Chapter Text
The crows see many things.
Old things, and dark things, which they remember in their minds from generation to generation, passed down through memories which are more powerful than any story told by men, or any lay sung by Elves.
The crows were there when the first Elves awakened at Cuivienen. They perceived deep and strange sounds from beneath the earth, as they flew over the heights of Thangorodrim. They were there when the Valar overthrew Morgoth in the War of Wrath.
They have seen gods, and monsters, and deeds both terrible and wonderous.
And they remember it. There is nothing new to the crows, it is all very much the same in their eyes.
They watched the fall of Eregion with baleful, humorless eyes; they watched the Dark Lord Sauron rise to power with a sly wink and a croak, as if to say, "We've seen this before."
On dark wings they fly, roosting in brittle pines and ashen hollows, whispering to each other and spreading the news of the world from beak to beak, before rising in a cloud of feathers and bone, whirling away to separate corners of the world, to witness yet more of the events of the Age.
Yes, the crows see everything.
Nothing is beyond their sight.
Particularly not the harbor in the city Pelargir, where four ships lay docked, awaiting return to the island of Numenor in the west. The crow settles itself upon a steepled building to watch with interest as a new regiment of guards marches from the street to replace the ones who have finished their shift.
The crow watches as a drunken shout rises from the street. A sound of shattering glass and bright orange flames rise through the night. Many of the guards let out angry cries and rush to the scene, chasing after the group of cloaked drunkards who ignited the flames.
They don't see what the crow sees; several black cloaked figures pouring from the shadows, swarming up the four ships like rats.
The crow is curious, and it abandons its' rooftop perch for a position on the mast of one of the ships.
"Take only what you can carry," a female voice hisses from under her hood, "Burn the rest with the ships!"
Delighted hisses and snarls rise from the others.
"You heard her, boys! Send 'em to the bottom of the bay!"
Torches are lit and passed around. By the time the guards return, the hooded intruders have already vanished, deep inside the bellies of the barques.
There is dead silence. Not even the eyes of a crow can see through solid wood and dark shadows.
And then there is a BANG which cuts through the night air like a lightning strike. The guards stand frozen for an instant and then rush up to the ship decks with yells of fury and dismay.
But it is too late. The ships are aflame from beneath.
All four of them; in perfect synchronization, in a practiced and efficient manner.
Black shapes pour from the holds, clutching sacks of plundered goods in one hand—some holding boxes or crates, while others clasp weapons.
Somewhere above, a bell tolls incessantly.
Clang, clang, clang.
The crow lets out a croak as the fighting breaks out on deck and pulls away in a flutter of feathers to find a safer perch.
Crows are not burdened with the nuances of battle or wisdom; they see only what is there. They do not know who outnumbers who or why the battle is fought.
What it does see is that, though the groups are evenly matched, the cloaked figures are the winners, plunging overboard with their stolen goods, laughing and cackling as the ships go up in flames beneath the guards.
They swim to the shore on the other side of the harbor, where horses are waiting, innocuous until that point.
"For the Stormcrows!" they say to each other, laughing, as they make their escape from the city.
The crow caws again, understanding nothing but what it has seen.
Counting the Crows:
One for sorrow,
two for mirth
three for a wedding
Four for a birth
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret, never to be told
Eight for a wish
Nine for a kiss
Ten for a bird you mustn't miss
Eleven for hope
Twelve for health and
Thirteen for the Devil himself...
--Traditional English folk rhyme