Phototaxis

Tan, with fake eyes in watch, like from behind a death mask, there leaning upon the edge of the wood bucket seat: Persistence. From the intense consternation of the moment, she searched the fuzziness of the expression... for the tiny face that must be somewhere near the base of the antennae.

In this Pass and impasse, in the tunnel-- leading to her just execution-- no detail seemed too small. Vision turned microscopular... or rather, tubular. At nighttime she would have seen the most distant star; and in the expanse of the bleak day, she saw each and every fiber of fluff atop this silvered being, dappled with bronze streaks, and tipped with white at the very ends, near invisible. As upon an eyelash.

Here was a faint symbol of Spring, in brownie form, complete with wings. A natural yet mystical thing. It fluttered softly against the cold draught in the cabin. She wished she could be the white-haired old lady accompanying an old storybook Mister, arm in arm, through Summer to Winter. It would not be.

The rail carriage devoid of all hope, was surrounded by a seal of iced snow, and the Eurail sped on its dispassionate mission. She had killed the Ambassador. There was no denying it. It was her charge, given, and committed. In the singular moment, she loved the displaced neutral moth, seeking heat, alone, with her in their barred alienated containment.

And the moth, in its turn, was drawn to the strange closure, away from the freeze and freedom of the great outdoors... A behemoth of survival.

A fire in her eyes flamed, with indignation, knowing she had done what she had done, with full awareness and would do it all over again, for the cause. When she took the Ambassador's life, she had said prayers at feverish pitch aloud for both of them-- that Death be swift. She knew she was damned, in this life; and what would come after, would not be known. Her lips parted, false smoke of condensation escaping like white volcanic steam in the heat of this realization.

And the tiny moth, flew in...