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“There are nights when the wolves are silent, and only the moon howls.”
Ingwion was startled from his dark thoughts by the quiet voice, seeming to come by its own projection from the darkened forges. “Who goes there?” he asked softly, stepping forward and looking into the dark, raising his lantern to cast a pale glow.
The figure that stepped forward was clearly no elf – it was seemingly a male, with sharp cheeks, and a beak-like nose. Broad shoulders and translucent skined, it was clear he rarely left the darkness of the forges, perhaps his eyes, wide and bright, gave him better low-light vision. “Curumo,” he said, inclining his head. “At your service.”
The Maia’s voice hissed, and Ingwion stepped backward as he replied, “Ingwion, at yours.”
Curumo smiled. “Pleasure young Prince, it is rare one of your kind ventures so far from Lord Manwë.” He strode forward, blood-red robes flickering like flames around his feet. “Is it Lord Aulë you seek? I could take you to him?”
Ingwion swallowed, suddenly unsure of himself. “Yes, please do,” he said slowly, watching the strange Maia as he took off, strolling toward the large manor. Ingwion took short, slow steps, forced to follow along at the Maia’s leisurely pace, as out walking him would be rude.
Soon however, they reached the great house, Curumo waiting for Ingwion to open the door for him, then stepping inside with a quiet thank you. The Maia nodded. “Wait here,” he murmured, turning and slipping away, up the stairs into the house.
The home of Aulë, was as inviting as ever. At the far end of the entry hall, a large fire flickered happily, and to the sides doors and stairs curled away. The stair case Curumo had taken was spiral, winding up around a pillar at the center of the hall.
Ingwion stood in the hall for a long moment, slowly pacing, looking around with curious eyes. He had not visited the Vala in many years, but the hall had barely seemed to change. Yet, a few years, to an Ainu, must be nothing. Soon he heard the tread of heavy footsteps, and turned to see the Vala walking down the stairs.
The smith smiled, but the warth did not seem to reach his eyes. He walked slowly, as though pained, and his hand tightly gripped the rail of the steps. “Prince Ingwion,” he greeted, griping the elf’s shoulder tightly. “A pleasant surprise.”
“My Lord I-“
Aulë didn't seem to hear him, waving with a large hand to a door off the entry hall. “Let us sitting room, shall we?”
“Of course,” Ingwion smiled, following him into the sitting room. “My apologies for arriving so late.”
“Late?” The Vala peered at him curiously. “Is it late?” He shoved open one of the blinds, staring outside with a frown. “I suppose it is,” he commented, the silvery light of Tillion and Varda’s stars reflecting in his hair. “Interesting.”
Ingwion frowned, but as the Vala turned back he smile warmly. “Very interesting,” he agreed. “The Vessels are lovely, some of your best work.”
“Vessels?” The smith seemed confused. “Oh but the Lamps, you should have seen the lamps.” His eyes glittered as he rambled about his long-lost creation. “How they shone, filling the world with warmth and light and peace. It was peaceful.” His eyes darkened, though he seemed more sad than angry. “But then he- he left me, and he took them too, didn't he?”
Ingwion nodded, glancing toward the door and wondering if someone ought to fetch Yavanna. Doubtless she should know her husband was acting so strangely. “I mourn for your loss.”
“No!” The smith lurched forward, catching Ingwion’s shoulder in tight grip. “Do not mourn for me. Promise?”
“I promise,” the prince whispered as his shoulder went numb. Just as he prepared to ask Aulë to release him the smith let go of his own accord, falling back into a chair with a content sigh.
“What was it that brought you here Prince? No doubt it wasn't to listen to the ramblings of an old Ainu.” He smiled, seemingly aware – for the first time – of his odd and unexplained behavior.
Sitting across from his Ingwion sighed. “I merely needed… away. I needed to clear my thoughts. I'm afraid my wandering feet brought me here.”
“You've heard then?” Aulë asked. “They were cousins of yours, weren't they?”
Ingwion sighed and nodded, slumping forward, his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. “Aye. They were dear to me. Very dear to me.”
The smith nodded, staring out the open window. “Aiwendil released a chicken yesterday.” The elf sat up, watching with with surprise. A soft grin lit the smith’s face. “Oh the trouble it caused, running and clucking and screeching. It got into the forge and knocked things over, sending Maia and Elves and metals flying before we could catch it. And yet, in the end, it was just a harmless chicken.”
“Of course.”
Aulë chuckled. “All that trouble, chaos, caused by just a simple slip. Both Maia and Chicken were quite apologetic, and a touch guilty. But I think – deep down – they both enjoyed it. That doesn't mean they were evil though.”
“Of course not,” he agreed. If Aulë thought to distract him with meaningless stories he would let him, it certainly seemed to cheer the smith. Aulë however, had fallen silent. For a time they sat in the darkness of the sitting room, the only sound their breaths and the rustle of their clothing.
After watching the stars as along as he could Ingwion stood, saying, “I should be going.”
Aulë shook his head, not turning to look at him. “Nonsense. Stay the night. Travel is safer by day.” The smith stood, rolling his shoulders. “I'll show you to a room.”
“My Lord that is not needed,” Ingwion argued, neither wanting to be a nuisance, nor wanting to stay around the seemingly mad Aulë.
“Oh, it's no trouble. I insist even. My wife would never forgive me if I let a visitor leave in the night. Perhaps a few days here could do you good and erase your troubles, eh?”
Resigned to his fate – at least for the night – Ingwion followed him from the room with a soft murmur of, “thank you.”