Uvatha hit the ground hard. His palms bled and stung as the earth dug into them. The pain was a blessing, reminding him of his physical body. He changed forms.
He pressed his back into the tree trunk behind him. His chest sill heaved up and down, as a final remnant of the corporeal. He stilled it. Total stillness was only attainable in this form. He waited. And listened.
I was a simple mission. Talk to the Arachnids and convince them to keep to the south of the Old Forest Road.
"It will be difficult," Akhôrahil warned. "They are an independent people." Independent but allied politically and, more importantly, financially with Sauron and Mordor. The silk traded held the two cultures together as surely as the threads they trafficked in. Mordorian weavers used it for clothing, architects braided it together to make corded supports for bridges, and every doctor worth their salt stocked arachnid silk bandages. There was even demand for venom as a pesticide. Mordor's dry climate made farming hard enough without throwing in crop-devouring pests. In exchange for insects and game from far away lands the Arachnid colonies gave Mordor a portion of their bodily resources (a few of the Salticidae even traded for plants). Everyone was happy.
Everyone was happy until one colony crossed the Old Forest Road. "We're defensible enough," Angmar briefed him, "but there's no need to tip our hand early. Especially not to the Elves. A few more years of secrecy could go a long way."
All in all, the colony was a headache Mordor did not need. Controlling the Orcish factions was difficult enough. After a thousand years they grew used to autonomy. They disliked being told that this revenge or that vendetta must wait, or that the time was not right to pillage this or that settlement. Many listened, grudgingly. Others did not. The Arachnids just added fuel to the metaphorical fire.
"You'll like them." Akhôrahil promised Uvatha when he caught him sulking. "They are fun."
As usual, Akhôrahil was right. Uvatha was not a huge fans of forests. He preferred open plains with lots of sky. He loved riding back and forth between Dol Guldur and Barad-dûr. From the edge of Mirkwood all the way to the capitol were hills that rolled like the sea, mountains that lifted him to the sky, and magnificent lava fields. A guide met him at the outskirts of the communal web. He introduced himself as Avicul* and invited Uvatha to ascend to the heart of the web on his back. As soon as they began climbing Uvatha decided he liked the Arachnids.
Uvatha loved moving. He loved riding and running and traveling. As he clung to Avicul's back, Uvatha discovered a whole new kind of movement. From moment to moment they were sideways, then swinging, then upside down, then right side up again. Uvatha was thrilled.
When he hopped off of his host the web swayed beneath his weight. Uvatha threw his arms out to steady himself. He turned to stare as Avicul let out a chittering laugh. "It's used in your buildings too." He tapped the web lightly with a front leg. "It won't break."
Avicul led him to the back of the central chamber. The web tapered down from the cavernous entrance to a narrow point nestled in the crook of some branches.
Avicul pointed to a thread, "Pluck that one. It will call the family."
He did so.
And the came.
More than ever expected (Avicul whispered in his ear). Homemaker and hunter, docile and aggressive alike. Only enough were left behind to guard the web and the as yet unhatched egg sacs.
Then the debating began. Among squeaks and hisses, word and growls, the Studiosus formulated their wishes. Their opinions. And their demands.
"We have children" Some cried. "They are too weak to travel."
"We could carry them on our backs." One suggested.
"Only the infants." Another replied. "The adolescents are too heavy to carry and too young to survive the trip."
"Perhaps it is the price of safety."
"Safety!?" scoffed some of the hunters. "Do we not defend you well enough?"
"Seven of my children died in the last attack." A mother shouted.
"And eleven of us lived, mama." Her daughter added.
"What about why we left in the first place?"
"Yes! Yes!" a multi-throated cry, "What about the edict?"
Oh Morgoth. That headache. The Studiosus broke off in the first place due to a disagreement with their kin. In the interest of setting Mordor at ease, the other Arachnids had passed a law banning the consumption of sentient beings. 'No Orc-flesh for dinner' was the watchword of the day. The arachnids were paid handsomely for their hospitality. And enjoyed the protection of every being under the command of the dark lord.
"Mordor would prefer—" Uvatha broke through. He shouted to be heard over the tumult of the voice of this close-knit family—closer knit than even the fabric of the universe—.** "—That you agree not to use our citizens as food. Other nations are yours to define. Although," He hastily added before the hubbub began again, "Your cousins ask that you take the hostility of such nations into account."***
"So," Avicul came to his aid, "The elves would be fair game. But the dwarves would not."
A scout balked immediately, "But the dwarves are not a single nation."
"Furthermore," piped a belligerent voice, "they spilled our blood first. Why shouldn't we spill theirs? And make use of the corpses?"
"Exactly," Avicul spoke again, "We are exposed here. How many have died since we moved north? Uvatha offers protection."
"I agree." Uvatha could not keep count of the voices. So many. Such a colony. "The mammals have fangs. We should not hunt them."
"What of the children"!?
"Shall we at least take an initial vote?"
That was the last thing Uvatha heard before the chaos started.
An arrow skewered Avicul's head. He dropped like a stone. No twitches, just stillness.
That's when Uvatha jumped.
The blood and the pain reminded him to change and he pressed himself to the tree trunk. He pressed closer than any corporeal body. He pushed, and felt, and memorized the cracks along its surface. Anything to drown out the screaming.
No coming forward. No one could know. A few more years. That's all they needed.
And that had to drown out the dying.
It worked for a time. Then an Arachnid keened to his left. It was high pitched. A child.
He edged a glance around the trunk. Yes. She—he—was a child, pale and small. A Mammal was hacking into him—her—. They squealed. Once. Twice. So many times. Then, finally, the final gurgling breath.
Uvatha wished he could not see. Wished he could squeeze his eye shut and leave the horrid world behind. But he could not. Not while he was incorporeal. Everything was revealed in crystalline, black-and-white detail. He saw every slice.
Then Uvatha felt something he hand not felt in a long, long time.
It was a quiet call. Almost imperceptible—even in his all perceiving self.
He waited a while. He groped out to confirm the echo. Soft. Quiet. Comforting against all the screams.
Yes.
That was it.
Sauron.
Right next to him, yet so far away. Uvatha knew his lord-friend was so far away. Uvatha had walked every inch of the distance, and rode on Avicul's back.
Yet there he was. The presence tasted of fields, and towns, and the wide open world. All of Uvatha's favorite things. It was the road, winding its way through the Nazgul's being. The road that he loved; the life he loved. For they were one in the same. Road and life. Movement was everything. Moving from place to place. Watching it grow through the years. Contrasting it with other stops. Remembering it, forgetting it, and remembering it again. That was travel. That was the thread Uvatha left behind in his life.
Then it was gone. As quickly as it came the feeling was gone. Surely Uvatha had imagined it. His lord was far off in Dol Guldur. He could not be here too. Surely.
Uvatha waited.
When the Elves finally left and he shook the feeling off, Uvatha pushed himself off the tree and began the walk back to Dol Guldur.
*Derived from "avicularia," the spider genus that contains my favorite species, the avicularia versicolor. The spiders in this story are patterned on a communal spider species known as Anelosimus Studiosus.
**Hindu mythology contains the tale of Indra's net. Indra, head of the Vedic pantheon and god of rain and thunder, kept a tapestry in his home. The tapestry stretched infinitely in all directions. It was made of spider silk threads and at each juncture it held a drop of dew. Every drop of dew reflected every other drop of dew. And this was the basis of the universe. Every being was a shard of Heaven. And all the shards held an image of the whole within themselves. When you see a spider web remember: it is an example of the design of the universe.
***The author would like to acknowledge vore-fantasies. Those sentient beings willing to be eaten are welcome to the experience. No kink shaming here. Safe space.