Work Text:
Mairon finds himself reduced to scowling at the words before him.
One hand is planted next to the bound pages, boxing it in, as if the book would leap from the counter in an attempt to escape him The other grips a page between his thumb and finger, so that as his eyes skim over the words he can easily flip the page to read the backside, then the front again. He has done so multiple times in these last few minutes, and will likely continue to do so since the words simply do not make sense.
“Ridiculous,” he murmurs, brows knitting together, frustration rising with every word reread, an answer refusing to reveal itself despite the repetition.
He glances right and eyes the slab of meat with thinly veiled disgust. It is still oozing some thin, red liquid which is not blood because it is too thin, too watery. When the lifeless flesh does not illuminate anything further, he shakes his head and returns to the words.
“Enough salt,” he reads aloud, then shakes his head again. “What is enough salt? That is not a measurement.”
He stills, then turns to Celebrimbor’s cabinets and sifts through them just to be certain. Perhaps it is simply a bizarre unit of measurement the elves have invented. It would not be the first time they have delighted in naming things terribly. His own moniker amongst the elves, Sauron, being a chief example.
‘The Abhorred’ indeed. The Abhorred would not be attempting and failing to decipher a cookbook.
No cup nor spoon in the entire pantry is labelled ‘enough’, and Mairon valiantly turns back to the wretched cookbook for answers. He finds no salvation amongst the pages. There is no appendix detailing further information hidden within the back, no guide in the front, and the two words upon the page mock him terribly.
Enough salt.
It is only the second instruction listed as well, which does not bode well for the rest of the recipe.
Mairon reaches out and grasps the jar on Celebrimbor’s counter helpfully labelled salt. At least everything in his home is labelled, lest Mairon spend ages trying to find the salt, let alone determine how much to use. He removes the lid and peers within, then cautiously shakes the jar, watching as the so-named salt within shifts with the motion.
Enough. Salt.
This… is a mineral. Thousands of tiny rocks, like sand upon the beach but coarser whiter. Is that correct? Perhaps Celebrimbor mislabelled his jars. Mairon does not remember this being included in the diet of elves when they were created, nor does he wish to know how elves first discovered it was edible.
If it even is salt. It is not as if Mairon can ask anyone, as Celebrimbor is still refusing to speak, and the Ost-in-Edhil remains abandoned aside from the two of them.
Enough. Salt.
Cautiously, Mairon reaches into the jar and pinches a small amount of the ‘salt’ between his fingers. Perhaps further study is required to truly understand. The small grains poke at his skin but do not pierce, and with great reluctant Mairon places the salt upon his tongue.
Immediately he is assaulted with the taste of sea water, and his face pinches in disgust, his hand spasms before he can help it, nearly causing him to drop the jar before he manages to place it back down on the counter. His other hand moves instinctively to cover his own mouth at the wretched taste. Even such a small amount of the so-called salt tastes terribly of the ocean, and vaguely of some common component that must be shared between blood, sweat and tears that Mairon never bothered to identify before in the rare circumstances Mairon had accidentally ingested them.
It is not as if Mairon makes a habit of consuming things.
…But elves do. Elves, like all creatures born of this world, must eat. They enjoy eating. How often had Celebrimbor tried to coax Mairon into sharing food with him, had smiled at the sight of some nameless dish, had delighted in sampling new things? Each day brought a new food.
Elves must eat, which is why Mairon is preparing food for Celebrimbor. So he will not starve.
Elves enjoy eating, which is why Mairon allows himself to be subjected to the greatest torment by a cookbook. So he will be happy.
Mairon moves his hand from his mouth to his chin in thought, lips pressed together as he stares at the jar. This salt tastes offensive to him, but perhaps that is the point. It is… flavor. Perhaps, in the eyes of elves, the taste of the sea is better than the taste of flesh. It is not as if they indulge frequently in raw meat like lesser animals.
Yes. That makes sense. The salt is meant to mask the flesh.
Enough. Salt.
Mairon upends the entire jar of salt onto the slab of meat. It forms a white mount upon the meat, with a portion of the grains spilling over the sides and onto the counter, and some even falling onto the floor. He stares at it impassively, then turns his gaze back to the cookbook, eyes seeking out the third instruction.
“Sear the meat all over,” he murmurs to himself, then nods knowingly. This instruction is much more straight forward, at least.
Mairon rolls up his sleeves so that they will not smolder, then holds his arms out slightly in front of him. With hardly any effort at all his skin rapidly begins to warm until the air surrounding his hands distorts slightly, waving slightly as his hands heat hotter and hotter.
This sort of magic does not even require words or song for him.
Mairon reaches out and lays his hands upon the salted meat, which immediately begins to cook beneath his touch. There is a hiss from the meat as it burns, accompanied by a terribly familiar smell and smoke. Never before has Mairon bothered to do such a thing to already dead flesh, but the resulting smoke and smell are very similar to when he has done it on the living.
He moves his hand around the meat, carefully cooking every available surface until it is blackened. Each press of his hands only takes a few seconds to accomplish this feat thanks to how hot his hands are.
The bottom of his meat is more tricky since he does not wish to disrupt the salt, but all he must do is lift the slab off of the counter hold it in his hands for a moment and that finishes the third instruction well enough.
Mairon carefully allows his hands to cool off before returning to read the next step.
“Add onion and garlic.” These two must be very common in elvish cooking, and it is fortunate that he recalls Celebrimbor purchasing both at the marketplace once for he is easily able to locate where they sit upon the counter amongst the other plants. He fetches one onion and one garlic and weighs them in his hands before setting the onion in the pile of salt atop the meat. Balancing the garlic on the onion proves harder, as despite the papery skin of the onion preventing it from being slippery, it is still spherical in shape. Fortunately the garlic has a flattened bottom, and with some perseverance he is able to stack it atop the onion and the seared meat.
Very good. After initially being thrown by the second instruction, the recipe actually seems to be very straight forward. It hardly took any time at all to complete instructions three and four, and there are only a few more that follow.
“Add…..” Mairon trails off and squints at the next word, tapping where it is written upon the page with his nail a few times.
“Hm. It appears they have misspelled flower.”