stumblin'

The Prairie was wide, expansive, and even now bits of grass sprung up from beneath the dense blanket of snow. During the spring he could only imagine that it was beautiful. During the winter? Even more so. This was the wonderland that Viðarr wanted, and this was what he thrived on nearly always. Cold air in his lungs, a bracing chill that seemed to take over his entire system. It’s all fuel for the fire. It’s all in the things that keep him going. It was true enough that he was relentless, sure. But that relentlessness is fueled by so many forces, both inside and outside of his control. There is beauty in bloodshed, and Viðarr would be the first to remind anyone who will listen of that fact. He will remind anyone who needs to hear it.

He’d given that reminder to his elder sister on more than one occasion. A pang of bitterness in his chest, and a sick taste rising in the back of his throat at the very thought. Viðarr did not have an elder sister. Not anymore. She did not exist to him anymore. She was gone. Maybe she’d never been. The thoughts in his had turned sour, turned dark. Viðarr pushed them away. Held them down. Bit them back as best he could. The shadow grit his teeth firmly. With a deep sigh, he turned back to the task at hand. Couldn’t let those thoughts get the best of him. Couldn’t let them take over. Stay focused.

Focus was something that Viðarr didn’t typically struggle with. Today it seemed that things were a bit more difficult, at least in his head. So much had gone on. So much had happened. With the ability to be out on his own, surrounded by snow, maybe it was the processing time he needed. The processing time that he’d denied himself for how long now? It was still hard to think of his family, his blood, and the muscle the size of a fist that lived inside his rib cage. That one was maybe the worst to think of. What of Tove? What of Kiela? What of all of the fleeting glances and exchanged looks, and the way that his heart squeezed every time he made eye contact with someone who could match him physically and mentally? What of all of those things, and how was he still… how was he still the way he was.

Viðarr tossed his head, shaking it, as if to clear it. Focus. He dialed in on some fresh tracks in the snow, scowling for a moment. They came along with a scent that wasn’t all that pleasant, but it did mean one thing– pronghorn. Reasonably close, too. That would make a fine meal, and he could have the dogs help him drag it back. It would be enough for a few days, and it would keep well in this cold snap. The warmth of his breath created a steam cloud before him, hanging in the air before being carried away on an easterly breeze. He’d work with that breeze on his approach, making sure to stay down wind of his target.

His targets– the herd of pronghorn was looking worse for wear. Winter wasn’t kind to prey species, and many had moved on by now. There was still enough grass to graze here, but barely. They wouldn’t be hanging around much longer if Viðarr had to guess. The shadow fixed his gaze on a scraggly buck, eyes narrowing. He had to be one of the older creatures among them, and the shadow would be able to catch him out. At least in his mind… it would work. It could work. Taking a deep breath and pushing off hard against the snowy ground, his hunt was on.

A shift in the wind gave him away long before he intended. The breeze kicked up, pushing his scent toward the herd. There was a great commotion, so many strange sounds filling the air, alarm bells going off. Viðarr’s heart pounded in his chest, and he forced himself forward. The shadow wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. Certainly not yet. Forcing himself faster, pushing himself, the titan would give chase. He’d give chase as best he could, with his paws slipping on an icy patch. The pronghorn before him began to scatter.

They scattered, as did his thoughts. The self doubt creeping back in. The darkness that shaded the edges of his thoughts, the back of his mind. Viðarr was still going to push himself. Push himself, forge forward, do what he could– do what he had to. Teeth glimmering in the afternoon sunlight, but he’s too slow. The pronghorn are too fast. The final nail in the coffin of this hunt? Viðarr’s foot finds a gopher hole that’s buried beneath the fresh fallen snow. The shadow stumbles, then comes crashing down to the ground in a heap. Viðarr grumbles, feeling the bruise to his ego first and foremost.


"Víðarr"