i dreamt you fed me blood pudding

*Ragnar* · (This post was last modified: May 08, 2014, 04:51 PM by Ragnar.)

but only if you want to, love. :3 Also, because I don't want to go through and look up each word's translation just assume any speaking text in italics is ancient norse. :p

Though his fever had burned itself out of his system; what Ragnar stubbornly accredited to his body adjusting to the sliver of the Allfather’s being Odinn had left behind in the Viking when he had possessed, controlled, and released him though in a reality that was not Ragnar’s own it was simply because his wife had nursed him (including the forceful convincing of getting him to consume the Jopi Weeds) back to health. That wasn’t to claim that Ragnar didn’t give her credit because he did simply not in the sense it was deserved. It had been well into the night when he had came to the birthing den, patrols having just been finished, and curled up alongside Thistle’s slumbering and heavily pregnant body to sleep.

It felt like he had literally just fallen asleep when soft sniffling roused him, the uneven and sharp inhales and exhales of breath accompanied with quiet sobs causing the Viking to stir. “Thistle hush,” He murmured thickly, yet lowly to his wife and lover in his native tongue, his eyelids feeling like lead as he attempted to and then as quickly gave up on peeking them open. He was vaguely aware of her absence against his side, suddenly not, impossibly, where she had been seconds previous. She could not have moved that fast, least of all without him even noticing. Suspicion rose within the Viking as adrenaline spiked his heart rate giving the illusion of fear.

The sobs continued then, and Ragnar rose, tiredly to glimpse around for her, yet she was not in the den, the quiet sobs coming from outside of it instead of inside it as they had been, he had sworn it, seconds before. As he neared the mouth of the den the stench of blood and death hung in the air, causing Ragnar’s ears to slick back to his skull as he peered into the fog veiled night, approaching Thistle’s silhouette where she lay. He stepped in the pool of blood as he approached her and jerked back suddenly, his heart hammering within it’s prison of flesh and blood. Reluctantly, the Viking peered down to see Thistle grooming the five, tiny bloodied bodies at her teats. Not one squirming, crying or suckling. They were lifeless and Ragnar felt horror, again. Not again. “Who did this to you? To them?“ He demanded of her soft voice low and deadly as he preened the fur at her crown, sorrowfully, his breathing heavy with his rage, with his pain. “Give me a name wife and they will suffer the slowest and most painful death.“ He pleaded of her in his native tongue only to jerk suddenly, pain shooting through his back paw as he kicked it against the den wall, eyes flying open to look around him furiously, heavy pants ripping from his throat as he tried to calm his racing heart and shaking limbs.

Thistle was still curled beside him, her sides still rounded with child but he was frightened by his dream, feeling far more threatened by what he did not know, that he had felt in quite some time. “Thistle,” He called to her in the quiet darkness of their birthing den, a small sliver of moonlight touching his wife’s peaceful face. “Thistle!” His accent was heavier in his anxiety as he called to her once more, his voice desperate when she did not respond quick enough for him the first time.