The Second Born covered his eyes and muzzle with his paws when Ragnar reprimanded him for his sigh, having assumed the implications of such a dramatic and heavy thing for a child to produce. His patience had been lost in that split second, irritation growing at the consideration that he was being the horrible father he had never wanted to be, that he was doing exactly what his parents had done to him. “Neinn child you will have to learn to share and you will learn to whether you like it or not,” Someday, when Tveir had his own children he would understand the stresses of a parent. Ragnar had not meant to lose his patience, of course, never meant to lose it but he was learning just as much as his children were. It was something of a struggle for him because Sveinn had been past this stage, had been a teenager when Ragnar and Floki had captured him and came up with the elaborate tale of who he was when it was apparent his memory had been lost due to the injury he had sustained. The next batch of Loðbrók children would have it easier, and the next after that easier still until Ragnar became a pro at being a father to infant children, too.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Sveinn,” Ragnar told him with a low rumble in his throat, not necessarily an aggressive sound, not exactly stern, either. It border lined with mild amusement at the thought of Tveir telling him what to do. That day was a long way away, and even if his son surpassed him in rank someday even then Ragnar would still be his parent and still, as that alone, would have pull over him, whom would always be his child. That wasn’t something anyone ever grew out of. Tveir attempted to try out some words, admittedly Ragnar’s mind was still reeling on if he had correctly heard Gyda say ‘daughter’ in Old Norse or not. “Keep trying, Tveir.” Ragnar encouraged Thistle’s mini-me impressed with all of his children’s progress.
