Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-05-25 09:35 am
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-05-25 09:35 am
A Gray Dawn
[Immediately follows this prose, which contains Endgame spoilers. Spoilers are implied here but not stated outright. Trigger warnings: depression, alcohol abuse.]
Thor's limbs are stiff when he peels himself from the couch the next morning, head aching fiercely, mouth dry, and for a moment he staggers toward the fridge to find another drink to muffle the hangover, making it as far as grasping the handle before his muddled memory latches onto what happened last night.
Asgard.
His breath hitches, briefly, and he stands as if frozen for several long minutes. Now that he's listening, he can hear the sounds of people in the distance, the murmur of voices and doors being closed, and it's such an alien sound after days of being on the island alone that it takes him several minutes to realize that he has something to do. People who are probably waiting for him.
Just the thought of it is exhausting, and his grip tightens on the refrigerator handle, dreading going out to meet those he failed, yet the loneliness is suffocating and he feels paralyzed, unable to decide what to do.
But he is still their king, whether he is worthy of it or not.
That's the thought that gets Thor moving at last, stepping back from the fridge. It feels like his legs weigh as much as a neutron star as he slowly drags himself to the bathroom, resisting every step of the way, and once he gets there, he already feels too worn out to properly bathe. He settles for changing clothes, and rinsing his hair and beard in the sink, trying to ignore the way his head throbs when he leans over to splash water on his face. It's cold enough to shock him further into painful sobriety, and he sputters, bracing himself one-armed against the rim of the sink, and avoids his own eye in the mirror. Runs his fingers through damp hair before giving up and covering it with his soft knit hat.
Good enough.
The Valkyrie is waiting when he finally steps out, her gaze raking over him in the daylight, and he squints back at her against the weak late morning sunshine. She's found Midgardian clothes to fit her, probably taken from whatever house she claimed last night, and if the loose fit bothers her it doesn't show on her face at all. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares him down. "Took you long enough," she says, an edge in her voice like honed steel, impatient. "Come on, we've got a lot of work to do."
After nearly two months away from the throne, with hardly any responsibility to speak of, being thrown full-tilt back into managing the survivors is nearly overwhelming. It's clear to him very quickly that the Valkyrie has taken up most of the work since the massacre, rationing the supplies, keeping up morale, and taking another census of the living, a list with far fewer names on it than he remembers. And even now that the escape pods have made it to their destination at last, the work is not over.
The houses are fully furnished yet utterly foreign and borderline primitive, and there are already squabbles about the choice of sleeping arrangements. There is a need to create supply chains, regular deliveries of food and building supplies, and citizens who have no immediately-relevant vocations must be reassigned to fill vital roles they're solely lacking. And now that there are enough adults to help pick up the slack, the children and mothers in the Nexus will need to be brought over and given lodging with the others, and proper thanks given to those who selflessly volunteered to shelter them in their time of need. On and on, the list of needs grows, and Thor wishes more than anything that he was a little less sober.
Even just delegating these tasks is a hardship. Of his council, only five survived the attack on the Statesman, including the Valkyrie herself. For a brief moment, he wonders if it is a mercy that there are far fewer Asgardians to manage now, and it takes every scrap of willpower he has not to throw up.
They take the evening meal in the kitchen of a hotel restaurant, raiding the pantry for preserved foods that taste alien but are adequately filling, something that comes out of a can and probably doesn't taste much better heated up than it would be cold. The Valkyrie refuses to partake of the vodka he finds so he drains the bottle himself; though it's not nearly strong enough to make a dent in his sobriety, it's still a comfort of sorts, and gives him enough fortitude to stumble through telling her what really happened. Not all of it. But enough that she looks like she regrets turning down the drink.
But the Valkyrie has lost it all once before, and she takes the blow and turns it into stubborn determination. "Then I guess we'll just have to work harder," she says, scraping the last of her food from the plate. "We'll make it work, Majesty."
Once, he might have agreed, and thrown himself into the work without hesitation. But something inside of him is broken, shattered into a thousand pieces, and he can't find even the smallest spark of hope to fan into flame. There is nothing but cold and dark within, and when he returns to the lighthouse after the sun has set, that's all that greets him there, too.
He hasn't made it as far as the bedroom hardly once since his arrival. That doesn't change tonight, either.
Thor's limbs are stiff when he peels himself from the couch the next morning, head aching fiercely, mouth dry, and for a moment he staggers toward the fridge to find another drink to muffle the hangover, making it as far as grasping the handle before his muddled memory latches onto what happened last night.
Asgard.
His breath hitches, briefly, and he stands as if frozen for several long minutes. Now that he's listening, he can hear the sounds of people in the distance, the murmur of voices and doors being closed, and it's such an alien sound after days of being on the island alone that it takes him several minutes to realize that he has something to do. People who are probably waiting for him.
Just the thought of it is exhausting, and his grip tightens on the refrigerator handle, dreading going out to meet those he failed, yet the loneliness is suffocating and he feels paralyzed, unable to decide what to do.
But he is still their king, whether he is worthy of it or not.
That's the thought that gets Thor moving at last, stepping back from the fridge. It feels like his legs weigh as much as a neutron star as he slowly drags himself to the bathroom, resisting every step of the way, and once he gets there, he already feels too worn out to properly bathe. He settles for changing clothes, and rinsing his hair and beard in the sink, trying to ignore the way his head throbs when he leans over to splash water on his face. It's cold enough to shock him further into painful sobriety, and he sputters, bracing himself one-armed against the rim of the sink, and avoids his own eye in the mirror. Runs his fingers through damp hair before giving up and covering it with his soft knit hat.
Good enough.
The Valkyrie is waiting when he finally steps out, her gaze raking over him in the daylight, and he squints back at her against the weak late morning sunshine. She's found Midgardian clothes to fit her, probably taken from whatever house she claimed last night, and if the loose fit bothers her it doesn't show on her face at all. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares him down. "Took you long enough," she says, an edge in her voice like honed steel, impatient. "Come on, we've got a lot of work to do."
After nearly two months away from the throne, with hardly any responsibility to speak of, being thrown full-tilt back into managing the survivors is nearly overwhelming. It's clear to him very quickly that the Valkyrie has taken up most of the work since the massacre, rationing the supplies, keeping up morale, and taking another census of the living, a list with far fewer names on it than he remembers. And even now that the escape pods have made it to their destination at last, the work is not over.
The houses are fully furnished yet utterly foreign and borderline primitive, and there are already squabbles about the choice of sleeping arrangements. There is a need to create supply chains, regular deliveries of food and building supplies, and citizens who have no immediately-relevant vocations must be reassigned to fill vital roles they're solely lacking. And now that there are enough adults to help pick up the slack, the children and mothers in the Nexus will need to be brought over and given lodging with the others, and proper thanks given to those who selflessly volunteered to shelter them in their time of need. On and on, the list of needs grows, and Thor wishes more than anything that he was a little less sober.
Even just delegating these tasks is a hardship. Of his council, only five survived the attack on the Statesman, including the Valkyrie herself. For a brief moment, he wonders if it is a mercy that there are far fewer Asgardians to manage now, and it takes every scrap of willpower he has not to throw up.
They take the evening meal in the kitchen of a hotel restaurant, raiding the pantry for preserved foods that taste alien but are adequately filling, something that comes out of a can and probably doesn't taste much better heated up than it would be cold. The Valkyrie refuses to partake of the vodka he finds so he drains the bottle himself; though it's not nearly strong enough to make a dent in his sobriety, it's still a comfort of sorts, and gives him enough fortitude to stumble through telling her what really happened. Not all of it. But enough that she looks like she regrets turning down the drink.
But the Valkyrie has lost it all once before, and she takes the blow and turns it into stubborn determination. "Then I guess we'll just have to work harder," she says, scraping the last of her food from the plate. "We'll make it work, Majesty."
Once, he might have agreed, and thrown himself into the work without hesitation. But something inside of him is broken, shattered into a thousand pieces, and he can't find even the smallest spark of hope to fan into flame. There is nothing but cold and dark within, and when he returns to the lighthouse after the sun has set, that's all that greets him there, too.
He hasn't made it as far as the bedroom hardly once since his arrival. That doesn't change tonight, either.