This story was written for Marigold´s Challenge 39.

The starter was to write a story based on a quote from a book that was not written by Tolkien.  My quote was:

“A long time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet. As he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without, and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney-comer, where the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed.” From “The Naughty Boy” by Hans Christian Anderson

Pip & Plum

Betaread by: Llinos and Marigold

A comfortable warmth fills the room. Shadows dancing on the wall, thrown by hungry, flickering flames, that change their victims into grey ash and glowing fire, mercilessly following their nature and still without evil will.

The odour of fresh fir needles, that found their tomb also in the greedy red mouths, lie in the air.

I am stretching myself cosily on the soft fur in front of the fireplace.

With half-closed eyes I am dosing, my old bones sighing contentedly and my tired paws are resting, having earned their rest after all the many, many years full of adventures that are lying behind me in the fields and woods of my home.

Day after day I greet the light with the voice given to me and night after night I greet the dark and my songs mix with the great chorus of the world. I am grateful for every moment that is allowed to me.

The rest of the house lies cold and dark outside the room that I claim for myself.

My Master sleeps wrapped up in a blanket next to me. His legs pulled near to his body, his head resting on his hands.

But his sleep is not peaceful.

As dark clouds outside swallow the starlight, so black shadows cover his face.

The wind drags with all its power at the leaves of the trees in front of the smial. Memories torture his mind and shake his body.

I cannot understand them, they are too big for me, but I can feel the fear that he carries inside.

The rain beats pitilessly against the window and washes the dirt of the day away. Tears flow down his cheeks and I hope that they are relieving and that they do take away some of the filth of the passed year with them.

A loud thunderclap! A loud scream!

The harsh lightening illuminates the night.

His eyes catch the light of the flash and he sits up breathing heavily. He leans trembling against a nearby armchair.

The wind howls. Sobbing drowns out the pleasant cracking and rustling of the fire.

I stand up and press myself against his legs. He feels my soft fur and a hand strokes over my head. I purr and climb up into his lap. Gentle paws  massaging his tense body.

He smiles at me and his tears disappear.

The rain is quieter.

I  feel  how he becomes calmer and how my warmth drives away the cold that has wrapped around his heart.

The storm eases.

Together we are sitting by the fire and following our own thoughts. His head falls sideway and he dives again in the world of dreams. But this time no evil hands stretch out for him and disturb him.

I keep watch. No storm shall reach him again, here with me, at the warm fireside, in the protection of the smial.

He has always taken care of me, since he found me as a small bundle of fur, alone and abandoned under the tall plum trees.

And I take care of him.

You are safe my Master. Sleep well.

The End