Archive of Our Own

“Galadriel, elanor nîn,

I sorrow to be parted from you, and long to feel again your embrace in the star-lit gardens of Eregion our home. Even to share the grace of your thoughts would be a balm to me, but I dare no such risk. Powers of night yet linger in this world, and one such lies near. Thus I send this message; may the blessings of the Valar guide it into your hands.”

 

The Bright Company- the Glánnothrim- had ever chosen service. Theirs was a Company born in the memory of the Trees, dedicated to the preservation of light and the eradication of Melkor’s minions. Wherever shadow sought to devour, or evil struck like a blight upon the world, they would take a stand. The Glánnothrim had chased such defiling forces through Ered Mithrin, to heights and depths, and shone in victory against them.

The Bright Company- the Glánnothrim- had ever chosen service over succumbing to sorrow, and would suffer for it.

For to a daughter of Ungoliant, what is light but a feast?

Celeborn’s blade bounced harmlessly off the tough hide. His sword merely scuffed the creature’s foreleg, like dirt on a boot heel. And just as easily as filth wiped away, he was flung from her path.

The spot for the ambush had been carefully chosen. Several small gorges sat upon the peaks. Lined with trees and teeming vegetation to sustain larger prey, they were a perfect place for a hunt. His scouts had reported evidence of the creature’s presence. Trees sported broken lines of webbing, half-collapsed cocoons contained a curious mix of bone and ichor. There were even high scrapes in the rock faces, proof of some larger, tougher beast making its way through regardless of the squeeze.

In addition, the stone spoke of movement. The trees- cowed though they were in the oppressive darkness that seemed to pervade the area- whispered of danger. Cautious but determined, the Company laid in wait to spring their trap. Seven they numbered, warriors all and held in some regard for deeds of valor. Sharp and strong, quick of wit and hand-picked for the task ahead of them. But they staked out the gorge in vain.

Ungwetári- the prey turned hunter- had them right where she wanted. Helpless to get up in time, Celeborn watched as first Glorfindel, then Minathlang crumpled to the floor. Her form was that of a spider, and she made cunning use of her poisons. Their armor did nothing to aid them against the sting of such a beast. The Captain’s head lolled, but his eyes were wide with fear as it became clear his end was not to come swiftly.

Oh no. Ungwetári liked to play with her food.

The webs they had found among the trees had been the work of lesser beasts. Even now, as he rolled onto his stomach from where he had been thrown, Celeborn could see no Elves, but only writhing clumps silk. Their foe had- in cunning or happenstance- lulled them into believing much of the defilement of the area had been her doing alone. No, it had become clear by evidence of carcass and this dire meeting that she was the powerful brood mother to lesser spawn. It was their hunting, their skulking, their ventures that provided the blood of Men and Elves. All she had to do was wait.

Celeborn’s sword briefly became a cane as he hauled himself up to his feet. Glorfindel and Minathlang joined several others prone and bound in spider’s webs. Lintwen, Istwë, Anornaneth, Nimorn-- He had no time to cut them loose first. The clouds had eclipsed the moonless sky, but Ungwetári’s eyes glowed brightly enough with hunger.

This was the first he had seen of the creature up close. That Company had thought- in folly!- to stalk her upon the heights and trace her to her lair. They had thought themselves mighty, with veteran warriors of valor and renown. Not even the Spears of Lorien could have sliced her hide, nor any blade his mind could recall. She had been feasting on plenty, and her strength was at its’ greatest. Long had she sat with nothing to threaten her and nothing to do but feed. But grow. But devour.

If his Company was lost, then he would still not abandon them to such a fate. One who still could cried out for him to run- with the world thrown into shadow and the webs thick, he could not tell whom- but that was not his purpose.

He thought of his beloved, and the forces that might be assembled, and how tragically he had underestimated his quarry. When they did not return, Eregion could muster... They would be able to guess what kind of power lurked in the mountains based upon the quality of her victory. He tried to hold himself and his Company in realistic esteem, but pride had never been an easy influence to banish from the minds of his kin. Still, Eregion boasted more than seven warriors. His beloved was there. She, most of all, he would regret forcing to look upon this evil. He had sought to spare her this odious task.

Celeborn took heart. If he could not succeed, then at least he would hinder the creature with the strength he had. If no weakness could be found upon her hide, then he would leave sufficient mark to show it, and to guide those who followed to a different tactic. With a cry, he surged once again towards the beast. He lashed at what he prayed were tender joints with all his strength. This was his Company. He would not forsake them.

Ungwetári dropped her latest victim and turned. Briefly, she fixed him with her stare. Like bubbles of putrid green, even her many eyes inspired disgust and revulsion beyond that of a mortal beast. She was a mockery of a spider, a twisted, thorny, bulging creature of greed, and from her many teeth to her carapace of spikes, she was well equipped to kill. Perhaps he would try to gouge an eye, or chip a bony spine--

Celeborn did not have time to react. His cry of pain mixed with the dismay of his Company as Ungwetári seized him in her mandibles. She squeezed, and his chestplate crushed the air from his lungs. She squeezed until he had no more breath. She squeezed all the more. That his should be the first death did not comfort him. Should he have died to save them, that would be a grief to them but a balm to himself. That they were doomed in spite of his efforts... Every commander had one great fear.

Before his bones had a chance to buckle but after the blood tingled in his limbs, Ungwetári let him fall. A discarded plaything. An example. The first of many. He could not move to defend even himself as she raised a wicked foreleg. Each limb was adorned with spikes the creature could not need. Such an armament could only be a design of darkness and not the providence of nature.

That was a frivolous last thought to have. Celeborn’s eyes fixed on the great claw and he tried to have a better one. One of his beloved. The garden, perhaps. Smiling faces. The warm glow of Eärendil's star.

With a mighty screech, Ungwetári prepared to take her latest victim.

Only... the stroke did not fall.

Celeborn had not realized his eyes were closed until he opened them. There was no creature above him, only a gap in the clouds and-- Yes, it was Eärendil's star. No wistful memory was this, but a light that flooded the vale! Bright and full, it made a dish too rich for the beast to stomach! A strange laugh bubbled up in his chest. The light her forebear so wished to consume-- She feared it! And a mere wisp of passing cloud was all it took to reveal her undoing!

Laughter was too much and he fought to keep from curling in upon himself. Her bite was no laughing matter. Even if she had refrained from breaking bone, he was not unscathed. Celeborn rolled onto his hands and knees, trying to find the best way to breathe. His Company needed him- those poisoned most of all, for who knew what kind of venoms a daughter of Ungoliant could deploy?- and he was at present the only one who could come to their aid.

Besides Eärendil, he thought.

Glorfindel was nearest to hand. His arms, legs, and half his face were bound, but the monster had left his eyes clear to watch the carnage. They were now pricked with tears. Celeborn knew the Captain well enough to assume they were of relief.

It took great strength and effort to claw the webs clear, if only in part. Urgent was his fear that they might become choking, or that the poison would be of a strength to cut off air of its own power. He tore and cut, all the while consumed with dread that the clouds would reappear, and a different kind of shadow would return. Once Glorfindel’s head and neck were free, it was apparent his fear was unfounded. Sluggish and labored were the movements, but the Captain breathed. But he had demands.

“Other... hands--”

Celeborn understood at once. Yes, that was wise. In his panic, he had not been thinking clearly. Celeborn clasped the rigid shoulder tightly, then rose to survey the rest of the clearing. Half of the cocoons upon the ground wriggled, and one of them had even sprouted a hand. Ungwetári had not wanted- or not needed- to use her poisons on all in the Company. Sickened though he was by the thought, Celeborn supposed it may have some impact on the taste. But he would not be grateful. Not towards the creature that had brought him low, for she showed not her mercy but her own fear.

Other hands could cut more webs than ones frozen by venom. Celeborn hurried to the cocoon that had been shredded most, and found Lintwen half-escaped on her own power.

“Lord Celeborn--!” Her eyes shone in equal parts resolve and solace. “I thought-” She shook herself from this line of thought before he could speak. There was no need to voice such things. The worst had not come to pass. Her face was streaked in blood and sweat and residue from the webs, yes, but she was alive. The rest were alive as well. So long as they hurried.

“I will free you.” Clearheaded, he drew his knife and began a more methodical approach to cutting the web. “And then we will free the others. We must retreat to a secure position.”

She frowned, wishing to argue, but she held her tongue. After all they had just witnessed, even the boldest of them were forced to acknowledged their peril. But Eärendil's star glinted off his blade. He might have imagined it, but now even the beast’s snares seemed to hold lesser power.

Celeborn helped Lintwen to her feet, and she in turn braced his arm as he winced. “Let us hurry from this place.” Before she could turn, he gripped her arm. “But not in retreat. Ungwetári has a weakness. And we have found it.”

The Bright Company survived to lick their wounds, but they had survived. Ungwetári had shown her worst malice and worst fear. It was not over. Celeborn had a plan.

"When the light of Eärendil shone upon her she quailed and fled back to the gloom of her caves, as if the glimmer itself hurt her. This, I deem, is our best hope. For while slaying her may lie beyond our power, still we may hem her in.

Once, when first we were betrothed, you lit the caverns of Doriath with Star-glasses, filled with Eärendil's glow, the Gilgelair of song. It would take but a few such glasses, cunningly ensconced within her caverns, to keep Ungwetári penned and stay her offspring from befouling the land."

It had been an Age, but even upon the heights of Torech Ungol, all was not dark. The beacon of Barad Curon, the pinnacle of the city, radiated still. He could still see it fresh in his mind, even though the rock of the cave was dark and the webs of Ungoliant’s spawn ate at the light of their torches. It pained him to think of the city as Minas Morgul, and its’ surroundings as the Morgul Vale, for the filth of the enemy could not obscure the beauty of the city and the virtues his beloved once bestowed upon it. The Men called it a deathly glow, but Celeborn remembered how it once was. Minas Ithil was not always a city of the dead, a city of shadow. It was once Valardis’ jewel, and a city full of life.

His beloved had believed it worth preserving. She had seen the beauty in it- as had he- and with the coming Age bequeathed to Men he could only hope that they would hold close goodness and mercy, even towards aged stones that drew no breath.

But in these days Men’s faces held fear of the Morgul Vale. That was to be expected. He could not weigh the beauty of the past too heavily against the terror of the present, and would have to guard himself against flaunting that past before eyes that had never known it. Delicacy was required in all things. Much like his wife, he would have to take pains to balance what was fair and what was true. To let hope run unrestrained but temper what rash action might be born of it.

Rûkhor- the Pale Herald- had tried to tempt them thus. The sorceries of the Gurzyul were the last great unknowns in Sauron’s lands. Though a lesser power, even the machinations of one had brought ruin to many. He had already ensnared the Ungoledain of Cadar Skûs and their matriarch with promises drenched in blood. Even if his claims to ally with Ungwetári and the Spider-men who worshiped her were true, Rûkhor was far too dangerous a foe to ignore. Not even in Torech Ungol itself. The Pale Herald had already demonstrated his dark abilities. He could take the gift of skin-changing from the Ungoledain and restore it. He could draw the life-force from his thralls and use that power for himself. Whether he sought to aid or usurp Shelob, it did not matter. Ending his quest here and now was paramount.

But, he was not the only one with a secret weapon and the means to wield it. Celeborn clenched one fist, feeling the gentle warmth of his wife’s token. Even the memory of her presence lightened his heart. It tempered his resolve. His Ungol Company had hope of success without rashness. Still, they had to make haste. Now, approaching the Net of Darkness, Celeborn remained composed. Prince Faramir’s Rangers and warriors from Lorien awaited his command.  Whether the time had come for victory or defeat, none assembled could know, but they would face the unwritten together.

“Warriors of Middle-earth.” His voice rang clear in the gloom, a spear of light slicing through web and shadow. “We have come before the threshold of evil. I know what darkness lies in wait for us, and I confess it may not be in our power to see her slain.” He waited not for murmurs, knowing those gathered would hold their tongues, but hastened on: “But, as long as we may stand before the tide, as long as we may pierce the net and drive back so great a threat to this hard-won peace, it is our duty. We will not give ground to Ungwetári, or her spawn, or to Rûkhor and his ensorceled pawns.”

Celeborn paused. What was fair may be true, and what was prudent may be done with speed. “Let us take up this task together. Elves, Men, Dwarves, and all Free-folk!” His voice rose into a cry and lashed at the dark pall before the entrance to Shelob’s lair.

“Her reign of terror is at an end!”

The musk of death was nearly as thick as the webs. Each step crunched with remains- those of discarded meals, foes of the horde, or pieces of Shelob’s own brood. Webs of silk-iron clawed and clung to all in the Company. But the hardest realization to bear- even beyond the knowledge of the Gurzyul and his blood sorceries just ahead of them- was that of the entryway, mere yards behind them. Every stride took them further into the dark.

And yet, there remained a light. A dangerous errand had been undertaken to replace the sconces to which Celeborn had affixed the Gilgelair. Even while the air choked, the Light of Eärendil stood guard over them. It was odd, to have figures of legend step from the imagination into the waking world. Once, Gondor held Kings as things of statue and song, to be remembered but not looked for. The Stewards had ruled and might have someday taken the kingship with little blame to them. Elves fought dragons in the old stories. One sailed overhead in the words of legend. 

Mablung had faced many dangers in his lifetime, and these last few years more than most would ever see again. He had braved the invasion of Ithilien, the flight through and from Osgiliath, the siege of Minas Tirith, and even the Final Stand of the Free Peoples at the Morannon. Each of those days had felt his last. Every minute felt like a chase, like he had death just on his heels and his and his men’s lives hung on speed and skill. He would not go back to them. He would not- by his own will- live them again, but at least those days he knew what to do. 

For the first time in his life, he was on the side of the hunters. Never before had he felt the weight of such hope backing him, heavy with the knowledge that this assault came from a place of victory and not fear. Gondor had survived. Minas Tirith housed a King, and his own lord and captain had assigned him this mission with the authority of a Prince. Not only that, but Lord Celeborn- an elf of the oldest ages!- strode just ahead of him with a glow of his own and no fear on his countenance.

For the first time in his life, hope remained unshaken. Even staring into the mouth of horror, with death well possible, his heart was light and assured. And he pitied the Ungoledain all the more as they fled, their own hopes shattered and the reality of their folly staring hungrily at them from a many-eyed face. They had chosen evil and come out the worse for it. Branded traitors by their kin, they would have nowhere to turn to even if this mission ended in failure.

He turned only for a moment to watch as they fled under the protection of Lord Celeborn’s mercy.

But their matriarch was of another mind.

Bratha Tasakh stood cornered with the last of her minions and the many-legged beasts under her sway by the gift of Rûkhor. It wasn’t clear to him if she drew the bulk of her power from the aid of the Pale Herald, or if the cruel shapes rising from the darkness had their roots in the black arts she already knew. He only knew that the wave was upon them.

Bile flew from the maw of a spider larger than a bull, and Mablung had to fling himself to the side to avoid it. He rolled, catching sight of one of Celeborn’s warriors slicing through the beast’s foreleg. In such a tight corner and with so many allies in the fray, Mablung couldn’t rely on the use of his bow. With his two long knives in hand, he considered that while spiders may harbor no concern for their allies, they were still faced with the same limitations. The cavern was tight. The space limited with the number of foes and uneven ground. Dancing around the puddle of venom, he drew in close and dodged a striking leg. While the elf warrior had it distracted, Mablung found what he hoped was a weakness in the beast’s natural armour and struck. He rolled again as it shrieked and shuddered. The blow must have hit true. It continued twitching even as it fell.

As he gained his feet, a wave of heat blasted the room. That was new.

The totems at the back of the cavern had not captured much of his attention, but now one glowed red, wreathed in flame. Bratha Tasakh roared and the very walls quaked with her fury. This, he thought, must be the gift of Rûkhor. And yet it was a horror paled, for even the Ungoledain matriarch in all her wrath did not shake the heart the same way as the Nine, or the horrors wrought on Osgiliath. She was a cornered foe. And even with all her newfound power, she was outnumbered. His newfound hope could be the product of Elf-magic, or the result of having been shown victory- not just kicking death down the road another day- was possible. The King glowed with hope. Some of it might've even rubbed off on this grizzled old Ranger. 

But Bratha Tasakh's crawling minions now bore flame, and the pace of battle changed again. Mablung thought his lord and captain- his Prince, he should remember- might enjoy the tactical challenge posed by projectiles of flame and marching flanks of spiders. It was a worthy fight of Faramir. Shame he couldn't see it in-- Gladhir’s cape caught fire, the flame stuck and spread by sorcerous pitch. Mírthel was there, and helped cut the cloak loose. He then flung it into the face of another bull-sized beast and the pair of them set upon it.

Once more the room shuddered, and a screech unearthly split the air. The dying, howling bellow made him shudder even as he stood from the latest corpse. Bratha Tasakh, the Lady of Many Venoms, was slain and not by his hand. All the better, he supposed, as his pity would not have stayed his hand but perhaps more weighed upon his mind if he had made the fatal blow. He knew what it was to be the hunted. He'd watched as his kin fell around him. Watch them picked off one by one, a sea of foes falling upon his home like a black tide. Their Company was few, but once the numbers of the enemy had been endless and their eyes cruel with the intent of--

Mírthel put a hand on his shoulder and startled him from his thoughts. Part of his own cloak was singed with the spider-flame, and at some point his hair had run afoul of a hanging web. It stuck up at odd angles, and some was even swept and held back unnaturally, as if it had been set with wax. They all probably looked a sight. Pitch and venom were devilish hard to get out of linen.

“Sir.” Mírthel's face was set and stern, but there was also the light of hope present as well. That was going to take some getting used to. “I’m happy to report no losses. It looks as if Lord Celeborn wishes to--”

"Enough time-wasting!” The dwarf Atli, known by many as ‘Spider-bane’ brushed past them. “We have spiders to kill!"

Mablung sighed and exchanged a look with Mírthel. Interruptions in battle had usually been because of dangerous enemies, not dangerous allies. Celeborn had summoned warriors of the Galadhrim, ones he believed to have fought in the siege of Dol Guldur. That was a tale he wished to hear more of. Should he live, he might pluck up the courage to ask one to share the tale. Atli refused to pause his march and pressed on towards the clump of Elves.

“SPIDERS!” The challenge boomed from one end of the room, the echo making the room feel much smaller than it had a moment before. “COME AND FACE ME!” Such a bravado stood at odds with what Mablung had seen of the dwarf so far, off in his own world it often seemed, or at least aloof from the rest. His work was killing spiders, and to some degree their study. How this new act stemmed from his mission, he did not know. He only knew the Atli present in battle was loud. 

Mírthel’s chuckle rang quieter. The end had not come. They still had work to do.

Hwíneth had marched shoulder-to-shoulder with her kin when the Malledhrim had laid siege to Dol Guldur. Peril was no stranger to her, nor were the foul beasts who shared form with the humble spider. But these webs ran thick as tree trunks from floor to ceiling in the cave, branching out at either end in a snare of root and canopy. Side-by-side with her lord’s new-formed Company, she had little reason to wonder if her familiarity with the Scuttledells set her apart from the volunteers left behind.

Saebereth, Queen of the Saewethil, was the closest thing she had ever seen to the size and might of the triplets of the Queensbrood. Gragarag, Guruthang, and Gamnagol hunted Men and Orc, Elf, beast, insect-- What must the hunger of Ungwetári be like if this gluttonous brood feared her? Even Saebereth’s spawn did not weave webs this strong, or cling so deeply to the shadows that they nearly escaped Elven eyes. The spiders of Mirkwood had a rare cunning. But this... this was something else entirely.

Hwíneth was young in the reckoning of her folk; she had not seen the light of the Trees but had seen the darkness of War. Even compared to those days, so deep and terrible a place like this she had never imagined. A cave wrought in death, carved from the desire to devour until nothing remained. At its heart was the all-too-believable spawn of Ungoliant, inheritor of her mother’s gluttony. However, the fate of this fell force would not remain unknown. They had come to put a stop to her feasting. Permanently.

The light of the Gilgelair would aid them in part, and Lord Celeborn made a plan to finish the work. Hwíneth had witnessed the final fall of Dol Guldur- and had some inkling of the means- but none could be certain that even their Lady’s gift would be enough. Cheery Prince Legolas had words of comfort. He had said that a great warrior managed to drive Ungwetári back already, and that here she licked her wounds. Lord Celeborn had nodded at the time, though he had only listened in part. There was truth to the story, and should their errand meet success she would like to know it in full.

But, while Ungwetári was hampered, the rest of her tenants were not.

The Company could not proceed until the spiders and gredbyg pouring from every crack in Cirith Ungol were slowed. Even the dwarf Atli- she had heard called 'Spider-bane' by a few- had admitted the solution was not to stand and hack away until the wave receded. The Queensbrood had managed to block many of the paths forward, and yet one remained. Only a single source remained to strengthen the onslaught, but to call it ‘Massive’ would not do the creature justice. Naira was a word she had often heard used in battle, many times to describe an enemy host or fortress. Thossulun made everything seem small, even the words for war.

Someone screamed as a mighty foreleg bore into a clump of archers. The mother-grodbog screeched a battle-cry and snapped a halberd in half with her colossal mandibles. Her foes scattered as they could. Hwíneth narrowly avoided acid spray from another corner as she lashed out at a flying grodbog to clip its wings. She twirled her spear point down and grounded the pest forever. A larger grodbog- a daughter of Thossulun by her estimate- had perished beneath the writhing form of her mother. But so dark and foul was this den of monsters that- if it had not been for the noxious cloud rising from the ruptured corpse- Thossulun had shown no reaction. To thrive in this place meant to gorge upon the blood of others.

Hwíneth saw a lesser leg arching down at a concentrating Ranger, and thrust her shield into danger instead. Articles of War forged in Lorien did no so easily rend, but she was confident the creature had still dented it. Thossulun’s focus was split, and she did not have to fend off a second attack. Her arm stung to the shoulder where she had absorbed the blow, but there was no time to pause. Flaming arrows had found cracks in the mithril-like exoskeleton, and an ominous creaking sound echoed in the chamber every time the beast moved.

“There!” She didn’t realize the Ranger was addressing her at first, but he called again and pointed towards the narrowest part of the creature’s belly connecting head and abdomen. “There! Her armor breaks!”

Hwíneth’s eyes locked upon the spot- a concentration of arrows and holes from old wounds- now displaying an impressive web of their own. She opened her mouth to suggest a plan when Thossulun unveiled the extent of her rage. The mighty grodbog roared with such ferocity that the very earth shook. Stalactites fell from where they had been loosened by the massive body shuddering in the rock. Thossulun shook her head like a dog. Legs flailed and her exoskeleton cracked like sheets of ice falling from Caradhras. Sinew snapped, strained, burst, flinging thick blue blood into all corners of the chamber. Hwíneth barely had time to turn her head. Bile rose in her throat as the spray shot from the hanging abdomen to paint the walls. The Ranger at her side had staggered back, also caught in the blast. He soon lost his feet- as she nearly did- when the thorax, legs, and head of Thossulun thundered onto the earth.

But the brood mother was not dead. She roared, charging from what had once been a position of regal stupor into a bloodied, merciless onslaught. Legs that had once struck out at her foes burrowed into the ground to provide her more leverage to aim and strike with her mandibles. Ichor spurted from the self-inflicted wound even as she sought to bring the Company down. If it was in Shelob's character to feed, it was in Thossulun's character to retaliate, and far beyond the hurts brought upon her. She would repay this slight with nothing short of annihilation.

Reaching out, Hwíneth pulled the Ranger to his feet. He was trying not to retch himself, although he regained his balance quickly. Such horror had escaped none assembled, but the pair of them were still upright and largely unharmed. Thossulun, in her single-minded rage, advanced on what she perceived was the most deadly target. They had gone unnoticed.

“She has made-” the Ranger paused to spit viscous blood from his face, “-her last error.” He pointed at what could now be called the creature’s back, the exposed portion of her thorax and the vulnerable meat within. “There is her heart, and she has left it uncovered!”

Hwíneth searched the writhing blue mass for what he indicated, and found it. Rather, she found what he sought but could identify it better for their benefit.

“Not her heart!” She said, moving her head with the creature to map its movements. She leaned this way and that, finding a rhythm even in the twisted attacks of her foe. “But something just as good- for our purposes! Have you a bow?”

The Ranger nodded and made to nock an arrow. His hand slipped once on the shaft covered in Thossulun’s blood, but the head was sharp and his fingers held true.

“What you saw, the heart that is not-” she pointed to the pulsing ball of flesh, “-prepare to fire upon it. I will call to the others and strike it again if it turns.”

Bow readied and target set, the Ranger awaited orders. Hwíneth flanked the beast and called to the rest of the Company.

“Á ferya indë! Ferio, gwedhryn! Take up your arms! Our chance is at hand!”

Rallied and alert to the moment, Hwíneth saw the shift in her allies. Bows began their ascent to aim. Hands tightened on knife hilts. A staff began its shimmering arc and the faint smell of sulfur that heralded rune-fire spread through the air. She had timed the lull precisely. Her Company had a precious moment to ready themselves.

And then she heard the soft whoosh of an arrow flying true. Insects and their bodies processed life was very different from other beasts. She had cut open spiders and gredbyg before, searching for poison sacs to make anti-venom tinctures. Many varieties of gredbyg crawled Mirkwood and Moria, to the caves of the Great River and holes in the ground forgotten by sun-walking folk. Thossulun was not so different, save her size. Hwíneth had seen past the exoskeleton grown hard from battle and unfettered hunger. She had seen other pulsing masses, knew their basic functions. She knew which receptors made the insects feel pain.

And this one would hurt.

They had all been tricked.

“You have done as I desired since you first set foot in Imlad Morgul!"

Blood refused to pool. It ran from cuts and arced like lightning through the air.

“Did you think Her a master strategist, forming some secret army beneath the mountains? Shelob seeks one thing only, as Her Ladyship always has, and that... is to sate her unending hunger!"

Pale he might be, but not bloodless. No master, and yet the one pulling all the strings. The Gúrzyul were not chosen for their power alone.

“Shelob called her children here to feast upon them. You see, the last child of Ungoliant cannot be sated, and I will unleash Her upon the world! All I need to do..."

Rûkhor’s partisan served both to channel his sorceries and to fill his enemies full of holes. It was far easier to sap the strength from a foe already leaking life.

"...is to starve her out!"

It was all Gelnor could do to avoid becoming another kind of feast. The Pale Herald hungered for power as Shelob hungered for... for everything else. Perhaps that had been how he’d concocted the scheme. One who thirsted for blood would know all the tricks on another, know all the pitfalls and temptations that came with such a dark insatiability.

But he didn’t have time to think on that. A few stray arrows had loosed a sulok from where it writhed within the spider’s webs. That was another thing he had no time to think on: there were no prisoners here, only meals waiting to be consumed.

Men and Elves stronger than him held the line against the Pale Herald while he worked to clean the rest of the battlefield. Bloodless goblins and creatures he could put no name to were still as dangerous half-living. Too many had found weaknesses, too many had surprised unsuspecting-- He leapt to the side as the sulok tried to ram him. One of the beast’s legs was caught in another tangle of webs. Its horn had pierced the great cocoon just behind where Gelnor had been standing. Green ooze from he knew not what began to seep all over himself and onto the floor.

The sulok had not taken as long to bring down as the troll, small mercies. If Shelob’s larder was full of beasts that size... he didn’t have time to think about it. He splashed his way through the stinking puddles to where the line of archers stood. One of Rûkhor’s blood slaves was making its way around, and the fervor of the fight was too great for eyes to sight on every danger. He stood between the back of an elf and the bloodless goblin. Suddenly a cry rose forth. The Pale Herald had not unveiled all of his tricks.

"How long can you last without your power?"

An invisible fog descended upon the room. It pressed down upon him with the weight of a pack, saddled him like a green hand burdened a steed. His arms themselves became heavy. The muscles in his back and legs burned bearing the supernatural weight. And the goblin’s eyes- lifeless though they were- gleamed.

Supreme effort saved him his neck as he blocked the bloodless strike and moved his blade to counter. Whatever drove the creature- sorcery or some semblance of what its mind had once been- it was not so sluggish. Gelnor found himself in a duel with an unliving goblin, while his Company faced down the might of one of the Dark Lord’s chief minions.

He wondered if Gothmog- the Dread Terror- had been counted within that number. Wraith was he, but not of the Nine, and not possessing some weapon of renown. But even then, he had proved he was formidable as any servant of the enemy. His descent upon Osgiliath had been swift and brutal. The armies under his command held many banners, but none struck such fear in his heart as those that haunted Meneldil’s square. Before he could stop it, a thought flashed across his mind: how much would Rûkhor have delighted in the blood upon that theater?

Gelnor’s own blood stirred and he lashed out. His sword, once covered in the viscera of spiders, was now only tainted with the green ooze that stung his cuts. This creature would die again, but it would bleed no more.

"All of your strength... all of your power... all of your blood IS MINE!”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood as the Pale Herald cried out again. He turned, watching as the wicked polearm drew a circle in the air and glowed a sickly red. He had no choice but to look on as his own blood mingled with that of his allies. Unless they could find a weakness, they would only serve as the final feast held within Cirith--

Instead of the red glow brightening once more, the Pale Herald shook with... with the death rattle of a passing steed. His body shuddered, and the light encircling his partisan quivered. The hitch lasted only a moment before Rûkhor swung again. But Gelnor had seen it. It... whatever had happened hadn’t hurt the Gúrzyul, but his strength had not grown as it had before. Something had stopped him. Something had changed in the fight and the glimmer of hope in the Ranger’s chest only strengthened his conviction that he hadn’t just been seeing things.

But what had it been? It hadn’t been the second-death of the goblin slave. Rûkhor could reabsorb the power of his fallen minions with ease. Their numbers were thinner than before, yes, but this had not happened when he summoned them at first. Not the death of the sulok- again, he did not lose power after his allies’ defeat. Then what? What had changed?

Gelnor shook out his sword arm as the blood ran freely again. The Pale Herald could not constantly reach out to sap them of their life-force. He needed time. So did the Company, and desperately. He found a lull in the fighting and searched the chamber again. Several of Shelob’s future meals still hung and wriggled from the ceiling. Corpses of goblins and-- and he dared hope only those injured of his Company lay about the field of battle. Even Captain Zabothak lay off to the side and neither aided nor hindered his master.

What was left? He brushed wet hair from where it was starting to cling to his face. Sweat or ooze or his own blood, he knew not at this stage. And it didn’t matter- not really- unless they could find a way to turn the tide again. He would not have long before the Pale Herald had a mind to try his blood-tricks again. Rûkhor swatted aside even the arrow-shafts of Lorien, and--

Hold a moment.

The arrow had pierced another cocoon, one of the ones on the ground that contained goodness knew what manner of foul beast or machination of the Great Spider herself. That same green ooze flooded from the webbing and dripped down to the floor. Gelnor glanced down at his arm. The cut stung with sweat, air, and- yes- the mixing of this green ooze. Could it really have---?

Feeling a mix of certainty and insanity, he hurried back to his fallen foe and thrust himself under the noxious stream. Mírthel stumbled from a blow a few feet away, so Gelnor paused his errand to render aid. No sooner had the goblin foe returned to death, he grabbed his kinsman’s arm and pushed him into the shower of ooze as well.

“Have you lost your senses?” Mírthel was quick to recover. No longer stunned, he shoved at Gelnor’s arms and tried futilely to wipe away the clinging green.

Gelnor, for his part, couldn’t stifle a laugh. “It’s about food sir!” Mírthel couldn’t hide his incredulity, but his Ranger wasn’t done. “It’s always been about food! The Spider feeds, stores, and is starved when we kill her brood. It’s the same with him!” Gelnor pointed. “Only he’s feeding now, and in a larder full of poison!”

Eyes widening, Mírthel looked to the nearest cocoon, and then to the others of similar shape and size. His glance caught the Lorien arrow, and he understood. For good measure, he threw himself once more through the stream before hurrying towards the others.

“Draw them here, as many as you can,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ll do the same!”

Now it was as much a race as it was a fight. Gelnor directed the walking and tried to douse the wounded as best he could. He retrieved a fallen quiver and used it as a bucket to coat those who wouldn’t reach the pools of green under their own power. Whatever the ooze of the dead now rotting in those cocoons was, Gelnor was grateful for it. Each successive attempt to gain power from their blood was failing. No longer did Rûkhor’s strikes rend so deeply. No longer did the blows of the Company bounce and glance like attacks made by children. They were gaining ground. And with their numbers still greater than his they were... might he dare say winning?

A wave of energy shook the room. The floor came up fast as he was knocked suddenly off his feet. Gelnor rolled, coming shoulder-to-shoulder with a wounded Elf, only to find the Pale Herald in the throes of some deeper madness than any they had yet seen. He lashed out ferociously. But even still, he had not drawn more power from the Company that had poisoned his stores. Gelnor was starting to feel the effects and knew this stuff was too dangerous to wear into battle any more than was strictly necessary. His cuts burned, some of them looked an unhealthy shade, and his movements were sluggish.

A hand caught his arm. The Elf was still conscious, his mask and hood thrown back to reveal a cut on his head. It had been doused, in poison, good to see! But that was not his concern.

“You... your...” Strength waning, he paused to point. Gelnor looked down. A dark stain was spreading on his tunic, mixing with the ooze that now covered him from head to toe.

“Fine, fine.” He waved the concern off. “I have to... I have to carry this to the others.” He reached over to pick up the fallen quiver. It wasn’t clear how much of the poison it held, or for how long before it seeped out. Quivers weren't all waterproof. This one wasn't his. How was he to know? He did know he was still able to slosh it on his allies when newly-filled, so that he would have to do. Shaking, he got to his feet once more. “I’ll be back soon.”

He staggered to the nearest cocoon. Rûkhor would fall, undone by the venom of his own mistress. Even the trickle of ooze seemed slower as it began to blend with the white of the cocoon and the dark of the stone floor. Gelnor found himself kneeling. He had not meant to do so. He needed to stand. To deliver the poison defense. Maybe to one of the wounded? The battle had moved. It sounded further away, quieter to his ears. Yes, the wounded might be quite close at hand. 

A scream. The cry of agony was loud enough to shake the foundations of the tunnel. Gelnor paused, turned his head from where he lay. It had begun wordless, but now... If he could just get his ears angled right...

"...you... and the rest of this world... shall be witness to her wrath! You have... bested me, but I have still... triumphed..."

"You are wrong, Gúrzyul. There is still hope. By your light, Eärendil, brightest of stars, we shall vanquish the darkness! Ungwetári will hide from the light no longer."

He struggled to breathe over the fumes, but something had changed. Half in, half out of the puddle of green, he tried to make sense of it.

“Up you get! No time for-- Gelnor, no time to rest. It’s done. Lord Celeborn marches...” Captain Mablung trailed off. “That needs seeing to.”

He winced as his captain pulled him upright. His legs lost rigidity, but soon another pair of arms found him.

“Sir? Is he--?”

“Later Gladhir.” Mablung growled. “The Lore-Master survived with a bag full of herbs. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Move your feet, man.”

Gelnor tried. But Cirith Ungol was dark.

"In my long life, I have experienced few moments such as this: the weight of a history not yet written. Whatever transpires here will ripple across the world, a silent wake in a still pond, and it will be forever changed. If we do not succeed, Ungwetári shall forever plague the peoples of Middle-earth. Shelob shall feed upon Middle-earth itself, her vile children shall again spread through its lands, and the terrible offspring of Ungoliant shall endure evermore. We must not fail. We stand on the precipice of an ancient darkness... Though I have not set foot in this terrible chamber for many long years, its memory shall never leave me. We now stand in the very heart of Shelob's lair."

"But... where is she?”

Even in the depths of Torech Ungol, evil could not be completely hidden. The malice of Ungwetári, the insatiable hunger of Shelob, radiated still. He could still see her fresh in his mind, even though the webs encircled him so tightly he could barely move, barely see. It pained him to think of his allies- his Company, the ones he had summoned and brought- for the fury of Ungwetári was nearly as great as her hunger. She was cornered in the heart of her lair, but she was not fighting as a hunted beast. She fought as the mistress of her fortress with hundreds of troops still at her command.

He had seen glimpses. Ungwetári had not taken him wholly by surprise, though her ambush had been cleverly laid. She descended from the heights of her great cavern with the holdouts of her brood. The beasts swept over his Company like the head of a wildfire, their line slowly encompassing all in their path. Celeborn’s attention was torn, and she struck. Her new wounds did little to hinder her. She was still a great power and no force to be underestimated.

The battle was shrouded in darkness. Celeborn tore at the webs with the hand not bound to his side. Still, it was encased so that he had very little range of motion. One eye was unobstructed enough to see the stand on a hill of bones. A fighter held aloft a torch, and another-- Hope surged in his chest. The Gilgalar! Ungwetári reared from the light and an advantageous blow toppled her. Briefly she was exposed, and his champions took advantage.

But she was a wily foe. Flailing legs eventually found purchase and she fled upward. Her control over the thrall of insects had not wavered in the slightest, and they were once more called into battle. Lesser brood-mothers, gredbyg, and insects of all stripes surged forward while their mistress licked her wounds. Win or lose, these troops were fodder for the sword. The fact that there were fewer than the last wave... Maybe there was some truth in Rûkhor's strategy. And perhaps there was one instinct that overrode Shelob’s hunger: self-preservation.

"Legolas! Over here!"

That was not a cry from the fray, but a call close at hand. Celeborn turned his head, straining his eyes to catch sight of something- anything- other than the hoard. Yet his eyes looked too high. As was often a failing of the Eldar, he had forgotten that allies come in every shape and size.

"Lord Celeborn! Can you hear us?"

Indeed he could, and now he could see Atli- the brave dwarf called ‘Spider-bane’- examining the cocoon that was his prison. It had seemed... if not folly, then somewhat inadvisable to bring such a volatile character on a mission of such import, but now he had no doubts. Celeborn was not the only one with unfinished business in this place. Atli had every right to be here. His reasons for making the journey were no less noble, no less worthy of--

"DO NOT FEAR! I, ATLI SPIDER-BANE, SHALL FREE YOU!"

The fact that such volume had not drawn Ungwetári’s attention was a surprise. Still, Atli began his task efficiently, first severing the threads of the cocoon from the rock face and then taking the razor-sharp toe of his axe to the weak points in the webs. For longer than he cared to admit had Celeborn taken Atli's bluster at face-value. Because a thing was easy to accept did not make it so, and he above all should know to take care. Still, Atli was threat to none but the spiders. This was evident in the way he worked methodically through the cords. Celeborn had nearly despaired of freeing himself before the fight was through, as the webs of Ungwetári clung like spun iron. No ordinary spider was she, and no light work was dismantling her webs. 

Legolas arrived and took up the defense of their position. He fired arrows into flying insects, spiders large and small, and- in the lull of their personal fight- even at Ungwetári herself. She was weakening or tiring of the fight and the Prince of Mirkwood knew well how to make his shots count. Before Legolas had emptied his quiver, Celeborn was able to sit upright. By the time both his arms were free, the numbers had thinned. The tide had turned.

Just as he raised his own blade to loose the cords on his leg, the metal caught a flash of light. Once more the Gilgalar had been flung into the face of the enemy! 

And to his utter stupefaction, Shelob fled.

Celeborn froze. She struck out still with leg and claw, yes, but in retreat. Instead of relief, liquid fire danced in his core. Rage swept him up as quickly as the tide of spiders has overrun their stand. Wrath found him like a bolt of lightning. It was not something he was accustomed to, even in the height of war or the depths of commonplace evil. His exploits in battle were not oft put to song. His courage and his deeds ran hand-in-hand with those of his beloved. He had seen too much of war to fight for war's sake. To kill for death's sake. His path had always been of peace.

And yet.

For a brief moment he was untempered. Celeborn felt the heat rise as he watched her retreat. That she should try to run- that she would seek escape when she was no mere beast but the architect of countless deaths--! A red cloud overran his mind. Images flashed before him of Elves and Men, of children and animals. Of a dark mass devouring the light, and of a cruel master whose very laughter left a shadow on his heart. What came most strikingly to the fore, despite the magnitude of Ungwetári's history, was his own failure the last time they had met.

The Bright Company had fled Torech Ungol with barely their lives.

He wrenched his other foot from the web, heedless of the pop barely audible over the noise of battle.

New screams of the dying, and the bones of their own lost brethren. They would soon be rejoined.

He charged the path behind her with a roar. It was not over. It would not be over.

Peace, peace at last- and she dared to threaten it after all they had fought--!

But Ungwetári came upon the precipice, and stopped. There would be no flight for her. At long last, the tables had turned, and the greatest hunter Mordor had ever known had finally found herself without an avenue of escape. She chittered and hissed, her own blood mixing with spittle and venom. A useless leg twitched while another struck out at foes beyond her reach.

Beyond her reach. Celeborn felt his wife’s favor glow warmly in his palm and needed not his rage. 

"You cannot hide from the Light of Eärendil, Ungwetári!" He approached steadily. Now he was between his Company an the threat, and she would be a threat no more. This would be the last atrocity she could carry out against Middle-earth. He had the power to assure it.

"What power it once held has faded--” He held his hand aloft. The glow was not unlike that of the Gilgalar, but he had seen his beloved shine with a radiance more than sufficient to drive back this shadow. She had brought down the walls of Dol Guldur. She had protected their people, and many peoples more in her work. With her gift, she had allowed him to complete this last mission.

“--but you shall know the wrath of Nenya!"

In the end, they were all simply spiders.

Spiders wove webs. They laid eggs. Spawned. Stored venom and hunted prey.

Some were more powerful than others, to be sure, and some of a certain vein bred power and malice in equal parts. To that line, Atli Spider-bane swore his vengeance.

Torech Ungol was the farthest thing from a mine with haphazard, twisting tunnels carved heedless and patternless. A shelter and a larder. A nest. A lair. Webs adorned the ceiling and filth adorned the floor. Bones of past meals crunched underfoot, and he was grimly pleased to add carapaces to the litter.

It wasn’t the killing that pleased him. There was an exterminator or two in every mine. That was part of the job, controlling the creatures that sought to do folks harm, and managing pests of a more ambivalent sort. But Gondor and the world beyond finally had the means to rout a bigger threat. Word had reached even Archet of the dangers facing those who braved the Dark Lord’s lands. Atli had heard another call on his heart. His travels had brought him first to Lhingris, and now here. Zaudru had once seemed a queen of spiders, bloated and glowing. His fear of her and a collapsing mine had been the only things that saved his life. He did not fear now. He did not need to.

In the end, they were all simply spiders.

"Stay your blades, Elves. There is something I must say to the beast."

Atli had spoken soft but firm. Lord Celeborn raised a quizzical brow, but held up a hand to delay any attempt to strike a killing blow. If kill her they could, the Company would try. Atli had his doubts, and he could see the same on the faces of those gathered that knew aught of Shelob’s kind. This was the matron, and more powerful than the brood. But she was vulnerable to things other than death.

"When I met your daughter Zaudru long ago, the sound of her terrible name haunted my mind."

She had hounded him, chanting her sickening-war cry. She had come from darkness, ambushing, clearly well-versed in the arts of her mother.

"Those of my kin who survived were trapped in darkness, doomed to die.”

Zaudru had not eaten them at first. Perhaps some had suffered only a short while trapped in her portion of the collapsed mine after she tired of the chase. Others would not have, he knew. His father had not been spared the slower fate.

Atli held his axe in both hands.

"Do you understand, Shelob?"

She writhed, spitting poison and hissing even now. Monstrous as she was, she was broken by the power of Nenya and the light of the Gilgalar and by the valiant fight put up by this Company. Many of these he knew. Some had traveled knowing of his quest. Some had fallen on the path behind them. With many fates in doubt, he knew not if they would ever see the light of day again.

Shelob’s fate was certain.

“You will spend the rest of your days blinded and broken beneath these mountains..."

Atli’s expression was calm as he raised his axe. His good eye and bad fixed upon her blinded face.

"...and you will remember the name: Atli Spider-bane!"

One claw was enough. One stroke. His axe fell, and so did the mother of the Cruelest Brood. In her avarice, she had dug her tunnels too greedily and too deep. What she fell into she would never climb out of again.

Behind him, Celeborn breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The light of Nenya dulled, but from the final ramp the Gilgalar still shone with every radiance. And almost as bright arose the cheer of the Ungol Company. Now, they could retreat. Now they could return to the outdoors, to the night’s sky and unnumbered stars. It did surprise him when none other than Legolas put a hand on his shoulder. The elf smiled, and it seemed to Atli that very little could dim his cheer. Not even the darkness of this place.

“Come, friend Atli! Our work is done, and we have much to celebrate!”

Despite himself, a grin creased his face. Yes, there was much to celebrate. Why should he not join Legolas and the others in merriment? They needed to mourn, yes, but only the new-fallen were lost. Not everything. And, as the Ungol Company emerged into crisp air, Atli looked up through the rock walls at the stars. He knew little of old Ungoliant, devourer of light, but he did know that this was a feast Shelob could never touch. She would never drive a Sprigley from the family farm. She would never stalk miners in Helegrod, or Erebor, or anywhere else. 

Perhaps those folk would get to living their lives as they once did, even if the world only felt lighter in the backs of their minds. 

Perhaps he would too. After all, the day was won. 

“Though Ungwetári be not slain, never again shall she crawl from the shadows of Torech Ungol. Ungwetári is defeated, fallen into a prison of her own making.

Together we have done what I alone could not... It... is done. Ungwetári will no longer befoul this world, and I will be able to sail to the Undying Lands with peace in my heart. My sworn duty to defeat her has finally been fulfilled.

Whether the Free Peoples learn of your heroism here or not, know that you have done them a great service this day. With the fall of another of the ancient evils, the world moves ever closer to the dawn of the Fourth Age. I am gladdened to know that heroes like you will be here to greet it.”