Ragnar lifted his head to study his wife as she murmured her words of contrition. Though she explained to him that she had not meant to make his wounds ache any more than they already did, Ragnar was unable to understand, precisely why she was remorseful. This was more likely than not borne of his own refusal to ever show remorse for the things that he did — and it was true that the words “I’m sorry” would never slip betwixt the Viking’s lips just as they had never done previously. The wolves of these lands were too quick to those words of remorse around, though Ragnar did not doubt that Thistle meant them, but still. “Do not be,” Ragnar told her briskly. “Do not be remorseful for the things that you do.” Regardless of if it was something that could be helped, or like in this very instance where the pain added by the motion of her tongue soothing over his heated skin and torn flesh was nothing short of unavoidable. Expected.
“Healing wounds are always irritable.” He murmured in a rumble of crossness, not directed at her specifically but at the world in general. She had slathered her medicines on the wounds and bound it in rudimentary wrappings -- the best that could be done with what she was given to work with. He did not thank her — mostly because he felt that he didn’t need too, and besides that he had other ways of expressing his gratitude besides actually speaking the words — not even as he glimpsed back as she worked on cleaning herself up a bit to examine her handiwork. He shifted his body then so he was laying in a sphinx like manner, looking back to the direction his body was facing, his eyes fixated on the endless stretch of horizon. Gradually, he drew his own tongue across his bloodied front paws, before he gave up on attempting to clean his coat, deciding that it was a job for the river the next day. “Come here, Thistle,” He beckoned her to his side then, desiring to feel her side pressed against his, the intermingling of their fur to sharp contrasts of one another. “I know you do not now the symbolism of swiping my blood on your cheek before I left,” So he thought he would explain it to her. “It is an old tradition of my people, the smearing of blood on a lover’s cheek. It’s a powerful symbol. Of Love. To remind you that if Odinn would have claimed me and I would have found myself in Valhalla that our love still exists, our passion. That the bond of a husband and wife does not have a limit between life and death, that it transcends boundaries. And, if would help me to find you in whatever Hall you would go to when it was your time.” It was kind of a romantic tradition, but it was tradition all the same.
