The sun had gradually began it’s descent into the horizon, painting the world in blazing and passionate crimsons, oranges, and gold basking the canopy of trees in Ravensblood in the departing sun’s golden gaze, reminding Ragnar of fire licking at them as if it had been set ablaze. Icy Caribbean blue eyes watched the world above from her perch atop the ridge where he often came to observe after his patrols had been ran, climbing his way up the treacherous remains of the landslide that had made a nice little path, if one knew where to look for it, up to the Ridge. For the most part, much of the pack had dismissed at the lands beyond being impassable and in a way, they were. There was no safe way over the scar of rocks the landslide had left in it’s wake and aftermath. The view from atop the Ridge was astounding and for a moment Ragnar was granted the ability to appreciate the exquisite beauty of the life around him; but there was only one exquisite beauty he wanted and his thoughts went to Thistle and at the mental conjuring of his wife’s face to the forefront of his mind the beauty of the landscape dimmed. Slowly, the silver Viking began his descent from the top of the Ridge, his steps careful and measured as the darkness quickened, the moonlight trading places with the setting sun to guide his path, back to his family, back to his love. Though upon giving birth she had lost the hormonal scent of her season that had made a reappearance and hung there, tempting him sorely because she was forbidden from him, too close to giving birth as she was.

Ragnar’s love had not diminished any with the birth of their children, if anything it merely reinforced his undeniable and gravitational love for Thistle; beyond that he had to let her know that the fires of his passion had not cooled just because she no longer tempted him with intoxicating hormonal scent. The fires of passion and carnal desire was not an issue either. He hoped to steal her away from their children — not far and not for too long, mind — hoping they would be solidly asleep for the night that he would lavish his wife with kisses and steal her for himself for a bit. Briskly, the Viking moved through the claimed territory of their home towards the den his family dwelled within. Outside of it, he paused, holding his breath, listening for signs of the children being awake. He heard gentle snores and the absence of suckling which meant that none of them were feeding and there was a breathless quicken in his breast. “My love,” He whispered to @Thistle Cloud hoping not to wake the children as he summoned her outside. “Come and greet your husband.” He beckoned her with a coy smirk tugging at the edges of his lips.

He had spent the night previously with his body against the mouth of the den, protecting those inside so that if anything or anyone wanted in they would assertively have to go through the Viking to get there. Even so, he was not sure exactly where he was supposed to sleep given that his normal place against, interwoven with Thistle’s body by placing his head on her paws or curled around her was stolen by their children and Ragnar was afraid to get too close on the off chance that he accidentally squish them. They were so tiny, so delicate, perfect of course, but they seemed so vulnerable and breakable that he was almost intimidated by them. He shifted his weight, ears slicking back to stand at half mast atop his skull as he heard quiet shuffling around the den, his heart loud as tribal drums in his ears as he saw Thistle emerge and the moonlight touch her fawn colored fur and the Viking smiled at his Shield Maiden, breath stolen by her beauty as it always was.

He watched, apprehensive as his wife drew nearer to him, and closed his eyes against the onslaught of her trail of kisses down his jaw in a mimicry of Ragnar’s behavior. “Mmm,” The Viking moaned slightly, lowly, letting the sound rumble in his throat his breath coming out sharper than he intended at her nip, the feel of the teeth biting against his flesh, raking through the fur there. “Come,” He beckoned for her to follow as he turned from the den and moved a few feet away — still well within their sights and earshot but not so close as to disturb the babes slumbering inside even though they were deaf. “They are beautiful, perfect and tiny,” Ragnar murmured to her, having loved them when they were still growing within her womb. “Like you, my love —” He grinned at her then, “— my tiny Viking.” Though all of their babes were tiny Vikings in truth, Ragnar could not shed Thistle of her nickname given to her by him out of affection.

The mandates of his culture were quite clear to the Viking and while it was nice to have Pump’s approval for the ritual he would need to perform Ragnar had planned to do it anyway because it was not just culture but also invoked his Gods. It meant his children were safe and were not to be harmed and that if any harm befell them from another wolf that Ragnar, as the head of the house (so to speak), was entitled to punish through trail and if proved guilty: execution. It was not just the wolves they were vulnerable too, but the elements outside of the den, and the Gods. Though Ragnar wished to abandon his duties to guard the den day and night he knew it was not possible; not to mention it would probably drive him mad because he needed to be doing things, patrolling, hunting, scouting, something.

The sound of Thistle’s voice called him back to the present from his thoughts and he offered her a twitch of a smile considering the fact that one of his sons would grow to rival him. It was not unexpected, given how it seemed to be the way of things. The sun always strove to do better than the father. Had Ragnar not exceeded Eitri’s own accomplishments despite never having wanted to be a Jarl? It had came with winning the challenge of Björn, earned through taking the life from his older brother in the same way that Björn had stolen the helm from Eitri, draped in crimson blood. As it had been, once upon a time, Ragnar had been quite contended with being nothing more than the Head Berserker. If he had never known the temptation of Tyra he would have never challenged Björn, would have never won and never became the Cove’s Jarl. If things had not happened as they had, Ragnar might have never left the Cove, might have never met Thistle. Or, maybe he would have. Maybe Odinn would have called him away, regardless, but maybe instead of Beta, Ragnar would have been contended with whatever rank Pump saw fit to give him and the title of Head Warden.

It was through circumstance that he had discovered he had a penchant for leadership and was actually good at it, despite that he was a ‘Heathen King’ and his ways were boorish, brutal and merciless to those that did not understand it was simply Ragnar’s way of life. Harsh conditions demanded the harshest to survive. At the end of the day that was what spurred every living creature: survival. The survival of their genetics, the survival of their name, the survival of their Gods, their culture.

“He will rival me, someday,” Ragnar broke his contemplative silence then touching his muzzle against hers, desiring her closeness in the stolen moments he could get it. “As will Tveir. All sons desire to do more than their father before them,” Admittedly, they would have to share in his ambition to compete with Ragnar’s accomplishments but he expected them too, encouraged them too. Sons were meant to do better. “It is the way.” That was not to say that one day he would not grow jealous of their accomplishments that would outshine his in the very far future. They say a man should love his sons more, but he can be jealous of his sons. “Enough talk of rivalries. They have a long way to go before they rival me,” And he wanted to relish every moment of watching them grow up to be fine Vikings. “How can I forget? You keep reminding me.” Ragnar teased her, enunciating his teasing with a coy grin in her direction as she licked his muzzle. “We have had a good bit of new joiners recently. Several of them are interested in learning to be a Healer. I told them that you are not available until our children are at least a month old when they will not be so dependent on you. One of them also spoke about watching the children. I do not trust enough to let her alone with them right away,” Meaning Ragnar would be watching. He did not want the careful ground work he would begin to lay as soon as they could hear in making them into Vikings to be unwoven. It would have been much easier if they were surrounded by it as a single culture and the fact that half of the pack claimed ownership to them as if they were property and not living beings still rubbed Ragnar the wrong way because it meant they could undo everything he did., if they wanted too.

Ragnar was not aware that Thistle and Julooke had already met but he felt, as her husband, but also the Head Warden and Beta, it was his job to inform her of any apprentices she might acquire in due time so it was not a huge surprise to her. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that Gavriil is intending to court Pump, I do not know how it went I haven’t…heard from him on the matter. Thinking on it I don’t think he should have listened to me,” Ragnar’s chuckle was low, his expression a mixture of sheepish and mischievous. He had, had three failed marriages due to his lack of interest, but had been with many women, many times and though he thought he knew the fairer sex pretty well, it was true that he was something of a disaster when it came to ‘romance’ (of course his lack of sentiment and compassion probably had something to do with it). “I do not think it will end well for him. Pump does not seem the kind of woman that wants a mate and children, and even if she does deep down I don’t think Gavriil has what it takes to reach that,” It was nothing against Gavriil because he was a good man, a kind man Ragnar and Pump were something of kindred spirits having came from similar backgrounds, sharing very similar ideals and views (not always, they butted heads on things; but most of the time).

As it was, he really didn’t want to talk a relationship that would either be a shipwreck or flourish. It was just menial conversation because it seemed like she just wanted to talk. Drawing closer to her it was Ragnar’s turn to pepper her jaw with kisses, each one more sultry than the last. It was his not-so-subtle way to communicate that his passion had gone no where for her, and didn’t expect that it ever would. She had yet to shed the weight that she had gained (Ragnar knew that would take a while) but she was still the most beautiful thing in his world. “I love you,” He murmured into her ear, just in case she needed the reminder.

Though his wife smiled and spoke of it being good, Ragnar had the gut suspicion that she might not have thought that despite that she said it. It was almost as if her angelic responses, that seemed to be to the Viking, geared toward making everyone happy, was just a knee jerk reaction. His eyes narrowed in his suspicion, as he wavered between calling her out on it or not. “Is something the matter, wife?” Ragnar inquired, figuring he would give her the option of choosing if she wanted to tell him what was bothering her, or not. Ragnar desired her honesty in all things if only because he did not share in her compassion for others and therefore saw no point in trying to make everyone else happy. As it was, they didn’t even have to make their own kids happy (kids would get angry eventually), it was the happiness of themselves and each other that mattered the most because one day their kids would leave them and they would be all they had left. Each other. “You can always be honest with me.” He assured her, smoothing his tongue across the fur at the base of her ear.

Their conversation had shifted, as his directing, to Gavriil and Pump and Ragnar laughed, unable to help himself when he watched Thistle’s lips work into a frown. “Perhaps I should have warned him about Pump not seeming like wife and mother material before I worked up his ego,” Though Ragnar was unaware of what had happened when Gavriil had approached Pump about courting her, mentioning mateship right then and there (as Ragnar had warned him not too), he did not know that as exactly as he had predicted had happened. Gavriil had been gunning at the trigger almost as Ragnar was finished encouraging him not to let fear stop him. He hadn’t seemed to want to hear Ragnar’s opinion about Pump and mateship and children (and if Ragnar ever learned he could probably pinpoint where Gavriil had gone wrong, though Pump played a huge part in the rejection as well). “He had not wanted to hear it, then.” Ragnar sucked in a breath and let it out. “He seems a little too overeager for her.” Ragnar was not confident they would have been a good match for one another, anyway for not all opposites attracted, but he didn’t know the outcome and ceased to draw conclusions.

“Mmm,” The Viking chuckled deep and low in his throat at the feel of Thistle nipping and tugging at his fur. “I believe you promised me something, my love, that I was not able to take advantage of at the time.” He murmured to her, letting her know that he hadn’t forgotten even if he had been suffering from fever.

Ragnar might not have dared to call his ability at being observant a talent because he believed that anyone could be observant, that is was an essential part of the most basic of survival. For him, at the very least. Thistle’s sigh was an odd mixture of what he deduced to be pleasure and wariness, leaving the Viking unsure of which he wished to focus upon. His experience with women left him with the understanding that there was not an aspect of her that was not of equal importance and that each should be catered too. Something about a happy wife is a happy life. His ears cupped towards her as she spoke, and he leveled a stare as she more or less stated that she was useful only for Healing and nothing else. “I encouraged the idea because I do not want your attention away from our children,” He reached down to nuzzle at her neck, realizing that perhaps he had been wrong in speaking for her. The idea of clearly becoming indisposed upset her and in a rare form of humanity the Viking felt a bubble of remorse in his chest for nurturing the idea that there should be other healers besides Thistle. “Then earn the trade title, become the Head Healer so they answer to you,” He suggested to her. “The moment you are indisposed of is the moment we leave this Ridge. Do you think I would allow that to happen, wife?” He asked her, a little more roughly than he had meant too, admittedly.

Ragnar’s romantic advice probably was not the greatest, and admittedly he should have started out on a different approach with Gavriil in the hopes that the other man’s ego would not get in the way of rationality and logic but he hadn’t and maybe it had, maybe it hadn’t. Ragnar’s previous relationships had begun and ended at the Viking’s own discretion. Because he had grown bored with the loveless-ness between his previous conquests and himself until he was left with the determination that he was the sole problem. They had all been beautiful, captivating in their own ways and it had been decidedly fun while the lust was strong and coupling passionate until it faded into …nothing. No feelings, no lust, just blank, empty, nothingness. It was then that Ragnar would send them, used and likely upset, on their way. “No, I have not heard from Gavriil since,” As to which could mean that it worked very well and in the other man’s excitement he had forgotten to report back to Ragnar, or it had went very poorly and he was avoiding Ragnar either out of assumed humiliation or anger at the Viking. Presently, it remained a mystery and one that the Head Warden was in no hurry to involve himself in further.

He did not care enough about other wolves to shove his nose into their business further than was necessary.

“Don’t you remember?” Ragnar teased her, mocking her as he moved to circle her, his icy stare fiery and predatory-like. Ragnar was nothing short of a man and like most men he enjoyed the carnal pleasures his wife could give to him. Had made him swear, literally on his life, that he would not seek them out with other women. “You told me if I ate your weeds,” The word was a low growl in his throat. “That I could have you if I was gentle. It was a trick. You knew your weeds would knock me out,” And they had before he could make good on his wife’s offer. “But there is no need to be gentle now,” As he glided against her opposite side, his body brushing against hers, his muzzle near her opposite ear, “And I want you.” He whispered into her ear, smirking at her, though unless she looked at him from over her shoulder, as he recoiled just as quickly and began to circle her slowly again, she would not be able to see it upon his face. His smirk might have been nothing more than wolfish but his desire was very real.

“You are almost not needed,” Ragnar reminded her with a coy grin. His wounds were scabs and were all but healed and Ragnar thought that if they were going to scar at all they would not be as noticeable as his other ones. Not that idea of adding more scars to his body bothered him in any semblance of manner — it didn’t. Scars were apart of his culture, a part of his life. “Do not worry, wife,” Ragnar murmured in what was supposed to be a reassuring tone. “They will not forget who has done the most for them and if they do I will be there to remind them,” While Ragnar had meant it to be reassuring to Thistle, to soothe her worries it had more or less came out as a threat. He did not know, truly, how to communicate to her that he was never allow anyone to dispose of her, that he would shield her and protect her regardless of what it meant, of what it cost him to do so. He was not afraid of death so in reality threatening him with it wasn’t an effective way to get him to back down. “Good.” He said firmly on the matter, for whatever it was worth glad that she had maybe even a tiny bit of faith in him.

Thistle was toying with him, Ragnar realized. For a moment, brief though it was, he had considered that maybe there had been some merit in her words; that it had been a feverish dream and nothing more. It certainly had possessed a dream like quality about it, the familiar feeling of being out of control of his own body, very similar to how he had felt when Odinn had possessed him. Even so he remembered the fire that had burned in his loins as he scented the hormones she had been giving off, very similar to the hormones females in heat gave off. The primal urge to claim and plant his seed had been strong. Absent of the hormones as she was now he could feel the embers of that fiery passion lick to life within him, seething beneath his skin. How long, Ragnar wondered, would she play temptress to him, how long would he let her before he could stand it no more? Would she deny him the intimacy of coupling (and if she did what would he do about it? He wouldn’t force himself on his wife, having never believed in it — though he had never stopped his kinsmen from doing it to the females captured, admittedly).

“I remember,” Was all he said on the matter of him being ‘confused’. He hadn’t been that confused not when her scent at the time had been like a smack in his face; a sore dose of reality. “Let me worship your body, my love,” He nearly pleaded, moving to nip at her spine eagerly.

Ragnar was not aware how close to Valhalla he had came when his wound from the landslide, deep as it was, had began to fester with infection; while it wasn’t the first time he had a near death experience it was the first time he had not been aware of how truly close he had been to having Odinn collect him for the army against Ragnarök. Even so he was too confident in the knowledge that the Allfather had promised him a long, prosperous life that he probably would not have worried, anyway. As it was, the Viking did not fear death, at least, not for himself, because he was certain that he knew what was awaiting him. The lovely and fierce Valkyries, preparation for Ragnarök daily, and at night endless feasting and drinking. What was there to be afraid of in that? Her words were an interesting choice not worrying when he was around and for a moment Ragnar had to attempt to puzzle them off, perplexity causing his brow to furrow. Perhaps he had just been reading much to far into it but it had been an odd way of wording and it had caught his attention. “What do you mean when I am around?” He asked knowing that he would likely never be able to figure it out himself and while another man might have brushed it off as to not call her out on it, Ragnar was too curious for that. “Do things happen when I am away?” The longest trip he had taken had been to Blacktail Deer Plateau with their Beta female, Blue Willow, but he was known for making frequent trips to Ravensblood Forest because he was territorial over it even if he did not claim it yet.

Her warning had him pause in his approach for he had taken the shifting of her weight and repositioning of her legs as his subtle invitation, hesitating, staring at her when she glimpsed over her shoulder at him. “I won’t hurt you, my love,” He promised her, hoping that if, just in case he did, she would speak up. The very last thing Ragnar wanted was to mess up and somehow cause her to not be able to bear him more children. Their relationship was more than just about having many sons, of course, and if that would happen to be the case he would likely approach about the idea of a surrogate because he needed to pass on his genetic line (something he actually had yet to do); but he did not think he would cause any damage, or hurt her. The tip of her tail teased against his black, leathery nostrils and it was almost enough to make him rise and have his way with her right then and there instead of imploring the strained patience he was bestowing her, though he pressed his chest against her back side then, nipping eagerly at her left hip.

Thistle corrected her words by explaining them so they proved to make more sense to Ragnar who listened and nodded at the correct interval, having grasped, with a complete understanding, what she had meant. He had taken her words to be a literal meaning, to signify that she felt vulnerable when he was patrolling or wandering around Ravensblood (most days it was less of wandering and much more of mapping and sacrifices). The metaphor had been entirely lost upon the Viking and as she explained it he felt a small stab of humiliation that he had misunderstood but buried it deeply in the following seconds. In the wake of the stab of humiliation he felt a swelling pride that she felt protected by his presence, a nearly three-sixty to the fear he had suspected she had originally felt when they had first meant. Thistle was a strong woman, even if she did not acknowledge it and in truth Ragnar did not think that she needed him but it was certainly to feel like he was needed by his wife, to know that his presence brought with it the comfort of safety. That was his job, to protect his family.

Ragnar could feel Thistle shift again for him, and in a breathless moment he rose upon his hind legs and drew his wife into a lovers’ embrace.

Le Fade To Black