Dragoncrest Cliffs my tree house is on fire

She seemed, to Kjalarr, to be a bit of a mess but for all he knew this sort of behavior was the norm for women who were pregnant...especially women who didn't want the children. Though his evening shared with Freyja had been fun as she had described her night Kjalarr couldn't help but feeling that he was inherently glad that he'd dodged this particular bullet. The goddess would not return to him with ill news of bearing his children and that in, and of itself, was simply, perhaps, luck that he was too young. “Probably,” Kjalarr agreed with her when she mumbled about going back home. In truth: he'd given her the out, the only advice the young Loðbrok was capable of giving her given how out of depth he truly was, never mind how barbaric it had been; and as cruel as it no doubt was: he didn't want to deal with this any longer. 

He was not a beast made for handling tears, apparently.

Kjalarr did not offer her any parting words as she made her way past him, heading back to her home he presumed. He had not asked her because he had not cared and turned to watch her departure before he licked his chops once, yawned and loped back towards the borders of Saltwinter, thinking that something from one of the pack's caches was calling his name.