Short Tales of Arda by grey_gazania

Blood and Shadows

Thuringwethil takes some time out of her busy schedule to torment a captive Maedhros. A quadruple-drabble.

In the deepest dungeon of Angband, Maedhros woke, dry-mouthed and disoriented, to a darkness more total than he ever believed possible. Cold lips at his chest and sharp teeth tearing into his skin brought him to full awareness, and he cried out, struggling to pull away. But Morgoth's barbed chains held him fast.

"Such spirit, still," hissed a voice, and the darkness receded to reveal burning, bright eyes in a fog-pale face — a woman's face, blood — his blood — smeared across her mouth and staining her teeth. "I am impressed."

"Demon," he croaked, shuddering. A fresh stream of blood ran from the wound, and she bent her head to lap at it. He tried once more to pull away, but she only laughed.

"Unwise, little king," she taunted, with the iron tang of his blood on her breath. "I could kill you."

"You could," he rasped. "But you won't."

One hooked claw skittered lightly over his neck. "You sound so sure…"

In answer, he gathered what little saliva he could and spat at her, and then gasped with pain as her claws raked across his face, more blood spilling down to sting in his eyes. She fisted a hand in his hair and drew his face near, and when she exhaled shadows spilled from her lips to press like damp cloth over his nose and mouth. Panic fluttered in his chest as he struggled to draw breath, but he quashed it and forced himself to still. Surely she would not kill him? If Morgoth wanted him dead, he would have killed him at the false parley.

But as she bent again to feed on his blood and the suffocating shadow wrapped tighter around him, that flutter forced its way out from his control. He couldn't breathe, and he threw himself against the chains in futile desperation, trying to reach her, to reach his face, anything to bring back air. He barely heard her whistling laugh over the thundering of his own panicked heart, and dark oblivion soon claimed him.

Thuringwethil swept her shadows back under her wings before pulling the barbs free from the unresisting elf and licking at his raw wounds. He hung senseless in the chains, wheezing and blood-smeared, but she didn't spare him a glance as she glided from the cell. He would live, and she would be sure to return. Mairon had not lied about this one.