Ragnar had found that his days seemed to follow a pattern, similar to the day previous and predictable to the day after. Routines were easy. He had followed a strict routine during his time as lead Berserker and further during his time as Jarl. These patterns were repeated here, most of his day spent away from his wife who he swore looked more pregnant day by day. Though he was a Warden by heart and blood - a much more relaxed position than being a Berserker had been, admittedly - but Pump had told him to focus his time and attentions upon taking care of Thistle and their babes. With that order (though it had been unnecessary he was going to do it anyway) he quit his patrol quite early and slipped into the grasping shadows of Ravenblood Forest having caught the sounds of their terrorizing neighbor (the grizzly bear) tearing apart some kind of lesser creature earlier when he had passed and cautiously approached the carcass, every nerve in his body alert to fight or flight should the bear come charging out of the shadows. It seemed safe enough Ragnar deduced as he stared at the deer’s torn and broken body. The Viking sniffed at it cautiously before he began to gnaw at it’s hind leg figuring he would bring the surprise to Thistle who deserved the finest of meals since lately all he had been able to bring her had been quails, squirrels and rabbits - pheasant food. She should eat like the Queen she was to him.

After working it loose and finally tearing the haunch free after an hour or so, Ragnar grasped his prize in his jaws and carried it back into Horizon Ridge’s territory, blood dripping off of the severed leg as he headed to the birthing den that he now shared with Thistle. It was kind of an awkward thing, yet the Viking kept a firm grasp upon it as he neared the mouth of the den and dropped it ungracefully at his paws, blood splashing up upon his chest and face from the impact. He blinked but made no move to clean it off. She would have to get used to him being covered in gore soon enough, anyway. “Thistle, I have brought you lunch …and dinner,” He called to her and glimpsed down at the leg and haunch again. “And maybe even breakfast.” He added after a thoughtful pause. “A meal fit for the Queen that you are.” The Viking purled into the shadows, unsure if he was actually talking to her or just to the shadows. He assumed she was in the den but in truth, he did not know.

Ragnar assumed that Thistle spent much of her day napping and though he didn’t know - and would frankly never know - he generally figured that carrying growing lives within you would tire you out. Thistle appeared quicker than Ragnar had expected her too, the sound of her scrambling against the earth to get to the mouth of the den picked up by his ears as they twitched. A soft chuckle rumbled in his throat as he considered the idea that was generally - perhaps very - happy to see him as she came shooting out of the shadows, nearly slamming into him. The Viking side stepped her, not wanting her to collide with him in case she injure herself or the babes within her. “Careful,” Ragnar murmured to her before she spoke what she was all excited about following up with, “You clearly have missed me much.” He teased her in a haughty, arrogant manner but fell silent when she basically word vomited at him and then stood their panting as he attempted to process her what sounded to him to be a big long rushing sentence.

The words then began to separate themselves within his mind to make more sense than the initial rush had, and he looked at her sharply then, blinking a few times as he tried to determine if his minds translation was correct or not. “They are moving?” He asked, as breathless as her, seeing the excitement upon her face and allowing it to warm his heart. There was little doubt that she spoke the truth to him, her face told him everything. Dagmar had never spoken of their children moving (because they hadn’t been). For a moment Ragnar’s breath hitched in his throat and he took a few, rapid and shallow breaths. “They are living then,” He whispered as if he were afraid to speak any louder. His biggest fear was waking up to Thistle’s body aborting their lifeless bodies as Dagmar had because frankly, Thistle hadn’t been any bigger than Ragnar’s second wife.

He then took a step towards her and lowered his head to her womb, gently pressing the crown of his head against her rounded sides. “My sons,” He cooed, his thick accent more pronounced in his raw emotion, shifting so his muzzle was touching her womb, recoiling back sharply when he felt one kick, astonished, only realizing that he had not allowed himself much hope until that single and monumental moment.

To toss away the female that had not been anything to him but another trophy wife, a beautiful jewel that had captured his eye and briefly was the object of his lust was one thing. It was something he had came to expect of himself, something that he did without a bat of an eye or frankly any remorse. To bury the lifeless, tiny bodies of his children had been something wholly different because while their mother had meant nothing to him they had, and he had to dig a hole and bury all four of their fragile and miniature bodies. It had been the only time that Odinn had been the focus of his fury, his ire having been taken out upon both the God and Dagmar - both of whom he had blamed for her miscarriage. At her invitation the Viking moved closer to her once more, touching his nose to her rounded left side once more, feeling the son on that side move again. “Ein,” Ragnar counted before he circled her and pressed his nose to her right side to feel the second son move. “tveir,” He counted in his native tongue, the familiar language leaving his tongue like a velvet caress.

Hearing Thistle’s laugh at his bewilderment and astonishment at being able to feel what she felt them, to feel their sons move within her broke him out of the stupor he had placed himself in. Brows rose over his icy Caribbean colored eyes but the Viking reveled in the lavishing kisses Thistle was covering him in. “They are your sons when they misbehave,” He told her cheekily with a soft rumble of a chuckle, though he knew that it was quite the reverse and that Thistle had the right of it in that case. “I know,” He breathed in soft disbelief, “You may fight when you are out of your mother’s womb,“ The Viking chided his sons within her though his voice was light and affectionate. Of course the last thing he wanted was for one of them to accidentally break a rib but their penchant for fighting was not one he would discourage.

Ragnar glimpsed down at Thistle, desire jolting his dormant nerves awake suddenly. “You are beautiful,” He purled at her, letting his smoldering eyes scour her body as he placed a sultry kiss just beneath her ear, nipping seductively at her ear.

Ragnar had became rather adapt at not using his native tongue around her, knowing that she would not understand the old norse words that were the first words he ever learned to speak. “I was counting. One and Two,” He told her, translating the words into the common tongue for her so she might understand what they meant too. She retorted, protesting against his validation that they were her children when they misbehaved, that their bad moods came from him justifying the fact that they would, indeed, be his children when they acted up. It made sense to Ragnar, but he was not ready to give her her victory over him yet. “Mothers are better at punishing than fathers, therefore they should be your children when they do not listen.” This was not strictly true, since Ragnar himself had been largely ignored by both parents for the majority of the time. Kenna favored the baby and Eitri favored the oldest. Nevermind that Ragnar was the best out of the three of them (as far as he was concerned anyway).

“They must be gentle with you always, even when they are born into the world,” He told her softly, not wanting his sons to ever cause her harm on purpose or accident. Most sons ended up rather protective of their mothers for even Ragnar himself had been protective of Kenna even if he had not been her favorite. “Not that you are not strong because you are, shield maiden, but because it is a male’s job to protect females, even if they do not need it.” This was general belief they tended to have (as far as free females went anyhow).

“It is more than that, you are beautiful always,” He had told her that before he felt sure (unless he had just thought it and it had never escaped his lips) but even if he didn’t it didn’t matter because he was speaking it now.

“Tveir,” Ragnar corrected her with a soft chuckle, shifting his weight slightly, ears slicking back to stand at half mast atop his skull. “Don’t over pronounce the ‘v’. Let it roll off your tongue slowly like the r. Tveir,” He repeated the word for two again, pronouncing it slower, enunciating it in the hopes of helping her to correctly pronounce it. Ragnar was adept at teaching his native tongue, had, with the help of Floki, taught Sveinn shortly after the boy had regained conciousness and they had realized his memory had been wiped clean. “Not necessarily,” Ragnar corrected her softly, thinking about the times he had punished Sveinn, sending him out into the ice and harsh wilderness to push him and punish him, or until he could perform what Ragnar expected of him. “Sveinn would not in any shape or form call me a pile of goo,” He spoke her words teasingly, though the undercurrent of his tone was quiet and serious. That punishment worked for Sveinn who was capable of hunting for himself, and keeping himself alive. It would not transition over well to babes - that would not be able to keep themselves alive.

Though Ragnar called himself Sveinn’s father, he had not raised the teenager from a newborn and therefore had little to no idea how to handle a newborn. He glimpsed down then, away from Thistle. “I do not know how to handle newborns or infants even.” He only knew from when he buried Dagmar’s aborted litter that they were extremely delicate and probably as helpless alive as they looked deceased. Even if Ragnar knew of the faith his wife had in him, he would not have shared in it with her. “Women are beautiful treasures that will keep them happy and bear them many strong sons,” The Viking nearly purred to her, skimming his teeth and tongue along her jaw. Despite Ragnar’s libertine past and the potential contradiction of that statement the simple fact was he was thinking of the here and now. Thistle was a beautiful treasure that would bear him many strong sons - his and his alone. He knew her, the way she was a spitfire under the docile, warm and innocent outside; knew the feel of her body beneath his and against his, knew that she seemed to favor his shoulder the mark with love bites. All of it little things that made her his. "Then I will teach them to be famous Shield Maidens," Though even Shield Maidens were wives and mothers first.

Ragnar closed his eyes against the feel of her trailing love bites up his shoulder to where she stopped with her muzzle buried in the fur of his neck. Her touches were a lovely thing for the Viking.

Thistle attempted to say it again, this time the sound rolling off of her tongue in what Ragnar dared to call perfection. “Yes, like that,” He murmured, “Very good.” He praised her with a wicked little smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, curving towards the small scars that marred his muzzle. There was little to no doubt in the Viking’s mind that his wife would make an outstanding mother either by learned experience or instincts. He, however, remained inherently unsure about what kind of father he would be to the delicate newborns and infants they would be at first. His instincts were purely feral and savage - all ice and steel. Though he spoke the word ‘gentle’ as if he understood what it meant, in truth, he was not all that sure he could be gentle for his people were far from gentle. No one ever spoke of a gentle Viking and if they did they spoke of them in past tense because it was likely such a thing was long deceased. Their environment was harsh, their people harsher still. In truth, Ragnar had a hard time remembering to be gentle with Thistle, much of the time. He would not, intentionally, hurt her of course and it was a little easier to remember when he feared he might break her physically (ahah). Still. It was something he internally struggled with.

It made Ragnar’s chest swell with unbidden pride to hear Thistle so willingly call herself a Viking especially since she had held trepidation when they had first spoken of it the day she agreed to be his wife. Up until that point Ragnar had only been able to see the way he continued to fail Odinn, afraid that eventually the Allfather’s patience would wan thin and he would dispose of Ragnar, never stopping to see his successes which, obviously, pleased the Allfather. Though the Rites of Passage had yet to be performed for Thistle - admittedly it would be hard given how pregnant she was, likely, Ragnar would allow her to be apart of it when he performed them for their children, though it was likely Odinn had accepted Thistle as a Viking without the Rites. Thistle, at some point, had been successfully converted and welcomed by the Gods as a recognized Viking (even if she did not believe), though an idea occurred to him with abrupt suddenness then. “I know what your Rite of Passage will be, we should perform it before the children are born because it has to do with them still being in the womb,” Ragnar told her then, though he was confident Thistle already had Frigg and Freya watching out for her - sacrifices didn’t hurt.

“You will make two sacrifices, anything as small as a squirrel will work, one to Freya and one to Frigg for a successful birth and your and their continued health,” Thistle did not have to accept his Gods, but since Ragnar was devoted to them and it made him nervous to know he had yet to sacrifice to Freya and Frigg who were responsible for Thistle and their babes she carried it would soothe him to know they were appeased. “We should go to Ravensblood to make them, it is sacred to Odinn but they all listen there.” It was holy land to him and therefore the land he felt all his sacrifices should be made upon.

Learning a language and teaching it would take quite some time and though Thistle had their collective lifetimes to learn it, Ragnar was, accordingly, in no hurry to teach her. Not because he didn’t want her to know it but because he figured she would share the lessons with their sons. Despite they contrasting differences they made a good, albeit probably unlikely pair period. Even their cultures were vastly different though Ragnar had intentions of teaching her the full ways of being a Viking. Ragnar watched as her brow furrowed when he spoke of sacrifice and for a moment wondered if she were about to tell him that she wouldn’t do it. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would tell him no, but he supposed if she did he would have to make the sacrifices himself as he had originally planned, granted, they wouldn’t be as powerful. “I can teach you,” Ragnar assured her, skimming his tongue over her nose. “It is nothing. You just kill your sacrifice animal as cleanly as possible and then after each kill say a little prayer I suppose you could call it to Freya and then separately, Frigg asking for a successful and easy birth and the continued health of you and our sons.” Ragnar told her. It was rather simplistic to him but then again he grew up sacrificing - it was nothing to him.

“We will go whenever you want,” Ragnar assured her with a bump of his muzzle against hers, ears slicking back to lay at half mast atop his skull, proud and victorious. Ragnar was intensely proud of Thistle, and while she might not have seen it, he hadn’t failed to notice the subtle changes being his wife had made in her. She was still the same old Thistle he had first meant officially on the day he had been wracked with fever and infection (because he had been unconscious with sleep any of the other times she had tended to him, or out ignoring her orders of bed ridden). She had acted almost scared of him burning with the fever, wound festering with the infection, her trepidation and uncertainty of him nothing but normal to the Viking who was quite used to it, and used to the stares his mark of Odinn received. She was still innocent in some ways to be sure, but Ragnar felt he could no longer consider her as naïve, or as docile as she had first been. Even at first, she had not liked the idea of being a Shield Maiden but now it seemed to Ragnar as if she were almost taken with the idea. In truth, she could be anything she wanted just as long as she was by his side as his wife where he wanted her but he didn’t mind her taking to the allure of the famous and revered Shield Maidens. As it was, she could be a Shield Maiden, wife, mother and healer - there was no reason to subject herself to just one or the other. Ragnar had never really deigned to change her, there was something about is young wife’s innocence that was still endearing to the Viking but he definitely liked that her inner strength and spitfire was not showing in brief glimpses whenever she was angry but in her everyday life and interactions without, he suspected, her conscious realization of it.

Victorious. Ragnar could not help but feel because he was, albeit slowly, fulfilling Odinn’s commands for him, hoping only that his successes outweighed his failures in Odinn’s eye and heart. It was a tireless thing, proving yourself to a God who could so easily drop his favor and find a new champion. “I will fill you in on Freya and Frigg’s roles tomorrow on our way to the Forest.” He told her, suspecting that it had been upon her mind. He had yet to give her even a vague description of either of them and it seemed appropriate if she were to sacrifice to them that she understood their roles in the life of their sons and Thistle herself.