Björn had spent the better time of his time sleeping, though his skin was heated beneath his coat, still full with the coarse and thick fur of winter. His sleep was restless, the scooting and moving in the grass patch he had settled for since a den had been frowned upon. Björn supposed unless it was an old birthing den it would be hard to tend to his wounds for the fawn colored girl seemed persistent in tending to him despite his vocal protests. Björn was many things, a man being the most prominent of them, and though he could have purred like a cat under the brush of her fur against his, drinking in her close proximity and her attention, the brush of her lips upon his split flesh sending small sparks of shivers unintentional as he was sure they were down the length of his spine as she tended to him, he did not necessarily like the fussing.

In the flush of his fever he had explicitly dreamed of his gift Sif, of the curve of her body, her heat and the pride, lust and greed he felt as he conquered her, but he could not recall her face, and found that as the image of her faded in his mind, so did every thing else. It was not as if he could not get the same feeling from another woman - he had many before her and would have many after. Björn’s infidelity was predictable, his interest waning as quickly as it was known to come, or at least it seemed to wane after the chase was over and he had took what he thought was rightfully his, or what he wanted.

A bark stirred the Viking from his fever sleep and cold caribbean eyes glassy with his fever peered open, greedily seeking the fawn colored girl’s shape. “Come closer,” The Nord commanded in a husky tone before he pushed himself to his paws, unfeeling of the movement as it pulled sickeningly at his parted flesh.

Björn was unconcerned with his wound, figuring that he had been in the clear when he had rinsed it with salt water the day he had received it, however, this had proven to be untrue; though it likely did not help that he refused to accept the girl’s council as she ordered him about like some common Queen and often walked off to hunt, or relieve himself, or to just walk for the sake of wanting to move. Björn was a Jarl and not even his lovers had dared to tell him what to do, even though it was likely he was misperceiving her professional suggestions as commands. Björn knew a little about treating wounds but his knowledge did not extend beyond the basics, so the fact that he considered salt water the cure all was simply proof of this. His training had centered around the Berserkers - a type of Viking warrior, the art of women, and as he grew accustomed to the rank of Jarl, politics. He was as brazen, boorish and dangerous as his culture suggested he was, but when your women were the same, it was not repulsive to them. In this posh south Björn suspected he was considered a savage. He did not spend any amount of time dispelling this, if it were true. Glassy eyes watched as a frown pulled the girl’s lips down and the Nord let out a gruff cooing sort of noise, that quickly ended in a growl that rumbled in the strong confines of his muscular chest at her words. That answer did not satisfy him the brutish Viking.

“You will come to me when I tell you to, mær,” Deep voice, guttural with the fever passed through his lips, the dance of his native words brash and sweet upon his tongue, much like the poppy she sometimes gave him for the pain not that he ever opened his mouth to complain about it. Björn did not complain. He knew she would not and so he desired to close the distance despite that he would probably make her uncomfortable and his advances would likely be rejected. As if that would stop him. His body quivered with the fever as he was both hot and viciously cold, a nasty contradiction to one another, but still he drew nearer to her, ignoring her question, limping towards her, with the intention of raking his teeth seductively through the fur of her flank.

If Björn had wanted to at a later date when his body was not ravaged with fever, he could have easily claimed that his actions were simply a part of a delirium and that he had not been himself. In some ways, it would not qualify as a outright lie because he was delirious with fever and while it was effecting his thoughts it was not wholly delirium. In the delusion he had forgotten who he was supposed to be, the deceptively charming and handsomely but scarred Nord looking for his ‘long lost’ son, and instead knew only who he was and what he wanted. The maiden was not of his culture (and tokio is assuming maybe not a maiden at this point?) but that failed to matter to Björn. It had not mattered when he had taken Sif, who, also, was not a Viking, she had shied away from his advances and turned him down countless times despite that she was his. Circumstances were vastly different in this moment, and Björn was in a place where his culture’s ways was not so widely accepted.

Scarred and unscarred ears slicked back to his head as she scolded him. “Then don’t say things that displease me, mær,” The Viking spoke gruffly, simply. “My wound is reisiligr…,” Björn gave pause as if realizing that she would not understand his native words. “…healing.” He decided dismissively, attempting to shoo away her fussing and worries. Björn’s teeth had made contact with the warm fur of her flank and the Berserker was left to lick his teeth as she side swept him and asked him not to do it with the word kindly in front. A bubble of delirium induced laughter escaped his lips a husky sound as a smug sneer took his expression, glassy eyes locking upon her. “You say that with a conviction that I know what the word means,” The words ‘kindly’ and ‘Viking’ did not particularly ever walk hand in hand, or even remotely in the same sentence. Their culture was widely romanced but the glossy, romanced version was a false one.

He made to move but the shift of weight jarred his shoulder painfully, tearing at the infected scabs that had began to grow, and blood welled and spilled over. The pain as it shot through him like the kiss of red-hot metal to his skin, caused his eyes to darken with clarity, clearing his mind - if only temporarily - from the delirium. Lucid once more, he donned a sheepish expression, hinted with a bit of confusion for a nice effect as he blinked at her. While he was lucid, he was able to stop himself from being a heathen - or rather pretend not to be a heathen. “Damnit,” Slipped from his accent ridden tongue, both in disappointment in himself for slipping and because he’d opened what had began to scab. His nostrils flared as the metallic scent of his blood, coupled with the sickly scent of the festering taunted him. He lapped at the warm, crimson liquid as it spilled, attempting to keep it from matting in his fur.

Björn was good at being deceptive, it was an art he had practiced since he was young, and just because he didn’t like it, pretending to be something less than what he was, it didn’t mean he wasn’t skilled at it. Björn was nothing to these wolves, he did not have any false illusions, but in his stone cold heart he was a Jarl through and through, and nothing - not distance, or another home - would ever change that. The fawn girl’s words contradicted Björn’s dismissal of his wound, and the Viking scoffed at her, rebutting with a gruff, “I’ve had worse mær,”. The Nord did not look at wounds the same way as others did. Scars were trophies to be treasured, not ugly markings to be avoided. He tilted his scarred head towards her, as if to indicate to the ugly scars that almost stole the handsomeness from his left, unmarred half. “I do not fear a festering wound.” In essence, he did not fear death either, though he was not destined to go for years. He was young, and had things to do, missions given to him by Odinn himself.

The fawn colored girl had came back with a shell full of swirling salt water, and Björn ceased his licking at the wound, the taste of his blood lingering metallic in his mouth, different as it was from the taste of a prey’s blood. She called him a word whose meaning he was not fluently aware of ruffian but he assumed it was equivalent of ‘trouble-maker’ though in truth, he did not know. He chose not to answer her warning - for he knew full well that it would hurt - simply let the muscles of his body pull taunt as the cool water spilled from the shell and into his wound, burning as it rinsed through it and spilled down his fur, much like his blood had moments ago.

A hard grunt was given at the initial rush of hotter pain, but aside form that Björn did not make further noise. “You worry too much, mær.” Björn spoke through clenched jaw and gritted teeth.

The fawn colored girl he knew simply as ‘Thistle’ because it was easier and less of a mouthful for him to attempt to pronounce, contradicted his statement of fact with a thorn of her own, going on about how that was before she was on the ‘scene’. Björn took that to mean before they had met. “Are you making comment about how my previous medic took care of me?” The Viking inquired, caribbean blue eyes smoldering at her, daring her to say what he thought she had been saying, though a coy smile tugged at the edges of Björn’s lips as if to say that he was not as annoyed as he had led her to believe. “Lame,” Björn repeated the word, noting how it sounded different coming from his lips than it had from her own - though that of course was majority of his accent. “Odinn would not let that happen mær,” Björn told Thistle with confidence, having whole and unwavering faith in his Gods, specifically the King God. “He has plans for me.” On such plans, Björn had no intent of sharing for he reckoned she would understand what those plans were in time. It was an enigma that he liked to keep close, a coveted secret.

“Scars tell you a lot about a man,” Björn agreed in a thoughtful tone as the burning numbed his nerves, scarred and unscarred ears slicking back to half mast. “Who or what he’s fought, where he comes from,” Björn spoke the last in a quieter tone, thinking of the scars on his left ear and left half of his face. “A man who fights for his home, his love, his people…will have many, hidden scars, but strip away his fur and they are there. They are memoirs of his deeds, deeds that will see him to Valhalla.” He peered back over his shoulder to fix her in a single, caribbean blue eyes fixed into the handsome portion of his face.

“I did not claim to be in pain,” This did not mean that he didn’t feel pain because he did, however Björn considered himself too much of a man to complain about it. Complaining wouldn’t fix it, anyway. “How are berries going to shrink my wound?” Björn questioned, holding still nevertheless as he felt the pressure of her pressing the berries into his wound. “And who is going to take them out, maiden?” He asked next, substituting the Norse word for it’s common tongue equivalent.

“I am a Berserker, mær, I do not fear death or the omnipresent words of a worried healer,” Björn spoke in a dismissive tone with a flick of his tail. Not to mention he had been the Jarl, the Chieftain and after he had taken the throne from his brother he had no interest in taking orders from another. The throne had not been his initial goal - no that honor had belonged to Björn’s of the time lover Tyra whom had belonged to his brother - but he had won it in the battle to the death nevertheless. “Odinn,” Björn spoke the Allfather’s name with reverence, caressing it with the tones of his voice. “Is the Allfather, mær. The God that rules all the other Gods, he is also the God of curiosity. With him I feel a deep connection, a kinship.” Björn was even prone to getting visions of Odinn though he was not particularly eager to share this tidbit with her simply because he did not think she would understand. She was not a Viking, she did not believe in his Gods. Odinn’s name and power held no weight with her and there was no need to go into extravagant details.

“Valhalla is where we go when we die. It is the hall of heroes where we feast and train to be in Odinn’s army so we can fight alongside the Gods in Ragnarøkkr which is our version of your apocalypse, I suppose. Except Ragnarøkkr isn’t so final. Not all our Gods will die, and two mortal survivors will live on to repopulate the new life. It’s a purging and rebirthing of this world, you could consider it.” It was hard for Björn to make connections so he could explain in words that she would better understand, especially when he did know what she believed in - if anything; and while his common tongue was fluent there was a lot he did not know, or understand of their cultures.

“I would rather you take them out, maiden,” Björn told her simply, because one: he liked her attention and two: he was not so sure water would flush all of the berries from his skin and Björn did not want to chance it. The ‘Jopi Weed’ was pushed towards him, and Caribbean blue eyes appraised the plant for a few seconds before he snuck a peek at her as she was busy pressing dressings to his wound. Scarred left ear swiveled back as he sniffed at the root apprehensively as a shudder of heat and chill rippled down the strong curve of his spine. With an affirmative snort the Viking drew the plant into his mouth and chewed upon it, the juices of the inside spilling into his mouth as he swallowed it, gazing his tongue against his upper teeth, craning his neck to the side to fix Thistle in a single eye again. “It tastes illr.” Björn’s tone made it clear that he didn’t like the taste of the jopi weed, but he took it if only to be rid of the delirium fever that the pain had chased away for a small measure of time, and Björn knew if he did not take that wretched plant then it would come back in full force - at least until his body had burned it out.

In the fever, he was not careful.

Björn, despite leaving Odinn’s Cove in the cusp of his younger brother’s paws, still considered himself the Jarl of Odinn’s Cove, though in truth, he only held that rank when he was actively leading the Cove, and of the moment, at the Allfather’s urging, he was not actively leading anything. That title held no weight among these wolves here, but it still held weight in Björn’s heart. It was easy to forget that before slaughtering his brother for a woman whom had held his attention only fleetingly that Björn had just been a Berserker - a ‘blood-frenzy’ warrior. Important in the same way that Thistle was, needed, but not a leader. “I do,” Björn responded to her, managing to allow his thoughts to wander while keeping up with their current topic of conversation at the same time. At Thistle’s questioning of Valhalla and Ragnarøkkr a laugh bubbled up the strong column of the Viking’s throat and tumbled from his lips. “You’ve mistaken me, maiden,” Björn’s caribbean blue eyes, warmed by the mirth Thistle’s confusion had spurred within him. “I meant you could think of Ragnarøkkr as purging and rebirth of the world.” Björn clarified. “I do not know if those who are not Vikings by the rite of passage go to Valhalla, I have never been there myself.” Obviously, it was one of the places where the dead went when the grim reaper came knocking at their doors.

It was a good thing Thistle did not know of his libertine ways though he still had an eye on her (for he could not help himself, likely for her it would fade just as easily and quickly as all the others) and it was the chase he enjoyed of the whole endeavor and though she had meant to push him away, the rejection had been a spark of what seemed to be impossible for him, however, he had designs of his own and he needed Thistle to approve of him just as much as anyone else. Chasing her because he fancied her - however temporarily - would likely not gain him any favors. Mentally, Björn noted that she was lucky it was him who found himself in these lands, for he had seen many of his male pack mates plunder and take women and girls against their wills, an act of which Björn had never committed. Björn was just as savage and cruel as his people suggested he would be with hardly any moral compass but there were some lines that the Viking refused to cross. His younger brother was a repeated offender of these crimes, but Björn trusted him to keep Sif safe and out of the grasp of males (including his brother himself). To take a slave was one thing, to steal the treasure of another man - the Jarl and older brother was a whole other thing.

She chimed in with her own laugh, conflicting against his deeper tones, but it was a nice and rare moment nevertheless, completed with a devilish smirk tugged at the edges of Björn’s lips. “Yes,” The Viking sighed, “But I would like to go there someday. It is a high honor.” A Viking’s honor was everything, it was the air that they breathed and the lifeblood that coursed through their veins. “I take a great pride in my physique and health, maiden,” Björn’s voice lowered, becoming softer as if he were sharing with her a secret. In a sneaky way of his, he was tempting her to come closer, for the lack of distance was greatly desired by the Viking and was the only tease of the treasure he dared allow himself without consent. “I am a warrior, protector of the innocent and weak, a harbinger of death; I am the chosen one, a once King. I have to be in excellent condition.” He murmured, lids sinking lower until he was glimpsing at her through his lashes.

Björn was not a gentle beast, not a gentle lover, not a gentle anything, there was no instance of him that was to be taken lightly, nothing that gave the impression that he was a teddy under the bear-like frame that he sported, beneath the savage and feral demeanor simply because he wasn’t. He was not sensitive, neither did he know guilt as others might have. These were the things that made him dangerous, yes, but he loved his family, and was loyal to those that deserved it of him - those that he respected in life, his faith in his Gods was a proof of this unwavering loyalty. A man, never mind how cruel or brutish, could not be without good traits that proved he was still human (so to speak). Thistle’s head moved closer to his, and Björn resisted the urge to grin, resisting the urge to reach out and close the brief distance to touch her again. His resistance stemmed from his desire to further himself more so than it did to remember that she did not want his advances.

The maiden seemed shocked that he was - or had been in their terms, a King. “Yes,” The Viking responded in an enigmatic murmur. “I was. I led my people as Jarl for two years.” He trailed off, leaving at that, wondering if he would have piqued her curiosity of if she was ready to flee out of his vicinity.

Unbeknownst to Thistle, Björn was a father, by Sveinn his captive, er stolen adopted son (of whom thought he was blood) and though Björn was unaware having left before any signs could begin showing by his gift and previous pet, Sif, who was pregnant with the children of Björn’s loins - the first children of his own blood and seed. Sveinn had been past the little squirming fuzz ball stages when they had found and attacked him on a raid that he had interfered in, but Björn had spared the boy’s life and took him in, teaching him how to be a Viking and how to be a man. To know Faith, Honor and Family above all else. He was not a posh creature, and the punishments stuck true when they were forced but Björn thought he had done good by Sveinn, and would do good by his future children.

“More or less, our language and yours do not always …match up so I have to substitute words that are similar to the meaning of yours,” The common tongue had many more words than the Nords did, which at times, made it sufficiently hard. “It is not that,” Björn corrected, shaking his head once, choosing his words with a careful precision, mostly because he was unsure of it he wanted to admit to her of his visions of Odinn. “Odinn called me away from it, to …expand.” It was the best way Björn could think of to explain it to her without going into the details sounding of a devoted and perhaps crazed follower. The visions were a gift, a gift of the chosen one his people had told him, but would someone who did not share his faith feel the same way?

Björn set a lot upon his visions of Odinn, taking some of them as good omens, and others seemed to be just random. His sightings of the God was a rare gift, and as far as Björn was concerned remained far more than just a figment of his imagination. “I have many deities, Odinn is merely the King of them,” Björn corrected out of habit, having had to correct Sveinn from making the same mistake numerous times. It was an easy mistake to make, Björn supposed, given his fondness for Odinn, the connection and kinship that Björn set so much upon. “But something like that, yes.” In truth, it had been to expand knowledge as much as it had been to expand the Vikings way and establish a pack within these lands. “Odinn gave his eyes to acquire knowledge, maiden, but I would give much more.” Björn told her simply, meeting her gaze before he looked away as another feverous shiver rippled down his spine. “I am not saddened, maiden. I have the traditions of my people, and my Gods walk beside me.” In truth, it was not different than going on a raid - the chances of returning no less of a risk.

“If you want the information you know where to find me,” He would not preach to her, he would not try to convert her. He would tell her the facts as he knew them and what she decided to do with those was entirely up to her, in the end. He felt the heat and pressure of her body as it pressed against his uninjured shoulder. Scarred and unscarred ears slicked back to his skull as a soft breath slipped from betwixt his lips, stifling the noise that threatened to spill free. “Not delirious and wanton with a fever, hmm?” Björn teased her impishly, though he knew the answer to that. Nobody - least of all himself - wanted him to be out control of his body with a fever. “Fine, I will rest, maiden, but because I am drowsy from that medicine you made me eat.” And that was not a lie, his legs were beginning to feel like lead, and the urge to sprawl out and let his dreams take him was a tempting one.

As he settled down into a sphinx like position, his head collided with his paws in a huff as he peeked an eye at her before his lids, too heavy to continue to fight to keep open, slid closed and his breathing deepened into a steady rhythm of slumber.