A/N: Because I love the book and adored the movie and because I just couldn't resist. Please read, review, and enjoy! :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, promise.
There are stories far older than even the eldest of the Elves can tell. Of all the scholars, of all the kingdoms in Middle Earth, Master Gandalf, I would think you would be the one to know that.
-Lord Elrond
Chapter 1: The Smith of Wood and Iron
The sun-dappled leaves are casting flittering shadows against loamy earth. Listen, did you hear? Did you hear the rapid footsteps pattering against damp soil, the sound of their passage muted by the thick foliage that covers the forest floor before they faded away completely? Not even the squirrels will acknowledge their echo anymore and they're notorious for their nosiness. For the purposes of our tale, however, it is best not to linger here in the quiet solitude. Instead, let us follow the feet that have so quickly fled towards that ram-shackled monstrosity just beyond that knoll there. Careful, the grass is damp here. Ah, there it is. Such an odd structure to find in a forest, don't you think? And part of a tree no less? Well, at least the hole in the thatch was patched, you should have seen the size of that leak during the last storm!
Ah, look, can you see? That flash of brown and white that just vanished through the doorway there? Quiet, now, quiet. If we belly down in the grass, we might just catch a glimpse of what's goes on in a wizard's hut. Eh? Why should you be interested in the goings on of a conjurer and his ilk? Why, because you'll not see their like in this world for much longer, I imagine. Magic is a dying thing, you see. But, hush, I believe our story is about to begin...
If the door had not been open, it's almost certain it would have been bustled right off its hinges. But then, that was the wizard's speed; he was always in a hurry, but a life spent amongst rabbits tended give one a different perspective. However, rabbits were not what occupied the old man's mind at that moment. Rather, it was the actions of the fiery haired occupant of his kitchen.
"What am I going to do with you?"
Interwoven braids of gold and auburn whipped against slender shoulders, leanly muscled arms flexed beneath thin white wool as they dropped from their task to hang ineffectively in the still air. Long fingers curled around themselves for a moment, the pad of one thumb briefly rubbing against prominent knuckles before they lowered to hang against full hips clad in dark brown leather. A belt of golden links traced a path around the curve of a trim waist. Drawing the eye upwards was a set of gilded, intricate knots that wove towards a pale sternum. A pair of softly rosy lips, a straight, narrow nose, high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes the color of liquid metal created a striking set of features; features that were currently fixed in an expression of innocent curiousity.
"Master Radagast?"
The scent of musk and feather was heavy in her nose, the twin braids that framed her face swaying as the one called Culurien tilted her head. A hand, the fingers darkly stained by dirt, scrubbed across a scraggy face, white flakes drifting from their caked place against a sunken cheek to the floor below. With a sigh heavy enough to stir the great beard framing narrow lips, the stocky wizard leaned on his twisted staff. Thick brows disappeared beneath the voluminous expanse of his furred hat.
"Culurien."
The tone was partly chiding and partly amused, as if he hadn't quite made up his mind what he thought just yet. Dropping her eyes from his knowing stare, Culurien's fingers once again linked, only this time it was behind her back. Her toes dragged against the clean planks of the floor, perhaps the one clear expression of guilt that betrayed her. When her gaze rose again, it was with a sheepish glint reflected in the mercurial depths. Twisting around briefly, she bent at the waist then turned back, a furry bundle the color of a burning sunset cradled in her arms.
The older man stepped towards her, one finger gently stroking down the soft fur. A shuddered trailed his touch's wake, two ears with white tufts perking upwards, then a pair of deep brown eyes, a long snout, and finally a twitching black nose. Culurien looked up at the wizard with a pleading glance.
"It's chilly at night. He ought to have somewhere warm to sleep in the evenings, and a bit of warmth in his belly."
Radagast shook his head slowly, plucking the creature from her arms and setting it down on the floor, the red plume of its tail rising crookedly in an inquisitive gesture.
"I just spoke with his mother, she's worried sick and this little rascal has an earful waiting for him when he gets home. Old Fiona has quite a fondness for you, you know, and I suspect it has just a bit to do with that mane of yours. She doesn't care for her young taking advantage, as she puts it. Besides, a hut is hardly the place for a fox pup to make his den." He gestured with the butt of his staff towards the open door. "Go on, Henry, out you go."
The fox in question trotted towards the open expanse of grass that stretched out just past the doorstep, not even a glance behind him.
"Well, there's your gratitude," Radagast chuckled, one hand rubbing at the coarse hair on his chin.
Her lips turned downward, dejected.
"So I see. It seems my merciful attempt was unwarranted...and unappreciated."
Suddenly a finger was pointing just beneath her nose, dark eyes glittering with a teasing humor. "And don't you forget it, my dear. The animals rarely need our help, they are quite capable of looking after themselves in the natural turn of things. Now then—"
He shuffled towards the low, crooked wooden table near a grimy window, glass vials rattling as he walked across the creaky floorboards. Culurien glanced down at her bare feet, the ends of the thicker braids of her hair tumbling over her shoulder. She brushed them back idly. It was just as well, she mused. Radagast the Brown was a wise man in his own way and was never unkind to her in his words, whether they were meant as instruction or chastisement.
Her gaze turned to the wizard for a moment, observing that he was going to be busy concocting Ilúvatar knew what. It was best for her to give him room to work. She would just be in his way as he bustled back and forth from the table to the kitchen to the hearth. Rolling her shoulders with a dull pop, she let out a breath through her nose and grabbed a pair of fingerless gloves that hung on a hook on the wall next to her. She tugged them on carelessly, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to expose her forearms.
"I'll be at the forge if you have need of me," she called as she strode through the open door, ducking her head slightly as her host merely muttered to himself, glass clinking as he hunched over the worktable.
With another soft exhalation, Culurien rounded the trunk of the great tree, the green blades of grass cool against the soles of her feet. She was thankful that the Brown wizard was such a gentle soul, but sometimes she genuinely wished he wasn't nearly as absentminded. Although she'd admit there were times when it played to her advantage. The time she accidently fed one of the hedgehogs a growth potion came to mind. Most of the time, despite her age, the man made her feel like a child. That wasn't entirely his fault; she became almost all thumbs under his watchful eye.
Soft ground gave way to rock, heated from the constant popping of banked embers from their place in the hearth of the forge. Snatching up the stained leather apron she kept near the naturally overhanging branch that served as an alcove of sorts, she swiftly tied the strings around her waist, grateful that she tended to wear her hair in a set of braids that lifted away from her neck.
It was a small space for a smithy, but that was preferrable. Less steps were needed to access the different parts of the forge and it forced her to keep the area neat. The stone was both a blessing and a curse, preventing fire, yet retaining heat. An assortment of tools and supplies hung in tidy rows from a line of nails embedded in the wood. The hearth was open and round, built of roughly hewn rock and it loomed large in comparison to the rest of her workspace. When she had built it, she had taken the time to carve an interlinking pattern of lines in the stone. Though her hands had ached for days afterwards from clutching the chisel, it had been well worth the effort, illiciting a fierce pride in her craftsmanship. It had pleased her so much, in fact, that she had lined the entrance to her smithy with the same design, painstakingly carving the grooves in the tree with a loving touch.
The worktable had recieved the same amount of care, the legs and edges detailed with small bursts of flowers here and there as a mood of whimsy had struck her at the time. Whittled pieces of wood were perhaps the most haphazard things in the alcove, delicate shapes of animals, ships, roses, and even a dragon sitting in various nooks and crannies. Hunks of unshapen metal were collected in baskets and buckets that lined the outside of the smithy, arranged by content and size. Iron, copper, gold and silver sat silently for their master's hands to mold them to her desire. Items already crafted had either been stored in the small room she had claimed near the top of the hut or were carefully stacked beneath her table.
Numerous axes, bits of armor, tools, and even a toy or two sat unused and undisturbed, waiting for the day when she would stride by with sack and saddle to bring them to the edge of the forest, to the tiny markets that had a demand for her work.
A quiet clacking against stone alerted her that she was not alone. She turned her head to smile in greeting at her familiar caller.
"Darthan," she murmured, scratching her nails briefly against the grey mane that was just between the gelding's flickering ears.
There was a protesting whicker when she stopped, which made her laugh gently.
"Not when there's work to be done and," she gave the gelding a crooked grin, gesturing with a pair of tongs at his pink nose, "especially not when there's work to be done for you."
Ignoring his snort of derision, Culurien pressed her foot against the flat wood of the top of the bellows, setting her weight against it. Air whooshed into the tuyere, igniting the glowing embers from an orange-tinged black to a roaring red. She worked the tongs, grasping the shoe she had been working on yesterday and thrusting it into the heat. Her cheeks flushed as she turned the piece of iron, watching its hue become brighter, waiting until it was nearly white, then pulling it out and twisting her torso towards the anvil at her elbow.
She took up the hammer she kept hung on a nail nearby and slamming it into the malleable metal. Sparks flitted in the air with every strike, leaving tiny burns along her arms, lighting in her hair to flicker out upon touching the strands. The muscles of her arm corded with every lift, a jerk of her wrist angling the blows to evenly mold the shoe into the shape and thickness she desired. Before the metal could be bent too far, she quickly set the hammer aside and plunged the metal into the barrel of rainwater across from the anvil. Steam hissed into the air, collecting with the sweat on her brow into hot beads that ran down to the curve of her neck. Her skin turned pink, her features set in a determined kind of concentration.
"And what would a child of the Vala be doing over a forge on a day like today, I wonder."
Culurien glanced up from her work as she turned once again to the forge, stepping on the bellows lightly to add just a touch more heat. The crooked hat, greyer in color than even Darthan's dappled coat, was as clear an indication of her visitor's identity as the vast whiskers that flowed from his chin.
"I'm no elf, Pilgrim, that you should be able to clearly see," she snorted, tilting her head to the side to show her perfectly rounded ears.
"And yet you're not a child of man, dwarf, or anything in between, although your disposition makes me wonder if there isn't a dwarf somewhere in your surly background." He removed his hat and hung it over an open peg, then stooped until he could fit himself beneath the curving roof. "So, how should I call you, lorien hinya?"
Her expression was one of skepticism as she pulled the iron from the fire once more. He was right in that it was a beautiful autumn day, early enough in the season that the air was not yet crisp, the scent of summer still clinging to the wind. Not that she cared to mention her agreement.
"I doubt it matters." Water hissed and splashed as she dunked the metal once again, then resumed pounding it into shape. "Business with Master Radagast brings you out of the West, I take it?"
The tall wizard smiled at her patiently, setting his staff to lean against the rough bark of the tree.
"Are visitors so rare in the Green Wood that manners are utterly forgotten in this part of the world? What would your mother say?"
Culurien's gaze was sharp as she cut her eyes across her anvil towards him. Laying down her tongs and hammer, she braced her palms against the steel's warm surface.
"I expect she wouldn't have all that much to remark on, considering where I am and where she is."
His bark of laughter grated on her nerves.
"Ah, you certainly didn't get her honeyed tongue! Your father's affinity for smithing, however-" His voice trailed off into an absent murmur, letting the thought hang unfinished between them.
Culurien didn't comment further, pushing up and picking up the pair of tongs to adequately cool the shoe in the barrel before holding it up for inspection. Satisfied with its sloping angle, she set it in the hearth for the final time. Plucking a slender tool from a nail next to the one holding her hammer, she pulled the shoe out of the fire and set it on the anvil, swiftly twisting the bit of the tool through the hot iron. Then it was dunked in the water and pulled out, its heat tested by calloused fingertips.
The Grey Wizard stood silently nearby, watching her movements with a mild expression as he leaned against one the long edge of the worktable. The mouthpiece of his pipe was clenched firmly between his teeth, though he hadn't yet lit the bowl.
"Such a simple craft, and yet I doubt many could claim your level of skill."
The observance made her scowl, not for the low tone in which it was said, but for the implications behind the words. Metallic eyes met bright blue as she placed the finished horseshoe on a small table near at hand. Yet her voice was void of anything except a kind of matter-of-factness.
"When one has had centuries to perform one's craft, well—" She shrugged.
Deftly, she reached into the hearth and plucked a glowing coal and casually tossed it towards him, the small piece of fire landing neatly in the bowl of his pipe. With a muttering kind of grunt, he sucked in his cheeks, blowing a thin, pleasantly scented stream of smoke upwards as he quickly dumped the ember out. Culurien watched him for a moment as he smiled in a pleased way, folding her arms across her apron as she leaned back against the bark of the tree.
Darthan wandered near her hand as it peeked out from beneath her elbow and she allowed him to nuzzle her fingers, his presence comfortable and familiar. The inky black color of his tail flitted at a fly that attempted to land on his quivering flank. His hooves shifted against the stones that had sunk into the ground just outside the small alcove, his frame too large to fit into the makeshift smithy.
"If I may ask, just why are you here to speak to Master Radagast?"
His chuckle was akin to the sound of dry leaves crackling in a swift wind.
"And who has said that he was the reason I wandered this far East?"
Her brow furrowed as she straightened, her arms remaining folded. Eyes of metal narrowed as they pinned the wizard with a hard look.
"If not for him, then you have come for me and that is a task that I would advise you to tread lightly upon undertaking. I don't possess expansive knowledge in comparison to wiser minds, but what I do have is mine alone."
His smile was enigmatic. "If it's knowledge I want, I generally go to the elves. They're far more forthcoming than most."
Culurien's eyes became slits, her lips thinning as she pressed them together.
"You seek my services."
"In a manner of speaking," he replied, that smile still firmly in place.
"Then speak plainly, Gandalf, I have no patience for games of language," she snapped.
Blue orbs twinkled at her as a perfect ring of smoke lifted into the air, bursting in a fragrant puff when it reached the bark of the overhang.
"I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure...and I believe you'll be interested to know who I have in mind."
Her expression was skeptical as a harsh breath escaped her lips.
"I doubt that," she said, turning her back to him, a clear signal that she considered the conversation over.
"Allow me a few more moments of your time, and if you are still uninterested, I'll depart without troubling you further."
She paused in gathering her tools, tilting her head as she considered his offer. With a sigh, knowing that it would only lead to more wizard meddling in her life, Culurien looked at him over her shoulder.
"As you wish. I'm listening."