[Wild Roses] Hazel
Title: finders keepers
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Hazel, Conall
Prompt: "beating a crushed and dusty hat (fedora?) back into shape, and discovering hey, it fits--"
Word Count: 920
Notes: after the wars; she's probably seventeenish.
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People had called--mostly behind their backs--Hazel and her sister many, many things over the years Hazel had been aware enough to hear them. And for every 'scattered' and 'Fintain's daughter', there was an absence of 'stupid' and 'unobservant'. Which was fortunate, overall, for all the amusement she derived from surprising people. But it also meant that she had to actually think things through occasionally.
Especially when her first response to something was pure delight.
She'd thought it was a polishing rag at first, crushed into too-small a space in the upper reaches of a built-in wardrobe in a section of the Keep people hadn't properly used in a long time. Old guest quarters, she suspected, or family who hadn't used their suites since before the wars; even the staff didn't bother with more than a cursory sweep in the hallways with a spell or two, let alone the more-thorough work they performed even two floors below this level. She'd sneezed more than once just opening doors and windows, let alone poking around in chilly stone recesses and faded cedar chests.
Just pulling the not-rag down from its storing spot had dumped enough dust on her head to touch off a violent sneeze, and beating the rest of the dust off the thing against her legs had produced another six or seven. She sounded like a wolf with a noseful of cumin to her own ears, and tried to choke off the laugh that followed the thought so she wouldn't sneeze again.
Trying to shape the material with her fingers without tearing it, so she could figure out what it'd been once, if not a polishing rag, she'd eventually found herself with a battered, soft hat in her hands.
Once she had, she tried it on, because what else were you supposed to do with a hat? When it settled, she found it fit her head. Startlingly well, actually. There was a felt band on the inside that clung gently to her hair, neither so loose that it tried to slide down over her ears nor so tight it tried to tilt backwards to cup what it could of her crown. It just . . fit.
She went and found a mirror to confirm the fact, pulled up an old walnut-wood chair with a disintegrating golden cushion to admire herself in the age-spotted glass. It suited her, she thought, didn't try to lend an unaccustomed gravitas or made her look like a child borrowing an adult's gear.
She almost stood up and wore it out of the room and down into the rest of the Keep right then, as pleased with her find as any adolescent wolf with a pair of rabbits. But she paused, staring at her own reflection with the hat pulled low over her forehead, then carefully tugged it off, dropped it into her lap. Eyed her reflection again, then mussed her hair with both hands to hide the tell-tale mark of the felt. Then she stood up, snagged the hat in one hand, dusted her trousers of old cushion with the other, and went looking.
It took a couple of tries to find him; he wasn't trying to hide, but this wasn't quite important enough to lean on her voice, so she looked instead, followed faint traces of cousin-feel around the Keep up and down three staircases, through the active guest quarters, and eventually into the library.
He was sprawled half-under one of the writing-desks, too long to curl up neatly underneath, so she sat down on the floor at the end by his head, set the hat down next to her own knee. Chewed her lip for two beats of her own heart, then, as he was stirring, she asked "Conall, do you know whose hat this was?"
A golden eye slit open, regarded her briefly, then he huffed a wolf's laugh. "Baby girl, you don't like the easy questions, do you."
"I don't have to ask the easy questions, cousin-mine," she replied, grinning down at him so wide she had to raise her hand to hide her teeth.
He oozed out from under the desk to come and stick his nose and a third of his muzzle into the body of the hat, snuffed at the felt band thoughtfully, then raised his head again and shook out his ruff a little before sneezing. "Dust, old magic I don't know, and you, baby girl," he pronounced, "and the payment is something I can blow my nose on."
She stifled a giggle and pulled a dust-cloth from her boot, held it out to him until he took it from her with a hand instead of a paw. She waited until he'd blown his nose before she said "Merci beaucoup, 'nol."
"De rien, baby girl," he told her, blowing his nose a second time and making faces at the cloth afterwards. "Though next time you might want to just bring me the whatever before you touch it a lot yourself."
"I didn't know it was a hat until I'd uncrushed it," she apologised, reaching over and snagging the hat, dropping it on her head and adjusting it slightly so she could see. "Found it all crunched up in a corner of a wardrobe and wanted to see what it was."
He nodded, tossing the cloth into empty air--where it disappeared--then stretched. "Did what y'could, then. Going to keep it?"
"I like it," she grinned, managing to keep her lips over her teeth. "If I can keep Sascha from stealing it, oui, I'll keep it."
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Hazel, Conall
Prompt: "beating a crushed and dusty hat (fedora?) back into shape, and discovering hey, it fits--"
Word Count: 920
Notes: after the wars; she's probably seventeenish.
---------
People had called--mostly behind their backs--Hazel and her sister many, many things over the years Hazel had been aware enough to hear them. And for every 'scattered' and 'Fintain's daughter', there was an absence of 'stupid' and 'unobservant'. Which was fortunate, overall, for all the amusement she derived from surprising people. But it also meant that she had to actually think things through occasionally.
Especially when her first response to something was pure delight.
She'd thought it was a polishing rag at first, crushed into too-small a space in the upper reaches of a built-in wardrobe in a section of the Keep people hadn't properly used in a long time. Old guest quarters, she suspected, or family who hadn't used their suites since before the wars; even the staff didn't bother with more than a cursory sweep in the hallways with a spell or two, let alone the more-thorough work they performed even two floors below this level. She'd sneezed more than once just opening doors and windows, let alone poking around in chilly stone recesses and faded cedar chests.
Just pulling the not-rag down from its storing spot had dumped enough dust on her head to touch off a violent sneeze, and beating the rest of the dust off the thing against her legs had produced another six or seven. She sounded like a wolf with a noseful of cumin to her own ears, and tried to choke off the laugh that followed the thought so she wouldn't sneeze again.
Trying to shape the material with her fingers without tearing it, so she could figure out what it'd been once, if not a polishing rag, she'd eventually found herself with a battered, soft hat in her hands.
Once she had, she tried it on, because what else were you supposed to do with a hat? When it settled, she found it fit her head. Startlingly well, actually. There was a felt band on the inside that clung gently to her hair, neither so loose that it tried to slide down over her ears nor so tight it tried to tilt backwards to cup what it could of her crown. It just . . fit.
She went and found a mirror to confirm the fact, pulled up an old walnut-wood chair with a disintegrating golden cushion to admire herself in the age-spotted glass. It suited her, she thought, didn't try to lend an unaccustomed gravitas or made her look like a child borrowing an adult's gear.
She almost stood up and wore it out of the room and down into the rest of the Keep right then, as pleased with her find as any adolescent wolf with a pair of rabbits. But she paused, staring at her own reflection with the hat pulled low over her forehead, then carefully tugged it off, dropped it into her lap. Eyed her reflection again, then mussed her hair with both hands to hide the tell-tale mark of the felt. Then she stood up, snagged the hat in one hand, dusted her trousers of old cushion with the other, and went looking.
It took a couple of tries to find him; he wasn't trying to hide, but this wasn't quite important enough to lean on her voice, so she looked instead, followed faint traces of cousin-feel around the Keep up and down three staircases, through the active guest quarters, and eventually into the library.
He was sprawled half-under one of the writing-desks, too long to curl up neatly underneath, so she sat down on the floor at the end by his head, set the hat down next to her own knee. Chewed her lip for two beats of her own heart, then, as he was stirring, she asked "Conall, do you know whose hat this was?"
A golden eye slit open, regarded her briefly, then he huffed a wolf's laugh. "Baby girl, you don't like the easy questions, do you."
"I don't have to ask the easy questions, cousin-mine," she replied, grinning down at him so wide she had to raise her hand to hide her teeth.
He oozed out from under the desk to come and stick his nose and a third of his muzzle into the body of the hat, snuffed at the felt band thoughtfully, then raised his head again and shook out his ruff a little before sneezing. "Dust, old magic I don't know, and you, baby girl," he pronounced, "and the payment is something I can blow my nose on."
She stifled a giggle and pulled a dust-cloth from her boot, held it out to him until he took it from her with a hand instead of a paw. She waited until he'd blown his nose before she said "Merci beaucoup, 'nol."
"De rien, baby girl," he told her, blowing his nose a second time and making faces at the cloth afterwards. "Though next time you might want to just bring me the whatever before you touch it a lot yourself."
"I didn't know it was a hat until I'd uncrushed it," she apologised, reaching over and snagging the hat, dropping it on her head and adjusting it slightly so she could see. "Found it all crunched up in a corner of a wardrobe and wanted to see what it was."
He nodded, tossing the cloth into empty air--where it disappeared--then stretched. "Did what y'could, then. Going to keep it?"
"I like it," she grinned, managing to keep her lips over her teeth. "If I can keep Sascha from stealing it, oui, I'll keep it."