Warnings: blood, vampirishness.
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien and I make nothing from this but my own entertainment.
For so long, she lived off the blood of the battle: droplets spilt on stained stone, spattered across ruined walls. She fluttered between broken and rusting spires. The pits lay open, all but the deepest, and everywhere was treacherous: an upheaval of jagged slabs and gaping vaults and the corpses of the dishonoured dead. It was all frozen, all frosted over beneath that terrible white starlight: there was snow and the blood was black ice on the ground.
She licked it liquid, her tongue lapping fearfully at cold stone and metal. Sleeping, she dreamt of warm bodies and red fountains.