Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-04-27 09:20 pm
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-04-27 09:20 pm
[Part 2 of 3] What More Could I Lose?
Thor wakes with a scream, throwing himself onto his feet and nearly toppling over as his knees threaten to buckle, his body still weak as a newborn foal. He reaches out to brace himself and nearly falls again as he grasps at nothing with an arm that is no longer there, the severed stump treated and bandaged, and he leans heavily against a storage cube as he blankly stares down at it, uncomprehending.
This is not Valhalla.
He sucks in air to feed starved lungs, hears the scrape of boot against metal behind him, and carefully turns his head to see-
A flash of green leather, long black hair, and his heart leaps into his throat-
But no, his eye focuses, and that same heart plummets into his stomach like a stone. A woman with large dark eyes and feathered antennae.
Not Loki. Never again Loki.
The woman is not alone, her companions all aiming weapons at him as if they expect half a warrior-king to be a threat to them, and under normal circumstances they would be right. But Thor's heart cries out far more loudly than his wounds, his world shattered in front of him one by one, and he sees no sign of any other Asgardians on board this vessel. No survivors picked up from the massacre.
Thor's shoulders slump, the storage cube all that's holding him up as he turns a weary, heartsick eye on what must be his rescuers. "Who the hell are you guys?"
The Guardians of the Galaxy are not the most considerate hosts, but Thor cannot bring himself to care about their manners, still in the numb grips of shock. They fetch him a blanket, at least, and a bowl of some kind of soup that tastes flavorless but hot, and though his hand trembles as he raises the spoon to his mouth, at least it's something that does not require two hands to eat, feeling unbalanced by the lack of weight to his left every time he moves.
He listens half-heartedly as his rescuers discuss the massacre, until he learns of Gamora's parentage, and nearly upsets the half-eaten bowl of soup as he stalks forward to confront her, numbness giving way to the smoldering ember of rage sparking to life in the pit of his belly.
Gamora is not her father. He has no quarrel with her. But if he cannot save his people, he can still avenge them. And for that, he will need a weapon.
And Thor knows just the place.
Off the ship, however, the emptiness grows until it sits hollow in his chest, the rabbit and the tree making far too little noise to fill the silence where there should be people. He'd thought that Asgard had been reduced to so few, a mere two thousand where once were tens of thousands, but two thousand seems a blessing now.
He sits in the corner of the pod alone, slowly rubbing at the tenderness of the ruin of his arm, and wonders if there was more he could have done. More he could have given. He would have lost both arms, would have died to save Asgard, but instead he watched as his people were slaughtered like goats for the feast, elders and children alike, and he feels broken in a way that has nothing to do with his arm.
Even the rabbit seems to notice, and though his words give Thor something to focus on outside of the gnawing grief that tears at his soul, it does so very little to ease the pain.
All he has left is his vengeance, and if that is not enough, then Thor has nothing else to give.
Nothing else to lose.
He turns away, silence falling throughout the pod again as Thor prepares to take the emptiness and the grief and transform it into purpose, into an all-consuming rage that will spill Thanos' blood across the cosmos to match the gruesome trail he's left through the eons, and he's startled from his thoughts when something metal heaves into his lap, moving parts clanking together. Thor blinks, and looks down to see an arm, skeletal and inelegant, but roughly close to match what he's missing. Puzzled, he looks up at the rabbit, who shrugs and says, "If fate does want you to kill that stupid crapsack, you're gonna need more than one arm."
The winds of anger momentarily gone from his sails, Thor frowns. "You just happened to have this lying around?"
Rabbit climbs into the pilot's seat, and looks back over his shoulder with a grim yet mischievous glint in his beady little eyes. "Pal, I got a whole box of arms. If that don't suit, take your pick."
Despite himself, despite everything, Thor manages a smile. If even this small creature can be kind, perhaps there is hope yet left. For him, for everyone. "Thank you, sweet rabbit."
This is not Valhalla.
He sucks in air to feed starved lungs, hears the scrape of boot against metal behind him, and carefully turns his head to see-
A flash of green leather, long black hair, and his heart leaps into his throat-
But no, his eye focuses, and that same heart plummets into his stomach like a stone. A woman with large dark eyes and feathered antennae.
Not Loki. Never again Loki.
The woman is not alone, her companions all aiming weapons at him as if they expect half a warrior-king to be a threat to them, and under normal circumstances they would be right. But Thor's heart cries out far more loudly than his wounds, his world shattered in front of him one by one, and he sees no sign of any other Asgardians on board this vessel. No survivors picked up from the massacre.
Thor's shoulders slump, the storage cube all that's holding him up as he turns a weary, heartsick eye on what must be his rescuers. "Who the hell are you guys?"
The Guardians of the Galaxy are not the most considerate hosts, but Thor cannot bring himself to care about their manners, still in the numb grips of shock. They fetch him a blanket, at least, and a bowl of some kind of soup that tastes flavorless but hot, and though his hand trembles as he raises the spoon to his mouth, at least it's something that does not require two hands to eat, feeling unbalanced by the lack of weight to his left every time he moves.
He listens half-heartedly as his rescuers discuss the massacre, until he learns of Gamora's parentage, and nearly upsets the half-eaten bowl of soup as he stalks forward to confront her, numbness giving way to the smoldering ember of rage sparking to life in the pit of his belly.
Gamora is not her father. He has no quarrel with her. But if he cannot save his people, he can still avenge them. And for that, he will need a weapon.
And Thor knows just the place.
Off the ship, however, the emptiness grows until it sits hollow in his chest, the rabbit and the tree making far too little noise to fill the silence where there should be people. He'd thought that Asgard had been reduced to so few, a mere two thousand where once were tens of thousands, but two thousand seems a blessing now.
He sits in the corner of the pod alone, slowly rubbing at the tenderness of the ruin of his arm, and wonders if there was more he could have done. More he could have given. He would have lost both arms, would have died to save Asgard, but instead he watched as his people were slaughtered like goats for the feast, elders and children alike, and he feels broken in a way that has nothing to do with his arm.
Even the rabbit seems to notice, and though his words give Thor something to focus on outside of the gnawing grief that tears at his soul, it does so very little to ease the pain.
All he has left is his vengeance, and if that is not enough, then Thor has nothing else to give.
Nothing else to lose.
He turns away, silence falling throughout the pod again as Thor prepares to take the emptiness and the grief and transform it into purpose, into an all-consuming rage that will spill Thanos' blood across the cosmos to match the gruesome trail he's left through the eons, and he's startled from his thoughts when something metal heaves into his lap, moving parts clanking together. Thor blinks, and looks down to see an arm, skeletal and inelegant, but roughly close to match what he's missing. Puzzled, he looks up at the rabbit, who shrugs and says, "If fate does want you to kill that stupid crapsack, you're gonna need more than one arm."
The winds of anger momentarily gone from his sails, Thor frowns. "You just happened to have this lying around?"
Rabbit climbs into the pilot's seat, and looks back over his shoulder with a grim yet mischievous glint in his beady little eyes. "Pal, I got a whole box of arms. If that don't suit, take your pick."
Despite himself, despite everything, Thor manages a smile. If even this small creature can be kind, perhaps there is hope yet left. For him, for everyone. "Thank you, sweet rabbit."