ode to the fallen (m)

“It will be worth it,” Ragnar insisted roughly, believing fully that no longer was Odinn upset with him, and though he would have to suffer with the absent of his eye for a while it would become like the scars that marred the left side of his face, eventually. Another battle scar, and soon no one, himself included, would notice it. He almost told her that he had suffered far worse but bit his tongue at the last moment. “At least Odinn took it from the less attractive side of my face,” Ragnar spoke in soft jest, attempting to make ...not a joke out of it because the last thing he wished to do was to upset the Allfather, but attempted to lighten the mood a bit. He was not, probably, as perturbed about the whole ordeal as he should have been. Then again, he was a Viking, and he had seen wolves with much worse coming out of battle.

Ragnar felt her lean slightly against his muzzle, her whine picked up almost as soon as it left her lips. “I'm not going to die, my love,” Ragnar murmured, feeling like a broken record that kept skipping to the same line, over and over again. It was strange to the Northman, to hear her admit that if Odinn saw fit to break his promises, to take Ragnar earlier than expected to Valhalla, that Thistle would be so distraught by it. Perhaps it was because for a while there she had been so angry with him that Ragnar had begun to worry that she had no other emotions, that her anger had swallowed and destroyed the love she had felt for him. That one day she would divorce and leave him. Ragnar thanked the Gods everyday that it did not come to that.