As per usual Ragnar had came by the den to relieve Thistle for a few minutes, or an hour or so if she wished, allowing her the time he could so she could get out, stretch her legs, soak up the sun or hunt for herself; Ragnar wasn’t privy as to what she did when he came to give her a break from the infants and did not ask because women were allowed their secrets (as long as she wasn’t seeing another guy! That was one secret in which she was not allowed, lol); though he was certain Thistle would tell him if he were ever to ask. Ragnar tried to time his turns to watch the children after they fed so they were not wailing their little heads off for food that Ragnar was not able to procure for them and while part of Ragnar could not wait until they began eating regurgitated meat (it would make watching them measurably easier) he did not wish them to grow up too fast, instead enjoying being able to measure their daily growths. Already, eight days after their birth they were more mobile than they had been and though Ragnar couldn’t be certain he thought that maybe they were beginning to hear sounds if not faintly. He was not well versed in the development of children, knowing that only they were deaf and blind at first but he thought their hearing progressed faster than their eyesight (since technically hearing was more important).

He shimmied his body into the den, shoulders brushing the ceiling as he army crawled into the depths where it expanded and opened up to better accommodate him and his small family. They would not be able to stay in this den forever, especially when the children began growing and already he was, more or less secretly, working on a rendezvous den to accommodate the growing children, Thistle, and himself. He had not yet told Thistle he was renovating and working on it because, in part, he wished for it to be a surprise for her; and had begun making decorations for it for both Thistle and the children collecting bones and furs to add to it. He grunted as he pushed past Thistle, pausing to grin wolfishly at his wife, dropping a kiss on her hip as they pushed past each other and Ragnar settled into the place that Thistle had vacated, pausing to glimpse down at the three little forms before he settled into a sphinx like position. Tveir was fast asleep and seemed to snuggle against Ragnar’s colossal — in comparison — side. Ein was awake and had began to wiggle his way in between Ragnar’s arm pit (if wolves even have such a thing), and while he paid his First Born attention with a rumbling chuckle his icy eyes searched for his daughter in the squirming bodies hoping to catch the Viking Princess awake so he might get to have some of her attention, limited though it was, to himself.

Though Ragnar was sure that while the children might be able to hear even a little — this was purely a guess because they seemed much more vocal than they had initially been the previous week — he knew he could hear their yelps and cries of protest when Thistle or him switched, or when they were protesting when Ein, whom had a penchant for climbing and conquering his smaller siblings making Ragnar ridiculously proud because the conquering tendency was something they shared, squirmed over top of them. It was an easy fix to nudge the First Born off of his siblings to lift him by his scruff because while Ragnar felt pride he did not want the infant to accidentally suffocate one of his siblings. Ein couldn’t really be faulted considering he couldn’t see where he was going. Ragnar had to hold onto the hope that he would stop climbing his siblings like they were mountains once he was more visually aware of them; and considering Ragnar knew what it was like to be squished by his oldest sibling he felt sympathy for the Second Born and his daughter whose silver color had only gotten more beautiful with the days after her birth. It was a much darker shade than his own, more steel than it was platinum but that did not stop Ragnar from the entirely incorrect assumption that she was of his seed, at least (she isn’t but what Ragnar doesn’t know won’t hurt him) .

It was Ragnar’s daughter who cried out now, that was the small body trying to snake into his armpit and not Ein as the Viking had wrongly assumed at first. A confuse glance over his shoulder showed that Ein was wrapped around Tveir both snoring — though Tveir had the tendency to snore the loudest out of his siblings Ragnar had found. It was funny, in a warm fatherly kind of way, how the longer he got to know his children the little quirks he learned. Already, though they were only eight days old, they were beginning to distinguish themselves. They were tiny little things, unnoticeable to anyone but Thistle and himself (though this was obvious because Ragnar absolutely refused to let anyone near the den or to even see them until he performed the Rite on their one month age mark. The savage man lifted his leg so she could wiggle her way towards his chest and would not be stuck in the junction between his shoulder and his leg. Instantly the Viking princess began to make small whimpers, continuous. Trepidation came over Ragnar as he considered calling out for Thistle, mistaking the noises to mean she was hungry (Already?! Hadn’t Thistle assured him they had just ate?) but knew that Thistle had assured him all of their bellies were full. He glimpsed down as best he could at his little Gyda feeling nothing short of love for the precious little girl bloom and sear in his heart as he listened to her, ears slicking back to his skull, wishing she could speak so he might understand what she desired.

“hvat er málið dóttir?” Ragnar spoke to her in his native tongue though he knew she would not be able to answer him. At least, not yet. Someday, soon.

Ragnar felt Gyda collide with his chest, pushing herself against the hardened muscle and silky fur that lined the contours of it, one of the sections of his body that was not riddled with scars. His belly area was not either because Ragnar had never been submissive enough to expose it. Even the mere thought of allowing another creature access to his throat and the vitals they could easily find at the exposure of his stomach made the Viking shudder. Thistle had gotten about as close as anyone could ever get to those regions and that was because it had been necessary. Otherwise Ragnar was not so sure he would have even let her have access to those vulnerable areas of his body despite that he trusted his wife with his life. Had too, really, he realized, remembering the threat she had issued him with the severity of a woman who would not be left scorned. She would end his life if he was unfaithful to her and not in the way a warrior should go out. She had promised him a silent death, likely a slow and agonizing one. Poison was a woman’s weapon, or so he had heard multiple times.

When Ragnar had issued his question, it had quieted his Viking Princess for only a few moments before she was crying at him again demanding that he …say more? It was a guessing game for the man who didn’t speak baby and had eliminated that it wasn’t food she wanted and there wasn’t much else the Viking assumed she could want… besides maybe his voice. Or the vibrations his voice made when he spoke, at any rate. “setjast niður sætur barn” He murmured to her though he did not expect her to listen. Mostly, it was just Ragnar testing his theory that it was what she desired from him, though the prodding of her little paws against his chest from where she lay was adorable to Ragnar he took it to mean that he was doing a horrible job at keeping her entertained. Or that she was becoming impatient.

For a moment he pondered what else he might say to her. While he could easily just tell her sweet little nothings (it wasn’t like she could hear him anyway) that felt wrong. Instead, he contemplated what type of story he could tell her. “I will tell you a story,” He switched back to common tongue in case Thistle, where ever she was, too, was listening. “How does that sound, daughter?” He nuzzled the soft, downy fur of her tiny side with his nose, breathing in her baby’s scent of earth, Thistle, and milk.

The small child had rolled on her back and pressed her rough paw pads against his nose, a small chuckle escaping the Viking, staying still for her like that for a few minutes before he recoiled, gently, encouraged to begin his story by the small noises she made. He glimpsed a last time at the boys against his side, peered at the den entrance to see if he could catch a glimpse of Thistle before he smiled down at his little Gyda, his own tail making a sweeping arch against the earthen floor of the den as he gathered his thoughts, having decided suddenly, what story he would tell her speaking, “I will tell you the story of creation,” It was the best place to start considering it was the start of everything and even though he knew none of his children could hear it he did not mind telling it, nevertheless.

“Before the soil, grass, or sky there was only the abyss Ginnungagap and it was Ginnungagap that lay between the land of fire, Muspelheim and the land of ice, Niflheim. Each day Muspelheim and Niflheim moved closer and closer until they met in Ginnungagap and the flames of Muspelheim melted some of the ice of Niflheim and from the drops Ymir a God giant was born; and Ymir had a lot of children,” Ragnar let out how precisely Ymir had a lot of children for the Giant had been a hermaphrodite and though he knew his children were still fairly deaf he could not bring himself to tell them the explicit details of it, trying to make it children friendly as he could. “Musphelheim kept melting the ice of Niflheim and this time born a cow named Audhumbla. She fed Ymir from her milk, how your mother feeds you, little one.” Ragnar smiled fondly, “And from the licking the salt in the ice she uncovered Buri and then Buri had a son named Bor who married a giant woman named Bestla and together they had the King of the Gods, Odinn.”

Ragnar took a deep breath, pausing in his story telling to lick Gyda for a few moments, assuming that she had been lulled to sleep already. “Odinn slew Ymir and from Ymir’s body the world was formed, his blood formed the sea, the soil from his skin and muscles, grass, plants and trees from his fur, the clouds from his brain and the sky from his skull.” Ragnar could have continued about the Tree Of Life but he peeked another glance at Gyda waiting for a few moments to see if his story had actually put her to sleep or not.

Gyda protested when Ragnar had taken a pause in his story to groom her, pushing the mussed downy soft, dark silver fur back in the direction it was meant to go, ruffled from when he had skimmed his nose through it previously. Her paw pad meant with the Jarl’s Viking’s tongue in a quiet way that told him clearly to stop. He pulled a face getting a tongue full of dirt from her paw pad and recoiled his tongue, scraping it against his teeth. Dirt was not one of Ragnar’s favorite things as far as taste went and accordingly he surrendered to his daughter’s physical command. “Ok, ok. You win, Gyda,” He conceded murmuring her (secret) name into the small fold of her ear before he glimpsed up sharply, eyes narrowing in the direction of the den’s mouth at the sound of footfalls. His body had tensed briefly before they kept going and just as quick his attention moved back to the Viking Princess full of the adoration he could not help but feel for her.

The steel colored child cooed her pleasure when he had begun to tell her the rest of the story, fairly simple in it’s design and how Ragnar chose to make sense of the world around him. How his culture chose to make sense of it. Someday, her and her brothers would come to realize that. In a way, it wasn’t entirely fair that while Ragnar did not expect the religion aspect of his culture to be followed or accepted by his followers, he expected both from his children. He would raise them how his parents had raised him and his brothers, and their parents before that …what they chose to do as adults was up to them because then he would have no say over them. As he finished his story he glimpsed down at his daughter where she was nestled against his chest, tucked securely into the crook of the junction between his shoulder and leg where if her silver did not clash with his, darker as it was, she might have went hidden.