Fingolfin's explanation doesn't end up explaining much at all, so Fingon ends up drawing his own conclusions. Given the circumstances, those conclusions cause enough concern that he goes to Maedhros, who goes to his brothers, and soon the rumor mill in the city is fairly certain that Fingolfin and Feanor, tentative allies, are now at each other's throats again.

"Relax," Feanor tells him. They're meeting in Feanor's office this time, and Fingolfin is pretty sure some of his nephews are lurking protectively outside the door. "The Valar aren't going to exile you over a few punches."

"And if they do?" Fingolfin says wearily from his seat.

Feanor shrugs, still pacing restlessly. "Then events are one step closer to being back on track, and we'll have a better idea what will happen next."

Fingolfin stares at him for a long moment. "I hate you," he said flatly.

"I know," Feanor says with far too much cheer. "Which reminds me." He goes to the elaborate safe in the wall and after a moment of visible hesitance wrenches the already slightly ajar door open. The light of the Silmarils gleams forth.

Feanor dumps them in a bag that somehow manages to hide that light and then turns and holds them out expectantly towards Fingolfin.

Fingolfin eyes them warily. "What exactly are you expecting me to do with those?"

"Take them," Feanor says impatiently. "I've thought it over, and it's the only thing that makes sense."

Fingolfin opens his mouth, closes it, blinks, and tries again. "What?'

"Morgoth will never imagine that I'd give them to you," Feanor says, growing ever more impatient as Fingolfin fails to keep up with his madcap plan. "When news of our views aligning got out, he might have, but the bruises have helped with that greatly, thank you. The only elf I'd be less likely to give them to is Indis, but she's in far too close proximity to Father, and she wouldn't understand the need to keep quiet about it."

"Whereas I am expendable," Fingolgin says dryly.

"Whereas you once managed to wound Morgoth seven times. If he does see through the ruse, I am confident in your ability to stab him somewhere that will give you enough time to get away." He pauses. "Preferably with the gems."

Fingolfin is working up a retort to that when it fully hits him what's happening.

Feanor is handing over the Silmarils. Willingly. To him. The gems he denied the Valar. The gems that might contain a bit of his very soul.

And he has just quietly given Fingolfin to run away without them if he has to.

"Right," he says hoarsely and finally accepts them. "I'll do all in my power to protect them."

"You had better," Feanor grumbles and stares at the bag longingly for a few moments before tearing his eyes away.

The movement to go across the sea grows and grows, but violence hasn't broken out. Feanor thinks they still have plenty of time.

He thinks this until the day when they are finally permitted to present their case to the Valar. It is a small hearing, quiet and private, with only Feanor and Fingolfin there to present their thoughts.

Feanor is just about to begin when the distant sound of barking becomes too close to ignore, and Huan crashes through the door. A bloodied Celebrimbor is on his back, clinging to his neck, sobbing too hard to speak.

Feanor stands frozen.

"Atar," Celebrimbor manages to choke out, "Atar, he came, he wanted - "

Feanor is there in an instant, wrapping the boy up in his arms. Huan growls protectively when Fingolfin tries to follow.

He doesn't have to ask what his grandson is talking about.

His decoy has worked too well.

"Take him to his mother," he orders Huan, voice sounding very distant. His hand reaches for a sword that he remembers too late he has chosen not to wear.

It doesn't matter.

He runs.

Fingolfin doesn't stay to see how the Valar react. He takes off after his brother. Neither of them are armed. If Morgoth is still there -

Well, it isn't like they haven't faced impossible odds before.

He comes to a stop right behind his brother.

The beautiful house just outside of Tirion is in ruins. One faint cry rises from them, and Feanor bursts into motion once more.

It's Celegorm, only half buried in the rubble. "Tyelpe," he whispers. "Did Tyelpe get out?"

"He's well," Feanor assures him, perhaps overstating things a bit. "Just as you will be." He immediately turns his attention to the stone, figuring out the best way to move it.

"Melkor wanted the Silmarils," Celegorm rasps. "We refused him."

Fingolfin closes his eyes. It is easier than looking at the expression on his brother's face.

But the scene emerges all too easily in his mind. The refusal. The fight. Celegorm pushing Celebrimbor out the door, ordering Huan to get him to safety, and consequently being spared the full collapse himself.

Feanor begins singing the stones into the air. Fingolfin grabs Celegorm and pulls him loose, wincing at his nephew's groans.

"Your brothers?" he asks in dread so that Feanor won't have to.

"He took Maitimo," Celegorm manages. "Macalaure. And Curufinwe. Three sons for three Silmarils … "

"And the others?" Fingolfin asks.

Celegorm closes his eyes.

Behind the stones Feanor has lifted, Fingolfin can see one crushed hand.

"No," Feanor says, fire and despair already consuming him. "No."

It is at that moment that the light of the Trees goes out.