I endure.

Fated to survive, I stroke my bitter wounds, soothing them rhythmically. My damaged skin sloughs off, and then heals roughly over the many gashes; the scars remain, reminders of my agony. My belly, though long-empty, no longer weeps where it was pricked.

I need no sight to grope my way around my hidden corridors, nor to scheme how to avenge my affliction. I nurse my appetite for vengeance as carefully as my injuries, savoring the foretaste of sweet meat.

My eyes rebuild slowly. Till sight returns, I crouch in my dark retreat and bide my time.

And hunger.

Shelob was gone; and whether she lay long in her lair, nursing her malice and her misery, and in slow years of darkness healed herself from within, rebuilding her clustered eyes, until with hunger like death she spun once more her dreadful snares in the glens of the Mountains of Shadow, this tale does not tell.

The Two Towers, LoTR Book 4, Ch 10, The Choices of Master Samwise