Ragnar could barely hear the sound of approaching footfalls, fast and light in the speed with which the other moved over the rapid palpitations of his heart. To any third party observer the explanation of his injuries was as simple as him getting too close to an overly territorial raven's meal; but Ragnar knew the truth (or what he believed to be the truth, at any rate). All at once his body was hot, so hot that he'd began panting, but he was also cold and shivering. The Berserker mushroom had done it's job, blocking the pain so that he felt nothing but the sticky, warm liquids of his body as they oozed down his face, dripping down the length of his muzzle, staining the platinum colored fur crimson. Accepting what had happened to him was a step in the right direction, but it did not make the him feel any less disoriented. Having gone from two perfectly beautiful working eyes to only one, despite that it made him feel indefinitely closer to Odinn (for they were alike now), the Northman was suffering a severe moment of shock. His left side was black, only a ghost of a memory, an eye with a flame licking at the empty eye socket, a gift, perhaps from Odinn to aid in attempting to calm the Viking down. Outwardly, Ragnar wasn't panicking. Inwardly, he was. Maybe losing an eye didn't affect Odinn because he was a God; but Ragnar was no God.
And yet, it was the price that he'd paid to ensure that he and Stavanger Bay stayed in the All-Father's favor. It was a sacrifice to prove his devotion, and though it was, indeed, shocking, Ragnar didn't necessarily regret it. He had once said that he would give much more than his eye for knowledge, but he had given his eye and surely that stood for something.
When Thistle began to panic, her voice trembling — or at least that was how he heard it, it could have been because he was trembling, he bowed his head to allow her access to his face, as she began to lick it, in an attempt to clean it Ragnar assumed.