The first night spent in Stavanger Bay could not be attested to the best night’s sleep the platinum Viking ever received if only because, while he had slept curled around his wife and children he had not dared to let himself be taken into so deep a sleep that he would not be able to wake from it quickly. The half asleep state in which Ragnar had ‘slept’ left him on the brink of consciousness, alert and rousing forth from it at every rustle. All in all, it was not a very good night. It was not to the fault of anyone but Ragnar’s own, given that while he felt the lack of tensions and stresses that had plagued him in sleep and in the waking hours he could not let his guard down. Not yet. Not so soon.

Not all tension had left the scarred Northman, either. It made him anxious to have Nerian in heat within proximity of Thistle’s nose, not because Ragnar had anything to be guilty for — on the contrary he had displayed quite a bit of unrestrained will power in declining Nerian’s body though, admittedly, the temptation to take what was his by slave law alone was there, to sire an illegitimate litter upon her so that no other male could ever lay claim to her had been there — but because he knew of Thistle’s jealousy towards the anglo-saxon woman and did not want her jumping to wild conclusions. As it was he warred with himself over if he should just tell Thistle about how Nerian had attempted to seduce him into planting his seed, seduced by her own heat season because then that way it wouldn’t look like he attempted to hide it; he had nothing to be sorry for. Against every hormone in his body that reacted, on the most basic and primitive instinct level, to the scent of Nerian in heat Ragnar had told her no, finding the strength to do so even when she had slid along his side, until Ragnar’s body had pulsed with out of his control want.

On the other side of that spectrum of trepidation, Ragnar wanted her to know what he had done for her. That he would spurn all other females, as long as that was what Thistle wanted from him. In a lapse of fair judgment he didn’t think it was entirely fair given their children weren’t really his and he was three already. Perhaps he was doomed to adopting bastards, then, but not even his own. Bastards of other men. He had finished a patrol, deciding that it did nothing for him to continue laying and feign sleep when he wasn’t actually sleeping. He had circled back intending to steal his wife away for a bit, still unsure if he wanted to instigate that fight with her, or if putting it off would only make him look suspicious. Ragnar suspected she didn’t fully trust him to be loyal to her, and while in a manner he understood, he also found it insulting, too.

Surprise took control of his facial features as he had been heading near the area in which he had left them earlier to see a streak of fawn color that smelled too canine to actually be venison and turning his pace quickened to catch up to her. “Thistle.” He called to her from the hulking shadows of the still darkened forest, ducking, luckily, just in time to miss face planting a thick, low hanging branch.

Given the half awake, half asleep stasis that Ragnar had been in he could not say if the nightmares that had plagued him in the lulling tresses of slumber had finally vanished or not. Even if they would ever finally fade away it would not be for a while, he assumed. It wasn’t like he could immediately forget everything that had happened just because they had successfully relocated to Stavanger Bay. He could not forget about Wheeling Gull Isle’s intrusion and the threat they had once but no longer poised against his pack, neither could he forget the gruesome image of Pump’s broken body made only worse when he and Surra had attempted to move it off of the shore and up onto the soil so they could properly bury the …pieces of her. Without her spine to hold her together it had been worse yet though Ragnar had not breathed a word of it to Thistle. He had been rather eerily unbothered by it if only because he had seen worse (worse? Yes worse). The only part of it that had truly perturbed the Viking had been because he had known her and respected her and there he and Surra were digging her grave and burying her.

As soon as she had heard him call out her name, in a quiet, mischievous even, beckon she had turned Ragnar watched and stayed still for her in a show of surprising obedience when she closed the distance between them and traced her tongue across his muzzle in a lick. “Good morning, my love,” The edges around her eyes were still tight, and likely, what he had to tell her or rather boast of, thank you very much would probably only make them tighten more. There was that dark part of Ragnar that still wanted a polygamy relationship so he could sire children with both Thistle and Nerian, while loving Thistle and nurturing his fondness for the Priestess. In truth, he still didn’t see what was so terrible about it because they’d only have to share him when they went into heat in that respect but he was still undecided as to if he wanted to broach that particularly fantasy with his wife. Yet, if possibly ever.

He looked down at her through heavy-lidded eyes, wondering if there was anything that was remotely wise in being so honest with Thistle when she had sort of proven to him that she couldn’t handle it, before, but then again as he previously thought the idea of hiding it from her (because realistically she would find out Nerian was in heat) would make him look guilty of something because he knew she was in heat. “I have something to tell you, wife, and I need to you keep a calm and clear mind about it and listen,” He emphasized the word ‘listen’ making it sound even more accented than it already did. “Can you do that?” He inquired patiently of her.

Again, trepidation grasped him within the recesses of it’s steel claws as he wondered if it was wise to tell Thistle this. He had no guarantee that she wouldn’t run after Nerian to kill her the second before he even finished speaking. It wasn’t as if the woman could help going into heat although continuing after him the first time he’d told her no could have, probably, been avoided but Ragnar wondered if Thistle really needed to know that. While he didn’t want her to go tearing after Nerian for something she biologically couldn’t help he was trying to find some sort of solution between the two women that didn’t include his polygamy idea. Nerian had explicitly stated that she wouldn’t have minded but it wasn’t Nerian Ragnar had to please here because it wasn’t Nerian he was helplessly in love with. He was fond of her, sure, but it was Thistle that he had given his heart too and that brought with it a whole new level of commitment for the once libertine Viking. In reality, he wanted Thistle to stop hating Nerian and being jealous of her at every turn of the road not even for his own sake but for the Priestess’. She didn’t know that it was he by telling Thistle that Nerian had admitted to being in love with him, had driven that wedge of ‘never going to be friends’ between the two women, accidentally, when Nerian had admitted to him that was all she wanted. Was to be Thistle’s friend (guilt trip from hell, anyone?).

“Please understand I’m trying to fix what I did wrong, here. I should have never told you that Nerian admitted to being in love with me. I did because you’re my wife and I want to be honest with you always, Thistle, but I have created a chasm of impossibility between the two of you and she doesn’t even know it. All she wants is to be your friend, wife,” Ragnar spoke with a deep breath, glimpsing down at his paws and then to hers as if he were comparing their jump in size. “That is why she helped you with your garden back at the Ridge.” Ragnar figured that maybe if he started off with that she might keep it in mind when he told her what was coming next.

“The Priestess is in heat, Thistle,” Perhaps it would be better if he left out the part of her trying everything in her power to seduce him. “I know because we came across each other marking the borders. And before you even think about moving an inch from where you’re sitting,” The platinum Northman warned her, border lining between husband and alpha. “You should know that nothing happened. I did not take her. In fact, I walked away. For you. Because of you. So can you please stop worrying that some other female is going to come and take me away from you because it’s not going to happen. I told you I gave you my heart. That was not a lie. And it never will be a lie.” He couldn’t be sure if Thistle still feared it but he had his suspicions. And Ragnar wanted her to realize she had him, wholly to herself, before this ugly thing ended up killing what they did have. Which he was trying his hardest to prevent.

Ragnar was silent while she spoke, giving her the same courtesy that she gave him, by listening. His brow furrowed when she asked why she thought what she did about Nerian but did not answer her. Because he didn’t know why, or even have a remotely conclusive suspicion, either. In this, he too, remained silent, giving her monologue his full and rapt attention. Only to pick it apart, piece by piece. She was wrong. She didn’t realize that she was wrong, but he planned on telling her when she finished, anyway. What she chose to do with it, he knew, was up to her. He understood he was hypocritical, but his ability to be wrong in his thoughts and beliefs, despite that he did not particularly see it that way, was what made him canine. He wasn’t perfect, either. “There is nothing to create conflict about that is what I am saying. It was nothing. I told her no and that is the end of it,” Ragnar didn’t understand why there had to be conflict. Thistle had a right to be mad, sure, typically it was bad form to admit to a man who was happily married that you were in love with him, but there was no grounds for her jealousy, not really. If he hadn’t fallen in love with her like he did, then sure, but she was the only one that he truly wanted and if she were ever to walk out of his life, or decide she didn’t want him anymore there was no question that Ragnar would be devastated.

“She is not of my culture. You are of my culture, the Gods spoke it so. You are my tiny Viking, my shield maiden and my love. Marriage is the most important part of my culture. The Priestess is the past but you are my future. Yes, I miss my home, doesn’t everyone? It was where I was born, but Odinn’s Cove is my past and Stavanger Bay is my future. I am doing what Odinn sent me here to do, finally. I will rebuild the Cove with you by my side and our many sons at our feet.” It was the vision of the future he wanted. “Thistle I am yours for as long as you want me, in this life and in the next, in Valhalla if you want me that long.” Nothing else mattered to him but her and he needed her to see that with a growing desperation.

It was a relief to finally be able to rationally talk to her about it, and he just hoped that she still loved and wanted to be his wife. If she chose to divorce him, or decided she didn't love him anymore he couldn't stop her despite how badly he didn't want that. She was the light of his life, his perfect counter weight and he just wanted her to know that.

He did not necessarily like when they fought, despite that some times he did enjoy when the anger turned into heated passion, but this didn’t feel like one of those moments. It was a relief to feel like that proverbial elephant was finally out of the way. He didn’t want to have to constantly question her, and likewise, didn’t want her to constantly question him. They were married and though talking about things wasn’t very comfortable he wasn’t going to parade around, ignorantly, like everything was perfectly fine when he knew something was bothering her and when something was bothering him. The ability to communicate with one another was an invaluable one and in a way the Viking felt like it made them stronger; because they could talk about things with one another. “If something bothers you, my love, I want you to tell me, you know that, right?” He couldn’t promise he would be a gentleman about it (in fact he recalled promising what he wasn’t a gentleman by any means of the word) but he could at least promise that he would listen. Even if he didn’t like what she had to say (they weren’t perfect creatures after all!) it did not mean that he wouldn’t consider her words. Thistle was important to Ragnar, potentially the most important thing in his life and he wanted her to know that.

She closed the distance between them, the touch of her muzzle sliding against the curve of his throat caused him to growl lowly in it though the sound was hardly an aggressive one. “Envy is apart of being canine, love, we all feel it. I do, but I don’t want it come between us.” Preferably, he wanted nothing between them (oh Gods that was really dirty, aha). “I love you.” He mimicked her words, though he really didn’t need to say it. If he didn't love her he wouldn't have cared, and wouldn't have put so much effort into making sure they talked through their problems. No relationship was perfect, their world was not an ideal one where everything was fantastic for every single creature in it. It was a chaotic world and their relationship, odd as it was, fit the bill.

Ragnar understood that they were always going to have disagreements. Disagreements and differences of an opinion were to be expected because Thistle and him were starkly different creatures, raised from entirely different backgrounds. Quintessentially, Thistle was notably more refined than he, much more royal in the descriptive properties of the word than he, the savage, was. Besides bringing a woman’s intuition into his decisions she provided him with unique view points that he, otherwise, would have never considered if merely because of her civility, and compassion — both of which Ragnar also lacked. The platinum Jarl stared placidly at his wife his brow furrowed slightly in his thought. He needed Thistle. In an entirely different way than he needed Nerian — though he considered now that Stavanger Bay was founded and things had happened very differently than he had envisioned (in his visions of branching off Pump had not been deceased) that he did not need her for that purpose anymore and considered giving her her freedom. Even if his wife wouldn’t have held the spot of Gamma so consecutively, having thoroughly earned her way there without his biases, there wasn’t anything he kept from her. Not personal and not governing; Ragnar sought her opinions, valued her input as both second highest ranking wolf under him and as his wife. Her opinions mattered to him on all things, and impulsively he wanted her to know that, to know that without her he would be lost (which was more true than he probably was willing to admit).

Somewhere, somehow Thistle had became the focal point in which his world revolved around.

It was as Thistle spoke that shattered Ragnar’s rampant thoughts and he blinked once at her, confused for a moment having forgotten as he implored the wandering tendency of his thoughts what they had originally been speaking of. Or fighting about. “I’m going to give her her freedom, Thistle. I promised her I would back when I had considered breaking away from Pump before …this,” Details were unnecessary because Thistle had been there and knew just how exactly awry that plan had gone. In the face of their hybrid leader’s death, Ragnar had actually felt a swell of shame that he had considered it, that somehow Pump would know and hate him for it. “I should have done it long ago,” But he had needed her bound loyalty at the time, and while he still expected her loyalty if she chose to go he wouldn’t stop her. “I will wait until her heat cycle has ended.” The scarred Northman spoke with a wry sort of grin, adding it as an afterthought. He did not want to be tempted by her hormones as he had the first time. There was nothing quite like burning from the inside out and having to simply ignore it, but he had, because if he wouldn’t have regret would have followed; despite that the call of her hormones to him wasn’t anything he could control. If it had been another female besides Nerian he would have had the same primitive urge.

The touch of her muzzle, the brush of it as she moved it up the strong column of his throat momentarily disarmed the Viking, his thought process abruptly pulling a blank slate as the electricity of the touch and the intimacy of it and his own vulnerability there. A natural weakness. Ragnar did not make much of a habit of letting others near his throat for the simple facts that it was the easiest way to kill him and because he was vulnerable there. Letting brush her muzzle against the length of his throat was the purest ways he could express his absolute trust in her. It spoke more than any words he could conjure in Norse or English combined. “I love you,” The Viking purled in a rasping, exhilarated breath. Granted, he had just said that not but a few moments ago but it was unprovoked this time partially because he didn’t want her to think him parroting it back to her was just a knee-jerk reaction. Words that at one time he had been confident he would never utter in any romantic semblance. “I need you.” It was an admittance but not meant to be of the physical ramification of the words. Of course he would always want her in the physical sense and the electric touches wasn’t helping that case but with his children abound and wondering he knew they’d have to find a more secluded place than this for that type of need and loving.

“I need you by my side always, Thistle. In this life and in Valhalla,” And as he had once told her, if he had to sneak off to one of the other Halls to find her in Asgard he would do it. Every night. And if Ragnarök was fated to claim him again he wanted to die fighting by her side. It went without saying that she was indefinitely his better half.