Stavanger Bay forever and always

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Ragnar had been pleasantly surprised when Thistle had moved back into the Jarl den so soon after deciding she had wanted space and had left them for the short period of time. Her presence had been felt like a gaping hollow hole in the scarred Scandinavian's chest, missing the feel of her body against his. Nerian occupied the side of Ragnar that had always been pressed up against the wall of the den, before, and though he reveled in the touch and presence of his Priestess Wife he wanted his Queen Wife, as well. The whole point of taking them both as his wives was so that he didn't have to choose between them. He wanted them both and so he would have them both. It had sounded much, much better in theory. In practice, it was not nearly as smooth of a transition as Ragnar had hoped it would have been. He was grateful for Thistle's selflessness in the manner, at agreeing not to kill him (after all that was the deal) not that he would have stopped her if she had tried. He didn't fear death and would have welcomed Valhalla with open arms. Despite her return, however, she had not slept against her side of his body but instead a little bit away, with the children. In the time after Nerian and the children had drifted off he had kept shooting her looks, in hopes that she would understand what he was trying to communicate with her; whether she, too, had fallen asleep or was ignoring him was unknown to Ragnar but eventually he had given up and allowed himself the respite of raven filled dreams. The ravens brought with them the confirmation that he was doing the right thing, that Odinn was not mad at him, that this was still within the realm of fulfilling what the All-Father had brought him here to do in the first place. Ragnar had awoken the next morning right before the sun had begun to rise in the sky, disentangled himself from Nerian, offered both of his wives goodbye kisses despite that he assumed they were still slumbering at that point and headed off towards the borders to patrol and refresh. He was still doing that, even now, having taken a break to take food to his new pet, Nightshade, and to feed himself before resuming them once more. Silver platinum paws were slightly sticky with the dew that clung to the blades of grass, the morning cooler than they had been in quite some time, offering a respite from oppressive heat as to which Ragnar was grateful for. It was the sound of approaching footfalls and the familiar scent of Thistle, of sunlight, vanilla and lilacs that caressed his black, leathery nostrils and caused the scarred Scandinavian to draw to a halt. "Drottning," Ragnar drew her title in old Norse before he turned to face her and moved to close the distance between them without asking her permission. He didn't really care. He drew up alongside and made to brush his muzzle against hers, and if she let him pepper her jaw and throat with sultry kisses that exclaimed in the ways he had missed her. "I have missed your body and smell," He told her honestly, his heart giving a painful palpitation as he realized that he had missed her with much more than that but for the sake of not wanting to be overbearing, or hearing her call him a liar kept it to himself, for now. In truth, though, he had missed her with his heart and that thing that Nerian insisted he had called a soul. "It was torture last night having you so close but so far away from me." The Viking murmured into the soft fur at the cusp of her ear.