Public Enemies No. 1-8
Chapter Two: The Retrieval Team
Mandos glared down at the two fëar who stood before him.
"You called for us, my lord?" asked the dark-haired one, who looked slightly damp.
"Indeed, I did," Mandos said, sounding intimidating. He was good at sounding intimidating.
"What can we do to help you?" asked the blonde fëa, who looked absolutely euphoric. Mandos didn't like anything to be euphoric, especially not fëar.
"I want the two of you to…do something for me," Mandos said.
The damp one looked suspicious. "What kind of something?" He hoped it wasn't something that would end in doom. Things tended to when Mandos was involved.
"A retrieval kind of something."
The blonde one started hopping up and down. "You mean you want us to bring you something that you hid somewhere?" He clapped his hands. "Oh, I just love hide-and-seek!"
Mandos sighed, trying to keep his temper in check. "No, Glorfindel. This is not hide-and-seek."
Glorfindel looked crushed.
The damp one raised an eyebrow. "What do you want us to get?"
"Well, Ecthelion, It's not so much a 'what' as it is a 'who'," Mandos told him.
Ecthelion sighed heavily. "Then who do you want us to get?"
"You know of Fëanor and his six sons, do you not?"
"Of course I know about…wait a minute, didn't he have seven sons?"
Mandos slammed his hand against the top of his neatly arranged desk. "I knew he had seven!"
Ecthelion looked horrified. "You mean you want us to bring back Fëanor and his sons!" he cried.
"Precisely," Mandos said, nodding.
"Oh, yay!" Glorfindel said, sounding even more euphoric. "Then we can cheer him up! He always seems like such a gloomy person."
As Ecthelion dragged Glorfindel out of Mandos' office, he muttered, "I'd bet a Silmaril that gloomy won't be the word to describe him when we try to bring him back."
Meanwhile, Fëanor and company had materialized smack-dab in the middle of a city park.
"We're here!" Fëanor crowed, spreading his arms out wide. Then he looked at his sons. "Do I still look the same, boys?"
"Exactly the same," chorused the seven.
"Wonderful. Now, what do we do now?"
Celegorm raised his hand tentatively. "Well, we could always…get the two Silmarils back," he said.
Fëanor's eyes widened. "We could, couldn't we?"
"Oh, yes, Father," Celegorm said excitedly, nodding his head. "I've heard of this thing that Men have developed called scuba diving, which allows them to stay underwater for long periods of time. Or submarines. There's always submarines."
"Submarines. I've heard of those. I'd like to try one."
"No, Father!" cried Maglor in horror. The idea of his father using a submarine was a terrifying one.
Fëanor gave Maglor his most fearsome glare. "You're defying me again, aren't you, Maglor?"
Maglor became even more horror-stricken. "No, Father!" he cried again. "I was just going to say that…uh…you don't know how to speak the tongue of Men!"
Fëanor's angry look melted away as he muttered, "Yes, that could pose a problem…"
"Wait!" exclaimed Maedhros, jabbing an accusatory finger at Maglor. "He can speak the mortals' language, can't he?"
Fëanor became fearsome again. "Indeed, he can…"
Maglor cast about wildly for another excuse. "Uh…well…you need money, anyway, you know!"
"Money?" asked Caranthir, who had been standing off to the side looking dark and gloomy. However, his expression had turned interested. "What's money?"
Fëanor and all of his sons (except Maglor) shrugged.
"Money is…a form of…trade that mortals use. Money is little green pieces of paper and small, round pieces of metal that they use to buy and sell merchandise," Maglor explained.
"Where can we get some of this…money?" asked Fëanor.
Maglor swallowed. "At a bank."
Ecthelion and Glorfindel stood at the entrance of the Halls. Beleg came up behind them.
"So, are you guys the poor, unlucky idiots who have to go after Fëanor and his brood?" asked Beleg.
"Pretty much," Ecthelion said. At the moment, he felt like an idiot.
"I feel sorry for you, buddy."
"If I were you, I'd feel sorry for me, too. To tell the truth, I feel sorry for myself right now."
"Now, that's self-pity, and that doesn't get you anywhere," Beleg said. "Believe me, I know all about self-pity. You definitely feel bad for yourself when you've been impaled by your best friend!"
Ecthelion was slightly surprised. "You did die in a much worse way than I did, I'll give you that." Glorfindel pranced past right then. "However, I think Glorfindel died in the worst way."
Beleg nodded. "I agree."
Ecthelion grabbed Glorfindel by the golden tresses for which he was named.
"We'd better get going," Ecthelion said, ignoring Glorfindel's repeated cries of "Ow! Ow! Ow!"
"See you around, then," Beleg said, waving. "And good luck. With those loonies, you'll need it."
"I'll need more than luck," Ecthelion told him. "I'm going to need massive psychiatric treatment when we're through."
"I can schedule you an appointment with Nienna, if you like," Beleg suggested.
"Better wait and see how long it will take for me to get back," Ecthelion said.
"Suit yourself," Beleg replied with a shrug.
Ecthelion waved at Beleg and went out the doors, dragging the howling Glorfindel behind him.
