Battlefield Remains
Summary: Finrod walks through a battlefield.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The battlefield was a field no longer; it was now a filthy mire. The lifeblood of thousands had moistened the packed earth, and the feet of the same thousands had churned it into a viscous soup.
Flies gathered in the eyes of the dead and dying, greedily stealing the moisture. The dead became a home to eggs and writhing maggots, a fate soon to be shared by the dying. Crows also congregated at the field, croaking hoarsely with delight at this splendid feast set out for them. Cruel beaks plunged into eye sockets, gobbling the soft contents. The stench was incredible. The air was rank with sweat, blood, fear, and decay.
Finrod Felagund, lord of Nargothrond, walked through the swamp of death and filth, looking for survivors. It was near impossible to recognize most of the twisted bloated corpses, you had to get close to recognize a once familiar face. Finrod had already emptied his stomach several times because of the stench. But he kept on doggedly looking. He especially wanted to find Captain Elsoron. He was an excellent commander, not to mention a close friend. The last time he had seen Elsoron was when a entire legion of orcs had surrounded Elsoron's beleaguered force.
Finrod caught a glance of a tattered banner fluttering over a pile of bodies, and purposefully strode over to it. Roughly shoving aside orc corpses, he searched. Finally he recognized something; the top six inches of a glinting sword. It was unusually wide, with a distinctive motif curling around the blade. The rest of sword was embedded in an orc. Finrod ripped the body from the sword, revealing the elf that lay beneath it. The crows cawed in annoyance, for he had disturbed their meal.
It was Elsoron. His handsome face was contorted by a rictus of agony and fury. His wounds were horrendous. One ear had been completely cut off, and his nose had been smashed to bloody pulp. But the worst was the bloody mess that was once his stomach. A huge gash crossed from his bottom left rib to his right hip. His entrails lay in glistening ropes around his legs.
Finrod, fingers trembling, carefully closed his friend's eyes.
Suddenly, overcome with nausea, Finrod leaned forward and retched. He had seen this carnage before, it was not new to him, but he was not dead to it. He did not think that he could ever get used to the image of a friend laying in a pool of his own blood and guts. His stomach was already empty, but it rebelled anyways. Finrod choked on dry heaves for a full minute, strands of saliva dripping from his lips . Swallowing hard, he stood up and looked at his friend's ravaged face.
"Well, Elsoron, we won." He softly said. Victory. What an empty victory it was with few to share it with.
The crows descended again, trying to eat the feast that Elsoron presented them with. Snarling, Finrod tried to shoo them away, but the crows would always return.
Finrod glared at the crows, then leaned over his friend's corpse and dragged it up, and started to carry it back. He had one arm under the legs and the other supporting the shoulders. Picking his way through the field, Finrod was hindered by the warped corpses, fallen weapons, and his friend's trailing intestines. Stopping, and controlling his rising gorge, he stuffed his friend's bowels back into him. Grabbing an abandoned banner, Finrod tied it around Elsoron's torso, ensuring that his insides would stay inside. Trembling from the effort, Finrod picked him back up and once again started his painstaking journey back. The logical part of his mind told him that he couldn't do this. He was already shaking and shocky from the battle, his muscles were screaming from the effort of carrying the body, his graceful stride reduced to an exhausted, stumbling shuffle. He was dizzy and light-headed.
But his heart couldn't leave Elsoron on the field. He didn't want to see Elsoron's grey eyes, eyes that had sparkled with mischief and laughter, be torn from bloody sockets to sate a crow's hunger. He didn't want some rat chewing up his tongue and cheeks, leaving behind a gaping parody of a face. He didn't want some predator carelessly cracking open bones to suck the marrow. He didn't want…
Lost in his morbid thoughts, Finrod tripped and fell, dropping Elsoron's body. Elsoron's blank eyes looked up, indifferent to the pain around him.
"Damn," Finrod whispered, and suddenly, his brittle self-control left him. Finrod let out a wordless scream that went on and on, cutting through the air like a knife. The scream finally stopped when Finrod ran out of air. Then he just sat there, cursing his lack of control, teeth clenched, tension coiled tight around his spine. A few stray tears ran down his face, washing away some of the grime from his face.
The crows had settled on Elsoron again.
"My lord!" a voice called. Finrod did not raise his head.
"My lord!" the voice was more insistent. Finrod recognized the voice now. It was Ciril, Elsoron's lieutenant. He was young, eager and ambitious. A good solider. Sighing, Finrod pulled himself together, dashing the tears from his eyes, and wiping the anguish from his face. He looked up, staring into earnest blue eyes.
"Yes, I'm here."
"We've been searching for you…" Ciril let the question hang, waiting hopefully for an answer.
"Yes." Finrod's answer was quelling. Sighing again, he went on, "Well, Ciril, you've been promoted to captain."
"What?" Ciril's gaze was uncomprehending. Silently, Finrod pointed at the corpse at his feet.
Ciril's breath hissed out with recognition and anguish. He closed his eyes with pain, the grief evident on his face.
"Well," Finrod said, turning, "We must move on. Others are waiting for us." Ciril nodded.
Finrod and his new captain walked away, picking a path through the battlefield remains.