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Meat Eight

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One of the best things about visiting the dwarves was their meat. After having to listen to Arya forbid him meat on those plains as they ran, as he craved it. What she gave him was no longer satisfying. He'd remembered the sweet and juicy taste of meat and now he wanted, damn be her abstaining from meat. While as beautiful and knowledgeable as she was, she just didn't understand the simple pleasures of a bit of sausage or roasted meat on a stick.

On their journey to the dwarven lands Nar Garzhvog showed him how urgals use their meat. How they simmer and savor it. It was both savage and sublime in his almost animal way of eating it. His meat was large, bucks heavy and fat. Eragon barely could eat it all, though Garzhvog ate his with gusto. His was a strange and spicy meat, different than anything Eragon had tasted before. Uragls, Eragon decided, knew their meat and knew it well.

But the dwarves! Oh the dwarves! At every occasion they had meat, out in display of everyone. It was almost garish and overwhelming. Dwarf women and men would serve him, offering thick slabs of meat to eat. At the wedding celebration, Eragon didn't know how much meat he got or how many offered to give him meat.

All he knew was they gave him more meat than he could handle, but he took it all. He knew, in the back of his mind, that he would have to go back to the elves and their distaste of meat. So he wanted to engorge himself as much as possible until then.

He knew they wouldn't understand. But he was a man and a man needed meat to eat like he needed air to breathe.

Meat Series
Meat Seven ~ Fan Fiction ~ Fortunately, no more.

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