There was a moment of silence from the second born from Ragnar talking to him, not that Ragnar had disillusioned himself into thinking that the second born could understand; he did not know much about the development of newborns but he knew that they were blind, deaf, and their sense of touch was likely their most dominate sense since he had heard from his mother once (in the way that old women gossiped about their successful sons time as babes) that their sense of smell was weak. Even after they began to hear they would not still understand until they learned languages. Ragnar assumed that it was the vibrations of his vocals that pacified the young, mini-me of Thistle; however short lived it might have been. For a moment, eyes studying the awake child with unbidden affection only to nearly drop him when the child let out a loud wail of protest at being lifted. Ragnar, frightened that his grasp had slacked on the squirming infant grasped onto his scruff tighter in the blind, parental fear that Tveir would squirm right out of his grasp and fall to the earth in a crushing impact of potentially breaking his tiny body. It was a horrible scenario that had played out in the Viking’s mind and he was quick to set the second born down between his paws, his heart feeling like it had jumped into his throat.
He had boasted to anyone that called him a ‘first time father’ that he was not a first time father — it was not a lie but his oldest son had been a captive, already past the infant stage when he had been captured and then adopted by the Viking and his Berserkers. Ragnar was a first time father where the infants were concerned and so far he’d already had his mini heart attack.
The second born began to crawl (Tokio is assuming, if not feel free to correct her!) towards the curve of Ragnar’s chest in the mini cage that Viking had made of his long legs, and the Viking rumbled a laugh when he felt the second born nestle against it.