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Parting from his wife had always been hard, though parting from his wife and children proved to be the ultimate test of Ragnar’s will power. Without his presence he felt that he was leaving them vulnerable to the world despite that he knew he had his duties as Head Warden, and leadership things that needed to be taken care of. Pump had promoted him and he had told her, by accepting, that he could handle the burden of all he had to do. This wasn’t exactly Ragnar’s first time around the block of parenthood, leadership, and the Head Warden duties all at once. When he and Floki had decided to tell the boy they had more or less kidnapped that he was Ragnar’s son and named him Týr (despite that Ragnar had Floki’s horrible mothering to assist) Ragnar had done more than his fair share of the work. Granted, the boy was not a newborn but that made it ten times harder, in retrospect. Ragnar had been a father, the Jarl, and Lead Berserker during those times, having never stepped down from the leader of the raids when he had taken his brother’s place as King of the Cove. His men had trusted him, needed him to lead them on raids. So, no, Ragnar wasn’t what anyone would considered a ‘green boy’ when it came to carrying multiple duties, all of which needed his attention with equal importance.
His limp was less and less, though he had pulled a muscle the other day trying to get to Thistle to watch the birth of his children as fast as he could, but it was hardly anything serious or irreversible damage. He had conveniently not told Thistle of this simply for the fact that she had more important things to worry about than him. Namely, three tiny numbered things. Her undivided attention, as far as Ragnar was concerned, belonged to them. He had finished his patrols in a timely fashion at about early-afternoon and decided to head back to the den, thinking that he might surprise Thistle with letting her get out and get some sun and stretch if she wanted too. Ragnar was fairly confident he could handle three tiny newborns for a while, it wasn’t like they could get into trouble. They couldn’t see, hear, or even lift their heads yet.
Ragnar’s gaze touched each of them in turn, lingering a little longer on his (secret) Gyda, the child that the Viking was now certain came out of his night of stolen passion with Thistle before their mateship, shortly after Crete had taken her (though this was a false assumption). They, each of them, was looked upon with fatherly affection, holding a piece of his heart in their tiny little paws.
After his mother left the being that shared the den with him and the 2 other little things that he often crawled over. Though truthfully, he was usually at the brunt of the one rather hefty blob that rudely crawled all over him even chewing his ears in search of the sweet milk that filled their bellies. As he was protesting he was soon silenced as a new warmth made its way for him. This one felt larger than the other one and unfortunately there was nothing for him to suckle on, he had checked and he protested that loudly as well.
One of the babes, it became abruptly apparent when Thistle rose and departed, did not like her absence if the shrieking cry of protest was anything for Ragnar to go off of.
Ragnar glimpsed down at Tveir when the boy started toothlessly gumming at Ragnar’s fur in search of what he wasn’t going to find.
As he was lifted he protested as his little legs and paws windmilled around trying to figure out what was going on. All he felt was a light weigh sensation and open air. Nothing beneath him and it scared him and he squalled as loud as he could. Soon enough his squalls were cut short as he was yet again nestled between something warm and the ever heaven sent ground was beneath him and he no longer felt that weightlessness. Forgetting that feeling he yet again rolled and scooted and crawled however he could get to the warmth and curled into it. He hated being cold not that he would know what that was. He just disliked the feeling.
There was a moment of silence from the second born from Ragnar talking to him, not that Ragnar had disillusioned himself into thinking that the second born could understand; he did not know much about the development of newborns but he knew that they were blind, deaf, and their sense of touch was likely their most dominate sense since he had heard from his mother once (in the way that old women gossiped about their successful sons time as babes) that their sense of smell was weak. Even after they began to hear they would not still understand until they learned languages. Ragnar assumed that it was the vibrations of his vocals that pacified the young, mini-me of Thistle; however short lived it might have been. For a moment, eyes studying the awake child with unbidden affection only to nearly drop him when the child let out a loud wail of protest at being lifted. Ragnar, frightened that his grasp had slacked on the squirming infant grasped onto his scruff tighter in the blind, parental fear that Tveir would squirm right out of his grasp and fall to the earth in a crushing impact of potentially breaking his tiny body. It was a horrible scenario that had played out in the Viking’s mind and he was quick to set the second born down between his paws, his heart feeling like it had jumped into his throat.
He had boasted to anyone that called him a ‘first time father’ that he was not a first time father — it was not a lie but his oldest son had been a captive, already past the infant stage when he had been captured and then adopted by the Viking and his Berserkers. Ragnar was a first time father where the infants were concerned and so far he’d already had his mini heart attack.
The second born began to crawl (Tokio is assuming, if not feel free to correct her!) towards the curve of Ragnar’s chest in the mini cage that Viking had made of his long legs, and the Viking rumbled a laugh when he felt the second born nestle against it.
Tveir nestled into the warmth of the fur that gathered around him. He made small noises of perhaps happiness or comfort. He wasn't really sure he was just making noise for the most part to make it. He couldn't do much else. He also moved his little legs and paws around wondering what on earth they were and since he couldn't see them he wouldn't know for some time what his legs and paws were.
he didn't feel the other little beings around him and for a moment perhaps it was relief he felt to not be bowled over and rolled on and gummed to kingdom come. Not that he would know what any of that really was. With one last sound he fell to sleep and his uproarious snores soon followed. A loud sound by a little boy.
The Second Born nestled tighter against Ragnar’s chest and the Viking’s ear twitched a few times, cupping forth to catch the noises from outside the den, the shuffling of Thistle outside as she …did whatever it was she was doing, the whispers of the winds through the trees, rustling the leaves as it murmured through the tall grasses, across the rippling water of the small pond a few feet below their den. It was the sound of summer, accented by the calls of birds high above, occasionally the cry of a raven, of Huginn or Muninn. Sounds that his children would soon be able to hear when their ears opened. He glimpsed down at what he could see of Thistle’s mini-me, a ball of sandy colored fuzz pressed against the pallid and sharp contrasting silver moonlight of Ragnar’s own fur, little paws pressing against his side — a quick glimpse back told him it was the eldest son with his odd markings reminiscent of Sveinn, strange though it was — before a noise of contentment (or so that was how Ragnar chose to take the small noise Tveir made as) escaped the Second Born’s little mouth muffled by the colossus and strong curve of the Viking’s chest (in comparison to the babes, at least he felt like a colossal titan or something).
For a rare moment as his children slept nestled against him — for it did not take Ragnar long to realize that the Second Born was asleep by his surprisingly loud snores that caused the Viking to chuckle fondly before he cut himself off afraid the vibration of his mirth might disturb one of the three slumbering children. Ragnar shifted his back legs to a more comfortable position, stretching them out so they worked to curve around Ein and Átta. There was nothing to watching the infants, really. He tried to see where Tveir’s face was facing and in accordance laid his head to rest on the opposite paw so the boy would be able to breathe. Gradually, the Viking’s eyes slid closed realizing that he was perhaps more exhausted than he took time to realize. Guarding the den all night did not leave him much time for a deep sleep and though he did his duties as husband, father, leader, and Head Warden without any complaint it was a nice thought to be utterly selfish and steal some shut eye wrapped around his children’s embraces (so to speak).
Thistle heard Tveir's snores coming from inside the den and she chuckled to herself gently. The boy was definitely a noisy child. She gently stepped back into the den so as to not wake the little ones only to find her husband fast asleep as well. A small chuckled escaped her maw before she clamped it down.
She lay down in the front of the den mouth able to look down in but not allow anyone else in while she studied the sleeping forms of her family. Her husband large and domineering over the little ones, though he couldn't help his size and she quite liked it as it were anyway. Tveir was nestled between his front limbs he must of been playing with the boy before they fell asleep together.
Ragnar had only began to fall asleep when Thistle had re-entered the den, having just been lulled into the wispy drudges of slumber surrounded by the comfort his children provided him, unworried because they were where he felt they were the safest: nestled against him. It went with the unspoken vow that so long as Ragnar drew breath he would never allow harm to befall them. The Viking had stirred at the sound of Thistle’s entrance though it was her chuckle that pulled him from the depths that he had began to sink down into, eyes blinking open, taking in the somehow groggy dimness of the den, surprised to find Thistle where he normally slept instead of by his side where he wanted her.
She smiled once to herself as she thought of her husband. He maybe a savage wild man, but lord knows she loved him anyway. And all things considered he was a good father one of the best.
Ragnar watched as Thistle moved, stepping carefully over the curled bodies of their children, settling against his side, the pressure of her head resting against his back soothing. It exposed a vulnerable area to her — his spine — but if he could not trust his own wife not to kill him in his sleep he could trust no one.