Chapter Text
When first Lalwendë made the lembas it was not with her mother, but with her friend. Marred, her mother called her, and unfit to make the sacred golden bread. But in the golden light of Laurelin, Anairë, newly-wed, taught her friend to knead the dough that is the nourishment of the Eldalië.
When first Lalwen sealed the leaf packet with her own device, she felt the weight of her power, and she laughed. Joyfully she gave the fruit of her labor, born of the fruit of Yavanna, to soldiers and servants both. Proud as her brothers, she believed that she had surpassed her mother, who was ever obedient to tradition. Hubris, mayhap, to think that one might improve upon the work of one’s foremothers. But hubris it had been to come to these lands.
But bread burned in the rivers of flame that rendered their people to ash, and the world was made a desolation.
And bread Lalwen burned as an offering, the only decaying thing in an empty mausoleum constructed for one whose body was denied to the one who loved him most. High she builded that tomb, and she lay upon the cold floor, feeling not her hunger.