Anne - Desperate Orphan

“RUN, Anne!” Her instincts scream inside her head, driving her weary legs faster, forcing her gasping lungs to greater effort.
Fear claws at her, for the moment defeating the constant hunger and weakness of body. Fear drives her, consumes her, a base human instinct honed the horrors of war she has witnessed.
A frantic glance back sees those fears take on human-ish form behind her; two Nazi soldiers bull through the thick underbrush that slows her progress, their larger, stronger forms making short work of the sparse lead she has.
At 13 years old, with more than a month since she last had a decent meal, her efforts are a last gasp of desperation, not likely to keep her from her pursuers’ grasp for long.
Must. Not. Stop.
Her world is tunneling, lack of oxygen slowly clouding her vision, but she senses a greater darkness permeates the forest. Something joyously cold and hateful.
“C’mere, girl. Don’t make us hurt you!” The man’s voice sounds no more than twenty feet behind her now, but she dares not look back.
An odd fact penetrates her fog of exhaustion: He sounds happy.
It’s not fair.
I’m just a girl.
Someone should help me.
The fleeting thoughts seem as useless as her flight, but both persist even as her strength fails.
Her vision tunnels further, and her terror mounts at the realization she will soon be literally running blind.
She looks up, toward the sad winter sun, as if to confirm that light still exists in the world.
“Help me!”
A branch snakes out of the growing darkness and she sees it too late.
THWACK.
Stunned, she lies on the ground looking at the sky, watching the sun dwindle to blackness.
Help me. Her lips move silently now, the capacity for audible speech departing with the last of her ability to fight.
As darkness rushes in, a concussion of air accompanies it.
WHUMP.
Her eyes are already closed, and she does not behold the figure who appears next to her, nor the flaming sword he holds.