milliways_bar | (no subject)

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You did not expect this man, but there is a Ragnar Lothbrok tonight, sitting by the fire and picking his teeth, while apparently deep in thought.

[[OOC: STRONG WARNING for apparently period typical ableism and discussion of child death in all threads.]]

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The bunnies show no signs of threat or nuisance. If anything, they seem to be guarding Sinric.

It's some hours before Sinric draws breath again, coughing and weak. He clings to the branches, shaking with cold as he starts down.

Ragnar stands silently, picking up a fur cloak and reaching for Sinric to help him down.

Sinric all but falls into his arms, shaking violently with cold. He curls into the furs, teeth chattering.

The bunnies inch closer, burping little gouts of flame.

"Gather wood." Sinric manages to whisper from between blue lips. "They'll make sure it burns."

Ragnar presses a thermos into Sinric's hand, then hurries off as instructed and returns, only six minutes later, with a sizeable bunch of branches and twigs in his arms, pulling a rather large branch behind.

He dumps them, then roughly orders them into vague bonfire shape.

Sinric sips the hot, alcohol-laced tea, cuddled close in the fur.

The bunnies circle, waiting for Ragnar to be out of the way so they can light it up. It may stick of kerosene but the wet branches burn all the same.

Sinric holds his arms out to Ragnar, wanting to be held.

Ragnar comes and holds him, letting the rabbits do their thing; Sinric now may need touch more than practical help.

That he does. Sinric clings, his hand wrapping around Ragnar's arm to cover the tattoo he knows is hidden there under many layers of cloth.

"Dove, Raven, Lark." He repeats over and over, chanting the words in Latin.

Ragnar holds him, smoothing his hair and quietly murmuring along with the chant, even if he doesn't know the meaning.

He changed to Norse as he starts to get himself back under control. "Dove, Raven, Lark." He buries his face in Ragnar's neck.

Ragnar murmurs along as readily, invoking the triskele of magic and necessary tale wanted by the gods that the three of them make -- even if they lack one of the three, in this moment.

Athelstan is with them and part of them. Always. Only as far away as their hearts.

Sinric sips some more tea, offering some to Ragnar.

Ragnar takes a sip, and picks up another fur to wrap around them both.

Also, a pair of those clever pliable socks from the future, to put on Sinric's icy feet.

Sinric lets Ragnar manipulate him as needed to get the socks on. He's starting to get colour back now, reaching for his clothes to dress.

He may need help with that.

Ragnar helps him, with infinite patience, rubbing cold fingers and offering hot tea time and again.

Sinric steals, not quite kisses, but gentle touches. Touching his lips to Ragnar here, his cheek there. Till he's dressed again and snuggling in Ragnar's arms.

He holds out a hand to the nearest bunny, whispering softly in Greek. The bunny comes closer, sniffing his fingertips before bounding away, the others going with it.

"To think I once feared them."

"They are as tame as puppies," Ragnar chuckles.

"We understand each other. They and I. Trust on both sides."

He turns his face into Ragnar's neck. "A little while longer. Then I should be strong enough to go in."

Ragnar offers him the tea again. "Take as long as you need. I'm used to the weather, and we have furs."

Sinric snuggles close, resting his head on Ragnar's chest. "I know you're anxious to know. Thank you, for being patient."

"An hour won't make a difference for a whole entire future," Ragnar says. "And I want you to feel well again before we do anything else."

"When we're inside. When we're warm and private. I promise."

"We can curl up with furs and hot drinks at our own fire, and then you can tell me," Ragnar says.

"Yes." Sinric whispers, letting his eyes close for a long moment. He lets himself drift, not dozing. Just letting his other senses take over for a little while. Letting his thoughts slow and settle.

Ragnar holds him as long as he needs, kissing his hair and temple, and sometimes taking a sip from the thermos.

Eventually Sinric comes back to himself enough to screw the lid back on the thermos and nods to Ragnar. "I think I'm ready to go in."