Ab Initio by Innin

Chapter 3

Finrod massaged his temples even knowing his ink-blackened fingers would leave smudges. Beside him, in a dog-eared pile, lay the latest notes of casualties, many of them of the garrison that held Minas Tirith, and many more the people of his brothers, and the Sindarin nomads who had been taken by surprise upon Ard-Galen with little chance to escape – how many more of them went unreported, now charred bones beneath a roofless sky, he dared not even surmise. And to his right stacked the replacements for the most important offices that would be re-assigned at the dinner that was scheduled for the evening.

He swallowed the dregs of the tisane that had kept him awake and working, grimacing as pieces of herbs chafed down his throat. It took every conscious effort to straighten his back when, with no pause between his knock and the opening door, Curufin entered the study with half a smirk already on his face.

“Lord Curufin,” Finrod said. Try as he might to will his tongue to form the name into a comfortable one, or even the simplest appelation, cousin, he found no energy for even a light game of such familiarities. Undoubtedly, the unhappy work and the late hour – if it was late rather than early, for he had forgotten to turn the sand-glass a while ago, and of the hour-candle nothing remained but a clump of wax – were to blame for that. Curufin stood waiting, with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You worked late through the night, I see,” he said. “My King.”

“I have no patience for games today – tonight, whatever time it is,” Finrod replied.

“It is nearly noon, and I am not here to play.” Curufin’s glance, a glitter through lowered lashes, indicated the exact opposite. “Emissaries from the Falas arrived last night with a gaggle of their people who have or had kin here in Nargothrond, or elsewhere under your command, and they requested to speak with you. I took the liberty, since Edrahil was busy arranging accomodations for them, and you requested no disturbances. I also took the liberty to assure them that you would address their concerns and answer their questions at the dinner tonight – they did come at a fortuitous time for that.”

Finrod could feel the muscles of his jaw tightening in response to the prickle of irritation at the back of his neck. “Perhaps you are not here with the intent of playing games, but you are being no help either. I see no papers, no census data, nothing that would enable me to answer the questions, nor do I know their questions.”

Curufin, for a brief moment, looked taken aback – no doubt a calculated move, letting Finrod see a feigned crack in his veneer, the widening eyes, half-open mouth and knitting brows a touch too stereotypical, too comical for Curufin. Three steps carried Finrod past his desk - his study was by no means small, but crammed with books and papers that allowed little room for movement – but when he bunched Curufin’s robe in his fists to pull him closer, do something - what, that he himself was unsure of – paper rustled and crinkled underneath his hands. With a disgusted noise he shoved Curufin from him.

“Give them to me, and consider yourself dismissed!”

"Neither as kind or as patient now, are you?" Throughout the exchange Curufin was standing like a statue, though the arteries along his neck twitched in a traitorous, swiftly-throbbing pulse. He drew aside his outer robe, revealing a stack of papers half a finger high tucked neatly under his arm, and placed them on Finrod’s desk. His quick, red tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he reached out to touch Finrod’s temple with warm fingers. Finrod felt his skin tingling.

"Perhaps not. Perhaps you are overstepping the authority I vested in you. You are a lord of Nargothrond. You are my servant, not some bold fool with the permission to run wild. You are much less subtle now than at other occasions," he said through his teeth. Curufin's lips twitched, revealing an immaculate smile. His fingers massaged a circle on Finrod's temple.

“I shall attempt to be more subtle if that is more to your liking, though potentially less to your advantage. You are sweating ink, are you? Or bleeding black? No, not you; you are the man with the least potential for orcishness I met in all Beleriand… but, cousin, neither becomes you very well.”

Finrod resisted the temptation to give Curufin a reason to look truly astounded – whether slap the fake expression off his face, punch his lips until they split, or even both – he took a step back. There was no time. There was no reason. Curufin, by now secure in his station, was trying to challenge him, unsettle him, sow doubt about his rule. That was all.

“I need to prove nothing to you, my lack of orcishness or the presence of it. Out, before I shall anyway!” he said instead. Curufin bowed, never even righting his clothes. With a careful dresser who valued immaculate clothing, even this was tell-tale and calculated, no doubt to cast an ill light upon Finrod, but for the moment he would need to trust to the common sense of his own people and the careful eyes the populace kept upon the Sons of Fëanor.

He had work to do, and sat to begin browsing through the papers, jumping only when Curufin made his exit, and the door snapped home.