In night and dark and storm’s sustain in blow, they read by fire and candled light; fire in hearth room’s greatest source but, too, the light of candles in illume and cast onto close and near beside.
Wind blew faint in room from draught-stir and current draws of touching warmth and cold.
In the words, he read from the book, “She held a candle, shielding its flame from draught with her hand; and the light flowed through it, like sunlight through a white shell.”
Sentence read, he looked again to her as, right then, she moved from rest and made to rise, taking candle stand in hand as she did. Her second hand covered the flame, light’s glowing through just as the story told.
Synchronicity seemed more, and just then, wind and faint sound-scratch of snow upon window and wall ceased.
She stood erect, wondrous in her still—white robe of thick fleece plush in warmth and cover of her fair; glow of her guarding hand, seeming same of her yellow strands in eyes through verdured shadows of their green as he felt pang and long of soul’s connect.
She smiled, unmoving in stand, as it seemed to him she encouraged him to read next in the story: life seemingly become as literature and read words written.
“’The rain has ended,’ she said; ‘and new waters are running downhill, under the stars. Let us now laugh and be glad!’”[i]
Sentence read, his eyes drew wide as he gazed again to her.
Storm ended at read of written words.
She laughed in mirth. Her smile stayed as she moved to him taking hold of his hand as he rose from read and with other she loosened robe and covering tie as upon white-cloud bed of pillows and down throw-cover, they laughed in fall and beginning make of the gladness she desired.
[i] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Rings, “In the House of Tom Bombadil.”