The Hunted

No such anguish had Shelob ever known, or dreamed of knowing, in all her long world of wickedness. Not the doughtiest soldier of old Gondor, nor the most savage Orc entrapped, had ever thus endured her, or set blade to her beloved flesh. ("The Choices of Master Samwise"

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He was loath to admit it, but he was lost. Fleeing into the hills from the fall of Minas Ithil, he had become separated from his companions as night fell. Since then, he guessed, he had wandered in circles. Thick clouds made navigation by the stars impossible.

He leaned against a trunk, gasping for breath, trying desperately to get his bearings. Then from behind, he heard a creaking sound which some sense told him was no tree branch. He turned to see a swollen, many-legged shape plunging toward him, its belly gleaming ash-pale in the darkness.

In that split second, he made his decision. There was no time to run, so he would fight, even without hope. He barely managed to unsheathe his sword before the thing was upon him. With a last, ragged cry of “Gondor!” he lunged at it. But his sword never touched the creature; she danced aside nimbly from the blow and at the same time spun around to bury her sting in the soft flesh of his throat. His eyes closed and the sword slipped from his fingers as he slumped forward without a sound.

None ever knew his fate. Shelob ate well that night.