The Fire in the Hearth, the Tea in the Kettle

From afar, I heard voices – more like murmurs – and sounds of light steps climbing stony stairs from the garden.  I stirred, puffed, and felt like wagging; only, of course, I had no tail. 

How could that be?

But someone was entering my domain – and don’t blame me for cheering over it!  I had been alone far too long.  Far too long, while folks had come and dwelled, indeed, but not truly in me.  They had said I was awaiting someone treasured, a being who had saved us all, they recounted, though from whom or what I could not tell.

Ah, I had let my mind wander again.  That happens, I know, after being neglected too long.  Those elf-maidens who came to see me never bothered conversing with me or feeling my soul.  So long as they left me all spotless and dust-free and glittery, it was all that mattered to them.

But I’m blathering to myself.  If I do that again, you might choose which piece of me you want to smack: my golden-hued walls, a chiseled window frame, even the marble-stoned smokestack.  But please not the painted window glass.

***

“Frodo, no need to have qualms, this is your new abode.  Come inside.”

A voice.  I fidgeted helplessly.  One of them.  I could hear it.  But I had yet to see them, to feel them as I normally did...not until they entered.

One of my high-ceilinged doors swung open, shoved by a tiny hand.  A head peeked inside and then the whole of its owner… wait...

I gasped.  It was The Ring-bearer.  I knew this in my very soul.

I had heard about him and his companion, about their deeds in the land of the mortals. 

Praise them with high praise.  Praise them, praise, them.

Even the High Ones had chanted it endlessly.  The diminutive being on my doorstep was a great Lord of the Realm. 

I trembled.

And they had given him to me. 

To me.  To be his last dwelling place.

I would have gladly bowed to him but I was without head and waist.

***

“My highest gratitude, Gandalf.”

I could hear his voice.  His voice!   It was light…and sweet as the morning sunlight on my windowpanes.

“This house is lovely!  It is more than I deserve.”

He was smiling.  I could feel it!  And his praise thrilled me beyond anything I had ever felt.

“I feel much honored,” he whispered.  “And blessed.”

His words were a string of precious gems, encased in a pure tune, albeit with a slight trace of sorrow he could not hide from me. 

Your Highness, Lord Frodo--how I wished I could speak to him--I was the one blessed and privileged. 

And I offered myself to you, then.  I was yours.  The velvety bed sheet, the thick, woolen quilt.  The fire in the hearth, the tea in the kettle.  The flowers in the garden, the bees in honeycomb.  You will be taken care of, from tip to toe.  Your joy, the healing of your wounds, I will assure you in the depths of my sheltering arms. 

You shall be happy again.

I felt the weight of your presence within me, the gentle breeze that wafted as you crossed my threshold whisked me lightly, making me shiver…and smile.

fin