Ragnar and Thistle’s opinions were arguably different from one another, probably the source of most of their disagreements though this was only to be expected. Their worlds, despite that Thistle was beginning to incorporate herself into his, were starkly different quite literally black and white in comparison to one another. Their tendency to butt heads without any figment of doubt came from the fact that they were as different as the sun and the moon, yet they remained, the Viking could see, complimentary to one another. Where Ragnar was harsh angles, sharp lines, abrasive, assertive, aggressive, ruthless, a figurative demon (depending on who was speaking of him - heathen also worked well) Thistle was soft curves and elegance, docile, diplomatic, caring and compassionate. All of the things that Ragnar was not. In essence she suited her role as his wife perfectly, attempting to counter weigh him. She served to remind him that there was a softer side to life and that, sometimes, this side needed to be appealed too. She was the serenity to his destruction. There was nothing like a woman’s touch and every man needed it, even a proud Viking King. Even Odinn submitted to the wiles of his wife allowing her what no other was ever allowed simply because he loved her. It was only now, accepting and nurturing Ragnar’s love for Thistle that the savage understood Odinn’s devotion to Frigg. They were a weakness, a chink in the armor that could be exploited and used to make a death blow, certainly, but they were also strengths and those far outweighed the small, yet inherent chink.
Ragnar was not unaware that her eye was trained upon him, but he remained unwilling to acknowledge her stare. He could practically feel her gaze, cool against the burning heat of his body (though this was more of a sixth sense than anything he couldn’t actually feel her eyes upon him) assessing him, dissecting him as she, no doubt, tried to figure out what was wrong. Obstinately, he remained tight lipped about the fever that he felt burning in his veins, only making the pull of exhaustion harder to resist (as if it had not been hard enough to begin with). He did not wish to collapse here only because he did not want to worry Thistle any more than she likely already was. He felt safe in the shadowy and obscured copse of woods, personally, knowing that Odinn would not allow harm to come upon him here, but whether he could convince Thistle of that or not, he did not know. The only advantage Ragnar had on his side at the current situation was that his body was used to being pushed to and past it’s limitations. It was a practice Ragnar did often with the single goal of making both body and mind stronger than before, a harsh condition of training despite it’s unorthodoxness.
He would make it to their den but only for her - for would it have been otherwise he might have already succumbed to the exhaustion that begged and pleaded for him like a forbidden but persistant lover.