[Wild Roses] Hazel, second war
Title: crash
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Hazel, Sascha
Prompt: 37C "unseen"
Word Count: 217
Notes: Prompted by a request for Hazel and the second war. Early stages. First person present. Because she's difficult like that. =P
I don't want to be here. Don't want to be away from home, don't want to be away from Dad, don't want, don't want, don't want, and I'm telling Sascha as much when her eyes get big, looking past my shoulder, then she's hooking my feet out from under me and dropping us both to the floor.
The wall shakes, next to my head, and a piece of mortar hits my cheek. I feel like I can't breathe, air knocked out of me or stolen. Sascha's muttering something, her hands moving half-ticklish against my side, and the next crash is outside the window, not against the wall.
I scoot us along the floor with my heels, out from underneath the windowsill, and sit up, scrubbing my hands through my hair.
"What was that?" I ask, sounding a little scared and a little angry, and my sister shakes her head, dust falling from her hair as she does.
"I don't know. Cannon, maybe?" but she's not sure at all, her fingers flexing like she'd like to be throwing fire back at whoever just attacked us.
We both know that wasn't a cannon. A cannon would be burning by now, or choked to airless death by uncle Hernén. Whatever this is, it's still throwing things at the walls.
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Hazel, Sascha
Prompt: 37C "unseen"
Word Count: 217
Notes: Prompted by a request for Hazel and the second war. Early stages. First person present. Because she's difficult like that. =P
I don't want to be here. Don't want to be away from home, don't want to be away from Dad, don't want, don't want, don't want, and I'm telling Sascha as much when her eyes get big, looking past my shoulder, then she's hooking my feet out from under me and dropping us both to the floor.
The wall shakes, next to my head, and a piece of mortar hits my cheek. I feel like I can't breathe, air knocked out of me or stolen. Sascha's muttering something, her hands moving half-ticklish against my side, and the next crash is outside the window, not against the wall.
I scoot us along the floor with my heels, out from underneath the windowsill, and sit up, scrubbing my hands through my hair.
"What was that?" I ask, sounding a little scared and a little angry, and my sister shakes her head, dust falling from her hair as she does.
"I don't know. Cannon, maybe?" but she's not sure at all, her fingers flexing like she'd like to be throwing fire back at whoever just attacked us.
We both know that wasn't a cannon. A cannon would be burning by now, or choked to airless death by uncle Hernén. Whatever this is, it's still throwing things at the walls.