For a moment, Ragnar swayed as he limped, so close to home now, eyes sliding closed again, and imagined that he could hear the shrieks of children’s laughter, the sound of Thistle’s laughter like the soft lull of his favorite lullaby. The sounds were beckoning the silver Viking home. The bear hadn’t gotten anywhere near anything vital, and the tears in his flesh where the bear’s claws had sliced through fur and tissue and sinew, were not that deep at all but he had lost a lot of blood and in the wake of it he was aware that even these dream sounds were too unreal. The lullaby of a happy life, of his wife and their children varying colors of the sun and the moon and some of sand and snow was not his life. At least, not yet. Their first litter of children had yet to be born. The Viking’s eyes opened with reluctance and willed his body forward to limp, each step heavy as he drew towards @Thistle Cloud as she approached, her medicines in her grasp.

“My love,” The Viking cooed half-heartedly to her, barely hearing his own soft, heavily accented voice over the loud throb of his heart in his ears. Surely, this was normal for him. Expected of him. How many times had Floki dealt with this? More than either of them could count, certainly; and then there had been the time when he had nearly died first by blood loss, second by near drowning and then by infection. Two of which in the same day, the following within the same week. I have had worse. He heard her but did not deign to answer because she already knew it since he was the only one limping towards her with a bloodied hip/leg.

Ragnar had meant to lay down so as to make it easier for her to tend to her, but the action was anything but graceful. The uninjured side of his body collided with the hard earth roughly and he curled around himself - somehow - and attempted to lick the fur matted with blood and wounds clean though his reach (mostly because of his bulky body) wasn’t all that impressive, just catching the edge of the longest, middle claw mark.

If Ragnar had known that Thistle thought him and reckless went hand in hand he would have corrected her. He did not perceive himself or his actions as reckless, had learned that you couldn’t afford to be reckless since he had been Lead Berserker. The life of his men would have been at stake and sometimes it was better to let the enemy take the initiative. See what they would do; but maybe to her it did seem as if he were reckless. Unfortunately, he was not a God (though even his Gods could bleed and die) and injuries came with the job. With his way of life. Ragnar did not notice her wince when his body collided with a heavy thud to the hardened earth, clouds of dust billowing out around him where he had disturbed it. As he attempted to clean his wound for her she snapped at his muzzle, teeth near the leathery flesh of his nose - for the love of Valhalla he’d been trying to help her — but ceased his licking to fix her in one eye, studying her as she grumbled (albeit good naturedly but Ragnar didn’t pick up on this the oblivious man he was) and gave into her demands with a begrudging, exasperated sigh.

Despite his exasperation — the fact remained that while there were some things that he would not budge on with her she had somehow managed to grab his heart. Or …he had given it to her. Either way: she had it and the Viking was a little more willing to at the very least try to see her way. To take into consideration her side.

The feel of her tongue gliding over torn flesh, exposed sinew and matted fur was, somehow, a soothing feeling. A comfort. It brought Ragnar to the realization that he had come to rely on Thistle heavily - not just as a Healer but as his love and his wife, the mother of his children. She was all of that and more - if it were a possible thing; and further more he learned as she smoothed her tongue repeatedly over the blood matted fur and open wounds that he trusted her impeccably. Wholly. Ignoring her comment about him purposefully getting injured just so she would touch him (admittedly it was a perk) but if he wanted her to touch him he would have just asked. Ragnar wasn’t very timid - if at all, truthfully. “I love you, you know?” He murmured to her, watching her as he stretched his leg out so the wounds were fully exposed to her, claws scraping against the earth as his tail drummed it repeatedly though it was less of an expression and more for something to focus his mind on instead of the sting of the wounds because he (though perhaps that was men everywhere) was not keen on expressing pain. Physical or otherwise.

Thistle leaned towards his face then, and he felt her tongue glide across his muzzle, mixing his blood, the blood of the bear and her saliva against the short, velveteen fur there, covering the smaller scars that marked his muzzle in rich crimson. His nose was full with the scent of blood, the bears, his own. The scent did not turn the Viking’s stomach as it might have others. He was born in and grew up in blood. He had smelled it many times, and even the sickly sweet scent of decaying bodies. He was not as desensitized to it as he had once been when raids were a regular thing and battle loomed right around the corner at almost all times. “That is only if it aah —” The Viking let out a small hiss as she returned to cleaning the wound. “— if it festers with infection.” He had suffered through plenty of them to know, but he trusted that she knew too from experience as a Healer, alone. In retrospect, Ragnar should have been the world’s best patient. He spent the most time stealing the Healers’ attentions (both Thistle and Floki) but he had always been insufferable with it even as a small child.

Apparently, this declaration of love had caught Thistle off guard, which was amusing because it was not the first time he had ever said it to her, but her surprise, he realized, probably wasn’t all that unwarranted given that it had sort of just spilled from betwixt his lips without any conscious thought. Despite that, he was not just casually throwing it around. He truly did love her. Somehow, impossibly, but truly all the same. “It caught Pump on the back, it didn’t dig into her or anything - just bruised her maybe. She insisted she was fine,” Ragnar told her. “It is not dead, but it has fled. It may come back,” It was not an over joyful realization but it was a reality they had to acknowledge nevertheless. “It will remember what I did to it. Maybe that will keep it away for good.” The Viking grinned then, but then let his head fall back against the earth, trying to make himself still so she could apply what ever medicines that were required.

Ragnar lifted his head to study his wife as she murmured her words of contrition. Though she explained to him that she had not meant to make his wounds ache any more than they already did, Ragnar was unable to understand, precisely why she was remorseful. This was more likely than not borne of his own refusal to ever show remorse for the things that he did — and it was true that the words “I’m sorry” would never slip betwixt the Viking’s lips just as they had never done previously. The wolves of these lands were too quick to those words of remorse around, though Ragnar did not doubt that Thistle meant them, but still. “Do not be,” Ragnar told her briskly. “Do not be remorseful for the things that you do.” Regardless of if it was something that could be helped, or like in this very instance where the pain added by the motion of her tongue soothing over his heated skin and torn flesh was nothing short of unavoidable. Expected.

“Healing wounds are always irritable.” He murmured in a rumble of crossness, not directed at her specifically but at the world in general. She had slathered her medicines on the wounds and bound it in rudimentary wrappings -- the best that could be done with what she was given to work with. He did not thank her — mostly because he felt that he didn’t need too, and besides that he had other ways of expressing his gratitude besides actually speaking the words — not even as he glimpsed back as she worked on cleaning herself up a bit to examine her handiwork. He shifted his body then so he was laying in a sphinx like manner, looking back to the direction his body was facing, his eyes fixated on the endless stretch of horizon. Gradually, he drew his own tongue across his bloodied front paws, before he gave up on attempting to clean his coat, deciding that it was a job for the river the next day. “Come here, Thistle,” He beckoned her to his side then, desiring to feel her side pressed against his, the intermingling of their fur to sharp contrasts of one another. “I know you do not now the symbolism of swiping my blood on your cheek before I left,” So he thought he would explain it to her. “It is an old tradition of my people, the smearing of blood on a lover’s cheek. It’s a powerful symbol. Of Love. To remind you that if Odinn would have claimed me and I would have found myself in Valhalla that our love still exists, our passion. That the bond of a husband and wife does not have a limit between life and death, that it transcends boundaries. And, if would help me to find you in whatever Hall you would go to when it was your time.” It was kind of a romantic tradition, but it was tradition all the same.

The sound of Thistle’s laughter, so soon after Ragnar had finished his man grumbling in regards to irritated and itchy wounds let the Viking knew that his wife found his grumbling to be amusing. He spared her a cheeky little grin for a few seconds before a stoic expression stole over him once more. The feel of her head resting against the junction of his shoulder blades, and the warmth of her body against his own was enough to make Ragnar sigh with content. “You don’t have to wear it all the time,” He told her though he was not sure what made him say it to her. “I will smear blood on you before every battle or raid, I promise,” When spoken that way …it really took the romanticism out of the gesture and reminded Ragnar of how others might think it inherently barbaric. Maybe it was. He had never cared what any other creature thought of him or his culture, especially because he did not ever remember asking for the worlds’ opinion. “I will slip out of the feast hall every night to spend with you,” The Viking vowed - because he couldn’t spend days with her since the days of the warriors in Valhalla was spent training and either dying (again) only to be resurrected each night for the feast and drinking. Not to mention her days would likely be filled with whatever it was the ones that Frigg took did (Ragnar probably knows but Tokio doesn’t admittedly, lol). “Soon our sons will be born into the world, and they will be raised and trained and taught.” He was ready for them. Ready to be a father, again, though this time it would be to squealing and crying newborns instead of a juvenile who had been captured and suffered memory loss — admittedly at Ragnar’s own paws.

He did not expect her to jump up and wash it off that very second and if she had — well maybe not jump considering the action alone might be enough to force her into labor — he would have coaxed her back to his side before she got very far. Ragnar, himself, was too comfortable, with his wife resting against him, his body slowly unwinding from the heat of battle. He felt cooler now, the medicines she had slathered on his wounds working, and beyond that he was contented to just relax and enjoy this moment, here, with her. Not something Ragnar did a whole lot of given his penchant for always keeping busy with something. “It is about time they come and say hello,” Ragnar jested with her lightly, reaching down to draw his tongue across one of her forepaws, tasting the metallic tang of his blood on it, too. “And once they are born and your body recovers we can practice for your next season.” He teased her with a mischievous and carnal glint in his eye.

There was a smirk accompanied by a soft snort of acknowledgment, curt and short lived though the noise was when Thistle mentioned that they were his large sons. Ragnar had nearly all but forgotten about Crete’s conquering of Thistle, the night, ironic though it was shared in the same forest, Ravensblood, that Ragnar had planted his own seed within Thistle, taking what she had offered him that night — several times that night — because she had wanted it, too. In all of reality, Ragnar had nearly forgotten about Crete’s existence period because her one night lover didn’t matter anymore. Ragnar had earned the prize of Thistle’s love, had taken what was rightfully his, and with her forged a bond that, should he ever come traipsing back, would never be in danger of being compromised — at least that was how Ragnar liked to fancy their love, how ever harsh and barbaric it was. Ragnar had squashed out all the remaining competition until he was confident enough that no more existed. Even if Crete did by some unfortunate circumstance find himself back in the Teekon Wilds Ragnar had ensured that he would not be welcome back into Blacktail Deer Plateau by informing his leader and brother of the crimes committed — even if it wasn’t technically considered a crime; and her certainly wasn’t and would never be welcome in Horizon Ridge unless Ragnar had finally moved on to claim Ravensblood. At that point, Ragnar wouldn’t care if they let his deceased brother’s ghost it. At that time it would no longer concern or pertain to him.

Her confidence in the way she spoke of the children in her womb as his made him begin to believe it himself, all over again (they weren’t Ragnar’s but genetic specifications didn’t matter, they were his by claim and therefore his children period). “Maybe,” Ragnar chuckled trying to imagine two little infants tangled around each other in their baby version of ‘combat’. It was an amusing, if impossible, image. “Of course you don’t my love,” He purled to her, lips spreading into a devilish grin, eyes dancing as he attempted to command and hold her own irises, the color of the deepest azure. “A great Seer once prophesized I would have many sons,” As if that was explanation and answer enough for her. In a way, it did answer her question. He intended to have children until one or both of them could no longer reproduce - which meant they had quite a long way to go. It was a peaceful thing to imagine them grey (well gray-er in Ragnar’s case) surrounded by children and grand children and great-grand children. If Ragnar and Odinn, Ragnar assumed, had anything to say about it the Loðbrók name would be, one day, well known in these Wilds.

Ragnar put much stock into things such as prophesies and superstitions. Half of the time, Seers never gave direct answers and Ragnar had learned that more or less they were up for open interpretation. Or at least that was what Ragnar assumed, where it was right or not he couldn’t be sure. His interpretations had yet to cause Thor to strike him dead so he decided that his assumption was safe. At least for the time being. The prophesy that Ragnar would have many sons had been as clear as crystal, not some crafty worded response or his least personal favorite, the returned question worded differently to make a wolf deduce that what they desired to see would be so. Though Ragnar believed in a Seer’s powers, he also believed that the Gods did not always answer them — after all they were busy, too and surely they could not answer every single question every single wolf had.

“He did,” Ragnar confirmed at Thistle’s chuckle, wondering for a moment if she was taking him seriously. But this was Thistle; and she knew better than to mock his Gods, especially to his face. Had she not felt them? Heard them that day in Ravensblood Forest when he had summoned and then been possessed by Odinn? Had she not heard the guttural and tremble of the Allfather’s powerful voice? Ragnar chose if only to soothe his own concern that she had been laughing fondly at the idea of having a lot of sons and that it meant nothing else. “Pregnancy is becoming on you, my love. It fills me with great pride and happiness to see you round with my children.” He murmured into the silky velveteen fur of her ear, voice low, nearly a accented whisper. Desire and love also, but those went without saying.

Ragnar grinned at the feel of his wife’s tongue on his face as she licked it though he could not tell if it was purely an affectionate gesture or also because she wanted to clean his face of the grim and blood that had covered it, too. He did not grim and blood; then again he had never considered that it might have grossed her out. The idea, even as he thought it, sounded a little ridiculous especially for a healer who had to be unafraid of exposed organs and blood and gore because that was their profession, whether they could save the injured or could not giving them the knowledge that they could not be saved, that they would die. It wasn’t precisely a trade for the faint of heart…or stomach. Just like being a Warden or Warrior wasn’t. “I have never met a stupid seer,” Ragnar chuckled to his wife, smiling at her. “But they are just gifted, able to communicate with the Gods. It is Odinn that is all knowing,” Of course Ragnar expected Thistle to know why because he had probably told her at least half a dozen times. “Have you accepted my Gods then?” Ragnar asked her as he nuzzled her cheek, teeth grazing the shortened fur there teasingly.

Ragnar canted his head towards her, slightly, in a bird-like manner as she confessed that she considered part of the reason she had accepted them was selfish and then spoke that she wasn’t sure if it was a good thing. Ragnar contemplated it in silence, if her being selfish was a bad thing in regards to their Gods. Her …fear — Thistle had not came out and said it, or even really expressed it; merely Ragnar assumed that was what it was — of how her supposed ‘selfishness’ might be perceived by the Gods reminded Ragnar, unbidden and rather unwelcome, of Nerian’s God. How he was strict and apparently unforgiving in the way he unequally lorded himself over those whom that were devout to him. “What is the selfish reason?” Ragnar asked because in what she had spoken to him he could not make out how either could be considered ‘selfish’. They were both good reasons to decide to become devout to the Gods. “It is ok to be selfish, my love. Our Gods understand because they are not so different from us.” He soothed her, finally, in case she had been worrying about it. It seemed a silly thing to Ragnar to worry about but he had grown up with his Gods. He had known them since before he could start hearing.

“Now let me sleep, wife.” He commanded her with only a slight teasing edge, butting his snout against her chin with a chuckle before he laid his head across her forepaws, feeling the exhaustion (and blood loss) weigh him down like a lead stone.