, but what now? How can I create an entirely new course in just one day and do it by tomorrow? How, how? I don't know anything about feudalism."

Panakeia was about to remark that he didn't know much about the futility of sales either, but checked herself. The troll looked too sad and pitiable to tease. "I don't know. Why don't you just read something out of one of those books and then cut the class short? You'll have satisfied Anakron by teaching about feudalism and given yourself a few days to rework the course."

"That is an excellent idea. We will reconvene at once. Follow me back to the classroom." They hurried along, calling to the other students as they spotted them. Soon, the entire group was back in their seats.

The professor stood at the head of the room. "Class, a most grievous error has been called to my attention. It would appear that I have been given the wrong course title. Thus, I have been teaching the right class to the wrong course." A chorus of chuckles erupted, all quickly silenced by a glare from the troll. "However, all is not lost. This will be our final meeting, in which I shall propound to you the information required by our administration and then conclude with a final exam. All grades that I have given you will stand, which means, Panakeia, that you still receive an A, although you must take the new final to prove participation in the new course material. We will now begin."

For the next hour, the professor read out of books on lords and ladies, nobles and serfs, princes and paupers. Panakeia was bored to tears, but she did prefer the new material to the old. Only once did the professor slip into his old lecture, when he remarked on the futility of marketing to peasants when money was controlled by the nobility. This, of course, led to a discourse on futility and pointlessness in a futile system, but only briefly; the professor quickly switched back to feudalism at the loud meowing of a cat.

The professor shut his book. "We will now take the final." He passed out a single sheet of paper, face down. "Do not turn your paper over until given instruction to do so. Are you ready?" Ignoring several shouts of "No," he said, "You may begin." Papers flipped over with a noisy rustle to reveal four questions:

1. What is your name?

That was easy enough. Panakeia wrote her name.

2. What is your favorite color?

Another easy question. Lime.

3. What is your quest?

Simple. To get out of Mordor.

4. Has this course helped your quest? Give examples. (Extra credit)

Panakeia thought for a minute before writing yes. Examples were slightly harder. She decided to list the emptying of her sample case. It was much easier to carry without its heavy contents. Besides, she felt better about herself without the burden of dubiously useful products. And that was a relief too.

She handed in her exam. The professor hardly glanced at the paper before writing 105% at the top of the page. "A+" he hissed.

"Does this mean you could, well, maybe see your way clear to changing me back?"

He glared and waved her out of the room. "No." She left the classroom, slamming the door behind her.

Nichole followed a few seconds later. "That has to be the easiest final exam ever written. What do you think? Should we go look for those shops now?"

"Sounds like a good idea." They walked to the shopping district with no clear idea of what they were searching for, but glad to be doing something other than sitting in class.

They walked and walked. Then Nichole gripped Panakeia’s arm and pointed at a tiny storefront. “Look. Do you think that’s what we’re looking for?” Psychic Readings. 10 Trolls. Also see us about our special services. All problems solved. A neon hand blinked in the window.

Panakeia had her doubts but didn’t have any better ideas. “I guess we’ll find out,” she said.

Inside, they met a woman who wore almost as much jewelry as Panakeia. A brightly colored bandana covered her wild hair. Skirts swishing, she approached the pair and blinked at Panakeia’s strange appearance. “Read your palm? Tell your future?” she asked in a thickly accented voice.

“Actually,” Panakeia said, “we were hoping you could help me with this.”

“With what?”

“This. Someone put a spell on me or something. I’m not really a chimpanzee. Can you help?”

The fortuneteller gulped. “I can fix anything. Follow me. Alone.” The last word was directed at Nichole.

Panakeia smiled at her friend. “Wish me luck.” She walked into a back room with the fortuneteller.

Shouts and flashes of light came from the room, followed by a hush. The fortuneteller emerged. “You may come in now,” she said dramatically, waving her arm at the door. Nichole rushed back anxiously. And there sat Panakeia, no longer a chimp, but not looking quite the way Nichole remembered her, either. Her makeup was gone and, most noticeably, her hair was no longer blonde.

The fortuneteller spoke rapidly, losing her accent in her excitement. “It worked. I can’t believe it, but it worked. She’s back. But she’s back the way she naturally appears. She wasn’t very happy about her hair at first, but it’s better than being a monkey, she must admit.”

Nichole smiled. “I sort of like your hair that way.”

Panakeia wasn’t convinced. She thought that she looked too much like an older version of her conscience for comfort. But there was nothing to be done and it was true, at least she wasn't a chimp. She paid the fortuneteller and walked back to the dorm to await further instructions from Anakron. She hoped that she would soon be on her way home.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"I can't believe I'm spending all of this money on tuition and you're skipping class! Sleeping in the hall! Why aren't you in class and what have you to say to yourself? Look at the state of your clothes. Did you even get out of bed in time to put on clean clothes this morning? I'll bet your room is filthy. What time did you go to bed last night? You've been having entirely too much fun. You need to be concentrating on your school work, not on boys!"

The voice of Alli's mother startled her to wakening. A nightmare... she thought... my parents can't be in Mordor. I left them in Gondor.

"We've been looking everywhere for you!"

Alli looked up and groaned.

"Don't you roll your eyes at me, young lady. You're grounded."

Alli jumped to her feet, instantly angry. Of all of the people in the world, only her parents had this much affect on her.

"I am EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD!" she screamed in a way that conveyed less maturity and more impatience reminiscent of an angry fourteen-year-old. "I've been living alone for ages, experiencing things you could never even imagine."

Alli's parents looked at her condescendingly. "Oh, and I suppose we were never eighteen? I suppose we don't know what happens at college?"

"No, Mom, things have changed since the STONE AGE!!!!" Alli couldn't help but think about her job, winging balrogs. She'd started there, and since, she'd been through things her parents couldnt' possibly understand. Had they ever been on speaking terms with Illamatar? Did they hunt werewolves? Did they ever have sorded ties with the Mordorian Underworld, or screaming matches with lords of Gondor? No. Her parents had no clue. Her mother glared at her in the way only mothers could. Alli's father stood brooding, probably considering the best way to blame his children for his computer's techonoligcal malfunctions. Her mother spoke in a deadly soft voice. The class Alli had so recently been kicked out of was watching through the glass window of the door.

"You don't appreciate what it's like to be a parent. You don't appreciate the sacrifices we've made for you. You couldn't possibly understand what it's been like to have you in Mordor. All we want is what's best for you, Alli, and you just don't get it."

"No, Mom," Alli threw back at her. "You don't get it. I'm not your little girl any more. You can't keep me locked up now. It worked when I was five! The world didn't know I existed, much less know me as someone famous on television. You know what, Mom? You just don't want me to live my own life! You're trying to keep me from making the same mistakes you did, but you know what? I have to do it myself. I can't be who you want me to be. I can't be YOU!"

Her mother looked crushed, but her response was anything but predictable. Alli had meant to make her cry, awful as that was. She'd meant for her mother to see the error of her maternal ways and let Alli live her own life (dangerous and stupid though her choices may be) without lecture. She figured that whatever mood her mom was in would be inflicted upon her dad anyhow, so it wasn't worth battling them both.

Now, though, they did not yell. No more threats of grounding, no more lecturing on the disrespectfulness of youth... they turned mean.

"We..." Alli's mother hissed, "Are not going to pay for your cell phone any more. Your bank account is about to be closed, and you can go buy your own horse instead of borrowing one of ours all the time. You can pay for your own food, your own shelter... we're cutting you off. Isn't that right, dear?"

Alli's father looked startled and quite nervous. "Yes!" he agreed instantly to save himself trouble. "Of course! Exactly what your mother says."

Alli glared. Her parents had followed her into Mordor to yell at her? Who did that, anyway? Alli looked up and down the hall and saw the parents of other university students infiltrating the halls.

"No way." she breathed. She spoke louder, promising... threatening. "This.... is.... war."

[Durelin]

Valde had been unable to control himself, and had sprung up from his desk, in order to better slam his fist upon the top of it in clear agitation. He narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows as he frowned, so that the two furry bars formed a v-shape that was forever after known as the ‘angry eyebrow,’ and used in many a crude drawing without Valde Delego’s permission, which he would have frowned upon immensely. For he knew artwork. All true artists were tragic, to the heart, and he knew tragedy. And this class was a true tragedy in the making. O how it pained his heart.

“Modernization, Mr. Delego?”

“That’s surely what it is. I have never seen a more wretched country! Even it’s educational system is weakened by the machinations of modernization that tears up the roots this land was founded on!” He slammed his fist down with a rattling thud. “Just look at it! A Casino, a den of debauchery in place of a glorious...though volcanic...mountain! A massive and overly intricately difficult to maneuver spider’s web of roadway filled with aggressive and predatory orcs in place of what was once home to orcs who peacefully, and clearly with less aggression, prepared for war! A University that instructs its students in the ways of taking something that was adored and altering it till it is unrecognizable! Dark Lord or not Dark Lord, Mordor has gone from bad to worse. No wonder you were all sent here! It’s despicable.”

The troll eyed him. “Are you quite finished, Mr. Delego?”

“No, I am not!” he cried, his voice suddenly ringing with pride. “Shakespeardil, the Bard that almost but did not quite slay Smaug, cannot suffer any longer!” he shouted, raising a fist in the air, and holding his head high. “He was beloved in his time, let him be loved again, just as he was so long ago!”

There was scattered applause, and Valde flourished a bow, while the troll professor simply looked on. He seemed much more shocked now, perhaps by the sudden show of support for the Lead Tragic Actor’s cause from three whole people. Valde looked surprised as well, but continued on without hesitation. Swirling his long coat with grace and grandeur befitting one of his standing, he seized the plumed hat from atop the professor’s head, and donned it himself. “Now...we are going to do this properly...” He looked out over the classroom from the front of the class, ignoring the professor, who was now clutching his obviously bald and clearly buffed daily head, embarrassed by its uncovering, and thus doing his best to disappear into a corner. Valde frowned at the three faces that he saw, counting them over a few times to make sure he was not missing anyone. “Properly...with four players...somehow.”

He was liking this less and less, and had raised a pondering hand to his chin when the door suddenly flew open, and he turned to see the horror that had entered what was now his classroom.

Raising a trembling hand to what had just passed through the door, Valde cried out, attempting to banish it with strong words, and a violent wave of his hand. “Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with!”*

“What on earth are you shouting about, boy?” the man who had entered asked.

“Valde Delego! You dare speak to your father and I that way?!” cried the man’s counterpart in a shrill voice.

The parents of the Lead Tragic Actor had entered, and it seemed that their arrival was as if they had come from the grave to Valde, who had turned even paler than normal, and who trembled with both fear and anger, a hint of madness in his eye that strikingly resembled guilt. If one did not know the man’s background, they would think he was feeling a kind of guilt that resulted from stealing cookies from a jar, but it was indeed far different, as Shakespeardil knew well.

“But mother...” Valde began, his voice much smaller, with a higher pitch to it that seemed to diminish any power in his act. Perhaps it was the cookies, after all.

“Don’t you give me that!” The woman approached him, and gave the man a good smack to his head. She had never been one for modernization, and so felt that a good ol’ fashion smacking around of her children was the best way to raise them right. The poor woman felt she had failed with this one, particularly since he had ended up in Mordor. And, even more unfortunate for her, was that her physical reprimand did not good. In fact, it did quite the opposite.

“Do not strike me, foul spectre!”

“Spectre?!” his father cried out, striding toward his son to join his wife. “How dare you call your mother that!”

“You are but foul shades, reflections of memories long past that haunt me still!”

His mother and father turned to each other with inquisitive looks. They muttered to each other words such as: “What is he saying?”; “Has he gone over the edge then?”; “Well I bet it was you that did push him.”; and the like.

“I’m saying you two are just ghosts,” Valde informed them, clarifying. “You can’t be here. You’ve long been dead, and that’s why my childhood was so tragic, left as an orphan at the wee age of four years...”

His mother burst out laughing, while his father simply stood in shock. “Four years?” his mother inquired, gasping through her wheezing laughed, “Oh my dear, you know very well you weren’t out of our house until you were well near thirty...”

Valde simply stared at her, returning his eyebrows to the v-shape that he would later so regret not trademarking and copyrighting for all its worth, though that would have modernized even his broodingly angry stare. His mother trailed off in her giggling, and his father’s shock lasted only until the two burst into tears, each wailing about how they had failed their son, sobbing about repressed memories and how they should have had him psychoanalyzed when they had the chance. Valde rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and trying very hard to ignore his parents’ presence.

“Oh fine,” he finally said begrudgingly, and with a heavy sigh. “I know, you exist. We’ll just say you were abusive to me as a child. That will explain everything.” He eyed them. “Though that doesn’t mean you are now. We’ve reconciled, okay?” He seized each of their hands in turn, and gave them a quick shake. “There, reconciled. Now, I need players for Shakespeardil’s King Fëar. You, father, will…” he trailed off. “Wait…how did you get to Mordor?”

“You assigned us, silly boy.”

“Oh.” Valde eyed his parents uneasily. “Remember we’re reconciled…” he said nervously, before quickly turning back to the rest of the class.

“Now, I hope only one of you Fools can sing.”

*Again, apologies to the Bard

[the guy who be short]

Fléin entered his classroom, walked a few paces, then stopped short.

He looked around the room, awestruck. Seated at three tables at the front were... five Dwarves! Dwarves!

In all his sejourn in Mordor, Fléin had never seen more than three Dwarves, himself inclusive, at the same time. This was amazing.

The professor did not seem to share the enthousiasm spreading across Fléin's face. "Wipe that grin off you face," he rumbled in an odd voice, fluctuating wildly in pitch. "I don't see anything funny about being late for your first lecture. Take a seat."

Fléin sat down next a Dwarf who had, for some reason, decided to coat his or her axe edge with ketchup. He smiled and shuffled into his seat.

"As I was saying," the professor turned around, "before I was rudely interrupted- WHERE IS YOUR PAPER BOY?"

Fléin carefully addressed his apology to the floor two feet in front of the professor. "Sorry sir... I didn't think we'd need any."

The professor, a squat stone figure, made a sound similar to that Fléin made when producing cats from his stomach; Fléin interpreted this as a laugh. "No paper? How are you to learn the Theory of Defense for Short People? Hah! I'm sorry, but there's little physical activity in this class!"

He didn't sound very apologetic - more gleeful than anything else - and apparently, Fléin was not the only one to suffer from this misconception. The other Dwarves murmured, annoyed, but the professor ignored them.

"You will have to borrow paper from another student. You will pay this back tomorrow, with a 50% interest rate, and I shall take 500% of the total repayment personally in Forgotten Paper Taxes to attone for your lack of effort." He turned back to the board, and finished off his sentence. "I am Professor Trunchbull."

[Kath]

Grumbling about bossy adults and being dragged out of bed far too early, Sai made her way back to class. Slamming the heavy stack of books that had mysteriously appeared on her bed that morning (though she wouldn’t bet against Anakron having put them there) down on the desk, she fell into a seat and prepared to act the epitome of a student in a class they did not want to take – bored, unsociable and bordering on rude. She promptly achieved all three, falling asleep in the chair just as her professor entered the room.

When she eventually woke up again she was surprised to find that someone had joined her, but was less surprised to find that the newcomer had also succumbed to the temptation of sleep, especially when she heard the droning of the professor in the background. Leaning over to get a look at her companion, Sai noticed a pad of paper lying on the desk. Picking it up she skimmed through a few note-filled pages. It looked as though this girl had managed to stay awake a little longer then she had! As she read, Sai absentmindedly corrected the various spelling and grammar mistakes she found in the writing, not really noticing she was doing so until the owner of the writing suddenly sat up and snatched the pad off her.

“Hey! What are you up to?”

Sai began to explain, but tripped over her words in her haste to assure the girl that she had not meant any harm. It didn’t matter though, as she had taken one look at the pad of paper and was now beaming at her. Confused, Sai stopped trying to explain, and questioned instead.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Are you kidding? You’ve just done me a huge favour. I knew I was going to have to work out what I’d done wrong later, and you’ve just done it all for me. I never wanted to take this course in the first place – grammar and diction? So not my forte. I’m Lucy by the way, and you are?”

A little stunned by the sudden U-turn in behaviour Sai didn’t reply for a moment. She wondered whether she’s picked up Alli’s natural distrust of new people, or whether even her short time in Mordor had led her to view those who seemed nice with a wary eye. Nevertheless, she could see no harm in at least trying to make friends.

“I’m Sai. And if you really are ok with me correcting your work like that then you’re welcome. It’s just an automatic thing, but I’m sorry I didn’t ask first.”

“Seriously it’s not a problem, like I said you did me a favour. In fact I’ve got a proposition for you. I’ll stay awake in the lessons and make notes if you’ll correct my mistakes and help me with any essays or stuff like that, agreed?”

Not believing her good fortune, Sai agreed on the spot. Of course, she argued with herself, Lucy could be tricking her. She might not even be taking notes, just making it up as she went along. But then, she argued back, that was a pretty ambitious scheme, and the girl seemed nice. Anyway, whatever the case there was no way she was going to stay awake in a lesson that started this early!

And so the week’s lessons passed in a gentle blur. Sai arrived on time and went back to sleep as soon as Lucy arrived. After class the two would go to one of their rooms where Sai would correct any mistakes and write essays for the both of them, as she had discovered that was simpler than trying to help. Thanks to this little partnership both girls kept in the professors good graces, and since they caused no trouble within the class they weren’t discovered.

The tranquil state of things was shattered, however, on the last day of the week – finals day. Sai and Lucy found themselves on opposite sides of the room as the students had been seated according to surname. Onara and Perks would normally be close to one another but, this being Mordor, there were 13 other candidates in between. Hoping that Lucy would cope on her own, Sai settled down and opened her paper.

2 hours later she exited the room. The questions hadn’t been hard and, thanks to Lucy’s notes, she had at least been able to write something for each one. She had a mild panic attack though as before she could find Lucy and ask her how the exam had gone, she was called back into the room.

Her professor stood before her brandishing her paper.

“Just what do you call this?” He demanded, shoving it under her nose and pointing at something she had written. Peering at it, Sai realised what he meant.

“That, sir, is a correction.”

“This is MY exam paper. I do not make mistakes!”

“I’m sorry but I think you’ll find that you have. You see . . .”

She was interrupted by a sudden bang, and turned to see her parents marching through the door. Perhaps 3 or even 2 weeks ago this would have made her jump, but now she just accepted their appearance with a weary sigh of resignation. Her mother was already reprimanding her as she walked.

“Don’t you answer back young lady! This, um, man is both your elder and you better and you should treat him accordingly. Honestly, I don’t know what today’s youth are coming to.”

“Yes!” Came her father’s voice. “And what is the point of carrying a mobile if you never have it on!”

After smiling at her father, who had become a bit addled in his old age, Sai turned her back on them and tried to continue her conversation with her professor.

“Here it is, look. You’ve written ‘was’ when it should be ‘were’.”

“That’s it! You are grounded!” Her mother’s voice sounded in her ear.

“You can’t ground me! We’re not even at home.”

“Oh? So now you challenge my authority! You’re going off the rails missy.”

“No, mum, I’m just trying to complete this task so I can get out of here. If you’d just go talk to Anakron . . .”

“And who is this Anakron – a boy?” Her father interjected suspiciously.

“Well, a man really but . . .”

“You are coming home with us right now! I don’t know, cavorting around with boys at your age.”

“Mum! Dad! I am not cavorting! And I am perfectly capable of looking out for myself, and even if I weren’t I have made friends here who certainly can.”

“Oh look, she thinks she doesn’t need us anymore. Who was it Sai that gave you life? Who was it that raised you? Who looked after you from the day you were born, forsaking any kind of life I might have had so that you might have a mother? Who worried about you all day every day simply out of love?”

“Yes. Who was it that marched across the frozen wastelands to bring you food? Who kept you warm all winter . . .”

“Darling do be quiet. You won’t be allowed to watch things anymore if they’re going to confuse you so.”

Shaking off the bemusement that arose from this little interlude in her mother’s attempt to guilt trip her, Sai allowed her anger to develop, and used it.

“I’ll answer your questions, mother. You gave me life, even if it was willed by Illamatar, but if you claim that then you cannot blame me in any way for your life going down the drain after I was born. You chose to have me! And I know that you worry about me but that’s your job! You are my parents, you worry. But you can’t stop me from living my life! It’s mine to live and I have to make mistakes in my own way. Speaking of which, professor, have you found yours yet?”

Turning away from her parents she directed fierce eyes at her professor, who rolled his and scribbled an A+ on her exam paper.

”Just take it and go. I’m fed up of arguments like this between my students and their parents. Maybe if you walked a mile in each others shoes you’d understand each other better.”

And with that he stormed out of the room. 'Well', thought Sai, 'at least these nutters are useful for something!' She was sure the professor would have been able to argue his way out of a paper bag if given the chance, and was glad that her parents had taken that opportunity from him. She heard her mother enthusing about something, and tuned her thoughts back into the present.

“Oh what a wonderful idea! Sai, give me your shoes.”

“Mum, you shouldn’t take these things so literally.”

“Now, Sai.”

Doing as she was told, Sai removed her shoes and put on the ones her mother passed her. As she did so she felt a searing pain go through her whole body, finally coming to rest near her heart. She gasped and clutched her chest.

“Mum, I think you’re ill or something. My chest is killing.”

“Well of course it is. I missed you, and I was so worried. You disappear and all we get is a note saying you’ve been taken to Mordor!”

“You can’t possibly be blaming me for the insensitivity of bureaucrats!”

“Well, you did speak an anakronism out loud, you did know what would happen.”

As her mother spoke, Sai felt something gentle wash over her, though it was tinged with sadness. She realised with surprise that it was love mixed with regret, and quickly yanked her mother’s shoes off her feet. She was a teenager for goodness sake! She wasn’t supposed to understand being a parent.

Taking her own shoes back she put them on again and sighed with relief as the familiar sensations of indignation and youthful know-it-all-ness flowed through her. Smiling she hugged both her parents.

“I know I worry you, but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to put up with it. I have to go but I’ll see you when . . . if . . . I get back. Bye!”

Leaving them standing there, she ran out of the room and headed off to find Lucy.

[Encaitare]

It had been a long and trying week for Ms. Brochenbach, between her idiot teacher shouting at the whole class for hours on end and the nagging worry of how she was possibly going to complete that pesky third task. (Oddly enough, whenever she thought about it she had the sudden urge to explore a hedge maze, but she’d never been overly fond of shrubberies and therefore ignored the unusual thought.)

Now it was the night before her final exam. She’d considered studying, but the textbook only had a few words per page and therefore actually contained the same amount of useful information as a supermarket tabloid.

“Well, Mr. Swanky,” she said to her hat, which was sitting on the bedside table in her cramped dorm room, “I’m sure I can do just fine. Real college students wing it all the time. Old Timers Dizeaze, my foot.” Feeling pretty confident in her abilities, she turned off the dingy lamp, rolled over on the squeaky bed, and went to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

“Wilhelmina!” she heard a man’s voice say. Slowly regaining consciousness, she saw two fuzzy figures standing by the bed – so much for blaming Anakron for disturbing her slumber.

“Minnie, my child, wake up.” This time it was a woman’s voice. With effort, Wilhelmina sat up and squinted at the two people – she wasn’t squinting because her eyesight was poor, but rather because the pair was see-through.

“Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad,” she said somewhat lamely. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Mandos or wherever?”

“Normally we would be, you see, but we’ve heard some disturbing rumors,” Mrs. Brochenbach said mysteriously.

“More disturbing than one’s dead parents showing up in an already eerie dorm room?”

The ghosts looked hurt. “We wanted to see you,” said Mr. Brochenbach. “It’s been so long since you were taken away from us.”

Wonderful, now I feel like a horrible person, she thought. Nothing like reproachful parents to do that to you. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said apologetically. “It’s nice to see you both, too, even if it’s a little… odd.”

“There’s not much time for us to stay, Minnie,” said Mrs. Brochenbach. “We’ve heard about the impending war between parents and teenagers, and we want you to stay out of it.”

Wilhelmina raised her brow and scoffed, not unlike a sassy teen. “Why would I pick a side? I’m not either one.”

“We know that,” her father sighed. “We just don’t want anything to happen to you – it’s probably going to get pretty messy. You wouldn’t want to spoil your chances to get out of Mordor, would you?” He winked, just like he used to back in Minas Tirith…

“We might even be able to help you with that third task,” her mother said in a confidential tone.

“Does it involve a hedge maze?”

“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Brochenbach laughed like the young woman Wilhelmina remembered from her childhood. She suddenly realized that she had missed so much during her exile in Mordor – family, friends (of the non-ferret variety), the possibility of giving her parents grandchildren. She’d missed her parents so much at first, she remembered. The two smiled knowingly, and leaned in closer to give her their otherworldly wisdom –

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

She woke up to the offensive sound of an alarm clock.

Blasted dreams! She fumed, thinking how wretched were these unconscious musings over which she had no control. And how stupid Freud was for spending all his time thinking about them. She hadn’t even gotten any information out of the dream, except some false hopes and irritating sentimentality. Frowning, she put on her hat, picked up her walking stick, and left for her final exam.

[the guy who be short]

The lessons - entirely theoretical - went on for a week. So many notes were required that Fléin ended up owing the professor a few hundred trees in paper tax.

The Dwarf of Ketchup - Ketchupkin was his/her name - became Fléin's close friend. It turned out s/he actually shared a room with Alli, which Fléin thought was rather coincidental. They sat next to each other and, in the intermittent periods of the professor's relative quiet, talked a lot. The thought of Wilhelmina faded from Fléin's head quickly, and so did thoughts of A Slan. All he needed now was to ensure Ketchupkin's gender, and then... who knows?

The newly forged friendship kept Fléin's spirits up throughout what would otherwise be a very gruelling time. He absorbed none of his notes, and the pair spent much time discussing their respective childhoods at the feet of the Orocarni.

And, all too soon, it was finals day.

Fléin approached it with a brave face. The other Dwarves went first, none of them exactly sure what they were doing. The exam was a practical - against the professor. Nobody even knew any self-defence moves, yet alone how to harm a troll.

The tables were piled against a wall and a fighting arena prepared.

Four broken Dwarves were led away, one by one, each with a big F spray painted into his or her beard. Ketchupkin was up next.

Fléin thought the other Dwarf put up rather a good fight. Ketchupkin managed to get ketchup into professor Trunchbull's eyes, both blinding and enraging him. He staggered around whilst Ketchupkin hacked at his feet, but eventually, the professor stepped on the unfortunate Dwarf's beard and caushed him or her to cry out in pain. Quickly located, Ketchupkin was duly bashed on the head with a stone fist. An Orc assistant sprayed an F on the Dwarf's beard and hauled the body away.

Fléin was so enraged he attacked right away. He found himself yelling strange words that he didn't know before and that he couldn't explain. Afterwards, he deemed himself possessed. While he hacked at the professor's feet, he distinctly remembered yelling "lumos!" and blinding the troll with a flash of light. This gave him a perfect chance to hack the creature in the stomach.

The battle raged on, with Fléin yelling odd words every now and then and swiping with his axe, and the professor staggering around in a blind rage. Then, Fléin yelled "expelliarmus!" - Illamatar knew what it meant - and the professor's arms fell off!

"Okay! I surrender!" he shouted, unfortunately before Fléin could decapitate him. He had an odd urge to find a length of wood and stick it up the professor's nose.

The troll seemed to have no such intentions. He ordered an orc to hand Fléin a card declaring his passing with distinctions, then had him shoved out of the room into the corridor.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Alli was kicked out of class the second day as well. This time, reflecting her writer's life story once more, it was because in an effort to avoid waste of paper, she'd read the homework assignment ("An Essay of Epiphanies: Why the Lord is a Llama") on her computer without printing it. Since she had no hard copy to study in class, although she knew more about the readings and Illamatar himself than anyone else in the class including the professor, she was, without hesitation, invited to leave poste-haste and not come back.

Again, she stumbled into her parents at an awkward time. Alli was rehearsing lines with Aimè ("I love you Aimè") after her class "ended" when they walked up from behind and her father, enraged, demanded to know who Aimè was.

"He's a friend, Dad."

"Sounds a bit too friendly." he said threateningly, flexing his muscles and looking remarkably intimidating.

"Ugh... Dad, you don't get it. We're just friends!"

"You think I don't know what goes through the heads of young men? He's only after one thing."

"Dad, shut it. Of course he's only after one thing: saving the world. Which I'm helping him do."

"Oh, is that what you kids call it these days?"

Aimè looked as though he'd rather not get involved as Alli argued with her father. Her mother merely muttered loudly to herself about how her only daughter, her life and her joy, had not even trusted her mother enough to tell her that she was in love. Alli ignored her.

The next day, Alli lasted a half hour into the class before her professor told her that she was hopeless, gave her a zero on her in-class writing assignment ("Me and My Llama: A Personal Relationship with the One"), and bade her to never return. Her parents waited for her outside.

"Can't you people just leave?"

"Do you hear that, dear? After all we went through to give her a happy life... after all of the anguish she caused us, and yet we still love her more than life itself, and she can only sum it up enough to call us "you people"!"

Alli groaned. Why couldn't parents just understand that sometimes their kids needed to be left alone? Besides... she'd declared war. Why weren't they more upset? Alli had read that morning in a local tabloid that parents were invading the country, searching out their children in a disturbing desire to put them on the Straight Path. Why weren't more children fighting back? Why weren't more parents issuing demands and ultimatums? Why wasn't there some sort of... some sort of action or something?

The next day, Alli survived her class ("Today's topic: the grass is always greener in another Llama's pasture; why you should know about the toxic amounts of chlorophyl in other religions") before her professor told her that she was a lost cause and ought to give up on a university education all together since she'd never amount to more than a slug could. As she gathered her things in an increasingly routine sort of way, she could hear her classmates sniggering. She shot them a salute and left, trying to avoid places she knew she'd run into her parents. She still couldn't figure out why they were in Mordor and what they were thinking, stalking her about the place.

"We're just trying to keep our baby girl healthy and happy." Illamatar above, could they read minds or something? This was getting insane.

"If you want me to be healthy and happy, you'll leave me the freak alone. I'm at uni, Mom. You can't just follow me here! I could have sworn I was far enough away to avoid unexpected parent drop-ins."

"Do you hear that, dear? She doesn't want us here. Well maybe she doesn't want us to pay for her education."

"You aren't paying for it!" Alli yelled. "It's all part of the Anakronism Dweomer. You aren't even paying through taxes."

The fifth day of classes, Alli was beginning to crash. She'd avoided her "room" completely, slightly terrified of the prospect of sleeping in close quarters with an axe-happy gender-inspecific Dwarf that seemed to hate her. She'd been awakened that morning by a security guard of the college that wanted to know why she was asleep on a park bench. She had no reason particularly good enough, so she lied.

Her parents found her at the local jail.

"Lying to a law enforcement official?" her mother sobbed. "I am a failure as a mother. It must be my fault that my only daughter, my life and my joy, is breaking laws and lying to her parents and getting into trouble. The next thing you know, we'll find out that she'd doing drugs or stealing."

Her guard, Biff, turned around. "Hey, aren't you the girl that stole Orlando Bloom's fangirls?"

Alli's mother fainted. Her father refused to pay bail, informing Alli that she'd learn better if they left her there.

The next day, Alli missed her class. She wasn't released from her cell until several minutes after the class ended. Her professor didn't appreciate her situation. She was given a zero for the day and wasn't allowed to turn in her homework ("Baa: Speaking to the Divine").

The morning of her final dawned. Or rather, her final was scheduled slightly before dawn, therefore the sun had yet to rise when she rolled off of her park bench and arrived. Her professor scowled.

"You fail." he muttered. He wasn't a morning person.

"What?!" Alli fought tears. This just wasn't fair.

"You heard me, you failed."

"What have I done to deserve and F?"

"I'm not giving you an F, I'm giving you a 0."

"Baaa. No you aren't." Illamatar intervened. Alli almost cried in relief. "You are passing her with an A. You are passing all of your students."

Alli butted in. "Illamatar?"

"Yes Aluminè?"

"My teacher is a troll."

"Yes... a horrid teacher."

"No... a real troll. Why isn't he stone? It's daylight."

"Blame the Dweomer."

"Oh."

"A war is brewing. Baa."

"What?"

"You might want to seek out your parents and stop them before they convince more people to join their cause... they fight on the side of A Slan."

"But Flein said A Slan is dead."

"It matters not. And it matters not that I'm very fond of A Slan. Wars are not to be tolerated. It is up to you, Alli, to end this." He disappeared.

Alli heard the sounds of a riot from outside the hall window. She looked out upon thousands of angry parents forming a mob. She saw her parents and ran, hoping to stop this war before it could truly start.

As she rounded the corner, she tripped and fell, hitting her head and rendering herself unconsious.

When she woke, several minutes later, a small figure with a large mustache hovered over her, teeth bared. She screamed.

"Aimè... I love you!" she shrieked, desperate. Mario had the high ground.

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Mario stood there, with his filthy furry foot placed firmly on Alli's chest—she was trapped. Grinning inanely, he took a cigarette out of his pocket, put it in his mouth and lit it. Alli, gasping for breath, still managed to sass him about it, something about smoking being a filthy habit. Mario blew smoke in her face.

"Hahahaha!!!" he laughed evilly. "You'll just have to cope."

"I thought smoking would be dangerous for a wolf" she said. "It would be most exciting to see your fur catch on fire." At this suggestion, Mario snarled. He looked quite intimidating, and at the same time ridiculous. The short, fat, moustachiod, dribbling, wolvish plumber was pulling off quite the look.

"Bloody teenagers" he growled, and stubbed out his cigarette on Alli's shoulder.

"Why the hell do you want me, you horrible creature!" Alli yelled. Mario was crouching over her now, preparing to kill.

"Because I'm a wolf, of course!" he cackled. "And marvellous fun it is too. So marvellous, that I would like to stay a wolf. I can kill people with these razor-sharp fangs now! Do you have any idea how much better that is than having to jump on people's backs, or shooting little gold coins at them from an indiscernible location?"

"Yea, I did wonder where they came from. How many coins can you stuff..."

"SILENCE!!!"

"Whatever. Your powers suck, your clothes suck, and you suck even more!"

Mario stood stewing. "You know the tastiest meal, my dear? Seer."

Alli's eyes widened. If the wolf's weight weren't on her body she would have liked to scream a good old-fashioned 'NOOOOOOOOOOO', but she couldn't. All she could do was await her doom.

Or her inevitable rescue. Because sure enough, in classic Hollywood style, the figure of Aimé appeared in the corridor.

"I love you, Alli" he cried (somewhat redundantly). "And now" turning to Mario, "it is time to perform my duty."

Aimé charged at the wolf, and great was the clash of their meeting. To and fro they raged, but the cool-headed Aimé was never in real trouble: he had a weapon, a sword strong and true. The foul wolf had nothing but his teeth, claws and lighter. In less than one moment, Mario had lost a leg, and lay bleeding on the deck.

Stooping over him, Aimé grinned victoriously. "Your bloody and painful end is a delight to me, foul Mario. And just so you know..." The wolf looked up in misery. "Peach was never faithful. There've been a lot of other guys, Mario. Trust me, I know for sure." The wolf looked up with such hatred it made Aimé blink in surprise. He really loved her, he thought. Ah, so be it.

He stabbed the wolf through the heart, causing him to howl a forlorn howl. And then he was silent. Mario was dead. Aimé just looked over at Alli, splattered in blood, and flashed her a joyous smile.

[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…”

[Kath]

Sai arrived at the post-battle site and looked around in shock. She’d heard the noise through the walls while she had been talking to Lucy but hadn’t bothered going to have a look, as the sounds of screaming and fighting didn’t usually mean something good was happening. Now though she could see a total lack of war, or even of good-natured arguing, which she was sure must be unheard of in the real world as well as Mordor! As she watched the parents began to disappear, since there was no fighting they were no longer anakronisms.

“Goodbye darling! We’ll see you soon.”

She turned as she heard her mother’s voice, and saw both her parents standing behind her. She hugged them quickly just before they disappeared, and then made her way toward the middle of the battlefield. She could see Anakron and A Slan talking, and kept a respectful distance from them. As she waited a small figure appeared next to her in the crowd, and she looked down to see Fléin. He looked tired, and more than a little battle-weary, but he was smiling at the sight before them.

Sai found herself smiling with him. She had now completed all the tasks Anakron had set, and simply had to wait to find out whether she had done well enough to get out of Mordor. She thought that perhaps she should be feeling more anxious than she did right now, but the calm atmosphere that seemed to be almost tangible was keeping such concerns at bay. Eventually Anakron and A Slan finished their quiet conversation, and Sai and Fléin moved forwards, noting the remaining members of the Offending Party approaching in the distance, to find out whether Mordor was soon to be just a memory.

[the phantom]

Mardil raised an eyebrow as the psychologist entered his cell and sat in a chair across from his cot. She was in her forties, heavy set, carried a clipboard and a briefcase, and looked at him as if he was a sad, hopeless case.

"Well, well, who do we have here," she said, drawing a folder out of the briefcase. "Mardil II. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Mardil, staring at the wall.

"All right. First, my name is Doctor Freudina, but you can just call me Doc if you want. Okay... it says here that you were cleared by Judge Caan Lupine of all charges surrounding the death of Dr. Hookbill, is that correct?"

"Yes. He was sympathetic to my plight," answered Mardil.

"Then why are you still in jail?" she asked.

"Because I want to stay here for a bit."

"Ah, I see," said Freudina with a knowing look. "Would you say that you feel safe here?"

"Um, I suppose."

"Good...good..."

"Doc- what are you writing?" asked Mardil, trying to look over the clipboard and read her writing upside down.

"Oh nothing, don't you worry," she answered as she finished. "Now, it says here that you were cleared of all charges due to 'temporary insanity', is that right?"

"Well, yes and no," answered Mardil. "I wasn't exactly 'insane', it was a bit different than that. You see, we didn't know what to classify it as for legal purposes, so we just put it under the term 'temporary insanity', but it was actually more like I wasn't myself- or was someone else, or something else... or, at least altered anyway..." Mardil stuttered to a stop, realizing how foolish he was sounding. Doctor Freudina's hand was a blur as she wrote line after line in her notebook.

"So," began the Doctor, "Would you say you were a 'different person' when the attack occurred."

"Yes," said Mardil. "No!" he added quickly. "Actually, no. Not at all."

"Yes and no- very interesting," said Freudina as she scribbled more notes.

"No no, you see I wasn't a different person," said Mardil, wishing she would stop writing, "I was a werewolf."

Freudina stopped writing and looked up at Mardil. "You were a what?"

"A werewolf," said Mardil, wishing that he had never mentioned it.

"I see," said Freudina as she once again began writing. "And how often do you believe that you are a werewolf?"

"Well, never. I have a potion to control it, you see. But I hadn't taken it that day because it wasn't night, but I started changing anyway because I was up in the Tower of the Moon."

"Wow. You seem to have this whole werewolf story worked out," said Freudina, who clearly did not believe Mardil and seemed fascinated by his level of delusion.

"It's not a story!" shouted Mardil. "It happened two years after I got here. There are werewolves in a couple places in Mordor, because in the future someone assigned werewolf games to Mordor. This one particularly nasty wolf named the phantom bit me one night, and so I started turning into a wolf. But I managed to get a potion from this fellow named Severus that kept me from turning. When I leave Mordor the curse should wear off because I wasn't bitten by a Middle Earth werewolf- I was bitten by an anachronism werewolf."

The quicker Mardil spoke the quicker Doctor Freudina wrote. She had already started on her third page when Mardil stopped talking.

"So," she said, "You are a werewolf, but will cease to be one when you leave Mordor. Very interesting. Do you like being a werewolf?"

"No, of course not!"

"So you didn't enjoy throwing Doctor Hookbill to his death?" inquired Freudina.

"Well, at the time I did, but it wasn't me," answered Mardil.

"Then who was it?"

"The werewolf, of course!" snorted Mardil.

"And who is the werewolf?"

"Well... me...I guess."

"But you said it wasn't you," said Freudina.

"It wasn't!" insisted Mardil. "I mean- it wasn't me me. It was... it me... you know..."

Freudina took out a red pen and wrote something. As she wrote, Mardil heard her murmur "multiple personalities" and "delusional".

"Look," said Mardil crossly, "Can we stop talking about the Doctor Hookbill incident."

"Certainly, Mardil. Let's talk a bit about you. Are your parents together?"

"Yes."

"Do you have siblings?"

"A younger brother and sister."

"What is your father's name?"

"Denethor IV."

"And what is it that he does- what is his job?"

"Um, well, he's the Steward of Gondor."

Doctor Freudina blinked heavily and nodded. "Okay, then. Steward of Gondor," she said as she got out her red pen again.

"He is the Steward!" said Mardil angrily.

"Whatever you say," Freudina responded with a patronizing smile. "Very delusional" she mumbled as she wrote in red pen.

"Well, let's stop talking about your family. Let's talk about why you're here in Mordor. Why are you here?"

"Because the King hates me," said Mardil, clenching his fists.

"Problems with authority" muttered Freudina as she wrote in red pen again.

"Seriously, the King hates me! The Kings and Stewards have been rivals for a couple generations- you know that! Anyway, in my first year at Minas Tirith University, the King had me tossed into Mordor though I had not spoken an anachronism!"

"And why did he do that?" asked Freudina.

"He caught me and his daughter making out in one of the palace fountains," said Mardil, staring at the floor.

"Oh- so you were 'making out' with the King's only child, the beautiful Morwen? How interesting. Was it just a fling?"

Surprisingly, Mardil did not respond negatively to the Doctor's obvious disbelief. Instead, he continued staring at the floor and said "No."

"All right," said Freudina. "Now I want to know if-"

"Get out," said Mardil.

"Excuse me?"

"Leave. I'm not talking to you anymore. Write whatever you want to write in that stupid notebook of yours. This psych eval is over." Mardil looked up into her eyes, drew one of his knives, and twirled it meaningfully.

"Oh, goodness, yes, yes, I was just on my way out. Look at the time!" said Freudina as she snatched her briefcase and scampered out of the cell.

Mardil stood up and slammed the door after her.

[Durelin]

“I’m picturing…a raging sea, tormented by a storm that only Ilúvatar himself could spare anyone from. It is a very vivid picture that I have been shaping in my mind since my childhood, so please don’t ruin it.”

Valde was painting a word picture for all to imagine, having obviously and officially commandeered the class. And as easy as it may have been, he was extremely pleased with himself, feeling a natural pride spring up in him stronger than ever, finding himself in what felt to be his rightful place: holding a script – containing great words of tragedy, nonetheless – and telling people what to do. Six people now sat in the desks before him, though the majority of them seemed to find no reason to really listen to him. Perhaps they all knew that doom was indeed impending in its nature, and had seen the signs as if they had been literal meteors falling out of the sky. Perhaps they were. Valde was too busy directing, as well as maintaining his role as Lead Tragic Actor, to notice anything of that sort.

But he was not planning to cast himself as King Fëar, as most expected, for in his title of Lead Tragic Actor, there was nothing about old men, no matter how tragic they were. His dashing looks, and naturally brooding appearance could not be disguised by powder, whigs, or any kind of masking materials that would destroy any of his expectations that people would remember his face. He had considered adjusting the play so that King Fëar was not at all old, but the connotations brought even Valde’s mind to shame, if he was to avoid altering the story completely. And that just was not possible at this point. He knew they did not have much time; whether or not the impending doom was obvious to him, he realized that time was indeed scarce, though he knew not why. Everyone had most of their lines memorized, which were quite a large number, considering the five-act play was originally divided among four players.

“Actually,” piped up the troll professor, his voice cracking slightly as he raised a quivering hand, “I was picturing more of a “Singing in the Rain” feel…only, with a touch of deeply tragic madness.”

Valde turned a sharp gaze to the professor, who immediately lowered his hand. It was amazing that the man’s eyebrows could tame the wildest troll professor, even one with a fashion sense even more trollish than the majority of trolls. Perhaps it was due to the unfortunately non-trademarkéd v-shape, which sent messages of violence and viciousness and vindictiveness, and, possibly the most intimidating of all, vanity.

“I just thought you might want to know…” the professor stuttered out.

“I’m sure you also had a very clear image of what the billboards would look like, too. But we’re not going with a commercially gratifying musical. We’re waging war against the capitalist shadow that has fallen upon this land.”

Valde’s eyes scanned the room, and came to lie on the mousey girl. Only she watched him intently, and he could only stare back for a moment, unblinkingly, his lip twitching, trying to hold back a sneer. He was not sure if her enraptured attention was good or not. Quickly, he decided that he simply did not care, and moved on.

“Now, father, your lines?”

And so the class proceeded, until Valde had performed the ritualistic pulling out of the hair attempt many times over, until the shaggy black mass looked violently disheveled, his purposely ill-kempt sideburns and eyebrows only adding to the wildness of his look. It seemed he had decided to go with a look more akin to that of a frustrated composer, who, feeling under appreciated and meaningless, doubting his existence and finding his mortality shockingly real, sold his soul to the Dark Lord. This was why, possibly, he so missed the olden days in which Mordor had a much more corporeal demon to deal with, no matter how often he existed without a body.

It was a slow and steady proceeding, and they worked their way practically a line at a time, Valde constantly readjusting and questioning, snapping at those who failed to carry out his instructions properly, and often snarling angrily when he realized that even he did not like what he had only a moment before stated was his refined vision. He was discovering that perhaps his envisioning had been rather narrow-minded, limiting all the roles to being played by none other than he himself.

The final eruption came when he determined that his mother playing the Fool was indeed rather fake, no matter how much he wanted to think that it was a realistic role for her. “Grace and a cod-piece!” he bellowed, “that’s a wise man and a fool!” He apparently was getting sick of her forgetting her lines, he himself forgetting that she had only started memorizing them since her arrival.

His mother sighed. “Please, dear, may I simply read them for now?”

“No! You are the Fool! How hard can it be?”

The woman slapped a hand to her face, and her husband followed suit. “We have failed him, haven’t we, my dear?” Valde’s father asked, his voice filled with a sadness that would echo through any void, or through eternity itself, never to be silenced. Valde eyed them angrily, though the inquisitiveness was clear in his gaze.

“What is this nonsense? Let’s get a move on…”

“No, son, we must tell you something,” his father began grimly, his voice firm.

“What now? Do hurry it up…” Valde tried to maintain the sharp annoyance in his voice, but he was faltering. The seriousness in his father’s voice, and the pain and severity in both his parents’ eyes told him something was not right. He now had to admit, perhaps for the first time, that he had inherited his natural tragic tendencies from someone, and it had surely been these two. The emotions that warred within them were clear in their expressions, the simply way that held themselves, and allowed their eyes to convey more than any mere words would, was artistry. Valde was almost troubled enough to have to fight back a tear, but held any blatant sorrow at bay with a furrow of his brow.

“Son…this might be very hard for you…” his mother talked slowly, deep concern in her voice. She approached him, holding out a hand to take hold of his and squeeze it tight, looking up into his eyes. Tears had begun forming in small pools, cupped in her eyelids. Blinking, she turned away, seemingly ashamed. Valde looked on, as his father took several steps forward as well.

“My boy…I’m afraid…” he choked, but pushed himself on, forcing the words out slowly and steadily, his voice wavering only slightly as he tried to keep his head held high, gripping his hands tightly in two fists which he held at his side to steady him. “It is Act V, Scene III, and you have failed to produce catharsis.”

A poisonous ooze of fear ran up his stomach and into his throat, and Valde’s hands shot up to clutch it as if he were choking on the taste of what could only be failure. Supreme and utter failure, for the Lead Tragic Actor, playwright, and amateur director. He, Valde Delego, had failed? His production of King Fëar, before it could even endure one run through of the entire script, had failed? Nay, not just that production: the production, the play, the walking shadow. He, the poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, had finally come to Act V, Scene III, that final scene, that fateful scene, by which all tragedies fates’ are sealed. He felt cut short, but then, it was too late. He had his chance, he had his hour, and he had failed. He would be heard no more, left to be naught more than a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Turning away from his parents, and shrugging off even his mother’s loving touch, Valde began to trudge slowly toward stage right, to make his final exit. But suddenly, applause broke out, and, whirling on his heel, his long coat swirling behind him, he returned his gaze across the classroom that had for a brief time become his stage, and, strangely, found hundreds – no, thousands – of faces staring back at him. The others in the room began to gather down stage from him, in front of the desks, facing out to the audience. Clasping hands, they took a bow. Valde stood frozen in shock, even as they beckoned to him to join them.

“But…” he stammered, “If it is over, why are they cheering?”

His father laughed at him over the noise of the crowd. “Because they have been entertained! You could surely say they are full of sound and fury,” he remarked, gesturing out to the audience, “but signifying nothing? I am no so sure…”

Valde’s lips curled into a small smile, and he made his way up to join his fellow players. They took another bow, before they broke away, leaving Valde standing alone to take a few bows by himself. Finally, on the very last flourishing bow, his face cracked into a full smile, even showing teeth, until the flash of a motionless capturing kamura caused him momentarily blindness, and he stumbled off backstage. There, awaiting him, he found no one. No one with flowers, no one even to remove his makeup or help him with his costume. But then, looking down, he realized that there had been no transformation in this performance. He had remained himself throughout the entirety of it. Perhaps Shakespeardil was right… he considered momentarily, but soon his mind was busied with other things.

He hurriedly searched around backstage, but could find no one, not even his parents. Exiting through a back door, he found himself back in the hallway of the Univeristy of Mordor, and reality suddenly came crashing down. Act V, Scene III was over. The applause of the crowd had made him forget what that meant. Time was up. The Anakron… Had he passed his test? Had he passed any of his test? Had he even been tested? Or had he been forgotten? After all, he had failed to produce catharsis.

He had also failed to secure a pair of eyebrows legally. He had failed to make his way through Lûndûn in the proper amount of time. He had lost his role in Spamlet. He had failed to make it to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort on his own, even with the help of Mr. T. He was almost certain he had failed his ‘psych eval’ due to the simple fact that he had altogether blown it off. And his class… His life was but a tale of failure, and woe was his constant state because of that. If only his parents, if only the Grand Anakronist, if only Mordor, and if only the world knew that, then perhaps his failures would not cause him to…fail. Where was there for him to go, when he was a failure even once assigned to Mordor?

“Where?” he shouted to no one but the wind. He would find Anakron, and demand an answer from him. He cared not what it was; he already expected to find himself cast aside, forgotten, as the failure, the loser of the game. It was fun while it lasted. And so he raged on.

“Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, shall I pay mind!
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
Thou gods who hath treated me as they play thing!
Cast me aside, used; I care not!
Assigneth me – no, by my right,
By the gnarled marrow of my forefathers,
I assigneth mineself…to Mordor!”

~*Exeunt, with much credit owed to Shakespeardil*~

[littlemanpoet]

The tableau was the remains of the battlefield, hemmed in on north, east, and south by the sheer cliffs of the Ephel Duath. To the west was the Gate that led to Ithilien. It was closed. Beneath the cliffs to the east stood the former tower of Minas Ithil, Morgul, now somehow Cirith Ungol, though why in the Dweomer it should be named for a spider was beyond Anakron. He and A Slan met in the middle of the battlefield, which had once been a haven, if have one could call it, for poisonous death-flowers. All the flowers that had grown there were now dead themselves. Anakron and A Slan shook hand to paw.

They were distracted by the repeated chuff of an oversized bug that looked not unlike a dragonfly. It was shiny yellow, and had antennae sticking out from its top, which added to the effect. Both armies backed away from the spot where it was coming down with a great wind of choking dust and now deafening chuff of propellers. It landed, and out popped Karís Mâtiktwít, a big grin on his face and his overly whitened teeth gleaming.

"That was excellent! Incredible! Fantabulous! The best take we've ever had! What a reality show! This'll get better ratings than anything we've done yet!"

"So you got it all?" Anakron asked.

"Yes! Everything! Even the voice of Illamatar! Which I must say," Karis grinned, "was an ingenious idea. You really should consider a career in show business, Anakron. You certainly have that gift, that élan, that creative spark for just the right touch."

"I thought it rather weak myself," Anakron replied, "a deus ex machina if ever there was one."

"Welllllll, it was your idea, Anakron." Karis pointed a reprimanding finger at him.

"Little matter if it was or not," Anakron retorted, "as long as those Trolls are safely in my bank account?"

"Yes, all three million of them."

"Good. After all, I need to have something to fall back on when I retire from this < ahem > less than advantageous profession."

"Less than advantageous!" Karis cried. "Such power! Such notoriety!"

"I was referring to the more, shall we say, enslaving aspects of it, such as being forced into the position by a pair of bellicose and overwheening wizards."

"Well, all's well as ends in great tv ratings!" Karis said, and marched off, giving orders to his staff of lisping orcs.

"So," said A Slan, "you really are just a marionette, as you say, in this whole thing." Anakron merely nodded. "And there are two wizards who control this..." A Slan looked around "...place?"

"So it is."

"And these anakronisms, as you call them, come from your future, and in that future I have already appeared in this world?"

"Well, there is a rumor that this entire situation is a feigned history, and even so there is much debate as to whether you actually did - or will - appear as that which you claim to be, and whether you actually did what you claimed to have done. But for all intents and purposes, it is as you say."

"Well, being who I am," said A Slan, "I'll take it that I will have been here, and therefore there is no more that I need to do here. I'll be off now! And sorry for the little misunderstanding!" There is some debate as to what happened next. Some say that A Slan roared, and the power of his roar made the air shake, and into that shaken air he disapparated to yet another dimension. Others say that Anakron's raised staff, and the cat's 'meower' conveyed the Dweomer, and he thus sent A Slan packing. Be as it may, A Slan was no more to be seen, and this feigned history, if it is that, continued on with no more A Slan to confuse the bliddy issue. (Nevertheless, it was said that in later years, two brothers and two sisters led a rebellion and took over Cair Pairadocks, under the banner of A Slan, and ruled there in pieces until they left as mysteriously as they came.)

"And now!" cried Anakron. "The fates of the Offending Party has been determined! As soon as arrangements for presentations have been made, the determinations shall be announced!"

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Valde Delego! Come forth!" cried Anakron Istkon Vayor.

The dour personage stepped out of the crowd, hat for once in hand. His tall and lanky frame was hunched at the shoulders, and his head drooped.

"How do you think you fared, Valde Delego?" Anakron asked.

"Well to be honest, milord, I think I failed."

"Why do you think so?"

"I never made it to my psychological evaluation, milord."

"That did not help you, I grant it."

"What do you think was your greatest moment?"

"It is hard to say for certain, milord, but being on stage in the classroom, as Lead Tragic Actor."

"Indeed. I will come back to that. Now for the scores. You were late in completing the first test, and won seven points. In the second, you and the others missed some obvious chances to be proper Mordorian drivers. The third, the celebrity hunt, as we call it, you failed and never made up. You seem to have avoided a physical and any surgeries that might have resulted as well, so I cannot consider you to have passed that either. On the positive side, you did not vote for a single lynched victim in the werewolf scenario, ten points; and your final exam was stellar; another ten points. Finally, for overall gamesmanship in all its forms, and any self-improvements achieved (other than the shallow kinds), I award you with twenty-five out of thirty possible points. Your total score is thus ..... sixty-three points out of one hundred. I am afraid that it is not enough. You have not succeeded."

Valde deflated. His shoulders sagged even. His face went sallow, his eyes dimmed. His hat folded in on itself. In a word, he was crushed. Figuratively speaking. "I - I did not expect any better, to be honest, milord."

"Even in that you are wrong, Valde Delego, for one thing has become clear. You are indeed a great performer, and not only performer, but an able teacher of performance in the arts, be they as they are in this Dweomer-ridden land. Thus, I am happy to be able to announce that the University & Hospital of Mordor at Urukapolis has determined that you are the best nominee to replace the retiring (in more ways than one) Dr. Trollianus Tyredazthaykúm. You shall, if you accept the post, become Head of the College of Performing Arts, and Director of all plays, musicals, operas, and skits; and, of course, tragedies. What say you?"

Valde looked stunned. In fact, he was stunned. His shoulders straightened. His eyes cleared. His hat uncrushed and became wearable. He was uncrushed. He was positively bubbling. Indeed, he was uncola. After a fashion.

"I - I - I'll need to think about it, milord!"

"You have time. I have six more dooms to declare. When I have finished, return to me with your answer. Is it well?"

"It is, milord." Valde Delego bowed, turned, and walked away with a bemused and whimsical look on his face.

Anakron smirked. It could have gone worse for that one. No doubt. And these trolls needed replacing. He hoped more Offending Parties might produce such rich surprises for Mordor in its various facets. He was tempted to tell the other six that they had failed as well, then place them where they would be most useful; but that would be unfair, for some of the others had passed as well. He turned his attention to the crowd that waited with bated breath, which was getting to be ridiculous for they were all turning blue, and he readied himself to announce the next member of the Offending Party to whom he would announce doom.

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Alumine Umfoil!" Anakron cried.

Alli walked up, leaning on the left shoulder of just as tipsy Aimé, a dreamy and contented smile on her beaming face.

"You shaid it right!"

"But of course. Do you think I'm a dolt?

"I must inform you, Alli, that < ahem > being in love does not qualify as self-improvement, even though it certainly has improved your disposition, disregarding your current state of inebriation. Nevertheless..." A pained look came over Anakron's face. "I congratulate you on your newfound relationship. May it last as long as it should.

"That said, it is time to settle accounts." This sounded ominous. It was. Anakron raised his head and then his voice. "Complainants! Come forth! Stand on the Offending Person's right."

Alli frowned and looked around Aimé's shoulder. (He almost lost his balance from the sudden change in his equilibrium, and groaned from an oncoming alcolhol induced headache.) Walking toward the threesome were Orlando Bloom, Britney Spears, Feanor of the Peredhil, and Mario.

"Witnesses for the Defense, rise and come forth! Stand on the Offending Person's left."

Tom Felton came forward, followed by a host of fangirls, and Roggie taking up the rear.

Aimé said, "I think I ought to get on your other side." Alli nodded and switched sides with Aimé, so that he stood with Tom Felton and the other witnesses for what apparently was turning into her Defense. What had she done? It was true that she and Aimé had killed the werewolf Mario, but here he was now, alive and as menacing as ever! How could that be? Did everybody come back to life in Mordor? It was so unfair! At least they couldn't accuse her of killing somebody who was standing before them, so obviously alive.

"Just what the doubleyooteeyef is going on here, anyway?" Alli demanded.

"These individuals have complaints that must be answered before your fate may be determined," Anakron replied.

Alli's hands went to her hips. "But you never said anything about that! You laid down the rules and we abided by them (in general), and here all of a sudden you're holding us accountable for all kinds of things that should have been allowed!"

"Who says that they were ever allowed?" Anakron retorted. "Did you think that you could do any blessed thing you pleased, just because you were part of the Offending Party?"

"Wellllll..... yeah!"

"I'm sorry to hear that. You are very much mistaken."

Alli added quickly, "Well, maybe I didn't think I could do just anything."

Anakron raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

Now Alli was at a loss for words. The fact was, she had not even considered the consequences of her actions beyond making sure she passed the tests. She had lived very much in the moment, had done what seemed like needing to be done, and had skated, jumped, wiggled, crawled, stamped, and danced through the challenges, with only the thought of making it through. Well, also the thought of taking vengeance upon Mario for the sake of Hookbill, and listening to Illamatar.

"I had visions!" she cried desperately. "I had a spiritual experience! A change of ... heart...." The final word almost died on her lips.

"Tell me about this so-called change of heart, Alli," Anakron said quietly.

"I -- I -- " Alli was at a loss for words. In desperation she cried, "a change of heart wasn't in the original contract! Nobody said I had to have one!"

Anakron smirked. "That is true. You claimed to have had one, not I."

"Deeyayemen!" She looked at Aimé for help. He was looking at her with great concern, but helplessly. This seemed to be beyond his scope. At last she said, "Well, let's hear the complaints! We might as well get this overwith seeing as I'm probably not going to make it out of Mordor." Which, she considered, wouldn't be all bad, seeing as Aimé couldn't leave.

"Very well," said Anakron. "Orlando Bloom, say your complaint!"

"She took away my fangirls!" he yelled, pointing at Alli.

"Is that the entirety of your complaint, Mr. Bloom?"

"Yes!"

"Is there an answer?" Anakron asked.

"There is!" Tom Felton called, stepping forward. "It was I who took away his fangirls, not Alli. She merely set up the circumstances that brought it about!"

"Is his claim true, Mr. Bloom?"

Orlando Bloom glowered. "Yes, it is." He slumped.

"Your complaint is answered," Anakron said. "Off with you to Kirsten Dunst and New Jersey!" Anakron raised his staff, and Orlando Bloom disappeared.

"Britney Spears!" Anakron called. "Say your complaint!"

"She stole the show!" Britney whined. "I was on stage, recording my new CD, and she just barged in and took over! And then my stage got a big hole in it, which is her fault too!"

"Is there anybody to answer for this complaint?"

Roggie strode forward. "I am the one who made the hole," he said.

"Very well. Is there anyone to answer for stealing the complainants show?"

"I'll speak to that!" cried Feanor of the Peredhil from amongst the complainants.

"Will you?" Anakron queried. "That is odd, seeing as you have your own complaint."

"Even though I have my own complaint, this so-called singer's complaint is a fallacy!"

"On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that I'm the one who assigned her to Mordor!"

"Those are solid grounds. You may speak to the defense of Alli on this point."

Feanor of the Peredhil stood tall and announced, "She's just puke!" Britney gnashed her teeth at this, ready to strangle the Peredhil.

Anakron merely raised his brows. "How do you know this?"

"Easy. There's a test. A demonstration." Feanor of the Peredhil turned to Britney Spears and yelled, "The Only Real Estel!"

Suddenly, Britney Spears' jaw dropped and her eyes went wide with horror. She melted. And turned a sickening green-yellow, and stank of bile.

"Hmm...." murmured Anakron. "Apparently she is indeed!" He turned to Alli. "You are cleared of this complaint, since stealing the show from puke is only right. The next complainant, since she has already spoken, is Feanor of the Peredhil!"

Feanor pointed at Alli. "She voted for my death!"

"Is that the entirety of your complaint?"

"No. She's also me when I was younger and didn't know better, and that's just a horrible thought! She ought to stay in Mordor!"

"Is there anyone to answer this complaint?"

"I will!" Alli said. "First off, I only voted for her fair and square because it was part of the rules! And if I'm her at a younger age, then she's still the same person as me, and if I stay in Mordor, she should too!"

"And if she's not the same person as you, just older?" Anakron wondered aloud.

"Then her complaint's false in the first place!"

"Very good." Anakron turned to Feanor of the Peredhil. "You are answered."

Feanor of the Peredhil gave Alli a dirty look, but slowly it began to change to a smirk, then a grin, then a wink, leaving Alli very, very confused.

"Are there any more complaints?" Anakron asked.

"Yes!" It was Mario. "She killed me!"

"But you're alive, you fool," Anakron answered.

"That's only because of the Dweomer! It still hurt!"

"It is true that the deed was done, and that it was most certainly painful," Anakron acknowledged. "Is there anyone here to answer the complaint?"

Silence ensued. It lasted for two whole moments. Then it lasted for three more moments on top of that.

Finally, Anakron spoke. "Alli, it seems that there is no one who will answer this complaint. What have you to say for yourself?"

"He's an evil werewolf! He killed and maimed people! He hurt Hookbill!"

"Yes," commented Anakron, "and he's not the only werewolf to do so, oddly. Nevertheless, no-one gave you authority for bounty hunting or vigilanti-ism. What is your answer?"

Alli could think of nothing. But she had a question. "If his complaint stands, how does that affect my score?"

"Greatly, for it bears upon how you've handled yourself throughout all the tests."

Alli's head drooped. "I - I - I have no answer."

"I do!" came an oddly familiar voice from the back of the crowd.

"Come forward!" Anakron said.

Up walked a virtual duplicate of Alli. Anakron's lip slowly rose in a hint of a smile. "And who might you be?"

"The real Alli!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes!"

"Explain."

"I made her during the three day rest period between challenges two and three. She was bait, standing for me, while I achieved the challenges."

"This needs proof," Anakron said with a skeptical arch of his brow.

"Easy," she answered. "Surely you noticed that I inexplicably passed the final exam and psych eval, even though it seemed that I failed. It's because while she failed them, I went back and completed them successfully. I may have made her, but that doesn't mean she's as effective as me. She's a little unstable compared to me."

"Illamatar help us all!" blurted Feanor of the Peredhil.

"It must be admitted," Anakron said, "that your evidence is circumstantial."

"What in this Illamatar forsaken challenge is not?" the "new" Alli challenged.

Anakron smirked. "You have a point. Very well! The final complaint is answered. Go away, Mario."

Mario huffed and puffed away, and it is said that he went back to Dol Gaurgauroth and blew a couple houses down.

"Now for the scores. For your first test, Lúndún, you scored a nine; for the road rage trip, six points. For the celebrity hunt, ten points. For werewolf, your votes resulted in the deaths of two innocents, eight points. Your physical and surgery went seamlessly, ten points. Your psych eval netted nine points, which is higher than the original total I had been ready to award you due to the fact that your golem of sorts almost caused you a disaster; the same may be said for your final exam, which would have been lower than the nine points I am giving you. Now, regarding your gameship. You have proven yourself to be unstable and highly explosive, you have had dealings with the Mordorian underworld which raises ethical questions, and yet in spiete of all these negative aspects, you have been defended against all complaints, even murder. Therefore, you receive twenty points out of a possible thirty, and your final score is eighty. You pass. By the skin of your teeth (now go and brush them, ick).

"Finally, I have a sealed envelope for you, the contents of which I am not at liberty to divulge." Anakron handed her the envelope. "Your friend here, if I may so call him," Anakron indicated Aimé, has not achieved the goal that you have, and you must leave him behind, if you choose to leave Mordor. You are free to do so, but it is your choice. Do what you will! But do not answer me now. Wait until I have dealt with all of the members of the Offending Party and tell me then what you have decided."

to be continued...

[littlemanpoet]

"Fléin!" Anakron called.

"I'm right here," came a gruff voice. "In front of you."

Anakron looked down. But of course. Fléin the Dwarf stood there glowering, awaiting his doom.

"Yours, Fléin, is an interesting situation. You gruffed, intimidated, befriended, assaulted and battered, religiously fanaticised, and infatuated your way through these challenges."

"I what?!?" Fléin's brows formed a "v" rivaling those of Spockú.

"Trust me. The important thing is that you passed every specific test, although not always to perfection. My reason for describing your methods with a series of adjectives is to reveal the way you approached the challenges. To that end, some of those with whom you had dealings, have requested to speak regarding your case." Anakron looked up. "Come forward!"

Fléin looked behind him. There came a sparrow, an inebriated man wearing bathtubs, a beaver, a pair of bespectacled psychologists, and a Dwarf.

"Ketchupkin!" Fléin cried.

The Dwarf smiled and winked.

"He just about killed me!" came a squawking voice, interrupting Fléin's brief happily infatuated moment. It was the sparrow. "I don't care if I was part of some weird battle regarding the incarnations of Johnny Depp, A Slan, or the swamp thing! He just about killed me!"

"But I didn't!" Fléin asserted.

"But you did kill me!" yelled the Beaver, somehow free of his lisp.

"Oh. Well. Yeah. But you came back to life! That was the werewolf game! And that whole thing was a set-up! And you're only an animal anyway!"

"A talking Animal, Dwarf!" cried the Beaver. "You do not deserve freedom from Mordor! You deserve death!"

"Whoa now, just hold up a minute," Fléin said.

"Do you have a defense, Fléin?" asked Anakron. "Or is there someone to speak in your defense?"

"I do!" Ketchupkin said boldly. "Fléin joined the forces of A Slan."

"And this helps him, how?" asked Anakron pointedly, "seeing as it put him on the opposing side from me?"

"Lesh not confuzhe zhe issue," interrupted SpaM. "I wuzh a lawyer in my preevush exishtinsh, and yer clouding thingshup (urp)."

"Maybe you would care to enlighten us, sir," Anakron smirked.

"Thadeyewood! Shir. Firsh regarding the shparrow. Izh it not ture- tar- - ah - a fact that thishparrow attacked Fléin?"

"It is!" Fléin cried. "It was self-defense!"

"It was not!" yelled the sparrow. "It was a duel!"

"In (hic) that cashe, shparrow, it wuzh ashault between two conshenting parteezh an' theref- (urp) thushly, you have no recoursh!"

"Aw dagnabit!" the sparrow said, and stalked off.

"But he murdered me!" cried the Beaver.

"You don't seem very murdered," Fléin accused.

"You still did it!"

"Dwarf, did you know it wuzh a talking Beaver when you killed it?" said the somewhat not so inebriatedly seeming SpaM.

"Um, yes."

"Oh. Well then. Wuzh it an aksheedent?"

"Um, no."

"Oh." SpaM made a gesture of surrender and backed away.

"One count of open murder," Anakron intoned, "confessed to. That will count against you, Fléin."

"But it's just a beaver!" Fléin roared.

"A talking beaver," the beaver insisted.

"Oh you shut up, you little orc!"

The beaver swore at him.

"Tut tut, Mr. Beaver," drawled Anakron. "Are there any other complaints against Fléin the Dwarf?"

"He is insane," said Sigmund.

"What proof have you?"

"He is delusional, thinking some kind of spiritual being has given him a special purpose."

"Oh shut up," said Jung. "I'm sure he's quite right!"

Freud looked at Jung, scandalized. "You maniac!"

"You atheist!" cried Jung.

"You religious fanatic!" retorted Freud.

"You sex-obsessed lecher!" shouted Jung.

"You traitor!" bellowed Freud.

"Enough! Shut up, both of you!" roared Anakron. They stared at him, confounded. "Get out of here. You're neither helping nor hindering Fléin's case. Go!"

They turned and scurried back to Shelob's Lair to harrass and victimize other unfortunates.

"Are there any other complaints?" Anakron waited. Nothing more was said. "Any good words for Fléin?"

"He voted shmart and came up with the sticksh method for keeping track of votesh back in Dol Gaurgauroth," SpaM remarked.

"He fought on the side that he thought was right," Ketchupkin said.

"These things shall be taken into account. Now to it! Ten points for Lûndûn. Six points for the road rage. Eight points for Johnny Depp's integration. Eight points for DolGaurgauroth (you voted against two innocents). Ten points each for your physical, your psych eval, and your final exam. Of the thirty points I would give for general gamesmanship, I take away two for getting into an unnecessary duel, and twenty for open murder of a talking beaver. But I award ten points back to you for fighting on the side that you thought was right. Total points, eighty-two out of one hundred. You pass. You may pass through the gates and go to Ithilien.

"But he should be tried for murder!" cried the Beaver.

"There is one problem with that," Anakron said, "you cannot produce a corpse, so there can be no trial."

"Deeyayemen!" the Beaver swore.

"Hah!" Fléin crowed and swung his axe jubilantly. The beaver and Ketchupkin ducked.

to be continued...