8 Iavas 10-30-2002

The sun slides fingers through spaces in mallorn leaves, broadening her hand until the entire vineyard is soaked in a cheery yellow light, weakening to white by each passing moment. Broad grape leaves soak up the sun in green palms, and sway heavily with their burden of dark grape clusters, almost showy with pride of a summer's work well done.

Slowly a pair of Quendi walk into the vineyard, the edhel's hazel eyes lighting up as they sweep the vine-laden mallyrn. His laughter is deep and rich, and the fiery-tressed elleth by his side talks quickly through it, her hands employed in animated gestures through the conversation.


From wandering among the trees, though his steps show more purpose than just idle roaming, Lothdaimoth looks up at the sound of familiar laughter and turns his feet towards the others. In one hand, he carries a small felt bag, the green of the deepest woods. A bit of silver twine dangles between his fingers. Dark eyes fall on Caelwen's golden dress and one eyebrow arches, a teasing lilt entering his voice. "Mae govannen, cousin. Is there a festival I knew not of?" Craning his neck, he peers all about the vineyard, as if in search of streamer or music. Then the joking manner is dropped and he turns towards the elder vintner. "Did I remember wrong? I thought there was a mallorn whose vine had withered?" Half turning, he gestures whence he had come. "Yet I saw it not.."


And again Iaurhanc chuckles, one hand on his belly as if to stay all the laughter from rushing out at once. "Aye.. there is a mallorn without vine. You do seem to have forgotten where, however." A gesture of his earthy head nods in one direction, and to there the elder Vinter ambles, no hurry, but purpose still in his step.


Caelwen is silent, but smiling at Lothdaimoth with only a faint flush tinting her face pink high on her freckled cheekbones. She steps closer to him, stiff skirts rustling faintly, and her hand darts out quick as a snake to tickle briefly at his ribs. "You be nice to me," she teases. "I wanted to wear something pretty after all that travelling." A wink to him and a sniff, and she turns to follow her uncle.


The direction Iaurhanc takes is nearly opposite to where Lothdaimoth had been looking and the younger elf laughs. "Apparently I have," he says, amusement warming his words. One hand goes up to fend off Caelwen's attack, the other holds his precious package out safely to the side. And a few long strides take him to the other vintner's side. "Has it been decided what to plant there? If not.. I have a vine here. Twas gifted me by the Master Vintner in Imladris." As he speaks, long gentle fingers unloose the silver tie, tugging the small packet open.


"Oh?" This certainly attracts Iaurhanc's attention, and he eases closer to Lothdaimoth, looking with interest down at the opening packet as they walk. His smile grows steadily wider. "This grows in Imladris? I don't see why we couldn't plant it here. Tell me of the vine. Tell me how it grew." They near now a tree, its ancient silver trunk strangely vulnerable and nude without the wagging leaves of a grapevine embracing it.


Caelwen only follows, flashes of light dancing off her fair raiment and hair now and then. She looks around idly, her gaze often returning to flicker between her two relatives.


Reverently, the small pale cutting is unveiled. "She said it was from one of their oldest vines, one of those born in the Vale at the end of the last age." Despite the unimaginable length of days allotted to the Firstborn, awe tinges Lothdaimoth's voice at the thought of a single vine thousands of years older than himself. Awe that is mingled with enthusiasm as he continues. "Uncle, it is the oddest thing! They have no mallyrn, you know; but their vineyards! They are grown upon wooden .. fences. Or trellises of some sort." Stopping beside the towering tree, he looks at it, bending to feel of the soil and then casting a critcial eye up to the spreading branches. "It will grow much as the others here, she told me. I asked to see if there was aught needed to be done differently, but her instructions seemed much as we always do."


"Like how the vines grow in the trellises of the main talan at home," Caelwen's voice pipes up from behind. "I never could get used to how their vineyards looked. Like they had managed to tame the plants or something. You could tell it in the wine, too, I think. It was very good, but still, there was... something." She takes several steps backwards, then settles herself on the ground, her gold and copper skirts piling high about her. A sigh, and she rests her chin in her hand, watching Lothdaimoth more than Iaurhanc, especially when no one looks to her.


The elder vinter smiles bemusedly at the younger, then turns his glance above as well, studying the branches as his deep, melodic voice speaks. "Well, I suppose they had to make do. I can't imagine grapes flourishing on trees other than the mallyrn-- oaks or beeches or whatever they have would block out too much sun and stunt the growth." An idle step aside as he ruminates on his thoughts. He looks down, contemplation still heavy on his brow. He is silent for a long while before he speaks again. "If you say to treat it as any other vine, then I think this would be the best place to start it." He points to a section of earth. "What say you, Lothdaimoth?"


"Still, I would like to try it. Perhaps the difference in the flavor was only because of the soil or climate." An underlay of stubbornness sets Lothdaimoth's chin. "I brought a bottle home with me as well, Iaurhanc. You will have to try some. It is very good, a dark red - quite strong but very enjoyable." Still cradling the clipping in one hand, he turns towards the indicated bit of ground and eyes it. Again the branches receive their due of attention and at last, he nods. "Perhaps a little thinning there," a finger points upwards, "But otherwise I think it will do very well."


Stooping swiftly to lay the vine on the ground, his fingers linger caressingly and then he is gone. "I will be back in a moment.." floats back from behind an enormous mallorn, hung about with the heaviness of ripened fruit. And it is only a few minutes before he returns, a shovel grasped in one triumphant hand. Caelwen watches Lothdaimoth go, then turns her attention back to her uncle. "I did not think that mayhap it was how the grapes were grown in Imladris!" she says a little excitedly. "He's right. It was a lovely wine. I cannot imagine how much better it would make it to be grown here." She absent-mindedly straightens her skirts a bit as she talks.


Iaurhanc's full laughter booms out as he glances down at his niece. "So I take it you will be begging me for this new red instead of your favorite white now?" Both hands link across his slim belly as he allows his mirth an easy run, his chuckles only quieting as Lothdaimoth nears and he looks up again. "I believe you are right, about the thinning."


The shovel bites deep into the soft earth at the base of the towering tree. Neither too near (so the roots of the vine will have sufficient room), nor too far (robbing it of needed support as it grows), the hole grows deeper and wider by the minute. Warm brown earth crumbles into a pile nearby. "I also have more cuttings. Enough for a new vineyard, if there is a place for such. But this one.." Lothdaimoth stops digging for a minute and measures the depth of the hole. A few more shovelfuls and he is satisfied. "And I would like to try this trellis idea." Carefully the cutting is placed in the hole. Held upright with one hand, the other pats dirt tightly around the base.


Caelwen leans back on her hands, face lifted to the sky, with eyes shut and a beam of sun warming her forehead and cheeks as her curls slide down behind her. After Lothdaimoth mentions the trellises, the Indiri cocks one brow, but neither opens her eyes nor speaks.


Iaurhanc paces forward as Lothdaimoth digs, and rests his shoulder against the mallorn, arms folded before him. He watches the apprentice work and nods once or twice. "Why do you want to try them here?" he asks, only curiosity in his tone.


A swift smile flashes upward and Lothdaimoth's hands still momentarily. "I am curious," he admits frankly. "I wonder if it would change the taste of the wine, or how the vines grow, or the grapes ripen." A small shrug and he returns to tamping the dirt down until it is firm and even around the base of the small plant. Already the pale drooping leaves seem to revive. Earth-stained fingers feel at the stem, checking stability and planting depth. All seems well and he rocks back on his heels to peer up at Iaurhanc. "I wish to know. Perhaps it will make a better wine, perhaps it will not - but one can never know until one tries."


Caelwen's head has tilted up now, and her gaze lingers on Lothdaimoth as he works further. A smile grows slowly wider across her face, and her eyes twinkle.


Iaurhanc glances from beyond the crouching apprentice to the journeywoman potter, then back to Lothdaimoth. He shrugs once. "I shall think about this. I have never grown the vines on aught but the mallyrn, but I see no reason not to, unless it harms the vines-- which it very well might, if the wine turns out poorly as your cousin says. We will need to discuss it with the other Vinters." He pushes away from the tree-bole. "I'll go get some water." His slow footsteps seem almost idle, but his strides are long and carry him swiftly away.


Lothdaimoth edges around to look at Caelwen with surprise, his boots digging into the soft mold beside the newly planted vine. "You thought the wine turned out poorly? I could not have told it by the amounts that you drank." As he speaks, one hand cups the small plant tenderly, fingers idly stroking its few leaves and buds.


Caelwen sticks her tongue out at Lothdaimoth, her peridot eyes still sparkling, athough now with amuse. "I did not say poorly. It was just not quite as good as what we have here." She descends into chuckles, watching him. "And when now did I drink so much wine? Those Imladris vinters guard their wine like bears with cubs. Even at parties I would only get one glass or two." She sighs mournfully.


The dirt-stained form of Uncle Iaurhanc reappears around a tree, watering-can held in one hand as he approaches as swiftly as he left. He crouches across from Lothdaimoth, water pouring thick over the soft earth at the base of the little plant, enriching and darkening the dirt as care is taken not to splash the vine itself.


All Lothdaimoth's attention is now given to the young cutting. Both hands carefully shield it from the possibility of splashing mud and under his breath barely noticeably, indeed almost beyond the edge of hearing, he begins to hum. It isn't much of a song, holding merely the promise of growth after winter's chill is past. When all is done, the thirsty soil having soaked up the last drops of water, he pats a little more dirt on the mound and looks back up at Caelwen. "I heard something regarding the wine cellar ... " One last glance to Iaurhanc as he straightens, absently running muddy hands down his pants. "Have I forgotten anything?" he inquires of the elder.


"No," Iauranc replies as he stands, briefly looking up at the sky with one eye shut and the other squinting. He looks back to Lothdaimoth, and beyond to his niece. "I have work to do, but would like to hear more of your tales later, Caelwen." He nods slowly to both, "Namarie," then turns and ambles away, watering-can still held loosely in one hand.


Caelwen hops up and beats at her fine skirts, the dirt falling away. "Namarie, uncle!" she calls after Iaurhanc's retreating form, then returns her gaze to Lothdaimoth. "Well, I should think on that day--" she abruptly cuts herself off, and turns her eyes away, lips still parted as she tries to find more words to fill the gap.


A last glance is cast to his precious grapevine, standing now proudly in the dappled sun and shade of the mighty tree. And then Lothdaimoth walks over to Caelwen, setting a hand on her shoulder careless of mud and dirt. "Would you like an apple?" he suggests, waving towards the orchard.


Caelwen sets her hand atop his and smiles easily. "Yes, actually, I think I would." A brief glance at his muddied hand on her dress and she laughs in a contented manner, then turns on her heels toward the orchard, step light as she walks.