I lift the heavy, but have no hands, I travel aisles, but own no lands. With a metal grin, I play my part, what am I?

I curl like bark, yet sweeten your tea, warm in the cup, with comfort set free. Swirled through raisin bread, toasted just right, I turn simple bites into cozy delight. Dust me on apples, rolls, or a treat, a little brown magic, fragrant and sweet.

In cups of tea or fireside glow, In blankets soft when cold winds blow, I wrap you close though none can see, a quiet comfort felt through me.

I can fly when made of fabric, and stop a sword when of steel.

What is the end of everything, nothing, and ending?