The prosthetic arm lacks the reflexes and tactility of the one that was lost, and so Thor does not notice Loki pulling away until he already has, too late to grasp at him and keep him close even if he wasn't still holding the axe. But his brother does not leave his line of sight, and that is enough to keep Thor's eye on Solvi and her babe, a steadily shining candle in the heavy gloom that has been his constant companion for days now. It seems ridiculous to him now that he ever should have worried what people would think of him for his lesser-used seidr. Why had that ever mattered to him at all?
"I'm glad to hear it," he says, voice thick with unshed tears, and he's surprised to find that he means it, some small spark stirred up in the crushing ache that has lived inside him for days now. Not enough to tip the scales, yet enough to make a difference nonetheless. He briefly casts about for something else to say, some reassurance or benediction that would help ease the suffering, but Thor has no promises he knows he can keep anymore. So he holds his tongue, and gives her a small nod instead, and gazes down at the infant one last time, smiling in relief, before allowing Fǫnn to lead him away.
Her bedroom bears very little resemblance to the healing halls, and for that, Thor finds himself ashamed to be grateful. They've lost so much, so quickly, the old Asgard ripped away in fire and blood even before the greater apocalypse descended on the universe. Part of him craves those familiar touchstones, those reminders of a home they will never see again, but the wounds are far too raw to bear even the weight of that bandage without causing a greater agony. And the people... the people are what matter. It always has been, and always must be.
No matter how few are left.
It seems it's often that Thor's voice tries to leave him these days, and he busies himself with propping up Stormbreaker in a corner while he wrestles back his composure, avoiding eye contact for several long moments. But he can't delay forever, and he takes a seat on the cot, unzipping his hoodie and shucking it off. The shirt beneath is sleeveless, giving an unobstructed view of his arm clear to the shoulder. The ramshackle, near-skeletal prosthesis looks as though it was borrowed from a cyberpunk film, taking place of his natural arm partway down the left biceps. An inelegant thing, even discounting the battle damage that mars its surface and has nearly melted its electronics, its length not quite proportionally correct for him, and nothing as sturdy and beautiful as the work of the dwarves would have been. But Fǫnn is not here to fuss over metal and gears, so he releases the mechanical catches and removes the arm entirely.
Whoever amputated Thor's arm did so with one violent slash of a blade, leaving severed bone and muscle exposed, and much of the medical care he'd received had only served to stop blood loss and prevent infection. A week after his wounding, his natural Asgardian healing has grown new, tender skin to cover the injury, but with little care for anchoring muscle or tending to the sharpness of bone. It's not entirely debilitating, but it is distinctly uncomfortable, especially given the ill-fitting prosthesis' tendency to chafe.
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"I'm glad to hear it," he says, voice thick with unshed tears, and he's surprised to find that he means it, some small spark stirred up in the crushing ache that has lived inside him for days now. Not enough to tip the scales, yet enough to make a difference nonetheless. He briefly casts about for something else to say, some reassurance or benediction that would help ease the suffering, but Thor has no promises he knows he can keep anymore. So he holds his tongue, and gives her a small nod instead, and gazes down at the infant one last time, smiling in relief, before allowing Fǫnn to lead him away.
Her bedroom bears very little resemblance to the healing halls, and for that, Thor finds himself ashamed to be grateful. They've lost so much, so quickly, the old Asgard ripped away in fire and blood even before the greater apocalypse descended on the universe. Part of him craves those familiar touchstones, those reminders of a home they will never see again, but the wounds are far too raw to bear even the weight of that bandage without causing a greater agony. And the people... the people are what matter. It always has been, and always must be.
No matter how few are left.
It seems it's often that Thor's voice tries to leave him these days, and he busies himself with propping up Stormbreaker in a corner while he wrestles back his composure, avoiding eye contact for several long moments. But he can't delay forever, and he takes a seat on the cot, unzipping his hoodie and shucking it off. The shirt beneath is sleeveless, giving an unobstructed view of his arm clear to the shoulder. The ramshackle, near-skeletal prosthesis looks as though it was borrowed from a cyberpunk film, taking place of his natural arm partway down the left biceps. An inelegant thing, even discounting the battle damage that mars its surface and has nearly melted its electronics, its length not quite proportionally correct for him, and nothing as sturdy and beautiful as the work of the dwarves would have been. But Fǫnn is not here to fuss over metal and gears, so he releases the mechanical catches and removes the arm entirely.
Whoever amputated Thor's arm did so with one violent slash of a blade, leaving severed bone and muscle exposed, and much of the medical care he'd received had only served to stop blood loss and prevent infection. A week after his wounding, his natural Asgardian healing has grown new, tender skin to cover the injury, but with little care for anchoring muscle or tending to the sharpness of bone. It's not entirely debilitating, but it is distinctly uncomfortable, especially given the ill-fitting prosthesis' tendency to chafe.