I, Ungoliant, Gloomweaver, have not consumed Light for six human months; and though no longer plagued by the treacherous Hunger, the Emptiness Within looms larger than ever. They will say that in hungermadness I devoured myself - no. It will have been the Emptiness overtook me.
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"Be Proud," the elves tell me. "It is a thing difficult to do. It takes no small soul, and no small will." They are mistaken; what soul I had, and what will, came from the Light. No longer am I Ungoliant; I am Nothing, and can offer Nothing, and can receive Nothing.
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"A year has flown," the elves sing. "The days are invisible," I croak. There are chelicerae where they seek lips. And though the Light of the sun and the moon are beyond me, other, diminished cyclings prolong. The Hunger is gone but the desire remains. The need remains.
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If only you hadn't eaten all the gems of the noldor you might have enough bling to make an outfit anyway.
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Would that my webs reach into the past, erase my failures; but alas, I now only possess unbling
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