A lot of Ragnar’s time had been spent on the borders, patrolling them, reinforcing them with his scent to mix with the scent of the others. While the Viking cloaked in platinum silver couldn’t technically consider himself the Head Warden - if only because he was the only one that held the title, currently - though Gavriil was known to frequent the borders as well, along with others - he still fancied himself Head Warden, regardless. Ragnar had considered it his “unofficial title” even before he received the promotion as Pump’s right hand man to enforce it. His job was to train, to prepare for what the other packs in the Wilds could throw at them, to make them a strong and cohesive unit. Nothing like the more or less awkward mess the attack on the bear had been. Though Ragnar had been the only one to suffer any “severe” damage from the bear; not severe enough to put him down for any number of days but severe that he had lost blood and his injuries hindered him, much to the Viking’s inherent aggravation. It was no secret that Ragnar was an awful patient and while it was unfortunate for Thistle it was fortunate for everyone else that Thistle was their only healer. He exalted a previously unknown patience in his wife’s presence as she fussed over him, slathering his wounds with her sickly colored, mint smelling paste. If it had been anyone else (his long time past friend Floki was witness to it) he would have without a doubt lashed out at them numerous times.
It wasn’t personal - it never had been and it would never be so.
Of course thinking of Thistle, heavy with child had the Viking frowning in worry. She should have had an apprentice or a journeyman training under her all this time so that when their children came there was someone to step temporarily into her role while she stayed with the babes, because the babes would need her attention first. There was no “oh you could get to your babes later”. Ragnar bristled slightly at the consideration that any of the wolves would be daft enough to get themselves direly injured while Thistle was out of commission. The Viking’s comeback would be cruel and heartless: You might not live for a month? Too bad.
But maybe they would get lucky. Maybe no one would need her, or maybe one of the newest members had experience with healing. Ragnar would have offered to take on her duties while she was tending to their newborns but he knew next to nothing about her craft - only which mushrooms to seek to put him into the Berserker Mode, that poppy seeds worked as painkillers, and that saltwater was good for cleansing wounds. Basic, field surgery things. Ragnar shook his head to dispel those thoughts - in the end it would be what it would be, and gradually the fur that had bristled slightly had laid back down along his spine until he was limping once more, stoic and calm along the borders, ears, eyes, and nose vigilant as always.