Characters: Thuringwethil, a couple of curious wanderers.
Warnings: A bit of remembered nastiness in Melkor/Morgoth's pits.
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien and I make nothing from this but my own entertainment.
A/N: Two drabbles following directly on the heels of this one...
From black wells of shadow to star-frosted perches she fluttered, drawn irresistibly after heart-drums. Fearfully, thirstily, on silent wings: following wisps of body heat, of animal scent, traces of disturbed dark. Such creatures there had been before... penned up in the vaults, stinking herds of them... bleeding and wailing and breeding brutal children for the Lord’s flesh-and-bone hosts...
She remembered luring them to Him, those creatures. She had been mighty then.
One of them crouched below her, alone. Black ropes of hair fell away from its white neck. She saw herself falling ravenously upon it, flesh tearing, spilling scarlet lakes.
Her perch was icy under her claws. She dropped without a second thought. Her meal awaited below: blood, so much warm blood, liquid and lappable, sweet from the source, the first in a hundred revolutions of the stars. So thirsty, so very thirsty. The dark rushed up around her. She fell –
– and found herself drowning in a lake of cloth.
It smelled maddeningly of meat. She struggled wildly against dryness, screaming her fury and fear.
The prison’s soft folds fell open; she hurled herself blind into the Sickle’s brilliance. The words flew after her: “So it was only a bat!”