Chapter 10) Asbet Eshr, Fifth-Theen
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Ivar still held a grudge against Piglet, but he decided that he'd stop scaring her. She was the most foolish fragile little creature and he could not afford the wrath of the Giant if she convulsed into a seizure again. For the rest of her day, he'd mainly ignored her and stopped yapping at her ankles. Piglet ignored him too, but Ivar wasn't sure it was intentional. Whatever happened to her during those seizures, left her with a vacant stare and even though she tried, it was impossible for her to work properly. Using the rake for support, she zoned-out occasionally, allowing two chickens to escape and break an egg.
Ivar noticed her struggles but decided to stay out of it, he had duties too and did not feel obligated to do any extra work. He no longer wished to charge at her, that should be a reward in itself. Ignoring her would keep him out of trouble and that was how he continued the day, keeping his hands off of her.
As it turned out, tolerating her had its benefits; better food. That evening, Ivar received a piece of meat and an actual hot meal. It was nothing more than scraps of chicken and soggy mashed potatoes, but it beat raw onions by far.
Ivar ate and silently observed her. Piglet was stitching up one of her rags, while the scrawny little lamb lay on her lap. The sun was setting, but provided enough light to make the needle gleam with every stitch she made.
She was carrying a weapon around, small and brittle, but a weapon nonetheless. Interesting. Ivar stored that detail in the back of his head and wondered what more treasures she had hidden underneath those layers of clothes.
His silent brooding did not go by unnoticed, bothered by his stern stare, Piglet frowned at him and scurried up on her bare feet. She shied away to her side of the shed, taking the lamb along.
The prospect of another evening alone, cold and bored made Ivar chunk down his food fast, rattling his chains.
"Piglet, I'm done eating, come here," Ivar insisted, keeping his tone friendly and neutral. Tapping his bowl on the floor, he whistles as if to call a dog. Two dark eyes lingered around the corner of his box, startled by his unusual kindness.
"Wahid, arbe, sitta," Ivar struggled not to break his tongue on the three words he'd memorised from Piglet's game. He picked up a chicken bone from his supper and tossed it on the floor.
"Wahid, arbe, sitta," he repeated again, nudging his chin towards the chicken bone.
Piglet's brows drew up, still skeptical about his sudden change of heart.
"Oh c'mon Piglet, let's play your stupid little game to pass the time," Ivar whined and drummed his fingertips impatiently on the floor, "your God won't judge you for playing with the enemy, nor will mine. They seemed to have deserted us anyway. Probably laughing their arses off as we speak."
Ivar wasn't foolish to believe that any of the words he said meant a thing to Piglet, but as strange as it might seem, it was nice to hear the sound of his own voice from time to time. It was a small reminder of who he was, as an individual, as a human being. And it was a small act of defiance, to speak his native language in a country that bore so much hostility to his kind. Honestly, his voice was all he had left.
Piglet decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and brought her knucklebones into view. She whipped away hay and dropped the bones in a circle of dirt. Viewing the positions of the bones, she drew fifteen lines in the sand: "asbet, eshr."
Ivar rolled his shoulders and tilted his upper body forwards. Piglet ogled him as he dragged his lower body forwards. She observed the way he pushed his legs into a comfortable position as he sat down near Piglet's makeshift line.
Something seemed to trouble her, her brows turned into a frown and she looked at him from head to toe.
"Maksura?" Intrigued she picked up a twig and snapped it into two, then gestured back on his legs. Her forwardness made Ivar debate to put her name back on his lift of Wrath. It was ironic; all throughout his life he'd hated the leather braces that kept his legs from further damaging. But now that he'd lost them, he missed them dearly. It wasn't for simple safekeeping, it was the lack of the straps that made him feel weak; exposed. It was so easy for others to see his flaws.
Ivar attempted something uncharacteristic, he tried to brush off Piglet's question and see it through the fingers. Collecting all the bones, he clasped his hands together and gave it a good shake before throwing them into the circle.
"That's five, five, four, three and three," Ivar counted, remembering the specific ways of all the sides, "asbet eshr," Ivar pronounced with difficulty, drawing fifteen lines in tally marks.
"Fifteen," he lectured, tapping his fingers down on the last line.
"Fith-theen?" Piglet jabbered, repositioning herself Indian styled and tilted her head to recount Ivar's scar; "asbet eshr, fifth-theen." she concluded and leaned in to pick up the knucklebones.
Ivar arched a sly brow and chuckled deviantly, enough to make her rethink her actions: "are you sure you want to be doing that Piglet?" Ivar questioned, giving his innocuous words meaning by pushing his palm to the middle of the dirt circle, pressing one of the bones into the sand.
"Because if I can grab your dice, that means I can grab you, get it?" He showed her a toothy smile and slouched back against the wooden frame of his box. Now this was a game he liked; cat and mouse.
The change of atmosphere did not go by unnoticed; Piglet's back went stiff and deep set brows clearly made her rethink her actions.
"C'mon Piglet, marvel me with your agility," Ivar taunted, enjoying every little bit of the slave's anguish; he could practically hear her heart galloping inside her chest. Her eyes bounced from the dices back and forth to him before she finally dared to make a move and snatched four bones from the circle.
"Impressive," Ivar clapped his hands three times, the empty sound filled up the shed, "but you need five to play your savage little game," holding up his right hand he rolled the last of her knucklebones back and forth between his fingers.
Frustration crinkled her eyes from the sight of Ivar's taunting and huffing, she got up on her feet, slamming the four pieces of her game into one of her many pockets and roamed back to her corner of the shed. Soon her prayers chanted through the shed, probably favoring her god to smother her hostel guest in his sleep.
Ivar smirked and hid the knucklebone inside his trousers. He'd gotten what he wanted; entertainment at the expense of the Christian servant.
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A/N: Well, he did not try to kill her, I guess I can call it progress. And they managed to learn a few words of each other's language, we're getting somewhere.
Xoxoxo Nukyster