Ragnar was unaware of his wife’s care in his slumber created both by the lack of energy Odinn’s possession had left him with and the temperament of the fever that burned him now. In truth, it was not that surprising and should have been expected because it was Thistle. That was what she did. As it stood, he was unaware, and to Ragnar, it had nothing to do with the mushrooms and everything to do with the merging of Odinn’s wraith form and power into Ragnar and the fact that the Allfather left something, some small piece of himself within his descendant. It was pointless to even bother arguing with the Viking because he was so certain of it - though he had always been entirely devoted to his faith - that any attempts at making him see what ever so called reality anyone else lived in (i.e. the absence of Ragnar’s Gods) would end up dealing with a very aggressive Viking. He didn’t care about anyone elses’ Gods, didn’t care what they believed as long as they didn’t try to force their beliefs (as contrasting as they were) down Ragnar’s throat as if he were supposed to swallow it with a smile. Oh, he would smile, but it would be a smile befit of an Angel of Death just before he delivered it. Death, that is.
There was a gasp from somewhere nearby, nearly missed by a narrow margin between heavy pants as Ragnar nearly clawed his way out of the den feeling like he might actually combust into flames if he stayed within it’s infernal confines for any second longer. His name, perhaps a relieved sound, left the lips of his golden angel but Ragnar barely acknowledged her as he broke free into the open, the air cool as it kissed at his feverishly hot skin beneath the irritating amount of fur he had. Glassy, half unfocused eyes glimpsed down at whatever plant-like substance Thistle had pushed towards him. For a second he stared at with quiet contemplation unsure of why she was giving him it. He didn’t need it. He didn’t want it. This was not some simple fever she could whisk away with her flowers. No, it was a rapturous kind of fire that burned through him, the remains of Odinn’s power and knowledge and soul even if it was a small sliver that lived in, now, within Ragnar’s own. His body was weak, his mouth dry, his muscles aching; besides the other ache he felt at the admittedly erotic dreams he had of his wife, likely a manifestation of the tempting scent she had began to give off a few days prior, horrendously similar to the scent of her heat season. In his dreams, she hadn’t been heavily pregnant with child but he didn’t care.