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Turgon straightened, feeling eyes on him, and spun around. His own eyes narrowed as he caught sight of his uncle standing in the distance. His fists clenched involuntarily, and he moved towards Fëanor. “Fëanáro.”
“Turukáno.”
“What, have you come to haunt me?” Turgon half spat.
“Careful, boy. All this, and just after you’ve proven your kinship with me,” Fëanor wrinkled his nose faintly in distaste, “as far as the Valar are concerned?”
“What?!”
“You finally built something, boy. Not on your own, but still it was something you claimed as yours. And you looked on it and saw that it was fair. And you told Ulmo and his warnings to make like a bird on the morning of a feast day and get stuffed.” To Turgon’s mind his uncle sounded far too pleased with himself. Worse yet, he could not entirely disagree.
“It was different!” He protested. “After the Nírnaeth Arnoediad my people wanted the safety and security--”
“My people, at Formenos," Fëanor broke in over him, "after being attacked by Morgoth and Ungoliant-- with no Valar to ‘defend’ them-- and after watching our king struck down wanted the last light on Arda. Something which came from my work and belonged to my house.”
“We did not intend harm,” Turgon stated firmly, as though this distinction was the most important.
“And you think we did to any but Morgoth and those who followed him?” Fëanor half smiled, though it came out closer to a grimace. “You turned away injured refugees fleeing Morgoth and kept your gate closed to them.” He shrugged a shoulder elegantly. “When Olwë refused us ships or the use of ships or instructions to build our own, we attempted to take enough to get to Beleriand safely-- we intended no harm to the Teleri and originally planned to ferry our people across and leave the ships. The Teleri could retrieve them if or when they wished-- I hardly think Ossë would have let their boats come to harm if left slightly offshore near Beleriand. You forget that I and mine were already banished and had no other way to go but for the Helcaraxë-- which we originally marched towards and which certainly would have gotten my own people killed."
Turgon’s eyes darkened at the reminder, and a chill ran through his bones at the memory of the wind and the ice and the echoing sound of cracking and shifting shelves. He shook his head, unable to believe the comparison Fëanor was making-- between his fell obsession with vengeance and the Silmarilli and Turgon’s love of his hidden city in the Vale of Tumladen, beloved Gondolin which looked even as Tírion of old to the eyes of the Calaquendi who saw it… as the Silmarilli shone in the blackness after the darkening of Valinor with the light of the Two Trees. Turgon flinched, and sighed.
“There, you see?” his uncle asked. “We are not so different after all. You would stand against a Vala to keep your own, ignoring the counsel of another of the Valar. You would hold your creation and work to protect it and keep it alone even as all other kingdoms of the Eldar in Beleriand were thrown down. And so you died, and your people as well, and your white halls and golden streets were covered in darkness and fire.” He looked at his half-nephew with a mixture of pity and pride. “You are a prince of the Noldor. If you lived long enough-- and you did-- there was no other way for your story to end.”