Ankyra Sound deliverance

kja finds whittier's body an hour (or so) after this post — open to anybody!

 

The end of Kjalarr's patrol took him to enjoy a casual stroll along the beach. The sand was warm beneath his paws, the lull of the ocean comforting to the Loðbrok who had been born by it. At one time he had been ignorant of it's power, had even feared it after it had spit him out, barely alive onto this very beach: a sopping wet and gaunt child; but the Viking did not fear it as he once had. He respected it, yes, but he gave no further thought to the fact that it could take lives: that, in truth, he had been fortunate that it had spared him his. A silhouette became visible among the froth and gentle lap of waves, a scent drenched in salt water but familiar: as familiar to Kjalarr as his own. Whittier. At first, the Viking did not notice that anything was amiss. The monochromacy and distance blurred the finer details. “Come on Whit, it can't be that bad!” Kjalarr called out in jest to his brother. Whittier made no response, not even a flicker of his ear. “At least you didn't have to patrol with me.” Kjalarr grinned as he padded closer to his brother, believing that Whittier was simply pouting, playing like he had not heard Kjalarr.

He was good at the game, Kjalarr thought.

“Whit,” Kjalarr sighed, but as he drew nearer he became acutely aware that something was very wrong. The grin fell from his lips and his steps faltered. Dread pooled like ice in his stomach and adrenaline pulsed furiously through his veins. His brother did not draw breath, did not move. “Whittier?” Kjalarr pushed forth through the last mound of sand that divided them. “No, no, no,” Kjalarr nudged his brother's salt water drenched cheek, muttering the only word his brain could think of over and over like a mantra: as if it were the only word he remembered. The waves lapped around them, having pushed his body up onto the shore. “Whittier!” Kjalarr snarled at the corpse as grief struck hold of his heart and he harshly bumped his muzzle against the Frostfur's own though this was futile. It elicted no response from the deceased Frostfur.

“Stay with me brother,” But Kjalarr knew, even in the depths of denial that gripped him now, he had lost Whittier before he'd even found him. A noise wretched itself from Kjalarr's chest: a sob, a snarl of heartache of losing a brother...one that he had sworn...had promised to protect. He had failed Whittier, he failed the Frostfur's. It was his fault for not making Whittier run the patrol with him, for if he had Kjalarr did not doubt that Whittier would still be alive. Grumbling and complaining, no doubt, but alive. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Kjalarr murmured pathetically to his brother's corpse, already stiffened from death. Kjalarr sunk to the soft sand beneath them, his grief tearing through him like the blade of a sword, siphoning him of strength. He pressed his muzzle into the thick fur at Whittier's neck before it rose skyward and a wretched noise morphed in a mournful howl of pain and grief, tearing him asunder inside.