Life liked to throw curve balls. Some were good and some tried the patience and strength of those left surviving it’s weight. Ragnar had always believed, as did most of his culture, that their lives were Fated. Things did not happen on coincidence, nothing was nearly so chaotic in his line of faith. So when the putrid scent of blood heavy and fatal in the air, something large on the cusp between life and death — a lot of blood — Ragnar did not expect to find what it was he had found when he had woken after Thistle’s cries and followed her to the beach, confused. He had expected a sea lion, perhaps, or a deer a pack-mate had trapped between him/herself and the ocean; but the water ran crimson, the sand stained with the lifeblood of the black shape, horrendously distorted, twisted oddly figure that a neat trail of blood, accompanied by the fading paw marks of something that was too large to be a wolf and for an instant the world around the Viking froze as he tried to make sense of what was folding before his sharp eyes with each step forward; his heart beat growing heavier with each ghostly motion that carried him forth — or rather he tried vehemently to deny what he knew, deep in his heart, in his gut, and in his stomach where it felt like ice had pooled.

Was it wrong to want to believe that what was evident wasn’t so? Was it selfish to want to believe, with a fierceness that tore at his heart with a gut-wrenching force that caused the Northman to stumble pitifully as he approached the broken yet still breathing body of his leader where his wife was babbling begging Pump to hold on. Of his friend that the Gods were wrong? That one could chose their own fate? His heart was heavy, his limps heavy as his breathing made rapid tears from his black, leathery nostrils as he tried for the first time in a very long time not to cry.

Heat had began to creep, unbidden, beneath his eyes, tears pooling along the bottom lid, body shivering from the realization that Pump was dying and that he could do nothing for her. Healing her was useless, he knew, her spine had been severed …there was no fixing it and yet as Thistle pleaded with her Ragnar couldn’t bring himself to bring it to her attention. There was no patching her together in the hopes that she would pull through. There was no pulling through. It was ironic…how many times he had seen and dealt death on the battlefield, on raids, to his own brother and yet here and now the realization that someone dear to him was dying: someone he respected and in a platonic way, even, loved was facing Valhalla. The last time he had felt this way when Eitri had been killed by Björn. Perhaps it was because there was an attachment. Something that tied Ragnar to her and selfishly he did not want to let Odinn take her from them. Thistle had scurried off and Ragnar wondered if his wife had even realized he had been there. “Pump…” He breathed when she sighed her last breath and spoke in a low murmur to his friend’s corpse knowing that she did not follow his faith but needing to do it anyway, knowing that Odinn was there, regardless. “May you find salvation in Valhalla. May you drink and feast and fight and know that one day we will join you there.” He took a ragged breath then, and took a step back realizing that her blood was staining his paws red.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

Yet his own path was abundantly clear to him even if it hurt him to recognize it…that that specific door opened at the death of a dear friend and well respected fellow leader. It was not how he had wanted it. Ragnar understood, however; that life rarely worked how they wanted it. It was Fate. For a long second his eyes closed and drew strength from the unseen but felt presence of Odinn, knowing now that he was to step up to the mantle and that he needed to protect his wolves …his family from the bear. Horizon Ridge was no longer safe because the bear was no longer benevolent. It had slaughtered Pump and he would not allow the same Fate for any of the others. A deep breath was taken, eyes opened, and he threw his head back and let out a mournful howl to reach all of Horizon Ridge.

Informing them of her death. He would allow them to mourn…he needed to mourn but their safety was also a major concern to him now and their lives now solely had passed onto his shoulders; he made his way numbly back to the den where Thistle was babbling about what she would need and slowly he drew nearer until his muzzle touched her head as she broke down and began to sob. It hurt his heart even more to hear Thistle sob as such. “My love,” He spoke his voice thick with his sorrow, accent heavier with the emotions that pushed against him like a tsunami wave within. “She is…she is gone from us. To Valhalla,” It was hard him to speak as a few stray tears slid down his muzzle, staining the fur. “We must return to her body, I will not leave her there for the bear to pick clean.” He held her tighter for a moment before he broke apart and returned to Pump’s broken corpse trying to sort through and tuck his emotions away the best he could. He had a lot to do now and wolves that needed him, needed him to be strong, to lead them. He could mourn in full later when things were sorted, he knew.

Thistle did not come back and for that Ragnar was glad. He had not seen Nerian but he had heard her howl rise into the air. In the end only Surra came, filling Ragnar with the relief that he would not have to bury her broken body alone. His blood pulsed cold within his veins as he glimpsed down at her as the other male neared. Surra seemed to recoil for a second, and though seeing a friend like this tore him up seeing her severed spine and broken body wasn’t, really, new for Ragnar. He had seen much worse as far as broken bodies went. The difference, of course, had been astronomical. It hadn’t bothered him as this did because he hadn’t known those wolves. For a moment, Ragnar stared at Surra, waiting to see what the other man would do. If he did not have the stomach to assist Ragnar in what needed to be done the newly appointed Alpha wouldn’t hold it against him. It was gruesome, of that, there was no doubt; it wasn’t like it was an easy task, at that. Her broken body would make it hard to move her and what was already grotesque might become worse from the action but Ragnar wasn’t going to let her body stay here for the bear to return too when it piqued his interest once more, and she deserved the respect of a burial.

Surra, however, did not retreat, earning the Viking’s admiration when he seemed to steel himself and approach, inquiring as to how he could help. “We have to move her body off of the shore,” That was the first thing, at least, “Away from this spot on the occurrence that the bear comes back for her,” The Viking took a deep breath. “This isn’t going to be a gentle job,” He warned because though he didn’t want to disrespect Pump’s corpse at the same time they were not humans and didn’t have the advantage of hands to assist them. “It might even be difficult since her spine is severed and there’s nothing well…” Keeping her in one piece but he didn’t want to say it. Not out loud. He looked to the spot where the sand faded to solid dirt and earth. “We can bury her by that tree line there. If you want you can begin to dig the grave and I’ll take care of moving her.” He wasn’t squeamish and a body torn in two, sadly, wasn’t the worse thing he’d seen in his life.

“Thank you for staying to help,” Ragnar said before he gestured for Surra to make his choice: whether he deigned to begin digging the grave or would assist Ragnar in helping to move her body off the sands, before the Viking took the initial step and initiated the long process of her burial.