I am proud to say that this is indeed a series, and it is indeed crack. Enjoy it while you can, I suppose.

Upon closer inspection, yes, the spoons were rusted. Morgoth could see it from even here, the reddish residue upon silver that caused him to wince. He had no idea what they were planning to do, but he had a feeling that he'd feel an even greater pain, in the same place, after Fëanor and Fingolfin were finished with him. It wasn't the first time he felt fear, actually. There was the one time that Námo—on second thought, it wouldn't be too wise to bring that back to mind.

Glaurung, unsure whether or not to fly or stay, glanced behind his back to look at his lord, his golden eyes filled with confusion. "My lord?"

"Breathe fire on them," said Morgoth, maintaining a calm voice.

Fëanor's voice, charismatic and strong, rang out through the skies, a laughing, mocking tone. "Morgoth Bauglir! Tell me not that you wish to fly from me! So long, and I did not even meet you first upon landing in Middle-earth, already you seek to run from me and my half-brother." Morgoth leaned around Glaurung to look at the two Elves of tall stature, their similar grey eyes gleaming with familiar excitement - no, revenge.

Fingolfin glanced to Fëanor. "First dispatch the worm?"

His half-brother shrugged. "Do what you like; as long as you are there while we both deal with Morgoth."

Morgoth, in an attempt to forestall his horrid fate, said weakly, "Where is your fair-haired brother Arafinwë?"

Fingolfin snorted. "He does not fight; he never did. Are you prepared for me to take care of your other foot as I did last time with the one hewn now?"

Morgoth shook his head mutely, eyes wide.

Fëanor sighed. "Worm, move aside."

Glaurung blinked. No Elf or Man ever dared tell him to move aside. But this was Fëanor, capable of almost anything, ready to die when he needed to, and the former mad Crown Prince of the Noldor who could just about charm nearly every single Elf to follow him to death. Yes, he was going to move aside. Morgoth blanched even further when Glaurung ran. However, Glaurung, as soon as he readied himself to run, was impaled with a sword (presumably Fingolfin's) through the throat, as it did have his insignia on it), and he fell back to the ground, his neck severed.

And so died the great worm, father of dragons, Glaurung.

"Prepare to die, Delu-Morgoth," said Fëanor and Fingolfin simply.

And they moved in on stricken Morgoth Bauglir.