Thistle answered the Allfather’s questions as they left Ragnar’s lips, confirming that she wanted to be a Viking from this day forward and the Allfather bowed his head in acceptance of her vows. In reality, it was a simple Rite though this particular one differed greatly from how it was normally done though it had been altered as the circumstances had demanded. Ragnar was not the leader of the Ridge and therefore had no right to pass judgments on anyone, let alone execute if found guilty. “Then so you shall be,” The Allfather rumbled before Ragnar felt another jolt, and the release of Odinn’s possession of his body. It was a fascination sensation, like a giant vacuum sucking out the God’s wraith form becoming separate once more as Odinn seemingly stepped out of Ragnar, giving the Viking one last, forlorn glimpse of his descendant before he and the others merged back into the fog they had been seemingly borne of. Ragnar blinked a couple times as Huginn and Muinnin let out cries in unison, causing his ears to slick back to his skull in response before they took flight, leaving nothing but the marks in Ragnar’s shoulders where their talons had pierced and a few, stray black feathers that drifted lazily to the earthen floor at his paws.

Ragnar drew in a deep breath then, icy Caribbean blue eyes seeking Thistle through the twisting and writhing fog, drawing towards her until his side was pressed, lightly - mindful of her sides swollen with child - against hers. “That is it, they are gone,” Ragnar told her, his voice back to it’s normal, heavily accented sound. Odinn’s presence still lingered in the Forest as it always did but it was not so concentrated to the Viking, now. “Are you ready to go back to the Ridge?” Because Ragnar suddenly felt exhaustion tempting him, luring him into a deep slumber, attempting to yank him to unconciousness. He fought it, battled against the weight of his eye lids as they threatened to slam shut and let his dreams console him. He would not rest until he saw Thistle back to the safety of the Ridge, he determined but it was a battle he suddenly felt like he was losing.

Though Ragnar could not efficiently see Thistle’s face with clarity given the sudden collision of exhaustion and the fog that writhed around them, between them even as they stood side to side, he could hear the worry in her voice. Worry for him. It was as if, when Odinn had released Ragnar from his possession the energy had been entirely sapped from the iced Viking leaving him with the desire to simply slumber. Again, his body felt heavy though this time it was sluggish not because of Odinn’s presence but because he desired sleep. “I am fine my love,” He brushed off her concern with what she likely would liken to stubbornness (and perhaps it was) but to him it was a dismissal of her concern. She did not, in his eyes, need to work herself up into a frenzied concern over him - not when she should have been her main and dare Ragnar say it: only concern; but of course this was Thistle and Ragnar knew her well enough to know that she would put him first before herself even if the Viking thought it was the most stupid and ridiculous thing his wife could do. Her health and the children’s meant more than his own.

The graze of Thistle’s tongue against his face was soothing and the Viking hummed with tuneless, half-hearted pleasure at the feel but it was nothing but a weakened echo because that was exactly what Ragnar felt like in that moment: an echo of himself. He took a step forward and then another, not even having to remotely attempt to keep pace with her because her pace seemed to be the only pace he could make his exhausted body move at and even then it was barely. He shivered against her though he was far from cold, wondering if another delirium fever was in his immediate future. Though Thistle was well adept at dealing with his delirium fevers Ragnar wished, with a suddenness that surprised him, for Floki. Floki knew things about their Gods that few others did and maybe the madman would have been able to offer Ragnar insight on what the Allfather’s possession had meant. Was it a blessing …or a curse? The fog made the air feel heavy to Ragnar, making him feel even hotter beneath the platinum silver silk of his fur. If he could have ripped it all out without entirely alarming Thistle he might very well have.

He did not want her to be clued in on how much Odinn’s possession (though he doubted she was even aware he had been possessed by the Allfather) had taken out of him; though there were those that did not believe that would claim he was simply ill - precursor effects of the delirium fever that was just a side effect of the drugged mushrooms. Admittedly, Ragnar had taken to collecting them in a small, private cache away from prying eyes and the knowledge of his wife and though they had not been consumed the spores of the mushroom had gotten into his system from carrying them in his mouth even briefly; but Ragnar didn’t care what any non believer would say because today he saw his Gods, had literally felt Odinn enter, control, and leave his body and there was no amount of the Berserker mushrooms that would have “caused” him to vividly see and feel all of that.

Ragnar was grateful that Thistle was as pregnant as she was, looking forward with more anticipation than he should have been to the breaks she would need to take on their short journey back to Horizon Ridge.

Ragnar and Thistle’s opinions were arguably different from one another, probably the source of most of their disagreements though this was only to be expected. Their worlds, despite that Thistle was beginning to incorporate herself into his, were starkly different quite literally black and white in comparison to one another. Their tendency to butt heads without any figment of doubt came from the fact that they were as different as the sun and the moon, yet they remained, the Viking could see, complimentary to one another. Where Ragnar was harsh angles, sharp lines, abrasive, assertive, aggressive, ruthless, a figurative demon (depending on who was speaking of him - heathen also worked well) Thistle was soft curves and elegance, docile, diplomatic, caring and compassionate. All of the things that Ragnar was not. In essence she suited her role as his wife perfectly, attempting to counter weigh him. She served to remind him that there was a softer side to life and that, sometimes, this side needed to be appealed too. She was the serenity to his destruction. There was nothing like a woman’s touch and every man needed it, even a proud Viking King. Even Odinn submitted to the wiles of his wife allowing her what no other was ever allowed simply because he loved her. It was only now, accepting and nurturing Ragnar’s love for Thistle that the savage understood Odinn’s devotion to Frigg. They were a weakness, a chink in the armor that could be exploited and used to make a death blow, certainly, but they were also strengths and those far outweighed the small, yet inherent chink.

Ragnar was not unaware that her eye was trained upon him, but he remained unwilling to acknowledge her stare. He could practically feel her gaze, cool against the burning heat of his body (though this was more of a sixth sense than anything he couldn’t actually feel her eyes upon him) assessing him, dissecting him as she, no doubt, tried to figure out what was wrong. Obstinately, he remained tight lipped about the fever that he felt burning in his veins, only making the pull of exhaustion harder to resist (as if it had not been hard enough to begin with). He did not wish to collapse here only because he did not want to worry Thistle any more than she likely already was. He felt safe in the shadowy and obscured copse of woods, personally, knowing that Odinn would not allow harm to come upon him here, but whether he could convince Thistle of that or not, he did not know. The only advantage Ragnar had on his side at the current situation was that his body was used to being pushed to and past it’s limitations. It was a practice Ragnar did often with the single goal of making both body and mind stronger than before, a harsh condition of training despite it’s unorthodoxness.

He would make it to their den but only for her - for would it have been otherwise he might have already succumbed to the exhaustion that begged and pleaded for him like a forbidden but persistant lover.

They spoke no words to one another as they moved a sluggish, yet somehow cohesive unit back to Horizon Ridge. There was no reason to fill the void of silence with unnecessary words. Ragnar was not an overly talkative man by nature, and besides, there was nothing more to speak of. He was tired, and burning hot while being measurably cold, and he desired only to be allowed to sleep. Ragnar knew that if the grizzly bear decided to attack them for no apparent reason that he, while his chances would not have been good to begin with, admittedly, would be all but useless in terms of protecting her went. In hindsight he wouldn’t have, likely, even had the energy to put up a fight. Likely, this was the reason she seemed determined, her pretty face set in it, to see them back to the Ridge. For both of their sakes, at this point. It was only when the Ridge came into view that Ragnar found a small wisp of strength to push himself to walk with urgency to their homelands, eager to be allowed to finally collapse to the earth and shadows the birthing den they shared would give him and sleep until his strength was restored and the fever was burned out.