Thistle’s response was soft as it rose from the darkness of the den that she and their children dwelled in, and with an unusual amount of patience the Viking reclined back upon his haunches, contented with the knowledge — brief though it probably would prove to be — that the borders were checked and re-checked by himself, Pump, and the other Wardens, that the caches were teeming with freshly caught deer thanks to Julooke (though he gave himself partial credit for it since he aided), and for once he deigned to relax and enjoy his alone time with his wife; determined not to let his plaguing territorial instincts or leader/Head Warden stresses intrude where they were, currently, not wanted. This was Thistle’s time to hold his attention undivided. Most of the time they talked about him, his work, or the children. Today, Ragnar had decided, they would talk about her.
“It is,” Ragnar responded exposing the strong curve of his spine as he pushed it towards her with his muzzle. He did not tell her that it had been the combined effort of Julooke and himself, for she could probably figure it out herself as Julooke’s scent probably lingered on the savage’s fur. The brush of her muzzle along the length of his sparked the familiar and nearly debilitating electricity that surged through him at her touch as if he was a conduit for it as it pulled him towards her like gravity — undeniable, everlasting and constant. She spoke that the children would be able to eat regurgitated meat the following day and for a moment Ragnar considered that it meant he would have to make sure to hunt enough for both the children and Thistle — considering she would be vomiting up the children’s meat for them. Though he did intent to deftly turn the conversation to her, eventually, he wondered if maybe she could tell when they would be weaned from her milk. It was her body after all. “Will they be weaned soon?” He inquired softly. It would make it easier for him to watch them and would allow her the freedom of being gone for longer periods of time and as soon as he performed the Rites of Birth he could enlist Julooke or Gavriil (of whom he had decided he trusted) to watch them when Thistle wanted time away and Ragnar was tied up elsewhere.
“I don’t want to talk about the children anymore,” They were all loved and an important part of the couples’ life certainly, but there were other aspects to their relationship like their love, and passion. Each other. “Today is your day. We can do whatever you want, talk about whatever you want,” That was probably contradicting especially if it was the children she wanted to speak of but he wouldn’t have cared if she pointed it out to him. If it was what she wanted to talk about then it was fine. “I am yours to command, mínn dróttning.” Ragnar murmured in a conspirator’s tone, his coy smirk nothing short of wicked as it tugged at the edges of his lips.
