7: Flour Power

Today I had a face-off with a cabbage and ended up loosing a teaspoon of my thumb, which I thought was pretty funny, which reminded me that I've been meaning to write a fic that includes cooking, and also one that involves beyond-canon humor. (I think Tolkien's elves had way more of a sense of humor than they are sometimes granted. Even within the canon.) So I sat down to type out a cooking/comedy story about Elrond and Gil-galad, and here it is. Created with nine fingers. Hell yeah.

There are a few mild curses in this one.

S.A 1,402

"Did you hear what he said?" Gil-galad asked, pacing along the meeting room table. "Did you note what that Sindar said about Galadriel and Celeborn?"

"Yes, my king, I noted what Oropher said," Elrond said, keeping his voice even.

"Why did he even come here? Why did he travel all the way from Emyn Duir just to tell us he had no concern for what happens in Eregion?"

"You asked him to come. It was considerate that he came to tell you of his lack of concern in person. He could easily have sent word with a pigeon."

A knock on the door made both Gil-galad and Elrond turn – Gil-galad from his pacing, Elrond from where he had sunk deeply into one of the stiff-backed chairs.

"Yes, come in," Gil-galad called. The door opened and an elf poked his head through. Elrond recognized him from training; a new recruit into their ranks, named Valto. Círdan had long ago introduced Elrond to Valto, when the lad had been much younger, and many centuries had passed before their paths had once again crossed. The dark-haired elf had more energy than the rest of the recruits combined, and Elrond thought that his left eye bugged out in a slightly unnatural manner, though he hadn't confirmed because he did not want to stare.

"Young Valto," Gil-galad said, and nodded to the elf. "What brings you here?"

"Actually I'm only five-hundred years younger than Lord Elrond, your kingship."

"Just Elrond, please," said Elrond, who was trying to discourage the widespread use of the inaccurate epithet 'lord' before his name.

"Oh. My apologies…"

"He likes to be called 'Elrond, Thane of the East Wing of the Second Floor Hall in the House of Gil-galad'," interjected the king. Elrond put on his best glare and aimed it up at his superior.

"I understand," Valto said. "Elrond, Thane of the East Wing of which floor?"

"The Second Floor," said Gil-galad, somehow staving off a smile.

"Elrond, Thane of the East Wing of the Second Floor Hall in the House of Gil-galad," repeated Valto, and looked to Elrond for confirmation. Elrond squinted one eye, deciding it would likely be easier to allow the epithet to be used than to try to match wits with the mischievous Gil-galad.

"Just… 'Thane Elrond'."

"Thank you, Thane Elrond."

"Now, young Valto, what is it that brought you here?" asked Gil-galad again.

"Just Valto is fine. I saw King Oropher walking towards the guest quarters and he looked quite incised, so I asked him what was the matter, and he informed me that his meeting with the King Gil-galad and the Lord… I mean… well, he said 'Lord Elrond'… had not gone very well."

"Is that so?" asked Gil-galad, sharing a look with Elrond. Any elf who had the guts to approach an angry Oropher was either wildly courageous or touched in the head. Elrond suspected the latter. "Did he say why it had not gone very well?"

"Yes, your kingship, he said – and forgive my repeating his words – he said, Gil-galad's ears are stopped with pride and his damned half-elf advisor can't get a word of reason in edgewise."

"Is that so?" Gil-galad asked, glancing at Elrond again, who raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, your kingship."

"And you came here to tell us that?"

"Actually I came here out of curiosity… May I ask what it is you were discussing with King Oropher?"

At this, Gil-galad let out a snort of mirth, and turned back to the meeting table, which was scattered with letters, maps, trade agreements, and political statements.

"Believe me, Valto, when I say that it would be of little interest to you. The Sinda and I… and my damned half-elf advisor… were only discussing the departure of Galadriel and Celeborn for Laurelindorenan."

"Do you not approve of their having left, your kingship?"

"What the Lord and Lady choose to do is their own business. They are very wise – far wiser than I ever hope to become. It is what they have left behind that I have concern over."

"Eregion?"

"Yes," sighed Gil-galad, staring down at the map with a wistful expression. "Eregion and Celebrimbor and that upstart Annatar." The king continued to look at the map for a moment. Elrond steepled his fingers in front of his face, leaning on the table, and Valto watched one of the trade agreements with great interest.

"Oropher thinks the Lord and Lady have done great harm to Eriador by leaving," Gil-galad said, finally, as if to himself. "But how can he assume to know the reasons for their actions?"

"Gil-galad," said Elrond, "nobody can assume to know the reasons for anybody's actions, least of all those with such wisdom. Oropher has wisdom as well."

"And I do not?"

"Of course you do, which is not the only trait you share with Oropher. You do not listen very well to those you do not respect."

"Why do you think I do not grant him much respect? He called you a damned half-elf, do not tell me you hold him in high regard," Gil-galad said, incredulous.

"I would not invite him to a dinner party, but still I would consider his words in an objective manner before tossing them out the window."

"He would sooner toss you out the window than heed your advice."

"Though he seems to think I had something relevant to say," Elrond replied, smirking, "that I could not manage to squeeze in between his bull-headed refusal to move forward and your narrow-mindedness."

"Are you two married?" asked Valto, who had up to this point been listening with great interest. Now Elrond and Gil-galad turned in tandem to face the elf, looking for a smile on his lips that would betray the humor behind his question. Elrond could see none.

"Young Valto, are you inebriated?" Gil-galad asked.

"Not at all, your kingship."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"No, your kingship," answered Valto, a look of concern passing across his features. "I did not mean anything by it, I merely wondered if either your kingship or your thaneship had wives to return to after such a stressful meeting."

Elrond placed his face in his hands, wondering how in the world a citizen of Lindon had not been aware of the marital status of his own king, and listened resignedly as Gil-galad started to laugh. It was going to be a long laugh, he could already tell, and it was not a moment later that Valto seemed to understand what he had accidentally inferred, and started to laugh as well. Gil-galad clapped his advisor on the back and wiped a hand across his tearing eyes.

"Come, Thane Elrond, give us a smile. No, Valto, neither of us have been bound up in marital affairs yet. Perhaps some day. You know what they say about us late-marrying types."

"What do they say, your kingship?"

"The fates have something special in store for us, is what they say. Are you married, Valto?"

"Yes, your kingship. My wife Malinahen and I will celebrate our one-thousand-and-fifth anniversary this autumn."

"Well congratulations, and I'm sure the fates have special things in store for you normal types as well."

"I can only hope so, your kingship."

"What does your Malinahen do while you train with the other warriors?"

"She cooks, your kingship. It was cooking that drew us together in the first place."

"Do tell," said Gil-galad, with genuine interest, and Elrond marveled that the king could so quickly leave his ire from the meeting in favor of the ordinary delights of life as it happened in Lindon.

"I was baking for the mariners at the time," Valto said. "You know, for their rations. Traveling back and forth from Númenór. They had not quite gotten their crops established over there yet. She said it was not often that she met an elf who made better biscuits than her mother."

"So this is the secret to finding a lifemate, eh?" asked Gil-galad. "Kitchen wisdom. Say, Valto, what are you doing tonight?"

–)O(–

"There are two kinds of biscuits," stated Valto, his furrowed eyebrows telling Elrond and Gil-galad just how serious it was to be aware of said biscuit types. "Fluffy and flaky."

Valto turned and began pulling out a variety of ceramic jars from the kitchen cupboards. Gil-galad had convinced Valto that he and Elrond needed a baking lesson, and it had not taken much for Valto to oblige. The elf's levels of enthusiasm and energy had escalated as they neared the kitchen. As much energy as Valto had shown on the training field, he had even more in the presence of a baking kiln and cutting boards.

"All in the flour," said Valto, and lined several jars up next to each other before taking their lids off. "Fluffy biscuits need fluffy flour. Flaky biscuits need stronger flour."

"What do you mean, strong flour?" asked Elrond.

"Made from grain that is sown in the fall and harvested in the spring. It will have more oomph."

"Oomph."

"Yes!" exclaimed Valto, smiling, clearly in his element. "Flour that is milled from grain that is sown in the spring will be more delicate. Less oomph. Most bakers don't even know that. You are already at an advantage."

"Noted," said Gil-galad, leaning over to take a closer look at the flours. "What else?"

"The other important thing is fat. Butter has better flavor but lard gives a better texture. For the flaky type, use two parts butter to one part lard."

"What about the fluffy type?" asked Elrond.

"You know, in my honest opinion," said Valto, lowering his voice and leaning close, "don't bother with the fluffy type. Malinahen never said she was impressed with the fluffy type."

"Oh."

Their lesson continued in a similar fashion; Valto explained with much patience to his neophyte superiors the proper techniques to be employed in the process of combining the flour and fat, the right touch in stirring the liquid so as not to 'inordinately irritate the dough', and how to wedge the dough before rolling it so that it would rise in the oven to reach an impressively lofty stature.

Elrond and Gil-galad were pulling out the baking stones as Valto began to cut circles in the flattened sheet of dough, and there had been a rare moment of silence, which apparently Valto was not about to let stretch on any longer.

"What," Valto asked, concealing a smile, "is the difference… between bread and the Star of Eärendil?"

Gil-galad and Elrond paused in their efforts and stared at him, and then at each other. Elrond wasn't sure he had ever seen Gil-galad look quite as taken aback as he did at this moment. Valto could not contain his smile.

"Eärendil rises in the east," he said, "and bread rises in the yeast. Get it?" he said, and cut out the last of the circles with a chuckle. "Not that biscuits contain yeast," he finished seriously.

"Do you realize who you are speaking to?" asked Gil-galad, voicing a question that had begun to form in Elrond's mind. Valto looked up, clearly puzzled.

"Yes, of course. King Gil-galad and Thane Elrond."

"Thane Elrond," Gil-galad said, "Son of Eärendil the Dragon-Slayer." Valto merely smiled and nodded, missing the king's point. Gil-galad continued: "You would joke about the Star of Eärendil before Eärendil's own son? You tactless imp."

Valto's smile faltered.

"I like you," Gil-galad said decisively, and clamped a hand on Valto's shoulder. "You have spirit. Much spirit."

"Thank you, your kingship, but I did not mean to offend…"

"No offense taken, Valto," Elrond said. "My father is smiling."

Valto's relief at Elrond's assurance was evident. After placing the circles of soon-to-be biscuits on the baking slabs, and explaining in detail the mathematics behind their precise spacing, Valto excused himself for a moment to fetch an old cookbook that he had a fondness for that was being kept in the library, as he wished to show them an old recipe recorded by the earliest bakers of the First Age and transcribed by Malinahen's mother herself. After he'd left the room, the air seemed comparatively devoid of energy. Elrond leaned against the slab counter.

"Wow," was all Elrond could say.

"Where did he come from again?" asked Gil-galad, sitting himself down on a counter stool.

"Círdan," Elrond replied. "Remember, did not Círdan find him after the War of Wrath? A very small child. I believe his parents perished before the first year of our age. Círdan thinks Valto was hit in the head at some point during the destruction of Beleriand."

"I can believe it."

"He is a little odd, but he shows much promise during training."

"Yes, and much promise in the kitchens as well. I'd invite him to a dinner party," Gil-galad said. Elrond heard an idea forming in the voice of his king, and turned to face him.

"You are plotting."

"I am strategizing. No doubt our warriors will be spending many a day and night traipsing about north and south across the country in the ensuing years."

"Probably."

"We will need a cook."

Elrond smiled, and nodded. He'd forgotten about that part of their schematic strategy; thankfully fortune had led them on this night to a likely solution. To have to cook for legions of men would take a lot of energy and enthusiasm, and nobody else Elrond knew fit that description so well. Elrond opened his mouth to ask Gil-galad whether he really wanted a cook that might insist on bringing eight different kinds of flours along into battle, but the king was staring most seriously at the scraps of dough left out on the counter, and Elrond hesitated.

At that moment Valto sprung into the room with a large book clenched to his chest. Before the elf could regale them with the ancient wisdom of long-dead bakers, Gil-galad held up his hand.

"Valto, why are biscuits circular?"

"… I do not know, your kingship."

"I think they should be triangular. There would be no dough left over after cutting them all up."

Elrond watched as Valto's eyes widened at the possibilities that this new suggestion presented. Valto remarked that he would have to share this idea with the one who had taught him all of the biscuit secrets in the first place. Elrond asked him who that had been and Valto replied that it had been Círdan, of course.

Thirteen minutes later, Elrond and Gil-galad were enjoying surely the best biscuits either of them had ever tasted. Valto said they were fine enough but had acquired a bit of a sour edge, and wondered if perhaps the buttermilk had turned. Elrond assured him that he, at least, could detect no sourness, which set Valto's mind to rest on the issue, and instead set himself to wondering if King Oropher might be brought into a better mood with the offering of a plate of biscuits.

Elrond and Gil-galad, done letting the strange elf's constantly surprising behavior astonish them, said nothing to dissuade him.

"I think Valto might be fearless," Gil-galad said, as the baker whisked out of the room bearing the product of their conjoined efforts.

"Brain-addled," Elrond responded.

"Let's ask him to come along on the next operation."

"Agreed."

A/N: Sixteen times cutsier than my usual writing; I'll probably look back on this and gag. I must be getting sick. FYI, I don't think Oropher is as much of a nincompoop as they're making him out to be. He's just having a bad day.