Recovery Cake by Himring  

Mahtan sat unmoving and alone in his pitch-dark forge. The fire had burned down a long time ago, and the ashes were as cold as the rest of the unlit space. Since the news had arrived from Alqualonde—as incoherent a rumour as that had been, at first—Mahtan had been unable to lift a hammer, to think of engaging in his craft even in order to forge the most harmless and peaceful tool. He stared unseeing down at his large and capable hands. All metalwork seemed tainted, now, since this was what it had led to: swords stained with elven blood. And Mahtan had been the one who had passed on the lore and knowledge required for making weapons of metal—to Feanor and to the rest of the Noldor. Mahtan did not know how long he had sat there.

A kind of light appeared in the forge where there had been none. Suddenly, Aule was there.

‘Your daughter sent me a message,’ Aule said. ‘Come with me.’

Where the appeals of others had not been heard, Mahtan’s customary obedience to Aule won out. He got up and followed Aule unquestioningly to the back of his halls, to the empty kitchens. A touch of Aule’s hand set one of the ovens glowing.

Into a large bowl on the table in the middle, Aule poured flour. He began setting out a row of ingredients on the side. 

Aule saw that Mahtan was simply standing there and watching, puzzled and uncomprehending.

‘We are going to bake a cake. I have found it helps to make cake, in situations like this.’

‘In situations like this?’

‘When others have done things with your teachings that are upsetting,’ said Aule. ‘There is something reassuringly unambiguous about cake, don’t you think? Almost everybody likes it and, whatever else happens, it is helpful to feed the body.’

Mahtan hesitated. Then he nodded. 

‘Would you like it to be a particular flavour?’

That was a question too far for Mahtan at present. He shook his head and let Aule choose. But a little later, with his fingers in the batter, he actually did begin to feel a little better.

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