Ragnar tucked the dangerous and stupid thoughts of offering a polygamy relationship deftly away as he studied Nerian from afar, waiting for her to turn around and acknowledge him. Perhaps the Priestess’ confession of love had merely been a panicked response to her fear of Váli, or perhaps it had been because in some twisted form she had missed Ragnar; maybe, he considered, she hadn’t meant it at all. She turned to face him then, speaking his name how he had spoken her title.
Ragnar’s eyes took in Nerian’s face as he drew closer to her, closing the previously wide gap of distance he had left between them. It was the familiar, stoic mask he had came to know and grow equally as frustrated by over the months of keeping her as his captive. She never spoke her mind, never showed her true feelings and when she did it was gone within a hairsbreadth of a moment. Ragnar couldn’t stand it, following the mind set that if she spoke what she thought and showed what she felt that maybe things wouldn’t be so damned complicated. Instead, she led the once Jarl on this bread crumb trail of riddles and guessing games. And maybe that was her intrigue to him. She was a puzzle. Every time Ragnar thought he finally had her figured out under her façade she threw him a curve ball that threw him back to square one. Wrong and frustrated all over again.
Though the wounds the bear had left had healed there was a small, sickening sort of ache on his hip/hind leg where the creature’s claw marks had torn open the flesh; reminding Ragnar that he had gotten them because he had let his attention waver at Nerian’s appearance on the scene. It reminded him that he had been concerned for her — which currently wasn’t helping anything.
He had stopped, making sure there was still some distance between them, turning his attention to the den she indicated towards suspicious that it was the true reason she had wanted to see him. She came to find him, after this time to tell him she had finished her den?