ode to the fallen (m)

I think we could probably wrap this one up (and maybe have a new one?) soon. :-)

Ragnar had merely been teasing her when he had said that she was obligated to call him handsome as his wife, though of course that wasn't particularly true. Some women just liked scars, or the enigma of badassery that they created. It would seem to Ragnar that Thistle was one of those women. Or maybe she wasn't so shallow to consider outward appearance, though Ragnar remembered vividly that she had been intimidated by him at one point in time. Not that he hadn't expected it: when you were covered as many battle wounds as Ragnar the stares and hesitation became as normal as receiving someone's name. It had never been insulting, if because Ragnar was proud of his scars. They marked him for what he was: an experienced Berserker, and if you didn't have scars you were just a green boy straight out of the training; though there was hardly any Vikings without scars. Scars were respected rather than feared in his culture. Nevertheless, the Northman left it be. Noting that she seemed to be looking for something, presumably to cease the seepage that leaked from his eye socket, which involved physically turning his head so that he could see her, though upon his blind side he felt the air around her stir, the rush of cool air as she moved away from him. “Perhaps we should go back to the den where your medicinal supplies are, hm?” Ragnar suggested. He was fine, or well, as “fine” as he could possibly be at the moment. Not to mention, he wanted his mushroom supply close lest he start to feel the pain that was sure to catch up with him sooner or later.