Thor's eye tracks the burning arrow as it arcs through twilight skies until it hits, and the oil-soaked wood springs alight, a burning brand slowly trailing deeper out to sea as the current carries the boat on its final voyage. He grasps Sif's hand in his own as together they watch the pyre burn, orange sparks rising with the smoke, and he can almost imagine it to be the golden light of their souls ascending to Valhalla.
He says nothing, just squeezes Sif's hand in silent thanks and mingled grief, and watches until the funeral boat slowly passes beyond their sight. Goodbye, my friends. Wait for me.
By now, the last glow of sunset has faded into true night, the stars in stark relief against the blackness above. The only lingering light for miles is the small campfire burning on the beach, and when they return to it, Thor retrieves a pair of ale bottles from the cooler, popping off their caps with his thumbs and handing one to her. It's no funeral feast, no hall full of celebrants toasting those who have gone ahead, no skalds to sing of their great deeds in life and how they met their ends. But in this case, Thor feels that he is not terribly in the mood for a lavish celebration anyway.
"To the Warriors Three," he says, raising his bottle in what may be the only toast he can bear to make, this evening. There's no need to comport himself as king tonight, honoring brave warriors with hours of accolades. Instead he is only Thor, and he is mourning his friends, who he misses dearly. He takes a long swig of drink, the familiar flavor of home, some of the last batch he had helped age last autumn when he'd made best use of his curse.
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He says nothing, just squeezes Sif's hand in silent thanks and mingled grief, and watches until the funeral boat slowly passes beyond their sight. Goodbye, my friends. Wait for me.
By now, the last glow of sunset has faded into true night, the stars in stark relief against the blackness above. The only lingering light for miles is the small campfire burning on the beach, and when they return to it, Thor retrieves a pair of ale bottles from the cooler, popping off their caps with his thumbs and handing one to her. It's no funeral feast, no hall full of celebrants toasting those who have gone ahead, no skalds to sing of their great deeds in life and how they met their ends. But in this case, Thor feels that he is not terribly in the mood for a lavish celebration anyway.
"To the Warriors Three," he says, raising his bottle in what may be the only toast he can bear to make, this evening. There's no need to comport himself as king tonight, honoring brave warriors with hours of accolades. Instead he is only Thor, and he is mourning his friends, who he misses dearly. He takes a long swig of drink, the familiar flavor of home, some of the last batch he had helped age last autumn when he'd made best use of his curse.