The mother is gone. The father paces restlessly, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Twin pairs of eyes watch his movements, huddled weakly together in the sparse fur nest.

"They've got to die," he mutters to himself. "Why can't she see that? We can't keep them and us fed! Not like I didn't try... little shits..." He hisses savagely at the stunted pair. "Got me thrown off the guard, for trying to take meat home to you!" He snorts, and snaps his beak, then goes back to pacing.

Internal clocks, tied invisibly to the twin suns above, tell the little ones that night as fallen. Only twice have they even seen the outside, but the experience of the great 'above', the huge brightness, and later the incredible dark, left a lasting impression. The father as been pacing and cursing off and on the entire day, but at last he has come and settled in the nest. Grateful for the warmth, both young have huddled against him, shivering. He stares down at them, eyes dark with hate and frustration. "She'll just.... have to understand," he mutters, and the great deadly hook of his beak descends, slowly, and holds the neck of the male.

"What are you doing?" comes the welcome voice of mother, dark and savage and accusing. The drake's head snaps up sharply, eyes wide.

"Just tucking him closer!" he lies, "They were cold!" Tomorrow. When she's gone, he'll kill them both, and say... some other drake came in and did it. But at least she brought food! She always was a better hunter than he was. She glares untrustingly at him, stalking across to join him on the nest, on the other side of the young. They immediately crawl away from his side, to the safety of Her.

She feeds them first, giving them as much as their shrunken crops will hold. Then another chunk set aside for later, when they've moved some of it. Then she splits the rest with the male, who bolts most of his quickly, leaving almost half. Then, while she's still eating, he sidles over and slides atop her. She snarls, but continues eating as he covers her, wincing a little at his careless eagerness.

"Dear one," he croons, exhausted and sated, "You know it's true. We can't keep them alive like this. There just isn't enough prey out there..."

The hen's eyes are dark and wet, and she looks at the weak, scrawny children. "You're right," she says softly. "The four of us can't make it on what hunt there is."

Father's head lifts from his foreclaws, and he looks at her, suprised. "I'm glad you're finally seeing reason!" he murmurs. "Want me to do it?"

"No... no... I'll do it. But tomorrow... not tonight. Not now. Come...." she rises, and steps away from the nest, waking both the little ones from their doze. "... Come, let me preen you a little. I've been hard on you. Let me make it up to you. Things... will be different, tomorrow."

"Well, you haven't been very understanding," he agrees, following after her. Together, side by side, it's obvious even to the fledgelings how much rounder their father is. He nuzzles her, still drained and wet from minutes before, and rouses as her beak nestles down through his neckfeathers.

There is a sickening crunch, an aborted squawk of suprise, and a heavy thud. Twin pairs of young eyes stare silently as blood and urine slowly pool beneath their father, who twitches, and then lays still.

"You'll eat better tomorrow," promises their mother, her head dipping down again. To feed.