That night, under the vines heavy with stars, Pan poured them each a cup of fresh grape juice. His cheeks were flushed from the wine, his eyes glinting golden in the firelight. For a long while, he played his pipes, the tune both joyful and strange, winding through the night like the whisper of leaves.
Then, without warning, he stopped. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted his cup.
"Do you know why I guard these vines so fiercely?" he asked, his tone suddenly heavier.
The group looked at him curiously. Patricia tilted her head. "Because you like wine too much?"
Pan chuckled, but it was hollow. "Oh, little flame, wine is joy. But once, long ago… joy nearly left this forest forever."
