Ragnar had always prided himself on being a good leader, though these days he questioned that logic, wondering if his youth and ego had gotten in the way and made him blind to the harsh reality. He had envisioned that he was a fair and dedicated Jarl much like his father before him, but these days he felt more and more like Björn than he had ever felt — even when he had went by his deceased brother's name, masquerading about with it as if it were a bloody crown he could wear. There were many parts of the Viking that yearned to be selfish in the respect of the Bay, to populate it with his own flesh and blood. Odinn had promised him many sons and thus to his knowledge he only had ever produced one living son. Which wasn't overly impressive. And, for the most part, had been an accident. So far, at almost four years of age he was slacking, missed two viable reproduction years. Perhaps that was why he'd been so adamant on the whole Nerian thing (though that came back to bite him in the ass viciously) because with two wives he could make up for the lost years. Or perhaps Ragnar had simply misinterpreted Odinn's message, taking the promise of “many sons” to mean only flesh and blood. But there was Týrr, his captive turned son that hated him but was still family, regardless, and then was Mercury and Gunnar, and though he did not strive to become a father to them he saw them as sons regardless: Charon and Levi. That was a good start to the “many sons” the All-Father had promised him.
Looking at it in that respect, Ragnar felt a little bit callous for being angry with the All-Father.
“I know,” Ragnar responded when Peregrine pointed out that half the offspring didn't usually make it to adulthood. “I know,” The Viking repeated in a softened voice. “But it does not make it easy when they look up to you to protect them and you fail them. With the death of dear friends, Thistle and I have adopted their children, or the three that were left. The girl she...went missing or maybe died. I do not know and the Gods will not tell me. I cannot keep what is left of their family together, and it is harder still to admit to them that I do not have all the answers and that there is nothing that I can do.” He wasn't necessarily looking for advice or anything, merely it was nice to let it off his chest. He had kept it bottled up so tight, not wanting to tell Thistle that Charon, especially, had been angry about Liyani for the fear that it would upset her, until it physically made him sick. Ragnar's problem he suspected, was that he was trying to be the hero when he'd always been destined for the role of anti-hero. He couldn't change his fate. His culture was seen as heathens, vicious, feral. Those weren't wrong; but the Vikings were not entirely heartless. They had families, and loved ones. And not being able to protect his family felt like a failure.
“I am getting better,” Ragnar conceded with a soft chuckle. Peregrine hadn't seen him get irritated at his three Mercury, Gunnar, and Gyda when they were small, unsure as the Jarl had been how to deal with small infants. It was all trial and error — rearing children. He was better prepared when they took in Julooke and Verrine's litter, and they would be even more experienced when Thistle and him had their own.
