Ab Initio by Innin

Chapter 2

“So, your ring of office went to a Mortal,” Curufin said as he slid into Finrod’s study behind him. Finrod spun, the heel of his boot clicking onto the tiled floor.

“Yes. He saved my life. Surely without Barahir son of Bregor you would neither have refuge here, nor have the chance to heckle me, unless you yourself had found your way into Mandos somehow,” Finrod said. He attempted to gentle his voice to betray none of the consternation at Curufin intruding, and found it audible despite his efforts.

Curufin continued, in the same, smooth, slick voice, “And swore an Oath on the ring as well, or so I heard. It was my belief that I pledged fealty upon it to you – is that now bound to the Man?”

“You pledged fealty to me. The ring was merely a symbol.”

“I thought you were fond of symbolism, and without it, is not my pledge now void symbolically?” Curufin’s eyes slitted, when he smiled, like those of a content cat, and the bright grey of his irises vanished, glinting, into shadow.

“If you wish to provoke me, continue. Do not disregard the words I told you upon your arrival, unless you would have me prove them.”

“As my brother once said, ‘a king is he that can hold his own,’ or something of the sort. I see that you are a king, but has this city ever been under such a threat that it needed holding?” Something in the emphasis of Curufin’s words sent a shiver like a cold finger along Finrod’s spine – and then a surge of angry heat.

“I see now that I you are keen on such proof, and indeed, I shall deliver it. Kneel, Curufin.”

Finrod arched an eyebrow, and when Curufin merely shifted, robes rustling, into a more comfortable stance, grasped his hurt shoulder, exerting pressure upon Curufin’s wound – now stitched and bandaged – that left only one escape, downward, and bore Curufin to his knees.

Curufin looked up through his lashes, teeth gritted. A spot of blood began soaking through the fabric of his tunic. “What now?”

“I shall make you one of my own. I do not need to prove that I ruleNargothrond, and a recalcitrant guest I can cast from my doors. But a recalcitrant lord is not something I will tolerate. Rise, Curufin son of Fëanor, lord of Nargothrond.” Finrod released his hold, and with some satisfaction saw Curufin roll his shoulders to loosen the effects of the grip while he climbed to his feet.

“You fool,” Curufin said, leaning closer, with high, pleased colour in his cheeks. “First you invite me in despite your self-admitted awareness of the curse upon us, and now you ennoble me into your own ranks, into a station that will let me rule far more freely than I otherwise could.”

“Yes, and no,” said Finrod. He felt his face relax into a smile. “But in order to hold my own, I first needed to make you one of mine. And I do not think that you would risk what has now become your home and responsibility merely to prove a point, and if you do, then it is within my rights as your liege to punish you as I see fit.” He retrieved a two glasses, and filled them with a heavy red wine of Ossiriand that sat in a decanter on his desk. Offering Curufin one glass, Finrod said: “This round falls to me, cousin.”

Curufin stood silent, his throat working as though there were words choking him, his hand half-raised, before he slapped the glass from Finrod’s hand, spun on his heel, and in short order the door slammed behind him.

The wine pooled, like watery blood, upon the floor. Finrod smiled, thin-lipped, and drank deeply of his own.