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English
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Part 17 of Nárë a Lindalë
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Published:
2020-07-04
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361
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1/1
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Fit for a Prince

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Summary:

In which some Elves of Dorthonion learn a thing or two about cheese-making, and about Eldalótë.

Notes:

I have Himring to thank for my headcanon that Eldalótë was a cheesemaker; in Himring's fic Neighbourly Relations, Aegnor takes the results of Eldalótë's dairy experiments to his rendezvous with Maedhros.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

"We need to scald the curd."

Sáriel gaped at her mistress.

"Put fuel on the fire," Eldalótë ordered again. Her lips twitched, and her blue eyes creased at the corners.

"You want us to burn it?"

"Not burn it, no - or not precisely. But the more moisture we take out of it now, the better it will age."

Sáriel glanced over at Imbelosso, who shrugged. "Do as she says," he murmured as Eldalótë moved on to the next vat, where Roccondil and Leptafinyë were gently warming the milk.

When the summer came, the Elves of Dorthonion sat out in the cragged hills. Groups of friends and loved ones shared bread and drink and fruit and cured meats, and the cheese that Eldalótë and her helpers had so carefully tended through the spring months was hailed as a triumph. Some brought their instruments, and there was laughter and dancing in the blue night-gloom. The promise of the new world rode high in their hearts, and the warm sweet air was as heady as the wine shipped from Brithombar.

"I can't eat another bite," Sáriel declared, collapsing backwards onto Imbelosso. "If I carry on, I shall turn into a piece of cheese."

"Or a sheep, perhaps," Roccondil suggested. He grinned and ducked as Sáriel threw a crust of bread at his head, then added, "The cheese itself is too good for you."

Sáriel narrowed her eyes - but she felt Imbelosso's arm slide gently around her waist, and held her peace.

"How did she know?" Leptafinyë watched as their lord and lady whirled each other around in a giddy jig. "Scalding the curds, and salting the wheels, and how often to turn them..."

"Her family farmed goats in Valinor."

Leptafinyë turned to Imbelosso and stared.

"It's true." Imbelosso shrugged. A cloud drifted over the moon, and the shadows of their half-built fortresses grew deep and dark on the hills. The music quickened, and Angaráto's laughter rang through the night as Eldalótë's her hair flew out behind her in a stream of white-gold silk. "They had wealth and land enough, but she wasn't born a great lady. She certainly wasn't thought fit for a prince."

Notes:

Dorthonion's hilly nature makes me think it could be geographically similar to Scotland, hence its occupants farming sheep. I imagine Eldalótë, Sáriel and co. end up making something very similar to Corra Linn.

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