Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-05-25 08:40 am
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-05-25 08:40 am
"Remember this place... home."
[Contains mild Endgame spoilers, follows this thread and this thread which also contains plot spoilers. Trigger warnings: Depression, alcohol abuse, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts.]
It's impossible for Thor to tell how long it has been since his petition to the Norwegian government, most of his days since the Garden spent in a fog of his mind's own making, or aided by the strongest drink he can find. But eventually, the call comes for him with an offer.
The tiny fishing village is spread out over a number of small islands, its architecture quaint even by Midgardian standards, the roads so narrow that only one vehicle may pass at a time, even on the single long bridge that leads back to the mainland. Most of the houses now lie abandoned, their owners turned to dust or fled to seek out their families elsewhere, but the population was so small to start with that there is very little of the unruly, apocalyptic devastation that Thor has seen in Oslo and New York. A handful of boats left adrift, a few cars on the side of the road, but no fires. No looting. Just empty.
Fitting.
Thor blinks blearily at it beneath the brim of his beanie, pulled low to hide his shaggy hair, now long enough that it threatens to get in his eye. His beard, too, is starting to look a little wild, growing unchecked, and the wind pulls at his chin. It's so quiet, so isolated, with only the whistle of a chilly sea breeze and the crashing of wave against rock to break the silence, and the very occasional cry of seabirds, only half as many as there should be.
It's nothing like Asgard was. The buildings are colorful but primitive, the bridges bland gray stone, the water endless past the horizon. The weather will be cold and often cloudy year-round, he's told, but a steady climate, with little in the way of extremes. It will be harsh, living here. Thor can't think of a place that wouldn't be, anymore.
But what truly decides it is what lies just outside of town.
The mainland bridge passes over several other islands on its way to the village, and one of these islands is the place where Odin died. Its wildness is marred, now, littered with discarded beer bottles and a blackened patch of earth where Hela first set foot, still barren after all these months. But it seems the only thing that Thor has left.
It's what he deserves, anyway. A broken dream and a stiff drink, and little else.
With so many homes empty, there are so many places that Thor could claim as his own, but he gives the choice little thought at all. The abandoned lighthouse keeper's cottage on the southernmost island will do, separated from the town by rock and an overgrown football pitch, overlooking the endless sea. It's a far cry from Gladsheim, but Thor no longer cares. All he wants is somewhere dark to crawl at the end of the day, and drink until he doesn't hurt anymore.
This will do.
What remains of Asgard finally lands one night, just before sunset.
Thor jolts awake at the sound of roaring engines, his heart racing out of control as he falls off the couch, disoriented. He kicks at the blanket wrapped around his legs until it finally frees him to stumble upright, clutching at the wall to stay standing, off-balance from the drink and the sudden waking and the lack of weight on his left.
He doesn't bother to put on his arm or make himself presentable, summoning Stormbreaker to his hand as he all but crashes through his door, almost hoping that it's someone come to fight. Instead, he lets his arm drop as his blurred vision narrows in on a colorful little pleasure craft, painted in yellow and red and black, neatly parking on the weedy football pitch in his backyard. A half dozen round escape pods settle around it like chicks around a hen.
They're two weeks earlier than he'd expected.
Thor stares stupidly as the ships open up, and people start streaming out. Mostly adults, a bare handful of children, maybe ten of the freed gladiators from Sakaar - only half as much as the ships will hold, maybe five hundred, in all - and in the lead is a figure in silver and blue, homing in on him with unerring accuracy.
The Valkyrie storms up to him and stops, hands on her hips as she looks him over, and something in the set of her jaw softens as she takes him in. "You look like Hel, Majesty."
"Yeah, prob'ly." His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and though he hasn't been able to stomach a mirror for days he can imagine the wild tangle his hair is in, his unkempt beard. His clothes creased and rumpled from several days' wearing, the left sleeve hanging empty, and a smell of stale alcohol clinging to him. He feels nothing like a king, right now, and he avoids her eye for fear of the pity he knows is in it.
He should be happy to see them. Happy to have them safe, on Earth, as he promised. Happy to recognize the Valkyrie, and Eir, and Korg and Miek, and a dozen others he's come to know by name since Ragnarok. Happy to have someplace for them to stay, a place that they can build into a new Asgard, and recuperate without outside influence. To find a home, and peace.
But all he can see is the empty spaces where half of their number should be. Gone forever.
The work is done. It always will be.
Thor clears his throat and waves vaguely with the axe, gesturing to the tiny village that lays behind them, darkening skies casting the houses into deeper shadows. "Well, this's it. Our new home. Everybody take your pick." He turns to go back inside, to curl up on his couch and find another drink to ease the way his heart is lurching frantically in his chest and pulling at his lungs, but her hand slams on the doorjamb and stops him dead.
"No. Thor. We're not done. What happened?" she demands, sounding angry. "Half the people that got away with me turned to dust, then some Kree woman shows up out of nowhere to give us a boost with her bare hands, and now I find you looking like..."
Like you did? he thinks, bitter, a little frantic as his breathing becomes harsh. All he wants to do is forget, and he can't, and the words tumble out of him before he can stop them, tripping over each other in their haste to be rid of him. "He did it. Killed 'em all. Then I killed him, went f'r the head, chopped it off. It's over. This is it. This's all we get." This time, when he pushes for the door, she doesn't stop him. "See you tomorrow," he says, and shuts himself away.
His legs give out the moment the door is closed, and his back drags down against it until he's on the floor, knees curled up to his chest, and Stormbreaker finds its own way to the ground as Thor rubs at his chest with a shaking hand to try to stop the panic that's strangling him alive. He can't breathe, his heart thunders in his ears, he feels like he's dying and some desperate part of him wishes that he would, even if it sends him to Hel. He'll never deserve Valhalla, not now. He'll never see his friends and family again.
The thought churns his stomach and he nearly retches, his hand now clamped tight to his chest as if it will stop him from shaking apart, rocking unsteadily with every gasp for air.
Thor stays that way for a long time. And when the tightness around his chest finally eases, leaving him feeling as though he has been crushed from the inside and left to bleed, he seeks out another bottle to steady his trembling hand.
[Next part]
It's impossible for Thor to tell how long it has been since his petition to the Norwegian government, most of his days since the Garden spent in a fog of his mind's own making, or aided by the strongest drink he can find. But eventually, the call comes for him with an offer.
The tiny fishing village is spread out over a number of small islands, its architecture quaint even by Midgardian standards, the roads so narrow that only one vehicle may pass at a time, even on the single long bridge that leads back to the mainland. Most of the houses now lie abandoned, their owners turned to dust or fled to seek out their families elsewhere, but the population was so small to start with that there is very little of the unruly, apocalyptic devastation that Thor has seen in Oslo and New York. A handful of boats left adrift, a few cars on the side of the road, but no fires. No looting. Just empty.
Fitting.
Thor blinks blearily at it beneath the brim of his beanie, pulled low to hide his shaggy hair, now long enough that it threatens to get in his eye. His beard, too, is starting to look a little wild, growing unchecked, and the wind pulls at his chin. It's so quiet, so isolated, with only the whistle of a chilly sea breeze and the crashing of wave against rock to break the silence, and the very occasional cry of seabirds, only half as many as there should be.
It's nothing like Asgard was. The buildings are colorful but primitive, the bridges bland gray stone, the water endless past the horizon. The weather will be cold and often cloudy year-round, he's told, but a steady climate, with little in the way of extremes. It will be harsh, living here. Thor can't think of a place that wouldn't be, anymore.
But what truly decides it is what lies just outside of town.
The mainland bridge passes over several other islands on its way to the village, and one of these islands is the place where Odin died. Its wildness is marred, now, littered with discarded beer bottles and a blackened patch of earth where Hela first set foot, still barren after all these months. But it seems the only thing that Thor has left.
It's what he deserves, anyway. A broken dream and a stiff drink, and little else.
With so many homes empty, there are so many places that Thor could claim as his own, but he gives the choice little thought at all. The abandoned lighthouse keeper's cottage on the southernmost island will do, separated from the town by rock and an overgrown football pitch, overlooking the endless sea. It's a far cry from Gladsheim, but Thor no longer cares. All he wants is somewhere dark to crawl at the end of the day, and drink until he doesn't hurt anymore.
This will do.
What remains of Asgard finally lands one night, just before sunset.
Thor jolts awake at the sound of roaring engines, his heart racing out of control as he falls off the couch, disoriented. He kicks at the blanket wrapped around his legs until it finally frees him to stumble upright, clutching at the wall to stay standing, off-balance from the drink and the sudden waking and the lack of weight on his left.
He doesn't bother to put on his arm or make himself presentable, summoning Stormbreaker to his hand as he all but crashes through his door, almost hoping that it's someone come to fight. Instead, he lets his arm drop as his blurred vision narrows in on a colorful little pleasure craft, painted in yellow and red and black, neatly parking on the weedy football pitch in his backyard. A half dozen round escape pods settle around it like chicks around a hen.
They're two weeks earlier than he'd expected.
Thor stares stupidly as the ships open up, and people start streaming out. Mostly adults, a bare handful of children, maybe ten of the freed gladiators from Sakaar - only half as much as the ships will hold, maybe five hundred, in all - and in the lead is a figure in silver and blue, homing in on him with unerring accuracy.
The Valkyrie storms up to him and stops, hands on her hips as she looks him over, and something in the set of her jaw softens as she takes him in. "You look like Hel, Majesty."
"Yeah, prob'ly." His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and though he hasn't been able to stomach a mirror for days he can imagine the wild tangle his hair is in, his unkempt beard. His clothes creased and rumpled from several days' wearing, the left sleeve hanging empty, and a smell of stale alcohol clinging to him. He feels nothing like a king, right now, and he avoids her eye for fear of the pity he knows is in it.
He should be happy to see them. Happy to have them safe, on Earth, as he promised. Happy to recognize the Valkyrie, and Eir, and Korg and Miek, and a dozen others he's come to know by name since Ragnarok. Happy to have someplace for them to stay, a place that they can build into a new Asgard, and recuperate without outside influence. To find a home, and peace.
But all he can see is the empty spaces where half of their number should be. Gone forever.
The work is done. It always will be.
Thor clears his throat and waves vaguely with the axe, gesturing to the tiny village that lays behind them, darkening skies casting the houses into deeper shadows. "Well, this's it. Our new home. Everybody take your pick." He turns to go back inside, to curl up on his couch and find another drink to ease the way his heart is lurching frantically in his chest and pulling at his lungs, but her hand slams on the doorjamb and stops him dead.
"No. Thor. We're not done. What happened?" she demands, sounding angry. "Half the people that got away with me turned to dust, then some Kree woman shows up out of nowhere to give us a boost with her bare hands, and now I find you looking like..."
Like you did? he thinks, bitter, a little frantic as his breathing becomes harsh. All he wants to do is forget, and he can't, and the words tumble out of him before he can stop them, tripping over each other in their haste to be rid of him. "He did it. Killed 'em all. Then I killed him, went f'r the head, chopped it off. It's over. This is it. This's all we get." This time, when he pushes for the door, she doesn't stop him. "See you tomorrow," he says, and shuts himself away.
His legs give out the moment the door is closed, and his back drags down against it until he's on the floor, knees curled up to his chest, and Stormbreaker finds its own way to the ground as Thor rubs at his chest with a shaking hand to try to stop the panic that's strangling him alive. He can't breathe, his heart thunders in his ears, he feels like he's dying and some desperate part of him wishes that he would, even if it sends him to Hel. He'll never deserve Valhalla, not now. He'll never see his friends and family again.
The thought churns his stomach and he nearly retches, his hand now clamped tight to his chest as if it will stop him from shaking apart, rocking unsteadily with every gasp for air.
Thor stays that way for a long time. And when the tightness around his chest finally eases, leaving him feeling as though he has been crushed from the inside and left to bleed, he seeks out another bottle to steady his trembling hand.
[Next part]