Stavanger Bay Happy Days Spent

I couldn't help myself. I feel bad about snagging this because I'm going to go on absence sometime this Sunday to next Fri or Sat but I thought we should have another Thistle x Bragi thread for better or worse. :p

If Bragi had known that Thistle was looking to try to make her day positive he would have avoided the vicinity near the Jarl’s den as if it’s inhabitants had conjured the plague. As it was, he was a bit of a masochist and wanted to study Ragnar’s face if only to torture himself a little bit more with the undeniable physical evidence that was graciously plopped into his life that Ragnar was more than likely his father and the fact that even glimpsing at Ragnar filled Bragi with a strange sense of disorientation and uncomfortable-ness. He was not a fan of having what he believed uprooted and tossed aside and would have much rather clung desperately and childishly to the belief that the God Heimdall had fathered him rather than the scarred and very mortal Ragnar Loðbrók. As it was, he was impervious to Thistle’s inner desires and had made his way towards their den with the intent of catching Ragnar before he went on a patrol though he had no idea what he’d say to him. There was nothing quite like meeting someone who was a legend to your mother only to be smacked in the face with reality when you finally met them. Every time Bragi was within the same vicinity as Ragnar he was stuck with the same and stupid desire to blurt out the question that had once burned at his mind like a never dying fire until his mother had came up with the tale of Heimdall to finally, shut him up. Are you really my father? And yet, he could not make himself blurt it. Besides that it made him uncomfortable he wasn’t so sure that he really wanted to know. It was the weirdest thing: wanting to know but not wanting to know at the same time. Which left Bragi locked in the stage of trepidation. Some things were better left unsaid and there was no contest that Bragi would much rather believe Heimdall was his father over the Cove’s once …as Thistle had so genteelly put it: man whore. As he shouldered past the thick trees that guarded the Jarl’s den he broke through them and stopped dead in his tracks his eyes falling upon Thistle, black, leathery nostrils flaring once. He almost turned abruptly around, and had an inkling of a feeling that he would regret that he didn’t sooner or later, but instead looked at her and asked, Do you know where Ragnar is? simply but with an undeniable level of bluntness.