[Witches' Horses] Swallow's Tail
Title: like a brick from above
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Helena, Sascha, Petrovich, Taarstad
Prompt: 66A "drifting"
Word Count: 396
Notes: 2/3, follows heartbeats in the dark
They trade off, listening to the other horse, coaxing soft flames out of their own but not so much they'll show up on a mirror, and suiting up, hair pulled back and covered, thick layer of inner padding and outer, gloves, boots, knives, guns, Sascha's damn hammer. By the time they're nearly close enough to tether the horse and set out she's antsy, keyed up as the horse and tryin' just as hard to keep it down.
She's not gonna let herself get used to bein' three, instead of two, but she won't make it obvious. Captain'd be pissed if she killed Sascha without a damn good reason, and he hasn't given her one. Damn far from it, uncomfortably far, because she's getting used to having him around, the way nothing in the horse squeaks from neglect anymore, the way--she can't call him Stas anymore, but empress and saints she can't call him Petrovich, the way he introduces himself these days--the way the Captain talks more, spends less time locked up tight inside his head. Useful, but not theirs, not hers, never stood with them in the dark and the cold and let a hint of fear burn in the back of his eyes when he saw her move, the way she did in war. She misses the iron and nickel, more than she'd ever thought she would when she hit her so damn stubborn lievtenant over the head and got them out, kept them alive, if alone and abandoned.
She's the one tethers the horse, when they got close, the men dropping out of the belly to secure the pitons but her the one tied the horse to 'em. She's a poor rider, but the best of them, for all the horse seems to like the Captain, the way children and security systems do.
It's the Captain hits the flare when they get close, sets the horse--ship, maybe, lookin' at the shape of the thing under the bright light--screaming and plunging. It's Sascha who rips the skin open, lets her through.
And then it's half-light and yelling, colours she doesn't respect and a language she doesn't much speak, shoving her way up the neck to the head, to stand over a kid no older than the youngest of their soldiers once upon a time, one hand on his wrists and the other holding a gun.
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Helena, Sascha, Petrovich, Taarstad
Prompt: 66A "drifting"
Word Count: 396
Notes: 2/3, follows heartbeats in the dark
They trade off, listening to the other horse, coaxing soft flames out of their own but not so much they'll show up on a mirror, and suiting up, hair pulled back and covered, thick layer of inner padding and outer, gloves, boots, knives, guns, Sascha's damn hammer. By the time they're nearly close enough to tether the horse and set out she's antsy, keyed up as the horse and tryin' just as hard to keep it down.
She's not gonna let herself get used to bein' three, instead of two, but she won't make it obvious. Captain'd be pissed if she killed Sascha without a damn good reason, and he hasn't given her one. Damn far from it, uncomfortably far, because she's getting used to having him around, the way nothing in the horse squeaks from neglect anymore, the way--she can't call him Stas anymore, but empress and saints she can't call him Petrovich, the way he introduces himself these days--the way the Captain talks more, spends less time locked up tight inside his head. Useful, but not theirs, not hers, never stood with them in the dark and the cold and let a hint of fear burn in the back of his eyes when he saw her move, the way she did in war. She misses the iron and nickel, more than she'd ever thought she would when she hit her so damn stubborn lievtenant over the head and got them out, kept them alive, if alone and abandoned.
She's the one tethers the horse, when they got close, the men dropping out of the belly to secure the pitons but her the one tied the horse to 'em. She's a poor rider, but the best of them, for all the horse seems to like the Captain, the way children and security systems do.
It's the Captain hits the flare when they get close, sets the horse--ship, maybe, lookin' at the shape of the thing under the bright light--screaming and plunging. It's Sascha who rips the skin open, lets her through.
And then it's half-light and yelling, colours she doesn't respect and a language she doesn't much speak, shoving her way up the neck to the head, to stand over a kid no older than the youngest of their soldiers once upon a time, one hand on his wrists and the other holding a gun.