written during y2 of the pandemic, as I was going stir-crazy and binge-watched episodes of Hot Ones.
The bald-headed and goateed young man with glasses looked into the camera and smiled. "Hey what’s going on everybody? From First We Feast I’m Sean Evans, and you’re watching Hot Ones. It’s the show with hot questions and even hotter wings. And today we have the three High Kings of the Noldor - Fëanáro, Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë." He lowered his voice and glanced over at his guests. "Did I... I pronounced it right, right?"
"You may live," Fëanor said.
Sean grimaced and quickly pulled it into a smile.
"Thank you so much for having us," Fingolfin said graciously.
"Right on. So... before we get started, how are you guys with hot food?"
Fëanor's laughter rang out. "You do realize what my name means, right, or did you not take Quenya in school? My name means Spirit of Fire." Fëanor cupped his hands and curled his fingers twice. "Bring it on."
Sean nodded. "Let's do this."
The first plate of wings was sriracha, which had a Scoville unit of 2,200. Fingolfin insisted on eating his wings with a knife and fork - Sean tried not to gawk - and he had a royal blue bib tied around his neck. Finarfin had a napkin tucked into his shirt and a pile of napkins next to his plate, but otherwise ate with his fingers.
Then there was Fëanor, loudly gnawing on his wings, smacking his lips, sucking the sauce off his fingers. "Mmmm, that's good. Not really that hot, though."
"So, Fëanor, is there a price anyone could pay you to give the Silmarils to Yavanna?"
"She put you up to this, didn't she?"
"No sir."
Fëanor glared into the camera. He took Fingolfin's knife away and pointed it at the camera, as if he were threatening everyone who watched. "Nobody is getting my Silmarils. You hear that? My family didn't go through all this pain and suffering for nothing. I don't care if you got Leonardo diCaprio in here to give me a blowjob."
"This is a family show -"
"Wearing leather chaps. I still wouldn't. You hear that, Manwë? FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU, PAL. I'M STILL NOT YOUR THRALL." Fëanor stood up and grabbed his crotch. "YOU CAN GET THESE JEWELS, MANWË."
Sean shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Fingolfin chewed more slowly, looking off to the side, while Finarfin continued finishing his sriracha wings like this happened all the time.
"Time for Scoville 4,200." The logo for Cantina Royal – Tamaulipeka flashed.
"Not bad," Fëanor said, chewing a little more slowly and thoughtfully than before. Fingolfin continued to eat his wings with a knife and fork, while Finarfin cleaned his fingers in a basin of water before starting on the new wings.
"There's milk here if you need it," Sean offered.
"Fuck your milk," Fëanor said. "What am I, a child?"
Sean swallowed hard. "If Melkor were here right now -"
"MORGOTH," Fëanor and Fingolfin bellowed in unison. "HIS NAME IS MORGOTH."
"Right... if Morgoth were here right now, what would you say -"
Fëanor grabbed the knife away from Fingolfin again and walked right up to the camera. "YOU HAD BETTER STAY PUT IN THAT VOID, JAIL CROW. YOU HEAR ME?" He brandished the knife; the cameraman flinched and took a few steps backward. "THE VOID'S TOO GOOD FOR YOU, ASSHOLE."
"Are you... are you going to finish your wings?" Sean asked.
Fëanor marched back to the table; Fingolfin snatched the knife away, looking indignant. Fëanor chowed down on the wings like they personally offended him.
The Scoville rating was 12,200 now; the wings were bathed in Heartbeat Hot Sauce – Pineapple Habanero. Fëanor, Fingolfin and Finarfin all cleaned their wings to the bone.
"It's good to see fellow hot sauce lovers," Sean said, also eating his wing to the bone. "You wouldn't believe the number of people who don't finish their wings."
"Why is it people elect to come on this show if they know they can't handle the heat and waste food, when there are so many going hungry?" Fingolfin glared. "That makes no sense."
Sean shrugged.
"Wasteful and weak." Fëanor also glared.
"Next question... why do you hate Manwë so much? He is Lord of Arda... Lord of the chicken you're putting in your mouth right now."
Before Fëanor could open his mouth to answer, Fingolfin raised his hand. "Please don't, unless you want to be here all night, and watch furniture get broken. And maybe wear some of the sauce yourself."
There was a long, awkward silence as the three kings finished their wings. Now it was time for Scoville 36,000, with Hot Ones' own brand of Los Calientes hot sauce. This was around the time many guests wouldn't be able to finish their wings. Fëanor, though, only got more vocal in his pleasure.
"Mmm. These wings came correct." Fëanor made a chef's kiss. "I need to bring a vat of this sauce back to the palace."
"This still isn't our hottest sauce," Sean said.
Fëanor glared.
"Are you and Nerdanel getting back together?"
"NO."
Seafire Gourmet's Reaper sauce, Scoville 72,000.
Sean turned to Finarfin. "When you're not performing diplomatic duties and working for charities, Arafinwë, what do you like to do in your spare time?"
"I like reading, and gardening, and I have cats, and birds."
"Oh, cats! How many cats do you have?"
"Twenty. I used to have fifty but my kids took some."
"Oookay," Sean said under his breath, eyebrows raised.
Volcanic Pepper's Thor's Hammer was the next sauce with a Scoville rating of 121,000. Finarfin calmly sipped some water but managed to finish his wings.
"Do you remember dying? What's it like to be re-embodied?" Sean asked Fingolfin.
"I do. I don't recommend dying. As for being re-embodied... it's very different," Fingolfin said.
"Different how?"
"Different in many ways. But I suppose the biggest difference is the passage of time. I was there when the boomers were the 'kids these days' the older generation complained of. I was there when that generation was the 'kids these days'. I was there when the 'kids these days' were dumping tea into the Boston Harbor. When one kid was painting the Sistine Chapel. Time is such a strange thing."
"Wow." Sean looked confused, and a bit perturbed.
The next sauce was Da Bomb - Beyond Insanity, at 135,600 Scoville units. Finarfin and Fingolfin both needed water. Fëanor snorted before he gnawed on his wing.
"If you weren't a king, what do you think you'd be doing with your life?" Sean asked Fëanor.
"Making art full-time." Fëanor's eyes teared up.
"Are you... are you all right."
"I'm fine," Fëanor croaked.
It was time for the next-to-last plate of wings. Almost nobody survived this - Widow Maker by Dingo Sauce, at 682,000 Scoville units.
"You guys have had a really tense history. Ñolofinwë, how do you feel about the public sword-pulling instance, all these years... well, millennia... later?"
Before Fingolfin could answer, there was a rattle from Fëanor's throat. His face was bright red and tears streamed down his face.
Finarfin calmly finished his wing and poured Fëanor a glass of milk. Fëanor took off his crown of Silmarils, placed it on Fingolfin's head, and then took the glass of milk from Finarfin and poured it over his own head, throat rattling again.
Fingolfin tried to contain his amusement. Finarfin poured Fëanor another glass of milk. Fëanor took the pitcher and began slurping it down, while Finarfin and Fingolfin shared the glass of milk that had been poured for Fëanor.
"I think he's done," Fingolfin said.
Fëanor nodded through tears. "Milk," he gasped.
As the staff rushed to produce more milk, Fëanor wept on camera. "Oh, Eru. I can see forever..."
"Are you guys all done, or do you two want to try the last round?"
"Let's go for it," Finarfin said; Fingolfin nodded.
Fëanor glared, seeming to be annoyed with being shown up. Then he went back to crying and guzzling milk like his life depended on it.
The final wings had Hot Ones' own The Last Dab, with a Scoville rating of over two million units. Fingolfin and Finarfin ate their wings, teared up, and now they needed milk too. But the wings were done. It was all over.
When Fëanor was starting to breathe normally again, and the cameras stopped rolling, Fingolfin came over and clapped Fëanor on the back. "You tried."
"How is it," Fëanor rasped, "that I'm the Spirit of Fire, and you two managed to finish the set of wings and I couldn't?"
"As you know," Fingolfin said with a wicked smile, "Ara and I are quite used to having something fiery in our mouths."
Finarfin winked.
Fëanor's frown became a grin, and this time his tears had nothing to do with the sauce. Finarfin slapped Fëanor on the ass, took his hand, and pulled him along. "Come on. Let's make you feel better."
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