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Aulë’s forge is bright and hot. Steam and heat billow from it, though it is not a scorching heat. It’s enjoyable, it is warm, it is the sort of heat that can be felt from Laurelin — soft and good and pure.
Mairon can be seen there, day in, day out, working at the forge of Aulë. He’s steadfast, as he is Aulë’s eldest and most beloved Maiar. And when Aulë is away, he runs the forge, sees to the projects, and ensures that things are running smoothly.
Mairon has a great love of order; he likes to find things as he left them and he likes them to be neat. His projects are completed to perfection, and if they meet those standards not, then they are to be redone, even if Aulë approves of the work. He finds himself sitting at his anvil, a rounding hammer in hand, flattening out hot metal into a sheet when a winged figure appears in the always open doorway.
He glances up, pale gold eyes only momentarily distracted, before he calls over his shoulder: “Curumo!”
A head pokes around the corner, and a red-haired maia appears — not quite as tall as Mairon when he stands up, and Curumo races over with eager hands. He doesn’t need to be told what to do, taking the tongs out of Marion’s right hand and the hammer out of his left, and he replaces him where he was formerly seated, picking up the craft easily.
It’s like clockwork. Mairon likes it when things run this way; he supposes he likes having an assistant here, thank Aulë. It wasn’t easy getting all of his projects done on his own, and when he’d step away and leave a piece of metal hot, it would have to be re-forged because it had cooled down, or cooled with a lumpy and sad surface.
He stops at a basin of water and pulls off a pair of red gloves so that he can wash his hands, he pulls his heavy apron off and hangs it, and then he steps toward the figure that stands in the doorframe.
“Olórin,” he greets, his voice is somewhat pinched but it is pleasant, “what is it that I can help you with?” His hair is long and has a faint hint of red to it, and gold marks fall down his cheeks and chin, his skin pale, almost pure white. By all means, he cuts a striking figure, though ash is smeared across his clothing and has fallen in his hair.
Olórin is no less striking, with large white wings tucked against his back. He wears a perpetual smile, somewhat mischievous, as if he’s smiling about a secret that he knows that no one else does. His blue eyes are crinkled on the corners with a smile, and he makes a motion. “May we speak outside?”
“If that is what you would prefer,” Mairon replies, waiting semi-impatiently for Olórin to step outside, wings and all, before he follows after him. The cool air of a mid-morning hits his face, and he inhales the fresh air slowly. As much as he loves his forge, he loves the land, too; Yavanna may not be in charge of him, but he loves her. Not only because she is Aulë’s wife.. but because she treats all with kindness, looks upon them as though they have true meaning and matter.. and he enjoys her earthen creations, and he enjoys learning from her from time to time, when it is permitted.
“Alright — what is it that I can do for you, Olórin?” He repeats his previous question, his hands resting on his hips as he speaks. But Olórin just retains his little smile and he tips his head forward, a few strands of white hair falling in front of his eyes. “How are you faring, Mairon?”
Mairon dislikes this in Olórin — one cannot predict what it is that he will say or want. He suppresses an exasperated sigh. “Busy,” he says with a clipped tone. “How are you, Olórin?”
“Busy,” he agrees, though his eyes retain a happy glitter to them, and Mairon pinches his lips together. “..wonderful. What is it that you need, Olórin?”
“I wanted to ask you a question,” the winged Maia replies, making a motion outward with his arm. “Would you have enough time to accompany me on a short walk, old friend?”
Mairon stares for a moment at Olórin and then back over his shoulder at the steam billowing out of the building behind them. Did he not just make it quite clear that he is busy? He has a lineup of projects that he wants to see finished before Aulë returns! But Olórin will keep coming back until he has a chance to say what he wants to say-.. his shoulders slump with a sigh.
“A short walk. I cannot be away for long.”
But at that, he strikes down a grassy path, not waiting for Olórin to verify whether that is where he wants to go or not; Mairon is making the choice for him. But Olórin doesn’t complain and he strikes off, taking long and calm strides to match Mairon’s more fast and purposeful ones.
“I wanted to ask you, my friend,” Olórin says with his slow, calm tone, “what you love so much about smithing.”
Again, Mairon should turn around and continue in his own way. Is it not so obvious? He is a Maia of Aulë, his love is with the craft!
“..I enjoy the perfection of it,” he finally replies. “I can create something of which I have in my mind’s eye, and work on it until it is a replica of what I desire to create.”
Olórin considers this, his white brows knitting together. “You have made many very beautiful crafts,” he replies thoughtfully, to which Mairon nods to agree. “Yes - thank you.” Beauty is not a subjective thing, after all. Something either does or does not possess beautiful qualities. Mairon believes that much, anyway.
A silence passes between the Maiar as Olórin seems to think, and Mairon glances toward him with his pale gold eyes, one of his white brows raising after the silence seems to drag on.
“..is there anything else you wanted to ask me, Olórin?”
The winged maia seems startled to hear his voice and he looks over at Mairon before his expression smooths into something serious. He stops walking and turns to look toward Mairon, his dark blue eyes locked on. It gives Mairon an uneasy feeling; he can hear Curumo hammering away at the forge, which is some distance away now. He would like to go back.
“…if you were given the chance, Mairon, would you forsake Lord Aulë?”
The question hangs in the air for a moment, and Mairon must say — he’s shocked at it. He is not often taken off guard; it earns a laugh, and his hand finds his hip again.
“Of course not,” he laughs, “surely, Olórin you jest. What cause would I have to abandon my lord? Why? Do you consider forsaking Lord Manwë and Lady Varda?”
At once, Olórin seems quite scandalized by such a proposition, his white feathers fluffing.
“Of course not,” he quickly replies, “that would be foolish. I was just curious as to what you thought, Mairon. Nothing more than that. Thank you for so candid an answer. If you would, please excuse me; I have errands yet to run.”
It seems so abrupt an end to so weighty a conversation as Olórin spreads his great wings and with a heavy stroke, they lift him into the air with a gust that blows back Mairon’s hair and cools his skin, his white cheeks slightly flushed with gold.
“..strange,” he mumbles to himself. He turns to walk back to the forge, chuckling to himself at the question. What a strange idea… abandoning Lord Aulë…