Vineyard
As you walk into the vinyards, what strikes you is the size and number of fields. Though it is dark, you can still see them stretching off into the distance. You can make out the leaves, flourishing along the vines, their colouring ranging from dark to light. As you look at the thought out arrangement of the fields, the landscaping effort is evident in the geometric patterns formed by their layout. Curiously, though, you can see some empty spaces in the rows. One field, just nearly, in particular is completely bare, except for tiny seedlings which are visible reaching up for the sky. The rest of the vines cover the landscape, running in long hedge-like rows into the darkness. There is a pathway leading through the fields to the east, and a small wooden shed is visible in that direction.


The mists of night still linger heavily over the Imladris vineyards, cloaking interwoven vines of deep green and purple in a thick blanket of dew soon to evaporate with the warm summer sun. The air is warm and moist, and upon its silence a sweetness dwells - one undoubtedly brought about by the various fruits that now begin ripen upon their vines. The summer wears on with patience untold, a rich asset to the slow growing fruits that shall sweeten the valley's wines with the coming of autumn and winter. It is unhurried, as are the footsteps of she who now walks the fields in the shady hours that morning brings.

Fluid, meandering steps are the Miruvorthaer Eryndae's wont, poise inherent in age and wisdom pervading her thoughts as they show upon her face, ponderous and yet serene. While her right arm is held casually behind her back, resting at the small, left arm hangs somewhat limply at her side. The fingertips of this seemingly lifeless limb brush absently over the pale silk of the lady's white gown with her movement; but clasped in the hand held behind her is a medium sized pouch, sewn of deep forest green felt and tied by a piece of silver twine.


Standing motionless among the vines, as if he has been there throughout the night (and it is quite possible that he has), is a tall figure. Long black hair tangles down his back, cascading over a dark blue shirt. Small unseen nigh unfelt currents of air move over the fields of ripening grapes; one swirls the mist away from Lothdaimoth. Blinking, he moves for the first time, stretching a little and smiling. Then, apparently unmindful of who else might watch, he begins to walk along the row. Long gentle fingers occasionally caress the tendril of vine as he passes and once, he stops and stoops to peer at the waxy purpling green of the fruit. Lines of pain and grief not so long past still mar his face, but a peace not seen there for some time is slowly returning.


"Counsel," a cystalline voice extends, its melody smooth and soft so as not to startle the edhel too harshly from his apparent reverie. Here a shadowy smile lifts the pale corners of Eryndae's lips, not entirely devoid of pain and weariness in its nature. "I have sought you out over the last day or so....since the return." A further pause breaks the clear pattern of her flowing voice, a sigh rising and falling in her chest before continuing. "Perhaps I should have thought to look here first of all." Footfalls slowed now lift once more in a more direct pace, bearing the lady to Lothdaimoth's side.


Surprised by the unexpected voice, Lothdaimoth looks around, dark eyes alighting on the lady who speaks. His own lips tilt in a small smile and he bows a little. Softly, a barely-noticeable catch in his words, he says, "I .. have spent much of my time here. Since then." Again, he reaches out - almost without thought - to the dark green leaves that surround them. His smile turns a little shy. "I have not been a vintner for so very long, yet I find great comfort and ease beyond thought among the vines." One arm is held a little stiffly, the sleeve bunched oddly near his shoulder. Silent for several minutes, he allows his eyes to wander across the milky white mist that blankets the fields, before returning them to her face curiously. "Why did you seek me, if I might ask?"


The young vintner's story inspires a less fleeting smile upon the blossom of Eryndae's mouth, one that grows with the brief account. As curiosity intertwined with her last words, so does it increase with those spoken thereafter. "I presume not to know the nature of your errand, only that is not far sundered from mine own." Eryndae's eyes leave Lothdaimoth's face to drift slowly over the broad expanse of the vineyards, lingering fondly upon plants here and there. "Though only my charge over this, the last age, the Herdir's vineyards have always brought me joy and inspiration. Have you found that which you seek, be it one, the other, or aught else entirely?"

With the lilt of her question, the Miruvorthaer's gaze bends upon the Counsel o Lothlorien once more, a discerning light kindling in eyes that have seen millenia pass without losing their keenness. As she responds to his own inquiry in turn, this light deepens anew into a sorrow and weariness not successfully hidden in entirety. "I had hoped to settle memories all to recent in the pain they bring... and to convey my gratitude." Here the Miruvorthaer falters, struggling visibly with thoughts unspoken, and perhaps a humility not often known by the lady.


"My errand here to the vineyards?" the counsel inquires. "Before.." His eyes grow distant, darkening in memory. Still his quiet voice continues, deep and even. "I came for refuge. There was no other haven I could find." One shoulder lifts in a shrug and he looks back to her face, smile twisting a little before smoothing again. "Now.. thankfulness draws me back. And the opportunity to spend some time admiring your fields. We do not grow our vines thus, but upon the mallyrn." He begins to wave towards the trellis arrangement with his injured arm, but winces and halts the motion. Enthusiasm begins to overlay the strain and tension of past weeks, still lightly but growing. "And some of your grapes are varieties completely new to me."

The first rays of sunlight creep onto the field and turning the thinning mist into a blaze of gold. And Lothdaimoth seems lost for a time in thought. But at last Eryndae's words pierce his abstraction and he turns to seek her eyes with his own. Concern, gentleness - and a deep empathy for her struggle, having known so much the same himself. "Gratitude?" he says at last, only this one word.


Gratitude. A subtle nod remains Eryndae's silent affirmation of the word until at length she again finds words. "None less than the favor from one whose life was spared by your bow, Counsel," she murmurs low, shoulders lifting with poise hindered by a wince of pain on the lady's own face as well. Where smiles would accompany words warmly spoken, the Miruvorthaer's solemnity rather depeens, spoken events clearly still near to mind as are her own wounded shoulder. "For this, is aught else owed below the most fervent gratitude. This I give to you, and freely so. Along with what token I can spare that would match my thankfulness." At this, Eryndae brings forward the pouch long held in her palm.

Every whispered movement of her fingers, light and painstakingly delicate over the soft fabric, foretells of the value of what lies within... at least, to her. "I pray that what today bring to you as new and unusual, in time will grow to be a blessing in the wood of your Lord and Lady."


Taken aback, Lothdaimoth reaches hesitantly for the proferred pouch. "I had forgotten. I.. there was much else on my mind," he confesses after a moment. Again the knife of memory twists his expression. "Lady," he says then, formally. "No gratitude is needed. I am only glad some small good came out of such an evil day. That it was my arrow was no more than chance, for any other would have done the same."


Her smile resurface, soft and reassuring in its serenity, as nimble fingers work to untie the parcel. Eryndae's wintry eyes remain with her task although her words are still offered to Lothdaimoth. "Be it unsought after or otherwise, my gratitude stays with you. And this gift, for many years."

Thus as the contents of the package are at last revealed from beneath evergreen folds of fabric, the Miruvorthaer finds conviction and renewed stability by merely looking upon what lies within - a small clipping of a pale green vine, a few deep green leaves clinging weakly to the stalk, withered by days apart from the earth. Yet life clearly remains within, a gift now extended slowly and pressed into the Counsel's palm. "I offer you one of our oldest vines, of those born in the Vale at the end of the last age. Though cut in the middling days of the winter months, it will survive your long journey home to the Golden Wood, if properly cared for."


Almost reverently, Lothdaimoth cups his hand about the small living thing. Eyelids droop and shut while he stands there, his head bent as if listening to something far distant. And his other hand comes up, the pain of movement disregarded, to run a finger with practiced care down a leaf. "And now my thanks are yours. Such a gift..." The faint smile that has graced his face grows as dark eyes open again, anguish beneath receding a little further. "Is there ought of special care that it needs?" A recurrence of earlier enthusiasm sounds in his eager voice as he suddenly abandons all solemnity, and the ghost of a chuckle whispers from his lips. "I meant to ask if there were any cuttings I could take home with me; I did not know you would forestall my request." Irresistably, his gaze returns to the plant, lingering there. "This above all else you could have chosen, I will prize."


"Such that is of Arda may never heal the wounds of the fea," Eryndae intones softly, voice falling nearly to a whisper as eyes likewise drop to the ground, the mists that covered it now fading benath the sun's warming face. "And yet I hope someday the joy I have found in tending these vines can also be yours and that of your kinsmen."

Looking up once more to take in the edhel's reaction, the elder vintner and warrior pulls back her hand to leave both vine and wrapping fully in his keeping. "Care must be minded in a delicate touch ere you reach your lands anew, lest the clipping come to harm along the way. Once there, it will grow in any soil, though the sandier earth will bear richer fruits when autumn brings her blessings in the following year." Tilting her head to the side, flaxen locks cascade forward over a bandaged left shoulder as it is forgotten beneath the nature of her thoughts.

"Plant it at the base of one of your great Mallorn, in the partial shade. In the second and third years, these will need something upon which to grow, and yours shall reach toward golden leaves." In the moments of her reverie recalled fleetingly to mind, a flicker of gold reminiscent of those very leaves flickers across eyes too often left icy and cold.


Even as Lothdaimoth tucks the grape vine back into its protective covering, he follows each word spoken intently. "Yes.." he murmurs, the silver trunks and golden leaves of Lorien's beloved mallyrn standing clear once more in his eyes. "I know of one that has no fruit below it..." Completely hidden now from sight, only the bulge of the material tells of the precious thing concealed within. "Again, I thank you. And if ever you should find yourself among our woods, you will see it growing there."


"I do hope the days in which I might again find myself in fair Lothlorien are not yet past," Eryndae chuckles, laughter flowing as would a low bubbling brook just freed from the icy hold of winter's chill by the coming of spring. Her age shining out through silvered blue eyes momentarily recaptured by a wistful weariness slightly different from that which shone earlier therein. "It's beauty reminds me of the Hidden Kingdom, more than any land upon Arda..." Here her voice trails away into nothingness, lost upon a gust of warm summer breeze lifting the leaves on the vines with a gentle rustling. The lady's right hand, now empty as her gift has been given, absently brushes to the bandages of her left shoulder. "Yet danger follows even between the richest lands. I grieve to think forward to your kinsmen's departure out into such peril again."


"I too. Danger there has always been, but when it is to another.. " Lothdaimoth's voice roughens and he turns away - just a little. "That I could not aid a friend in need brings far greater pain than any wound to myself." His half step and turn has brought him closer to the row of grapes, and as if seeking comfort, he moves nearer still; until it appears he stands enfolded by a leafy green embrace. With an effort, he says, "I am perhaps a little biased, but Lorien is the fairest of all the lands I have seen. Though I have only left her borders twice in my lifetime."


As Anar continues her voyage across the sky, the shadows shorten. Therefore there is no warning cast across the ground, telling of the approach of Olvaristdil Glasiel. She emerges from the shelter of the woods with her gathering basket, and, seeing two edhil standing in the vineyard (one of whom, she's been searching for) she approaches.

Her first words, however, are not addressed to him. "Miruvorthaer! That dressing looks in need of change. I would be happy to attend to it, when you have a moment?" She nods a greeting to Lothdaimoth, with a look mingling concern with ... is that annoyance? But she doesn't say anything to him. Yet.


Curiosity conquering her demeanor once more, Eryndae studies Lothdaimoth's features with eyes narrowed more in an effort to discern rather than any competing reason. "And what brings you and your kinsmen here now... if I might ask?" Though captured by thought and wrapped fully in their discourse, hands worn by work with both sword and shears alike sift absently through the lush vines, plucking wilted leaves to tuck back into her palm.

Though after a moment's time, her eyes are drawn away from Lothdaimoth to meet Glasiel's arrival. "I appreciate your offer, Olvaristdil, and will return to the halls of healing with you in my first free moment." Her smile to Glasiel is softened by the sight of the elleth's concern...though the unspoken sentiment passed to Lothdaimoth in her stare does not go unnoticed. One flaxen eyebrow lifting in a subtle arch, Eryndae looks between the two.


"We had several reasons. Some of our healers, it was felt, would benefit..." Lothdaimoth has barely begun to answer when Glasiel's voice brings his head around and he halts. Her look is returned, but with reserve instead of concern, wariness not irritation. "Would benefit from the teachings of those here. Your methods, I understand are different." Again, a fleeting glance is cast towards the newcomer, as if he wishes he had picked some other reason to begin with.


Glasiel sighs deeply as she casts another lingering glance toward Lothdaimoth. After a moment, she turns back toward Eryndae. "In the meantime, please try to minimize the movements of that shoulder, mellon? I realize that the vines need your expert care, but I'm sure they would rather receive briefer attention now, instead of a complete lack later. If you were to cause further damage by doing too much, too soon. . . But there. I don't mean to lecture you. I'm afraid that in my eagerness to help, I often press too hard."

Although she directs her words mainly to Eryndae, her fleeting glances toward the visitor from Lorien might cause one to wonder toward whom these words are actually directed. Indeed, she now directs a quiet statement directly to Lothdaimoth. "I've found the /healers/ among you to be quite full of good sense and wisdom, sir. Would that others in your visiting group could follow their example." Why is it that she uses the plural here?


"Oh," Eryndae muses in nearly whispered acknowledgement. The edhel's apparent discomfort seems to stir a meeting of confusion and that which might even be perceived as mild amusement, evidenced by the quizzical pursing of her lips as well as a faint sparkle in argent eyes. Absently continuing her task, the lady drifts slightly along the row of vines, occasionally casting a curious glance to her side at the Counsel.

But as Glasiel addresses her, the Miruvorthaer dutifully drops her left arm at her side once more, palm skimming flat over the silk of her skirts as she leans down to some of the lower vines with her opposite hand. Her answer, however, is softer spoken than it otherwise might be. "I will do as you say, to the extent that I can, Glasiel. Your concern is much...appreciated...?" The crystalline tone of her fair voice now fades almost entirely to a mutter as Glasiel speaks with the edhel in quiet aside.


Glasiel's words to him bring shutters down in the counsel's eyes, with an almost audible thud. "I am glad that you have found it so," he says politely. In contrast to the easy tone of earlier, his voice has filled with tension; and he returns to the previous subject at once. "Also, there was a desire among some to renew ties with their kindred - my own sister travelled with us to return to her home in your valley from a visit." Almost unseen below the vibrant leaves that sway whether there be breeze or no, the fingers of one hand have clenched together until the knuckles are white.


Almost as if she doesn't notice the tension in his voice and manner, Glasiel nods, answering his words instead. It seems she's taking a different approach with this edhel, this time. "Indeed? I wonder if I know her. I have myself been blessed by your visit, in finding a cousin I knew not that I had. I believe you know Galena?" Here she glosses over /how/ she knows that bit of information. . . "I hadn't met my cousin before, and so imagine our surprise when we discovered our kinship! For her mother is my mother's sister-daughter."


Eryndae's face lights with mild surprise beyond modest interest. "Truly remarkable, to have found such ties between those thougth to be strangers. And from lands sundered by years and miles alike! Renewal of ties, indeed." Within the silence of a moment's hesitation in her thinking aloud, the Miruvorthaer's eyes fall to Lothdaimoth's clenched fist. Thus with a smile not insincere, but forced to its current brightness, Eryndae turns to the edhel once more, with words hushed. "May you forgive a hasty departure, Counsel, and seek me out upon resolution of this...matter. I will increase my gift with more of its kind, if it suits you. Until then, namarie." Then renewing her smile for Glasiel, Eryndae pats her forearm fleetingly before drifting the rest of the way along the row of trellises. "I will seek you soon, as promised. And until then, you have my word that I will be careful."


Whatever her intentions may have been, Glasiel's change in tactics brings no matching change in Lothdaimoth's manner. Instead, he only grows more tense, muscles clenching beneath his thin blue shirt. A grimace of pain is next, as the injured arm is also tensed. "Yes," he says flatly. "I know Galena." Eryndae's quiet speech to him brings an attempted smile. "Again, I thank you. I would be glad to speak further with you."


Glasiel nods at Eryndae as she heads down the row. The vintner's departure leaves all her attention available for the guest. "Sir, I truly do not mean to trouble you. Please forgive my single-mindedness, but every time I am near you I feel an overwhelming need to calm your troubled fea. Not to mention that arm. Will you not finally take my offer in the spirit in which it is intended? If only be kind and relieve me of my own distress?"


Uncounted minutes pass in silence. The tall counsel's dark gaze stares off across the sunlit fields, a small muscle in his jaw jumping. Finally, with a determined effort not to sound grudging, he says, "Very well. You may tend my arm." Gone are the days when he would almost have prefered the wound to remain unhealed; still he seems uncaring as to its final condition. Her other words are left unanswered.


Glasiel's eyes close briefly, a large sigh of relief escaping before she steps closer to look at the injured arm. "It would be better if I could convince you to accompany me to the halls of healing. All I need for this is there."


Another long pause while Lothdaimoth considers this. Silence covers the long rows of grapes, growing and ripening in the warm summer sun. And reluctance grows visibly on his face. "I do not wish to leave," he says slowly. Without conscious guidance, his feet have pressed him further back into the grapes, which somehow never seem to be between his body and the trellis - thus never are pinched or injured by his movements. "I would rather remain here, have you no bandages or.. or anything here?"


Glasiel's eyebrows knit for a fraction of a moment, her gaze still on Lothdaimoth's arm. "Well, at least could you stay still, so I can see what needs to be done? Better yet, you could sit here in the shade of the vines, and I could get a good look."


"Oh." Lothdaimoth looks down at his errant feet in bemusement. How they had gotten him so far back into the vinery is a mystery evidently. With a shrug, he steps away from the clinging tendrils and turns a little, presenting the arm in question to the pestersome healer. The nubbly material of his shirt catches at the vines, stretching them a little before they reluctantly release their hold and coil back into place.


It is day, for the sun shines. Be it morning or afternoon.

From the South the Hirvaethor Randinen approaches. As is his wont his pace is swift, an errand to run, final prepretations to make for the Tournament? Although the matter seems not an urgent one, for as he discovers the other quendi, he easily halts.

"Mae govannen, mellyn!" greets he in pleasant voice, "What brings each of you hither? Was there not enough beverage to enjoy last night?" he chuckles at the recalling of the feast.


Strolling casually, Lanthiriell wanders from the south. Her expression is far off, as if caught in a daydream. Her eyes focus as she notices she is not alone. She stops, surveying the scene, and approaches. "I do hope I am not interrupting..."


The Olvaristdil's hand is just about to push up the sleeve to get a better look, when the Arphedor arrives, momentarily drawing her attention away from her task. "Mae govannen, Hirvaethor. The feast was truly bountiful, but I am not here to gather grapes from these vines. This guest . . ." she turns back to the guest, apologetically. "I don't think I ever learned your name. . ." then back to Randinen to finish her explanation. ". . . has been injured, and has agreed to let me dress his wound. I do wish I had bandages with me, however, since he seems loathe to return with me to the infirmary."

A nod of greeting is offered to Lanthiriell as well, before her eyes go back to examining the visitor's arm.


Lanthiriell nods a greeting to the healer. "If I may be of assistance, I will gladly fetch whatever materials you need."


"Loath to return?" echoes Randinen, a frown forming.

So he turns to the Galadhrim, "Mellon, why will you not be tended?"


Beneath the sleeve, a (mostly) white bandage bulks. Around the edges, dried blood has crusted almost black. Lothdaimoth looks up and then back and forth from Glasiel to Randinen, uncertain which question to begin with. "I am Lothdaimoth," he says at last. "I came here to .. spend some time among the vines. I have said she might tend the injury, but I do not wish to leave." Again without thought, his feet begin their slow migration backwards, but this time he catches himself before he has moved from his place. Or at least by very much. "The wines were very good. I have begun to work as a vintner at home."


A sudden grin captures the Hirvaethor's lips. Folding his arms he states a thoughtful: "Hmm..." one hand supporting his elbow, a finger he places to his lips, slowly walking towards the Galadhrim. Yet he seeks not to approach this elf, for he poses himself between him and the three ellith.

"And will you perhaps visit our Healing Halls, once you spend some time hither, mellon? For then..." here he faces the ellith, "I strongly object to move this edhel against his will. If he finds delight amongst the vines, no harm will it bring, correct? Lest he suffers from a dreadful ailment which needs immediate and severe treatment?"


Glasiel nods quickly to Lanthiriell. "That would be appreciated. If you find a healer in the hall, ask them to bring what's needed for an. . . arrow wound?" The last bit is something of a question, directed at Lothdaimoth. Her eyes travel the edges of the bandage, her fingers hovering but not yet touching.

To the Aphedor, she replies, "I have some misgivings over letting him stay longer, sir. It has already been too many days without care. But I can work within his restrictions. Indeed, I am only too glad that he's finally agreed to let me work at all."


"An arrow, yes." A bit of relief joins the resignation in Lothdaimoth's face at this unexpected support. "I would prefer not to, actually. But if she can see to it here.."


"Then work." speaks Randinen calmly, spreading his hands in peaceful gesture, beckoning to Glasiel.

"Likewise you may 'work' when she is done, mellon-Lothdaimoth!" explains the Hirvaethor to the injured edhel. Chuckling softly he winks, "I shall see to it they dare not drag you off to their Halls, until you have sampled some of the Herdir's finest grapes. From reliable source I might point you to these delicious treats."


Glasiel nods at Randinen, her eyes still focused on the task ahead. Very carefully, she tests the edge of the bandage, to see how easily (or not) it will be removed. The dried blood hinders her progress. "This may hurt, mellon. Please try to remain still, however."

With this warning, she begins to remove the bandage, very slowly and carefully so as not to tear anything anew.


Undaunted Randinen turns to watch the antics of Glasiel with the greatest interest. As she starts to reveal the wound he does furrow a brow.


And at last, Lothdaimoth relaxes again, grinning faintly at Randinen. "Certainly. That is no hard promise to keep for I was doing no work to begin with." Glasiel's warning brings a slight frown and then a return of resignation. As the bandage tugs at the skin, he grimaces and then turns his face away. Jaw muscles bunch as he clenches his teeth but makes no sound.


Hurrying along behind the elleth, Ailiell rounds a green bend, seeming not at all surprised to find Lothdaimoth beneath the vines. "Mellyn," she says, kneeling with a warm smile, by Glasiel, and nodding to the Arphedor. "And you," adds she, with a very slight smirk for the edhel. "I see you have finally tired of being chased about the valley?" Laying down a basket of neatly rolled bandages, she turns back to the herbmistress. "I have brought geranium root and..." as she unwinds the soaked linen, "Comfrey root."


A truly happy smile is given to the Nethordur upon her arrival. "Wonderful! Thank you for bringing them." Her eyes never leave Lothdaimoth's arm, however, and she continues to remove the bandage with a careful and steady hand. Finally, an angry gash is revealed on the edhel's arm. She winces very slightly. "Have you the geranium root, Ailiell?"


"I share your dislike for the Halls, mellon." speaks Randinen suddenly in a soft voice, as to not disturb the progress of the Herbmistress, "Rather I remain free and fro, outside. Still now I see your wound, it is best to see it treated, if but slightly. Injuries inflicted by the arrow can be treacherous, for we know not always what else it carries besides the cold wrath of steel."


"Of course," replies the Nethordur, quite cheerily now that the runaway is under careful hands. Producing the powder she glances up at the dark wound, and all mirth is replaced by a calm impassivity. Mouth set in a grim line, she silently hands off the herb, and unwinds a length of fresh bandage about her arm.


"I think there is no poison." Lothdaimoth smiles in self-mockery. "Else surely I would have known by now." He turns his eyes now to the bloody red furrow. "As it is, I live and with no more trouble than that it remains much as it was." Higher, still higher climbs the sun, its rays growing warmer almost hot - and still he contemplates his arm dispassionately.


Glasiel looks closely at the gash for a moment, then up at Lothdaimoth's face. "This would looks very nearly fresh. Your wounds are indeed deeper than those of an arrow. Still, there is only so much that can be done with some patients in one sitting. And so I will start with this." As she speaks, she sprinkles the powder into the wound. Reaching into her basket, she retrieves a few fresh leaves, newly gathered, and places them against the wound before reaching for the bandage from Ailiell. She wraps it carefully, neatly, and snug against the arm.

This done, she steps away. "There, mellon. A second start to your healing." A second start? What was the first? Lanthiriell smiles tendly, impressed at the tender ministrations of the healers. With that she nods and continues her stroll towards the woods, humming softly under her breath.


Glasiel's mention of other causes behind his injury is ignored. Again. The wound is wrapped and Lothdaimoth takes a step away at the same time as the healer. But rather than continuing, he simply stands there among the vines, his eyes unfocusing and drifting over the fields.

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws

1