Thor is never certain if it's his imagination that the plants seem greener in his presence, their foliage more full, and out of habit he kneels next to one of the plant beds and puts his living hand in the dirt, wisps of blue seidr trickling from his fingers into the rich soil. Where his lightning magic is loud and brash and powerful, well controlled after years of practice and exercise in battle, his fertility magic is a more delicate thing. Fragile, almost, less refined. Thor is still new to this part of himself, compared to the lightning and the rain, and he's learned very little of controlled technique. But what he lacks in training he makes up for in raw power and will.
He cannot manipulate the growth of his garden with any targeted skill, but with every breath from his lungs and every beat of his heart, he commands them to grow, be healthy, be fruitful. A magic that affects people and animals as effortlessly as the land; it's little wonder there have been new babies in the village only a year after landing, that the seas are teeming with fish, and that the herd of goats will need more space to graze soon.
Thor stands and brushes the dirt from his hand, a little self-conscious about his use of such a feminine magic. He clears his throat and watches his brother walk among the greenery, bees buzzing lazy circles around them both. "Meals and medicine, yes," he says, one-eyed gaze drawn to the side of the greenhouse that hosts the herbs. "Much of Midgard's medicines and potions aren't strong enough for Asgardians, so Eir has to craft treatments herself. Most of them are from Earth's stock; very few seeds were saved from Asgard." It hadn't been a priority, and Thor does not regret not risking lives to save plants and animals and art, but it's still a loss to their culture not to have them anymore.
Still, he can be proud of the few that they did rescue, and he points out one of the flowering herbs that Loki will recognize from home. "This might be the last of Frigga's Loom anywhere, unless they have it on Vanaheim."
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He cannot manipulate the growth of his garden with any targeted skill, but with every breath from his lungs and every beat of his heart, he commands them to grow, be healthy, be fruitful. A magic that affects people and animals as effortlessly as the land; it's little wonder there have been new babies in the village only a year after landing, that the seas are teeming with fish, and that the herd of goats will need more space to graze soon.
Thor stands and brushes the dirt from his hand, a little self-conscious about his use of such a feminine magic. He clears his throat and watches his brother walk among the greenery, bees buzzing lazy circles around them both. "Meals and medicine, yes," he says, one-eyed gaze drawn to the side of the greenhouse that hosts the herbs. "Much of Midgard's medicines and potions aren't strong enough for Asgardians, so Eir has to craft treatments herself. Most of them are from Earth's stock; very few seeds were saved from Asgard." It hadn't been a priority, and Thor does not regret not risking lives to save plants and animals and art, but it's still a loss to their culture not to have them anymore.
Still, he can be proud of the few that they did rescue, and he points out one of the flowering herbs that Loki will recognize from home. "This might be the last of Frigga's Loom anywhere, unless they have it on Vanaheim."