There had been only two times now that Ragnar had came face to face with Odinn on the cusp of his death, the singing of metal striking metal (because for some reason I keep picturing them becoming human when they go to Valhalla, lol) of Valhalla, the seductive laughter of the Valkryies as they cheered and cajoled and encouraged the warriors to fight each other to the death only for each one that died to be resurrected so they could feast and drink the night away. Only one of those times was Ragnar aware of it. The second time had been when he had had his first fever, the wound from the landslide having festered with deep infection. He had been lucky. Lucky that Odinn had stuck to his promise of giving Ragnar a long and fulfilling life before he was claimed for the ranks of Valhalla, and lucky that he had Thistle. The first time had been on a raid of the Crimson Cliff pack, he had fought and took deep injuries and had began to run to where he had known Floki and Dagrun had been waiting only to back himself up to the edge of the cliff the pack had been named for. He had stood peering down at the depths of the water, though Floki and Dagrun stood a few feet away in the shallows watching him with trepidation. Ragnar had fallen unconscious, the sway of his body plummeting him down into the water where presumably Dagrun had pulled him from.
He had figured that he would see Valhalla at that point but somehow the Gods willed him not to die, and Floki had managed to heal the flesh wounds.