Moth to a Flame
In response to a "X takes the Ring" writing challenge, a small contribution:
The moth fluttered, strangely drawn to the golden circle upon its
chain, brighter and hotter than any flame it had ever wooed.
Brighter than the sun, yet even the simplest creature knows you cannot
reach the sun…
It landed close to where the hobbit lay sleeping restlessly, the golden
circle held in his hand. Creeping slowly and carefully the moth
crept up into the hand, its feathery antennae swinging faster and
faster with excitement. The hobbit would not even feel its
Antennae caressed the gold, its proboscis uncurling to taste the
sweetness of it. The flame burned and yet its wings were not
consumed. It crept within the very circle of the gold, feeling it
condense about it until all awareness was gone, only the Ring remained,
yet now it had wings.
Strength it gave, and direction. The simple creature that held it
was completely in its thrall, beating its wings in whispering blur it
rose up, up from the limp hand beneath it, fingers closing reflexively
but too late. Much too late.
Golden and burning in spite of the cold muted moonlight, it shimmered
only once as that white face slid across its curving beauty. The
moth rose up above the sleepers, above the one that even now was
beginning to moan and to wake in a panic. It's burden kept it
from the heights it once reached, but still it lifted…lifted, and in
submission to the strange force that now held it - this flame, this
bright darkness - it turned to the East, fluttered and was gone.