Finally, after many days working upon them in secret in the darkened and veiled depths of Ravensblood Forest, his gifts for @Thistle Cloud were complete, and the Viking took a step back to admire his handiwork. It had taken Ragnar some time to gather the necessary elements for his gifts, and further time finding the right sized bone for each, not to small but not too large. Each bone was marked for the Goddess it represented by the worrying of his teeth upon the bone, and the one that remained dissociated with anything but Thistle and himself - a symbolism of their marriage, a celebration of their union; a gift bestowed usually to the brides’ family but considering Ragnar had not ever met any of Thistle’s relatives the circumstances had changed from a plea to ask for permission to marry her (rather he’d taken her without any one’s permission but her own) and instead it became simply, a gift for Thistle.

The first gift, and talisman representing Freyja, the bone was colored a faded red with blood of the animal Ragnar had torn it from, given that red was a color often associated with the Goddess of love and fertility. Combined with the sap that he used to hold the tail feathers of the sparrow he had caught and dissected to either end of the bone, the crimson of the blood had turned a coppery color which was through a mere coincidence alone, also a color associated with Freyja.

The second gift, talisman representing Frigg, he had visited the shore within Horizon Ridge often holding the bone firm beneath his paw as the salt water washed over it, again and again until it was bleached a silvery white; the color and representation of the moon (of whom Frigg was associated with). He had stolen tufted feathers from the falcon he had brought down and glued them with sap to either end of Frigg’s talisman in the same manner he had done upon Freyja’s. Ragnar had thought about sap gluing flowers associated with either Goddesses to the talismans and gifts but upon the consideration that the petals would wilt and look ugly would be a dishonor (to both the Goddesses and Thistle) he decided against it.

For the gift that solely meant to celebrate their vows to one another, Ragnar left it uncolored if only because his knowledge of dyes and the like was extremely limited for the Viking was a Berserker not a herbalist. He knew enough to keep wounds clean, and what would dull the pain but aside from that his knowledge was generally useless. He, too, had marked this bone with the scrape of his teeth against it and around it twined three blood red roses, their stems carefully wrapped around the bone and stable with a small amount of sap so that he could exchange the wilting roses for fresh ones, or Thistle could if she wished to keep after it.

He carried them in a wrap of a large fern, the sound of them clinking together as it swayed with the motion of his steps as he moved towards the birthing den. Ragnar had departed from her side in the middle of the night (firstly to relieve himself) but because he wanted to get them finished and present them to her when she awoke. It was nothing fancy, and maybe romantic on a small measure of a level though Ragnar was not a romantic being, but it was something he had wanted to do for her. As the mother of his children, as his lover, wife, partner, and best friend. It was nothing but a thoughtful gesture and his desire to make her smile, knowing that she seemed to be in more and more pain the closer it came to the birthing of their sons. In that matter, Ragnar was left feeling extremely helpless, stroking the soft and velveteen fur between her ears in a caressing manner if only to try and take her mind off of the pain when it seized her. Likely, it probably did nothing for her, and the fact that they were close to being born made Ragnar less and less willing to leave her, instead sticking to one strict patrol of the borders so more of his time was spent with his wife. In hindsight, he, albeit reluctantly, understood why Pump pushed him back again regarding the Beta rank given how his priorities had shifted, putting Thistle at the top of them with his Warden duties in second.

Sitting his package down at his paws, he peered into the den looking for Thistle’s silhouette wondering if she was in the den or outside of it. “My love I have something for you.” The Viking spoke softly into the den, though his head rose and he peered around just to make sure that she would come out of the bushes nearby or something.

Most of the days Thistle was sleeping and if she wasn’t sleeping she was running out to pee frequently, unless she chose to sleep outside the confines of their den which she, admittedly, would spend likely most of the two weeks after the birth of their sons chained too. Thistle was also, frequently moody and still irritatingly and seethingly tempting too close to the scent of her when she had been at the apex of her heat season until sometimes Ragnar felt like he might literally combust into flames from the heat that pooled in his loins and that crept through his veins until his blood literally sung with his desire for her that, alas, could not be fulfilled. He contemplated staying away from her, sleeping his old abandoned bachelor’s den until she finally gave birth to their sons and that scent went away (because on his good days it drove him mad) but there was something that physically hurt in the heart of the Viking that had presumed to have been non-existent by numerous creatures at the thought of being away from her when she needed him. Of course, he was absolutely helpless to her, but he liked to fancy that she needed him there.

He dealt with it because of her, for her.

Ragnar watched her melt into a robust and very pregnant shape from the shadows, her face tired. A primitive sort of noise, not quite a growl of pleasure, but not quite a grunt escaped Ragnar when she gave him a brief lick and nuzzle of greeting. “Yes,” Ragnar responded to her question, leaning down to nudge apart the fur so it unfurled itself at their paws, revealing the three bones where they lay nestled in the wide leaf’s center. “This one,” He let his paw hover over the blood painted one with Sparrow feathers with his paw briefly, “Is a talisman for Freyja, painted in blood and marked with Sparrow tail feathers for decoration.” He gestured with a paw to the bleached white one. “This talisman is for Frigg, bleached white by the salt water of the ocean, marked with the tufted feathers of a Falcon.” He saved his favorite for last, the one that marked their union, meant for her alone. “And this last one here, with the roses,” He glimpsed at her face for this, wanting to see her reaction. “is for You alone. Traditionally, it is given to the family of the bride to symbolize a union between families in my culture, a bribe to ask permission but given our circumstances I instead made it for you. A symbol of our union, of our love and our family,” He ached to reach down and touch her at that, wanting to emphasize his love with touch, but restrained himself. “I’ve never asked your favorite flowers so I chose three red roses, the blood red the vibrant and never dying fire of our passion.” He murmured in a husky tone, his lips twitching with the coy grin he itched to allow to spread across his muzzle.

If the moods afflicted by the raging hormones of her pregnancy were going to affect him in any shape or form he would not have taken a wife at all, though admittedly it had not initially been in his plans when he had first arrived; to be fair he suspected it hadn’t been in Thistle’s either and if she had wanted a family he would have bet his left eye that she would have never guessed it would be with him, let alone to fall in love with him. He could still remember the trepidation that had come with his intimidation factor. It was always easy to spot because it was something Ragnar had came to expect. However, Ragnar did not think that Thistle was afraid of him any longer. No, Ragnar was hardly perturbed by pregnancy moods, never mind that he was usually always on the receiving end of them; and seeing as how the Seer had prophesied that he would have many sons, Ragnar planned on getting her pregnant every year until neither of them could produce children anymore. He tried not to realize that likely it would be that would turn infertile with age before she did if only because he had about a year, maybe two years of age on her. (Which made Tokio bust out laughing because that makes him look like a “cradle rocker” even though that’s not even a real age difference *snorts with laughter*).

Ragnar watched with heavy lidded eyes of satisfaction when she touched each one with her paw, a gentle sort of cradling touch that he could only associate with reverence. His coy smirk turned into a genuine smile though it was a secretive thing as he tilted his muzzle away so she did not accidentally swoon if she happened to catch a glimpse of it; despite her warnings not to let the fact that his smile was a dangerous as everything else about him (except dangerous in a good way) go to his head it had, in defiance, gone straight to his ego making the Viking seemingly more haughty than he had already been to begin with. “But are they your favorite?” He asked her because he wanted to know her favorite type of flower, for future reference. There was a casual roll of his shoulders in a errant shrug as if to say that it was no big deal despite that he rather enjoyed the lavishing of kisses, nuzzles, and love bites he was receiving from his wife in that moment.

And of course, like always, he wanted more than those simple touches of lips, teeth, and her face against different areas of fur and skin but he knew that it would have to be enough, but that he planned to worship her body in every way a man could when she was no longer pregnant, or weak from her pregnancy.

Despite that Thistle mumbled, Ragnar still heard her teasing words and what he thought sounded suspiciously close to insufferable. His grin turned positively cheeky (with a wild hint of devilish) then as he glimpsed at her from the corner of his eye, brow raised in that wicked arch that portrayed his cheekiness to a dramatic perfection. “I’ve been worse,” The Viking reminded her with a little snort of laughter. Of course she knew just how bad he could be though in reality Floki could tell her horror stories about Ragnar’s defiance that would put what she knew as ‘bad’ to look like fluffy dreams and sunshine. Ragnar had been known to even go so far as to attack Floki on occasion (which come to think of it was a really good that Floki never held it against the Jarl at the time). “Lilacs,” Ragnar repeated to himself, the word distorting upon his heavy accent his tone contemplative as if he had even the smallest inkling of what, exactly a lilac was. Other than he knew it was flower that was as far as his knowledge extended and he hesitated, loathe to admit it to her.

Never mind that he had an extremely good excuse to have a very small knowledge of flowers because he was a Berserker and the most important plant he’d ever had to know was the mushrooms that when consumed put them into the blood frenzy they were infamously known for (it was no wonder why the Englishmen thought they were demons, heh). “Have you seen any around here that you can remember?” He inquired curiously, trying to downplay the fact that he had no clue what type of flower a lilac was or even what it looked like (let alone what it smelled like) by asking her if she had seen any of them nearby-ish.

“I’m glad you enjoy them,” And, knowing it was a devilishly unfair thing to do to her - in reality he just wanted to make her swoon, really - he unleashed the full force of his smile against her, so different as it was from his coy, cheeky, wolfish, haughty smirks. It was Ragnar’s way of saying ‘you’re welcome’ without having to say those words. He tended to play with words so they meant “manners” yet got away without ever really expressing them directly (because I don’t think Vikings really had “manners” at least I’ve never heard Ragnar utter them on the show). “When our sons are old enough and have chosen a god to identify with I’ll start by giving them a talisman like these,” He gestured to the talismans of Frejya and Frigg. “And then if they want a marking like my mark of Odinn they can have it.” Of course, Ragnar would mark it upon them since Floki wasn’t there to do it for them but he intentionally failed to mention to Thistle that he could not promise his artistic skills were any better than Floki’s; though Ragnar had always thought Floki had done a good job with his marks.

“He dealt with me by knocking me out with some flowers,” Yes, Ragnar did that on purpose because he liked to tease at her. “That isn’t to say he didn’t try to use feminine wiles on me,” Ragnar let out a barking laugh that shook his shoulders as his laughter wracked him. “Floki does not make a good woman.” Ragnar’s tone was dark, lowered as if he feared Floki might materialize out of the thin air though they were miles and miles away, but his grin was nothing short of nefarious. “Missing all the right parts, and he’s not very pretty, either.” Jabbing fun at Floki, without Floki’s presence was wistful, but made a soft sigh of longing for his friend since childhood. This was how it was. He had been lucky that Nerian and Dagrún had followed him to the Teekon Wilds though both of those had not been by coincidence. Dagrún had left Odinn’s Cove in search of Ragnar because he wanted Ragnar to go back to the Cove, to take back what was rightfully his as Jarl but that wasn’t going to happen. Ragnar had a family here, was going to start a pack here right where Odinn desired him to be. Nerian had tracked him down because she, too, wanted something from the once Jarl. Her freedom. Of which Ragnar had no intentions of giving back to his Priestess until she helped him form his pack.

Perhaps that was inherently cruel of the Viking but he came from a ruthless and cruel people and he did not see it that way. He saw it as a part of life; a part of his Priestess’ life; and he would keep to his word so long as she served him loyally and faithfully.

Ragnar gave Thistle a dubious look, laced with suspicion when she began to explain lilacs in vivid detail to him, hindering on the intuition that she knew he had no semblance of an idea what a lilac was. She did not come right out and ask him, of course, but Ragnar was nothing if not clever and a coy little smirk tugged at the edges of his lips as if he shared the secret with her. She was humoring his ego by playing along like he knew when in reality they both knew otherwise. Impossibly, it made Ragnar love her even more even if he itched to call her out on it. “Then I will pick you some,” He declared and finally allowed himself to reach down to brush his lips at the fur beneath her ear before he pulled back.

“Girls can get them too, yes, especially if they are shield maidens,” It was not unheard of but some of them bore the markings of whatever God or Goddess they chose to associate with. Usually, everyone had a favorite or two. “It can be anywhere they want it. Mine is supposed to be a raven for Odinn, like Huginn and Muinnin,” Ragnar did not bother to explain Thought and Memory to Thistle who no doubt remembered the two ravens. “They are all different and the symbol differs for each God or Goddess. Like Thor’s would be an anvil. Fenrir, who Dagrún follows would be a wolf, like us; Floki has a serpent on his left hip,” He explained to her, willing to sate her curiosity. Curiosity was a good thing (not only because Ragnar was an extremely curious creature himself) because it meant she wanted to learn. It was something Odinn could praise and appreciate.

Thistle’s glare was nothing short of mocking at his wrong use of the word ‘flowers’ in the place of ‘medicines’ or even, ‘herbs’. While the Berserker turned Jarl was not as ignorant as his teasing certainly made him seem, it was worth it to hear her patronizing tone, her exaggerated sigh with having to correct him. As Thistle suddenly burst into laughter - the hard, uncontrollable kind that had his wife snorting he gave her a wolfish grin, only able to imagine what she had been envisioning, though he had a pretty good idea given her following words. “You have that all wrong, my love,” Ragnar cooed to her coyly, and if he had known she had envisioned Floki as ‘big and burly’ Ragnar might have laughed himself. As it was Floki was not a ‘typical’ Viking; tall but thin and lanky, still dangerous in a fight but missing the thick and broad expanse of muscle most of the Northmen had. “As if I would ever allow anyone to do such a thing to me,” Admittedly, Ragnar remembered that he had once offered for Thistle to mount him, threw it out there as a suggestion albeit one his wife did not seem keen on taking, and with that Ragnar had let the little erotic vision go.

Ragnar glanced out at the horizon, still fresh with the rising of the sun, the morning wind carrying a coolant factor that breezed through the silken tendrils of his platinum silver fur comfortably. He titled his head to her, so he might catch her next question, but he settled upon his haunches on impulse and rose his hind leg to scratch at his scarred left ear, unable to avoid the crawling skin there begging for a scratch any longer. “Some,” It was a vague answer only because it was a personal choice and beyond that it hurt and there was always the risk of an infection, plus some wolves were incredibly vain creatures - Váli came to the forefront of Ragnar’s mind at that thought - and did not want anything that could be considered ugly to marr their good looks (though as far as Ragnar cared he was the best looking one of Eitri and Kenna’s litter scars included, thankyouverymuch). “It’s not something every one is able to handle,” To be injured in a fight or spar was one thing but to intentionally let someone do that to you well, it damn near made you a masochist.

In a stretching action Ragnar then lowered himself further so he was laying down at her side, facing her rounded sides with a smirk upon his face before he touched his black, leathery nose gently to her right flank, his forehead flattening to press lightly so as not to harm her or the babes within. Ragnar yearned to feel them move under his touch again, yearned to feel the assurance that they were still living in there, though he felt that she was still growing - impossibly; but maybe it was just a trick of his mind. “Good morning, my sons,” He spoke, unsure if they could hear him, or even understand him but that didn’t matter much to Ragnar.

The “God Scars” were just a wolf version of a tattoo though the method was a lot more rudimentary than how their human counterparts would have done it. Ragnar could feel Thistle’s eyes upon the lines of scars on his face, and he wondered if she, too, could see the disjointed raven in it that Floki had sworn feverishly was able to be depicted. Ragnar didn’t really know because there was nothing for him to get a clear reflection of himself in - water moved too much and he had yet to stumble across any with true mirror properties. “You could get one too,” He purled to her with a mischievous little smirk tugging at the edges of his lips as he contemplated the idea and where he would put it. Her face was too pretty to scar up with a mark, even if it was in honor of a God or Goddess. He eyed her body then, though this time it was not with carnal desire but with contemplation. “I think one right here,” He touched his nose to her right, back hip, letting his breath tickle the shortened fur there. “Would look very good.” It was Ragnar’s way of saying that, essentially, it would look ‘sexy’ there except he had no word for it in his native tongue and therefore didn’t even know of it’s existence as a word in the common tongue.

“You should not keep your mother awake,” The Viking chided the little ones in her womb in a half hearted tone, portraying that he wasn’t really chiding them (because he was fairly certain they couldn’t hear him anyway). “She needs her beauty rest,” Ragnar glimpsed up as his fawn colored wife then with a crooked grin on his face. “Not that she isn’t the most beautiful woman on the earth anyway, as you will come to see when you are born and your eyes open, but still. Women like their beauty rest.” He drew his tongue across her swollen side once, smoothing the fur there out of nothing more than an impulse. “Behave little ones.” Ragnar murmured sternly into her womb, before he fell silent contented with just feeling them move, trying to hide the fact that with each movement his sons made within her made his heart jump with excitement.

“I didn’t say you had to get one, my love,” Ragnar corrected in his usual softened tone, even though she had not been in any shape or form accusing him of pushing her into it. “I was just thinking that one would look good on you,” Ragnar finished with a lofty shrug of his broad shoulder, inhaling the decadent scent of her fur before he exhaled and smiled. “Frigg is important to all wives and mothers; because she is the wife of Odinn she is a Queen in her own right.” Her deduction that if - and Ragnar gathered it was a pretty big if at that - she decided to get one that it would be something in symbolism to Frigg made sense to the silver Viking whose scarred ear twitched with another itch though he only rose his paw to attempt to scratch at it, far too comfortable to push himself back into a sitting position.

“So soon?” Ragnar blurted though upon closer examination of his surprise he could not fathom any logical reason behind said surprise. It wasn’t as if she had just gotten pregnant or anything, and he knew as well as everyone else that she was due any week now, though she looked like she could give birth at any second, if he was being honest. He blinked up at her a few times, and offered her an easy twitch of his mouth into a coy smirk. “Soon we will get to meet our sons,” because despite what realism said Ragnar firmly believed the children were from their coupling and not Crete’s (though he had that ass backwards). That was the beauty of being an individual and having the freedom of thoughts: he could think whatever he liked and there was no one that could tell him different. Not that he was about to let someone tell him his way of thinking was wrong, anyway. Many had tried. All had failed.

Ragnar watched as Thistle bent in what he assumed was to soothe an itch, struggling for a bit, before she let out a sigh heavy with frustration, her following words holding an undercurrent of irritation that made the Viking’s ears rove back to stand at half mast atop his head in a manner that might have been considered sheepish if it had been anyone else but Ragnar. “I imagine that is how they feel,” He murmured softly, a gentle reminder that they were probably cramped and anxious to get out of her, just as she probably was to have them out of her. “Where is your itch, my love? Let me soothe it for you.” He offered to her, pushing himself into a sitting position and from that a standing one, stretching slightly. He had been comfortable but it hardly seemed fair that he was comfortable and able to scratch at any itch that plagued him while his wife was left to suffer because there were spots of her body she could no longer reach being so heavy with child as she was.

Ragnar did the mental math of moon cycles in his head, figuring that, realistically, she had been pregnant for about two full months now, even if the exact date of her conception wasn’t possible for them to know. It could have happened with Crete, or after with Ragnar himself. The truth of it was that they would never really know. That time had seemed to have flown by, though part of it was not, admittedly, spent as her husband. It was still nothing sort of amazing to Ragnar how they: two very different creatures from two different worlds had managed to irrevocably fall in love with one another. Especially given how Ragnar had been confident he had not had a heart - having never been able to have a single woman hold his attention for more than a few weeks before his interest and lust was entirely gone - and how angry his treatment of his past wives had seemed to make her, how angry Ragnar seemed to have made her, plus he had seen her initial fear of him, in the trepidation that had lingered within her eyes and movements; not to mention the fact that while he had realistically probably been falling for Thistle for quite some time, he had not based their mateship initially on any principle of emotion aside from the affection he had garnered for her. Mostly, it had been based on the sheer fact that Ragnar was selfish and that he wanted Thistle for himself because the thought of her seeking Kennedy or Gavriil as potential husbands had driven him quite mad.

Ragnar, momentarily swept up in the catacombs of his thoughts, had realized that he had began to grin though unlike some of his grins this one did not hold any coy, lazy, or carnal connotations. It was just a grin, as harmless as it could be on his marred face. So soon, Likely before either of them knew it they would be new parents - well no, that wasn’t strictly true - Ragnar would be a father to younger children, and Týr - he was still unconvinced that he would be able to rear up infants - was some experience even if the circumstances were entirely, off the charts, different. Suddenly (at least to Thistle), the silver Viking let out a snicker. “You will be a better mother than Floki,” Ragnar started to laugh then, thinking of his bond brother, and the soot that lined his eyes and slashed down on his cheeks, something to make the un-extraordinarily ivory creature stand out in a crowd (and indeed it worked). Realizing that she likely, would either get the wrong idea about that, or would be horrendously confused the Warden decided to explain, “I had been in between wives when we had captured Týr, so we told him that his mother died and Floki sort of, though I doubt the boy noticed, tried to take on the role of mother by helping me raise him.” Ragnar flashed a sneer then that exposed a deadly, gleaming row of his teeth. “He was very bad at it, even if his help was invaluable to me.” Ragnar’s tone was wistful. Out of all the wolves he wished to find their way to Teekon Wilds, he wished that Floki might be the next, though Ragnar did not hold his breath for his friend to abandon what Floki had there.

Watching Thistle go full term with their children, knowing that within her womb the babes were alive and growing was, to the Viking, a beautiful thing. They were alive - if they were not her body would have aborted them by now; and they would be alive when they were born. While it was a wondrous thing, a knowledge that he cherished, it also made him inherently glad that he had been born a man. He could not imagine what it was like having life growing inside you and then to go through the pains of labor and child birth to have them. Perhaps he couldn’t fathom it, or understand it even because he wasn’t a female. “Our opinions are different on that,” Ragnar spoke teasingly, with a forlorn smile. “You would have laughed watching him. I almost did.” It hadn’t really been important because Tyr could have remained a captive with no memory. Ragnar hadn’t needed to adopt the boy, Floki too all but, but the two Vikings had; and it had been fun besides the fact that it had felt good to take something precious from the Amazon Queen. “If he wants to be, he will be, but sometimes our paths are fated to run together for only a short time.” It was a sad logic but true, nevertheless.

“My respect for Floki’s pride, mostly,” Ragnar responded with an errant shrug of his broad and scarred shoulders, sharing a secretive grin with her. “But also because I would have gotten a reminder of how the Gods always watched.” Or something along those lines. Floki wasn’t exactly what anyone would call predictable; but that was a far cry from a bad thing to the Viking. Ragnar glimpsed around them then before he bent down to give her a kiss. “I put off my patrols early this morning to finish those so I should probably go tend to my Warden duties.” Of course, his duty as husband and father would come first, always, but he couldn’t shrug off what made the money his Trade duties as Head Warden.