Long Pork by Fernstrike

Long Pork

Read Long Pork

They had brought down a boar for the celebration. It sat there, an apple in its mouth, with the meat cooked so tender that the knives cleaved it cleanly, as though it were no thicker than honey. It was a huge creature, capable of feeding more than half the party guests, of which there were certainly many. It was also the reason for which Galadriel had fled from the table halfway through the feast. 

Standing near the edge of the hall now, she cradled a goblet in her fine, fair hand. Of the two wines offered, had chosen the golden one; the red was far too deep a colour, too terrible a crimson, dark red like blood from an artery. She feared to stain her teeth, and she knew all too well how hard it was to scrub blood from bone.

A shiver stole up her spine, but she concealed it well. She knew all eyes were on her, ever since her hasty departure from the feast. She hadn’t wanted to flee. In recent days, they hadn’t had much cause for celebration in Doriath - so now, with the King having given leave for his daughter to marry the Adan, Beren Erchamion, all were invited to take part in the revelry. 

Still, they had said nothing about eating meat.

She couldn’t help her reaction. She hadn’t touched the stuff since setting foot in Arda. The red richness of the boar’s flesh, the distinct flavour - it made her gag and made her mouth water at the same time. And for the latter, she could never forgive herself. Pricking her ears, she swore she could hear the revellers snapping out quiet words in disdain. 

“How uncouth,” they were saying. “To up and dash off just like that. To think our lord would accept such blatant rudeness at table. But then again, what can you expect from one like her?” 

She kept her chin held high, shielding the discomfort in her eyes with a mask of nonchalance. These halls were bitter halls. Even with Celeborn beside her, chatting idly with another lord and occasionally clutching her hand in reassurance, the weight of judgement pressed heavy upon her. 

She cast her eyes to the centre of the hall, where the floor was cleared for dancing, trying not to think about the half-consumed animal still on the table behind her. In the centre of the crowded room, sweet Lúthien danced with sure, fluid steps. Her bridal gown, white and delicate as hemlock, flowed around her knees as Beren spun her over the golden floor. She let out a laugh, high and clear like silver bells, and he laughed with her, the sound deep and throaty and uninhibited. Standing on the edge of the watching crowd, Elu Thingol watched his daughter with a smile bright as the sun on his face, and beside him, Melian glowed like a star.

Despite their overjoyed revelry, Galadriel perceived much in the eyes of those who watched them - much that smacked of a rather different opinion about the union. These Iathrim, they thought they were so adept at veiling their judgement, just as they thought they whispered low enough that she would not catch their disdainful words. 

She had seen when they'd stared at Beren during the feast. They’d watched, eyes narrow with disgust, as he lifted the succulent meat with his hands - why was she thinking of the boar again? - as he spoke loudly, jovially with those around him, and partook of the sweet wine. She had noticed. 

A comment whispered by her ear - What do these Edain teach their children? 

A crude joke, by a particularly nasty elleth, smothered  behind slender hands - Do you suppose it is commonplace among the Edain, for one pig to feast on another? 

What a thing to say…what a thing to say.

She knew they were not all like that. Most had been welcoming; those of Celeborn’s host, particularly sweet Nimloth, had welcomed her kindly. Most greeted her graciously, and spoke to her nicely. But for a number of them - too many to pretend it was just a few - their graciousness just a front, and she knew that well. Now, when she watched the way those ugly ellyn looked at Beren, it was in the same way that they had looked at her before, whispering in the same way they whispered about her now. Not of their kin. Not of their blood. Strange. Disturber of the peace. Entity from beyond their sanctimonious Girdle 

Yet, the Adan would likely know more peace than she. He had accomplished great deeds - faced the greatest darkness that had plagued them for an age and more; nearly recovered a Silmaril; won the hand of the King’s daughter, and a love uncontested. Indignantly, Galadriel breathed in, puffing out her chest, reminding herself of all she had done, and all she had endured. 

Yet in the same breath, a quiet voice acknowledged the hard truth - that the scars of endless conflict and kinslaying ran deeper than those of mere mortality. They did not whisper the unpleasing word - golodh - for nothing. There was a line drawn between them. It didn’t matter what the King said about enduring kinship to Finarfin. A golodh is a golodh is a golodh. In Doriath, they are not the same. 

Yet for all the judgement, Galadriel could not help but find it misplaced. None of them, who supposed themselves righteous in their quiet cruelty, knew the true darkness that plagued her, the terror beyond the sins of her kin on the far shores. They would never comprehend it; nor how it was the only way in which the coming of Fingolfin’s host to Arda, twice cursed by the King in the years to come, was able to succeed. If success it could be called at all.

She whispered to Celeborn that she was stepping outside for a moment. He looked at her, concern in his eyes, and her heart swelled with happiness. There was some hope, some happiness in Doriath indeed, and it was hers. However, she needed the air. In here, with the whispers and the shifting eyes and the intoxicating scent of the roasted boar, she was losing her grip on her presence. She excused herself, and passed down the hall. Her feet carried her through the kingdom, swift and silent, until she reached the great gates of Menegroth. The guards let her through, silently, their faces blank and expressionless.

She clasped her hands to her arms at the sudden chill outside. The autumn was coming swiftly, and the dark, cloudless night twinkled with a thousand stars. Steeling her courage, she dropped her hands, letting the wind raise the hairs un her arms and set her teeth chattering. She breathed in the musky smell of the night, descending the stairs beside the bridge, until her feet touched the cool, damp earth. The Esgalduin flowed quiet and sure ahead of her. She went forward to the bank, kicked off her slippers, and dipped her feet into it. The icy, black water lapped over toes, and a horrid shiver stole up her spine. She forced herself to feel it. The only way she would be able to forget would be if she were to remember it again, completely, and ride the wave until it crashed again and she was free.

So she envisioned the last time she had been anywhere near this cold, cold down to the bone, cold unto death, with the taste of flesh on her tongue. It had not been the flesh of a boar. There had been only one kind of creature moving across the Helcaraxë, all those long years ago - and she had eaten with the hunger of a beast, ravenous, relishing it, as though it had been any other animal brought down in the woods.

---

Chapter End Notes

For those unfamiliar with the phrase, 'long pork' is a euphemism for human (or in this case, elven) flesh. It seemed particularly apt for this tale.

Thank you for reading!