Before Fëanor and Finarfin even got to the gate of the palace, Fingolfin rushed out to embrace them, for once not caring about dignity and decorum. He hugged each of his brothers and kissed their brows, overjoyed to see them after so long -
- and then Fëanor took the crown of Silmarils from his head and held it out to Fingolfin. "The Silmarils want a hug too."
Fingolfin raised an eyebrow. "What."
"Go on, give them a hug."
Fingolfin wondered if Fëanor had lost his mind, but decided it wouldn't hurt to put his hands out, take the crown of Silmarils, and draw it against himself in a hug.
Fëanor smiled.
So it began.
The brothers went to go visit Maedhros and Fingon in the little cottage Fingolfin had built on the palace grounds, and when they arrived, Maedhros and Fingon were kicking a small ball around. "Hey, play with us," Fingon yelled, kicking the ball over to his father.
They took turns kicking the ball, or keeping it moving with their elbows and knees. Then, when the ball came at Fëanor for the second time, Fëanor took off the crown of Silmarils and punted the ball with the Silmarils.
"As you know, you're not supposed to use your hands," Fingolfin admonished him.
"I didn't. The Silmarils kicked it," Fëanor said.
Fingolfin narrowed his eyes.
When the ball came around to Fëanor a few punts later, Fëanor swung his arm and slapped the ball back to Maedhros with the crown of Silmarils. That looked even more like using his hands, but of course, Fëanor claimed it was not.
A few days later, Finwë was having one of his feasts... and yet another long, overwrought speech praising the Valar. Fëanor got up in the middle of the speech and excused himself, which made Finwë stop for a moment and glower, but carried on. When the speech was done, Fëanor came back and helped himself to a lot of wine, which Fingolfin didn't think was wise for someone whose bladder was active enough to warrant not holding it in the middle of the High King's speech.
"Are you much relieved now, brother?" Fingolfin muttered.
Fëanor patted the crown of Silmarils, which was no longer on his head but sitting on the table next to him. "The Silmarils had to go potty," Fëanor said before he shoveled a huge forkful of greens in his mouth.
"Of course." Fingolfin rolled his eyes.
Some months later, Fëanor and Fingolfin went to visit Finarfin at Alqualondë, as was their wont at least two to three times a year. Finarfin usually gave them gifts when they arrived, nothing too ostentatious but little tokens of his love and appreciation.
This time, Finarfin had a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses for Fingolfin...
...and he had carved a finely detailed, miniature wooden swan boat for Fëanor. He led them to the enormous marble swan fountain in the center of the palace courtyard, and gingerly took the crown of Silmarils from Fëanor, who held the crown as he plucked out the Silmarils and put them in the swan boat, then put the boat in the fountain, letting the Silmarils sail around on the boat.
Fingolfin glared.
The special treatment got worse. They had refreshments in Finarfin's study - and Finarfin had three tiny chairs for the Silmarils to sit on.
There were fresh-baked cookies. That made Fingolfin's mood slightly less foul, especially when he was given a large sugar cookie.
Fingolfin felt his wrath stirring again when Finarfin put an apple cookie in front of the three Silmarils.
"As you know, apple cookies are my favorite," Fingolfin said. "May I trade this sugar cookie for an apple cookie?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, the kitchen staff only made one," Finarfin said with a little frown. "They were supposed to make more. But you can have an extra sugar cookie?"
Fingolfin felt his brain breaking. He blinked slowly, not able to believe what he was hearing. Then he reached for the apple cookie in front of the three Silmarils. "I'll just trade mine -"
Fëanor put his hand on Fingolfin's wrist. "No, you won't. You didn't even ask them if they wanted to trade, that's rude."
Fingolfin felt like he was going to explode. All of his iron reserve dropped and he heard himself raising his voice, thundering through the halls. "How are the Silmarils going to eat cookies, Fëanáro? The Silmarils don't have mouths. They're not even alive."
Fëanor leaned down, cupping his ear. "What's that?" he said, and a moment later he nodded. He stood up and folded his arms, scowling. "You hurt their feelings, Ñolo."
Fingolfin pinched the bridge of his nose and made wounded animal noises.
_
This fic was inspired by the Elmo vs. Rocco feud, which went viral in January 2022. As soon as I saw Elmo's meltdown over a pet rock that Zoey insisted was real, I thought to myself "Fëanor would totally do this with the Silmarils to fuck with Ñolofinwë," and so this fic was born.
Why am I like this.
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