The Bread Maker's Lament by Agelast

Chapter 1

life washes
over you,
there's the joining of seed
and fire,
and you're growing, growing
all at once
like
hips, mouths, breasts,
mounds of earth,
or people's lives

Ode to Bread, Pablo Neruda

There was fine, white bread for the Lady’s table, and sturdy brown bread, for theirs.

Her mother explained once that when their people wandered in the east, there had been no yeast to make the bread rise, and no time to let it do so. They had to make do with flat, unleavened bread, singed from the fire and still marked by the grooves of their palms. That was not to say that they no longer made such things here, in Dor-lómin, on the contrary, flatbread had been her brother’s most favorite thing in the world. He’d snatch one from the griddle over the fire, still too-hot. The last time, he’d complained of burnt fingers, while still eating, and gave her an innocent look, with wide, begging eyes. “May I have some honey? Something to sweeten this with?”

As irritating as he could be, she loved him well, her little brother, her favorite. She gave up a teaspoon of honey, and he scampered off, hooting with joy. Her mother disapproved, for food, as ever, was scarce, and they had a responsibility to make enough for all. But still, her eyes softened and she smiled, ruefully.

What she liked best were the long loaves of bread, chock-full of herbs, seeds, chopped nuts, and the fat rendered from frying bacon. They baked up brown and thin, resembling nothing so much as her own fingers, and when cut open, they released the most wonderful smell. Lady Morwen came into the kitchens just as she sliced up the first loaf, and the lady’s face seemed to lighten a little, the lines on the corners of her mouth eased as Morwen watched her work.

Not quite smiling, Morwen came near and bent down her dark head, examining it with interest. “Well, Nan, that smells very good!”

Nan blushed and thanked her. She wasn’t used to compliments from the Lady of Dor-lómin. True, she had worked in the kitchens, alongside her mother, since she was young, but she could count with a single hand how many times she had ever spoken to Morwen. For Mother, of course, it had been different. She had come over the mountains with Morwen and Rían, and had shared in their hardships. They even had some not-so-distant kinship, but still Nan blushed and stuttered a little, when she said, “W-would you like to taste, milady?”

Morwen looked straight into her, grey eyes as keen as lances, and Nan managed not to drop her glance or drop her knife. Morwen’s voice was soft and quite kind. “How are you handling it, Nan?”

It had only been a month since all news had stopped from the front, and already the roads were choked with people moving, though where they went, Nan had no idea. She herself could not imagine leaving Dor-lómin, but she could not fault those who left. The world was crumbling around them, and death was in every corner.

It would come, and it would come wherever you were.

“There is no news of your brother? Of Rothlin?”

“No, milady. It is supposed that they were slain with all of Lord Húrin’s men.”

A look, pain quickly hidden, flitted across Morwen’s face, but she mastered it. “I see.” She tapped on the table, her fingernails making clipped noises on the thick, wooden surface. “May I bring some of this bread to Túrin? He is growing so fast, and it is almost frightening how much he eats.”

“Milady, of course! I have some cuts of meat too, and butter, I’m sure,” Nan said, busying herself with her task. She did not look up again until Morwen left the kitchens, trailing behind her thanks.

That night, grief stole into Nan’s bed and pressed its cold hands against her face. She knew that she should be glad that her mother had died before they heard of the defeat, that her heart had simply stopped, the healers said, from a clot of blood in her veins. She had not suffered, except for the brief lightning bolt of pain that Nan had seen cross her mother’s face when she crumpled to the ground, a rolling pin clattering down beside her body.

Nan had not been well enough to arrange her mother’s burial, to bake the funeral bread for her wake. She had been told, later, that Lady Morwen herself had done it instead. Nan still hadn't found the words to thank her yet...

She closed her eyes now, and tried not to think of how her brother had died. He loved to eat sweet things, and he had been so young, the softness of his face testified to that. Had he been afraid, when the blow came? Had his sword, the one he had been so proud to receive, fallen from his suddenly nerveless hands?

She hoped, with all her heart, that it had been quick. She could not hope that he receive any mercy.

As for Rothlin... She buried her face against the rough fabric of her blanket. Both of them had been so shy! They had circled each other for years before either of them dared say anything to the other, and then only because of the battle that came breathing down their necks. He had given her a ring, simply-wrought and silver-seeming, that he had forged himself. And she had accepted, and kissed him before she lost courage. He had been surprised, but then pressed his lips against hers, his hands touching her breast for a moment before pulling away.

He had green eyes, and fair hair, and freckles scattered on his face. She had hoped that their children would have all that, instead of her own plain black hair and grey eyes, as common as any.

That they should be dead, that they all should be dead, and their bodies left to rot! She had heard rumors of the mound of corpses, massive and unimaginable, the bones of elves and men, and who knew what else, all mingled together... No, no, she did not believe that.

No, no, don’t think about it anymore. Outside her window, there was a storm brewing, and the wind threw little sticks against the thick glass. Sleep, a kind voice advised, there’s naught you can do for any of them now.

the sun still hidden behind the horizon when she woke. She pulled back her hair and tucked it back behind a scarf and washed the sleep from her eyes. The kitchens were cold when she came, the fire only a baneful red glow in the hearth. She stroked it until was roaring and then stood in front of it for a moment, letting the warmth touch her.

Then, she turned away, and began to make the bread. Cinnamon, nutmeg, honey and raisins, all were mixed into the flour, water, and yeast, to make a soft and fragrant dough. It would make for a particular kind of loaf, one she had never made before, though she had seen it done.

The dough stuck to her fingers and she pressed it down, until it made impressions on the wooden board, landscapes in miniature, brief and changeable. She kneaded it again, and again.

She was too rough with it, the bread would suffer, it would toughen, she would ruin it --

Stop. She put it aside in a cool, dark place, until it rose again. After that, she kneaded it and put it in rounded shape, eight inches wide. She scored the top with a knife, and put it into the oven to bake.

Soon, the sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar filled the kitchens. Others came in, sleepy-eyed kitchen boys and little scullery maids, and each greeted her as they passed by. She spared them a distant smile, as she waited for her funeral bread to finish baking.

But grief itself could not be eaten, consumed with funeral bread.

Nor could love.

Love, she thought,even if it perished, always left a mark. She wiped her eyes with the flat of her hand, leaving a streak of white flour on her pale face. And these are mine, every mark, every death, and I will not relinquish them. No, not even for a lifetime of peace!

She sighed, and took another breath. There was work to do.