A son's howl tears the sky asunder [birthing]

*Ragnar* · May 24, 2014, 03:13 PM

So I'm thinking he came somewhere between her mid-birthing of Gunnar and before Gyda (because I really wanted him to see her being born the most). Yay for ignorant character assumptions, lol! :p

Ragnar knew, without knowing how he actually knew — it was just a feeling in his bones — that this day would be the day his sons would be born into the world. It for this reason that he was loathe to part from Thistle despite that the past couple of days parting had been hard because she was close to giving birth. It could have been hours, minutes, seconds at any given time; but there were duties that needed his attention, borders that needed to be patrolled and it was with that thought in his mind that he had limped away from the den he shared with his wife.

As it was the Viking had only been part way into his patrol, his normal brisk pace hindered by the awkward limp in which he moved so not to rip open his healing wounds. Ragnar was not the type of man that believed in ‘bedrest’. He chose to carry on because that was all he knew how to do. He did not know how to bow down to weakness, illness, injury. He did not know how to bow period. His insubordination was a little bit more warranted now, given his ascension to leadership but in many ways it still lingered. He had just paused to stretch, stretch his healing hip and leg, and to relieve himself, leg lifting to urinate on a tree trunk when Thistle’s howl cut through the mid-morning air like a sharp knife aimed right at him. A low string of sounds left the Viking’s lips — not really words (and if they were they were entirely unintelligible) — as he finished urinating, kicked back some clumps of grass and lunged towards the den ignoring his healing leg by pushing himself harder than he had in days. He was nearly healed anyway and if the scabs tore off it would simply mean three more scars to add to his collection.

They were coming. His sons were coming into the world and he wasn’t there. This thought propelled the mass of muscle to move faster, adding fuel to the fire that already pushed him forward. He slowed upon the approach, scenting them. The children. Childbirth was a unique scent and one that he recognized even when Dagmar’s body had forced her to give birth to the stillborns too early. It was the same smell and for a moment he lingered at the mouth of the den, hearing Thistle’s heavy and pained pants, ears straining to hear some kind of sound that let him know the small babes she had given birth to already were alive; Ragnar heard no cries. A deep, dark fear that made his blood feel like it had turned to ice in his veins, like every organ had froze with his dread. Black, leathery nostrils flared, the strong column of his throat working furiously as he tried to grasp a hold of his suddenly rampant and fierce emotions. Not again. It seemed a silly thing to fear. He was a big man, powerful, yet for all his power if his children were stillborn there was nothing he could do to give them life.

For a moment he allowed his trepidation to paralyze him, hold him captive in it’s clutching and crushing claw until he swallowed it, for Thistle’s sake the most, and slid into the den, eyes adjusting to it’s dimness. The Viking stayed close to the wall away from her, not sure if she would lash out at him in pain, wanting to glimpse at her stomach, wanting too but suffering from the realization that he also didn’t want to. There were deep marks in the earth where her claws had gouged into it and finally he braved a glimpse to see two small little fuzz balls curled close to her, each suckling — it was now that her pants had subsided that he could hear them suckling from her swollen teats — and relief nearly crippled him as he slid to his stomach staring at them — one who seemed to be coated in a smoky black (he was not facing Ragnar so he couldn’t see his markings), the other looked like Thistle. “Thistle,” The Viking called to his wife, heavily accented voice thick with the things he couldn’t find the words to say. “They are beautiful, are they sons?” He was not in the position of telling their gender currently and wondered if it was something Thistle might know.

Ragnar had just drawn nearer to Thistle, to brush his muzzle against hers and offer her a few licks when a small, wet little ‘plop’ noise was heard and he recoiled back as she drew the sac closer leaving a wide birth of soiled and damp earth and began to clear the small child as if she had done it a thousand times and was a pro at it. By this point, Ragnar sort of figured she was. Ragnar didn’t even get a good glimpse before he murmured, without really thinking, “My daughter?” And when Thistle nudged her towards the two boys nestled against her, one seemed to be snoozing while the other one still suckled greedily, Ragnar drew closer to examine her. She was silver, though her coloration was darker than Ragnar’s own, but that did not matter. He was too deluded to understand that there was no way that the girl was his by blood but that was what he thought, that the girl was his by flesh and blood (he doesn’t share in Tokio’s OOC knowledge). It didn’t matter if the boys were Crete’s, or even in a moment of doubt, if they were all blood to Crete. They were Ragnar’s; had been Ragnar’s since the very start and in that way they were flesh and blood. “Ein, Tveir, Átta,” Ragnar numbered them in his native tongue, touching each of the babes’ backs with his muzzle, gently, inhaling their unique baby scent. “My little Gyda,” He murmured in a hushed, conspirator tone to the silver girl, naming her before he was supposed too, loving each of them though he did not yet know them. He was their father. It was his job to love them unconditionally no matter what kind of trouble they would get into, or even if they grew up to hate him.

He nudged his muzzle against Thistle’s, peppering a trail of kisses along her jaw. “You did good, my love,” He murmured to her affectionately, before he left the den, knowing Thistle would probably like to rest and shrugged out of it’s mouth, breathing in the new air, grinning like an idiot to himself as he threw back his head and howled his rejoice, announcing the birth of their children to all of the Ridge proudly. As his song ended, fading into the distance the Beta laid down at the mouth of the den, making his body a barrier between the outside world and the precious lives that lived within it.