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...

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 Radaghast wasn't nearly as absentminded, although she'd admit there were times when it played to her advantage. The time she accidentally 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. In truth, it was quite probable that she did it on purpose. It made her feel good to be spoken to as if she were a wayward ward. It showed a level of care she had not seen before she took up her residence in the Green Wood.

The 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 preferable. Fewer 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 afterward from clutching the chisel, it had been well worth the effort, eliciting 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 received 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 and she turned her head to smile in greeting at her familiar caller.

"Darthan," she murmured, scratching her nails briefly against grey hair that was just between a pair of 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 horse 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. 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.

"I doubt it matters. Business with Master Radagast brings you out of the West, I take it?" she asked.

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 made her lips curve into a wry smile. "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 the shape, 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, the mouthpiece of his pipe 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 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 the keeper of this forest, then you have come for me and that is a task that I would advise you to tread lightly upon the undertaking. I don't possess expansive knowledge in comparison to wiser minds, but what I do possess 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 calmly, 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."