Disclaimer: I bow to Tolkien, worship Tolkien, and probably make Tolkien turn in his grave.
A/N: Haha! Another update! Doesn't the world just love weekends? Oh, some necessary background information for those who have not read the Silmarillion: Beleg Cuthalion basically was one of the greatest archers in all Elvendom. He, obviously, loves his bow. He served under the husband-wife team of Thingol and Melian (a maia) a looong time ago in a place called Doriath. Mablung, a fellow Doriath-elf, was killed by a bunch of dwarves storming Mengroth (the capital of Doriath) while defending the treasury that guarded the necklace, , that held a Silmaril. Thingol and Melian were by then, understandably, dead. Anglachel is a cursed sword that Eol made from metal that fell from the stars (no kidding). It can cleave through all earthly metals. Still cursed, though...
*
The Fëanorians, father, sons and all, were finally in a state that could be commended as "workable", "functional" and somewhat "sane". Fëanor himself had, at last, managed to walk away from his stick throwing episode without attempting to hurl rocks at his sons. Maedhros realized that having two hands was not exactly the greatest miracle, and Maglor stopped practising scales. Celegorm had decided that grooming oneself was not the most modest of activities, and Curufin had broken his "ship", and thus could not continue plotting ways to float over to the mainland. Amrod and Amras had stopped trying to confuse everyone else, and Caranthir spoke twice in the past three hours, denoting that he had broken out of his trance of self pity.
To think that these eight elves were once feared throughout Middle Earth.
But then again, six thousand years of imprisonment in a devoid, black, endless, timeless, bodiless hall does that to some people.
The raiding had begun.
*
Beleg was frantic. Thingol was not amused. The area of Valinor that encompassed the Doriathian elves was in a massive state of disarray. Or rather, the royal house was.
'It's gone!'
Melian buried her face in her hands and tried not to scream at the archer.
'Beleg, it is just a bow-'
'Just a bow?! Just a bow?! Excuse me, my lady, but it is not just a bow! I am called Cuthalion for a reason!'
Thingol tried to prevent himself from rising and throttling his captain. Beleg was throwing all manner of things about the area, hair brushes, robes, perfume bottles, and, alarmingly enough, the occasional arrow. But his bow was nowhere to be found. Melian tried reasoning with the hysterical elf.
'Beleg, you live in Valinor. There are no things to kill, and there are no things to die under. You don't need your bow.'
Beleg was beyond reasoning, though. At last, the tall elf sat down on the edge of a couch that was swamped under a myriad of strange items (for example, a elf that just happened to pass by and was unfortunately drilled by the unbalanced Sindarin elf) and started rocking back and forth.
'My bow... My bow...'
As Melian went forward to comfort him, a shriek, too deep to be a woman's, rang through the halls, shattering a number of windows, and the sound of hasty footsteps was heard.
'NonoNO!'
Three seconds later, the door flew open, and before anyone could comprehend what was going on, Mablung jumped into the room, closed, locked, bolted and chained the door (although there was neither chain nor bolt) and dove under the whimpering pile on the couch that was Beleg. Bewildered, Thingol bent down and poked the quivering mass of elf that was Mablung of the Heavy Hand. The mass yelped and tried to burrow further into the recesses of the tiny space beneath the piece of furniture. Thingol was daring enough to ask,
'Mablung...? What is the matter?'
There was a brief, muffled noise that sounded oddly like "muffudedu! Emuff! Mmmphh!", which mad no sense whatsoever to the former ruler of Doriath. Seeing as there was no other option, Thingol bent down and bodily dragged Mablung up by his robes and deposited him next to Beleg. Shaking the elf's shoulders violently, the king forced Mablung to look him in the eye.
'What is it, Mablung?'
Mablung took a deep, calming breath and replied.'
'Fëanorians... They were looking for the Silmaril...'
There the elf sniffed deeply. Thingol thought incredulously to himself, was that a *tear*?
'They... *sniff* nearly *sniff* attacked me until I ran away. Oh, Eru, it was almost like... Almost like...'
Mablung nearly burst out into tears, saved only by another violent shake from Thingol.
'Almost like the time that dwarf killed me for that damned necklace... They... were.... *sniff* carrying... things. A bow. Looked like Beleg's. And a black sword, amongst other things... And they were laughing. Oh, sire, they were laughing! And Maedhros had two hands again, and Maglor was singing, and...'
Thingol did not hear the rest. He was too busy making friends with his carpet as he slumped, unconscious, to the floor. Beleg started crying all over again, and it was the best that Melian could do to calm Mablung down and tell him that short, bearded humanoid creatures, otherwise known as dwarves, would not come charging in to castrate him.
But in other parts of Valinor...
'It's gone!'
There was a rather un-kingly exclamation from the backroom of the Museum of Valinor, manned by Ereinion Gil-Galad, former High-King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth, He-who-got-crushed-by-Sauron-upon-Orodruin, the Mighty, the Star, the Valiant, the Honoured, the Courageous, the Brave, the... Well, you get my point. And he was tearing his hair out. Fingon, his father, poked his head into the room curiously.
'What is gone?'
'It!'
'What?'
'Anglachel!'
The cursed sword of Turin Turambar, able to cleave through iron, steel, metal, metal in general, almost any metal, and earth-welded metal, had been stolen. There was a quiet, oh Elbereth, and the sound of Elvish cursing, before the two noldor sprang into action, charging out of the museum and sprinting to Taniquetil as fast as their legs could carry them.
In other parts of Valinor, once again, however, Curufin was happily testing the blade of his new sword, and Caranthir was merrily stringing and unstringing a mighty looking bow. Fëanor only wore a smug smile on his face as the eight elves moved onwards to plunder Valinor, and Aman, too. If Maglor would only stop singing that damnable lay about Maedhros and himself...
*
Galion felt rather depressed. He was in the waiting room with the lot of madmen that had walked up the path and into Mirkwood, and they were not helping his almost frayed nerves.
Allow me to provide you with an insight to the conversation that was being held inside:
Glorfindel and Ecthelion:
'Yavanna thought that Turgon looked rather cute, and even gave him a jewelled collar...'
'And what are the rest of the captains doing about this?'
'Not much. The last I heard, Egalmoth was feeding him a carrot...'
*
Sara and Gildor:
'I believe that ale would work better. In large quantities, they would black out sooner.'
''Tis not strong enough! We should use miruvor. That would set them off.'
'Where are we to find miruvor by the barrelful?'
'Well, Mirkwood *is* renowned for its cellars...'
*
Inez and Galdor:
'Scissors beats paper!'
'But rock beats scissors!'
'Ah ha! Paper wallops rock!'
'And scissors emulsifies paper!'
'Thus rock disintegrates scissors!'
'But paper shall...'
*
Ren, Silei and Diana:
'Ai Elbereth! Gilthoniel!'
'Silivern penna miriel!'
'Oh, let's do this one...'
'Which one? Galadriel's Lament would do well...'
'Too much Quenya. Say it too quickly and it reminds me of a drunk Erestor.'
'You've seen Erestor drunk?'
'That night on Caradhras. When no one was looking, he downed the bottle of miruvor that Elrond gave him.'
'Whatever for?'
'I cannot imagine...'
*
Erestor and Shu Wen:
'TralalalalalaLALLY!
O! Will you be staying,
Or will you be flying?
Your ponies are straying!
The daylight is dying!
To fly would be folly,
To stay would be jolly
And listen and hark
Till the end of the dark
to our tune
ha! ha!'
'From gnashing of the Narrow Ice,
Where shadows lie on frozen hills,
From nether heats and burning waste,
He turned in haste, and roving still,
On starless waters far astray,
At last he came to Night of Naught...'
'O! What are you seeking,
And where are you making?
The faggots are reeking,
The bannocks are baking!
O! tril-lil-lil-lolly
the valley is jolly,
ha! ha!'
'Then over Middle-Earth he passed,
And heard at last the weeping sore
Of women and of Elven maids,
In Elder Days, in years of yore,
But on him mighty doom was laid,
Till moon shall fade, an orbed star-'
'O! What are you doing,
And where are you going?
Your ponies need shoeing!
The river is flowing!
O! tra-la-la-lally
here down in the valley!'
*
Yvonne and Haldir:
'Laurelindorenan!'
'No, you silly pointy-ear! That is a brand of shampoo!'
'What is "shampoo"?'
'What is "Laurelindorenan"?'
'And stop calling me pointy-ear!'
'So stop calling me short!'
'You are short!'
'You are pointy eared!'
*
Galion whimpered. He moved to Thranduil's office. Almost timidly, he knocked on the door and entered. Composing himself, he bowed.
'A company is waiting for you in the waiting room, my lord.'
Thranduil looked up from his paperwork, daisies sitting in his hair.
'What company?'
'Lords Glorfindel, Ecthelion, Erestor, Haldir, Gildor and Galdor, my lord. And several young mortals.'
'What on Arda? What are they doing here?'
'Well, for one, Erestor is singing, Haldir is trying to grasp the concept of the word "Laurelindorenan", Glorfindel and Ecthelion are gossiping, Gildor is trying to kill them, Galdor is playing "rock, paper, scissors" with one of the mortals and the rest of the humans are alternating between the most terrible dialect of Sindarin and Quenya, almost unintelligible, my lord, that I've ever heard. They say that want to speak with you.'
'Erestor is singing?'