"What we, the sons of Fëanor ask of thee is simple." The Noldorin prince sits at a table in Menegroth's halls, swirling a cup of red wine in one hand but making no move to drink it. His brothers sent him to negotiate with the newly crowned king of Doraith—Dior, son of Thingol's daughter Lúthien.

Curufin sets down the goblet and smiles at the king, never breaking eye contact. "No law, nor love, nor league of swords, might defend those who would hoard our sacred Silmarils, the rightful property of Fëanor and Fëanor's kin." He recites a part of his Oath, reminding the elves present of the consequences of denying him. He is pleased to see some of the courtiers pale at his words. Good, they know he means business.

"Return us that fair jewel that thou holdst in thy possession, for it belongs not to thee." Curufin gestures to the necklace that Dior wore—the Nauglamír. Set within the golden carcanet was a gem of great brilliance—a Silmaril, shining like a diamond, scattering light through the throne room. "Thou knowest what shall come to pass shouldst thou reject. So what is thy answer?"