Comfort Food by Himring

Chapter 1

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‘Thank you, your cooking is as good as ever, Narye,’ Maedhros says politely, rising, his thoughts already turning to the business of the day.

‘No,’ says Narye, with an unaccustomed vehemence that stops Maedhros in his tracks. ‘How can you even say such a thing? There is no cinnamon, no…, no…, anything!’

Maedhros opens his mouth to reply, to soothe, but Narye pre-empts him.

‘And besides, if my cooking is so good, why haven’t you eaten more of it than two spoonfuls?!’

‘She has you, there, brother,’ comments Maglor mildly, his eyes watchful. Elrond sees his hand twitch, as if he wanted to reach for his harp, but has stopped himself. Maybe he feels it would be too blatant. Or that it would not work.

Or is not needed. For Maedhros is still for a moment, his face blank. Then he slowly sinks down again. Carefully, deliberately, he ladles more of the thin gruel into the bowl, dips the spoon into it and lifts it to his mouth.

In truth, the gruel is not very appetizing, despite Narye’s best efforts, made with the last stores left after a hard winter, eked out with the meagre gleanings of early spring. Even Elrond thinks so, and he is young and hungry and has no memories of the richly laden tables of Tirion, the day-long feasts of the Mereth Aderthad. Elrond has yet to taste cinnamon—which apparently grows in Valinor, as well as a long way to the south, this side of the Sea—although he knows well enough that, in truth, it is not the lack of cinnamon that Narye is lamenting.

They are silently watching Maedhros eat, all of them, with great concentration. And Elrond wonders whether they see, too, as he does, how Maedhros is hauling in his attention, from the past, from the Dead, from the ravages of Morgoth, from his fears for the coming year, and bringing it wholly to bear on the act of eating, on his appreciation of these few mouthfuls of food, until the sheer force of his focus turns the pitiful gruel in his bowl into something rich and strange, almost, as if Maedhros’s will shone on it like a pale light.

Or maybe they are only glad that he has finally been persuaded to eat a decent breakfast.

He empties the bowl and sets down the spoon in it.

Rising, he says: ‘It is as I said, your cooking is as excellent as ever, Narye, although you may lack an ingredient or two. I will see whether I can do anything about that…’

And strides away.

‘Five extra spoonfuls,’ says Elros, collecting the bowl for the washing-up, impressed. ‘I counted! Do you think you can do that again, Narye?’

Narye smiles a shaky smile.

'I'm not sure I can.’ 

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Chapter End Notes

Maedhros would not be above taking part in the washing-up; it's just one of the tasks that is a bit more difficult with only one hand.