A/N: This was written as part of a mulit-chapter conuitation of "The revenge of Éomer" that I still plan on doning, but the writing of it (still) goes very slowly at the moment. It was posted as a part of "Memories of battle" but after looking through the vignettes there I realized that it did not quite fit with what I want with those and I decided to post it on its own. I have also made some small revisions to it, but essensially it is the same.
The story is a little bit AU. That is, the setting of this don't quite match the descriptions of Tolkien, but I belive the emotions and general intention of the writer (me, that is) compatible with Tolkien's books.
Beta: Lialathuveril. She helped me get this better, any mistakes or failings are my own.
I also want to thank all that have reviewed it when it first was posted, they were much apriciated and inspiering.
I do owe thanks to george as well. His review when I first posted this was very helpful and has helped me improve it, I think. He did not leave me any means of thanking him directly, so I leave it here for all to see. When I looked over this for re-posting, I found myself agreeing to even more of his sugestions than I did the first time.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the characters in it.
Where the crow flies
He could smell death; the rotting flesh of horses and men. Too many. Too many to even start thinking of burying. The air was dry with soot and smoke and dust. He stumbled in the mire and mud covering the field. Dark, sticky mud that smelled of earth and blood and ashes.
Caw caw
A flock of crows sat on a horse, pecking at its eyes and flesh. It lay so still, the mane spread out around it, tangled and entwined in the wreckage, matted with mud and mire. He could no longer see what colour it had been, but the flesh was red and its bones white.
Caw caw
The birds fought and quarrelled, wings flapping and claws digging into the flesh or tangling in the mane. And Éomer watched the eye-sockets that could not see, not even to stare blindly at the sky; the eyes were already gone.
Caw caw
At the back of his throat sour, burning gall, in his ears the deafening caw, caw, cawing of the crows. All he could see was that mane, filthy and knotted, and the empty eye-sockets.
Caw caw
It was too much. He bent down, picked up a stone and threw it at the birds.
Caw
They flew up and parted to let the stone fall, its flight undisturbed. Before it hit the ground they were back; pecking, always pecking the flesh. And all Éomer could see was the mane, flowing out on the ground, golden in the sunlight breaking through the clouds.
Sister!
Hair that never should have lain in the mud. Head that never should have touched the ground. Those eyes that never would dance with laughter or burn with anger at him again.
Caw caw
He sank to his knees. Wet, cold blood seeped into his clothes, but he could not feel it. His head was bent and the muscles of his jaw stiff and aching. He clenched the ground with his hands and pressed his eyes shut. No. Not yet.
He was a warrior. And he had not protected her.
Caw, caw.
The birds feasted; the man and his pain meaningless to them. Peck, peck, pecking away the flesh, cleaning away the carrion to the bare bones, their voices hacking away all his defences until grief was all there was left.
Caw caw
He wept.