Kjalarr had went about his morning patrols as normal, trying to avoid his wife’s aggression when he dropped the plump rabbits at the mouth of the den letting out a low chuff to announce breakfast before he had retreated. He deigned to give her, her space, though he could not help but think about how claustrophobic she might feel being cooped up in the birthing den as the days ticked by slowly: like the ache of blood beneath a bruise. He was on edge as he walked his patrol though there was no apparent reason for it. The winds were calm and the borders were fortified, empty except for those who patrolled them, like him. Yet, he was anxious, nervous, the yearning to be by Ondine’s side powerful. After a few minutes of this heightened anxiety he marked where his patrol ended and abruptly moved deeper into the forest, his movements swift with purpose. His hackles bristled with unease as the pungent scent of blood writhed around the birth den’s entrance. His first thought was of Maude, that she had attacked Ondine while his wife slumbered. For a moment, the viking hesitated and would he have been human might have paled significantly. Yet, the pirate’s scent was no where to be found around the den and another horrible scenario filled Kjalarr’s mind as he stood, frozen with imagined terror, staring blankly at the dark, yawning mouth of the den.

Yet, when the Norseman strained to hear past the rapid and loud beat of his heart within it’s prison of flesh and bone he heard signs of life. Ondine’s breathing, the soft sound of suckling and quick, rapid breaths. Not usual, that. He knew it in the marrow of his bones with a dread that dropped like the weight of an iron stone in his belly. Slowly, Kjalarr’s muscles thawed and the viking became animate once more, striding the rest of the way, shrugging his way into the den without invitation. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the den easily, for he’d always been able to see in the shadows better. His gaze fell upon Ondine first, noting that she lay on her side before it flickered to the small blob: white against the dark floor of the den though for a second the child: their son almost blended in with Ondine. Except for the sand colored feet that to Kjalarr’s monochromacy looked grey. Though it did not seem like it should be possible: Kjalarr loved the boy: his boy already.

He sucked in a breath between his teeth, as his gaze slid to the girls whom nestled beside their brother. They did not suckle as his son did, instead concentrated their feeble energy on drawing breaths which were short, shallow. Labored. His ears fell back upon his skull and a soft whimper left the viking’s lips. They were unwell. Suffering.

It broke the young father’s heart.

His instincts begged for him to draw forth, to take the girls in his mouth and end their misery. They would not live long, anyway. Though he was not sure how he knew it, he just did. The same way he knew when he was ill, or when prey was a prime target because it was sickly or elderly or weaker than the others. It was just…instinct. “Ondine,” He tore his eyes away from the girls, struggling against the lump of emotion lodged in the strong column of his throat. He wanted to praise her, wanted to tell her that their son was beautiful; but he couldn’t. Not yet. First, he had to address their dying daughters. “They will not survive.” Kjalarr stated gently, accented voice raw and choked with pain. “I will make it quick and painless,” He soldiered on, pleading for her permission. He wanted to say more but found that he could not. It was bizarre to feel joy at the birth of his son: healthy and full of life but to feel sorrow and pain for his sickly daughters that would not survive the week, if even the day.

Her caring mate soon showed up, as if he had sensed that something was happening. How lucky she had been with Kjalarr by her side - how lucky she was with their darling son. She lifted her head weakly, bi-colored eyes looking at the bunch and then back to her mate. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, both of happiness and sadness. She softly gave both girls a lick over their heads as Kjalarr's words reached her very core. They would indeed not survive, and they were suffering. She pulled both girls closer and snuggled them against her chest. mommy loves you... she whispered to them sweetly before shoving them carefully toward Kjalarr.

Kjalarr watched as Ondine drew the gasping, struggling, dying girls close to her, his ears slicking back his skull, his throat working furiously as he tried to stifle the swell of sorrow and grief at what he knew he had to do, at what his instincts were telling him to do. Letting them live was not a kindness and he knew it. They would suffer with each breath they drew and there was a chance their sickly dispositions could attract unwanted attention to the den and put their son, despite his health, at risk. Her whispered words was like the crack of a whip against the Viking’s heart but his resolve was strong and when Ondine shoved them — with gentleness he noted — towards them Kjalarr scooped one up, gently between his jaws feeling her fragility and lain her gently against the snow outside before he returned for the second. Once outside he took them one at a time a bit away, secluded. He stared down at the shivering bodies rasping their final, painful breaths before him. His salmon pink tongue drew across his lips.

“You fight bravely for your lives little ones,” Kjalarr spoke to them, knowing that they were deaf and could not hear him but his words were fore Freyja, Frigga and Odin just as they were for his dying daughters. “but it is not a fight you can win and I cannot allow you to suffer. It is an honorable death and Odin’s Valkyries will take you to Valhalla where you will grow strong and fierce under the guidance of the great Allfather and your grandfather, Ragnar.” He choked a bit on the words. He ended their lives quickly, as he promised Ondine. It hadn’t taken much. A bit of pressure and he felt the snap of their fragile bones. The sound was a familiar one but somehow knowing it was his own daughters made it sickening to him.

With a ragged breath he began to dig, heaving up chunks of frozen earth. It was unyielding beneath his claws but still he dug a sizable hole that he thought might be deep enough to keep predators from sniffing them out before he placed them in their grave and covered the hole, pressing the weight of his paws against the mound to press it down an pack the earth tight. He grabbed the nearest rock of a decent size he could find and place it over the grave. With shoulders sagged with the weight of the lives he had ended (despite that he knew it was the right thing to do) he returned to the den, settling against the mouth, using his bulk to block the chill and keep out unwanted guests, deigning to give the mother and newborn space.

In grief Kjalarr was numb to many things but surprise, as it turned out, was not one of them. He felt it when he caught the movement of Maude emerging out of the shadows out of the corner of his eye. His first instinct was to chase her away with a curl of his lip and a snarl, afraid for a moment that she might go for the fragile bodies of his daughters their life snuffed out by his own jaws. Yet, she did not and Kjalarr did not. He was still as the pirate whined and nuzzled him, receptive but he did not return it. To his (further) surprise Maude helped him dig their grave and though the viking wished to tell her that this was his burden: to dig the grave and bury his daughters he did not do that, either. He didn’t think Maude would listen, anyway and thus deigned not to waste his breath.

It was as he settled against the mouth of the den and turned his icy gaze to Maude’s lingering form that he heard Ondine’s weak whine for him. His ear twitched towards the den he blocked with his flesh and bone, only to slick back against his skull when Maude chuffed at him. It was almost ironic how in that moment he felt torn, a physical representation of many of his feelings. “I’ll join you in a moment, Ondine.” The viking promised his wife glimpsing over a broad shoulder to the mouth of the den before he turned back to Maude. “Thank you.” Kjalarr offered Maude sincerely, his ears slicking back against his skull. As for what else he was meant to say: he didn’t know.