She didn't mean it like that. Thor knows this, and yet he can't bring himself to apologize for snapping at her, too agitated by the frightening prospect of committing to sobriety for good. No more drink, no more muffling the nasty thoughts that steal into the corners of his mind and tell him things that he cannot shake, no more drowning out the memories and nightmares that haunt him. Instead he wrings his hands, staring down at them, the knuckles of his living hand pale from how hard he's gripping the other.

Rain patters down on the roof, a soft tempo drumming against the shingles.

But when she starts speaking, he listens. Surprised to hear that this is a hurt she knows, that she knows something of this type of pain, the strange pull to be dependent on a potion to take it all away. Not quite the same. But close. Enough that there is a resonance, a familiar footstep on the path.

"How? How did you... move on?" He's tried telling himself that he's doing just that, trying to put the past behind him. But he can't will it into being true, like if he hopes hard enough, it will all go away. And Eir has not learned enough of the human understanding of the mind to help, her skill more in potions and poultices and spellwork than psychology.