#changing course

.-.-.

He’d never possessed anything more than the rags he wore; but now he owned a name. Stum, given by the bittered one. The one who snarled like the dog, yet shared the scant rations with him.

Snap, his massive hands broke a thick branch, snap, one after another. It wasn’t the same as chopping logs, but close. Snap, snap, snap, his hands found a steady rhythm and soon his head followed. Slamming his temple against the bark-covered trunk of a tree, Stum tried to maintain control of his overladen senses, a task which became more hopeless by the minute, ever since The She disappeared. 

For him, his surroundings were too much to comprehend now that he was all alone. 

Stum missed the solidness of the four walls that had enclosed him most of his life, at least that small place felt right. Safe. In there, his world was ordered, simple, manageable. 

In there, he could fiddle with strings of hay and secretly tear at the sacks filled with grain. 

When the pain in his head triumphed over the fearful beating of his heart, Stum’s shoulders surrendered and he sighed deeply. Bringing his hand to his mouth, he sucked his thumb and slowly rocked back and forth. 

Humming to himself, Stum found a sense of cohesion. Completely absorbed in his own little world, his ears failed to pick up on the stumbling gait of heavily intoxicated men. 

.-.-.

Utstott became a bloodhound, with Stum being the white raven’s main target. Through the maze of tree branches, Ivar glanced upward to search for the familiar white dot high up in the sky. His useless bound legs swung behind him as his upper body did all the hard labor; dragging himself forward. His mobility had always been his weakness; but after weeks of being carried around his muscle mass has drastically deteriorated. 

They searched until the midst of day; the moment of no shadow nor shelter from heat. Piglet gave up her cooing noises a while before that, brows almost entirely knitted together and her overall appearance sullen. 

“Your legs need better protection,” Piglet stated as she handed over the water bag to Ivar, “if we don’t find Stum-”

“-I made you a promise, didn’t I?” Ivar cut her off abrupt, “we will find that humongous inbred of yours,” Ivar drank and grunted when Piglet’s spirit didn’t lift, “we’ll find Stum so he can carry my sorry ass all the way to Cicily, you’ll see,” he held his index finger up to her face, “wait and see, Piglet, wait and see.” 

Ignoring the way her shoulders slumped, Ivar unbound his legs, tried to pull as much fabric in layers over his knees, and started to tie his legs back together. In the process of preparing his lower body for another hike, he blocked out Piglet’s energy. He was well aware of her distress and knew Stum’s absence wasn’t her only concern.

No, her inward conflict lay in her deeply rooted beliefs and morals. Her eyes perceived the world with a very different set of right and wrong; their views could not be further apart. 

He knew that in a way, she hated him for adding so much gray to her black and white view. Well, crimson to put it bluntly. 

Ivar sighed and shook his head while tying a knot in the worn strings wrapped around his legs. He still failed to comprehend Piglet’s strict rules and guidelines; what was wrong with an eye for an eye? Kill or be killed. Wasn’t it clear and common sense to hurt them before they could hurt you? If her claims about being cursed with a Djinn were true, why was her only strength that of convulsion?  

Ivar could read her expression; she was being torn from within. She deemed his killings evil; yet they saved her life and virtue. And ever since he showed her what his hands were capable of, one simple question burned on the tip of his tongue: didn’t it make you feel good when I ripped off Ludolf’s jaw?

But that question would truly remain unanswered, because Ivar knew Piglet would wholeheartedly deny feeling any glimmer of joy from death and pain. That would cast her out of her presumed heaven; Jannah. 

“Utstott will find him, Piglet, just wait and see,” Ivar promised her.

.-.-.

At the end of an old herd trail, Ivar felt a shard of melancholy; as the scene in the middle of the camp had so many similarities to the bloody bear of Kattegat. Yet, instead of rascalling youngsters throwing stones to the deranged bear, it was two heavily intoxicated men slinging coins at Stum. 

The poor young man produced guttural sounds, trying to fend off the pesky pieces of silver with flapping hands. The simpleton desperately wanted to flee, but a noose around his neck secured his place within the circle. There was no escape, aside from tiptoeing baby steps from left to right. 

One of the outlaws had taken a seat atop a large wooden barrow leaking ale. To him it was a hilarious spectacle and he had to hold his stomach from laughing. 

Ivar could feel his lips twitch into a grin; somehow Stum was destined to be a piece of entertainment. In this case, a humongous dancer with a terrible sense of rhythm. 

Ivar managed to morph his expression into something more neutral as his consciousness in the flesh let out a smothered gasp. 

Of course; Piglet empathized with her precious pet. She felt resentment toward the ill treatment of Stum.

Naturally, this meant that Ivar was allowed to go ballistic on those ‘wrongdoers’. He could be her hero for slaughtering those villains; because the moment someone wronged a person she felt affectionate toward, it was alright to be the berserker. Right?

Piglet’s rules and rights were still a mystery; but as her mouth remained tightly locked, her eyes told him yes when he swung his axe over his shoulder. His callous fingers grasped the handle tight; skin still stained with the blood of the dead. 

If the group of outlaws wouldn’t have been bellowing with laughter so hard then maybe one of them would have caught the sound of vibration whizzing through the air. 

But it was the harsh sound of Ivar’s axe sinking into something solid that stilled the small circle of drunken men. 

The man atop of the barrow stared with bulging eyes at the axe solidly lodged into his sternum. Instinctively he circled his palms around the weapon, but no matter how much pressure he applied, blood gushed between his fingers and oozed from under his hand. It spread rapidly into his shirt, the color darkingening, taking on a brownish hue. 

Within a matter of seconds, the man dropped forward and let out one last guttural and strangely wet sound as blood spilled from the corners of his mouth and nose. 

While Ivar’s first victim breathed out his last breath, all fun and games were paused. Intoxicated, yet highly alert men drew their weapons; either daggers or clubs. 

For mere moments the forest seemed to hold its breath; all men bracing themselves and staring bewildered into the forest in search of the attacker. 

Although anger was Ivar’s greatest ally, Ivar put his wit in command. It was five against one and he just threw his only weapon away. 

Like a worm crawling from a bird Ivar roused into view, imitating Stum’s animalistic sounds he managed to make it halfway towards the circle without being stabbed or clubbed to death. 

With a tiny moan Ivar swung his arms from under him and dropped face first into the sand. Holding his breath until his lungs seemed to explode he waited; laying perfectly still and covered with caked mud and blood. 

Once a pair of toes nudged his waist, Ivar’s eyes flashed wide open and like a hungry wolf, he threw himself up. He managed to evoke shock throughout the group; which made the already intoxicated men slow and clumsy. 

Since he was unable to rise up to his opponent, he made sure the man was brought down to his level. Thrown off guard, it wasn’t hard to sweep the man off his feet. 

It was the man’s own dagger that slit his throat. The blood didn’t gush in a constant flow, but in time with the beating of his heart. It came thick and strong, flowing through fingers that clasped desperately around the ripped flesh and muscle. 

Ivar laughed at the sight, astounded how deep he’d managed to cut the man. The blade in his hand was small but sharpened into perfection. Without a second to waist Ivar threw the murder weapon over his shoulder and hollered: “Piglet, make yourself useful and cut Stum loose!”

Shifting back towards the upcoming fight till death, Ivar was just in time to duck and roll away from the edge of a sword. An icy swoosh merely passed his head. 

He was up for a fistfight since he had once again thrown his only weapon away. He allowed his brain to go into instinct mode; that primitive flight or fight modus. 

And he fled, rolling his body away from being stabbed to death by the end of a long blade. He didn’t manage to flee very far, as boots violently ended his escape. 

All he needed was a little more time, and hoping his blunt attack had evoked enough dull rage he curled up into fetal position. 

He guessed right, the enraged men did not want his life to end quickly. Not without causing a significant amount of pain first. 

Fists and feet rained down upon him and all he could do was protect his head and vital organs by cradling his head and curling further into a ball. 

Another icy swoosh struck through the air, but this one made Ivar sigh with relief. 

A dull thump, from right next to him; shouts and cries filled the air and the beating stopped.  Ivar reopened his eyes and saw a head roll into a puddle of mud. 

Although Stum was too impaired to utter a single word, he did master the axe like no other. And seeing one of his saviors being downtrodden turned him into a bull seeing red. 

There was no grace in Stum’s movements, but there was swift and uncontrolled force as the colossal hacked his axe into the hopeless outlaws. 

Although it hurt to laugh, Ivar cackled in awe as detached limbs were stomped into the sandy herpath. Stum really did manage to make an art out of chopping up bodies. 

It did not take Stum long to fill the campsite with death, blood and gore. It was a masterpiece of primitive violence. 

It became quiet, aside from the sounds of Utstott pecking at intestine and Piglet’s retching. The gore induced wave after wave of sickness. 

Ivar tsked as he pushed and pulled himself into a sitting position. Aside from sore muscles and impending bruises, he was going to live. He snorted, staring at the decapitated body next to him, he would live. 

This counted as a good fight, he managed to kill two, unleash Stum, and set him off on a killing spree. 

He figured this did not count as a victory for Piglet, as it weren’t dog guts caking the soles of her feet, but that of another human being. 

“Spare me the tears woman,” Ivar sneered, cracking his neck and flexing his biceps, “those men would have raped you until there was nothing more left of you then a weeping, bleeding piece of dispare. We victored, they didn’t, you got what you wanted,” he made a big wave at Stum, “I got you your inbred back.” 

‘That woman is insufferable,’ Ivar thought as he rolled his eyes, ignoring Piglet’s smothered hitches of breath. Of course she was going to cry over the piles of bloody waste, almost unrecognizable as humans. 

    .-.-.

A/N: Oh what a joy it was to write this chapter. It somehow was a very tough one to start. I haven’t written that many fighting scenes and I felt like it had to be a gory one. 

I like how PIglet and Ivar both start to see the world with a little more gray (or red depending on pov). I like how hers puzzles Ivar, yet from time to time he tries to stand by her morals and rules. 

Ah and Stum, I really like that I added him as an extra pov and element in the story. He’s sort of this silent neutral ally. A blank canvas to either ‘listen’ to the little devil (Ivar) or angel (Piglet) on his shoulders. 

Xoxoxo Nukyster

The kickass beta: @sarahh-jane

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Qrow stuck his hands in his pockets as he looked through the lists on the job boards. Raven had said to pick something good, and Summer would be around for a while, so good usually meant something along the lines of remote and very dangerous. He considered some options around Vacuo, but neither of them were fond of the desert or the heat. Menagerie could be fun, since they did have a lot of very dangerous Grimm inhabiting most of the island. However that didn’t often end up on the boards. Still, might be fun to go anyway if they found a job near a port city to make up for it.

30.08.2017 // Back home! I’ve had some time to think things over while on holiday, and I realised that I really dislike my degree and what I’m studying, and that I’m much more interested in politics. As such, I got in contact with the university, who said they are happy to consider me for a change to a different course. This involves submitting a piece of written work, and then an interview. As I already did a politics course, they said that they are happy with only an interview. 

I’m currently preparing for the interview, and I am so, so scared. Changing course would mean going back into second year, although this is not something that I am too worried about, because it would give me more time to work on my mental health. I’m super scared about doing this, and what changing course means in general, but hey, if something scares you, often it’s a good thing to do.