Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-03-10 01:09 pm
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-03-10 01:09 pm
[IC] A Day In the Life
Every night for nearly a year, Thor watched Asgard burn, the Realm Eternal awash with waves of orange flame rolling from the demon erupting out of Gladsheim. Every night he awoke with an unvoiced cry of denial of Ragnarok's approach, until he stood on the rainbow bridge in his waking hours and knew that it was the only way to save the people who were left, the part of Asgard that matters most. He stood aboard the Statesman and watched Asgard burn to ashes, and thought that was the end of it.
Except it isn't.
Every night in his dreams, Asgard still burns. Heimdall watches with dead eyes over a field of corpses, broken swords littering the deck, blood running thickly down the grooves of the floor. Thor tries to move forward, to leap to his people's defense as violet flames ravage the ship around him, but he's stuck fast, helpless to intervene as the room becomes their funeral pyre.
The flames roar hungrily, licking at his exposed skin with the fury of a star unleashed, howling in his ears like a mourner's wail. And when they subside, Thor is up to his knees in dust and bone ash, utterly alone.
He jolts awake, breathing harsh as his eye slowly takes in the ceiling of the captain's stateroom aboard the Statesman. No flame, no ash, but he can almost still taste the dust and hastens to fetch his morning water ration to wash it out of his mouth.
He knows well enough by now that he's not going back to sleep after that, so with a resigned sigh, he prepares himself to face the day. His armor is new, the spell something he's finally had the time and energy for since being stuck on the ship with everyone else, and made for a decent excuse as to why he had to have an hour to himself on a particularly trying day, lest he go mad from the endless parade of petty complaints. Unlike his princely armors, which trended heavily toward silver and red, or his father's legacy of excessive gold, Thor has chosen to wear all black instead. No longer a prince, but a king, and one whose reign has sprang forth from ashes and blood. Things are no longer as they once were, and they cannot return.
The times have changed, and Thor along with it.
At this hour, the ship is largely silent, most of the population united in sleep save for the few volunteers who manage the ship's operations during the night cycle. It's an eerie sort of feeling, his footsteps echoing through empty corridors as if treading through a ghost ship, and Thor fights against a shiver at the thought. Perhaps it's the dreams, which still taste of prophecy rather than memory, but the longer he stays aboard the Statesman, the more unsettled he feels, like a sword out of balance or a horn out of tune. Or the approach of a stormfront, slowly rolling across a passionless sky.
The corner of the cargo hold hosts a pitiable excuse of a training ground, practice dummies crafted from crates and scraps of fabric, already heavily marked up by unskilled sword blows, an assortment of battered basic weapons arrayed on the floor by the wall. After a thousand years of using the palace's bespelled targets for practice, and centuries of actual combat, it's downright pathetic in comparison. But it's the only place he can vent his growing frustration without damaging the ship, and at this hour it's utterly abandoned. No one around to witness their king's weakness.
It's been months since the loss of his eye, and Thor still struggles with it. He's become used to counting the spacing of the deckplates to avoid running into people and door frames, and has developed a habit of shifting his head aside to better triangulate on things right in front of him, and for the most part that helps him get by just fine. But Thor knows war, knows the constant clashing of swords and the utter chaos of the battlefield, the need to know how far to swing his sword arm, how far to throw a hammer, how many steps to bring him into striking distance of his next enemy. And most importantly, the need to swiftly identify friend from foe.
During Ragnarok, it'd been easy, despite the distraction of burning agony gripping half of his face. The draugr had been a single seething mass of enemies, his allies few enough that he could strike without fear of hitting them by accident, wreaking havoc in their ranks with no need of finesse. Against Hela, he'd fared more poorly, but a single target had again proved doable, focusing on her to the exclusion of all else. On an ordinary battlefield, with ordinary foes and ordinary allies, Thor fears what damage he might cause in his infirmity. He must master this, as Odin did.
He takes up a battered sword and makes an experimental swing at his chosen target, growling under his breath as his strike goes wide, the next almost cleaving it in two. The dummy is silent and stationary, and very much not the mobile enemy he needs to learn to face, but it's all he has. And hitting it does make him feel better, an outlet for the pent-up tension rattling in his bones, so he sets his shoulders and pictures Hela's face, and begins his drills.
He's quick to lose himself in the rhythm of the mock fight, pushing down his annoyance when he stumbles or strikes false, repeating the same attack again and again until he gets it right. It's only when he hears the scrape of a footstep near the door of the cargo hold that he realizes he's not alone, turning to see the Valkyrie watching him with eyebrows arched in amusement. "Your majesty," she greets him without a hint of deference in her voice, as per usual. "You're up early. Again."
Were she alone, Thor might be tempted to speak more truly about what's bothering him, but behind her he can see the arrival of the trainee army, merchants and masons and smiths who've all volunteered to serve as Asgard's defense. There's so much they still need to learn, centuries upon centuries of training they need to master without that long to spare, when their lives - all of Asgard - may depend on their skill with a blade. Even a delay of minutes could mean the difference between victory and defeat. So Thor smiles at her as if there is nothing wrong, and offers his nicked sword to her by the hilt. "I figured if I wanted a good workout, I'd better beat you down here." He goes to wink, realizes (again) too late that he still needs a second eye for that, and hastily takes his leave.
The halls are louder now, murmuring with activity as the ship's population begin the day. The line for breakfast is long and the portions meager, but Thor refuses to jump the queue or take a second helping, even though he knows damn well he could get away with it. Still, he can't help but cast a longing look at the soup pot as he returns his emptied bowl, and goes to find somewhere on the ship where his hands will be useful to someone.
It's hours later and midway through helping with maintenance on the water reclaimer when hurried footsteps herald the arrival of a young girl, one of the runners serving as ship's messengers. "Your majesty," she croaks out, bent over with hands braced on her thighs as she gasps for air. "You're needed in the healing ward."
"Me?" It's the last thing Thor had expected to hear, and for a terrible moment, he fears the worst has happened. Is it Loki? Heimdall? They're already so few; the loss of even one more Asgardian life would be difficult to bear, no matter their station.
He looks back at the woman who's been serving as the head engineer, and she waves him off. "Go, I'll have Halvor take your place."
The makeshift healing ward is deep in the heart of the Statesman, rows of cots separated by curtains of threadbare blankets and torn tapestries, and most of the beds are full. Between a handful of serious accidents and a minor fever that's been making the rounds in recent weeks, the few surviving healers have had their hands full, and Thor easily spots them at the far end of the ward, working on a patient he doesn't recognize. For a moment he wonders, bewildered, what exactly he's needed for.
Eir turns her head and spots him. "My lord," she says, not stepping away from the patient she's layering healing spells over, her hands constantly in motion. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but Solvi Varnsdottir's baby is coming early, and I don't have a midwife to spare. It's your seidr or nothing."
It's been so long since anyone's demanded anything more of his magic than as a weapon of war, that sometimes even Thor forgets his skill doesn't stop at lightning. The creeping dread winding through his chest melts into a more awkward nervousness, and he quickly zeroes in on the sounds of a woman in labor, halfway down the side of the ward. Her face is twisted in distress that does not seem entirely due to contractions, and the absence of her husband - or anyone else - at her side is more than enough to tell him why. He hastens to her side, slipping his hand into hers and stifling a yelp when she immediately all but crushes it, looking up at him with wild, uncomprehending eyes. He smiles back at her, as if he can't feel the bones in his hand creaking under her grip, and an embarrassed look of recognition lights her face as the contraction eases. "Your majesty?" she stutters.
"I think under the circumstances, just Thor is fine." His other hand moves to her belly, sending a gentle pulse of soothing magic to ease the pain of her labor, and calm the stressed babe inside of her. He's a little surprised that it comes back to him so easily, after such a long drought of use, but the fertility magic flows from him just as easily as summoning a storm now, and later he'll wonder if Mjolnir's unleashing of his power has anything to do with that, too. For now, he has no thoughts for anything other than the woman and her child, and seeing them both through safely to the other side.
Solvi looks at him uncertainly, clearly nervous about having the king for a midwife, but he gives her no opportunity to voice her modest objections, and soon, she's far too busy to care.
Five hours later, Thor cradles the newest and most fragile citizen of Asgard in his arms as the baby's mother sleeps, and remembers well that destruction is not the only thing he is good for.
Except it isn't.
Every night in his dreams, Asgard still burns. Heimdall watches with dead eyes over a field of corpses, broken swords littering the deck, blood running thickly down the grooves of the floor. Thor tries to move forward, to leap to his people's defense as violet flames ravage the ship around him, but he's stuck fast, helpless to intervene as the room becomes their funeral pyre.
The flames roar hungrily, licking at his exposed skin with the fury of a star unleashed, howling in his ears like a mourner's wail. And when they subside, Thor is up to his knees in dust and bone ash, utterly alone.
He jolts awake, breathing harsh as his eye slowly takes in the ceiling of the captain's stateroom aboard the Statesman. No flame, no ash, but he can almost still taste the dust and hastens to fetch his morning water ration to wash it out of his mouth.
He knows well enough by now that he's not going back to sleep after that, so with a resigned sigh, he prepares himself to face the day. His armor is new, the spell something he's finally had the time and energy for since being stuck on the ship with everyone else, and made for a decent excuse as to why he had to have an hour to himself on a particularly trying day, lest he go mad from the endless parade of petty complaints. Unlike his princely armors, which trended heavily toward silver and red, or his father's legacy of excessive gold, Thor has chosen to wear all black instead. No longer a prince, but a king, and one whose reign has sprang forth from ashes and blood. Things are no longer as they once were, and they cannot return.
The times have changed, and Thor along with it.
At this hour, the ship is largely silent, most of the population united in sleep save for the few volunteers who manage the ship's operations during the night cycle. It's an eerie sort of feeling, his footsteps echoing through empty corridors as if treading through a ghost ship, and Thor fights against a shiver at the thought. Perhaps it's the dreams, which still taste of prophecy rather than memory, but the longer he stays aboard the Statesman, the more unsettled he feels, like a sword out of balance or a horn out of tune. Or the approach of a stormfront, slowly rolling across a passionless sky.
The corner of the cargo hold hosts a pitiable excuse of a training ground, practice dummies crafted from crates and scraps of fabric, already heavily marked up by unskilled sword blows, an assortment of battered basic weapons arrayed on the floor by the wall. After a thousand years of using the palace's bespelled targets for practice, and centuries of actual combat, it's downright pathetic in comparison. But it's the only place he can vent his growing frustration without damaging the ship, and at this hour it's utterly abandoned. No one around to witness their king's weakness.
It's been months since the loss of his eye, and Thor still struggles with it. He's become used to counting the spacing of the deckplates to avoid running into people and door frames, and has developed a habit of shifting his head aside to better triangulate on things right in front of him, and for the most part that helps him get by just fine. But Thor knows war, knows the constant clashing of swords and the utter chaos of the battlefield, the need to know how far to swing his sword arm, how far to throw a hammer, how many steps to bring him into striking distance of his next enemy. And most importantly, the need to swiftly identify friend from foe.
During Ragnarok, it'd been easy, despite the distraction of burning agony gripping half of his face. The draugr had been a single seething mass of enemies, his allies few enough that he could strike without fear of hitting them by accident, wreaking havoc in their ranks with no need of finesse. Against Hela, he'd fared more poorly, but a single target had again proved doable, focusing on her to the exclusion of all else. On an ordinary battlefield, with ordinary foes and ordinary allies, Thor fears what damage he might cause in his infirmity. He must master this, as Odin did.
He takes up a battered sword and makes an experimental swing at his chosen target, growling under his breath as his strike goes wide, the next almost cleaving it in two. The dummy is silent and stationary, and very much not the mobile enemy he needs to learn to face, but it's all he has. And hitting it does make him feel better, an outlet for the pent-up tension rattling in his bones, so he sets his shoulders and pictures Hela's face, and begins his drills.
He's quick to lose himself in the rhythm of the mock fight, pushing down his annoyance when he stumbles or strikes false, repeating the same attack again and again until he gets it right. It's only when he hears the scrape of a footstep near the door of the cargo hold that he realizes he's not alone, turning to see the Valkyrie watching him with eyebrows arched in amusement. "Your majesty," she greets him without a hint of deference in her voice, as per usual. "You're up early. Again."
Were she alone, Thor might be tempted to speak more truly about what's bothering him, but behind her he can see the arrival of the trainee army, merchants and masons and smiths who've all volunteered to serve as Asgard's defense. There's so much they still need to learn, centuries upon centuries of training they need to master without that long to spare, when their lives - all of Asgard - may depend on their skill with a blade. Even a delay of minutes could mean the difference between victory and defeat. So Thor smiles at her as if there is nothing wrong, and offers his nicked sword to her by the hilt. "I figured if I wanted a good workout, I'd better beat you down here." He goes to wink, realizes (again) too late that he still needs a second eye for that, and hastily takes his leave.
The halls are louder now, murmuring with activity as the ship's population begin the day. The line for breakfast is long and the portions meager, but Thor refuses to jump the queue or take a second helping, even though he knows damn well he could get away with it. Still, he can't help but cast a longing look at the soup pot as he returns his emptied bowl, and goes to find somewhere on the ship where his hands will be useful to someone.
It's hours later and midway through helping with maintenance on the water reclaimer when hurried footsteps herald the arrival of a young girl, one of the runners serving as ship's messengers. "Your majesty," she croaks out, bent over with hands braced on her thighs as she gasps for air. "You're needed in the healing ward."
"Me?" It's the last thing Thor had expected to hear, and for a terrible moment, he fears the worst has happened. Is it Loki? Heimdall? They're already so few; the loss of even one more Asgardian life would be difficult to bear, no matter their station.
He looks back at the woman who's been serving as the head engineer, and she waves him off. "Go, I'll have Halvor take your place."
The makeshift healing ward is deep in the heart of the Statesman, rows of cots separated by curtains of threadbare blankets and torn tapestries, and most of the beds are full. Between a handful of serious accidents and a minor fever that's been making the rounds in recent weeks, the few surviving healers have had their hands full, and Thor easily spots them at the far end of the ward, working on a patient he doesn't recognize. For a moment he wonders, bewildered, what exactly he's needed for.
Eir turns her head and spots him. "My lord," she says, not stepping away from the patient she's layering healing spells over, her hands constantly in motion. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but Solvi Varnsdottir's baby is coming early, and I don't have a midwife to spare. It's your seidr or nothing."
It's been so long since anyone's demanded anything more of his magic than as a weapon of war, that sometimes even Thor forgets his skill doesn't stop at lightning. The creeping dread winding through his chest melts into a more awkward nervousness, and he quickly zeroes in on the sounds of a woman in labor, halfway down the side of the ward. Her face is twisted in distress that does not seem entirely due to contractions, and the absence of her husband - or anyone else - at her side is more than enough to tell him why. He hastens to her side, slipping his hand into hers and stifling a yelp when she immediately all but crushes it, looking up at him with wild, uncomprehending eyes. He smiles back at her, as if he can't feel the bones in his hand creaking under her grip, and an embarrassed look of recognition lights her face as the contraction eases. "Your majesty?" she stutters.
"I think under the circumstances, just Thor is fine." His other hand moves to her belly, sending a gentle pulse of soothing magic to ease the pain of her labor, and calm the stressed babe inside of her. He's a little surprised that it comes back to him so easily, after such a long drought of use, but the fertility magic flows from him just as easily as summoning a storm now, and later he'll wonder if Mjolnir's unleashing of his power has anything to do with that, too. For now, he has no thoughts for anything other than the woman and her child, and seeing them both through safely to the other side.
Solvi looks at him uncertainly, clearly nervous about having the king for a midwife, but he gives her no opportunity to voice her modest objections, and soon, she's far too busy to care.
Five hours later, Thor cradles the newest and most fragile citizen of Asgard in his arms as the baby's mother sleeps, and remembers well that destruction is not the only thing he is good for.