Chapter Text
***
The numbers don’t add up no matter how many times Caranthir has looked at their ledgers. At this rate, Amon Ereb will be bankrupt within a few years. Their middleman role in trade between Curufin and the Dwarves has just not been enough: not with the prices both sides demanded and travel costs. Not for the first time, Caranthir wishes to swap his place with Maglor, whose land has been under constant attacks. Caranthir considers himself to be born for war, not for negotiating trade agreements for his brother, and definitely not for courting stubborn Dwarven delegations. Maglor could easily charm both sides, but instead of him, it is Caranthir, who has to keep his composure, pretend to enjoy celebrations at his fortress, and attend functions in claustrophobic stone halls as the ambassador of the Fëanorians.
Unfortunately, Amon Ereb is positioned too much to the south to be at risk of Orcish invasions. Because of that, they cannot offer military assistance to the Dwarves in exchange for their wares, unlike Maedhros and Maglor, who don’t need to worry about any trade deals. He should have settled for building a smaller fortress and inviting fewer people to live here, maybe just a pleasant forest dwelling like Amrod and Amras have established, but no, he had to come up with a grandiose idea of offering safety to their war-exhausted people. It has been a struggle to maintain the fortress, and trading with Dwarves has not turned out to be as prosperous as he had hoped.
He has been wrecking his mind to find something they could sell in addition to their middleman role, but Amon Ereb has not much to offer besides its soil and stones, and Caranthir simply cannot sell stones to the mountain-dwelling Dwarves. His people are decent at making daily life items but are not masters of their craft enough to be able to sell their goods to anyone, maybe except for the Secondborn, who are too poor to even bother with. All the bloodlust warriors have gone to protect Himring and Maglor’s Gap. All the real craftsmen to Curufin and Celegorm. Those who wished to stay in the forest have joined Amrod and Amras, and Caranthir has had no choice but to offer a home to a weird mix of people craving respite from their constant fighting, daydreamers, and Elves too young to have mastered any profitable skills. They all seem happy living here and painfully unaware of their precarious situation.
He puts down his fork and stares down at his plate moodily. The meal is delicious, but it is too far from Amon Ereb to Ered Luin to transport their food there, and he can’t sell their main cook unless he wants to have a rebellion at his hands. The humming noise of numerous conversations around him has been giving him a headache, and he looks at his highest-ranking officer, who is gobbling down the food as if he has been starving for centuries.
“Slow down, or you will choke,” he hisses at him and observes with disgust Faredir shoving multiple pieces of fruit into his mouth. If his best warrior has become a shameless glutton, how they are even going to survive when Amon Ereb becomes impossible to live in, and they will have to leave and join the war again?
“It’s so good. You need to try it,” mumbles Faredir pointing to a bowl of grapes.
“How come we have grapes?” asks Caranthir with mild interest. Fresh food is clearly not a sellable commodity anyway.
“The gardener has managed to grow few wines. At least we can enjoy some good fruit from time to time, right?”
Caranthir stares at the bunch of grapes in front of him and frowns. They don’t look like anything special, but he tries one just to be sure. A delectable sweet flavor explodes in his mouth, and he closes his eyes in relish.
“Where is the gardener?”
Faredir points to a female Elf sitting at the far end of the hall. She is talking animately to her neighbor, and Caranthir recognizes her as one of the daydreamers: the one who cheerfully talks to plants and walks around with flowers in her hair. He scowls in her direction and decides to bring an end to that nonsense.
The next morning, he is walking purposefully to the garden and spots her bending over some flowers, laughing at them, and stroking their petals. Caranthir clenches his teeth and approaches her swiftly like a merciless thunderstorm.
“Oh, good mor…” starts the gardener beaming at him.
“What is this?!” he growls, pointing to the rose bush in front of her. “We can’t sell roses, and we can’t eat them! We don’t need bloody roses, no matter how pleasing they look in your hair!” He glares at the offensive red flower in her chestnut hair.
The gardener’s dark eyes widen, and to Caranthir’s shock, she grabs the hilt of his sword and pulls the weapon out. He takes a quick step back, but instead of attacking him, the gardener slashes the blade at the rose bush. Decapitated flowers and shredded leaves are flying around, and Caranthir is just staring in disbelief. He has not seen such behavior outside the battlefield. The gardener has just gone mad because of the stupid rose bush. She turns back to him breathing heavily and hands him the sword.
“Here, my lord. No more roses.” The wind is blowing red petals at them, and Caranthir feels he may just burst a vein. He grabs her hand and drags her outside the gate and down the hill.
“What’s in here?!” he demands. The gardener gives him a bewildered look.
“Nothing. Slopes of the hill.”
“Exactly! Nothing on the slopes! Start growing something useful on them for a change!”
“Like what?”
“Grapes. Grow grapes and make wine of them. You have one year to make it happen.”
“One year is impossible!” she huffs, and Caranthir glares at her murderously.
“One year to establish grape wines all around the slopes. Two more years to make the best wine out of them to sell, so we can yet survive in here.” He releases his grip on her and marches back to the gate.
***
The fortress has been taken over by numerous pot plants. It has become too cold to plant grape wines directly in the soil, explains the gardener, and if they are indoors, she can convince them to grow faster before spring comes. Mud is everywhere, and the gardener keeps patrolling the halls and mumbling to her plants. Caranthir doesn’t approve of the mud but forces himself to remain silent about it. There are no more grapes for eating, and it seems that the gardener has taken his order seriously, so he makes other Elves help her prepare the slopes for planting.
He goes to pay a courtesy visit in Ered Luin and re-negotiate the terms of their agreements. The Dwarves admire Curufin’s works and then force Caranthir to visit their mines, watch a mind-numbing axe-throwing competition, drink their sour ale, and lose money in gambling games. At the end of all of his sacrifices, they remain as stingy as ever, and Caranthir returns home with a mighty hangover and a silent promise of revenge.
***
When the slopes have been covered in support structures, and vines have started climbing over them, Caranthir feels a slight hope that maybe, just maybe, they may get the upper hand yet. He is walking slowly around the hill, enjoying the sunshine and a gentle breeze when a voice calls out to him.
“How do you like the slopes now, my lord?”
He turns around to see the gardener approaching him. Her clothes are muddy, and she has a cheerful and carefree expression. There is a leaf tucked in her hair, and it looks ridiculous.
“It should better work, or we will have to pack and go back to the war zone,” he frowns. “When can we start making the wine?”
“In a few months of good weather, grapes should be ready, my lord. I guess we can make wine at the end of summer.”
“Do you know how?”
“No,” smiles the gardener irresponsibly. “I have asked around, and nobody knows. I guess it will be a trial and error situation, my lord.”
“We can’t afford any errors,” frowns Caranthir. “If nobody here knows, we need to find out elsewhere.”
“I’ve asked the Secondborn too, but they only know how to make ale, my lord.”
“Dwarves already have ale, and we need to sell them something they have never tried before.”
“The best wine in the lands, my lord?” she grins at him.
“Yes. And stop with this ‘my lord’ thing. Nobody calls me that.”
“I thought that you would enjoy a special treatment, Caranthir,” the gardener gives him an amused look, and he rolls his eyes.
“I don’t care for formalities. Listen, we really need to make it work.”
“It’s too cold to grow grapes in Himring or our other lands, but maybe people there know about winemaking?” asks the gardener, and Caranthir sighs.
“I don’t want to make it well-known yet that we are having problems here.”
“There is no need for that, Caranthir. Just tell them we want to experiment with a small winemaking project,” she smiles.
“That is… a good idea. I will write to one of my brothers then,” he looks at her thoughtfully. “You did a good job with planting the wines and making them grow so fast,” he is trying to recall her name, but nothing comes up.
“You are welcome, Caranthir,” the gardener gives him an indulgent smile.
He stares at her for a moment and then clears his throat. “Yes. I should go now. Thank you.” He turns away and starts walking up the hill.
“My name is Galuneth!” laughs the gardener, and he almost trips.
***