So, this follows right after Duilin's Rusted Spoons on the Edge of Darkness. More crack! Enjoy!
Fëanor and Fingolfin moved on a petrified Morgoth with rusted spoons, the light of revenge shining in their eyes. A gentle, pointed cough from behind them halted them in their tracks, and they turned to see three Hobbits standing there.
"I don't think I can let you do that," Frodo said. "It's a bit messy, and I'm not sure even Morgoth deserves that. Plus, isn't it suppose to be Túrin that kills him?"
"We wouldn't kill him!" Protested Fingolfin. "Just…Cause a heck of a lot of pain."
"And Túrin's too busy kissing Haleth at the moment," Fëanor pointed out.
Frodo sighed, and pushed an unsteady looking Pippin forward. "Well, I've brought something less messy, and just as painful." He stepped back and handed the two elves small yellow cones–two each. "You'll want these," he advised them. They stared at the earplugs in confusion, until Pippin opened his mouth.
"I FEEL PRETTY! OH SO PRETTY!"
Fëanor and Fingolfin exchanged pained looks, and hurriedly stuffed the earplugs in their ears. They clamped their hands over their ears when the earplugs proved not to be enough, cursing their elven hearing.
On the plus side, Morgoth seemed to be fairing just as poorly–Something that brought a smirk to the half-brothers' faces.
"THE CITY SHOULD GIVE ME ITS KEY! A COMMITTEE SHOULD BE ORGANIZED TO HONOUR ME!"
Unfortunately, the horrible singing also roused another creature Morgoth had been holding in reserve. Ancalagon rose into the sky, with Morgoth torn between wanting to praise his good timing, and cursing that he revealed himself too soon. The elves and hobbits dove out of the way.
"EÄRENDIL!" several voices screamed.
"What!" he snapped back. "I've already dealt with him once, it's your turn! Plus, Vingilot's wrecked from chasing HIM," here he gestured rather obscenely at Morgoth.
"And I gave the Silmaril back to Lúthien," he commented, almost as an afterthought.
Fëanor and Fingolfin frantically tried to figure out how deal with this latest threat. Without ranged weapons, they were rather low on options. Just when they had decided a retreat was their only option–as much as they hated it–a single bolt flew over their heads, hitting Ancalagon squarely in a soft spot, disappearing head, shaft, and feathers. Ancalagon shrieked, and fell from the sky, squishing a good portion of Morgoth's army in the process.
All eyes turned to the archer–and Arafinwë sniffed as he unstrung his bow.
"Just because I don't like to fight, doesn't mean I can't, my beloved brothers," he said archly.
Fëanor and Fingolfin stared at each other, chagrined. Then Fëanor shrugged.
"I guess we stand corrected," he told Morgoth.