The Mirror Crack'd by AdmirableMonster  

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Breakfast with Maedhros

LAST TIME on The Mirror Crack'd: Anniavas and Celegorm discussed oaths.

THIS TIME on The Mirror Crack'd: Anniavas and Maedhros have a breakfast date.

No real chapter warnings other than minor injury and Anniavas's not-entirely-healthy response.

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The Sun was not yet up, but the sky was the clear, pellucid blue that heralded its arrival, a few bright stars still scattered across the firmament.  Anniavas paced back and forth, trying to decide what tea to serve Maedhros.  A few weeks after Fingon’s departure, after spending several hours rambling and ranting confusedly to Dernodhos—who spent the entire time grinning and laughing at him, for no reason that Anniavas could determine—he had finally extended an awkward invitation to Maedhros regarding his request that they take tea together.  Since the lord of Himring was undoubtedly busy, and since tea was most often consumed as part of the first meal of the day, he had invited Maedhros for breakfast in the tea garden.  This was utterly mad, of course, because it meant he had to source breakfast from the garden—he could hardly serve him cold food transported from the dining hall.

Even in the greenhouse, there was little fresh food to be had in the dead of winter, but Echeleb and Dernodhos helped him convince Melweril to part with some little of the jealously-guarded store of sticky jam that was usually kept for celebrations, and then, after some further panic on his part, Eirien kindly offered to show him how to bake bread.  He had woken at midnight and guiltily made far too much—three batches of it, all crusty and wobbly-shaped, the last of them just coming out of the oven now.  A shame, as it was still a little early for breakfast and it might not still be warm by the time Maedhros arrived.

He had lifted the bread and was carrying it over to the table to cool when he heard a familiar heavy, hesitant tread.  The pan shifted in his hands, bare metal brushing against the pad of his index finger, and the unexpected pain almost made him drop it.  He was instantly appalled at the metal’s audacity, a queer, deep-seated anger that seemed to well up from beneath the sands where his memories scattered.  Angrily, he held on, although his body insistently tried to get him to drop the bread, until he was able to set it down on the table.  Then he looked down in some confusion at where the flesh of his finger was reddening and beginning to swell.

“What have you done there?” Maedhros asked.

“Nothing,” Anniavas said, though his mutinous hand was trembling.

“Let me see.”

He responded instantly to the easy air of command, holding out his finger for inspection.

“That’s quite a bad burn,” Maedhros said.  “Is there some cool water nearby?”

“What?” said Anniavas.  “Ah—yes—” Automatically, he indicated the soft spray of water that was currently falling with little pattering noises onto the rows of tea plants.

“Good.”  Maedhros put a hand on his shoulder—at which Anniavas nearly swallowed his own tongue for some incomprehensible reason—and steered him over to it.  “Put your finger under the water.  I’m afraid that will blister.”  He took Anniavas’s wrist gently in his hand and directed it as he spoke.

To Anniavas’s surprise, the cool touch of the water soothed the acute pain.  He shivered and took in a long breath.

“You should have let go of it,” Maedhros told him.  “Did you not feel the pain?”

“I didn’t want to drop the bread,” Anniavas retorted, slightly defensive.

A soft sigh.  The thumb beneath Anniavas’s shifted, rubbing against the base of his own.  A queer sensation twinged at the base of Anniavas’s spine, and his breath hitched.  “I would have done the same,” Maedhros confessed.  “But it is not wise, and it is a behavior that should be curtailed.”

“It’s only a small burn,” Anniavas said with a shrug.

“But you would have done the same regardless, I imagine.”

To this, he had no answer.

“How long must I stay like this?” he asked, after another minute had passed and Maedhros showed no sign of releasing him.  It was too warm in the greenhouse to be in such close proximity.

“Ten minutes or so would be best,” Maedhros said steadily, which was appalling.  “If that is too long, though, we can wrap the finger in a cool poultice.”

“Please,” Anniavas said thankfully.

A few moments later, still very warm about the face and back, he had an cool rag wrapped about his finger, and he was able to show Maedhros to the table, where the bread and jam were waiting.  Where he still had not decided what tea to brew, or even begun to do so.  

“I didn’t expect you so early,” he confessed, a little stiffly. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Maedhros said with a shrug.  “I’m sorry to have intruded on your hospitality, though.  I was only thinking I could wait quietly—I am finding this garden calms me.”

“Let me get you something to eat,” Anniavas suggested, unsure how to respond to such an apology.  “Do you have any preference for which kind of tea you might like to drink?”

Another shrug.  “The one you gave me last time was very nice, but I wouldn’t mind trying something new, either.”

This was irritatingly unhelpful.  “What are your general tastes, then?”

Maedhros appeared to give the question due consideration. Anniavas took the opportunity to slice and butter the bread, then spread it with a liberal amount of jam. “You’re not going to like my answer,” Maedhros said eventually.

“Is it ‘I don’t know’?” Anniavas asked waspishly.  He put the bread down in front of his guest.

“I know what I used to like,” Maedhros said equitably.  He looked down at the bread, picked it up delicately in his large hand, and took a bite.  “This is very good.  Thank you.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” Anniavas told him.

“Did I?” Maedhros asked him; it was impossible to read anything in that monotonous voice.  Anniavas clucked, irritated at being called out.  “What did you used to like, then?” he asked.

“Nothing very strong,” Maedhros said.  “I wouldn’t say I had a sweet tooth, or at least not as much of one as some of my brothers, but I liked fruity things with a little honey.  But since I—since everything—” He paused and took another cautious bite.  He set the bread down in between mouthfuls, and put his right arm with its stump guardedly around the plate.  Anniavas recognized the behavior—Echeleb and Dernodhos both did the same thing.  It seemed to be a sort of resource-guarding instinct.  (And why did he not have anything like that?  He barely remembered to eat at the best of times.)  “Since coming to Beleriand and returning from Thangorodrim, it’s been a struggle just to eat and drink.  I’ve prioritized getting nutrition over worrying about tastes.”  He took an enormous bite; fully half the remaining bread vanished into his mouth.

“Maybe if you focused on trying to eat and drink what you like, it wouldn’t be such a struggle,” Anniavas told him.  It was astonishing how sharp he was being with the lord of Himring, and perhaps even more astonishing how patient the lord of Himring was being with it.  Anniavas was fairly sure that in Angband, he would have been beaten for much less.

Maedhros just laughed, in his gravelly, unemotional way.  “You sound like my brother.  In my defense, for a long time, I could taste nothing, though it returned in time.  I suppose I never really revisited the question after that.”

“Well, you seemed to like the jam.”

With a slight air of surprise, Maedhros looked down at his plate, where only crumbs remained.  “I suppose I did.  Thank you.”

“At least tell me if you’d rather try something new or something more like what I’ve already given you.”

“I think,” Maedhros said slowly, “that a new friendship is a time for exploration.  I will try something new.  Will you sit down and have it with me?”

For the first time, Anniavas’s mind found itself quietly sweeping something beneath the sand in the present—not a memory he could not reach, but tucking away a statement he could not deal with until such time as he was capable of it.  “Um, yes,” he said.  “Let me get something brewing, and I’ll join you.”

His burned finger was a little painful, and he had to confess that Maedhros had a point in treating it—if it got worse, it might make some of his daily tasks quite irritating.  After some thought, he decided on one of the simpler black teas that was nonetheless rather unique, with a light trace of acidic taste that somehow changed the whole taste.  After setting the tea to steep on the stove, he sliced off a little more bread and went to find some of Dernodhos’s favorite pungent cheese—she’d be annoyed but would forgive him the boldness under the circumstances.

Then, feeling rather like a marble that had been rattled around an empty box, he sat in front of Maedhros, offering him some of the bread and cheese and taking some for himself.

“Thank you,” Maedhros said.

They ate in silence for a little while.  Then Anniavas rose to fetch the tea and set it down in front of Maedhros.  “Sniff it first,” he instructed.  “I wouldn’t add anything to this one.”

Cautiously, Maedhros brought it to his nose, and Anniavas took his own cup and did the same.  

“That is subtle,” Maedhros said.  “Subtle, but pleasing, I think.”  He took a cautious sip, and his eyebrows rose.  “Very different,” he said slowly.  

Anniavas sloshed the hot tea against his lips, winced, and took a more careful sip as well.  The earthy bitterness of the tea was undercut perfectly with the soft round note of the fruit.  “Do you like it?”

“I do.”

The rosy light of the Sun was growing gradually brighter.  Everything felt dream-like and distant—well, maybe that was the lack of sleep.  Anniavas sighed quietly, shivered a little, and sipped his tea.

“There is something,” Maedhros began, then halted, his hand clutching around the cup.  “There is something that I must say to you.”

Foreboding trickled down Anniavas’s spine.  He took another sip of tea and shut his eyes to focus on the warmth between his hands and passing down his throat.  “What is it?” he asked.

“I told you once that I would not accept your oath of fealty yet.”

Nausea, sick and ugly, pooled in his stomach.  “And I have waited.”

“Indeed, you’ve been very patient.  But—I have thought about it more.  I cannot accept such an oath of a man with no memory.”

“What?” Anniavas’s eyes snapped open, and the cup slipped from his hands, falling a few millimeters and landing with a soft tink on the saucer.  “I don’t understand.”  How could such a thing render him unfit to swear his fealty?  “I would not betray you!”

“But such an oath might betray you,” Maedhros said steadily.  “What oaths have you already sworn, Anniavas?”

“I—” Had he sworn oaths?  His mind would not tell him.  Trying to find out only left him with that dull, cold ache in his back.  “I don’t—”

“You do not know.”  Maedhros was building a wall with his words, but Anniavas did not understand why, or what would be blocked off when he was finished.

“All right, I don’t.”  Anniavas stood up.  “Why does that matter?”

“Because an ill-considered oath is bad enough—believe me.  Imagine two conflicting oaths on one person.  They could devour you alive.”

He was building a room with no doors—no, he was describing one.  A miserable knot tightened in Anniavas’s chest.  “You think that because I don’t know what else I’ve sworn to—”

“I have made enemies,” Maedhros said steadily.  “There is blood on my hands, such as was unthinkable among my kindred before the oath I swore for my father and my grandfather.  Imagine if you are one of those injured at the kinslaying, or if you are sworn to the Elves who have rightly repudiated me and my kin for our part in it.  No, I cannot accept an oath of fealty that might put you in such a position.”

A door cannot vanish, Anniavas had told Celegorm.  Now, in this moment, beneath the soft early-morning winter sunlight, he understood how it could.  Something queer and heavy twisted in his chest and then let go.

“I understand,” he said.

“You don’t have to like it.”

“Good.  Because I don’t.”

“Well.”  Maedhros stretched.  “I don’t mind it myself, except that I know it’s a thing you wanted.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t need your oath to trust you.”