The Road to Isengard

By Incitata

~~~

We creatures that flit in moonlight and shadows hear much in our short lives and even before we emerge into dusk we know all that has ever been known to our kind – it is our method of immortality. Nothing is secret from us – that is why the birds hunt us to consume us – they hope to digest our knowledge and in turn win favour with their masters.

We sense a whisper as the rain splashes off the shining leaves, disturbing the dust, droplets sticking to our fragile wings – it is a call and we move to answer those hurried syllables – there is pain, there is fear on the mind of one who is like and unlike us.

I break from the chrysalis that has hung for so long beneath the dry eaves of Bree. "I" a rare word amongst us. I have purpose and pay for that by separation – no more do I sense the voices of my kin – my life ends even as it begins for the task I must perform requires that my part cannot be discovered by another.

I, every leg trembles at the concept of I – but I, unique among the we know my path as my wings dry and grow dusty. I flex each muscle, filling the silence that should be a buzz of wings in blossom with my task; I will hear no more of the them that has been me until now. My message cannot go astray.

Blown on breezes, ignoring the call of the grasses and trees below I journey on alone by starlight. I rest when I must but feel no hunger but the absence of the multitude but for them I was dead at the moment of my emergence. I feel the loss of the voices that filled my time until this moment.

The trees below me now are rich and deep and ancient – I yearn to plunge far into that dark canopy and taste the nectar of which I have heard … I do not because the call is closer now and mingled with the sensation of burning.

Harsh and sudden the forest turns to dust, as if one day the trees had walked over flame. Dead scorched earth lies below and my tired wings, with no current of life to bear my fail, I am falling – perhaps it is my purpose to fail and another to answer the sweet voice on the breeze. I fall, then the heat that rises from the cracks that rent the earth lift me – up, up struggling for control – then the current breaks, all below is flat and desolate.

My wings ache, the voice is here, not strong, but here. I flutter across the platform, struggling through the damp.

My feet touch something warm and I flex my wings, taking strength from the fingers that surround me.

He whispers to me in the voice that drew me from my shell and across many lands – I think for a moment and I bow, in the manner of a moth. One more word he says then he blows, releasing me from the cage.

I will follow my instructions and return. That will be his signal – I will return and die so that he may live.

~~~

Authors note:

I often read of the moth or butterfly that visits the prison cell, bringing hope to the one within – this is from the PoV of the moth called by Gandalf in the film version.

Is this too weird? Please let me know.

I thought that I would move this to my usual pen name, it will be deleted from my other.

Thanks to Hellga who wrote:

"Very nice story. Poor moth is undeservedly overlooked by LotR fanfic writers. Justice to our arthropod friends!

Actually, I hate insects. But this almost makes me appreciate them."

And to Lady Frodo Baggins who assured me:

"no it wasnt weird- this is the best fic i've read in a long time! well written- you couldnt have done it any better"