They were all but certain that Thistle was pregnant, though Ragnar had called it before it had even been addressed at the meeting having known about her initial tryst with the Plateau male Crete - it was unfortunate that Ragnar remembered his name, probably because he distinctly remembered the jealousy he associated with the stranger when he heard Thistle speak of him as if he were the stars (or rather how she had spoken of him) or some sort of God that she revered, all the while remembering his own night with Thistle in the Allfather’s sacred grounds if only because there had been a part of Ragnar that was and remained still surprised that Thistle had accepted his advances instead of rejecting them. Unfortuantly for Thistle - for Ragnar was a light sleeper (and with good reason) her attempts at rousing from his side without awaking him had failed though he did not immediately let on that he had awoken. His eyes remained closed, his body in the position it had been in within his slumber though he listened for her departure from the den they now shared. It was big enough for them but he wondered if it would be appropriate for a birthing den, if it could house them and the little ones when they came. She and they would need their space.

Only after he had ascertained that she was far enough from the den, no longer able to hear her heavy and awkward footsteps upon the earth did Ragnar push himself to his paws, shrugging out of the mouth of the den, figuring he would play it like she hadn’t woken him. Knowing her it would probably upset her and that was silly. Apparently, he caught her making her way back to the den from the water her body looking different than it had. It was likely her sides had been rounding out before he just had not taken notice to the subtle changes in her body. Today, however, the Viking noticed it. “Do you feel them inside you now?” Ragnar asked his wife as he closed the distance towards her. “You are beginning to show.” In case she was not aware of the fact.

As it stood, Horizon Ridge had no Caretaker, no Midwife, nothing and no one to assist Thistle with the preperations of the birthing of their children - unless there was something one of their pack mates had not been telling them - and because Thistle was young - having likely just reached her sexual maturity sometime before Crete and her copulated - it made Ragnar nervous. Instincts were all well and good, and would without a doubt in his mind kick in for her when the time came but it would be her first time and what if something went wrong? It was a morbid thought that whispered like a devil in the back of his mind but it had and did happen. It had happened to Dagmar. His ex-wife’s (one of them anyway) pregnancy was not something he would have considered useful to use in this situation, for the babes had came rushing out of her in a pool of blood, each and every one of them still and lifeless. There had been no joy only pain (for Dagmar both physical and otherwise).

Ragnar did not count that as a real birthing because they had been aborted by Dagmar’s body.

The nerves within the scars upon the left side of his face perceived most touch as pleasure that was felt there in a sickeningly sweet feeling and it was that feeling that rushed through the side of his face when she nuzzled him there. Ragnar watched her sit down, assuming that she needed a rest from the short walk, enjoying the sound of her chuckle. “Do you think they recognize voices yet?” On a spontaneous urge, something he had never felt the need to do when Dagmar had been carrying, he moved to her side and bowed his head so his forehead was lightly touching one of her rounded and slightly extended sides. “Odinn tells me you are all healthy and strong in there,” He nearly cooed to her womb, wondering what kind of specticle he - the fierce Viking made cooing to his and Thistle’s unborn children. “It is fine,” He spoke to Thistle now. “I sleep lightly.” Vigilance even in his slumber was important for the protection of his family, anyway.

Ragnar understood that miscarriages like Dagmar’s were not common, and further understood that most births went off without a hitch but he also knew that on the flip side of that things could happen. If something were to go wrong - not that he was determined that anything would, these children were blessed by Odinn after all - he wondered if Thistle’s medical knowledge would be of any help to her because he knew that in hindsight he would be of no help. He should have, Gods above knew that he had enough wives in his short span of life thus far, but only Dagmar had been old enough when he had been old enough and that had been a cursed pregnancy from the start. Things were inherently different this time, here, with Thistle, Ragnar felt it in the marrow of his bones. Odinn had brought him here to make Vikings and rise a Viking pack within these posh summer lands - of course Ragnar had not thought that the Allfather had meant make babes, the devout Jarl had thought simply he meant by conversion. Of course, that was possibly what the Allfather had meant too but the fresh, impressionable minds of their children would be more suspectable to accepting his ways then someone who had lived differently.

He planned on converting Thistle, too, having already, briefly, discussed it with her assuring her that as long as she respected his Gods that they would not require devotion from her, that she would be welcomed as a Viking so long as she respected them.

Thinking about her giving birth made Ragnar wish desperately for Floki’s presence, knowing that Floki would have been invaluable, and would have been able to assist him in teaching the babes and Thistle their ways. It had been easy to teach Týr their ways because the boy had lost his memory during the struggle when they had captured him. Floki had healed him and had begun weaving the grand lie of a story that he was Ragnar’s son. The boy had been young enough that it was a belivable enough lie though Ragnar had never given his age because it hadn’t mattered. Thinking about his son located up north reminded Ragnar that he had never spoken of Týr to Thistle. It wasn’t as if Ragnar forgot about him, no his affection for his stolen adopted son had not diminished in the promise of new sons but he had never, prior to his mateship to Thistle, thought to inform her.

“You are strong too, shield maiden,” He murmured to Thistle, bestowing one of her many titles upon her in a gentle manner. She might not have been a warrior like shield maidens were supposed to be, but she was just as strong as any of them. Idly, Ragnar wondered how much detail he wanted to go into in regards to Týr before deciding that she already knew of his ways that likely the boy’s capture would (he hoped) come of no surprise to her.

“I have not told you yet but they have an older brother, his name is Týr,” Ragnar began letting his gaze rest upon Thistle’s even though she was his superior in the terms of rank. Right now, their ranks were irrelevant - this was a conversation between husband and wife not a superior and subordinate. “He resides up north in Swiftcurrent Creek. He is one of the young wolves I told you about…one of the reasons I stole my brother’s name as a monkier,” Ragnar informed her, watching her reaction. “He is not of my loins, we found him during a raid and he sustained injuries to his head during the capturing process. Floki nursed him back to health and together we weaved the story that he is my son. He knows no different and though he was intended to be a slave until he was injured, I am affectionate towards him. He is my son, just as our sons are. Someday I will take you up North so you can meet him, if you want.” It was only slightly awkward to Ragnar who was not entirely confident how Thistle would take the knowledge that they had captured a teenager and furthermore lied to him until he believed that he was a Viking and Ragnar’s son. "I should have told you sooner but for now I am letting him find his path upon his own." It was not a well rounded excuse, admittedly, but it was the truth. Ragnar had not intended to intrude upon Sveinn's life here in the Teekon Wilds knowing that the boy needed to find his own way to Odinn or Fenrir or Thor - whichever God he chose to follow, and because he had not wanted to potentially upset Thistle with the knowledge.

Ragnar listened respectfully when Thistle posed her question to him, no doubt speaking of the scars that marred the left partion of his face, carefully arranged and designed though to most they without a doubt simply looked ugly. Ragnar had never expected anyone to understand their symbolism and their meaning to him. They were supposed to be arranged to form a disjoined raven - Odinn’s mark. Her question was fair but simply reminded Ragnar of how much he had yet to teach Thistle. “It is not something that is expected of us, if that is what you are asking. It was my choice,” Ragnar informed her with a thoughtful undercurrent. “It is Odinn’s mark - a raven. My father carved it into me when I became the lead Berserker shortly before he died and if, someday, they want marks of their own, I will bestow the same honor.” Ragnar would not refuse their sons if they too, wished to bear a mark of a God upon their face/body.

Thistle did not seem overly outraged at him when she finally spoke in response to Týr as she had when he had told her of Dagmar, though she did not sound overtly enthused, either. In hindsight, Ragnar realized that he could not blame her for though he assumed she was more upset that he had not told her sooner than she was about the fact that they had taken the boy captive. That, however, proved to not be the exact case. “I have taken many captives in my short life, Thistle, I have killed many. I know these things seem wrong to you but it is the way of life for me. I don’t expect you to agree with it, and I will perform the Rite Of Passage to make you recognized as a Viking but you don’t have to participate with me in the way of life as in Raids and Slaves and things if you do not wish too.” Ragnar told her demurely though he secretly hoped that she might, someday, change her mind. He wanted to share his world with her and all that it entailed. It was not exactly uncommong for them to make wives/husbands of wolves from other cultures (especially of packs they raided) but she was his first non-Viking wife and his desire to share his world with her was the truest form of trust he could ever offer her.

“Floki and I never really discussed what would happen if his memories came back,” Likely, Ragnar looked back upon it, they should have. It had been determined by Floki that his head injury would keep his past memories at bay, that he would never know different. If Sveinn regained them he would either understand why Ragnar had done what he had, or he would hate him for it. “I wouldn’t say it would cause a problem, he is just a teenage boy; and if they would awaken he will either hate me for it or understand why I did it.” Ragnar spoke offering her a nonchalant shrug not really all that worried about it.

"Take care not to worry so much Thistle, he is a docile boy." Docile for a Viking, but clear headed. He doubted that even if his memories were regained that Sveinn would take action - that wasn't the kind of wolf that he was Ragnar had learned.

Ragnar had mentioned being a Berserker to her, likely in passing at one point before their mateship, but he knew he had not given much details of it. He inhaled deeply at her questioning and let it out in an equally as deep exhale, thoughtful for a moment. It would appear that his wife was more privy to the title than he had anticipated. “There is a mushroom that acts as a drug, and the consumption of it puts us into what some call the blood frenzy, or blind rage and brings with it the immunity to pain. It can be very dangerous, though,” He confirmed her questions in his soft tone, peering at the horizon from his place at her side. “I have not sought out the mushroom since my arrival in the Teekon Wilds, if that is a concern of yours,” Because there had to be a reason why she had choosen to bring it up when he mentioned the title. “I led the Berserkers on raids as Jarl but I tended to hang back at that point more of an overseer than I was a Berserker. Maybe it was my time as Jarl that made me persue the defensive side of the Berserkers here.” He told her simply, glimpsing down at her for a few moments before his eyes went back to the horizon.

“I am not asking you too,” He corrected her softly. “I told you there are women besides sheildmaidens. They do not raid,” Ragnar reminded her gently. “I just want to share my world with you.” He confessed in a quiet murmur to her.

Ragnar listened to Thistle’s words in silence though he found that the picked at his curiosity how a raven would pick the meat off a carcass, hungrily. Greedily. “That is interesting. He could not have been a slave though. They were taken from raids not on them. So who would have made him a Berserker? And for what purpose? Did they force him to eat the mushrooms that would lead to the addiction? That is the only way I know a Berserker could be as you said “made” against their will.” Furthermore, it brought to his mind what kind of pack Thistle’s neighboring pack was. She had never really spoken much of her home pack, though, admittedly Ragnar had selfishly never asked her. Of course he realized after he had finished inquiring that she might not have the answers given that she had admitted her mother had been the one to tell her about it in the first place.

“There is so much to tell you,” Ragnar informed in his usual soft voice as she rested her head against his chest, beneath his muzzle. The warmth of her head bled through his fur allowing him to feel her body heat alongside the pressure of her head. It was the first time as the air stirred around them that he noticed that she smelled different, it was a sweet scent, likely a product of the milk her body was beginning to make in preperation for bringing their babes into the world. “Every Viking must go through a Rite Of Passage as I told you. Usually it is a child’s transition into an adult at a certain age. Typically the children are brought to a trial and allowed to vote on whether a criminal, after hearing the Jarl’s side and then the Accused’s side and sometimes a witness’ account, is guilty or innocent. If the accused is found guilty they must watch the execution without looking away.” Ragnar explained, remembering his own coming of age rite with fondness.

“It will be different for you because we have none of those things here and even if we did I have no power to see it through,” Ragnar sighed softly, giving pause for a moment. “I haven’t decided what I want your Rite of Passage to be. I think I will ask Odinn to see what he thinks is an acceptable substitute.” Hopefully, Odinn saw fit to answer.