Parting from his wife had always been hard, though parting from his wife and children proved to be the ultimate test of Ragnar’s will power. Without his presence he felt that he was leaving them vulnerable to the world despite that he knew he had his duties as Head Warden, and leadership things that needed to be taken care of. Pump had promoted him and he had told her, by accepting, that he could handle the burden of all he had to do. This wasn’t exactly Ragnar’s first time around the block of parenthood, leadership, and the Head Warden duties all at once. When he and Floki had decided to tell the boy they had more or less kidnapped that he was Ragnar’s son and named him Týr (despite that Ragnar had Floki’s horrible mothering to assist) Ragnar had done more than his fair share of the work. Granted, the boy was not a newborn but that made it ten times harder, in retrospect. Ragnar had been a father, the Jarl, and Lead Berserker during those times, having never stepped down from the leader of the raids when he had taken his brother’s place as King of the Cove. His men had trusted him, needed him to lead them on raids. So, no, Ragnar wasn’t what anyone would considered a ‘green boy’ when it came to carrying multiple duties, all of which needed his attention with equal importance.

His limp was less and less, though he had pulled a muscle the other day trying to get to Thistle to watch the birth of his children as fast as he could, but it was hardly anything serious or irreversible damage. He had conveniently not told Thistle of this simply for the fact that she had more important things to worry about than him. Namely, three tiny numbered things. Her undivided attention, as far as Ragnar was concerned, belonged to them. He had finished his patrols in a timely fashion at about early-afternoon and decided to head back to the den, thinking that he might surprise Thistle with letting her get out and get some sun and stretch if she wanted too. Ragnar was fairly confident he could handle three tiny newborns for a while, it wasn’t like they could get into trouble. They couldn’t see, hear, or even lift their heads yet.

“Thistle,” The silver Viking greeted his wife as he slid into their den, careful of the three tiny bodies monochrome except for Thistle’s mini-me. He drew close to her for a few seconds, attempting to pepper her muzzle with sultry kisses, his nose pressed against the velveteen fur of her cheek inhaling her scent for a few seconds before he drew back. “If they have fed recently I will watch them for a while. You go out and stretch your legs, hunt, bask in the sunlight. Get out of this den for a bit.” He encouraged, ungentlemanly just about figuratively shoving her out of it. “How much trouble can they be, hmm?” As it was at least one of them was snoring lightly. That was pretty much what their life consisted of right now. Sleeping, eating, and pooping. He settled into the space Thistle vacated, sitting in a sphinx-like position, feeling Ein nestle into his plush fur of his side and resume his snoring after making a cute little mewing noise.

Ragnar’s gaze touched each of them in turn, lingering a little longer on his (secret) Gyda, the child that the Viking was now certain came out of his night of stolen passion with Thistle before their mateship, shortly after Crete had taken her (though this was a false assumption). They, each of them, was looked upon with fatherly affection, holding a piece of his heart in their tiny little paws. "Is it nap time already, children?" He teased lightly and then murmured to them in his native tongue, wanting them to learn both of them fluently.

One of the babes, it became abruptly apparent when Thistle rose and departed, did not like her absence if the shrieking cry of protest was anything for Ragnar to go off of. “Hush now child,” The Viking chided Thistle’s mini-me softly, the one he suspected of letting out the cry and glimpsed at the mouth of the den afraid that Thistle would come rushing back at the cry of her youngest son. “Do you want me to get into trouble with your mother, hmm?” Ragnar asked him, touching his muzzle to his youngest son’s back gently, hoping to soothe with the brief touch before he could settle himself into the warm spot Thistle had vacated. “With lungs like that child the whole pack could hear you,” For newborn things they sure had powerful lungs, or at least the one knew as Tveir seemed too, at least. Gyda was a quiet little thing, and he glimpsed at her silver form, darker than his platinum but silver enough for Ragnar to believe in his delusion, and paused to give her a lick of his tongue, contended when she cooed softly and nestled against his side. Ein was sleeping on his side against Gyda, his toes, Ragnar saw were sandy colored, and he had interesting silver curves the color of Gyda’s fur under his eyes, reminding Ragnar of Sveinn for a startling moment.

Ragnar glimpsed down at Tveir when the boy started toothlessly gumming at Ragnar’s fur in search of what he wasn’t going to find. “How are you hungry already? She just left.” Ragnar grumbled half-heartedly, unable to hide the laughter that shook him when Tveir appeared to figure out that Ragnar wasn’t capable of filling his belly with milk. “I am not equipped for that, my child,” Ragnar cooed to the young one that seemed to be the only one awake. Gently, he grasped the small thing by it’s scruff and brought him to nestle between his front legs, so he would not disturb the other two and so that Ragnar did not have to keep looking over his shoulder at him to keep his eye on him. “You are going to be trouble, little one, aren’t you? I, too, was the middle child and I was a lot of trouble,” But he had always been the one ignored by his parents, as well. Hidden in the shadow of the youngest and the oldest. He would not let that happen to Tveir. None of his children would be neglected. They were all worth his love, his attention and his pride.

There was a moment of silence from the second born from Ragnar talking to him, not that Ragnar had disillusioned himself into thinking that the second born could understand; he did not know much about the development of newborns but he knew that they were blind, deaf, and their sense of touch was likely their most dominate sense since he had heard from his mother once (in the way that old women gossiped about their successful sons time as babes) that their sense of smell was weak. Even after they began to hear they would not still understand until they learned languages. Ragnar assumed that it was the vibrations of his vocals that pacified the young, mini-me of Thistle; however short lived it might have been. For a moment, eyes studying the awake child with unbidden affection only to nearly drop him when the child let out a loud wail of protest at being lifted. Ragnar, frightened that his grasp had slacked on the squirming infant grasped onto his scruff tighter in the blind, parental fear that Tveir would squirm right out of his grasp and fall to the earth in a crushing impact of potentially breaking his tiny body. It was a horrible scenario that had played out in the Viking’s mind and he was quick to set the second born down between his paws, his heart feeling like it had jumped into his throat.

He had boasted to anyone that called him a ‘first time father’ that he was not a first time father — it was not a lie but his oldest son had been a captive, already past the infant stage when he had been captured and then adopted by the Viking and his Berserkers. Ragnar was a first time father where the infants were concerned and so far he’d already had his mini heart attack. “Hush sveinn,” Ragnar chided him in a gently stern voice, his native words spilling effortlessly from his tongue in a rushing relief. It had been so long since he had used his native language — the last time he had spoken it had been with Dagrun and it brought with it a sense of home (and the assertion that he was going to use it more).

The second born began to crawl (Tokio is assuming, if not feel free to correct her!) towards the curve of Ragnar’s chest in the mini cage that Viking had made of his long legs, and the Viking rumbled a laugh when he felt the second born nestle against it. “Sem skapgóðr sveinn,” Ragnar praised his second born in his native tongue, not able to see where the boy was nestled against him without literally tucking his muzzle to his throat and looking down (which was a little too much effort); but he could feel him and comforted by the knowledge that the second born seemed content peeked over his shoulder to glimpse at his first born and daughter where they lay nestled together against his side.

The Second Born nestled tighter against Ragnar’s chest and the Viking’s ear twitched a few times, cupping forth to catch the noises from outside the den, the shuffling of Thistle outside as she …did whatever it was she was doing, the whispers of the winds through the trees, rustling the leaves as it murmured through the tall grasses, across the rippling water of the small pond a few feet below their den. It was the sound of summer, accented by the calls of birds high above, occasionally the cry of a raven, of Huginn or Muninn. Sounds that his children would soon be able to hear when their ears opened. He glimpsed down at what he could see of Thistle’s mini-me, a ball of sandy colored fuzz pressed against the pallid and sharp contrasting silver moonlight of Ragnar’s own fur, little paws pressing against his side — a quick glimpse back told him it was the eldest son with his odd markings reminiscent of Sveinn, strange though it was — before a noise of contentment (or so that was how Ragnar chose to take the small noise Tveir made as) escaped the Second Born’s little mouth muffled by the colossus and strong curve of the Viking’s chest (in comparison to the babes, at least he felt like a colossal titan or something).

For a rare moment as his children slept nestled against him — for it did not take Ragnar long to realize that the Second Born was asleep by his surprisingly loud snores that caused the Viking to chuckle fondly before he cut himself off afraid the vibration of his mirth might disturb one of the three slumbering children. Ragnar shifted his back legs to a more comfortable position, stretching them out so they worked to curve around Ein and Átta. There was nothing to watching the infants, really. He tried to see where Tveir’s face was facing and in accordance laid his head to rest on the opposite paw so the boy would be able to breathe. Gradually, the Viking’s eyes slid closed realizing that he was perhaps more exhausted than he took time to realize. Guarding the den all night did not leave him much time for a deep sleep and though he did his duties as husband, father, leader, and Head Warden without any complaint it was a nice thought to be utterly selfish and steal some shut eye wrapped around his children’s embraces (so to speak).

Ragnar had only began to fall asleep when Thistle had re-entered the den, having just been lulled into the wispy drudges of slumber surrounded by the comfort his children provided him, unworried because they were where he felt they were the safest: nestled against him. It went with the unspoken vow that so long as Ragnar drew breath he would never allow harm to befall them. The Viking had stirred at the sound of Thistle’s entrance though it was her chuckle that pulled him from the depths that he had began to sink down into, eyes blinking open, taking in the somehow groggy dimness of the den, surprised to find Thistle where he normally slept instead of by his side where he wanted her.

“What are you doing all the way over there for, hmm?” Ragnar asked her, voice slightly raspy from the few moments of shut eye he had managed, fixing her in his stare. “Come here and join us,” He demanded of her in his softened way.

Ragnar watched as Thistle moved, stepping carefully over the curled bodies of their children, settling against his side, the pressure of her head resting against his back soothing. It exposed a vulnerable area to her — his spine — but if he could not trust his own wife not to kill him in his sleep he could trust no one. “See?” The Viking murmured in a quiet tone, meant only for her ears. “Is that not better?” He asked before he laid his head back down against his foreleg and let his eyes close once more lulled into sleep by the warmth of his little family around him.