Earandil knew well what things lurked in the void between stars. He glimpsed them, sometimes, a half-sight of gnawing teeth and bladed, grasping hands. He heard them, too. Nothing so honest as a dragon's roar. Just soft, hissing whispers amidst the hungry dark.

He kept his sword ready, but he knew all too well that it wasn't the steel that kept them away. It was the Silmaril's blazing, furious light that burned through the dark and sent them scuttling away.

Sometimes he imagined he could hear Feanor's burning words whispering in furious counterpoint to the hungry murmurs around him.

He had considered bringing it up to someone, but most likely, it was only the silence and the darkness playing tricks on his mind, and if it wasn't … If Feanor could somehow reach beyond Mandos to set all his stubborn will and great voice's power against the creatures of the void … Well, Earandil was not at all sure that he wanted anyone to make Feanor stop. To face the dark alone was a fearsome thing.

It was quieter than usual tonight. He heard no whispers. No scuttling of too many legs. No moaning of stomachs that could never be filled.

When he saw the first cobweb strung up before him, he knew why.

He could not turn from his course. Not by much. Just enough to dive beneath it, so that he did not send it vibrating, just enough to pray he could pass unnoticed -

The Silmaril's light bounced off a maze of web before him.

It could not be - It surely was not -

Surely there were many creatures of the void that took on a spider's shape. It did not have to be Her.

Her, Feanor's voice hissed. She wants the light. She wants to consume it.

Earandil set his jaw and prepared to do the hardest sailing he had ever done, prayers to the Valar that he dared not voice chanting in his head.

They will not come, Feanor's voice said.

You're not helping, he hissed, and it was the first time he had ever talked back.

Alone in a maze of deathly grey web, unable to see even the light of the other stars, it was very hard not to.

Sweat poured off him as he worked in desperate silence, diving and climbing, steering the ship left and right - What he wouldn't give for another pair of hands -

Left, Feanor ordered, and he immediately obeyed. A strand he had not noticed passed just beyond the ship.

I can be your eyes at least, though my hands I cannot grant.

The webs grew thicker together, and he needed all the vision he could get, yet there was the exit, just ahead, a hole they could dive through -

And they were safe, in the light of the stars once more, and Earandil could not help but gasp with relief.

The boat dipped under a sudden weight.

Down!

Earandil ducked, and the clicking mandibles snapped just above his head.

She was there, on the boat. Too large for it to hold her in its entirety, but the back rested beneath her.

She was supposed to be gone, to have devoured herself long ago, but no. They should not be so fortunate.

Ungoliant was back.

The foul blackness that surrounded her warred against the light of the Silmaril. Instinctive, overpowering fear rose up in him, but Feanor suddenly felt very present on the boat, a blazing fire pulsing in the Silmaril.

My father fought it, Feanor growled. He fought it when Morgoth himself was there to aid her. Shall you do less?

Earandil drew his sword.

"With two hands, he promised, but with one hand he gave," Ungoliant hissed. "But I see no Balrogs to help you now. You cannot stand against me, little morsel."

If the Valar were going to show up, now would be an ideal time for it.

He lunged forward, his sword seeking her eyes. She reared up, shooting a rope of webbing at him. He rolled out of the way, jabbing at her stomach.

She laughed.

When he drew his sword back bent, he knew why.

He could not defeat her.

She must not get the power of the Silmaril!

He could not defeat her, yet he must not let her win.

Earandil charged forward again, with his dagger this time. She skittered forward to meet him.

He dove between her legs, and rolled, coming up on the other side of the boat.

Then he grasped his only source of light, his last ally, his sole hope, and hurled it over the side of the ship and down onto Arda below.

The fire lingered, just for a moment.

Well fought, he thought he heard, the words perhaps a touch grudging, perhaps a touch admiring.

He expected he would meet their owner soon enough to find out.

While the light lingered, while he still could, he let out a wordless battle cry and charged forward, his knife chopping at the nearest leg.

Then the fire was dragged away to follow the Silmaril. The paralyzing darkness closed around him.

Cold and dark and something was laughing, chittering, mandibles clacking together -

He swept out blindly, refusing to die without pouring every last bit of himself into the fight, no matter how great the terror that stuck to his throat and slowed his limbs -

Blood, or something like it, sprayed into his face as his knife jarred against something. A scream, his, the creature's, his face burning, burning -

A distant horn called. He ran towards it, praying it would lead him from the darkness, from the creature that had not yet paused in its frenetic feasting to notice the absence of a certain light.

And then there was light, just a bit. Silvery and coming from all directions at once. He was kneeling before a throne, he realized, and gasping for breaths he couldn't quite manage to actually take.

"Earandil," a deep voice intoned. "You stand condemned of no crime, yet the trauma of your slaying was great. Long you must rest to heal from your wounds - "

Earandil's head jerked up. "Mandos," he said flatly. "I was killed on an errand for the Valar by a monster that we had been encouraged to think was slain long ago, with aid given only by the possible ghost of a kinslayer. Now the last Silmaril has been thrown down to Middle Earth where my only living son still abides, and a creature of nightmares is after it. I am not spending any time in your halls. I am going after it."

"That is not your choice."

He took a long, deep breath. It was a shame Elwing was not here. She was of the line of Luthien. She might could have sung Mandos into a sweeter temper. Earandil's own singing voice was more likely to send him into a headache induced temper, particularly when it was still rasping from his ordeal.

"Fine," he said shortly, rising to his feet. "I will wander your halls until you deem me ready. Are there any areas I am not permitted to go?"

"That is wisdom. Do not pass into the halls stained red," Mandos said gravely. "There the kinslayers abide to await their doom."

"Right." He stalked off into the halls. The moment he was out of sight, he began scanning the hallways for any that looked red, the more crimson the better.

Feanor and his sons had to be around here somewhere. Maedhros, at the least, owed him something, and Feanor would have no more wish to watch Ungoliant consume the Silmaril than he did.

And if anyone had ideas on how to break out of these halls and had the gall to do it, it would be them.