[Witches' Horses] Swallow's Tail
Title: bright sharp shattering
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Taarstad, Helena, others
Prompt: 89A "strangers"
Word Count: 1317
Rating: bloodier than the rest, so far.
Notes: 3/3, follows like a brick from above. Longer than I expected it to be. May be followed by a 4th bit.
The horse had been fine, her neck arching gently under his hands, pleased at the attention he was giving her, when she started bucking, shying away from--frost and fire, he had no idea, an explosion?--screaming, and he had everything he could manage in hauling her back, keeping her from dashing everyone inside her to jelly.
He managed it, barely, heartbeat pounding in his head and hands nearly shaking in the reins. Wasn't expecting a bloody hand to snatch at his, and he jumped, trying to jerk away, keep his hands close to the horse. The horse shivered under him, but she stayed steady, and he wished he could free a hand to pet her, croon encouragement, but he was looking up the barrel of an unfamiliar gun at an unfamiliar, angry face, and his heart was in his throat.
"Up," the stranger commanded, pulling at his wrist, but he couldn't move for a very long moment because that was a woman's voice.
"Up," she said again, not angry, tone getting colder, and he forced himself to move, because that was the sort of voice that didn't suffer disobedience long, woman or not.
She tied his hands behind him, each wrist knotted to the opposing elbow and wrapped down to the center, and slapped him open palm to the back of his head when he tried to squirm around, find a place to rest his shoulders where it didn't ache. Her hand had left a sticky feeling in his hair, one he couldn't do anything about because she took him by the back of the neck and steered him down away from the reins, sure as he was in the saddle. The hatch closed behind them, locked faster than he could think about running while her hand was off him.
He didn't know--no, he didn't want to know--the sticky he was stepping in, wanted desperately to close his eyes and give over to the hand on his neck, but couldn't, not to a stranger, not to someone who looked like the cast shadow of a knife given human flesh. So his eyes were open when Hákon came around a twist, armed with a knife, and then fell backwards, clutching at his throat, gurgling because he couldn't scream.
Sverre could hear his own heart hammering under her fingers, tightened when she yanked him out of the way of her gun and fired and not yet loosened again as she hauled him a step forward, lowered the gun and shot Hákon again, just once, her half-visible face calm.
Captain Sturluson was blocked into his cabin by another stranger, this one bigger than the woman, and they caught the tail end of a conversation as they came in, about whose territory was whose, one the Captain was losing.
Sverre dropped to his knees when she pressed gently on his neck, swallowed a yelp as he hit the metal of the decking. Couldn't for the life of him decide if the clanging noise would be worse if it were a horse nosing up against their side, or his poor knees, which were throbbing near as bad as where she was touching him.
"Captain," she said, nodding her head, and Sverre wondered for a shocked moment why she was addressing his captain in that tone of voice, when the Captain's nephew was dead by her hand, but then the other stranger nodded, eyes dropping to his level.
"That the rider?" the stranger-captain asked, in the language Sverre was only just starting to think in, and he shook his head, just a little, as the woman said "Yes," then shook him a little. "Why no?"
"No card," he told her, wondering why he was.
"Doesn't matter," she replied, "you were in the saddle."
He closed his eyes, willing himself not to picture Hákon as he did, "Hákon had his card."
When he opened his eyes again, his Captain'd frozen, face a mask, because he'd registered the tense.
"I'm sorry," he whispered miserably in their language, snapped his mouth closed when she shook his neck in her hand, fingers tightening warningly.
"Not your fault," the Captain replied, stretching for fair, but his eyes were cold as he looked at the woman, then at the man.
"You owe us for my nephew," his captain told the stranger-captain, who snorted through his nose like an ox.
"I can see the icons behind you, old man. How many lives do you owe Russia?"
Four, Sverre thought unwillingly, picturing faces in his head. We owe four, and all of them a burial.
"You've lost one, old man," said another stranger's voice, and Sverre jerked his head up to see, dropped his jaw when the man grinned, mad as a berserkr, because he'd never seen a man with skin like that. Not like the woman's, who was strange and dark, but aged oak and crude-carved besides, face wide and nose mashed low, like Kristján's thrice-broken one but not crooked at all. "Don't make it three," the man continued, holding up a burning hammer. "Just as easy to open to outside as let them back in."
"Three?" the Captain asked, trying not to show his anger.
"Was you who invented hostage-taking," the other Captain replied, "and we know this one can ride," jerking his thumb down at Sverre.
His shoulders screamed when the oak-man picked him up, settled a far bigger hand on the back of his neck, and steered him out into the passageway. He couldn't hear the departing words of the other two to his Captain, as he was pushed down to the horse's belly and then into another horse, one that didn't smell like human iron.
He was pushed down into a backless chair, feet automatically swinging out to hook around the supports, and he heard the man chuckle when he did.
He didn't realise he was crying until a rough cloth swiped at his face and he jerked it away from the oak-man, wincing as the motion pulled his shoulders again.
"Brother?" the man asked, shaking out a huge mass of light hair that looked more like tangled roots than the smooth braids home favoured.
Sverre blinked, then shook his head, looking away, looking down. "Cousin."
"Sorry," the man said, and he jerked his head back up, wide eyed. "She's too small to do anything but shoot to kill, and I was down in the belly."
"I--" he broke off, swallowed, then kept his mouth closed as the other two strangers came in, closing hatches and the captain moving out of the room, towards the saddle. The woman, her head covering shed but her hair just as dark, knelt down in front of Sverre, eyes on his face.
"Do I need to keep your hands tied?" she asked, not as cold as she'd spoken before but still chill as glacier-water.
"I'll keep an eye on him," the oak-man said, and she snapped her head towards him, glaring. "Not the question, Sascha."
Sascha sounds like a girl's name, he had time to think, inanely, before the translation to the full name arrived and his gut knotted again.
Aleksandr--'Alexander', in half the stories, the ones told by traders from far away, not the soldiers near the borders--wasn't supposed to be human. Let alone more human than the woman he kept company with.
Sverre swallowed around the terror, eyes flicking between them, half-whispered "My word I will not hurt your horse, if you leave my hands free."
The woman grinned, then, just a flash of bright teeth in her dark face, and stood, moving behind him and loosening the knots that held his screaming arms in place.
It hurt as the blood rushed back where it belonged, but his fingers moved, all of them, and when his hand strayed to the wall of the horse's belly he could feel the thrum of her fire.
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Taarstad, Helena, others
Prompt: 89A "strangers"
Word Count: 1317
Rating: bloodier than the rest, so far.
Notes: 3/3, follows like a brick from above. Longer than I expected it to be. May be followed by a 4th bit.
The horse had been fine, her neck arching gently under his hands, pleased at the attention he was giving her, when she started bucking, shying away from--frost and fire, he had no idea, an explosion?--screaming, and he had everything he could manage in hauling her back, keeping her from dashing everyone inside her to jelly.
He managed it, barely, heartbeat pounding in his head and hands nearly shaking in the reins. Wasn't expecting a bloody hand to snatch at his, and he jumped, trying to jerk away, keep his hands close to the horse. The horse shivered under him, but she stayed steady, and he wished he could free a hand to pet her, croon encouragement, but he was looking up the barrel of an unfamiliar gun at an unfamiliar, angry face, and his heart was in his throat.
"Up," the stranger commanded, pulling at his wrist, but he couldn't move for a very long moment because that was a woman's voice.
"Up," she said again, not angry, tone getting colder, and he forced himself to move, because that was the sort of voice that didn't suffer disobedience long, woman or not.
She tied his hands behind him, each wrist knotted to the opposing elbow and wrapped down to the center, and slapped him open palm to the back of his head when he tried to squirm around, find a place to rest his shoulders where it didn't ache. Her hand had left a sticky feeling in his hair, one he couldn't do anything about because she took him by the back of the neck and steered him down away from the reins, sure as he was in the saddle. The hatch closed behind them, locked faster than he could think about running while her hand was off him.
He didn't know--no, he didn't want to know--the sticky he was stepping in, wanted desperately to close his eyes and give over to the hand on his neck, but couldn't, not to a stranger, not to someone who looked like the cast shadow of a knife given human flesh. So his eyes were open when Hákon came around a twist, armed with a knife, and then fell backwards, clutching at his throat, gurgling because he couldn't scream.
Sverre could hear his own heart hammering under her fingers, tightened when she yanked him out of the way of her gun and fired and not yet loosened again as she hauled him a step forward, lowered the gun and shot Hákon again, just once, her half-visible face calm.
Captain Sturluson was blocked into his cabin by another stranger, this one bigger than the woman, and they caught the tail end of a conversation as they came in, about whose territory was whose, one the Captain was losing.
Sverre dropped to his knees when she pressed gently on his neck, swallowed a yelp as he hit the metal of the decking. Couldn't for the life of him decide if the clanging noise would be worse if it were a horse nosing up against their side, or his poor knees, which were throbbing near as bad as where she was touching him.
"Captain," she said, nodding her head, and Sverre wondered for a shocked moment why she was addressing his captain in that tone of voice, when the Captain's nephew was dead by her hand, but then the other stranger nodded, eyes dropping to his level.
"That the rider?" the stranger-captain asked, in the language Sverre was only just starting to think in, and he shook his head, just a little, as the woman said "Yes," then shook him a little. "Why no?"
"No card," he told her, wondering why he was.
"Doesn't matter," she replied, "you were in the saddle."
He closed his eyes, willing himself not to picture Hákon as he did, "Hákon had his card."
When he opened his eyes again, his Captain'd frozen, face a mask, because he'd registered the tense.
"I'm sorry," he whispered miserably in their language, snapped his mouth closed when she shook his neck in her hand, fingers tightening warningly.
"Not your fault," the Captain replied, stretching for fair, but his eyes were cold as he looked at the woman, then at the man.
"You owe us for my nephew," his captain told the stranger-captain, who snorted through his nose like an ox.
"I can see the icons behind you, old man. How many lives do you owe Russia?"
Four, Sverre thought unwillingly, picturing faces in his head. We owe four, and all of them a burial.
"You've lost one, old man," said another stranger's voice, and Sverre jerked his head up to see, dropped his jaw when the man grinned, mad as a berserkr, because he'd never seen a man with skin like that. Not like the woman's, who was strange and dark, but aged oak and crude-carved besides, face wide and nose mashed low, like Kristján's thrice-broken one but not crooked at all. "Don't make it three," the man continued, holding up a burning hammer. "Just as easy to open to outside as let them back in."
"Three?" the Captain asked, trying not to show his anger.
"Was you who invented hostage-taking," the other Captain replied, "and we know this one can ride," jerking his thumb down at Sverre.
His shoulders screamed when the oak-man picked him up, settled a far bigger hand on the back of his neck, and steered him out into the passageway. He couldn't hear the departing words of the other two to his Captain, as he was pushed down to the horse's belly and then into another horse, one that didn't smell like human iron.
He was pushed down into a backless chair, feet automatically swinging out to hook around the supports, and he heard the man chuckle when he did.
He didn't realise he was crying until a rough cloth swiped at his face and he jerked it away from the oak-man, wincing as the motion pulled his shoulders again.
"Brother?" the man asked, shaking out a huge mass of light hair that looked more like tangled roots than the smooth braids home favoured.
Sverre blinked, then shook his head, looking away, looking down. "Cousin."
"Sorry," the man said, and he jerked his head back up, wide eyed. "She's too small to do anything but shoot to kill, and I was down in the belly."
"I--" he broke off, swallowed, then kept his mouth closed as the other two strangers came in, closing hatches and the captain moving out of the room, towards the saddle. The woman, her head covering shed but her hair just as dark, knelt down in front of Sverre, eyes on his face.
"Do I need to keep your hands tied?" she asked, not as cold as she'd spoken before but still chill as glacier-water.
"I'll keep an eye on him," the oak-man said, and she snapped her head towards him, glaring. "Not the question, Sascha."
Sascha sounds like a girl's name, he had time to think, inanely, before the translation to the full name arrived and his gut knotted again.
Aleksandr--'Alexander', in half the stories, the ones told by traders from far away, not the soldiers near the borders--wasn't supposed to be human. Let alone more human than the woman he kept company with.
Sverre swallowed around the terror, eyes flicking between them, half-whispered "My word I will not hurt your horse, if you leave my hands free."
The woman grinned, then, just a flash of bright teeth in her dark face, and stood, moving behind him and loosening the knots that held his screaming arms in place.
It hurt as the blood rushed back where it belonged, but his fingers moved, all of them, and when his hand strayed to the wall of the horse's belly he could feel the thrum of her fire.