©2021 Michael Raven
She liked the eyes, she did. So tasty.
So she plucked one, gobbled it up, then the other, feeling each one pop in her beak as crushed them. The previous owner said nothing, probably because he wouldn’t need them any longer. Deadfall. So much wood. War casualty. Leveled and gone to dirt. Not much to protest about under those conditions — his spirit had already left. She knew. She watched it leave.
And, before the others could steal more than their greedy share, she hopped to the next dearly departed and took yet two more. She wasn’t hungry, but she’d be damned if she let a good eyeball go to rot. Or another of her carrion cousins take what she declared to be hers.
She was going to partake in a third pair — wars were good for such delicacies — when the call came and, without hesitation, she took wing to wind and flew above the battlefield, a once-grey earth soaked black with blood and blue viscera. The Lady called for frenzy and so she flew towards the oathbreakers breaking the ninth wave, rolling in like thunder and fury. She and her sisters would harry and frustrate, infuriate and taunt the warriors of the mare until they turned their spears and blade upon each other, saving the old ones still standing this one battle; a reprieve so they could gather their last bit of elder spirit from the hearts and rend the next wave to ribbons staining the sea frothing scarlet.
There would be plenty of eyes. Now, there was war to make.