Waiting, the cat decided, was the worst thing ever.
It had sat before the large carved mahogany doors for the better part of an hour. Beautiful, the designs on the door might be. They, still, have gotten tiresome.
Behind those doors, was the entity who summoned the cat. And it seemed, Thranduil, King of the Mansion, was keeping it waiting.
The cat sighed, for the millionth time.
It would have had a swell time downstairs, celebrating its much-look-forwarded anniversary.
Yes, today marked the two weeks anniversary of the cat's arrival to the Mansion.
Two weeks since a wary cat stepped out of its transport and set foot on the Mansion grounds. Two weeks since it was shocked motionless in the front lobby, hardly believing the sheer extravagance of the decorations. Two weeks since it hesitated to place its paw on a rich intrinsic Persian rug in fear of dirtying it. Two weeks since it found itself hopelessly lost in the twist and turns of the Mansion, until it happened upon a servant. Two weeks since…
Ah, so many fond memories.
But today, also, would be the day the King of the Mansion officially greet the cat, and decide whether its temporary living arrangement in the Mansion would become permanent.
Naturally, the cat was nervous. The luxurious lifestyle had grown on it considerably during its stay. The cat would loathe to leave the Mansion back to what it now perceived as 'a humble lifestyle.'
But to be allowed to remain, the cat must pass the King's inspection, which, it now seemed, was no easy thing to accomplish.
Failure was not an option. The cat reminded itself.
If there was one thing good about this macabre affair, it was the acquaintances the cat had managed to make for this interview. Most of the residents of the Mansion seemed quite amiable, and sympathetic to the cat's plight. Many had given it tips and advices, a big list of what-to-dos and what-not-to-dos.
Be respectful. That's the first advice the cat got.
That was an easy counsel to follow, it had thought, after all, strange cats always greet each other respectfully. Except, it's becoming incredibly hard to be respectful to a pair of closed doors.
With an irritated sniff, the cat stood to shake out its now stiff muscles. Muscle mobility reinstated, it sat back on its warmed sitting spot, hind legs folded under and tail covering forepaws.
How much longer would it have to wait?
Acknowledge the King's authority. That's the second advice.
The cat had a moment of dilemma then, as it was unaccustomed to being the subject, to recognize another's dominance, to bend the knee. Should one choose to be ruled in luxury, or be ruler in impoverishment?
Fortunately, the dilemma ended soon, when a servant presented warm milk and biscuits on gold plates as afternoon snack.
Show deference to the King, but never cower.
Bilbo, the Singapura, had specified, "King, he might be. But Thranduil hates mindless bootlickers."
The cat was quite glad of Bilbo's words. It did, after all, detest being the fawning, obsequious, or subservient subject.
A crash sounded somewhere down the hallway. The cat was up and turned from its seated position in an instant, ears straining to catch a sound of mischief. It was just about to leave and investigate when Gandalf's warning echoed, "Never, ever, let your curiosity overcome common sense."
Torn between curiosity and the ominous warning, the cat hesitated. Until, a movement in its peripheral alerted the cat of new developments.
During its distraction, the doors leading to the King's study had opened, noiselessly, without the slightest whine of hinges. And now, as the cat looked beyond the doors, into the room it had been waiting to be admitted, it couldn't help but gave a soft gasp.
The room was splendidly decorated, opulent beyond imagination. Sunlight streamed through large floor-to-ceiling windows, leaving no corner untouched. Rich carpets and rugs littered the floor while gold and silver decorations intensified the glare of the bright light until its eyes watered. Soft pillows of various sizes and shapes litter the floor, the couches, and chairs. Beautifully framed paintings hang on the walls.
And amidst of all this splendor, on an enormous desk close to the windows, sat the King, facing the sun. Blinding light highlighted the gold in his puffed-up coat, illuminating him so that he seemed aglow around the edges.
Slowly, regally, he stood from his high throne and turned, pale eyes settling on the minuscule creature on the floor. Long and unblinking, the King stared, until the cat was tempted to turn tail and scuttle, advices or not.
An eternity later, the King gave the cat his back and returned to his seat.
A wave of a furry tail, his dismissal.