pirateangelbaby | Even a God Can Need a Friend [Open to friends]

Harley has been helping with the care of some of the Asgardian children in the Nexus. And spreads her own optimism and cheer, wherever she goes. She tries to be there for these people... those that mean so much to Loki... in any way she can. In small ways.

Today, her goal is to check in on Thor. Loki has told her about Asvera. And how to find it.

She PINpoints in a good distance away, so she can walk towards the village. Harley has an armful of some new goods for the grocery. And is dressed warmly for the day. A lesson learned from Winter to be prepared.

Harley has no problems being social, or asking questions. And she is very determined to find who she is looking for. Thor is important to her, as a friend. And important to Loki, as an alternate brother. And those are solid reasons to keep her search.

Harley is not the first person to donate to Asgard's coffers, and the woman running the grocery is unsurprised but grateful for more supplies to go around. She hesitates a little when the visitor asks after the king, however; everyone in town has nightmares, both while sleeping and while awake sometimes, but what little she has seen of the Allfather suggests his mental state has suffered greatly from the war against the Titan, though he tries to hide it from them. It's possible he may not want company.

But, she also reasons internally, if the king does not want visitors, surely he would have no difficulty throwing them out. So the hesitation passes, and the grocer directs Harley to the far end of the southernmost island, past an overgrown football pitch and up a rocky bluff to a lighthouse keeper's cottage.

It's quiet out on this far end of the settlement, away from the rest of the houses and their people, with only the wind and a few scattered seabirds for company. There's a low murmur of sound from inside the house, though the cadence suggests television rather than a conversation, and though there is no reply to her knock on the door, it will open easily under her hand, left unlocked and unguarded.

The inside is still decorated mostly to its previous owner's tastes, with tasteful pictures of mountains and ships on the walls, most of the decor about two decades out of date. It smells like dust and alcohol, and the old television casts a faint light over the living room as it shows some local television program, illuminating the man sitting on the couch.

Thor is wearing his arm today, a half-empty glass bottle dangling loosely from metal fingers, and his hair has grown out several inches since Harley last saw him, his beard starting to look a little wild too. At first glance he looks like he's watching the TV, but the look in his eye is too distant to be paying attention to it or the sound of a visitor, lost in thought. Or memory.

Harley keeps an observant eye on her surroundings, as she journeys past the overgrown football pitch and up the rocky bluff to the cottage.

The way the door opens reminds her a little of those creepy abandoned places, that are popular spots for murderers. Or spooks.

Harley finds herself staring at a sight that is familiar to her -- from long ago -- of the many times she found Joker watching the news, but not really watching the news. Of how distant Joker seemed to be. But how dangerous he was... all the same time.

Carefully, Harley moves forward and removes the half-empty bottle from those metal fingers. "You hungry?" She is more than prepared for him to react in anger, based off past experience. She is already moving, to avoid any sudden lashing out at her. "I make a mean omelette."

This is not the first time Thor has drifted like this, a sensation that has become common in the days since the war of the Stones. As if from a distance, he becomes aware that he is no longer alone when he sees movement pass between himself and the television, though he offers no resistance to having his drink pulled from his hand. He should do something - turn to look, try to speak, something - but his body does not belong to him in this moment, and it does not respond to his commands.

Who is that? The voice is familiar, but he cannot place why, and the visitor has moved away from where he can see. A small frown pulls at his brow as he wonders if maybe he is seeing things that are not there, now, and the little jolt of fear is enough to get him moving again, enough to sweep his gaze around the room to find her again.

"...what?" She asked him a question, right?

Harley had kept a small bag of groceries on her person, to bring to Thor. So right now she is looking for where she should place the groceries. And a frying pan, so she can get started on an omelette.

"Ya'know food? That thing your body needs to survive?" She waves at him, once she sees that he is trying to locate her.

No, he is definitely seeing this correctly. “...Harley?” Thor pushes himself up from the couch, bracing his flesh-and-bone hand against the back of it to keep him from losing his balance. Just how long was he sitting there this time, he doesn’t know, but his eye feels gritty and sore, and he rubs at it with his metal fingers. “You... came to make me food?”

It’s a stupid question, obviously, but he doesn’t know how else to respond as he watches her unpack groceries and a frying pan onto the little kitchen counter next to the living room. His kitchen has seen little regular use, though he does have a few dirty dishes sitting in the sink, and the fridge has almost nothing in it. The pantry is better, with dry goods and labeled cans taking up about half the available space.

No need to ask how she knew to come here, at least. Loki’s concern for his brother had been almost tangible, these past few months, and Thor might be lost entirely without him. But even Loki has his limits, and they have been sorely pushed since the assault on the Statesman. Thor would never begrudge him getting others to help, others to ease the immense burden he has been shouldering since the massacre. Even if that just means making omelets for wounded kings, apparently.

"I ain't here to do maid service, so don't get any ideas." Harley grins at him. She has a lot of different ingredients out for the omelette. "And ya better tell me what you would like with these eggs... before I just start adding everything."

She still has a bright smile for him. Almost like she doesn't notice the state of the wounded king, who is staring at her, or the untidy conditions of the place that he has chosen to hide away in. After all, she understands the whole desire just to hole up and push out the world.

Unfortunately, Harley is harder to push away than others might be.

Her cheeriness is quite the contrast to the almost mind-numbing fugue he’s been in for Norns-know-how-long, and the perpetual sun of summer makes it difficult for him to keep track of time by the daylight. It might have been hours, for all he knows. But his mind is slow to grind back into gear, having not expected to be dealing with people until at least tomorrow. “Uh. I don’t... whatever is fine.”

Vaguely, he’s aware that he is not being the best host, but then he did not exactly invite her in either, or give her any kind of proper welcome. His eye flicks briefly around the room at the mess, but just the thought of putting in effort to clean it up makes him feel exhausted and heavy, so he abandons the idea immediately. She’s already seen it, anyway.

He runs a hand through his unkempt hair briefly, but that’s too much effort too, so he lets his hand drop. “Do you... need anything? I’ve got mead.”

Harley has done this bit far too many times in her lifetime. But Thor is no Joker... so there is at least that difference. Which is enough for her.

She decides on a mushroom and spinach omelette, something that won't upset his stomach, if he hasn't eaten in a long period of time.

And if she is aware that technically she wasn't invited in... she doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact.

"Not just mead anymore. I brought orange juice, freshly squeezed." Harley gives him another bright smile. "I dropped off the majority of the supplies with the nice lady at the grocer. For the village."

If nothing else, it hasn't even crossed Thor's mind to be bothered that she's making herself at home in his house. Though he has mostly withdrawn from the world under the excuse that he needs to grieve, it's a paper-thin justification for retreating from anything else that might hurt him, a sham to cover his cowardice, a gnawing loneliness that he can't help but feel he deserves. He is not the only one who has lost, and that is perhaps part of the problem, knowing that he shoulders some of the blame for it happening in the first place.

Every time he sees that hollow look in another's eye, the one that reflects his own, he knows that he is the one who put it there. So he has been avoiding people, trying to drown out his thoughts with drink and mindless television, with little success. And he knows he should try something else, but he is trapped in a routine now, telling himself that he will make an effort tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.

Harley, at least, does not carry the shadow of this universal devastation in her eyes. The pain she carries is old, and Thor did not put it there, and maybe that's why he finds it easier to look at her as he stands awkwardly next to the couch, uncertain what to do next as she putters around in his kitchen.

"You...? Thank you. We... Asgard appreciates your kindness." He hasn't personally thanked most of those who have donated, but for a moment he remembers that he is supposed to be a king, though he looks and feels nothing like one, disheveled and in Midgardian clothes, his weapon propped in a corner with a small collection of bottlecaps scattered around its base.

"You know a good way for Asgard to show their appreciation. For a certain someone to maybe take a shower while the food is cooking..." Harley grins at him, then arches a suggestive eyebrow. "Unless, you do want me to sign up for a sponge bath. Because ohhhh baby..."

Showers and omelettes. Just two small steps to get over the hang over.

But she won't fight him too much on the shower front. Even though he desperately needs one.

Even though Thor does not know what a sponge bath is, he is more than familiar with that kind of look. Once, he would have reveled in it, cocky and self-assured of his attractiveness, young and virile and godly. Now, though... that has all been crushed under the weight of what he carries on his shoulders, and what he looks like has never mattered less to him than it does now.

He looks away, and doesn't smile. "I was going to." Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. He just doesn't see the point, not when he doesn't have to go out and let people see him. But now Harley is here, in his house, and even if she's not giving him judgmental looks he still imagines it anyway, and he deserves every minute of it. What kind of king can't even muster up the energy to make himself presentable, whether he's having company or not?

Harley doesn't see attractiveness in the same way as other people. She flirts with people who she is attracted to on a mental and social level, and it is not just about 'physical appearance'. So even though Thor does not feel he is attractive right now -- Harley is going to still flirt with him. It is part of her personality.

"I worked in a hospital, ya'know. So I do have experience if you wanna assistance." During her time in Arkham, there were many patients who had to be dragged to the showers. But Harley doesn't want to do that to Thor.

She flips the omelette, starting to cook the other side.

“No,” he says, a little sharper than he intended, not really sure why he’s so off-balance and feeling his heart rate pick up a little in agitation. He doesn’t need help bathing himself, he is a grown man centuries older than she is. Then why aren’t you doing it? his inner voice needles him, and for that, Thor has no answer. He’s not really aware that he’s wringing his hands, a gesture he’s inherited from his mother, which Harley may have seen Loki do on several occasions by now. Even if not for the disquieted look on his face, that gesture alone would betray his inner turmoil.

Maybe it’s cowardice after all, but he cannot seem to steady himself and hold a conversation at the same time, so if the shower is an excuse to seek a moment’s quiet and get his scattered thoughts together, then so be it. “Fine.”

He takes nothing with him into the bathroom, locking the door behind him and leaning against it for a good long moment with his hands over his face. What is wrong with him? This should not be as difficult as it is. Something else that he has brought upon himself, no doubt. You’re stronger, Odin had told him, and Thor had believed it at the time. But he has since shown otherwise, hasn’t he? And maybe that was nothing more after all than a hallucination, brought on by Hela’s deathgrip on his throat. Or maybe his father had simply been wrong. It would not have been the first time.

It takes him several long minutes to just get undressed and run the water, feeling as though he is slogging a path uphill through mud for all the effort it takes. And when he finally drags himself out again, it’s been far longer than he should’ve taken.

His sharp tone doesn't bother her. At least he is not throwing anything at her. Or trying to kill her.

The omelette is finished quickly enough. And Harley puts it on a clean plate, and pours a glass of orange juice for him -- leaving everything on the counter for him. And since she had to clean one plate for the meal... she makes herself busy by getting the other dirty dishes cleaned.

She is aware that it has been a long time, since Thor disappeared into the bathroom. The concern is knowing how long is too long, before she should go check on him (she had to stop several suicidal patients before at Arkham).

And yes, she had told him that she wasn't going to play maid... but really once she starts on the dishes, she finds herself cleaning the rest of the kitchen too.

Ten minutes. That is how much she will give him. If in ten minutes, he is not out of the bathroom -- then she will make sure he is still trying to be social.

There have been darker days, early on, when Thor had been in greater danger of seeking an end to his guilt and grief. He’d gone to Loki, during the worst one, the day he had finally slain the Titan and achieved nothing at all. It’s far too soon still for the burden to be lifted from him, even just a little, but perhaps he is becoming numb to the weight as the days have passed. In any case, it is not his intention right now, and though the water runs for more than ten minutes, he responds when she knocks on the door. “Just... give me a second.”

‘A second’ is more like another five minutes, but when he finally does come back out, he just looks tired. He’d forgotten to get a change of clothes, so he’s wearing the same ones again, and his hair drips a wet ring around his shoulders.

Thor still doesn’t feel as though his thoughts have steadied, but he’s braced himself to deal with company at least. His gaze darts over the kitchen, seeing where she’s cleaned up after him, and feels another pang of shame. “You don’t have to do that.” Though who will, if not him? The state of his house is proof enough how little he’s done to look after himself, and he’s ungratefully spurned the gift of having it in the first place.

"I am sure you would have gotten around to it... but it is a bit of a tendency." Harley starts a pot of tea, mostly for herself. "Back in the Aslyum… everything was kept so spic and span. It is one of the reasons why I don't like the smell of bleach..."

When one considers the fact that she had to use bleach to clean blood off the floor before... or that the Joker Toxin had a bleach-smell to it... Harley just can't stand the stuff anymore.

"That is the thing about hospitals.... everything is kept so sterile."

Thor cannot really relax until she stops cleaning, and while he's not consciously all that hungry, his stomach still growls a little at the smell of the omelette. Has he eaten today? Maybe it was yesterday. He doesn't recall, not when the days tend to blend together.

The small kitchen table has not been used since he moved in, preferring to take any meals - such as they are - to the living room, watching TV while he eats. But he pulls out a chair at the table and sits, awkward and uncomfortable, and sniffs at the orange juice, wishing it held something a little stronger. He's read about a drink called a screwdriver, maybe that could be something to try next.

"I've never been in one," he admits, after he realizes she's waiting for him to respond. It does not surprise him that humans would keep their healing halls so clean, though, without magic to sterilize and guard against infection.

Once Harley has her cup of tea, she does join him at the kitchen table. Just being a presence.

And if he is more comfortable talking about other subjects, she can do that.

"I spent too much time in Arkham. First as a psychiatrist aid, then a psychiatrist, then as one of their 'patients'." She makes quotation marks around the last word. "Arkham was a mental asylum... a hospital for those who were judged to be broken in the brain. It was no fun as a patient. The way you would be judged constantly."

"I was put in D Block. That is where they keep the criminals who are broken in the brain. Pretty nasty there."

He's just starting to pick at the food when she drops that little bomb on him, and any appetite he'd had evaporates in an instant. If she has told him before, he'd forgotten completely until just now. It had been something that would hit uncomfortably close to home before, when Thor had not understood the reality of Loki's 'madness,' unable to understand what had caused such a drastic break from the brother he'd thought he knew.

Now, of course, he knows all too well what it means. The humans have names for what's happening to him, but Thor does not know them, and naming a thing makes it no less real. No less a weakness on his part. Something has broken him, and he does not know if he can ever be repaired. And the brief time he's had to discuss such things with his brother does not undo centuries upon centuries of cultural training, that this is his fault, a failing on his part. Shameful. Coward. Unworthy.

Should have gone for the head.

Thor's fork is warping a little in his tight grip, and he stares down at the plate as if he fears to look anywhere else. He should say something, but no words come to him, neither a change of subject nor the typical meaningless filler meant to encourage her to continue.

Harley knows that she said something to cause Thor to be holding the fork in such a tight grip. And it is quite difficult for her to monitor what she says, due to the way her mind works. But she is trying to help...

"The friends I made in Arkham were some of the closest I ever had... well, at least until I came to the Nexus."

She reaches forward to put her hand on his, to encourage him to lighten the grip on that fork. "And now I have even more good friends."

It takes a conscious effort to drop the fork to the table with a dull clink, but he doesn’t feel any more at ease, nor can he meet her eye. His hand twitches like he wants to pull away, needing to do something but with no idea what. And that, perhaps, is the worst part of it. The war is over and there is nothing left for him to do. No goal to work toward. No real reason to do anything other than what he’s been doing so far, even knowing that he can’t cope like this forever.

She’d been a healer, she’d said. Or something like one. “Did Loki ask you to do this?” His voice is quiet, nothing like the boisterous man he once was, and even Thor is not sure why he’s asking. What difference it would make. Loki is not a healer, especially of the mind, and neither is Fonn. And though Eir survived the massacre and the culling that came after, even Asgard’s most skilled healer knows more of the body than the mind. And Thor cannot tell her of his need anyway, too ashamed of what he’s become. He is still the king, and he is supposed to be a beacon of strength for his people, especially in these dark times. But he can’t.

"Loki didn't specifically ask me to do anything." Harley shakes her head slightly. "I can tell that he does think of you, as he does consider you his Brother. And he has so much on his plate. You both do..."

She leans back in her chair. Sipping at her tea. "I am here because I wanted to see you. Because you are my friend."

And if he needs someone to break down with... she would be able to handle whatever he throws at her. Without a word to anyone else. Maybe he has to hear that.

"I ain't going to tell anyone what we talked about. That ain't anyone else's business..." Or even if he talks at all. It seems he is only comfortable with a few words right now.

"He is my brother," Thor says on reflex, because Loki's parentage matters far less to him than centuries of brotherhood. But then his breath catches, because the Loki that Harley knows is not the same one that Thor saw murdered before him, no matter how similar - or identical - their fates had been. Their shared histories. He lost Loki, and still has him, and it should be easier to mourn his brother when he can still visit him, talk to him. But all it's done is make his heart confused, conflicted.

Thor fumbles for the orange juice and takes a drink, forgetting for a moment that it's just juice and nearly recoiling at the unexpected sweetness, rather than the burn of alcohol. Some of it ends up in his beard and he swipes at it roughly with the back of his hand, clearing his throat to cover for his error, not nearly as successfully as he's hoping.

It has been a rare occasion in his life when Thor has ever felt the need for private counsel, and then it had always been with his closest and dearest friends, the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. Heimdall, sometimes. Or his mother, or on even rarer occasion, his father. But they are all dead, now, except perhaps only Sif. Wherever she is, she is beyond his knowing, and so he cannot go to her, either.

These are darker days than he has ever faced. And now he does it alone.

There's a liquid brightness to his eye, and he swipes at that too before tears can betray him further. Maybe... maybe it is best that it's Harley, right now. Someone he shares little history with, someone who knows what it is like to be driven to the brink and lose the way back, someone who does not see him as her king, or worship him as her god. But talking is difficult, especially about this, when he knows the panic will claw at the inside of his throat, waiting to be released at the wrong word. And yet... "I don't know what to do."

Edited 2019-06-21 00:29 (UTC)

Harley was not questioning Loki's parentage. It was more to the fact that she knows that Loki has been doing a lot of soul searching himself. And having Thor -- even another dimension's Thor -- in his life has meant the world to the other God. They are both confused and conflicted.

"Okay. Here is my two cents. You are stuck in this limbo of suffering and guilt. And there is no easy way out of limbo. Especially if you might be thinking you deserve to be there." Harley speaks softly.

"In my opinion, there are three options. One, you have the drive and passion to fight your way out of limbo. It is a hella of a climb, with lots of obstacles. But honestly, I think your fight has left you."

"Two, you drop to the very bottom, and go broken. That ain't easy either. It takes a strong person to be broken and just let everything out. It takes an even stronger person to find empowerment from that moment -- of that pure explosion of emotional truth. And find themselves to snap out of everything."

"And three... stay in Limbo. A quite sad option, since you eventually will push people who care about you away. And you lose that last sense of yourself."

Harley tilts her head. "But the thing you should know... is I am here for whatever direction you want to take. You want a fight -- I can help you fight. You want to break -- I can help you break. You want to stay in Limbo -- I will stay with you, even as others might not stay."

"I am here."

Maybe it is the Allspeak, or maybe Thor's mind is more broken than he'd thought, but he does not understand half of what she is talking about. He still listens, though, and tries to take it in, absently picking at the omelette which is getting cold on his plate. It is probably delicious but he can barely taste it, as if he cannot even allow himself to enjoy food anymore. Still, he's eating, and that is more than he had been doing when Harley arrived.

"I don't know what I want," he admits after a long moment, pushing little bites of egg around his plate with the slightly-crumpled fork. Aside from another drink. "I don't... there's no way to fix this."

He'd hoped. He'd really, really hoped that there would still be a way. That they could use the Stones to reverse the culling, and at least bring back half the universe, even if there was no hope for the murdered Asgardians. For Loki, and Heimdall, and a thousand others. He had staked it all on that hope, and it all came crashing down on him.

"Maybe the reasons there is no way to fix this... is because it is not meant to be fixed." Harley points out.

"Look at those eggs... I broke them. There was no way to fix the broken shells. But I was still able to make something out of the mess."

"I..." She points at herself. "Am broken. I am a mess. And I am not some project for someone to try to fix."

"If you are so caught up in finding a fix... then it ain't no wonder you are stuck in limbo. Looking for something that just ain't there."

"And by looking for that one particular thing... you miss everything else."

"No, I... I know that." Norns, he wishes he didn't. Wishes he still had some kind of hope. Something to keep him going, a promise of a better tomorrow. That he wouldn't look out on the tiny village and realize that this is it, forever.

Long live King Thor.

It is no secret that he blames himself for not stopping this, but it is a short leap to call up the memory of the Titan, sneering at them, secure in his victory that could never be undone. A tight fist seems to squeeze around Thor's chest, and his breathing harshens again. "It's my fault."

"It sucks hard what happened. And seriously, every single person who is left behind on your Earth lost someone. You'all are going through survivor's guilt."

Harley arched an eyebrow. "How the fuck is any of it your fault?"

If only the guilt that Thor carries was only the kind felt by survivors. That, he knows how to deal with. Feeling responsible for the murder of trillions... that is something else, and he does not know how to begin to cope.

There is a reason he has hardly spent a full day completely sober since Wakanda.

"Because I should've... should've..." Gone for the head. He can't say it, not without that voice slithering into his ears, and the metallic snap that followed, heralding the doom of half the universe. His voice chokes in his throat, the bands around his chest squeezing the breath from his lungs, and he abandons any attempt to continue eating in favor of pressing a hand to his chest as if it could do anything to halt the panic in its tracks.

It's his fault. His fault.

Harley moves, and goes to kneel by his side. She can see the panic building up... and him desperately holding it back.

"Sorry hun, but the should haves mean nothing. He would have done it, half a dozen different ways, no matter what had happened or no matter who was there. Sometimes the bad guy gets his win. And people get hurt."

"You just letting him continue to best you..."

No. No she doesn't understand, and he can't explain, not when it's a struggle just to breathe let alone speak. He could've done it. He could've. But he didn't. He had to savor it, to make the madman suffer instead of ending the threat. Trillions of people would be alive now if he had.

All Thor can do his shake his head, rubbing at his chest and rocking unsteadily, as if the waves of anxiety were physical ones, battering at his crumbling defenses. By now, he knows better than to think that this will kill him, that the crushing sense of impending doom is nothing more than an illusion - or wishful thinking, maybe - but it doesn't make it hurt any less, doesn't lessen the fear that twists in him like a knife.

He struggles to rein in his breathing, to find focus in the patterns others have helped him with, but it's difficult when his own body is rebelling against him. It feels like an eternity before it has any effect, heart pounding as though he has been in battle, though he has never wanted a weapon in his hand less than he does now.

Harley might have not heard the facts behind the situation -- but she does understand what he is feeling. That Thor holds himself responsible for not stopping Thanos.

And when he starts to rock unsteadily, she stands slightly to wrap her arms around him. She doesn't say anything, just holds him in that moment to give him a sense of something. The presence that she promised to be.

A hug is the last thing he'd expected, but he doesn't pull away either. Up close, it is easier to feel her breathing and try to wrestle his own into following, her arms a warm solid anchor to reality despite the fear sweeping him away.

It will be several long minutes before he begins to calm, the metal fingers of his left hand twisted tightly into the fabric of her shirt as if it will keep him rooted. It takes effort to let go, something he cannot blame on the prosthesis, and Thor swipes at his cheek to dry the dampness. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Don't be sorry. Let yourself feel this way." Harley softly tells him, as she continues to hold him. He is not pushing her away right now... "If you keep on holding all this in... you ain't doing yourself any good."

"React. React to the unfairness of it all. Just let it all pour out."

"It stays here."

He never feels himself after these strange episodes, worse than he usually is, as if things around him are not quite real. She feels real enough, however, so he does not shake off her touch, trying to focus on his breathing and the easing of the crushing pain in his chest. He can't stop himself from shaking, even though the fear is passing, and that shames him.

He's supposed to be stronger than this. He is a god, and a king, and a warrior besides. But nothing he has ever faced could match this horror, nor prepare him for it in any way.

"It doesn't," he says, voice low, not meeting her eye. "It follows me everywhere. I can't... it won't go away."

"Thor..." Harley tilts her head, to capture his eyes, while still holding him close. "I live with my pain and madness every day. I know it doesn't go away. I know that it follows you."

"But I also know that there is a way to let yourself fall apart... and pick yourself up. And the rest of the world will never know... because it doesn't want to know. It doesn't want to see."

"You can let yourself fall apart and I will be here to catch you. Because I know how lonely it is... to not have anyone there to be there."

Edited 2019-06-23 00:24 (UTC)

Thor can't hold the eye contact for long, though he does try. He's already shamed himself by panicking in front of her, and that is difficult enough for him. He just wants it all to stop, and he doesn't know how to do that. Doesn't know how else to cope besides drinking until the memories aren't solid enough to bother him, or finding distraction in dull television where he doesn't need to leave the house and risk something else bringing him harm. It makes him a coward, he knows, but he has come to accept that as part of himself now, a man who jumps at shadows and hides from his problems, shying away from a flame that has burned him too many times.

"I fear I already have," he confesses. He is not whole, and hasn't been since that day on the Statesman. It wasn't until the Garden that he had shattered fully, and he feels as though a part of him died that day, withering like a tree in winter.

Something of Loki comes to Thor, now, a vague recollection of dirt between his fingers and his brother urging him to find himself in the earth and wait for spring to come, to seek out life and make it bloom. He had forgotten most of it in a drunken haze, but not all.

"Well then... Good thing I am here." Harley smiles softly. The whole state of Thor has made her decide that she is needed here, to stay with him.

She believes he can find himself. And she can help.

And really... he doesn't seem to have the strength to chase her off right now.

Neither the strength, nor the will. Most days he does not - cannot - leave the house, putting it off for one more day, one more day. But though he wants the solitude, he is not immune to loneliness, the television a poor substitute for actual company. And sure, the Valkyrie comes to visit when the king's word is needed, but he's seen how she looks at him, the hunger in her eyes when she watches him drink, and he understands why she mostly stays away. She spent centuries in the bottle herself, and now that she has pulled herself out of it, she does not want to topple back in after him.

More than anything, Thor is tired. Physically, mentally, and it makes little difference how much rest he gets. He is tired of being frightened of memory, tired of the pain, tired of just sitting here yet too tired to leave. Maybe this is how Father felt, he thinks, before giving himself over to the Odinsleep. No wonder he would sometimes sleep for weeks at a time, if this is what being king is like.

But Thor cannot sleep, not without the nightmares haunting his steps, chasing him back to the awful reality he now lives in.

He lets out a sigh that sounds almost as though his soul is trying to escape his body. The omelette is only halfway eaten, but Thor is not certain he can stomach any more. "Thank you. For... for the food."

"We will make an omelette a regular thing. Every day, around this time." Harley takes his plate from him. And she can just watch over him.

After all, she is still doesn't have a new Nexus apartment to go to. And Loki's place is a little full. And she can't go to her universe right now, with whatever Joker is planning for her.

So she has the time to be here for Thor. It works out quite nicely.

"It would be good to get you on a routine."

It's only now that the implication that she intends to stay - or at least, to visit every day - makes it through the haze in his mind, and Thor blinks up at her in confusion. Did he offer? He doesn't remember, though his memory has been somewhat unreliable of late. "You're staying?"

"Yep!" Harley smiles at him. As she cleans the plate, and puts the rest of the dishes away.

"Having company around might help!"

"And I can assist with cleaning, cooking, and anything else you might need."

Just when Thor believes he understands her, she throws another curveball at him. He does not want to be seen by others like this, fallen so far from grace that he does not know if there is a way back. And while he has braced himself to deal with company here and there, even when he had still been at the Avengers compound, he had spent a great deal of time alone. Having a live-in guest is a daunting prospect, one that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

But he also cannot deny that he's done little to maintain the house, or just the living space he's been using, either. He's meant to, but he hasn't had the energy or the motivation, and it's not like anyone but him will see it. Most of the time. If she's willing to take up the task...

Well, it's not like he doesn't have the room. The cottage is small, but he's hardly used most of it, and there is a perfectly good bed gathering dust in the bedroom. Still, he feels a small twist of guilt and uncertainty. "Are you... sure?"

Harley has been at that bottom of the barrel moment (more times than she can count). Has she ever had a moment of Grace, like the one he fell from? No. But she knows how it feels to be fallen.

So she is not going to judge him for being there right now.

She heads over to him, and places a hand on his shoulder. "You would be doing me a favor, honest. Don't know if you heard... but my Nexus apartment got ransacked during Winter, and I decided against going back there. Cricket has his new place. And Loki has his. And both of them are sort of settling right now..."

"It ain't safe for me to be back in my world. So if I am here... then I have a roof over my head. And someone to keep me company."

Oh. That's...

It seems like such a small thing to lose, in the grand scheme of things, and yet... it's something that he can do for her. Something that requires no effort on his part to arrange, even, nothing he would need to rally himself to do.

And Asvera is a village of the lost, those who have no other home. Not just Asgardians.

"Then... then stay," he decides, and though this one act of kindness will not make up for what he's done, he would still do it. He can still do something good.

The Council was absolutely not in favor of Furiosa visiting other worlds. The Nexus proper is risky enough, as Winter proved. But she already made a commitment to help Thor's people in any way she could, and after learning that his world and Rocket's are connected, after hearing more of what's happened, she is determined. And the Council of the Green Towers learned that Furiosa is still perfectly capable of putting her foot down, making a decision and sticking to it doggedly whether anyone else likes it or not.

In short, she argued them into doing what she wanted, and if anyone was surprised, they shouldn't have been.

She arrives on the island with an escort: two War Boys from her old crew, the most loyal and reliable she's got, aside from the Ace. The taller of the two, dark-skinned and broad-shouldered but with a sweet, youthful face, is Crux. The smaller is Spanner, and he bears some unfortunate burn scars on one arm and across his forehead and throat, and maybe elsewhere on his body, too, for the way he walks, but his blue eyes are bright and alert. He's an observer, and no less protective of his old boss than their larger companion.

The trio arrive via PINpoint, with Crux and Furiosa carrying gifts. The Citadel doesn't have much to share, but they had a bumper crop this year, thanks to the gifts of so many seeds (and perhaps some kind of indirect blessing from Hazel). They've brought cut sugar cane, a few sacks of sorghum and dried fruit, and some tanned pig and camel hides. Mostly it's meant to be a friendly token. Anything the Asgardians really need they can discuss later.

They land close to the sea, and while Furiosa anticipated the cold and dressed herself and the boys accordingly, she did not expect this heaving, chilly, salt-smelling desert of water, and all three of them are transfixed, lost in awe at the sight of it. Whoever notices and comes to meet them will hear soft murmuring, the woman explaining to the two younger men: "...fish comes from, yes. Well, some come from freshwater, too, but the sea is much bigger. Do you know what tides are? It's when the moon pulls on all that water and makes it come up higher on the shore."

"Wait, how high?" Spanner sounds nervous. "It ain't gonna drown us?"

"No, no, just a couple feet. Look, when we go home I'll read you a book about it."

Though there is no longer an All-Seer to keep an eye out for visitors, the little fishing village is small enough that the presence of strangers does not go unnoticed for long, particularly those who have arrived bearing gifts. A young Asgardian girl, who looks to be about sixteen by human reckoning, is on her way to the general store to fetch supplies for the dock workers, and approaches Furiosa and her War Boys once she sees the goods they carry. Her hair is in a simple braid, her hands and clothes bearing traces of dirt from her labors, and her gaze lingers very little on the visitors' war wounds.

Her demeanor is respectful, polite, someone who has been living with her own nightmares but has managed to bury herself in fulfilling work to cope. She introduces herself as Dagmar, and offers to help carry their offerings as she is headed that way already.

A troubled look crosses her face when Furiosa asks after Thor, and she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, biting thoughtfully at her lower lip. "He is likely at his home, to the south. It's the only house set apart from the others, past the landing field."

Furiosa will not have to go entirely that far to find him, however. Ever since Harley has come to stay at the little lighthouse-keeper's cottage, she has been stubbornly insistent that Thor get out in the sun every so often, though she is not always successful. Today he’s only made it as far as the overgrown football pitch in his backyard, its greenery flattened and trampled under dozens of feet as the Asgardians had stripped the escape pods to bare skeletons, leaving only the brightly-colored Commodore intact.

Thor is in one of the clearer patches of earth, lying on his back with his right arm behind his head and the black metal of his left resting on his chest, watching the thick gray clouds slowly roll by overhead. His hair has grown since she has seen him last, long enough that dirty strands poke out from under the knit hat he wears, though there is no hiding the growth of his beard. He looks more tired than contemplative, and does not immediately notice he has company.

There are some mild exclamations from the War Boys about the name Dagmar, only because one of the Citadel Tribunes is the Dag, whose moniker may or may not be short for something else. Only she knows, at this point, and she only talks about things she wants to talk about. Furiosa reflects that of all the Sisters who might be brought here to visit or help, she would be the best.

But that's something to be considered later.

She leaves the boys to attend to putting things away, giving them carte blanche to do whatever other work they're fit for and would like to do. Engines, carpentry, and simple labor are well within their wheelhouse, though Spanner is more physically delicate. Furiosa herself has no fear of the place or the people, and that's reassuring to them, although there's a little argument that they're supposed to be guarding her before they finally let her go off to see Thor alone.

She's slow on her journey to the lighthouse-keeper's cottage, looking around her, enjoying the glimpses of the Old World, rock and plants and freely-running water. Others might mourn how low Asgard has fallen. She sees wealth and beauty, and thinks it fitting.

Thor, by contrast, looks better fit for the Wasteland now than ever. The lack of vanity in his dirty locks and lengthening beard is a surprise, though as always Furiosa's skewed standards mean she's not as troubled as many might be. Her gaze goes to the left arm, which she'd been told he'd lost, but she wasn't sure what to expect as far as a prosthesis. It looks smooth and fluid, almost a part of him.

"Thor," she calls his name before she gets too close. It's not a good idea to startle people. "Hey. Thor, it's me."

If it’s work they’re looking for, the War Boys will find no shortage of tasks to keep their hands busy. Without any beasts of burden to pull carts and carry loads, and with the roadways too small for many vehicles at a time, manpower is needed to carry supplies wherever they are needed. There is a greenhouse being constructed on the westernmost island, and more hands will be welcome to help steady panes of glass as they are lifted into place. One of the fishing boat engines is not working quite right, and though the technology is fairly primitive compared to what the people are used to, they have yet to develop the expertise needed to understand the problem and correct it. Everywhere there are small things, here and there, little bumps in the road as the Asgardians adapt to their new home.

There are times where Thor feels he should probably be helping, himself. Odin never would have, but Odin had far greater things to concern himself with than pounding nails and mending clothes. Here, Thor has no such excuse, his duties as king reduced to brief meetings with the tattered remnant of his council and little else. Every now and then, he’s even managed to venture forth far enough to see where even his unskilled hands might be welcomed, but he can’t fail to notice how people look at him now. Not everyone is satisfied with their lot in life, though few have dared to complain where he can hear, or maybe it’s his imagination that puts those frowns on their faces. Worse than that is the pity he thinks he sees, the judgment; they are enduring and adapting, why isn’t their king? And for that, he has no answer, only avoidance.

He’d probably fuck it all up, anyway.

Thor tenses a little at the sound of his name, but when he lifts his head to see who is calling, his expression melts from discomfort to mild surprise. “Furiosa,” he says, sitting upright and clasping his hands in his lap, absently fidgeting against one another. He is annoyingly sober at the moment, only mildly tipsy, thanks to the efforts of his uninvited houseguest who has taken several opportunities to ply him with juice and soda when he’s meant to get a stronger drink. His voice is a little rough, and he clears his throat, which makes only a little difference. “I... wasn’t expecting you.”

War Boys show friendliness one of three ways: working, sparring, or sharing rotgut. Sparring is right out--Furiosa has told them in no uncertain terms to keep their hands to themselves, because she doesn't want to have to give them the pep talk that would be necessary after they get their butts handed to them. Asgardians are stronger. They're just going to be stronger, and she doesn't want any War Boy testing that premise. And they don't have rotgut with them, so they will be making friends by offering physical labor. Spanner's a trained Blackthumb. If someone lets him at an engine, he'll probably be a good bridge, able to explain mechanical issues in layman's terms that can then be re-translated by the Asgardians themselves into terminology that makes sense based on the higher tech they're used to. Crux's skills are highly social, and he's big and strong, but with a tendency to gentleness not often seen amongst the War Boys. Given plants, animals, or children to tend, he'll shine in his own way. It's possible they'll both have may friends by the end of the day.

Furiosa already has a friend, and she's worried about him. She's also really good at being tactful with wounded warriors. They do not, as a rule, want pity or coddling. If you can avoid acknowledging weakness in them completely, it's good to do so. She's the same way. She was a holy terror in the weeks after the Road War, when her lung was healing up. She almost died of fever twice, but she was ready to break the nose of just about anyone who offered her tender concern. It's stupid, really; she knows it's stupid, to have to bend over backwards to preserve a person's ego in addition to their body. But that's the price of having a warrior culture.

"I brought a couple War Boys," she tells him, "and a few little gifts. If there are things your people actually need, we can work out some trades to suit everyone later. We don't have any ocean near us. This is really pretty shine, out here."

She doesn't wait for an invitation to come closer, wandering across the grass with easy, casual steps. "Left them out by the grocery, though. I heard about--I know you've seen some bad shit."

Understatement of the century, there. "I didn't come to ask you to talk about it, so don't worry. I figured I'd just sit with you for a while, if that's all right."

Pause. "And hey, we match now, so if you need any suggestions for shoulder exercises, I have 'em."

Coming up to him, she sits easily on the ground nearby and offers her left hand in a fist bump.

Generosity in the wake of the Stones' culling is something that Thor has come to expect, gratitude warring with the sickly guilt that comes from knowing why there is enough to spare for his people, food and supplies that would have gone to help others if they still lived. It is easy to give when one has so much already, barely making a dent in the coffers.

For Furiosa, though... they have spoken enough that Thor knows a little of the world she comes from. An Earth ravaged by war and famine, dusty desert with precious little water or green, where survival is a constant battle against the forces of nature and man alike. There must be little to spare, and hearing that she has brought his people anything, no matter how small... the value of the gesture is not lost on him. "...thank you." His hands twist a little tighter around one another, reminded that he has yet to make good on a generous promise of his own, though he knows she will hardly hold it against him right now. The Vanir suffer with the rest of the universe, and this is hardly the right time to ask them for goats when they've lost half their herds.

He's not sure when will be the right time, truth be told, but he can worry about that later. Always later.

There have been several visitors to Asvera in recent days, familiar faces come to see him, to reassure themselves that he is still here, perhaps. Some have encouraged him to talk, as if words might change what has happened, or the burdens he now carries in his soul. And while there may be some benefit to it, he breathes a quiet sigh of relief that Furiosa is not here to do the same. "Yeah, sure." There is plenty of room in the field, and the overgrown grass and weeds are a softer seat than bare rock, at least.

Most have been cautious about mentioning his arm, as if he will forget about it if he isn't reminded, or maybe they just do not know how to react when faced with a god - or a friend - so visibly wounded. But Thor can hardly forget, and in a perverse sort of way, he's glad to have scars that he can see and touch, physical proof that he has endured something truly terrible. Something that can be treated, healed, though not exactly how it once was. It is far easier to cope with than the wounds he cannot reach, where no bandage or poultice can ever touch.

He should not have expected any less from her, and it only takes a moment's hesitation before he releases his hold on his hand, and taps metal knuckles against hers. "So we do," he agrees with a ghost of a smile. "I didn't really plan it that way."

"That's all right," she says archly, a hint of a smirk at one corner of her mouth. "I didn't plan to lose mine, either. Just kind of happened."

Her prosthesis is roughly the same structure as ever; she could get advanced materials in the Nexus, but she prefers for it to look oversized and clunky and threatening. His is a piece of art, though, and she can't resist cupping her metal hand under his wrist to hold it a moment so she can get a look. "Very pretty," she says, restrained because she's aware that people outside the Citadel don't see scars or stumps or machines the way her people do, but sincerely impressed.

"Does it always stay on, or can you take it off for a rest if you want to?" Letting go, she looks at his face thoughtfully for a second, then tugs at the buckles of her own prosthesis, undoing it and setting it aside. She sits comfortably, then, resting her stump on her knee.

Sometimes it helps wounded War Boys to see it. This is normal. This is what bodies do. It's okay. You're not broken.

Wounds inside are harder to deal with. She knows that, too. She lost the Green Place once, and all but two of her kin. Shop talk is a safer way to begin a conversation.

The arm may be the one recent gift that Thor feels no shame over, and he easily allows her to admire it, flexing the fingers so she can study their movement up close. “A friend arranged to have it made for me by a god of the forge, Hephaestus. Even Nidavellir may not have made one so fine.” Though he supposes he may never know, now. Either way, it is the best prosthesis he could have asked for, and credit is due to the master smith who made it.

Furiosa’s arm has its own ugly sort of beauty about it, in Thor’s eye, a visible testament of human ingenuity and creativity. No healer or smith took care to craft it to match what she lost, and whether that’s because they couldn’t or she wouldn’t, it makes little difference. It’s a part of her, an expression of herself, practical and intimidating and efficient in its construction. It suits her well, he thinks, just as he’s come to recognize his one-eyed face in the mirror as his own.

“It comes off,” he confirms, though most of the days he goes without, the long sleeves of his hoodies tend to conceal what’s left from view. Those tend to be the days he feels least deserving of the help, though he would resist calling it self-punishment, if asked. Not that he has a better excuse prepared, either.

But he watches her take hers off, comfortable and relaxed with herself as she is, and feels a strange pang of nostalgia for Asgard-that-was, where warriors would wear their battlescars openly as trophies of glorious victories.

Or maybe that is just what everyone else had assumed.

After a moment or two, Thor follows suit, unzipping his hoodie and finding the hidden release points for his arm, and places it next to hers. It feels sort of strange, relaxed like the bonds he’d forged with brothers and sisters in arms, except he has never fought a battle at Furiosa’s side before. Maybe it’s just the lack of scrutiny, like others trying to determine how he might have been wounded, or maybe there really is something to sharing common ground like Steve had said. But either way, Thor finds that he doesn’t mind it so much, right now. And maybe that’s what gives him the courage to ask, “What happened to yours?”

"You're lucky," she tells him with a little smile. "Some of us have to make do with whatever scrap metal we can find. My first was a hook on a tin cup."

It's a tease, not a guilt trip. The power of a god would probably vaporize a tin cup right off the end of his stump if he had one.

She makes no effort to hide that she's studying both arm and residual limb as he removes it. There is no horror or pity in her gaze, just the calm acceptance that life comes with loss. She may also be checking for calluses on the stump or eyeing the surgical wound. "I bought a kind of a...sock thing, for mine," she says as he sets the prosthesis aside. "For the stump, I mean. A compression sock. Fits up to the shoulder, feels like an all-over massage. You might want to get one some time. I don't know if you get phantom pain, but it helps."

Her stump is older, and she's done a good job of keeping it from getting badly callused, but there are a couple spots on the end where the prosthesis rubs. "And aloe gel to keep the skin from cracking," she adds. "Although it's not so dry here, you ought to be better off than where I am."

The question makes her pause and hum thoughtfully, looking up at the sky with slate-green eyes narrowed against the sun. She tells a lot of versions of this story. Pups ask all the time, and it's better to give them a bullshit adventure tale than the real story. And when adults ask, she usually concludes they don't need to know. Thor is different, though.

"When I was a child," she says, "I lived in a Green Place with my mothers, and our clan, and our sister clans. We were good at keeping outsiders away, but...things happen. Raiders broke through our defenses when I was thirteen, and they took me, and my mother, and a few others. Abducted. Stolen."

"It was a slave raid. Looking for breeders. Our land was healthy, and so were we." She shakes her head. "Anyway. They dragged us across the desert in the back of a truck that was open to air and sun, hot and dry and thirsty. There were other girls there, too. Not sure where they'd gotten them all from. On the second day, another road gang attacked the caravan and in the melee the truck we were in got wrecked and went end over end. It was horrible, bodies flying through the air into the sand--"

"I got pinned in the wreckage by my arm. The truck was burning, but I saw my mother on the sand a few yards away and I thought if I could just get to her--" She gestures with the shortened arm. "I honestly don't remember how I yanked myself loose, or what was left of the arm after I did, but I got away from the fire. The War Boys who'd attacked the caravan saw it all and I guess I impressed them. They put a tourniquet on me and made sure to get me to the infirmary as soon as we made it back to the Citadel."

"It was too late for my mother." She looks down at the grass in front of her, reaches out a fingertip to run across the leaf of a little weed there. "But they cut off the pieces of my arm that weren't viable, sewed it up, even gave me a little blood. I bit every last one of them that got close, until I passed out. I still have the warning tattoo on my back, actually."

"It takes luck and strength to survive a serious wound in the Wasteland. I've had more than my share of both."

It takes him a moment to study her face and make sure that she is truly teasing before Thor relaxes slightly. "My first was rougher than this, but at least it had a hand." And thank the Norns for that, because if he'd had to hold open the forge's iris with a hook, he has no doubt that it never would've made it past the initial blast of the star.

He has, of course, received advice on caring for his stump from Fǫnn soon after his initial injury, and later Eir when she'd had a chance to look over her apprentice's skilled handiwork. But there is a difference between a healer's knowledge, earned through study and treating these types of wounds, and someone who has firsthand experience themselves, who shares the same loss of limb and has lived with it for many years. It's more personal, warrior to warrior, in a way that puts him oddly more at ease talking about it.

Like when it comes to feeling pain from a limb that is no longer there, for instance. It's something he'd once thought reserved for those who are going mad, and admitting to it still makes him wonder if he isn't, at times. "Sometimes," he says hesitantly. "Not often. But every now and then, I can still feel my fingers." It's disconcerting at best, though as Hephaestus had promised, it never happens while he's wearing the arm.

The way she pauses makes Thor want to take back what he'd asked, worried that he's overstepped his familiarity, misjudged her mood or... something. But before the silence can stretch on too long, she begins to tell her story, and then all he can do is listen and give her tale the respect it is due.

He'd expected to hear of hardship, and knowing a little of the way people treat each other on her Earth - the way women are treated - it doesn't shock him to hear the truth. But his mouth narrows to a grim line, the uncomfortable familiarity of it churning in his stomach. Not the same. But similar enough. And she'd been through all that as a child. "I'm sorry." Thor draws his knees up toward his chest, and loosely wraps his arm around them.

If Furiosa was going to hold the relative wealth of others worlds against them, she'd be picking fights with half the Nexus. It is becoming a source of pride, how she and her people have managed to survive a place so rough and ruthless, and how they are improving it with every step they take, but being rude about it won't make them any friends.

Granted, the Winter taught her a few things about how softer people handle a crisis, and she's going to be warier going forward, but there's nothing to be gained by pointing it out. And Thor wasn't there at all. As far as she can tell, what's happened to him is beyond her world's ken. Wealth and resources don't matter so much when the disaster that strikes is wholesale annihilation of living people, with no means to mitigate it.

When he tells her he can still feel his fingers, she breaks into a small, awed smile. That is a fascinating and valuable thing to learn, that even a god can feel a phantom limb. She stretches out her stump a little and nods her understanding.

His discomfort and empathy with her story is reserved enough not to make her uncomfortable. She's not sure what to make of the pose he takes, though.

"I was lucky," she says. "In a way. They figured with an arm missing I wasn't fit for the Court. Put me in with the war pups, and I got to learn and train like a War Boy. The Ace made my first prosthesis to help me work on bike engines. Welded a wrench onto a cup and put a strap on it." She smiles, faintly, something nostalgic in it.

"You haven't met him yet. I'll bring him some time, if you'll let me." Reaching across to him, she rests her shortened arm across his knees. "If you'd ever like to visit the Citadel, you're still welcome. When I have free time, I help make limbs for some of the people who've lost theirs or were born without. Another example of someone getting along with one is always welcome."

As barbaric as it sounds, if the simple loss of one limb was enough to spare her from her intended fate, then Thor can only agree about her luck. Though it can be a difficult process to adapt to a body less whole than it was before, the loss of a limb - or an eye - does not make the person any less than they once were, and that is far preferable to the alternative.

Maybe the Norns still have their hand in Furiosa's weave, spinning tragedy into triumph. If not for her place among the War Boys, would her Citadel have found liberation? Would the warlords have been overthrown if not for her efforts, her expertise, earned with weapon and tools in hand? What life would she, or those she looks after, have lived if not for this twist of fate?

If there's a similar point to the tale of his own weaving, then Thor has yet to see it. And his dreams have been of no help either, no visions since the day the Statesman was torn asunder. If there is something to be learned here, some purpose to find, it seems he must struggle with it on his own.

He doesn't flinch from her touch, just lifting his head a little to look over at her, reflexively searching her eyes for pity and only seeing kindness. Kindness he may not deserve, but it's what she has chosen to show him, despite everything she's been through. A kindred soul, of sorts, a leader who has endured terrible hardship and lost much along the way. Yet she still presses toward the future, whatever it may hold, seeking a better tomorrow for her people. Thor envies her a little for that.

He hasn't really left the village since he arrived here, weeks upon weeks ago, surrounded first by empty islands and later by the remnant of Asgard grappling with the reality of life on Midgard. It's easy for him to look at them and see what they've lost, see the empty spaces where there is only dust, the absence of the magic and technology that they'd taken for granted before it was gone. And knowing that everywhere else on Earth was struggling to cope with the loss of half the population, it hasn't exactly encouraged him to venture elsewhere, to remind himself of what he's done.

But Furiosa's Earth is not the same. And even though her people struggle against their desert for survival, it is no doubt very different from the arctic sea where Asgard now dwells, and full of people that he hasn't failed. "Maybe I will," he says, surprising even himself at how easily it slips out, even as anxiety twists in his belly at the thought of leaving his people for even a short while. "Are they used to visitors?"

Yes and no. She's not saying now, but she did end up as Immortan Joe's wife. She was just spared the training for it, in the Breeder Court, and spared being relegated to a slave or a plaything afterward, once her infertility was discovered.

(Or, at least, her inability to bear a child for Joe. V8 knows his seed was bad. If that weren't the case, he could have had hundreds of children in the time he had to try for them. She doesn't expect a baby of her own at this point, though theoretically she's young enough still, but she's careful. Just in case.)

Seeing her touch isn't unwelcome, she moves around to lean against his side lightly, the same sort of proto-cuddle-pile she's shared with dozens of War Boys in the field and in the Citadel barracks. Warmth and casual camaraderie. He would benefit from more of that, she thinks. Leadership is hard and cold, and he seems to have have too much of it for the time being. Fireside storytelling and binding healing wounds for each other, watching each other's six; despite all the flaws in War Boy culture, Furiosa has taken a lot of comfort in these traditions, splitting her time between War Boys and Many Mothers and finding she needs both to heal.

"At this point," she says with a smile, "they've seen enough Nexus visitors they're not easily shocked. They always take notice when I bring a guest, but no one would object or be frightened."

There's a small, surprised sound in his throat when she leans against him, but he automatically shifts his posture to accommodate her, his arm ending up around her shoulders instead of his knees. Thor has always been a tactile man, quick to embrace his friends or deliver friendly shoulder pats, but he's done little of it since Wakanda, reluctant to accept the simple comfort of touch out of guilt for those who will never touch anyone again. But he still craves it, even so, and a painful sort of warmth blooms under his ribs that feels like relief.

He needs this, as surely as he needs to breathe.

It leaves room for him to wonder what her people might think of him, a god who has fallen far from his lofty pedestal. Made more human in their eyes, perhaps. Is that a good thing, making him more relatable? Or will they be disappointed in what he's become? But he can't hide what he is, either, and Thor will never again be the same bold, naive warrior he used to be. Even if he lives another four thousand years and dies an old man, he cannot run from that truth. And if they look at him and see a failure, then so be it. It's what he is.

It's an oddly freeing thought, though it makes little sense for it to be.

"I'd like to see your Citadel," he says, before he can change his mind, before his doubts can creep back in and weigh him down again. "And meet your people."

Furiosa is equally tactile in her way, as long as she can choose to initiate the touch. Thor, she trusts, because she knows his stories and she's seen what kind of a man he is. She is safe in his company, and he is worthy of her affection. He might doubt that, but Furiosa doesn't. When he puts his arm around her, she settles in against him comfortably and smiles, calm and reassuring.

"It's okay," she tells him. "I don't bite."

(She does bite, but only if it's a life-or-death grapple. One really doesn't want to put one's mouth on people in the Wasteland. You know exactly where they've been and it's nowhere hygienic.)

"You know," she says softly, "I normally don't invite people from the Nexus to visit. There've been a few, but I don't like to bring people from softer worlds. I don't want to see anyone hurt unnecessarily, and I don't want to be pitied. Where I come from is hard and ruthless and it hurts, but the way we face it makes it beautiful."

"But you, you're invited, because I know what it feels like to lose everything, home and people, and to have to keep on anyway, and not know how to. There's nothing harsher than that."

Part of Thor is still waiting for her to change her mind, to pull away or scorn him for his weakness, but the longer she doesn't, the more he is able to follow her lead and relax a little, taking the comfort that she offers no matter how selfish it feels. Even if she does withdraw, at least he'll have this moment, where he can pretend that he isn't a shadow of the man he used to be. Or maybe just the man he'd assumed he was.

He's not quite sure what she means by 'softer worlds,' at first, but then he thinks of Asgard and endless feasts, of never fearing where he would lay his head for the night, of never questioning the wealth of his people - his family - or fearing it would ever run out. Countless things he had taken for granted before they were gone, and left him reeling in their absence. Those days are over, never to return. Compared to Furiosa's people, what remains of Asgard is still new to hardship. But they, too, must have started somewhere, perhaps with far less help than she is offering him now.

It's hard to be optimistic, knowing how far Asgard has fallen, trying to imagine what future might lie before them. How they might be shaped from the ashes of what came before. How much of their culture might yet be saved, and how much is already lost to them forever. But the way Furiosa speaks of her people... it's a brutal sort of hope, stripped of platitudes and niceties meant to soften the blow, yet utterly refusing to give in to despair. Life endures, no matter what the universe has thrown at them.

It makes Thor wonder what he might learn from them, how to keep hold of what matters despite the devastation. And that, perhaps above all else, is what pierces through the fog of uncertainty and beckons to him to come and see. "I'm honored," he murmurs, understanding that this is not pity, or a misguided attempt to raise his spirits, or an offer that's been given to many and it is simply his turn. It's a kindness, no matter which way he wants to look at it. So there's little to stop him from asking. "How did you endure it?"

Furiosa's ideas of what constitutes weakness have changed in the last few years. Now that the society around them is more balanced. With War Boys, you never let anyone see you bleed. The only time they were allowed to show fear was at the thought of a soft death. Now that there are other voices, the Sisters, the Vuvalini, the formerly-Wretched and everyone in between, she has been reminded that there are different strengths. So, too, must there be different weaknesses. It speaks better of Thor than he knows that he suffers so much care and guilt; even if it won't help him, even if it's a sickness, it's the sickness of a man who wanted the best for his friends, his people, his world.

And that's a strength, if only he can shake off the pathology, with time and support.

Life endures, indeed. Survival is the one rule of the wild Wasteland. Any other moral code has to be carried with you when you venture out into it, like water and provisions, and just like with water and food, you can run out if you wander too long.

She considers his question for a long moment, looking at the sky. "One breath at a time," she says at last. "Not even a day at a time, or an hour, or a minute. One breath."

"After the Road War, I was left with holes on each side of my rib-cage, weak with blood loss, and I caught fever more than once. But worse than that, I had lost all but two of my clan, and I knew the Green Place where I grew up was dead. And the only chance I had of saving the handful of people depending on me was to return to the Citadel. I would have rather died, but I couldn't make that choice for them. So we had to get there and we had to win."

"But once the fighting was over, I thought for a while I might just be done. Even the air seemed to press on my chest, like when it was in my lungs before, but outside my ribcage this time. Holding me down. Most of what I did for weeks was sleeping."

"But the others kept visiting me. Kept bringing me food and...I'm not sure what all they said to me. I don't remember a lot of it. But they reminded me they existed, and so I just kept breathing."

"Eventually, the pressure started to go away again, and the breathing got easier."

The notes of it are familiar, even if the exact details are not, and though Thor doesn't look at her where she's relaxed under his sole arm, it's clear enough that he's listening. Recognizing what she describes, at least in part if not the whole. Wounded, grieving, but without anything to direct that pain into action, withering away. A pitiable fate for any warrior, denied the dignity of a swift end in battle, left to linger on and slowly fade. Yet not a death sentence, if what she says is the same.

Privately, cynically, Thor has to wonder if the burden will actually ease, or if he will simply become used to the weight until he no longer notices it still crushing down on him. He's not certain which he likes less. Even as the weeks have passed, some days have been easier to bear than others, as if numbness is creeping into him like waves that rise and recede with the tide. Other days it is impossible to shake his darker thoughts, warring with himself in turn with regret that he had not been slain to spare him this, and hatred of himself for thinking he deserves such a mercy now. Yet still he wakes in his house, day after day, with thousands of uncertain years still laid out before him, a curse and a blessing both.

Maybe his own friends are the reasons he has made it this far at all. Loki sending daily messages, amusing anecdotes or photos of the children he's kept in his care, subtle prompting for Thor to answer, even if it is only a few words. Steven and Rabbit coming round to check on him every week or so, even if just for idle chitchat and a drink of water. Harley making a space for herself in Asvera, her cheerful persistence in establishing routines making it more difficult to sit around and drink all day. And now Furiosa, sharing an experience that seems eerily similar to his own in ways that matter, beyond the simple loss of limb they also share.

"You survived because of them," he says quietly, trying to process what that means for her, what it means for himself. Of the many moods that Thor now finds himself in, one of the easiest to find himself sinking into is loneliness, and that is a difficult trap to free himself from.

"There are all kinds of fights," she says. "Immortan Joe would have had us believe that the only kind of battle that exists is the kind on the road, with flares and gunfire and screaming. The fight you fight in your head, though--a lot of the time that's harder, and when you win one day, you may have to go right back into battle the next. But that makes it shine in its own way, doesn't it? To keep on, even when every last bit of you wants to give up."

If he expressed his doubt whether the burden would ever ease or whether you just get used to it, she would smile and ask him what the difference is. The world is merciless and indifferent, but people don't have to be. Not to others, and not to themselves. "Struggling doesn't mean you're weak."

She tucks her head against his shoulder lightly, neither seeking nor offering comfort so much as reveling in closeness. Platonic cuddling is normal, although she's fairly selective about which friends she allows that close to her. "I survived because of them," she confirms. "Because they needed me, and because I needed them."

"That didn't make it easy," she adds. "Not gonna lie to you. Nothing makes it easy. But it might make it possible."

She pauses a moment to let that sink in, and then pats his knee. "All right. Let's go. You want to leave a note so your people know where you've gone?"

Prepare to be dragged to the Wasteland, Thor. Furiosa knows when not to give someone the chance to back out of something.

Struggling doesn't mean you're weak. It's a thought that slips through his defenses like a knife sliding between ribs, nestling itself closer to his heart. Such a human sentiment, and yet... has Thor not seen his human teammates struggle, and thought no less of them? Do his own people not suffer their own nightmares, grapple with their own demons, and yet push on regardless? It's supposed to be different, for Thor. He's supposed to be a king - a god - who stands tall and strong for his people. But he isn't, so he hides himself away from them. Would they grant him the same kindness? Would he deserve it?

Thor has no answers, not yet, but the thought is planted, sending down its roots within him.

Besides, he suddenly has more urgent things to consider. He looks over at her, mildly startled at how abrupt and immediate their departure is, cutting off the self-doubt before it can grow large enough to give him excuses as to why he shouldn't go. "A note?" he repeats, his thoughts successfully derailed enough that he actually considers it. He has a few haunts around the village, and while it isn't often that someone other than Harley or the Valkyrie actively seeks him out, he might cause a disturbance if they do discover their king missing and fear that he's left them to die somewhere. "That's... a good idea."

He picks up his prosthetic arm as he rises, and gestures for her to join him on the short walk up to his house. It will only take him a matter of minutes to find something to scribble on, tacking the short message to his front door. Gone with Furiosa, will return.

Furiosa can't speak for his people and wouldn't presume to try, but she doesn't think the less of him. Neither, she knows, would her people.

She smiles at him when he looks over in surprise, and there's something of mock-innocence in it that might remind him a little of Loki. She knows exactly what she's doing here, but at least he can rest assured she has nothing but his best interests at heart. Nodding, she gives him a little squeeze before letting him go so he can stand. Like him, she has to collect her prosthesis, and she follows him inside comfortably, looking around a little but without judgment. She has no clue what the inside of a house is meant to look like. It could be cluttered, it could be tidy; it's not going to look like her rooms, either way.

Once the message is written and left, she tugs her arm back on, because that's where her PINpoint is buckled. A couple taps of the keys, and suddenly they're in the entrance of the tunnel between the lower garage of the Citadel and the passage to the Nexus.

Immediately, it's warmer, but also much drier. "You might not need that coat," Furiosa tells him. "At least not until after dark."

The lighting is dim, mostly gas lamps at this level, but there's a sound of a generator rumbling away nearby, and some sort of powertools that are being run by it. Furiosa tucks her right hand under Thor's bicep and looks a little excited. It will, she hopes, be fun to show off her people and what they've accomplished.

Thor's house is in a better state than he's prone to keeping it if left to his own devices, thanks to a helping hand from Harley. There's not nearly as much dust as there might be otherwise, and only a few empty bottles clustered on the coffee table in front of the couch, which is unquestionably the messiest part of the room with a nest of blankets that look like someone suspiciously Thor-sized has been sleeping there for weeks on end. The decor is still mostly as it was when he moved in, however, with framed paintings of sailing ships and mountains and the like, though the gleaming battleaxe propped up in the corner is unmistakably Thor's.

For a very brief moment, Thor considers taking Stormbreaker with him, just in case. In case he needs a quick exit, or in case there is trouble. But something inside of him rebels at the impulse, uncertain if it's because of who that axe was forged to slay, or simply because he has had more than his fill of war 'til he is sick from it. He doesn't want it. Not now.

So he takes nothing but his arm, reattaching it with greater ease than Furiosa, and gives her a nod before he can change his mind like the coward he's become.

The sudden temperature change is a mild shock, if not unexpected or unpleasant. Thor has experienced deserts before, most recently in New Mexico, but even inside this earthen cavern he can still feel the tug of the weather in his bones. The atmosphere feels dryer than in Puente Antiguo, if not quite as hot as Muspelheim, and the parched air and earth speak to how long it has been since this land has seen any rain.

Thor has endured far greater heat, of course, but he sees no reason to be more uncomfortable than he needs to be. He hesitates a moment, realizing that his arm may draw more attention than intended, but Furiosa's confidence in displaying her prosthetic openly encourages him to strip off the hoodie and tie it around his waist, where he might easily put it back on if needed. "Lead on," he murmurs, loud enough to be heard over the drone of the generator. And as he follows, he turns his head to look around, curious despite himself to see what Furiosa and her people have made of their home.

Since the Winter and all the turmoil it brought, Furiosa has realized something fundamental about herself: she doesn't belong in the Nexus. It's not bad place to be, it's useful for trade and visiting and making friends and allies, but it isn't her place, and it never will be. There is too much leeway there, too much softness. She is a creature honed and sharpened by the ferocity of the world around her. This world.

Here, she is in her element.

Of course, in the lower level of the Citadel, there's no danger in particular other than the uncertainty that looms over the world as a whole. There is radiation, levels that are not exactly healthy but certainly not imminently lethal to any but the most delicate living things. The water table and the climate of this world is wildly unstable. Here it is utterly arid, no rain but the lightest of acidic showers. Somewhere else on the planet, further north or all the way to the south, there may be storms shredding apart whatever remains of the land. Like Thor himself, this is a world that has been struck with a blow that reshaped it forever, and it is still struggling for a new equilibrium.

Furiosa leads him up an aisle lit by oil lamps, where narrow chimneys divert the smoke upward through a ventilation system dug into the rock. There are men and women both working on the vehicles, and children scamper here and there with water and snacks, sometimes handing tools to the Blackthumbs wrist-deep in engines. They all look at Furiosa as she passes, some of them glancing at Thor with unsubtle curiosity. Many of the men offer some kind of salute as they pass, hands interlaced in front of their heads. Furiosa smiles at some of them, nods and hums wordless greetings, and pats children gently with her metal hand if they come close looking for touch. She's headed for the lift at the end of the room, though, a large jury-rigged industrial-sized platform, easily big enough for a car or truck.

"I think we should go straight up to the gardens," she tells Thor as they step onto it. "It's cooler and less crowded there, and you can see the land all around from the lower terrace."

The two individuals operating the lift platform look adolescent, wiry and lean rather than filled-out. The shorter of the two seems to vibrate with excitement as they step onto the lift. The taller looks amused and puts a hand on her companion's shoulder to settle her. "All the way up, Boss?" She asks.

"The Library terrace," Furiosa says after a moment's thought. "Thanks, pup. Thor, this is Argo, and little one's name is Hush. Thor is a guest from the Nexus, you two. Be your best."

Hush immediately demonstrates why she was given her name: "Like in the stories??"

"Some people don't want to talk about their stories all the time, pup," Furiosa tells her, glances at Thor as if to make sure he's all right, then suggests, "Why don't you tell him a story about you, instead of asking questions about him?"

The lift ride will take a few minutes, after all.

It reminds Thor somewhat of Stark’s old workspace, though the vehicles are neither sleek nor spotless as the billionaire’s had been. These are vehicles that have seen rough, heavy use, battered and dented, paint scoured away by sand and wind, cobbled together from a thousand different pieces ‘til every one is a unique work to itself, an exercise in resourcefulness and using what they have in ways they were likely not intended.

Being stared at is nothing new, though it’s been some time since Thor has found himself under so many strangers’ gazes. Thor does not recognize their salute, but as Furiosa does not return it, neither does he. Instead he finds himself automatically falling into step just off her shoulder, as he once followed Odin’s lead, her authority obvious in the way she carries herself here, the way her people defer to her. While Thor is in no danger of forgetting that he is a guest here, he finds himself relaxing a little at finding an old, comfortable habit to follow.

Once on the lift platform, Thor peers curiously upward, trying to see how high it goes. His attention is quickly caught by the youngsters, however, and he shuffles a little awkwardly under their excited stares. He looks very little like the brash young warrior he used to be, the one no doubt described in their stories, and yet the two youths don’t look disappointed to learn who he is, not for a moment. Whether it’s the battle scars or simply childish excitement that’s to blame, it’s still something of a balm to his sorely wounded pride, and Thor manages a small smile in return. “Probably,” he answers, “though it depends on what you’ve heard.”

Furiosa’s glance is returned with a grateful sort of look, though. He doesn’t think he’s ready to deal with a bombardment of unrestrained questions, as he once did with his adoring public. At least he can rest easy knowing that whatever he does here won’t be broadcast live to the world. “I’d love to hear one of yours,” Thor agrees easily.

There are personal touches on each of these vehicles, as well. Thor may or may not notice, but many of them have dashboard ornaments, names carved or sculpted into the running boards, or ornamental designs on the hoods and windows. Even in the midst of harshness and deprivation, the people of the Wasteland find time to express themselves with craft and ornamentation.

Battle scars are exciting to these children, badges of honor rather than marks of suffering. Thor may notice Argo peering between his left arm and Furiosa's, connecting the dots, coming to conclusions of her own.

Hush hops a little, remembers she's on a moving platform, and stills just as both Furiosa and Argo reach out to steady her. "Um. Sorry," she says, grinning. "I could tell you--oh! Oh, I caught a lizard this morning, Boss, and it only had one tail and there was a blue stripe down its back. And I took it to the kitchens to see if they knew what kind if was and if they wanted it for cooking and Atom Annie was in there and she said it was a kind she hadn't seen in years and years so I think maybe one of the trade caravans brought it with supplies and I was thinking I might keep it and not eat it after all. Mister Thor, do you know anything about lizards? Because I know Nexus people come from other worlds and I bet you've seen lots of animals that we don't have here anymore. Do you like turtles? I--"

And so on, and so forth. What Thor gets is not so much a story as an excited stream of consciousness, but at least the little girl doesn't seem to expect him to follow her entirely. She's just ecstatic to have someone listen to her.

The lift slides up past archways that lead into the sunlight, and darker bays where people are working. There's a sound of drums at one point, and rhythmic singing, but it's not long before they reach the upper floors. At that point, Thor can see that there's a large treadwheel that's at least partly responsible for the lift's operation. It seems to be run by a mix of human power and sturdy little donkeys.

Hush, to her credit, manages to find a stopping place as the lift slows, scampering to one side to lock the chain in place.

"If we could bottle your energy," Furiosa tells the child with a smile, "the rest of us would never have to work again."

Edited (typo) 2019-08-02 00:42 (UTC)

Asgard had been much the same in how battle scars were seen as marks of valor, each one no doubt with a rousing story of how it had been earned on the field of battle or against a dragon or some such tale. Even now, there's a part of Thor that feels oddly comforted by his stronger resemblance to his father, as if that might help him be a better king somehow, or at least carry Odin with him in more than just memory. Though keeping his depth perception would have been nice. And all things said and done, it's still a wound he'd earned in battle with the goddess of death herself, a battle he'd won, in the end.

The arm is a different story, one that tastes of defeat thrice over. Maybe it would be different if he'd been victorious in Wakanda, or even if the stones had still existed when they had gone to the Garden. But he hadn't, and they didn't.

He rubs absently at the place on his arm where metal meets flesh, as if he could soothe that thought away as easily. Fortunately, the youthful chatter coming from Hush is distraction enough, and even though she rarely seems to pause to give him a chance to answer her many questions, he finds himself smiling a little by the time they reach the top of the lift. At times he finds his attention caught by the passing scenery, particularly at the sounds of music and voice. This place is busy and alive, the drumbeat of life itself, a far cry from the empty desolation he's seen in the Midgard he knows. This place is harsh, but the people are thriving in spite of it, the youngsters' enthusiasm undimmed by the hardship. And it hurts a little, in a good way, to see someone so young being so happy.

It's definitely giving him food for thought, and he manages a faint chuckle at Furiosa's comment as he steps off the lift. "I thank you for your story, and your service," he says, bowing his head slightly to both of the children. "You do your people proud."

That's a thought pattern that a War Boy would understand, certainly. They prefer death to defeat, and if Thor wanted to tell his tale of battling Hela, or of older battles against less personal foes, he'd find a rapt audience. Furiosa takes a longer view, though, in her quiet, grim way. She learned it in those first days out of the Green Place, on the dusty road with her dying mother. She shares it with Max. A single, vital instinct: Survive.

Any battle you can walk away from has not been truly lost.

Her thoughts are not so dark right now, though. She's watching Thor listen to the children of the New Green Place, the heartbeat of the Citadel in the form of drums and chant, and she thinks he may see something of value, if only he can hang onto it in his grief.

The children beam at the compliment and both give him that same salute the men below gave Furiosa: hands clasped in front of foreheads, then pulled down to their hearts. It's a combination of the V8 and the Vuvalini memorial gesture. Hush also bounces a little on her toes, excitement uncontainable, but Furiosa gives the children an approving nod and puts her hand on Thor's back to steer him away before they can start talking at him again.

"Some day," she tells him once they've moved off, "our children will be able to play more and work less, but in the meantime it's good for them to see how what they do is valued."

They're walking down a stony passage now, carved out of the rock and worn smooth by time and many feet and hands. There are paintings along the walls, and they probably mostly look nonsensical to Thor. They're mostly engine parts, gears and cogs, all twined with flowers and stylized bones. Up ahead, sunlight pours through the end of the tunnel, and there's a distinct smell of water and plants.

"This is the hydroponic garden," Furiosa says. "And the Greenthumbs' testing chambers. The more delicate plants and the ones we haven't tried on terraces yet grow here."

When they come out of the tunnel, the chamber at the end is very long, with windows cut into the rock along the whole length. There are curtains or blinds made of stitched and woven plastic and leather at the sides of each window, pulled back to let in the light. And the plants are everywhere, up to the ceiling, set up on elaborate gear and pulley systems such that a turn of a wheel at the end of each row will change their positions, giving each an equal turn at the sunlight and the shade.

There are a lot of people in here, too, mostly women and teenagers or children. It's light labor, checking the plants for bugs or disease and hand-pollinating them, but vital, and it requires good eyes. Thor may recognize some of the plants: tomatoes, strawberries, radishes, greens, and a huge variety of herbs.

Though he’s had little direct involvement in assignments of labor and training, Thor is aware that the Asgardian children have been similarly called to help the adults in their work. Nothing strenuous or back-breaking, but anyone old enough to run messages or fetch supplies and tools has surely been assigned to some simple tasks that require no skill and pose no danger. But maybe one day soon, they will be established enough to allow for proper schools and tutoring rather than work. Not that Thor has any idea who might then be fit to teach.

Either way, he understands the necessity. “Every citizen matters, no matter how small,” he agrees quietly, and thinks of those who are so young that they will never remember Asgard as it was. But they are precious nonetheless.

He can feel the garden before they arrive, the humidity in the air that clings around the greens, little blooms of warmth and life that call out for sun and sky. Uncertain what to expect in this place where nearly everything has been cobbled together and recycled countless times, he’s surprised and impressed when he sees their ingenuity, making use of what they have with the greatest efficiency available to them. Who else would have thought to create mobile gardens to maximize their growth potential? Human creativity never ceases to amaze him.

Arid weather is still weather, but part of Thor will always belong to the rain, and the water hanging heavy in the air here soothes him as he slowly walks the length of the garden, turning his head to fully take it all in. “This is incredible,” he says, and any melancholy thoughts are forgotten for the moment, his voice holding nothing but admiration.

Someone will step up when teachers are called for, if Furiosa's experience is any indication. Ace and some of the other older Blackthumbs have been used to teaching their craft to children all along, and took no persuasion to continue. Others with practical skills have stepped forward. There are fewer who have extensive knowledge of reading, writing, or history, but Cheedo filled that niche easily enough, and she was quick to take on other apprentice teachers. The good thing about knowledge is the further it spreads, the greater it becomes.

Furiosa relishes the thought of children that don't remember the Citadel as it was. Who know nothing of Immortan Joe but the name of a boogeyman that can't hurt them any longer. There will be elements that cling to the old warlike culture among her people, but slowly they are becoming tamer, fewer, and further between. It's essential that they be able to fight defensively, but a blessed relief that they no longer seek out conquest needlessly.

She watches his face as they move amongst the aisles of plants, and her head lifts a little higher at the murmur of praise. The Citadel had hydroponics before, but she and the Sisters have expanded the operation. They've had to, to feed their growing population. These plants, and the gardens above them, are some of the features of the place she's most proud of. "We had a bumper crop this last season," she says. "And we're starting new plants all the time. People from the Nexus give us seeds, and sometimes I buy them, and we trade for them. Some day soon, we're going to start taking the hardier seedlings to friendly settlements nearby and putting them in the ground for the people, showing them how to tend them. The more plant life there is in the desert, the better."

Here and there, Thor trails his fingers along the edge of the plants as he passes, light enough that he doesn't do much more than rustle the leaves but still compelled to touch, both by hand and the light brush of seidr. Just feeling the little pulse of life running through the greens. The garden is healthy, flourishing in a desert that would not be hospitable to them if left on their own, a testament to how diligent the humans are in caring for their crops. Life where there shouldn't be, on both accounts, thriving in spite of everything stacked against them.

He doesn't recognize everything that they're growing, of course, but it's a staggering variety for a place as barren as this. Which makes sense as Furiosa explains where it's all come from, and abruptly he remembers that he was part of those who gifted them with seeds, back at Yule. It feels like ages ago, though he knows it's been less than a year. So much has changed since then.

"Are any of these from the ones I gave you?" It's a petty sort of thing, but he wants to know if he's helped, even in some small way.

Some of what they cultivate indoors is grown solely for seed. The inhospitable ground outside can't house tomatoes, for example, or water-hungry grains like rice, but the can grow enough to keep fresh, fertile seed available for a hopeful future, when they may be able to spread healthy plants far and wide across the Wasteland. Thor will see several types of rushes and cattails being grown in the hydroponic troughs, amongst the practical vegetables and herbs.

"Melothria," she says as he touches a delicate tendril, and points out the pinpoint-sized yellow blooms, and a tiny green fruit forming on some of the little vines. "They taste like cucumber and lemon. Dag says she thinks she can breed them a little bit hardier so they can be moved outside."

In response to the question, she grins and tugs at his sleeve, guiding him further down the line. "Most of this section," she tells him, gesturing to the back quarter of the chamber. "The greenthumbs are excited about these. We've got dill, coriander, several brassicas we didn't have before, bishop's weed, chicory and meadowsweet. I like this one best."

She touches one of the plants, a kind of mustard green that ought to look familiar to Thor. "I like bitter greens. These are good raw, and they don't wilt fast after harvest, so we've been eating a lot of them all over the Citadel. Roll them up with a little bean mash inside, and dip them in herbed vinegar, they're delicious."

It's hard to get enough food to go around with a population of thousands, but they're doing a decent job.

It's hard to imagine sometimes that something so small might make the difference between life and death, but that is the nature of all things to grow into something greater, something more than they began. These little fruits will one day feed Furiosa's people, passing on their energies to fuel more life, their seeds saved to grow again. The Wheel keeps turning, even here.

Thor doesn't know enough of how to use his seidr to make their intended breeding project any easier, but he gives it a little spark anyway, little blue wisps that soak into the tendrils of the plant like water. Those who tend the garden might end up discovering that they're closer to harvest than they thought, or perhaps the fruits will grow larger, the herbs taller. Maybe they'll find that their crops use a little less water to flourish just as much, or that there are fewer instances of disease that need pruning away. However it manifests itself in the end, this harvest will be a good one.

He doesn't resist her pull on his arm, following her to see for himself the fruits of his generosity. Her people have put his gift to good use, the new herbs looking right at home alongside the old, and he smiles a little to see them. Maybe they would have filled this space with other plants, had he not helped, but he did and that means he did something good. Something right. It matters.

It probably isn't how the Asgardians would use the plant, but one thing Thor admires about humans is their creativity. Their use of what they have, transforming it into something new. "They're that popular, you say. Maybe we'll have to trade recipes."

Furiosa's eyes widen a little as Thor's energy flickers and soaks into the plant. That wasn't lightning. She chooses not to ask, though, mindful of old Vuvalini tales warning that questioning a blessing risks breaking it. Instead, she'll watch and wait.

She leaves her hand on his arm, a casually friendly gesture. Honestly, her world has seen so much generosity from the Nexus, not just from Thor but from others, as well. But Thor's gift is special, for more than one reason. It came at Yule, for one thing, and if she's honest with herself there's still something special about meeting a god that appeared in so many Vuvalini tales, and who very solidly proves that everything Joe told them was a lie.

(She shouldn't need to have that proved. She knew, she always knew...but when you live in the midst of madness for too long, it stops sounding mad, and your sanity seems like it might be insane.)

Now isn't the time to tell him what it means to have him here. She's sensitive enough to know that. It's time to be friends; that's what's most important. So she smiles at him, showing her dimples, and nods. "I'm not a great cook, myself, but if you want, I can send you down to the kitchens. I'm sure they'll put you to work peeling potatoes, chopping beetroots..."

She's teasing.

It takes Thor a moment to recognize that she's teasing, during which he wonders if there might be some safety advantage in not being able to accidentally cut one's own fingers while chopping vegetables. Though he supposes it still might blunt the knives, and he probably shouldn't be paying that little attention in a kitchen anyway.

But then he recognizes the tilt of her smile, the glimmer in her eyes, and he finds it's not too difficult to chuckle a little. "No shortage of work to do, is there?" As different as her Citadel is from the Norwegian village, it's nice to find things they have in common, too.

Her people have done so much, and come so far; what they've built for themselves is truly impressive. And with far less to work with than Asvera does, at that. He can only wonder what the village will look like if given the same amount of time, melding the old Asgardian ways with Earth, until they've made something entirely new.

There is, actually, an advantage there. She's done plenty of peeling and chopping, herself, but the tease is more in her trying to put him to work. He could, she imagines. Might even do him good to have some rote task in his hands that he can focus on, to shut out the ache of the wounds in his mind. She's been there. But she's not going to actually ask. If he falls into something, she'll encourage it, but he's a guest.

"Never. And the more people there are, the more work," she tells him. "People are having babies. Healthy ones, one they choose to carry. And there are caravans coming to ask to settle here often. We try not to turn them away, as long as they're peaceful."

Beckoning, she guides him through another hydroponics chamber--this one with the tiniest seedlings and some rare, delicate plants that seem to be strictly tended--and to a juncture where there are two exits, both bright with sunlight streaming in. One leads left, to a staircase that clearly opens onto a terrace. One leads right, through a short round passage through the rock. On the other side, if he looks, he can see immense glass windows, a few dwarf fruit trees and vines, shelves with stacks of books, and a shallow pool. At the edge of it, the words our babies will not be warlords are carved into the floor.

"This is the Door that Never Closes," Furiosa tells him, sobering visibly, and for a moment the hand on his arm seems like it might be for her support as well as his. "Before, Joe kept his wives here. Now, it's our library. Do you want to see?"

She hates going into the former Vault, even now. It's her that named the passage the Door the Never Closes, to remind her it's safe enough to enter now, but she always gets chills, stepping into the room that was once a hell. But it's different, and the stacks of books often lure her in, as long as Cheedo or someone else is around, and if Thor wants to look, she's sure she'll feel safe enough with him.

The way she speaks of children, of babies, makes it sound as though it's a miracle, something precious to be treasured. It reminds him of Solvi and her little one, one of the last good moments he'd had before everything had fallen apart, and the fact that both mother and baby still live. That they will form the foundation of the new Asgard as they adapt to their new reality, whatever it may be. The first of generation of Asgardians that will know Earth as their home, just as Furiosa's people are birthing a generation that will know this Citadel as their home, and not the one the warlord had ruled.

It gives him a good deal to think about, though he's still paying attention as he follows her through their garden, occasionally slowing to take a closer look at some of the little seedlings, tiny but determined to grow and thrive despite the desert outside these walls. But then they're moving on, leaving the hydroponics behind.

He's not sure what to make of the new room at first, a sort of... reading room, with a great deal of natural light coming in through the windows, but the pool and its text... it's only when she tells him what this is that it makes sense, or sense enough. Is that the reason she leans on him like she is now, or is there something more? It wouldn't surprise him if there was. So while he's curious to see what books have survived the devastation of her world, what resources they have for knowledge, he's hesitant to ask for anything that will disturb her further. He knows all too well now how the smallest things can drag deeper fears to the surface. "If... if that's all right," he answers awkwardly, looking down at her, uncertain. "It looks like a lovely library."

Babies are a minor miracle in the Wasteland, particularly full-life, healthy ones. Infant mortality is still very high here, though they do the best they can for pregnant people. There simply isn't a lot of prenatal care available, and the world is harsh. Still, the population is growing. People from all walks of life are bearing infants, and more and more of them are full-life children. Moreover, the ones that aren't--the little ones born with limb deformities, odd lumps and asymmetries or some other disability--are better able to be cared for now. For the first time since the Old World fell, human life is considered inherently valuable here.

She glances up at the sound of uncertainty in his voice, and the intuitive care he's offering makes her smile a little. "It is," she reassures him. "I have bad memories of this place. Some days I want to go in to read, and I do. Other days, I can't."

She puts her hand in his and tugs him toward the door, calm and confident now. "Always easier when I'm not alone. But it's like that, having scars in your head from what's happened to you. Sometimes they ache worse than others. You'll see. And in the end you'll be all right."

There's much he still has to learn about these kinds of battlescars, wounds that can neither be seen nor touched but can be reopened all the same, whether by sight or words or scent, yet endure the same hardship better some days than others. It feels strangely cyclical, like the rising and falling of a tide, an ebb and flow that can catch the unprepared by surprise.

He thinks on that as he follows her lead, content to go where she asks him to, and looks around the room as they enter. This too is a garden of sorts, one of knowledge saved and preserved, and he peers at the book titles though he knows he doesn't have a hope of recognizing any of them, probably. He's never been much for reading for pleasure, and Earth books in particular are something he's seen relatively little of. But these things from the old world have survived, an resource for those who can read their wisdom, and pass it down to the next generation. He can appreciate that for what it is.

"Nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass," he murmurs, though there will always be another storm. The god of thunder would know, wouldn't he? But no storm lasts forever, either, no matter how hard the wind blows or how loud the thunder.

Knowing and monitoring oneself is a difficult task, but it's one that many people have to learn eventually, in one way or another. Someone with a chronic physical illness must learn to anticipate good and bad days. Someone with a wounded mind must watch and prepare for the same. Furiosa is never gentle with herself; she will charge into a mental or physical fight on a bad day because that's simply her coping mechanism, and it takes friends to talk her down more often than not, but she understands what's going on in her own head better than most. She may not be the best example for him, but she's not the worst, either.

The chambers beyond the passage are quiet today. The main room has only one plump, curvy woman in white and green seated at a desk, carefully repairing a book. She glances up as they come in, smiles at Furiosa, and gets distracted looking at Thor, because da-amn. Like others, she's too polite to say anything, though, and after a moment she looks back down at her work with a blush.

The large room they're in contains not just books and trees, but there is also a piano in one corner, a few other instruments propped nearby, and a row of chairs. The shelves closest to it seem like they're designated for sheet music, and there are words in ancient Greek carved into the wall in this corner.

There are a few other doors that lead into other rooms. Here, there seem to be more books, but also a few pretty things like statues, paintings, tapestries on the walls, and the like. This is both library and museum.

If he looks back, he'll see over the doorway they've come through, the words We Are Not Things are carved and painted in with green enamel to make them shine. Above them, an insignia carved of scrap metal has the image of a pair of boltcutters, the same thing Furiosa wears on her belt.

It’s honestly impressive to see. In his time, Thor has seen civilizations crumbled into nothing but rust and rubble, history forgotten by future generations. Yet the Citadel and its people have preserved artifacts of the old world, not just in dry facts but real tangible works of art, touchstones of who they used to be. It makes him wonder if Asgard will ever achieve its like, even if the surviving craftsmen must recreate such things by memory.

What will Asgard become, as the centuries pass? How much of their heart still lives, buried and waiting to be rediscovered? What of the old ways will be forgotten, and what will be remembered? If humans can build something new from their own ashes, something beautiful and meaningful and defiant of all that tried to crush them, surely Asgard could do no less.

His gaze stops on the shining letters above the ever-open door, the rejection of their subjugation so clear that it’s been carved into the rock so none could deny it. “We are not things,” he reads aloud in a murmur, and thinks it a fine thing to base one’s community on. A world where every life is precious, a person, not some nameless faceless cog in a great machine that can be easily replaced.

Things can be broken, discarded, replaced. People cannot.

Furiosa comes to stand beside him as he reads, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Those were the words of Splendid Angharad. She was captive in here, with four other young women, and the History Woman Miss Giddy. I was brought in to be their bodyguard."

"They hated me at first, but I couldn't blame them, since I hated myself at the time, too. It was Angharad that persuaded me to help them escape. If not for her, I might have lost myself for good. It's easy, when you've been beaten down, to become a cog in the system that beat you, without noticing you've lost your soul."

"All I wanted was vengeance against Immortan Joe, until I met the Sisters of the vault. Then I saw they had hope, and I wanted it to be real, for their sake. I think that's what keeps me going even now. There's still someone out there with hope, even if it's not always me. I can still be a reason they believe, even when I've got nothing left to give but the fact that I'm still standing."

"Sometimes, we make the world seem better for other people just by existing, even when we can't see it ourselves." She kisses the tip of her index finger and then boops him gently on the nose.

If he had any doubts that her message was meant for him, not just as a story but as a lesson, those doubts are dispelled with that almost playful tap to his nose. Almost against his will, he smiles a little, his gaze drawn from the engraving to meet her eyes. It isn't pity when someone else has walked the same road you have, and tries to show you where the pitfalls are.

It's hard to take her messages to heart, when that heart struggles against letting go of things he holds as truth. But he wants to believe that what she says is true. That even if his hope is lost, that someone else will find their hope in him. That his survival means something other than that he was too unlucky to die.

"You're a wise woman, Furiosa," he tells her. "Thank you. I'll... I'll try to remember that."

Prometheus does not send an announcement to Thor ahead of time that he's going to visit. He simply shows up in the village, and he has brought company: the Asgardian family staying with him -- a mother and her three children. The children -- twin girls and a younger brother, have come to play with the other children. The mother has come to decide if she is ready to relocate to Earth. The Nexus has grown on her, and she loves Prometheus like the uncle she never had, but these are her people, and Thor is her king.

With a quiet reassurance that he'll meet up with them later, Prometheus heads off to find Thor. He stops and chats with people along the way, recognizing the faces of people who have already left the Nexus. Sometimes he lends a hand, if it looks like they need help with whatever they're doing. He gives kids piggyback rides, and beams at any bit of good news he hears.

But he doesn't forget his main objective. Surely someone knows where their king is, and will point him in the right direction.

Visitors are not too uncommon in Asvera, usually strangers making deliveries of supplies or equipment, whether they hail from this Earth or somewhere beyond the Nexus. At first, the Asgardians who’d arrived with the ships watch Prometheus with detached curiosity, but distant politeness gives way to warmer looks as the children run to him fearlessly, familiarly, and a few of the adults he’d helped shelter greet him in passing.

Even when Asgard had been at the height of its glory, then-prince Thor’s comings and goings had often been known to the people, mostly because in those days he had flown overhead with a none-too-subtle crack of thunder in his wake, or lit up the horizon with the rainbow flare of the Bifrost. Now, his presence is quiet and subdued, but the population of the tiny islands is so small and intimate that it is more difficult not to know what one’s neighbors are doing, at times. Prometheus will not need to ask many before one young man has an answer for him. “I saw him walking toward Odin’s Tower this morning,” he says, pointing toward the next island across the bridge. There is a tall rocky bluff on one side, overlooking the sea to the east and topped with greenery. The clouds seem to hang lower there, a shade or two darker, though the air smells only of sea salt rather than an oncoming storm.

Upon arrival, Prometheus may note the Bifrost rune burned into the earth, near a blackened patch that has withered as though death itself touched it. Toward the edge of the bluff is a large boulder wide enough for three men to sit on, and it’s there that he will find Thor, looking out over the sea. His hair has grown long enough that the ends escape from beneath the knit hat he’s wearing, and the fullness of his beard is rivaling Prometheus’ now. Even from the back, the slump of his posture makes him look weary, and the bottle he raises to his lips might be partly to blame.

Prometheus thanks the man warmly before heading along the indicated bridge. The view has him a little distracted while he walks -- he's never spent much time in Norway. Occasionally he goes to the Nobel Peace Prize ceremony in Oslo, but otherwise he's seen little of it. It's a marvelous sight, although somber, too. The water reflects the clouds overhead; it's not at all the brilliant blue of the Aegean Sea that he's accustomed to.

He spots Thor easily enough, making his way to the boulder. The patch of dead earth catches his attention a moment, but he files away that for later. Right now, he's focused on the fellow deity who looks as though his burdens, self-imposed and otherwise, have not lifted any since the last time he saw them.

"Hello, friend." He takes a seat, close but not crowding. "How's the arm treating you? Any complaints?" His gaze drops to the bottle but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he looks out to the sea. "It's beautiful here. You might have to change your sign by the time this week is through. I think Hertha and her children are ready to leave me."

Not expecting company, Thor startles when he realizes he is no longer alone, a brief flash of alarm flicking across his face before he recognizes his visitor, and the tension bleeds out of him again. Unlike last time, he’s not able to summon a smile for his friend, but last time he’d still had hope.

That is gone, now.

But Thor is still here, for reasons he cannot fathom. And though he’d come out here to be alone with his thoughts, the solitude weighs on him heavily anyway, the guilt something he cannot escape from no matter where he goes or who he’s with. It may as well be spent in the company of a friend, now that he’s here. So after a long hesitation, he waves vaguely with the bottle in invitation for Prometheus to join him.

He glances down at his arm when asked, and though most of it is hidden beneath his sleeve, the black of his hand stands out against the gray fabric regardless. “No complaints,” he answers in a rough voice, and decides not to mention the part where he does not always wear it at home, for fear he will seem ungrateful. There are simply days when he does not feel worthy of the gift - or much else, for that matter - and sometimes it is easier to blame his lack of motivation on only having one arm to work with, as if that was not his choice all along. “It... served me well,” he adds, and takes another pull of the mead. What happened at the Garden was not the arm’s fault, after all.

Thor’s hand shakes slightly as he lowers the bottle to rest against his knee, and the change of subject comes as a flicker of relief. “Good thing we haven’t had an official one made yet. They... they are well?” he asks, though that seems obvious, and he had never before needed to be reassured of such things. A little belatedly, it occurs to him how much work Prometheus has been doing to keep his people safe, and so he adds, “And you?”

"Good," he says quietly, in regards to the arm. Or at least as quietly as a Titan can. Something has happened, clearly, something more than the usual after-effects of a man who has lost nearly everything, and Prometheus wants to be respectful of the somber mood. "I'd expect no less from Hephaestus, although I admit I was a little concerned about how being in a different universe might affect things."

No, the arm is obviously not the problem. Should he ask what has transpired since he last saw Thor? There's an opening there, and he considers it, but then the deity switches the topic of conversation, and Prometheus takes the hint, smiling and shifting his weight so that he can turn towards Thor where he's seated.

"They are well. Hertha is a scholar by trade, and we have had the most fascinating philosophical discussions. And her children are an absolute delight. I'd nearly forgotten how much fun it is to be surrounded by such curiosity." He's probably the one person who can answer a child's endless series of "why?" questions without ever losing his enthusiasm. "My apartment is going to feel very empty once they've moved out."

He means to sound light-hearted, but there is more than a little wistfulness to his words. He really will miss them. It's been a while since he's had such constant company.

"I am well, too. I've been keeping busy, obviously, but that's good for me."

There will be more openings, in all likelihood. Temporary distractions are usually just that, and though Thor does not always spend time dwelling on what happened, it is never far from his thoughts as if he is caught in an orbit around it, circling around again and again without escape. The drinking helps, for a while. Yet that too is temporary.

Thor picks absently at the label on the bottle, peeling a corner away and sticking it back down, compelled to do something with his hands though there's nothing productive to do. Nothing useful. He doesn't meet Prometheus' eyes, but he does turn a little toward him, at least.

He thinks of the silence of his house, before Harley came, and the loneliness of the solitude. It may not be that bad for his titanic friend, of course, but Thor's heart aches anyway. How many others are dealing with empty houses, across the universe? Empty spaces where friends and family once were. "I know the feeling." How do you cope, he wants to ask, but the words won't come and he doesn't know why.

Keeping busy. That's something that Thor has seen plenty of, around the village. There is so much work to do, and only so many hands to go around, and from what he's seen it's helped the people to have something productive to channel their grief, to tire them out so that they sleep easier. He can only wonder what that is like, unable to make himself do the same. "Any interesting projects?" he asks, trying to steer his thoughts away from the undercurrent dragging them down. "The... the children giving you a hand with the... potter's wheel?"

It seems only natural that Thor would latch onto that sentiment, and Prometheus regards him silently for a long moment, eyes warm with understanding. "Being among your people, it reminds me of my early days among humans, when I could live among them without obscuring my identity. I even had a son then. The old-fashioned way, not made from clay."

The effort Thor is making to keep the conversation moving is touching, and the Titan indulges him with a quiet chuckle. "Only Erik. He loves making small models of the animals he sees in the Nexus. He's quite good at it. Bodil takes after her mother and is always in the Grand Library, and Audhild would rather train Hephaestus. The pokémon, not my cousin."

He looks back, in the direction of the village. "Your people appear to be adjusting to life on Earth. Have they had much contact with humans yet?"

Had a son. Thor nearly asks what became of him, but if the story ends how he suspects, he does not want to hear it now. There is too much grief already on his shoulders, mourning for strangers he's never met and never will. "Good memories, I hope," he says instead, not quite sure what he will do if the answer is no, though there is nothing in his friend's manner to suggest it will be. "I doubt I could've hidden myself as well as you have," Thor adds, thinking back to the one and only time he'd had to try. He'd failed then, too, although perhaps that had not entirely been his own fault.

He doesn't laugh at the clarification, though something like a smile pulls at his lips for a moment, a faint echo of the broad grins he'd had for his friend before. "They may have to find different hobbies here. But you're welcome to visit them anytime you like." After everything his people have lost, Thor would rather cut off his remaining arm than take anything from them again.

His gaze does not follow the Titan's, looking back out toward the sea. "A little. We get shipments of supplies from Svolvær every fortnight. And there's a village on the other side of the mountain," he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the mainland, and the mountain that looms up shortly after the shore. "Sometimes the humans there pay us a visit." All things he's heard secondhand, however.

"The best memories." Ones tinged with nostalgia, an emotion that the forward-thinking Titan doesn't often allow himself to express. "He was a king, you know. A wise and noble leader. He inherited the best of what his mother and I had to offer. He lived a long time, longer than most humans, but he was mortal." He sighs, a sad smile gracing his lips. "After he passed on, it didn't feel right to stay among his people. That's when I started traveling... and you're right, it wasn't easy. Hard to explain how you manage not to age." His smile turns amused. "I got accused of being a witch a couple times. Or a demon. The demon one was kind of a funny story, actually, if you're interested?"

He's not expecting an enthusiastic response, but he'd like to keep the conversation light for a little while longer. To give Thor something else to think about besides loss.

"Yes, I think the pokémon are right out, unfortunately. She can always come back to the Nexus when she's older." He's thinking about the logistics when Thor makes his offer, and the Titan's entire face lights up, as if he can't help it. "Thank you, friend, I appreciate it. They've become like family, to me." And unlike humans, he can have so many more years with them.

He looks out that way, towards the mainland. "So, not too much mingling yet," he muses thoughtfully. Of course, with an entire world in mourning, now's not exactly the time for traveling.

Nostalgia is a difficult thing for Thor, sometimes. For nearly fifteen hundred years, he had lived a charmed life, growing up in a golden palace with a mother and father and brother that he loved, with loyal friends who cared for more than just his titles and influence. Now, all of that is gone, and even the memories are tainted by the knowledge that he has now. That Asgard did not earn its glory honorably, that Loki had felt like an outsider long before he'd learned of his parentage, that Thor had been too blind to question beyond what he saw on the surface.

Yet still he clings to those memories, pretty little lies, because at least then he had been happy. He hadn't wanted for anything.

So he listens to Prometheus talk about his son, watches the fondness in the lines of the Titan's face, an old grief that has long since settled and scarred over, and he can't help but envy his friend a little for it. "Sure, I'm all ears." Thor does a lot of listening these days anyway, more than he used to. It's been a hard-earned lesson. And a funny story has got to be better than much of what he's heard, in recent times.

Prometheus' admission that he's come to see his refugee family as kin makes Thor's heart ache, and he drains what's left of the bottle in his hand, even knowing that he doesn't have another to replace it. "I'm glad," he says, and he really does mean it, even if he's having trouble actually feeling much of anything right now. "We've all... we need all the family we can get." A brother, a cousin, a friend. A neighbor. Someone to hold onto, regardless of blood ties. Asgard survives together. They must.

Needing something to do with his hands, but out of drink, Thor resumes picking at the label on the empty bottle, not really watching what he's doing. "Not really. They say this place used to be a tourist town, though."

It's not as though Prometheus didn't suffer through his own trials, but he's had over thousands of years to move on, to give his mourning a home in his heart where it can rest comfortably. Thor's wounds are all so fresh. The Titan knows better than to offer that tired old adage: "time heals all wounds". Not when his friend is in the thick of it.

So, a humorous anecdote it is. He turns to face Thor, already gesturing with his hands as he sets the scene. "It was the 7th century, in Greece. I was living in a small coastal village, assisting some of the local architects with their designs. There was a convent just up the hill, the nuns -- religious women who had pledged themselves to God -- would come to town regularly to run errands and perform charitable deeds.

"Anyway, I was trying to keep a low profile, but you know how it is. You somehow survive a fall that would kill a human, or you display a skill that shouldn't be possible. I was in my pottery studio, at night, working, when suddenly in bursts this nun with a crucifix in her hand. Nice woman, middle-aged, probably the scariest thing she'd ever worked up the nerve to do. I tried to calm her down, but she was convinced that I was a demon, and she was waving about a scroll as proof, claiming it had my likeness on it. Well, I took a look at the scroll..."

He leans in and lowers his voice, his eyebrows raised knowingly. "It was porn, Thor. Detailed drawings of a bearded demon having his way with women. Some very satisfied-looking women, if you know what I mean. Before I knew it, the nun was all over me, begging me not to have my way with her, to stop seducing her with my devilish looks!" He laughs, blushing at the memory even now. "I managed to convince her to go back to the nunnery, that if she prayed hard enough, she'd get what she wanted. And then I packed up and left town. But I did call in a favor from Eros. Last I heard, she had quit the nunnery and married a local fisherman. A very happy local fisherman, I'm quite sure."

His laughter fades, his smile turning more serious. "Yes, we all need the family we can get. So long as you and your people will have me, I'll visit and do what I can to help." He places a hand on Thor's shoulder and squeezes gently.

Despite his melancholy, Thor finds himself more invested in the story than he’d expected, watching his friend gesture expressively as he weaves the tale, building up to something. And that something is not exactly what Thor had expected either, startling a brief laugh out of him. “No,” he says, as if disbelieving, imagining the dumbstruck look that must have been on Prometheus’ face the moment he’d realized what he was looking at.

His smile is a small, subdued one, but it’s there nonetheless. “A happy ending for all, I suppose. Better than being chased out at swordpoint. Did you ever go back?” Judging by the blush on the Titan’s face, Thor is going to guess the answer is probably no, if a memory fourteen centuries past can still summon that shade of red to his face.

The gesture may be a more solemn one, but it is no less appreciated. “You’re always welcome here,” Thor tells him, managing to meet his eye for at least a few moments. “You... you’ve already done so much for us all. We... I owe you a debt.” Whether it’s friend to friend, or a king owing an ally, it makes little difference to Thor.

His lingering embarrassment over sharing the tale is well worth the laugh he gets in return. The levity is fleeting, but it's one moment that his friend isn't burdened with his own sadness. "No," he admits sheepishly. "Not that anyone would remember me, but that scroll might still be out there. Better not risk it."

He gives a nod of gratitude at being welcome among Thor's people. "Consider it a debt that can be paid at your leisure, without interest," he says warmly, patting Thor's shoulder before letting go. He'd never insist that Thor owes him anything, although truthfully, he does not not. But he will not insult the generosity of a king.

"I hate to ask, but how are you faring? I hope you are taking solace in the company of friends." Isolation is not a good look for Thor.

In Asgard-that-was, the king might have seen fit to offer a boon to such a friend, a token of appreciation and gratitude, no matter if it was accepted or not. Thor is in no position to do that now, without even a throne to his name, never mind a single silver in the treasury. It doesn't feel right, offering nothing but words, no matter how well-received they are.

Maybe one day. Right now, he is having a difficult time seeing a future where Asgard prospers as they once did. But it's enough that Prometheus accepts his thanks, meager though they are. At least it's something.

His expression sobers further at the question, and Thor looks away, though he impulsively wants to claim that he's fine and not to worry. Even he knows that Prometheus would not fall for it, no matter how earnestly Thor tries to pretend. "A few have come to see me," he says, which is not the same as him seeking them out, of course. "Harley's staying with me for a while." It's something he finds reassuring and aggravating in turns, chafing against being looked after as if he is an invalid, yet at the same time knowing that some days he is, no matter that his body is healed now. Why else would he struggle to get out of bed, or neglect to bathe and brush his hair? Why else would he feel so tired so often, when he does little to exert himself?

Thor continues fidgeting with the label on the glass bottle, studying it more closely so he doesn't have to look his friend in the eye. "I am... not well." It's a shameful thing for him to admit, no matter how many times he's told that it's to be expected, that he is not to blame for this weakness. He is a warrior, and a king, and a god besides. He's supposed to be strong.

Unless one is a Fate or a Norn, the future is impossible to know. There may come a time yet when Prometheus needs Thor's help, when their fortunes may be reversed. But that is not why the Titan offers his assistance, or his compassion. And anyway, an uncomplicated friendship with another deity is gift enough.

It is reassuring to know that he is being looking after, although it takes him a moment to place the name. "I have heard of Harley," he says. "She's... involved with Loki, yes? Hopefully I can meet her sometime." Normally he worries after humans who enter relationships with gods. Very few of them work out in his experience, and quite often it is the human who suffers the most for it. But from what he's been told, Harley can most definitely take care of herself.

That quiet admittance from Thor cuts his own musings short. He nods in sympathy, placing a warm hand on his friend's shoulder. Not to urge him to look his way, but merely to remind him that he is there to listen. "Weaker deities would break in your position," he tells him. "You are doing as well as you can be, under the circumstances."

It’s still difficult sometimes to think of Loki, no matter that he still has a brother yet through the Nexus. Even if all other memory fades, Thor is certain he will never forget that terrible moment on the Statesman where Loki had met his end. It helps, a little, that he still has a Loki he can see and touch, a shoulder to lean on when Thor has needed it most direly, the only family he has left.

Thor nods, swiping at the dampness of his eye. “Yes, that’s her. She’s around, somewhere. You might see her yet.” He passes no judgment on their relationship, of course; Loki is not the first Odinson to fall for a mortal, though he’d mocked Thor for it at the time. But Thor’s relationship had not lasted, and now that he’s seen far more death than any man or god should ever have to, he would be the last to begrudge anyone for the solace they find in each other, no matter how short-lived.

His laugh is barely more than a breathy chuckle, directed more at himself than the friend at his side. “You sound certain that I haven’t.” Thor himself is not so sure. He’d like to believe so. Yet he feels like a stranger living in his own body, his own mind turned against him. But Prometheus does not know the cruel twist at the end of the story, what had happened after the last time they’d spoken, and Thor finds the words spilling out of him before he consciously chooses to speak. “The stones are gone.”

"I'll keep an eye out for her. I've heard she's very colorful." He smiles a little, but otherwise lets the subject drop. He knows what it's like to lose family, although he was never as close to any of his brothers as Thor was to Loki.

(Although he makes a mental note to give Epimetheus a call when he returns to his Earth. Just to see how he's doing lately, not because he misses the idiot or anything...)

"You're with your people," he answers with that same level of certainty. It is true that Thor is up here instead of down in the village, but he could have just as easily taken off to some far-off port to drink alone, to forget his duties in an effort to scrub away his shame. That's a good sign, in the Titan's opinion, and he's about to voice as much, but then Thor drops some information that puts his continued depression in a new and unpleasant light. "Gone?" he repeats in surprise. "Is that possible? I thought that they were as old as your universe. What happened to them?"

It's true enough that Thor could have chosen some other metaphorical hole to crawl into, someplace he could drink himself into a stupor without well-meaning friends coming along to try to drag him out of his own head. For a while, before the escape pods had arrived, that's exactly what he had done here, living in the empty village alone. But as painful as it is to look at what's left of his people and how far they've fallen, there is a part of Thor that would be even more lost if he left, loneliness consuming him from the inside out without the ability to see them pushing onward despite their losses. Even if sometimes it feels as though they are moving on without him.

His grip on the empty bottle tightens, the aimless fidgeting grinding to a halt as Thor stares out over the sea, his mind's eye entirely elsewhere. "He destroyed them. With each other. Two days before we found him."

They'd been so close.

Even just thinking about that day is enough to make his breathing harshen, his heart thudding more heavily in his chest. The glass creaks in his hand and Thor forces himself to drop it before it can shatter, letting it fall to the grass. By now, he's had enough panic attacks to recognize the start of one, but if he doesn't get this out now, he's not going to be able to at all. "I cut his fucking head off. Like I should've the f-first time. It didn't change a thing."

Oh, this is terrible news indeed. Prometheus shakes his head gravely, although there's nothing about the situation that he blames on a lack of forethought. It is a sad misfortune, made worse by how closely Thor and his allies missed retrieving the stones from Thanos' grasp. How oddly fitting for such a monster to use the stones on one another, to destroy that which gave him such power to begin with.

"I am sorry," he says quietly. He puts his hand on Thor's shoulder, turning towards him, body language open and accepting. "I am so sorry. I know you were hoping..." He trails off. He was hoping, too. He doesn't want this to be the ending of Thor's struggles. "Listen, friend. Killing Thanos may not have changed the past, but a madman like that, who knows what else he might have done. You were right to eliminate him. It was a justice done."

Knowing how to recognize the panic that is trying to choke him silent is a different thing than knowing how to stop it once it’s begun, and the mention of the Mad Titan’s name makes his reaction even more inevitable. Prometheus’ voice seems to come from somewhere far away, the hand on Thor’s shoulder distant and detached, as if everything has become unmoored from reality. An invisible weight crushes down on his chest, squeezing his lungs, and Thor presses a hand into his chest as if that might make any difference at all.

With the other, he reaches blindly for Prometheus’ arm, grabbing hold as he struggles to bring his breathing back under control. It’s humiliating, letting anyone see him like this, no matter how understanding they are. It’s one of many reasons he isolates himself from the others, yet in the grips of anxiety’s claws within him, none of that matters so much as the desire to make it stop.

The touch helps ground him, and several minutes pass before Thor is able to calm himself enough that he can breathe properly, and a light drizzle of rain patters down on the bluff where they sit. A little thunder rumbles distantly, muffled, rolling slowly across the sky like the waves across the ocean below. It’s a soothing sound to Thor, although he knows his titanic friend doesn’t share this particular viewpoint. It’s probably selfish of him not to send the storm away, but he’s not ready yet. Nor is he quite ready to let go, though he lightens the strength of his grip. “Sorry. That... it happens to me. Sometimes.”

Thor's reaction... well, it doesn't surprise him, not exactly, although the intensity of it catches him a little off-guard. Perhaps this is what the god meant about not being well. Still, he is a Titan, grandson of Gaia, so when Thor grasps onto him, he does not falter, as steady and stable as the ground itself. He drops the hand from Thor's shoulder so that he can grasp back, his grip strong and reassuring. He'd give his friend a hug, but he doesn't want to crowd him while he's obviously struggling to breathe normally. Instead, he simply sits silently, exuding calm, his own breathing slow and unhurried.

The rain is not a bother at all, especially because he knows that Thor needs it. When his friend finally speaks, he shrugs and smiles, letting go so that he can brush back his damp curls. "Don't worry about it. The jacket's waterproof." Warmly, he offers his arm again. "Would a hug help? I've been told I'm good at those."

For all its advancements in technology and science, the one discipline that Asgard has never excelled in is mental health, something that is proving to be one Hel of an oversight in recent days. Weakness, cowardice, madness... Thor had never thought to question the validity of these labels, confident in his assumption that he was above such things, even as nightmares and visions had plagued him after Ragnarok destroyed his home and most of his people. He'd never expected to live his nightmares with waking eyes, to still be terrified of a man he'd executed by his own hand, or to find himself so full of guilt and regret that he often wishes he'd died outright instead of lived to see the fruits of his failure.

At least then he would have earned the right to enter Valhalla, and be with his family.

Thor knows he's not the only one in the village suffering like this. Save for perhaps the youngest children who don't understand what has happened at all, it'd be a wonder if there are any Asgardians without nightmares anymore. But there are only two healers who yet survive to manage eight hundred in need of care, and with Earth's resources also stretched thin in the wake of the culling, it's the innocent who deserve what little help they can give. Not the man whose lust for revenge has doomed them all, no matter how great his need.

Though the anxiety squeezing its fist around his lungs has finally eased, Thor still does not feel quite himself, and if he'd found it difficult to look Prometheus in the eye before, it's almost impossible now as shame smolders within him. He can't hide how far he's fallen, and there's a part of Thor that simply does not understand why his friends still want anything to do with him like this, yet still grasps for any scrap of comfort he can find. Prometheus' quiet, steadfast support is as solid as the rocks being battered by the ocean, immovable even by the storm, and Thor feels a guilty pang of gratitude for it. How does he deserve this?

He's tempted to say no, to try to salvage some shred of pride and pretend just for a moment that he's the same Thor he used to be, who was never so needy as he is now. But he is so tired of fighting himself, of being alone, of pretending he's all right when even he can see he's not. He lets out a bone-weary sigh, closing his eye as the rain soaks his clothes and drips from his unruly beard. "Yeah. I'm... I'm good with that."

Prometheus has never tried his hand at therapy. That falls under the purview of Asclepius, or perhaps Athena. He always thought Athena would make a good therapist, she was a wonder for providing valuable insight. But he has comforted many humans over the years, watching their struggles and sharing in their grief. Always a little apart, because immortality tends to give you a different perspective on things. But as he watches Thor wrestle with his guilt and shame, he takes on that role as easily as he ever has.

He smiles and follows through on that hug, leaning in and wrapping his arm around Thor. His other one, too, if Thor lets go. This is no bro hug, either -- no quick pat on the back and release. He holds Thor as one would a brother, or a son, keeping him there so long as he wants. He smells like clay and feels like the warmth of a great kiln, his inner spirit ever burning, so long as there are people to care for.

Thor isn’t quite so far gone that he’s ready to cling to his friend like a man drowning and embarrass himself all the more, but there’s no mistaking how much he really needs this hug right now. He has always been the type of man to touch his friends, his family, casual affectionate gestures doled out as easily as breathing. Such things have been in short supply since the day the world ended, either because those he loves are gone, or because he has been too downcast to seek out the ones that are left, fearing their rejection more than their absence.

He makes a choked sort of noise as he turns to better face his friend, leaning into the hug and returning it with equal strength. Nor is he going to be quick to let go either, emboldened by the way Prometheus does not seem to mind him doing it. He can’t tell if his cheek is wet from rain or tears, and wonders if there’s even a difference anyway, when it comes to himself.

Eventually, though, he feels ready to pull away again, having gathered himself enough to feel a little like a person again. “Thanks,” he murmurs, managing a fragile sort of smile.

He’s not ready to let the storm go just yet, but the rain does taper off, leaving only the thunder rumbling across the horizon. It’s just a little too cool to be comfortable, and Thor pulls his damp knit hat off, scrubbing his metal fingers through the mess of his hair, grown long enough now to tangle. “There’s a coffee machine at my house, if you want to warm up,” he says impulsively, suddenly quite done with sitting out here on this cold, hard rock. “Or I’ve got lots of mead, if that’s your thing.”

Prometheus wouldn't say a word if Thor did cling to him, or cry loudly, or any other outpouring of emotion. He is glad that the hug seems to help in some small measure, and when Thor starts to pull away, he gives his friend a pat on the back and lets go naturally.

"Anytime," he says, his expression warm as always. He smiles at the offer of a drink. "I'd like that very much, friend. I'll take either, so long as it's hot." He wipes some rain out of his hair, giving an exaggerated shiver. "It's beautiful here, but when you're used to hot, sandy beaches, Norway can be a little chilly. Definitely not bathing suit weather."

"I suppose you're right. Could be colder; at least it's summer here now," Thor agrees, absently sweeping his gaze over the gray sea before he rises, turning away from the vista to head back to the main road. He leaves his empty bottle where it's fallen, having entirely forgotten it was even there, and shoves his hat into his hoodie pocket rather than try to wrestle it back over wet hair. After the sudden rain, there are much fewer people out and about to see him like this, and with luck they'll reach the house before that changes too much.

Thor's house is at the far end of the village from here, an old lighthouse-keeper's cottage that's much cozier than the golden palace he once called home. The rocky ground has prevented most of the plant overgrowth from making it look too neglected, although there are a few weeds and wildflowers stubbornly sprouting here and there around the perimeter of the house. The interior is very Norwegian in decor, still shaped by the previous owner, who seemed to have a love for mountainscapes and sailing ships if the paintings on the wall are any indication. Most of the furniture and the appliances look decades old, though there are a few modern amenities scattered here and there. Even more out of place is the stack of kegs in one corner of the living room, stamped with dwarven runes, and Stormbreaker propped up in the corner, as gleaming and deadly-looking as ever.

At least Harley's help has kept the place from falling into the mess it would be if Thor was left to his own devices. There are a few empty bottles on the coffee table, and a few bottlecaps scattered on the floor, but at least it's only today's trash rather than weeks' worth. The couch isn't in pristine condition either, a small pile of blankets heaped on one end as if someone suspiciously Thor-sized has been sleeping there, even though there is a perfectly functional bed in the bedroom that he isn't using.

It's been a while since Thor has had hot mead, but right now that sounds like just the thing. The glasses he manages to find aren't exactly the right ones - too tall, too skinny, not even shaped correctly - but as long as they can hold liquid, that's all that Thor cares about. He taps one of the kegs and pours out a generous portion, sticking the glasses in the microwave to heat it up to the right temperature before delivering one to his waiting friend. "Skål," he says, tapping his own glass against Prometheus' before taking a deep drink of it. It's too soon for it to have a real effect on him, even as godly strong as it is, but his hands seem a little steadier already, soothing rattled nerves.

Prometheus follows along, nodding amiably at the few people who remain outside, unperturbed by the brief occurrence of rain. It's probably something that happens often around here, he thinks to himself. At least no one need worry about a drought. "Are you people prepared for winter?" he asks. He can't help but remember the terrible winter in the Nexus, and reminds himself that it won't be that way here. No pesky winter spirits, for one thing. "Let me know if I can be of assistance."

He looks over Thor's current living arrangements with a small smile, making note of the distinct decor. It doesn't fit Thor, but it does fit the style of this part of the world. And at least the couch looks comfortable, even though Thor would be better off in a bed.

Using a microwave to heat up mead is a bit of a surprise, but hey, whatever works. He accepts the glass with a warm thanks. "Yamas," he replies, before taking a much lighter sip. Ah, that's better. He blinks at his drink. "Wow, this is the good stuff, isn't it? I haven't had a drink this strong since Dionysius's last birthday party." He pauses, then adds for clarification. "God of Wine. Real sweet guy, love him to pieces. His groupies? Not so much."

Though Thor was locked out of the Nexus during the storm that ravaged the Nexus this past winter, he's heard enough about it to know that he definitely does not want anything like that to come to Asvera. Winters in Asgard were usually rather mild, just cold enough for snow, and from what he has been told it should be similar here. Still, with the problems of supplies and finding suitable land to grow anything, it's a concern that's been raised more than once in the few meetings he's had with what's left of his council. "Working on it," Thor mumbles in response, hoping he doesn't too worried. "We're getting shipments from Oslo. Food and such. And building a greenhouse."

Whether that will be enough come winter, well, that has yet to be seen. Many things in the village are a work in progress, and it's fortunate they have an existing framework to build from, rather than starting from scratch.

Once he has his drink in hand, Thor does not hesitate to make himself comfortable on the couch from force of habit. "Make yourself at home," he adds, realizing a little belatedly that he's not being a very good host. That happens a lot, these days. The commentary on the drink gets a small smile out of Thor, a little too eager to talk about anything that isn't directly related to the tragedy overshadowing his entire being. "It's dwarven, from Nidavellir. Earth booze is nice but it doesn't really cut it." He takes another swallow, most of his glass already emptied despite having just sat down. "Thank the Norns I can still get it through the Nexus."

"Good, good." He's pleased to hear about the greenhouse. "What's the farming like up here? Doable? And the power grid is stable?" The last thing one wants is a power outage, especially this far north where sunlight is scant in the winter months. "You have the Nexus, too, at your disposal."

Hopefully. Now it's the Titan's turn to look a touch worried. He doesn't want last winter to have set a precedent.

So far as Prometheus is concerned, Thor is being a great host. He's inside where it's warm and he's got a glass of hot mead. What else does he need? When Thor tells him to make himself at home, he also takes a seat on the couch and slumps back into the cushions. "Nice," he says, both in reference to the comfort level of the couch and the origins of the mead. "Yeah, Earth alcohol is... well, I mean, it's made for humans, it's not going to pack the same punch." He takes another sip from his glass. "Dwarves know their mead, apparently. Who's your supplier in the Nexus?"

Thor tilts his metal hand back and forth in a so-so gesture, when he's asked about the farming. "The soil is poor and the climate is cold, but we can make it work. Grow lots of root vegetables or something. As for power..." He hadn't honestly considered whether Midgardian infrastructure would be up to the task. But this, at least, is something where there is an obvious backup solution. "I can take care of that, if it's needed." Another low rumble of thunder comes from the skies outside the house, as if to punctuate his point.

It's not a perfect solution, of course, and Norns forbid they have an outage on a day when Thor is struggling to get out of bed. But he would rather not think of that, right now. He's still exhausted from his last panic attack, and doesn't really want to risk provoking another.

Prometheus is being sensible about his alcohol consumption, whereas Thor is... not. The placement of the kegs in the living room, rather than the kitchen, makes it a lot easier for him to refill his glass without getting up, though this time he doesn't bother to warm it up. "Place called the Viper's Pit," Thor answers, leaning back again, and maybe it's just his mind playing tricks on him that's making him feel the warmth of the alcohol already, but he doesn't particularly care either way. The quicker it takes hold of him, the faster he will feel better, or so he tells himself. "It's run by a... another Loki." He wavers only for a moment before pushing on, not giving himself time to dwell on that. "Maybe if I run into that nature spirit from last autumn, she can curse me and I'll make my own again," he adds, and chuckles as if that's supposed to be funny.

Thor's reply, combined with the rumble of thunder, makes Prometheus chuckle. "Very clever," he says, his eyes twinkling as he takes in the full implication of what his friend says. "Yes, very clever! I don't think it ever occurred to Zeus to use his powers in such a way. He's so sour about humans harnessing the power of the gods. I'll bet he sulked like mad when Franklin ran that key up the kite string." A pause to sip his mead, and then he adds, "Human inventor. Smart fellow, he figured out that lightning and electricity were one and the same. Among other things."

Prometheus has no reason to overdue the drinking, but he's not about to chastise Thor over it. If it continues into the winter, then he'll have something to say about it, certainly, but for now, his friend's grief is so raw that he won't deny him a small measure of dampening it.

"I know the place you're talking about." He'll leave that topic alone, as well. One might consider it a blessing that Thor has two alternates of his brother in the Nexus, but the Titan knows that it can also be a cruel reminder of what he's lost. The joke is sour in his own mind, but he tries not to let that show. "Hazel is a surprisingly reasonable nature spirit, I don't think she'll curse you now that you've made amends." He sighs and adds, "All the same, Thor, you're better off here. The Nexus has become more complicated than I had thought at first glance. Now that I think about it, Hertha and her children are probably better off here. I'll try hard not to convince her otherwise, it would only be for selfish reasons."

The significance of keys and kites is lost on Thor, so the explanation helps a little, picturing a Tony Stark of a prior era experimenting with anything and everything he could get his hands on. “Ah, well, your Zeus clearly was never asked to recharge a mobile phone by a forgetful teammate,” he says, huffing out a faint laugh. “Or a suit of flying armor.”

Though it was not all that long ago, and only for the span of a year or so, there’s still a deep nostalgia in Thor for the glory days of the Avengers. What he wouldn’t give to return to those days! A more innocent time, when they did not know they were chasing an infinity stone, and Asgard had stood serene and beautiful in the cosmos, and the only grief that weighed heavy in his heart was his mother and brother alone.

The presence of his brother’s alternates is both a blessing and a curse, for all the reasons Prometheus thinks. Yet it was Loki whom Thor went to after the Snap, and after the Garden, and only Loki had been able to pull him back from the precipice. A reminder of all the reasons Thor has to mourn, but Thor would never trade this cursed gift for anything, clinging to what little he has left, no matter how much it hurts.

If any of Prometheus’ distaste at the joke shows on his face, Thor doesn’t notice at all. Speaking ill of the Nexus, subtle or not, does grab his attention however, and he frowns a little as he looks over at his friend. “You’re still welcome to visit,” he says, knowing he’s already said so before, but suddenly a little worried that Prometheus is considering going home and never returning to the Nexus, if he has decided the downsides outweigh the good. “There are no perfect solutions or perfect places, but the Nexus - and you - were there when we needed you most. If... if they’ve outgrown that need, that just means it did its job, right?”

That's a close enough assumption, as Franklin was nearly as prolific as Stark with his inventions. (And also had a love for the ladies.) Anyway, he's glad that Thor gets the idea, and laughs broadly at his reply. "No, he only works with other gods, if at all. But I'll keep that in mind the next time my phone is running a little low."

Haha, just kidding, he never lets his phone go below fifty percent.

Prometheus considers Loki's presence in the Nexus a gift as well. He has grown very fond of the both brothers, and though they are from different universes, he's grateful to the Fates that they can rely on one another in this trying time. And that their people had someone to care for them during their evacuation into the Nexus.

Picking up on Thor's worried tone, Prometheus smiles reassuringly. "Oh, I'll be here as often as I can," he says, relaxing back into the couch as if to demonstrate the point. "Whether they come here or not, I recognized many faces here and would love to help out as needed. My pottery shop does not need as much tending to as one would think. My numel has gotten quite good with the cash register."

He takes a sip from his glass, leaving Thor to picture Hephie working a machine with his stubby little feet. "Depending on how this winter goes, I may need an atlernate place to stay. But I have a few months to worry over that. You might want to think about what you'll do if the Nexus becomes inaccessible again."

Though he tries not to show it, there's no missing the relief in Thor's posture when Prometheus assures him he's not planning to walk off for good. In the short time that they've known each other, Thor's found a sort of kindred spirit in his titanic friend, someone whose friendship might last millennia instead of only decades. He'd hate to lose that, especially now, when he needs all the friends he has left.

Privately, Thor muses that if the shop needs as little tending as Prometheus suggests, the sleepy little pokemon might spend a good deal of time catching up on his naps. Not that he's judging or anything. That'd make him quite the hypocrite. "Is the next step teaching him how to run the potter's wheel, too?" He's mostly joking. But that would be pretty convenient, wouldn't it?

Reminders of what kinds of trouble the Nexus might bring is slightly less welcome, of course, and his smile dims a bit as he takes another drink of mead. "Shouldn't be as dire this year, if it happens. I mean, with us being on Earth, we should still be able to get food and water. I might have to... speed things up."

Supplies are a problem he can do something about, so that's all he mentions. Not having access to Loki, or Prometheus, or his other Nexus friends... he has yet to test his sanity against that particular loss, whether it's short-lived or not, but part of Thor is afraid of what might happen to him if he truly needs help and cannot get it. So he'd rather not think of it, and just hope that it doesn't happen, knowing all the while that ignoring something has never once made it actually go away.

Prometheus has made too many friends in the Nexus to turn his back on the place as a whole, Thor chief among them. In many ways, the Nexus reminds him of ancient times, when powerful beings roamed with impunity, leaving humans vulnerable and caught in the crossfire. Someone has to be around to balance the scales.

"I have tried already," the Titan replies, amused by the question. "He doesn't have the dexterity for it, unfortunately. But he is a big help, regardless." Thor is probably right about the sleeping thing. It's not like Prometheus needs the revenue from his shop, although a cute little pokemon behind the counter does help sales.

He's glad to hear that Thor has given the future at least a little thought. "Speed things up?" he asks curiously, before taking a long sip of mead. Fates, this is a good mead. He'll have to pay a visit to the Viper's Pit sometime. Still, he can't shake his concern about Winter causing problems again. As if sensing that concern mirrored, he leans forward and pats Thor's knee. "Tell you what, if there are signs that the Nexus is going to go through another bad storm, I'll do what I can and then relocate here instead of my own world. If that is all right with you?"

He chuckles a little at the mental image that provides. "Ah well, worth a shot. You never know until you try, right?"

By now, Thor has had enough of the mead that the warmth of it is settling into his blood, and while it's responsible for some of the pink flush to his cheeks, not all of it can be blamed on the alcohol. "Yes, I uh... I have a talent. For fertility magic. Crops, babies, that sort of thing." A thousand years of thinking of it as women's magic is not so easily overcome as just deciding to embrace it, but it still might mean the difference between survival and withering away. The one thing he can still do to help his people in a real, tangible way. So embarrassment or not, there's no reason to deny this part of himself anymore. Nor should any other man among the Asgardians, should he have a talent for seidr.

If only his brother had lived to see the day.

That's a thought that will lead him back down a dark path, though, so the surprise of Prometheus' offer is a welcome distraction to cling to. "You'd do that?" he blurts out, then hastily corrects himself. "I mean yes, of course. There are still beds to spare, though you'd have to share space with someone. Everyone does."

"Absolutely," he agrees. "Sometimes I give him a ball of clay to play with, he likes that, at least." Prometheus is a firm believer that everyone should get their hands dirty on some clay or other medium of their choice, no matter if they have the skill for it or not.

Thor may be a little embarrassed about his fertility magic, but Prometheus is positively enthralled. "No way!" he says, before lightly punching Thor in the shoulder in approval. "That's fantastic! I didn't know that was one of your powers. Be fruitful and multiply, huh?" Prometheus has many family members with that sort of power, male and female, so he's not put off by the topic in the least. "Your people are lucky, that's a wonderful ability to have. Zeus only makes more babies the old-fashioned way."

He chuckles a little at Thor's surprise and pats his knee again. It was an impulsive offer, at least by his standards, but he's glad that he made it. "No problem, I'll keep myself human-sized when I'm indoors," he jokes. "If I can't bunk with Hertha and her kids, then I'll just have to make a new friend." Best of all, he can continue to be himself and not pretend that he's mortal.

More reactions like this, and maybe Thor will be quicker to lose the lingering awkwardness over breaking from traditional Asgardian gender roles. He’s spent the vast majority of his life as fulfillment of the male ideal, strong and powerful and skilled with magics used for war, not homemaking and husbandry. But as a child, he’d been less concerned about what people thought of him, and there were times in his youth when he’d had reason to use his other magics in times of need. Hallowing land in times of drought, or blessing herds of goats and cattle. Or delivering babies, a handful of times.

Much of the teasing had come from his peers, mostly fellow warriors. Nearly all of them are gone now, and for those that do remain, the Valkyrie stands as an unquestioned example for the people to look up to, despite being a woman. After that, maybe a king with seidr more suited for hearth and home might not be scorned so much.

Either way, Prometheus’ enthusiastic response does little to lessen the blush on his cheeks, even as it lightens his spirit. “It’s not exactly something I’m known for these days,” he mutters into his drink, but he still looks pleased not to be teased about it. “My mother, she was the goddess of motherhood, among other things. I inherited it from her. Though the storm helps too, when it comes to drought and the like.” Six short years is not enough time to fully banish the grief of losing her, but at least it’s an older grief, one he has plenty of practice handling.

If there’s one thing that Thor does not hold in question, it’s Prometheus’ ability to make friends. “You’d find no shortage of open doors here,” he assures his friend, thinking on all those that the titan had helped shelter during those first harrowing weeks after... well, after. “I should introduce you to Korg sometime,” Thor says out loud, before he can follow that train of thought too closely. “He’s the friendly type, very easy-going, though he has been having a bit of trouble with low ceilings with these Midgardian houses.”

Edited 2019-08-13 22:03 (UTC)

Prometheus would enthusiastically give an earful to anyone daring to give Thor a hard time about his fertility magic. That sort of ability is more powerful than lightning, in some ways, and far longer lasting. Even Prometheus, whose realm lies more in creativity and progress, takes personal pride in creating humans, which is the closest he'll get to fertility powers.

"Plenty of my relatives have fertility powers," he tells Thor, both as conversation and as a bid to lessen his embarrassment. "Even my cousin Artemis, who's about as chaste as someone can be, was called upon during difficult childbirths." He lifts up his glass of mead. "Dionysius, too. Not the chaste part, the fertility part. The boy keeps himself busy."

The Titan has no doubt, either, in fact he's looking forward to it. "Oh, is he the rock giant you told me about? I'd love to meet him." He pauses, then asks hesitantly, "Do you think I could bring Steropes here sometime? He wouldn't frighten your people, would he? I've been researching places to take him, once I can convince Hephaestus to let him take a little time off."

Edited 2019-08-17 01:36 (UTC)

Thor has not really been known to be modest or humble, for much of his life. A lot has changed in the last ten years. He wouldn't be so quick to embrace this part of him if not for the situation his people have found themselves in now. Maybe later, he'll look back at this and see that as a bright spot in this part of his life.

For now, in any case, his hands have stopped shaking altogether now, much of the worst aftereffects of the panic attack muffled or banished entirely under the warmth of alcohol and the company of a friend. Particularly one who's given him something to think about that isn't choked with loss. "I've had to do that," he says, in regards to attending a laboring woman. "You might've met the last one, actually. Solvi and her little Joruun? They were some of those staying with Loki."

He's visited with them himself a few times, but ever since the ill-fated trip to the Garden, he's made himself rather more scarce. It isn't that he doesn't want to see them, but sometimes it's all just too overwhelming, and the baby especially doesn't need the stress he'd be responsible for. But out of all his citizens that have survived, he's guiltily thankful that Solvi and her little one are among their number.

But there are less harrowing topics to talk about, and with the strong mead doing its work, the tension in Thor's body is relaxing, his gestures becoming broader and more expressive as a comfortable fog begins to settle in. "Oh no, it'd take more than a giant to scare Asgardians." There's a different word for what Steropes is, but Thor can't quite remember it at the moment. "The Sakaarans, too. There's a couple species living here, not that any of them are that big, but he wouldn't stand out a lot. Wouldn't fit in any buildings though." Thor scratches at his beard with his prosthetic hand, thinking. "Is this too cold for him here? It doesn't get much warmer than this."

"Did you?" Prometheus says curiously. "In all my years, I've never delivered a baby. Ah -- a human baby, anyway." He mentally rifles through the names and faces of the people that he's met before he snaps his fingers in remembrance. "Ah, yes, I do! I don't do as much with the babies except make funny faces, but I've spoken with Solvi a few times. Lovely woman." They're all lovely -- all of Thor's people -- so far as he's concerned.

It's nice to see Thor relaxing, even though part of that is because of the mead. He settles a little more himself, happy to hear that his cyclops friend is welcome, although he feels the need to confirm by adding, "Yes, but his whole one-eye thing. I know that can be off-putting to some." It wouldn't fly at all on his Earth, that's for sure. "He'd be fine in this weather, he's very hardy. I'll find him some nice warm clothes to wear when he visits." Handmade, of course. There's no Big and Tall store big or tall enough for Steropes.

Good, Thor likes it when his friends know each other. Not that Solvi is a close friend, exactly, but once she had gotten past the awkwardness of having her king for a midwife, he likes to think their relationship wasn't quite as distant as a mere king to his subjects. She and her babe are special to him, the last little bit of good news he'd had before the world ended. Still persisting, still living, even after the cataclysm that has taken so many lives.

Thor blinks and laughs roughly, tapping a finger on his eyepatch. Or tries to, anyway, hitting his cheekbone instead. "They've had a one-eyed king for fifteen hundred years. Or maybe more, I dunno. Can't trust my father's history anymore. But they've still got me doing the same thing. And the gladiators don't look like us either. Had one with three heads for a while. Trust me, he'd be fine."

He's not even worried about the humans seeing Steropes here, either. The village is remote, for one, and with aliens not only known about but walking around in public, it shouldn't be that remarkable to have someone like the cyclops paying a visit. "Good! Just give us a heads up, maybe we can... put together a tour, or something."

Prometheus makes another mental note, in between sips of mead, to pay Solvi and her baby another visit. On his way to visit Thor, he tried to catch up with any familiar faces that he saw, something that will only grow in number, the more time he spends here.

The Titan lets out a guffaw. "Smartass," he says, lightly smacking Thor's knee. "You know what I mean." But he's finally reassured when Thor mentions the gentleman with three heads. All right then. "Sounds like Steropes will fit right in. And he'd be happy to help out while he's here. You'd be surprised, with his gigantic hands, but he's excellent at intricate detail work."

A tour. Steropes would like that. Of course, Steropes would be happy to just sit by the dock and watch the water. "Sounds like a plan. And you can let your people know what to expect, too." He frowns thoughtfully. "Are there other pantheons here, on Earth?"

Does Thor know what he means? One eye is one eye, right? Doesn't matter how many you started with, it's still out of the norm for a typical healthy Asgardian. He's a little confused at Prometheus' response, but quickly decides it doesn't matter, and just smiles back at him. "Oh yeah? Not much of a vacation if he's working though, is it?"

If Steropes wants to lend a hand, of course, there's never a shortage of work in Asvera. Not that Thor tries to think about that, with how unhelpful he himself has been so far. Sure, he got them land to call their own, but since then... it wouldn't be inaccurate to say he's been drifting.

He doesn't think about that now, either. Right now, in this moment, his only concern is more mead. And more conversation, preferably that doesn't have anything to do with all the awful shit that's been dragging him down. "What, like, physically?" he asks, frowning too. "Nope. Plenty people used to believe in, but it's all stories. Like I used to be." It's weirdly funny, in hindsight, and he chuckles at the thought. It's strange how quickly Midgardians forget. Or... maybe it's not. Asgard forgot Hela, after all. His frown returns, and he tips up his glass to empty it again.

Oh, Thor. There is a huge difference between missing an eye and having only one eye in the center of one's forehead, but thankfully he'll be spared that lecture as Prometheus only notices the confusion in passing. "He's like me," he explains, settling back on the couch. "He can't just sit around and be idle. His name literally means 'lightning', and he has that energy within him. That's partly why he admires you, of course, you control the element he represents."

Of course, Prometheus seems like he's doing a good job of being idle, but he really isn't. He's comforting a friend, which is very important. Unfortunately, with that frown on Thor's face, he feels like he's only doing a passable job. "Well, that's good news for me," he says lightly, hoping to brighten the mood. "I'd hate to run into alternates of my family here. That'd be awkward to explain."

"Really! You didn't tell me that before." Or maybe he did, and Thor forgot. He forgets a lot of things these days. But even if he's hearing it again, it still puts a smile on his face. "Doesn't use real lightning though? You like him better than that Zeus fellow." Not that that's proof of anything, really. Thor uses lightning and Prometheus likes him just fine.

Speaking of which, it occurs to him that it's been a bit since he last heard a rumble of thunder. While the skies outside are still gray and damp, the sudden thunderstorm that he'd called up has mostly moved off and dissolved now, losing its energy out over the ocean.

One of the good things about Thor's newfound tendency to drink a bit too much is that he's easier to distract. Part of the reason why he does it, really. So that's all it takes to recapture his attention, keeping his thoughts from drifting in a direction he doesn't want. "Oh, sure. Don't want them on my territory either. Don't they have some mountain all to themselves? That one's mine," he says, gesturing with his empty glass in the vague direction of the mainland. It took so much to get this land in the first place; strange gods showing up and muscling in on his turf is the last thing he wants.

Prometheus laughs a little at the question. "There are a lot of people I like better than Zeus," he points out. "It's not because of the lightning." Well, not entirely. He pauses a moment, then leans in and confesses, "Zeus has the power to smite me with his wrath. That's what makes me uncomfortable. There's not much that can touch me besides that."

It's not something he normally shares, but the warmth of the mead and Thor's own vulnerable state had made his tongue looser than usual. "Anyway, you've met Steropes. He's like a big, one-eyed puppy. He can make lightning bolts for Zeus, but not literal lightning, no."

Then he laughs again, more heartily. "Olympus," he says. "You know what, the next time I'm here, I'm giving you a book on Greek mythology. It's not fair for me to have such an advantage, when the only thing you know about me is that some nun tried to get frisky with me a few hundred years ago."

For all the differences between their peoples, the concept of a single true weakness is one that Thor is at least passingly familiar with, although the Midgardian version of the mishap with Baldr isn't all that close to what actually happened. So his eye widens at the confession, not so drunk that he can't treat it with the seriousness that it's due. "He's definitely not welcome here then. I'll put up a sign if I have to."

He'd ask why some gods are such dicks, but he can't exactly point fingers himself. It was only a decade ago that Thor himself was too arrogant to think things through before he acted, and nearly caused at least one war because of his foolishness.

Belatedly, it occurs to him that he probably could've spent his recent time on Midgard more productively by learning more about his friend's pantheon, either through the internet or by finding some television channel that might tell him more about it. He doesn't have too much time to feel guilty about that though, because the reminder of the story makes him laugh, a little more free with his amusement than he'd been before he'd downed half a keg of mead. "Oh, that's not all I know," he says, elbowing Prometheus with a grin. "I know you've got family drama worse than mine ever was, and that you're a good man despite it. In spite of it. One of those."

Even in the mythologies, the Greek deities are somehow more immortal than the Norse ones. He smiles at Thor's reply and raises his glass in a gesture of thanks. "I doubt he'd show up, anyway, or at least not the one I know. Too busy eating ambrosia on Olympus, pretending that he still rules over humanity."

Gods may not die, but a loss in believers can make them fade into obscurity, at least on the Titan's world. Zeus's name is remembered, but only in stories. There might be a few worshippers here and there, but not enough to keep him at his once ancient glory.

Aww, Thor, you're making Prometheus blush. He grins and elbows back good-naturedly. It's true, his family drama was pretty out of control in the beginning there. That's safe to assume, even if Thor only knows about his baby-swallowing uncle. Although taking into account what has happened to Thor and his people, Prometheus is perhaps a little grateful that life has been rather stable on his planet since the early years.

"Would you like to know more? I can tell you about all the ridiculous things Zeus has shape-shifted into over the years just to get laid."

Even before Ragnarok, the Asgardians had been well aware that gods can die just as mortals do. Longer lives, tougher bodies, faster healing... but whether one earns Valhalla or Folkvangr or Hel, no one escapes death's touch forever. Thor's been marked by it already, scarred in both body and soul, but if he lives long enough to succumb to old age, he still has thousands of years left before that happens. Thousands of years as potentially the only surviving god on Earth.

He doesn't like to think about that part.

In light of all that, a friendship with someone just as long-lived is a godsend, if one pardons the pun. Between Prometheus' cheerful presence and the warmth of the alcohol, Thor's mind is being kept from the worst of such thoughts. His eyebrows go up at the question, thinking of the ridiculous tales that the humans have about such things. Mostly when Loki is involved. "Don't tell me they credit him with creating an eight-legged horse too."

Prometheus snorts out a laugh. The mead is having an effect on him, too. He's no lightweight, but god-tier alcohol is harder to come by these days. "No, no, no. Not even a four-legged horse, that was thanks to Poseidon. But he had a thing about disguises. He's been a bull, a swan, a rain shower, an ant." He gives Thor a 'can you believe this guy?' kind of look. "What kind of pick-up artist decides to be an ant? It worked, though. He's the father of half the gods on Olympus, and dozens of heroes. Everyone says that his wife, Hera, is foul-tempered, but I would be, too, if my husband acted like that."

He takes another sip of mead, nearly emptying his glass. "Was that Sleipnir you were referring to? Where'd he come from?"

In his lifetime, Thor has heard of plenty of kinks, but turning into an ant is a new one on him. He coughs on a mouthful of mead, nearly swallowing it wrong when he goes to laugh incredulously, and thumps his metal hand against his chest until it goes down right. “Seriously?”

Yeah, on hearing this story, Thor’s not surprised that Hera is grumpy either. “And she still stays with him, knowing that?” Though if he knew that Hera’s wrath tends to get directed at the poor mortals and the like that Zeus seduces, rather than her horny husband, he’d have other questions, probably ones that Prometheus couldn’t answer. Either way, he thinks it’s a damn good thing that Prometheus tends to stay the hell away from that side of his family.

Sleipnir is a far more familiar topic, and Thor nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Father always told us that he was a gift when he first took the throne, presented by some dignitary from another Realm. Maybe that’s true, I dunno. I know he had Sleipnir when Hela was still conquering worlds, I saw it on a mural in the palace,” he adds, a troubled frown on his face before he shakes his head. “He was unique, one of a kind. Loki always figured if horses prayed to anybody, it’d be Sleipnir.”

It feels great to share this nonsense with someone else. The other gods (and the humans at the time) all treated Zeus's antics as, if not normal, at least acceptable. He grins at Thor's reaction. "You can fact check it on wikipedia if you don't believe me."

On the subject of Hera, the Titan shrugs. "It's good to be the Queen. She puts up with a lot of bullshit, but she gives as good as she gets, too. Honestly, between the two of them, I'd be more afraid of her. Her vengeance is legendary. I always liked talking to her, though. When she's not in a jealous rage, she can be pretty reasonable."

Hearing the story of Sleipnir's origin is fascinating, even if there isn't much to it. "I was hoping it wasn't like what I read," he says, then holds up a hand in appeasement. "Not that there's anything wrong with having a horse for a kid, but, uh... well, I like that your family isn't quite so... feral. In that sense, anyway." Even though talk of Loki is a sensitive subject, he adds quietly, "Your brother is very good with children. The Asgardian kind... probably the human kind, too."

Maybe it's just the similarity of their names, or what he's heard of this Hera's personality, but Thor is suddenly very glad that Hela is dead and can't meet her. They'd either get along like a house on fire, or just burn everything down regardless. Though whether Hela might have ever been reasoned with, well, Thor never saw her when she wasn't on a rampage, so it's hard to say. Either way, Thor has had his fill of vengeance until he's sick from it, and he would rather cut off his other arm too than butt heads with someone so bent on it as Hera sounds. "Charming," he says dryly.

Prometheus' haste to assure him that having animals for children is nothing to be ashamed of gets a quiet chuckle out of Thor. "The humans do have vivid imaginations, don't they? Fenrir didn't turn out to be one of his children either; she was Hela's warbeast, though just as fierce as the legends say. It took Hulk to take her down."

It's still so strange to Thor to mourn one Loki while another still remains accessible to him, nearly identical to the point where there are days where Thor forgets that they were different people at all. Yet even in years past, when Thor had seen his brother die and later had him turn up alive and well, the relief of having him back had done little to lessen the horror of having watched his death in the first place. And this last time was the worst of them all, all the more for knowing that it was real, and the Loki that yet lives in the Nexus still died at the Mad Titan's hand. His smile is a little watery, this too-familiar grief well settled in his chest and muffled enough under the blur of drink that it doesn't drive him to begin weeping again. "He is. More than I'd thought he would be. I'd always hoped that he would make a good uncle to my children, when I'd have them. Maybe raise his as cousins to mine." That had been before either of them had learned the truth, that they were not brothers by blood, and then things had changed so rapidly - Loki's fall, his madness, redemption and fate coming to bear too quickly for them to settle fully into a new paradigm.

Thor had assumed they would have more time to talk about it, to figure out where they stand. He's glad to have had that opportunity with the Loki who yet lives, a second chance that the brother of this world will never have now. The only comfort he has is that Loki must surely rest in Valhalla, where the brave shall live forever.

Prometheus snort-laughs at Thor's response, but his humor is short-lived. "The truth is," he says with heavy sigh, stretching his legs out before him. "Is that the whole lot of them can be bastards at any time. Even Athena. Athena! The goddess of wisdom, Thor, she is brilliant, and even she's been known to fly off the handle if a mortal crosses her." He shakes his head. "Maybe it's different for me, since I made humans, but I simply can't imagine striking down a single one of them. I want them to do better than me. Isn't that what every parent should want for their children? Or a god for their people?"

Ugh, this is depressing. He scrubs his face and sits back up. "Fenrir," he repeats, then blinks. "The giant wolf! Now there's a creature that would have fit right in where I'm from. Fates, am I glad to hear that he was taken care of. I'd have to stay permanently huge if he was out and about for my own safety."

It is touching, to hear Thor speak about raising his children alongside Loki's as cousins. It sounds like a hope from a long time ago, something to be cherished, even if it can no longer be true. He smiles, softly and with understanding. "Do you think you'd like to settle down in that way? Take a wife, or... you know, whatever your personal preference is, and have children? I can tell you from personal experience that raising a child is a unique experience. Creating children out of clay is rewarding, as well, but it's not the same."

Thor is absolutely on the same page as Prometheus on this one. "You'd think. My family doesn't exactly have the best history of that either." Though how deep it ran, he'll never know. Odin, at least, had seemed to have a change of heart in his latter days, or perhaps that's why he pushed his sons so hard in the first place. Thor had always tried to be perfect, to please his father and never tolerate weakness in himself or others, but that has turned back to bite him in the worst possible way. Or maybe Thor had just learned the wrong lessons along the way. Either way, he is on his own now, and he will never be exactly the king that Odin was. Time will tell if that's a good thing or not.

Fenrir, of all things, is a happier subject to discuss. Or at least not depressing for both of them. The final battle for Asgard had been a victory, maybe the last one that Thor has ever had, no matter how it had turned out in the end. "Oh, yes. Hulk threw her right off the edge of the world, otherwise I'm not sure how we would have stopped her. I was busy fighting Hela herself at the time, as well as her army of undead. If there's a Jormungandr out there as well, I haven't met him yet."

Ever since that fateful day at the Garden, Thor has found it difficult to think of the future, what might become of him and his people beyond the immediate day-to-day. Everything he'd thought he was prepared for, the type of kingship he'd been raised to expect, has been tipped on its head and left him floundering in the aftermath. Yet at the same time, he's aware - always aware - that even with the number of children saved, their people number so few now that they can't afford to not have new children to pass their knowledge and traditions to. Especially when it comes to the royal family, of which there is no one left but Thor. "Yeah. I'm supposed to. I am still king, for what that's worth these days." He gestures vaguely with his glass in the direction of the village beyond his walls, and doesn't really manage to smile. "You know, I'd always hoped I'd marry for love, not politics. My father didn't start pushing on the matter until I courted Jane because he disapproved of my choice. But that's over now anyway."

He does still mourn their breakup, but truly, Thor understands that it was for the best. Especially now, when he has seen so much death. How much harder would her loss hit him after eighty or so years together, only to lose her to the inevitability of age? Not to mention any children they would have together. Thor would outlive them all. He does not regret loving Jane, and he never will. Those days are fond memories, bittersweet though they are in hindsight, and he cherishes them. But in this... maybe Odin was right to try dissuading his son from a path that could lead to nowhere but heartbreak.

"This is why I never want to be a god," he says with a sigh, before giving Thor a sheepish look. "Uh, no offense. At least on my world, it comes with a ton of baggage that I don't want to deal with." He sighs and adds thoughtfully, "Maybe you have to be a bastard to ascend to Olympus. I'm much happier where I am, even if my glory is in the accomplishments of humanity and not my own powers."

His nose wrinkles at the mention of the sea serpent. "If he does, we can toss him at the kraken and let them fight it out on an abandoned planet. Like a... oh, what do the humans call them? A kaiju movie." He's being a bit irreverent because of the mead, but it is fun sometimes to speculate.

As the conversation turns back to marriage and children, he listens silently, a moment or two passing before he replies. "I don't see why you still can't marry for love. I married for love and I wasn't even looking for a relationship. Was Jane a mortal, was that why your father disapproved?" The Titan has always had a deep discomfort with gods being involved with mortals for a variety of reasons, although most of those don't apply to Thor. He's not a 'love them and have his wife find out and turn them into a cow' sort of god.

"Mm, none taken." It's not like he's wrong. Though the thought of being able to just turn one's back on godhood as easily as Thor had once turned his back on the throne puts an odd sort of yearning in his chest, as if perhaps by being nothing more than a man, Thor might have avoided all this. Wishful thinking, he knows; it would have happened anyway, had he not been involved. So he puts a smile on his face, no matter that there's no spark in his eye. "I'm glad for you. You've got a good thing going; don't let anyone tell you different."

What's a kaiju movie? Never mind, doesn't matter. If something else would fight the World Serpent for him, then so be it. Thor taps his glass against Prometheus' in a mock toast to that idea, though he nearly misses. Might be more the alcohol than the depth perception this time, but he doesn't seem to mind either way.

"Oh, yes. Clever, passionate, brave... very human." His voice wobbles a little as he realizes he doesn't even know if Jane is alive right now. Fifty-fifty chance either way. There's a part of him that really, really does not want to know. It's none of his business anymore anyway, right? She's moved on, and he's supposed to have done the same. Thor clears his throat, and runs his free hand through his hair, or at least he tries before the tangles stop him and he's no longer coordinated enough to sort it out. "It was kind of a... long-distance thing, for a while. Her work kept her busy, and so did mine. Didn't work out. We broke up a while ago."

Prometheus chuckles wryly. "Believe me, I know. I had a small following in Athens for a time... it was very stressful. It's not that I shy away from responsibility, but it didn't feel right. I'm a personification of Forethought, but I can't grant it in others. All I can do is give humans the tools necessary to work things out for themselves." It's why he's so happy when they succeed, and why he doesn't feel like they owe him anything, either.

The mock toast amuses him, although if he knew that all of his pop culture references are going over his friend's head, he would elaborate. He misses enough of them as it is, and he's lived among them for most of his life. There's just so much. It's impossible to keep up with human creativity.

"She sounds like someone worth knowing," he says warmly, after another sip of mead. It sounds like her fate is currently uncertain, which has the Titan looking away, trying to hide his own discomfort. That hits a little too close to home for him, not that Thor would know about how long it's been since Prometheus has seen his wife. "That's how it is for me and Hesione. She's an ocean nymph, the sea is her home. We lived together while raising Deucalion, but otherwise she stays in the water and I stay with humans. We meet up every so often. It's why I'm so fond of the beach."

Thor furrows his brow as he thinks hard on that. “Does that make you the god of - no, titan, sorry - of common sense, then?” If so, that sounds ridiculously useful. He can think of several people who could use more of that. Himself, included.

With as strongly as Thor wishes he could rewind time, nostalgia is a heavy hitter for him these days, and Jane is no exception. He sniffs, but he’s smiling a little. “She is. She hit me with her car the day we met,” he admits, something he can laugh about now, even if it’s brief and quiet. “Gave me clothing and food and a place to stay in my exile, and when the Bifrost was broken, she searched for a way to come to me instead. Few humans ever set foot on Asgard, and she was one of them, though I wish it’d been a social call, you know? But in the end, I couldn’t be there for her when she needed me, and I... our break-up was for the best,” he concludes, and he at least mostly believes it.

When he thinks about children now, he does not see having them with Jane, at least. Though someone dark-haired and strong-willed still lingers in his thoughts, and were he more sober, he might start to wonder if he has a type after all.

His frown returns a little as he listens to Prometheus talk about his wife. “I don’t know if I could... I mean, that sounds kind of lonely.” Maybe a little too blunt of a way to put it, but Thor has never been the wordsmith that his brother was, and he’s a little too drunk to come up with anything better.

"Close," Prometheus says with a grin. "Forethought is planning ahead, which I suppose is a kind of common sense. If there's a god of common sense, I'd love to meet them. I was able to grant humans forethought when I created them, which is something that most animals lack. It's not their fault, of course, it was my brother squandering his gifts on them without thinking ahead."

Getting hit by a car isn't much of a meet-cute, but knowing Thor's strength, Prometheus can laugh along with him. Although he's sorry to hear that Thor's relationship with Jane didn't work out, he's not terribly surprised, either. Maybe if the two of them had met in the Nexus. That seems to be the one place where such relationships can flourish. He pats Thor's arm comfortingly -- his flesh and blood one. "Mortals come into our lives in surprising ways. It's good to have memories you can cherish of your time with her."

The Titan's smile turns wry. "It works for us." Although this latest gap between visits is longer than he'd prefer. "Honestly, until I met her, I assumed that I would never be interested in anyone romantically. It's not really my style. Or maybe what happened to my brother scared me away from a traditional marriage. The gods made him a wife as a punishment. An indirect punishment, but..." He trails off and sighs. "Never mind, don't let me yuck your yum, Thor. If you want a wife who is with you always, you should have that."

Someday, Thor is going to have to ask Prometheus more about this whole ‘making humans’ thing. How it works, why he decided to do it, that sort of thing. Just because Thor’s not a sorcerer doesn’t mean the answers might not be interesting to hear. But right now if he asks, he’s probably going to forget within the hour. Better to wait until the room isn’t swaying so much. “Cheers to you then,” he says instead, raising his glass a little.

The possibility of spending his entire life as a bachelor has honestly never occurred to Thor as a real option. There are certain expectations on a prince of Asgard, particularly the crown prince, and now that he’s king that hasn’t changed a bit. But even that aside, he does want that sort of domesticity, someone to spend the rest of his life with. To make a home. Not... not this, what he has now.

He frowns a little at the turn of phrase, mouthing ‘yuck my yum?’ in befuddlement before just shaking his head. “I do. Or... I did. I don’t know anymore.” He rubs his hands across his face, feeling more tired all of a sudden. “My father wanted me to marry Sif,” he admits, and though he’d brushed it off at the time, assuming it was little more than incentive to stop pursuing Jane... he’s had a good long while to think things over, particularly after running into Sif in the Nexus. Bereft of her memories, yet looking at him as if he was the sun itself, and him wondering when in the Nine that happened. Wondering if maybe he should’ve been looking closer all along.

Prometheus lifts his glass in turn. "And to you, friend." He'd be happy to talk about how he created humans, but Thor is wise to wait until another time to ask. Not only because of his own lack of sobriety, but the Titan's as well. Thor would get a far more rambling answer in his current state, laced with tangents and anecdotes and pop culture references that would leave the god more confused than enlightened.

Such as using 'yuck my yum', which Prometheus only picked up recently, but enjoys using, as he does many colloquialisms. He catches that look of confusion on Thor's face, and laughs, waving his hand. "Sorry. It means I shouldn't put down something that you like just because it's not for me. It's a human phrase. They always come up with such amusing ways of saying things."

Then he settles down again and listens, but only until Thor mentions Sif. "Oh!" He sits up suddenly. "Oh, I met her! Oh, Thor. She's something else. Ready to help everyone, even without her memories... did she ever get her memories back? Do you know? I haven't seen her since."

Thor groans and tips his head back, a little more dramatically than is really called for. "Every time I think I've got their slang down, they come up with something else. How do you keep up?" And Prometheus isn't even friends with Tony Stark, the source of a truly dizzying amount of turns of phrase, from whom Thor has learned a great deal of his Earth vocabulary, if not on purpose.

Prometheus' enthusiasm about Thor's childhood friend is in stark contrast to the way Thor's chest feels twisted up into a tight knot, though greatly muffled by the alcohol. "I dunno. Haven't seen her since th' funeral. I don't know if she..." If she is - was - the Sif from this universe. If she vanished into dust. If he'll ever see her again.

He's probably overthinking it. That's all he seems to be able to do these days. He takes another long, deep drink, trying to chase those thoughts away and lose them in the fog. "I should go find her," he decides abruptly, though he can't quite seem to stand up to do it. "At least tell her... what happened to Heimdall."

Edited 2019-09-20 14:26 (UTC)

"I don't!" Prometheus confesses with a laugh. "I just pick up whatever I hear when I spend time with them. I'm usually stuck a couple of decades behind, if I'm being totally honest. They make up such wonderful phrases and then toss them away!" He thinks for a moment, then adds, "Whenever you're in doubt, look the phrase up on the internet. These days you can find out what anything means on there." It won't help Thor in the moment, but at least he'll have a better grasp of it later.

The Titan's enthusiasm eases considerably. He hopes for Thor's sake that she did survive. He's already lost too much. "I'll look for her," he offers. "And bring her here, if I do. She might be in the Nexus, or back in her universe, if it's different from yours."

Prometheus is certainly not wrong. Coming from a culture whose language has remained largely the same for possibly tens of thousands of years, coming back to Midgard after a thousand year absence was culture shock enough the first time, let alone when Thor returned a year later to find that even more had changed in his absence. "I will be googling things all day," he laments, not quite seriously. Though honestly, maybe he should do as Steven had done, carrying a notebook and jotting down unfamiliar things to look up later. But that seems like effort.

It's a relatively small thing that Prometheus is offering, but it means a great deal to Thor. He's lost so many, so much, that even the smallest things are worth clinging to with everything he has. "Thank you. I... I miss her." By the Nine, he is tired of crying all the time, but he can't help it. He smiles anyway, trying to think of better days, happier times. "We've known each other since we were children, you know. Asgardian women aren't s'posed to be warriors but she did it anyway. Have I told you about that?" If nothing else, spending the rest of his friend's visit drunkenly rambling on about his childhood friends sounds a much more pleasant way to pass the time than crying into his beer until he falls asleep.

Prometheus has the advantage of having lived with humans for most of their existence. Although he isn't ashamed to look something up if he is clueless about it. "You can text me, too. Or you can embrace the fact that you're out of date. No one hassles me about it." Of course, considering how he has a tendency to treat all humans as though he's their benevolent uncle, or a proud sports coach, the out-dated slang fits his persona and ends up being endearing rather than irritating.

Tony Stark would probably still give him a hard time, though. You can't please everyone!

The Titan wordlessly pats Thor's arm again. Not such a small thing, he'll do his best to find out her whereabouts. "No, I don't think we've talked about Sif. I've read about her, of course, but the myths are not the same as reality. They really don't let Asgardian women become warriors? What about the Valkyries?" There's also Thor's creepy sister, but he's not about to bring her up again.

"Special case. They all died before I was born. Or we thought they did," Thor starts, vaguely gesturing toward the rest of the village in an attempt to indicate the Valkyrie who's probably down at the docks as they speak. "Even back then they prob'ly got shit for it. But no Valkyries, no women warriors. It's a... a gender role thing. Like my seidr," he adds, failing to specify which type, though by now his friend can guess he doesn't mean the lightning.

"Women were supposed to learn magic and homemaking; Sif thought it was bullshit, so she pushed to train just like all the boys. Had to fight hard to get anyone to take her seriously." It seems hard to talk about her at first, a reminder of more innocent times he can never return to, but the longer he speaks the easier it gets. The words meander from him, his tongue loosened by the drink, as he recounts fond childhood memories of getting into trouble with Sif at his side, tales of adventure with Thor and Sif and the Warriors Three, young and brash and unstoppable.

It was happier times, and for the moment at least, Thor can dwell in them as if they'd never left. Maybe tonight, when he sleeps, he'll have good dreams again, a reprieve from those that haunt him.

Harley has stayed with Thor for over a week now. There were moments when she left the cottage (and he might have hoped that she gave up on him), but it was usually always to get supplies.

Two days after she announced she was staying -- her supplies included a hammock for her to sleep in, a few changes of clothes, and a trampoline.

She has done little things to get Thor onto a routine. Starting his day with breakfast (which she never forces him to eat), and getting him juice or soda in the afternoon so he doesn't spend the whole day drinking. And once in a while, she convinces him to go for a walk. Or to see the work that is being done around the village.

The greenhouse idea was supported by Harley completely. After all, it would be good for the Village to produce their own vegetables and fruit. So as the greenhouse is built, Harley does her best to get Thor interested in the process.

One day, when she disappears for supplies, she comes back to the Cottage with another woman with her. The tall green-skinned woman attracted some attention when she first arrived at the Village. There were a few men who wanted to keep on following her (and Harley too). But all she had to tell them is to keep up their good work on the repairs needed around the village, and they were more than happy to oblige.

Harley entered the cottage with a big grin. "Thor! We have some company!"

Having constant company is... strange.

It hadn't been like this at the Avengers compound. There, he'd had his own room, a private sanctum where he could close the door and lock himself away from the others for a while. At least, until they became concerned enough that Banner would come in to check on him. But here he's open, exposed, and while Harley gives him space at times, it's different knowing that she is still there. Watching when he loses track of time, staring dumbly at the television while seeing none of it. Listening when he wakes from a nightmare, tangled in blankets and gasping for breath, unable to calm himself and sleep again without the warm embrace of mead to muffle his screams.

He's lost his temper once or twice, irritable beyond even his own understanding, resentful that he's being nursemaided and even more upset with himself for needing to be pestered into eating, or taking a shower, or getting out around the village, fully aware that he should and yet often unable to make himself do it on his own. He doesn't understand himself anymore, trapped in a cycle of apathy and frustration, and running under it all is the deep guilt which colors his every move, his every thought, reminds him that he doesn't deserve this kind of care. Not him.

But not every day is a wholly bad one, either. Though it's hard to get himself out the door in the first place, there are times when he's come back feeling... not whole, not healed, but less gloomy, maybe. Once he even let the sun come out, for a little while, making its slow loop around the horizon yet never setting fully. And there is something oddly soothing about watching reruns of some cartoon together, with Harley curled up in the armchair and laughing at the antics of the animated characters on the screen.

Today, he's making an attempt to comb his hair after too long of leaving it alone, grown long enough that it's snarled beyond the limits of his energy and patience to fix. He grimaces a little when she calls out, and jams his hat onto his head, uncaring that it will only make the problem worse in the end, before coming out to see who is calling on him now. One of his people, he assumes, up until he lays eyes on a woman he's never seen before in his life. "Oh. Uh... hello."

Harley has stood by Thor during the ups and downs. Even when he lost his temper. He might get angry at his situation... but Harley understands why he is angry. And lets him vent his angry his own way (it has not been directed at her in any physical or mental way).

Harley beams at him, when he makes his appearance. The woman beside her stays close to Harley for now, a curious glance around the building.

"This is Pamela, my BFF. Pamela, this is Thor." She makes the introductions.

"I asked her here so we could get a great start on the greenhouse. Pam is the best when it comes to plants."

Pamela glances over to Thor. And nods softly. "Nice to meet you."

Had Harley told him that her friend was coming? Thor doesn't remember, though this would hardly be the first thing he's forgotten in recent days. It should make him anxious, but for some reason the flare of nervousness is muted, and he nods slightly to Pamela in greeting.

"And you," he answers, his gaze sweeping over her. She does not look entirely human, though what else she is, he can't tell. But then she is not the only one in the village right now who might stand out a little; the handful of Sakaarans gladiators who survived the massacre have decided to stay in Asvera too.

Though he has found it easy to lose track of what's discussed at his council meetings - if they can be called that - he vaguely recalls mention of the greenhouse construction being completed. "You're a farmer?"

"I am a biologist. And environmental activist." Pamela chuckles softly.

Harley bumps her shoulder into the other woman. "Go ahead. You can show him what you can do."

Pamela gives her a slight smile. She outstretches her hand. And within seconds, a flower appears, wrapping itself around her fingers.

He frowns, not entirely sure what that means, but his attention is caught immediately at the feeling of strange yet familiar seidr prickling in her palm. And no wonder - though the power she uses is not the same, Thor would recognize her magical commands even if he were missing both his eyes. Grow. Bloom. Flourish.

“Oh,” he says, a faint touch of appreciative awe in his voice as he reaches out to touch the blossom. A little life, where there was none before. He can’t resist sending a little thread of his own seidr into the bloom, encouraging it to grow greener, healthier, its scent perfuming the air.

"Careful... just touch the flower, and not my fingers." Pamela doesn't know what Thor's resistance would be to the biochemical toxins that her body produces. And would not want to see Harley's friend get sick, or fevered, right now.

"It will be great to see the village growing their own stuff... but I thought with Pamela's help, we can determine what plants would go best in this climate. And maybe get a head start on some things... so we'all have food by harvest time," Harley grins.

It’s a good idea, and one that has crossed Thor’s mind once or twice himself. But, convinced that he would do more harm than good, and lacking the will to actually do anything about it, he’d left it at simply a thought and nothing more.

Now, though... maybe it is because he would not be doing it alone, but it does not seem so bad. “I could help,” he offers, surprising even himself at how easily he says it. Where did that come from? Hadn’t he just been too tired to deal with his hair? Thor doesn’t understand what has changed, if anything even has, but it feels like it has been so long since he’s felt like doing anything of his own free will that he doesn’t question it too deeply.

"That would be wonderful." Pamela smiles at him. Harley places one arm in the notch of Thor's elbow, and the other in Pamela's elbow, and grins at them both.

"You should give her a proper tour. Pamela usually prefers a warmer climate. But she is interested in what this place has to offer."

"Yes..." Pamela nods. "It is so kind of you, to offer a safe haven for Harley."

Thor’s smile is small and uncertain, but it’s still a smile nonetheless. “I guess that’d be all right... we have to walk a bit to get there.”

This time, it does not seem so difficult to leave the house, for some reason. Thor’s voice is a little rough from disuse, but he finds the words begin to flow a little easier the more he speaks, pointing out little landmarks as they venture to the greenhouse, interspersed here and there between houses and hotels-turned-dorms. He does not walk them all the way out to the islands closest to the mainland, with little of interest there to see up close just yet, but he does point out the rocky bluff of Odin’s Tower across the water.

The greenhouse is several minutes’ walk from the lighthouse-keeper’s cottage, nestled in a space where a small parking lot used to be. It smells of fresh lumber and tilled soil, and the glass gleams cleanly. Multiple rows of dirt have been prepared to accept seeds and seedlings, some at ground level, others raised onto tables for easier tending. Nothing is growing yet, though there are shipments of seeds and bulbs collected against one wall, waiting to be planted.

Pamela is really interested in the landmarks that he points out. Asking questions here and there. When he points out Odin's Tower, she starts across the water, a little respectful and awed.

A satisfied smile comes to her lips, at the smell of the tilled soil in the greenhouse. And she immediately heads to touch the dirt, to see if she can determine the soil quality.

"Oh look at all these seeds!" Harley grins. "You got a nice haul here."

Pamela will find the dirt to be a mix of local soil, which is relatively poor in nutrients, and enriched potting soil that must have come from the general store. Not ideal growing conditions, but this far north, it is better than the rocky earth that is typical of this region.

Thor has not visited the greenhouse himself before, and moves to look at the seeds, lightly running his fingers over the labels as he looks over what they have. Some, he recognizes; basic vegetables like potatoes, turnips, onions, beans. Barley and wheat, juniper and lingonberries. “Gifts from the Norwegian government,” he tells Harley, and it’s odd that the twinge of guilt he usually feels does not come at the reminder that they can be so generous because these resources are not needed by those who are gone. “Part of the initial supplies to get us on our feet.”

"We will have to make sure that we get some good plant food, to balance out the nutrients that are missing in this soil." Pamela notes softly. "I can help with providing a good mixture recipe."

"That was nice of them. Ya'know we could create a little memorial garden right in the middle, and maybe a statue. And we could use the Norwegian flag to create a little flower garden to honor their generosity," Harley bounces on her heels for a second, picturing it out in her head.

"Come on, you two..." Pamela holds out a hand, where she is kneeling by the soil.

"Oh! Goodie! I love this part..." Harley bounces over to Pamela, taking the other woman's offered hand. And getting pulled down, a little playfully, by Pamela.

Momentarily puzzled by the mention of plant food, as none of these crops are carnivorous, Thor's eye lights up a little as he realizes there's something he can do here. Something helpful. Something that Loki had urged him to do, in vague muddled memories, which he had nearly forgotten. "No need. Just a moment."

Thor reaches out a hand over the waiting earth, and closes his eye. Faint wisps of blue seidr curl around his palm, like a gentler rendition of the lightning he has called on for centuries, and while it has been quite some time since Thor has blessed a field, he has not forgotten how. His magic sinks into the dirt, darkening its dusty hue to a richer brown, infusing it with nitrogen and phosphorus, strengthening the soil's ability to support life. The air inside the greenhouse slowly becomes a little more humid, and while the cloudy skies still hide the sun, the daylight is still enough to warm the enclosed space to a comfortable temperature.

He opens his eye again, looking over his handiwork with a small, hopeful smile. "That's better."

Pamela can feel the blessing that Thor is invoking over the waiting earth. She can sense how it strengthens the soil's ability to support life. She can feel how happy the soil is to be nourished and supported. She can feel how it even affects the plant-based powers that exist in her body. And she feels his magic calling to her on a deeper level.

Another layer of flowers grow spontaneously, covering the areas of her body that are already 'dressed' by other flowers.

"What a remarkable man..." She hums to herself, as the air inside the greenhouse becomes more of her liking. More humid.

"He would be such as asset..."

"Red! Nu-huh!" Harley shakes her finger at the other woman.

"But Harley..."

"I said... Nu-huh!" Harley reinforces it with her hands on her hips.

Pamela nods softly. "It is much better. Thank you Thor."

In the old days, Thor might have been embarrassed to call upon his lesser-used magics, the inheritance from his mother more suited for a daughter than a son, and something that had earned him some good-natured teasing at his expense when he was still a boy. But since Ragnarok... since the Statesman... it hasn't seemed to matter as much anymore. Especially not today.

Later, he'll think it strange that he has no reservations about using this feminine magic in front of others, but with this unnatural boost to his mood comes a strange inability to question it at all. He has not felt this good in a long time now, still a far cry from what he once was, but pulled free from the mire of his guilt and grief as Pamela's pheromones circulate within him. Thor's smile is shy, but pleased, watching her reaction. And while he has no idea what Harley is forbidding her from doing, it doesn't matter enough for him to ask.

What matters is he helped. He did something good, something that will lead to more food for his people, and he didn't screw it up.

He kneels next to the others by the dirt, ready to continue. Ready to do something, in a way he has not been in weeks. "What's next?"

If there was ever two people who would embrace and celebrate Thor's feminine magic, it would be these two women. Harley and Pamela.

Pamela has found a new appreciation of the God. And Harley has another celebratory moment to share with Loki, next time she sends him a letter. She has started to write to him every once and a while. Even with the welcome distraction of helping Thor through his depression, the other God is still on Harley's mind.

"We decide on how far apart we need the holes, to plant the seeds. Different plants have different requirements." Pamela explains. "There are plants that need a lot of space to spread their roots. While there are others that want to be close to other plant life."

"I think we should start with some of those vegetables. Then come fall we can make Rock Soup!" Harley grins.

"Potatoes are generous plants. They should be 12 inches apart. And because potatoes can be a little greedy at times... it is best not to grow them close to your other crops." Pamela noted softly. "It will be necessary to hill your potatoes. To watch them grow. And bury the growth with soil. They are quite remarkable, continuing to find strength and growth, even with being buried."

"Your turnips should be planted closer to the fall. They desire to be closer to each other, only requiring two inches of space from each other."

"Like most other roots vegetables... turnips do best with carrots and radishes. Turnips are easy to care for," Pamela explains.

"Onions are another cool season crop. They enjoy having a long day, with lots of sunlight, to produce bigger bulbs. Give them three inches of space, in strong daylight, and they will thrive nicely."

"The beans are a climbing plant. So they need to be against a wall, or a support system, so they can climb up. Beans also love direct sunlight. You have to watch your moisture levels around the beans, since excess heat or humidity can cause diseases."

"Barley and wheat does best in cool ground. They need sun, and a lot of space. I would recommend a large field, if there is one available," explains Pamela.

"The juniper is a shrub, that would be nice in that memorial garden idea that Harley had. Or as a base around the building. They smell nice. And love space to grow out, and spread out."

"And finally, the lingonberries. They are another plant that requires space, since they fill in that space quite quickly. You don't want them overcrowding your other plants. They love water, and it is best for them to get watered in the morning, so they have time to dry off. The amazing thing about lingonberries... you actually prune off the flowers in their first year, so they grow stronger the next."

Pamela lets all the information get absorbed by Thor. And she looks around the greenhouse, to determine places that would be well suited for each of the plants that were gifted to them.

"So you tell me Thor... what comes next?" Pamela softly inquires.

The minutiae of growing crops has never been something Thor had bothered to learn; his lessons had always revolved around the large-scale effects that a king would need to someday be concerned about, and his talent for fertility magic has always been more instinctual, primal, a force of nature that needs no intellect to guide it.

So he listens raptly as Pamela speaks, nearly as focused on her as he is on what she's saying, with his flesh-and-bone hand half-buried beneath the soft dirt, absently sifting it through his fingers and feeling the little sparks of life burrowing through the soil.

It is such a small decision, to determine which crops to plant and where. But it is also the first decision that Thor has felt like making in weeks, the anxiety muted beneath this strange serenity that has yet to fade and leave him to his sorrows. So it is with hesitant confidence that he looks around the greenhouse, and gives voice to his thoughts. "Potatoes and onions first," he decides thoughtfully. "We'll put the beans on the growing tables."

"Okay, to start the potatoes, we need to dig straight, shallow trenches. Each trench should be two inches apart from the next." Pamela looks around for a couple of gardening tools, and finds a few hoes. She presents one to Thor with a smile.

"The onions also need trenches. But they need to be further apart. Harley you could start on the other end for those." Pamela instructed.

It's almost meditative, digging in the dirt, working with his hands. Building something, rather than tearing it down. Every seed he plants in the damp earth is more food for his people, the potential for growth and goodness given a chance to bloom, with time and patience.

Though Thor pays little attention to it, the skies slowly clear as they work, the sun peeking through the clouds for the first time in several days.

It's not difficult work, but nevertheless when they finally stand back and look at their handiwork, Thor feels good about what they've accomplished, small though it is. Little wet hills of earth mark where each seed and bulb is buried, and a little chicken wire for the beans to climb as they grow. It's not enough to sustain the entire village, not by a long shot. But it's a start, humble though it is. A first step.

Both Pam and Harley are covered with dirt by the time the work is done. But they are both laughing, and still enjoying their time. So it was well worth it.

Pamela looks at the seeds and bulbs, a satisfied smile on her face. She could use her abilities to hasten their growing abilities. But wants to give something to Thor and his people to look after. They will feel more satisfied eating the vegetables if they are the ones to look after them, and care for them.

"We all need a shower..." Harley grins at Pamela. The other woman rolls her eyes. But still smiles.

"And perhaps supper, if I am invited to your home for such a meal," Pamela glances over to Thor with a smile.

They're not the only ones bearing the marks of the afternoon's hard work. Thor has a dirty streak across his forehead where he'd wiped sweat away, and his arms are brown up to the elbows, though it clings more to his flesh arm than the metal one.

Mention of a meal gives him pause as he brushes the worst of the dirt from his knees. Thor is genuinely not sure when was the last time he looked in the pantry, and can't remember if there is anything fit to serve all of them. Harley has been doing more of the cooking lately, when it comes to actual meals and not just eating his way through a bag of chips or a box of snack cakes.

"We might have to stop by the grocery first."

"I never got a really good look at the grocery when I first arrived," Pamela smiles, appreciating the suggestion.

"It would be a good thing to get a few more groceries in the cottage. Ohhhh… let's find out if they have corn we can pop. For tonight!" Harley grins.

Thor is familiar with popcorn from his time with the Avengers, and a handful of occasions that Stark had called 'movie night.' While he hadn't completely understood some of the movies he's been shown, Thor had still enjoyed the experience at the time. So he nods slightly, as he approaches the water's edge to rinse his hands clean in the cold sea before they head back.

The path back to his cottage would have taken them past the grocery anyway, so it is no detour to stop there on the way. The store is quite small, and the aisles are well-sorted, though the labels on the shelves do not often match what is being kept there, the distribution managed by a single Asgardian woman who is occupied with sorting the latest shipment of dried goods and putting them away. A child toddles along in her wake, a little boy who looks to be around three years old, grasping at the train of her skirt as if he cannot stand to be separated from her.

The woman looks up at the sound of the door opening, and does a double-take when she sees who has walked in. "Your Majesty," she greets him, surprised. Her gaze flicks over the two women as well, recognizing Harley from her presence around the village, though not the green-skinned woman with her. "Is there something I can help you find?"

Neither Harley or Pamela worry about cleaning the dirt off their hands or arms right now. After all, Pamela enjoys having the earth on her body. And Harley is just living life at its fullest.

They both smile at the Asgardian woman who is managing the grocery.

"Whatcha going to make for supper, Thor?" Harley asks him, an easy smile in his direction. Letting him decide on what supplies they will need. It is one more little thing that might mean a lot, after time.

"Do you have corn kernels? And cooking oil?" Pamela asks, still interested in making popcorn later.

The grocer nods, looking thoughtful. "Aye, cooking oil in abundance. Corn kernels..." That one is more difficult, as corn is a new ingredient to Asgard altogether, and she moves to browse the shelves where she'd placed the less familiar - or identifiable - foodstuffs. It may take her a few minutes to find them, but there is a modest amount left over from when the grocery was still operating as a business, rather than a storehouse.

Thor slowly moves along the shelves himself, casting his eye over the goods in hopes of finding inspiration. Flatbrød, cheese, tomato sauce... "Maybe a pizza?" he suggests to Harley, though he has no idea what a real recipe would be like. He'd certainly eaten enough of it in New York, and it had seemed rather straightforward then.

Pamela thanks the grocer as she finds both the cooking oil and corn kernels.

Harley smiles, joining him as he looks over the goods on the shelves. "A pizza would be great. Can't go wrong with pizza and popcorn."

"Did you want to stick with just a cheese pizza? Or put other toppings on it?"

The little boy stares shamelessly up at Pamela, watching her with open curiosity, though he never says a word. The grocery absently ruffles his hair, and encourages him to hold her hand, leading him back toward the front of the store to 'help' her count boxes of dried pasta.

Though it seems daunting to try to even pick toppings from the sheer multitude of options, the idea of leaving a pizza plain had honestly never crossed Thor's mind, and he shakes his head. It's been so long since he's really wanted to eat anything in particular that he is not sure what he wants, however. "Mushrooms and onion," he decides at last, hoping that's all right with his guests. "And a little stockfish." It's something they have in abundance, locally caught and dried, and it just doesn't feel like a meal without some kind of meat. It should be easy enough to create a few experimental slices, while leaving the rest of their creation to vegetables only.

He's utterly lost when it comes to choosing a cheese, however. He's never heard of most of the cheeses in stock, only recognizing that goat cheese probably won't melt the way they want.

"Sounds great. Less onions on my pieces, so I can share my hammock with Pamela if she wants to sleep over." Harley grins.

Pamela watches the little boy, and his guardian, with interest. She has a spot spot for children.

"Let's see... so many great cheese choices! Mozza! Ohhhh Cheddar! Ohhhh Goat Cheese! Man... can we just have a little cheese plate too?" Harley asks, excited.

“If it does not leave others without.” There are a few types they can take that won’t deplete the stocks entirely, so between Thor and Harley they collect all the ingredients needed for making supper, and carry them back to the cottage on the bluff.

By now, Harley is more familiar with the kitchen than Thor is, and he will need a little prompting to figure out how to operate the oven, a little more primitive than anything that had ever been in Stark’s tower. Finding an appropriate baking pan, too. There is no recipe to follow, just Harley’s instructions and what little Thor knows about what pizza is supposed to be like, spreading sauce and cheese on top of the flatbread and adding toppings before sliding it into the oven to bake.

"We will not take more than what we need. And we will give back, when we can." Pamela promises softly. She is pretty serious about the promise.

While Harley helps Thor in the kitchen make the pizza, Pamela sets the table for three, finding plates, and cups for all of them. And finds a vase, where she can place a couple of flowers too.

"I do wish a shower before supper, may I use yours, Thor?"

"Of course. Towels are in the... hall closet, I think?" It's probably a problem that he's lived in this house for weeks now and still is not entirely familiar with where things are. A small frown creases his brow as he thinks about that, fetching a washcloth for himself to finish wiping the dirt from his face.

Without Pamela in the room, the effects of her pheromones still linger, though not quite as strong and immediate. Enough that Thor feels different, even if he can't quite put his finger on why. This is the first good day he has had in months, and he hasn't felt the need to get himself a drink yet.

Pamela gives Harley a brief glance, and the blonde smiles at her. "I have towels here too. They are bright pink. You don't have to worry about leaving any skin cells behind on my stuff..."

"Thank you..." Pamela nods her head.

Harley smiles at Thor. "Thanks for being so accepting of her. Red really has tried to turn her life around recently."

Their exchange leaves Thor a bit befuddled, unable to track why it would matter for his guest to use Harley's towels. She hadn't wanted to be touched, earlier, though she hadn't explained why, and it hasn't occurred to Thor to question it.

Harley's follow-up leaves him even more confused, and he pauses in rinsing out the washcloth in the sink. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Must be the attitude of the 'heroes' on our world that is so different. They just cast as both as criminals, because of our past." Harley shrugs.

"That is why I have been taking her to the Nexus more often recently. She really deserves to know that there are other people out there... that will accept her."

"I'm not a hero." Thor doesn't say it as strongly as he would normally, if he was fully free of Pamela's influence. Instead it's more a statement of fact, something he knows to be true. And though it hurts him to say it, it's muted, muffled, like a shout from a distance.

He doesn't intend to listen to any arguments to the contrary, either. With his hands and face now fully clean of dirt, he moves over to the oven to check on the pizza's progress. It won't be long before it's ready.

"That is what I like about you Thor." Harley isn't going to argue with him.

Pamela soon returns to the room. She pours some water into the three glasses on the table. And smiles. "Looks like I have good time. Smells like pizza."

"We haven't had a decent pizza day in ages, Red." Harley grins.

"I think the last time was the sleepover with Catwoman and Enchantress." Pat smiles

"Have you done something like that with the Avengers, Thor?" Harley sits down.

Just water? Something about that doesn't feel right to Thor, but he can't quite put his finger on why. He dismisses the thought as he pulls the pizza out of the oven, and sets to slicing it up with a knife.

"Sure, we shared living space for a while when we were all living in Stark's tower," he answers, a pang of nostalgia in his chest, though it was only a handful of years ago. "Sharing a meal after a battle is something we'd done since the first time we were assembled, after the Chitauri invasion. More often at a restaurant than having food delivered, but there were times we did not want to eat in public. Because of injuries, or the like."

"Oh... I meant did you ever have a sleepover! But sharing a meal with teammates sounds great..." Harley grins.

"We shared meals together in Arkham... but it was a little different." Pamela noted softly. "We were not eating as team mates."

"That has changed. Little by little." Harley starts digging into her pizza slice.

Thor shrugs, taking a bite of his pizza. "As I said, we did share living space. Stark provided rooms for all of us, and allowed us to adjust the decor as we liked." A small, fond smile is on his lips as he thinks of those better days, before they had known what danger they faced. Before everything had gone wrong. "When we were at the tower, much time was spent in each other's company."

Though Thor has done a great deal to isolate himself, both through necessity and to cope with the guilt, he misses them all dearly. Misses being able to invite Steven for a spirited workout spar, or trading verbal jabs with Stark, or teaching Natasha how to braid her hair in the Asgardian fashion. But those days are gone, and with the Avengers fractured as they are, Thor cannot see them returning to what they once were. Not now.

One more thing to mourn, he supposes. But he is not entirely without friends, either. Steven has visited several times, and Thor has appreciated every single one.

Harley and Pam know how it feels to be torn away from a team. Or those they once trusted... and can not have the same connection with, as before.

"Is there anything we can do to help the others?" Pamela asks softly. She was told by Harley about what happened in Thor's world. And hopes she is not intruding too much into his grief.

Perhaps it's for the best that it's Pamela asking. Firmly under the influence of her pheromones, right now it doesn't hurt as much for Thor to think of his friends, better able to remember the good times without the constant stab of grief grinding away in his belly. Distanced, not as raw, as if he's had years to process instead of only months.

For today, at least.

Though while he's able to answer, he's perhaps not as helpful as he'd like to be. "I don't know. Some of them are keeping busy. Helping others. Natasha, Steven, Rabbit... I haven't heard from Stark or Banner, or Barton." There are others, but he doesn't know them well enough to be friends. And others still that have joined the dust and ash of the universe, as even the Avengers did not escape the culling with their numbers unscathed.

"Maybe you could bring the ones who are keeping busy a few vegetables, when they are grown. Make sure they are eating." Pamela has eaten little of the pizza.

But that seems to be leveled by the fact that Harley has eaten her share, and some of Pam's share.

"Pam always made sure I was eating in Arkham." Harley explains.

"But don't worry... I saved room for popcorn." She grins.

"Maybe I could," he agrees easily. They have already done so much for him, no matter if he deserves the help or not; it's only right to give back, when he can.

The pizza does not taste quite like the ones he'd eaten in New York, but it's good enough that Thor finishes off whatever the ladies don't eat. "There's always room for popcorn."

"I have a few movies for us to pick from. So we can enjoy the popcorn with a good flick." Harley smiles, as she starts to clear the table.

By now, Harley probably has a good idea what kind of television Thor tends to watch these days, and what he steers well clear of. Nothing with violence or war, or dramas that rely on grief to drive the plot. But sit-coms, animated family films, or feel-good stories, those are all right, even if he doesn't always laugh at the comedic parts.

"I trust you," he tells her with a small smile. Odds are pretty good he won't recognize most of her selections anyway.

She has chosen a few different animated family films today. Something that they can just watch, and be relaxed around.

Somewhere between the first and second movie, the popcorn comes out. And Pamela insists of helping Thor with getting the tangles out of his hair.

It becomes a little mini sleepover. The three of them just spending time together.

She hadn't expected to hear much from or about any of the Avengers who had stumbled into the Nexus after losing so much of their universe for a long time. The news that Thor had settled, truly settled, with what remained of his people in a place that was both suited to them and so similar to the origins of her own home city made Amelia all the more eager to offer any assistance she could. It was a touch selfish, though she barely even admitted that to herself, but Thor was a friend of Steve and that was reason enough to put her hands to work for his cause.

Stepping out of a portal atop a hill above the city, the rogue has to take a moment to ground herself.

It was so strange to see the sea again. To look out over the horizon and know that the other side was so far that it wasn't possible to reach it with her own two feet. It takes the breath from her lungs as she stares out at the deep blue waters and breathes in the heady scent of salt and life that exist only in places like this. Turning from it feels impossible, and for a few moments the rogue allows herself to dwell on thoughts of the place that was once her home and how much this place makes her ache for that.

But she's not here for herself today. If anything, she's here for the distraction that helping others will bring. Thor has suffered as much as Steve, and that helps keep Amelia's thoughts where they need to be.

Tucking her hands into the pockets on the inside of her light cloak, the rogue makes her way down the hillside toward the center of the town. Every step feels like one closer to where she came from before running into the Nexus, and it brings an unwitting smile to her face as she watches the Asgardians at work in the market and out on the harbor. Her fingers twitch with excitement at the prospect of doing things she grew up learning and watching, and she eventually takes down the fancy braid crown she did for herself to put her hair into a more laid-back, over-the-shoulder French braid that's better suited to the work she hopes is ahead of her.

"Excuse me," she calls softly as she approaches the market. A few faces turn to her, and she finally remembers to quiet her smile into something more appropriate for the mood of the city. "I'm an acquaintance of Thor and I was told I might be able to help you all while you settle into your new home. Do you have anything you need assistance with until I find him?"

In a community this small, new faces stand out, and Amelia is subjected to some mildly curious looks as she strolls through the village. They're getting used to strangers coming and going, offering supplies or aid, and a few who came just to gawk at their new alien neighbors. The latter were not quite as welcome as the former, of course, and they have yet to see which of those she is.

One of the Asgardians she speaks to is a young man, maybe twenty years old by human standards, his long hair pulled back in a messy bun, and his beard trimmed close to his jawline. His clothes are almost all Earth in style, jeans and a rugged jacket, though his boots are heavily worn Asgardian leather. Like most she's seen, there's a somber sort of air around him, but he meets her eye without hesitation and looks her over. The need for extra hands is less dire than it was when they first arrived, but there's still more than enough work to go around. "I haven't seen the king today, but if he isn't at his house, he may be at the greenhouse," he tells her, slightly apologetic. "If you want to work... what's your trade? Are you any good at identifying plants? Many of the local herbs are strange to us and we don't know what they do."

Amelia's clothes are a mix of modern and old as well today: sturdy jeans are tucked into her usual leather boots - daggers included - and are accompanied by a basic black long sleeved shirt under a leather underbust corset. She feels all the more at home as she notices the amalgamation of clothing styles, but her attention doesn't linger on it for long.

The work she's offered is as close to perfect for her as it could be in a place like this. Dreams, she can be truly useful to these people. The thought warms her smile and she nods as she takes a few steps closer to the young man who spoke. "My family's business is spice trading. If you show me the plants and herbs that are unfamiliar to you, I can identify them for you and teach anyone who has the time to hear it." She tucks her fingers into fists and clenches them tightly to keep from getting ahead of herself. "Can someone show me where these plants are? If no one has time to stay with me today, I can harvest some and bring them back to explain over a meal later. If any of them interest your people, I can return and teach as many as you'd like everything I know."

Spices, medicine, any kind of information will be valuable information to people who are used to herbs native to Vanaheim and Alfheim, though not so much Midgard. The young Asgardian looks a little surprised to have found something so appropriate to her trade, but a pleased look settles onto his features in short order. "There are some samples at the Healing Hall already, and some of the seed packets we were gifted are at the greenhouse. I was going to venture out to the mountain today to see what else is already growing wild, if you'd like to come with me."

Which mountain he means should be fairly obvious, as it rises out of the mainland just on the other side of the bridge that links it to the islands of Asvera. It is not a terribly tall or steep mountain, something that could be summitted by a dedicated hiker within an hour or two, and though it's quite rocky there is a great deal of green flourishing at its base and on its slopes.

He doesn't offer a handshake, since that's an Earth custom. Instead he bows slightly, respectfully. "My name is Vidar, son of Stian. Might I have yours, my lady?"

It'll be a tough hike for the rogue - it's been a while since she had such a challenge laid out in front of her - but nothing that can't be conquered with enough determination and stubbornness. She smiles when he bows and returns the gesture with an incline of her head and shoulders. "Amelia Ronsam," she offers. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Vidar. Please, lead the way." She motions for him to do so, falling in step with him as soon as he begins making his way toward the mountain.

"If you can," she begins after they're a bit further out from the crowd, "can you tell me what needs you're hoping to have met with the plants that grow here? I can focus my search on those that would be most useful to you today if I know ahead of time, and I can come back to look through the rest another day." Whether or not that ends up happening, Amelia already knows she'll be back. From the general look of the village, the Asgardians are still getting set up and settling into their new home, and that's something she feels confident she can help with. This is like the place her heart wishes was still home and any knowledge she can pass on to those who actually do live here is something she feels should be done.

Fortunately, the first leg of the hike is all on paved, level road, until they reach the base of the mountain itself. Vidar's stride is that of someone used to a great deal of physical activity, though he's considerate enough to make sure his longer legs are not outpacing her. He glances over at her when she speaks, and a look of mild unease is in his eyes, as if he's debating whether or not to share something embarrassing.

"Healing herbs are the highest priority, at the moment. Midgardian medicine is tailored for human bodies, not Asgardian, and Lady Eir does not know if they will be useful to us." That's not the part he is hesitant about, however, and he visibly chews on the thought for a moment before he lowers his voice, as if divulging something confidential, or shameful. "If there are herbs that treat maladies of the mind, Lady Eir wants those most of all."

It's kind of Vidar to keep to her pace, as it gives her enough time to think more carefully about his ask. It's been a long time since she's thought about herbs and spices for much else besides pain and the occasional wound to prevent infection before she's able to seek more practiced medical help. The times anyone in Masarra would ask for things to help with their anxiousness, sadness, or despair were very few, and the requests often came from concerned family or friends rather than the person who needed the help. Amelia can only hope that the few herbs she's found are common in the multiverse grow wild in this area - or can be quickly cultivated in the cooler climate.

"We'll have to see what's on the mountain itself, but have you heard of the flowers called lavender or chamomile? They may have other names locally, but both are good for soothing the mind and helping to relax the body. I can't promise they'll have the effect your healer is hoping for, but many people I've met speak of feeling lighter after drinking a tea made from either."

The idea may be one given in vain, but it's worth a try. These people have been through a lot in the past few months and anything to relieve their burdens, if only for a little while, is something that shouldn't be discounted.

Chamomile is a name that Vidar does not recognize, but the other... “I know lavender,” he affirms, a flicker of surprise in his eyes that her advice comes free of judgment. Human culture truly is strange sometimes, but right now that’s to their benefit. After Ragnarok, and what came after, it is a wonder if there is anyone in Asvera free of disturbances of the mind, whether mere nightmares or those who suffer far worse.

“There may be some growing further down the mainland road,” he adds, looking back toward the curving path that follows the shore and winds around the mountain. “I saw purple flowers down that way before we set out.”

Once they reach the greener parts of the mainland, Vidar will stick relatively close to Amelia, calling out new plants he does not recognize for her to come identify for him. Those she deems medically - or culinarily - useful, he takes a cutting of, and wraps it in cloth before stashing it in his pack. Anything she cannot identify will likewise be sampled and stowed in a separate pack pocket for later testing.

Amelia's glad to see her knowledge is useful to these people. Too often it feels as if everything she learned from her family's business before coming to the Nexus is useless and out of date. Here, at least, she can be helpful to people outside of herself, and that is a powerful feeling the rogue carries as they make their way along the road.

Once they're actually foraging for plants, Amelia points out everything she can think of. Dandelions, juniper, sage, henbane, among several others. There are still a dozen or more than Amelia doesn't know, but she takes a picture of each as Vidar collects them and assures the man that she'll investigate the names and properties of each of them once she returns to the Nexus. The library there will have everything she needs to at least find out the names and what the people of Earth use the plants for.

It takes over an hour for the rogue to exhaust everything the two of them are able to find easily. They're turning back toward the village when she suddenly stops Vidar with a word and then motions for him to follow as she steps out into the knee high grasses off one side of the road. Ahead of Amelia is a small patch of small white and yellow flowers, which she crouches down to examine once close enough. She picks a single flower from the group, rubs a white petal between her fingers long enough to destroy it, then touches her finger to her tongue to taste it. A bright smile comes over her face and she quickly turns to Vidar.

"This," she says, pointing to the flowers, "is chamomile. If there's some growing here, there's likely to be more spread throughout this field and downwind from this area. A bit more exploration of the area will be necessary to find it, but I'm confident there's at least a few more flowers hiding among the grasses."

It’s a far more satisfying task for Vidar to have a knowledgeable person along to help, letting him return home with a pack full of plants whose uses are known instead of dozens upon dozens that would require extensive testing or research to understand. As they search, and uncover more and more useful herbs, the downcast air around the Asgardian lightens a bit, and he smiles a little when she shows him the chamomile. “Where one grows, so do many,” he agrees, using his knife to carefully cut some of the stems. “I will remember this spot when it comes time for seeds to spread.”

Though now that he is thinking of seeds, perhaps it’d be wise to stop at the greenhouse on the way into the village, to see if there are any herbs among them. The little glass-walled building is newly built, set quite near the road as it enters the main island, its panes fogged with moisture. Inside, rich dark earth blooms green with potato plants and onion greens, and beanstalks climbing chicken wire frames. More seedling crops are too young yet to be identified at a glance, just barely poking up from the soil, and in the center of it all, Thor is kneeling with his eye closed, his real hand buried in the dirt. He doesn’t seem to notice that he is no longer alone, at first.

The Asgardians may not know much about the plants in their new home, but they certainly know the basics of horticulture. It'll be enough to get them started this season when combined with greenhouse they've already built. Amelia's only hope is that the plants will be able to help these people the way they're all hoping.

The greenhouse itself is a work of art unlike anything Amelia's ever encountered before. She's read about them fairly extensively, but she's never actually been inside of one, much less one that's producing so well so soon after its construction. It's an impressive sight, one that captures her attention long enough that it takes her a few extra seconds before she nods to Vidar for his assistance and steps closer to Thor.

"It's beautiful," she says softly, taking care to avoid startling him. "Not just this building, but all of it. The mountains, the town, the sea..." She exhales a soft breath and kneels beside Thor, a warm smile on her face. "You've found a wonderful place to begin again with your people."

Vidar looks more hesitant to disturb his king, though he nods in return. "I will get these to Lady Eir," he murmurs, hefting the pack, and steps out to give them privacy.

Blue wisps of magic pool around Thor's fingers, seeping into the dirt like water, and if Amelia is watching she may note how the seedlings flourish in response. Growing taller, spreading outward, sprouting leaves which unfurl and reach up toward the cloud-shrouded sun, revealing themselves to be rhubarb and cabbage, basil and dill. On their makeshift trellis, the bean vines crawl higher and flower buds begin to bloom, the potato plants blossoming shortly after, and the base of the onions turning a healthy, papery brown.

The soft scrape of her footstep is enough to alert Thor that he has company, and the seidr trickles to a halt as Thor turns his head to see who's there, surprise flickering in his eye when he recognizes the visitor. Her words are even moreso, and he has to take a moment to process how to respond, sitting back on his heels and absently brushing the dirt from his hands, flesh and metal alike. A smile does not come as easily to his lips, but he tries, mild homesickness stirring in his belly. "It'll do," he agrees quietly, looking past her for a moment at the village outside the glass walls, trying not to compare it to the splendor of Asgard-that-was. Trying to see the beauty that she sees, rather than the invisible loss that he does.

The movement of Thor's hands against one another has become less about cleaning off dirt and more about soothing his nerves, now, and he returns his gaze to her, although he doesn't hold eye contact as he used to. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming. I would've... you know." Cleaned up, maybe, although even Thor doubts he would have.

The display of magic is amazing. To be able to cause plants to grow and flourish with only a thought and some focus is well beyond anything the rogue can manage. She's never seen a display of magic like this one and she's honestly a bit upset with herself that she interrupted it. If she'd known what Thor was doing, she'd have sat back and watched with wide eyes and child-like wonder.

She shakes her head when he speaks, her smile tugging wider across her face. "No need to apologize. This is a busy place and I took the chance to help as best I could." She only hopes it's as helpful as she'd like it to be.

Turning her head briefly to the door, she holds in a content sigh as she thinks over her time here. "I got to know a young man, Vidar, fairly well as I helped him identify and collect herbs and plants from the mountains the grasses around the town. He seems a good, stout young man, eager to put himself to work for the sake of all." It's noble - something she's unused to after years of selfish actions - and worthy of far more praise than Amelia can manage.

With a bit of shifting, she moves to sit on one hip with her legs out beside her. "Please, don't let me interrupt you," she says, motioning to the flourishing garden around them. "I'm happy to watch until you're done with your work. I've never seen magic like this and it's..." Dreams, it feels awkward to use the word again, but it's all that comes to mind. "It's beautiful, and beyond any words I could use to describe it."

If Thor had taken the throne with Asgard still at its height, there's little chance he would have ever known all of his subjects by name. There would have been little need, with tens of thousands of Asgardians under his rule, never mind the ten trillion other souls across the Nine Realms. But with a village less than a thousand, and after the censuses they've taken after each massacre, Thor has read the list of survivors enough times to have at least a passing familiarity with those that still live.

"He's... he's a good kid." Never mind that Vidar is only a handful of centuries younger than Thor; there are so few elders left that everyone in the village seems too young for this life. Even Thor himself is only fifteen hundred, give or take a few years. These days, he feels much older than he is. He wouldn't be surprised to find his growing hair coming in silver, one of these days. Then he'd really start to look like his father. Thor shakes himself free of that line of thought, however, and musters up a small smile. "Maybe he'll be the village alchemist, after all this."

His gaze follows her gesture to the garden, and his cheeks flush, self-conscious. "Oh, this is..." It is exactly what it looks like, of course, but thousands of years of cultural gender norms are not so easily shaken off, no matter how little sense they make at this stage. "It's fertility magic," he says instead, as if saying it out loud might make it easier. "I haven't used it this much in a long time."

"He has the capacity to learn. With some training and guidance, I think he'd do very well in the position." Vidar certainly showed his willingness to learn and take on the hard tasks when necessary. Given enough time, Amelia's certain he could become very adept at alchemy. Not that she knows exactly what's required, but enough time spent trading and bartering with alchemists when she was younger has given her a fairly decent idea.

"Fertility magic?" That would explain why she's never seen or read about its like. All of her studies have focused on elemental and defensive magics - anything like what Thor is doing now is far outside anything she even realized existed. But now he's made her curious, and her curiosity is something that's hard to let go of when she feels so... at home in a place. "How does it work? Do you instruct the plants to grow? Or is it something more simple than that?"

Lack of training is certainly one of the biggest obstacles still facing the Asgardians. Not every vocation is equally represented among the remaining population, or at all, in some cases. A journeyman alchemist had survived Ragnarok, but whether she perished in the massacre on the Statesman or in the culling that reduced half the universe to dust, no one knows. Either way, her skills are beyond their reach now, the knowledge lost with the burning of Asgard.

But not all is lost. As far as they know, there are still masters of the craft on Alfheim and Vanaheim, and once Thor can bear to venture elsewhere in Yggdrasil on his own, maybe he could find one to take on an apprentice or two. But that would require both making himself presentable and leaving his people behind, and Thor is not yet ready for that. So he just hums a little in agreement, and says nothing more on the matter.

Fortunately for them both, Amelia's line of questioning is making it more difficult for Thor to lose himself in such melancholy thoughts, at least for the moment. Aside from a pang of old grief, a loss he's come to terms with years ago, as he remembers the woman he inherited this particular talent from. "I'm not sure how to describe it," he admits, absently worrying his hands against one another. "It's... it's more instinct than learned. My mother..." His voice wavers a moment, but he presses on without pause. "She was the goddess of childbirth and the hearth, and passed on this gift to me." Particular talents passed down through bloodlines is not exactly uncommon, but certain disciplines have traditionally been thought to be more suited to one gender than the other, and promising talent sometimes ignored or suppressed in favor of keeping the status quo.

Thor has been lucky to be a god of storms as well, his raw elemental seidr as suited to bringing fertility to the land as his more feminine talents. But he has never lived it to its full potential, not before such distinctions have become so utterly pointless in favor of saving what little knowledge they have left to share. So while he is not entirely at ease with using such power openly, he's not opposed to it. Not anymore.

Amelia's naked curiosity and complete lack of laughter helps too, of course. He gives it some real thought, now, looking down at the greenery around his knees. "It's like... all life has an... energy," he begins, slow as he considers how to phrase it and certain that he's still falling short. "The younger the life, the more potential it has to grow and flourish, if nurtured properly. My seidr... provides that. Takes that potential and gives it what it needs to reach it."

Knowing what both Thor and Loki have lost, Amelia's smile becomes more sympathetic when Thor tells her where this particular gift came from. It's both a blessing and a curse to have something from someone you loved so close to you at all times. That this one can help so many seems like a strike in its favor, though.

More distracting than all of that is the explanation of how it works. To unlock the future of something that's already destined or likely to occur is such an incredible power. Where Amelia can only bring death and destruction - and sometimes protection for things that already live, if she can manage the spell that day - Thor can bring life. He can take the seeds of it and make it into something more. It's incredible, and she's not certain he sees that the way she does. Her awe and wonder are written in her face, in the way her eyes widen as he speaks and her smile seems to become impossibly bright. This... this is the kind of gift people would kill for, even if they had no way to use it at the start.

"You shape the lives of everything you touch with this magic." It's not an accusation or a call to action; It's a statement of what she understands as truth. "You could save an entire people with this gift simply by helping them grow food in the worst of conditions. It's amazing."

She hesitates for a moment when she realizes how close that statement hits in their current circumstances. Without Thor's magic, this place won't be able to flourish and survive. Her cheeks turn bright pink and she looks down at her hands as embarrassment and shame come over her. Maybe she got a little too eager for her own good again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think before I spoke. All I meant is that I think your gift is beautiful and important, and something that should be treasured." She exhales a soft breath before looking up at him with a rueful smile. "I truly hope this helps your people. You've found a good place to start fresh with them, and I think what you're doing here will give this home what it needs to thrive."

If not for the very concept of natural balance being tainted for him by the Mad Titan's philosophy, Thor might think deeper on the matter. He, too, has brought death to countless thousands of enemies, razing battlefields and scouring them of their armies, his lightning often turned to destruction. And he was good at it, a god of thunder and war who loved the roar of battle and the singing of his power in his blood and bones. Yet that is not all that he is, this side of him rarely practiced, the ability to bring new growth back in the wake of devastation, as a new forest grows from the ashes of the trees that came before. And with his love for battle utterly gone in the wake of his most bitter failure, Thor struggles to know what to do with himself.

The garden, at least, is one place he can still do something good. Something helpful. Even if it does not make up for what he has done.

Amelia's words do strike at his heart, and his metal fingers creak a little as he curls them in on themselves. You could save an entire people. But he hadn't, in the end. He sees it every day when he looks at the village, when he thinks of the empty spaces across the rest of the planet, the universe. Thor can encourage new growth, new life, plants and fish and fowl to take the spaces of that turned to dust, and healthy babies for the survivors. But he can't restore what was lost, and that is the failure that strikes him deepest of all.

He knows she didn't mean it that way, even before the apology, and he manages a smile that doesn't quite reach his eye. "Thank you. I... I hope it does too." He can't help but feel guilty for his ingratitude, the way he finds hurt in words meant to praise, his brighter mood dimmed. Just one more way he is still failing.

He shoves it down, even more loathe to ruin her youthful enthusiasm with his weakness, and forces his fists to uncurl. "If you want to watch," he says, trying to sound as though nothing is wrong, "you should know, it might affect you too. It's... not something fine-tuned."

Edited 2019-08-02 16:53 (UTC)

The telltale signs of sadness are written all over his face. Try to hide it as he might, it's easy for Amelia to see she's upset Thor on some level with her thoughtless comment. She's never been one for optimism, but a town like this, set on the sea and reminding her so much of her lost home, she can't help but feel hopeful. Tragedy is written in her blood and now it's written in Thor's, too. Even if he thinks all that's happened that's led to him settling what remains of his people here is his fault, Amelia would never accuse him of it or encourage the thought. Actions done in good faith, selfish as they can be at times, aren't a reason to drown oneself in guilt and regret.

If it were... the rogue would have drowned long before she found the Nexus. She can't teach others to justify the ends with whatever means are necessary in the moment, but she hopes she can help lift people from their sadness. In a place this beautiful, this... perfect, there's no room for self-pity and misery. Grief will linger as long as it needs to, but that doesn't mean the rest of the heavy emotions should have a reason to take hold.

But that's a conversation to hold another time. Thor's willing to show her more of his magic and she's eager to see it and ask more questions of it. Starting with one asked completely in earnest and with an innocence of what he's alluding to. "Your magic can affect people? What does it do? Cause hair to grow faster? Encourage growth in children?"

On some level, several years of regular interactions with humans has helped Thor get a grasp on what it really means for them to be adults at so young an age, where an Asgardian would take centuries to reach the same maturity. But it’s times like these that remind him that he really doesn’t have a good idea of what that means for them, sometimes.

...she is an adult, right? He really has so little practice judging human age.

“Mm, it does do those a little,” he allows, peering at her a little more closely. Norns, she really doesn’t know what fertility magic is notorious for? Either that or this is a very creative distraction technique, and it’s working. “For a woman like yourself, it’d make you more likely to conceive. As long as you’re doing the necessary activity,” he adds quickly, before she might think he means spontaneously. “But if you don’t want to be pregnant, you shouldn’t have sex for... a week, probably?”

Well, he’s not sure which is more awkward. The crash course of the birds-and-the-bees he might have to give, or the fact that he doesn’t know enough about his seidr to know for certain.

Being an adult doesn't necessarily equate with understanding all the nuances around sex and reproduction. It doesn't help that people on her world rarely used the word 'fertility' or any of its derivatives except in the context of farming and agriculture. That Thor can help women become fertile in the hopes of conceiving a child... For all the sense it makes, it's still extremely awkward for her when he calls it out.

"N-not a problem for me," she says quickly, her face flushing a bright red. "I'm not-- I mean I don't--" Dreams she needs to stop trying to speak and just say the important part. "I've never had sex and no men have any interest in me so it's fine."

...oh dreams, that's even worse. Her shoulders tense and her eyes widen before she quickly covers her face with one hand, motioning in the direction of the plants with the others.

"Please go ahead." And cut her off from saying anything else, please. Please?

She’s not the only one blushing a little, though Thor is by far less scarlet than she is. Mostly he’s just relieved he doesn’t need to explain the nuances of how babies are made, with or without his involvement in the process.

“Good,” he says, also a little too quickly, when she tells him she doesn’t have a partner. Then realizes how that sounds, and winces at the accidental insult. “I mean, that’s fortunate. That you don’t have to... take extra steps.”

It may not have been her conscious goal to get his mind off the melancholy track it’d started to take, but mission accomplished anyway. It may always come back to him later, of course, but right now he is just as eager as she is to get back to the business of making this greenhouse truly green.

It takes him a minute or two to get his focus right, though, controlling his breathing and reaching for the deep elemental pool of energy that thrums at his core. He doesn’t close his eye this time, digging his fingers into the dirt, and letting the magic flow out of him into the earth. It’s a gentler seidr than his lightning, swirling wisps of blue magic that trickle like a quiet country brook. Thor doesn’t know the academic particulars of what he’s doing, not by a long shot, leaning on instinct to tell him how to direct the flow of energy, a formless wave that washes from one end of the greenhouse to the other and draws the delicate young plants upward and outward, replacing damp brown with lush green.

Honestly, he could have left it at "good" and she wouldn't have minded. She kicks herself enough about not being attractive enough to get someone over her often abrasive personality to want to even think about starting a relationship with her (platonic or romantic) that someone else doing the same doesn't really catch her attention. Of course someone else would say it after meeting her when it's so obvious.

Really, though, the awkwardness of this whole conversation will detract from any feelings that might have been hurt by offhand comments. At best she'll remember how awkward they both were when it came to talking about her (lack of a) sex life. At worst she'll remember how she dug herself a really deep whole in the conversation.

The renewed use of Thor's magic is a good distraction for both of them, though. Amelia sits quietly as the god gets settled enough to begin again, her breath catching in her chest at the sight of the first signs of blue that leave him and find their way into the earth. She can't fully describe it, but it feels like he's putting an outside energy into everything around him and letting whatever his magic touches decide how best to use it. It's powerful in a way that catches at the edge of her senses, reminding her of other subtle uses of magic that were meant to encourage the body's own healing processes without doing anything directly. She doesn't fully understand it, but it makes her curious enough to add it to her mental list of topics to read about later.

When it's done, the rogue exhales the breath she had been holding and looks around the greenhouse with a renewed smile. What would have taken weeks or months, Thor has encouraged in a matter of minutes. Everything is ready for harvesting and not a day past perfect ripeness. Even if the recently crowned king of Asgard can't see what he's done for the beautiful, impressive thing that it is, Amelia can't see it any other way.

"Thank you," she says warmly when he's settled again. "I never thought I'd see anything like this in my life, and now I want to learn more about it." If not for her own use, then to bring knowledge of it to others (maybe even Thor, someday, if he wants to know). "I thought I'd come to offer my help, but I feel like I've gotten more than I've given. A day close to the sea, a new magic to research, my knowledge from my world actually being useful..." She huffs a small laugh. "I could be content here for the rest of my life, I think."

It’s certainly not the first awkward conversation that Thor has had about helping make babies, though it has been a long time, and it probably won’t be the last. Especially if he intends to nurture this side of himself, long ignored in favor of more masculine pursuits.

Where Loki’s talent has always laid in study and sophistication, Thor’s talent for magic is more a force of nature, wild and deep and powerful, but with far less fine control. Often over the centuries, he has found himself carried along with the wind and the rain and the lightning, as if he is the heart of the storm given flesh and bone, or perhaps the storm is born of him instead. In a way, fertility magic is much the same, fingers reaching into the nutrient-rich earth like roots spreading downward, full of yearning for sky and sun and rain. Little points of light like stars, blossoming and ripening, the earth’s breath of life given form.

It’s a strange feeling still, but that is not a bad thing, and Thor does not shy away from it. He lets the seidr flow until it feels right to stop, and he sits back on his heels again, feeling somewhat like he’s finished a long and challenging run. He rubs at his forehead to wipe away sweat, leaving a streak of dirt in its place, and casts a slightly self-conscious look at her to see her reaction.

Fortunately, his anxiety here is unfounded, if the wonder in her eyes is any indication. Her words of praise for Asvera come as a surprise, as well, and he envies her a little for it. What would he give to be able to look on this place and see contentment with what it is, instead of what is gone? “Your knowledge?” he prompts, though she’d mentioned helping Vidar before.

She nods excitedly, ignoring the dirt he's smeared across his face. He asked a question she's interested in answering and everything else is ancillary for the moment. "My family traded herbs and spices in a port city on my world. I studied horticulture when my free time wasn't otherwise accounted for, and when I came to the Nexus I continued my studies when I needed a distraction. I certainly don't know everything about the plants that grow wild around here, but I was able to help Vidar name and catalogue many of them while we made our way to and from the mountain. I have pictures of those I couldn't identify so I can research them at the Grand Library in the Nexus. I'll come back to share what I've learned with Vidar and anyone else who wants or needs to know."

Her smile is irrepressible as it spreads across her face. Thor may not be able to smile honestly or move forward from the grief and guilt he feels, but the rogue's spirits seem higher now than they have almost any other time they've met. Something about this place makes it impossible for her to act otherwise.

Pressing her hands to the floor next to her hips, Amelia laughs softly as she relaxes back into them. "With the right contacts and a few months' time, I could probably get some trade going through your docks as well. If not for the plants that grow wild here, then certainly for the fish that must be in the sea. This world is far more advanced than mine, but people can still be encouraged to barter and trade one good for another. At the very least, I could probably help you get the docks more organized. I didn't look closely, but any new home can use a keen eye from someone with experience to help."

Maybe she's overstepping with that last offer, but she can't help it. This place calls to everything in her blood that she's been trying to ignore since she moved into her current apartment in the Nexus. Letting go of everything that made her the woman that she was on her world has been excruciatingly difficult, and the temptation of stepping backward, even for only a short time, is something she doesn't want to resist.

Used to humans who only know enough about their vegetables and herbs to buy them in dried little shakers at the supermarket, it's another point of familiarity to hear from one who's able to forage and collect useful plants in the wild, or at least recognize them growing in a garden. Already he can see how invaluable Amelia's knowledge will be for both healers and cooks in replicating medicines and familiar dishes, of as close as they can find, anyway.

He hasn't paid as close attention to the docks as he probably should have, though that has been true of most things the remnants of his council has brought to his attention. There's probably a good deal that they don't bother to tell him these days, knowing that he'll either forget or fail to listen and respond in the first place. So whether she is overstepping or not, Thor really doesn't know enough to tell, and he can't exactly hide the shameful flicker of guilt at that realization. "That's... very generous of you. I'm honored."

Are the docks really that disorganized? It wouldn't surprise him if it was. "Most of my people were never sailors," he tells her, trying to remember if any of the survivors were those lucky few and coming up short. "We used to get most of our fish from Vanaheim as tribute. Asgard... it had a sea, of sorts, but not one easily fished. Water going over the edge of the world, you know." Speaking of home has become a bit harder since the events of the last few months, and especially since settling here. Asvera is no longer some vague, nebulous idea of hope but a real place, solid and busy and alive, and dreams of what could have been are replaced by what is real. And it is far humbler than the Asgardians are used to. Thor more than most.

Thor... honored? That isn't the reaction Amelia was expecting. Her eyes widen briefly at the statement, and then she turns her gaze away from him slightly when she notices the guilt cross his face. She hadn't meant for casual observations to cause him any distress. These are simply the kinds of things she notices because of her background. A woman raised in a port city and groomed to take over a business that flourished because of trade over the sea? Of course the docks caught her notice. Of course she noticed the ships sitting moored during the peak of the day rather than out on the water. These people are still getting settled, though, so it makes sense that not everything would be working at peak efficiency.

"I wasn't a sailor myself, but I know the basics from traveling across the sea my home was settled next to and speaking with the sailors who ran ships for my family. I'm not certain I could teach your people to sail well, but I'd be happy to help as best I could." Organization has always been her strongest skill, but a refresher from a few books and some videos from the library should give her enough to help these people. She hesitates a moment before adding, "This all only if you'd like my help. I wouldn't offer if I wasn't willing to follow through on all of it, but I don't want to appear as if I'm taking anything over from you or your people. This is your home; I'm merely a guest who wants to offer their assistance."

Assistance the also allows her time near the sea again. Dreams, it would be good to own up to that right now, but Thor's gone through enough already. This isn't her home and this isn't the time to ask for space in it beyond that offered when she's here to help. Anything more can come later when things aren't so tumultuous.

Sadly, it takes very little these days for Thor to find himself slipping back towards the shadows in his mind, nearly all of it unintentional. Even moments that should be happy sometimes only serve to remind him of what he's lost, or some small detail - a faint scent, a familiar sound, a passing remark - brings the past back to him with an intensity he cannot ignore. Today has been a good day, compared to most. He's still sober so far, and he's only cried twice since he got up this morning. It's been three days since his last panic attack, which may be a new record if he was tracking such things.

He's still listening to her though, idly rubbing his hands together to knock off most of the dirt. When she seems to hesitate to offer her help, it strikes him that maybe he's coming across as ungrateful. "No, no, I- we appreciate all the help we can get," he hastens to assure her. "The quicker we learn, the quicker we'll be more self-sufficient. Any help you can give is welcome."

She nods slowly, grateful to hear that she's not about to be turned away. It means more time here and the chance to actually help those who can use her knowledge to make things better for themselves. It's such a small thing, but it means absolutely everything to the rogue. A small smile returns to her lips as she sits up straighter.

"I'll do everything I can to help with that. What help I can offer every day when I return will be yours." And she will return every day until she's certain the people of Asvera are confident in their own knowledge and abilities. She'll help them forage from the hillsides around the town, teach them about the uses of all of the plants they find and grow in their greenhouse, and get their vessels out on the sea. It will take time and patience both from herself and the Asgardians, but Amelia is certain they'll find a rhythm that works for all involved.

And if the rogue gets to enjoy more of the view and feel of this place while she aids them on their journey to self sufficiency? Well, that's simply a perk that the rogue will keep to herself while she smiles her way through all of the toil and struggles of teaching everyone her voice can reach.

It was a hectic thing, being a Loki. So many irons in the fire, and even when they weren't his, he was still expected to be the one to juggle them. But he was learning. It did mean he wasn't in the Nexus as often as he'd like but when he did come to visit again, he was dismayed to hear that his other-dimensional brother was not in residence. Even more so upset when he heard what had happened, how hard Thor had taken it. Not that he was surprised. The God of Thunder always was fighting for the good of others, and from what he understood this was a heavy blow.

So it was little surprise that the little godling showed up in town, the magpie on his shoulder looking less than pleased at the weather if the fluff of feathers or annoyance to his croaking was any hint, quite comfortable in snooping about and asking anyone who might frown at the little miscreant where he might find Thor. So here's hoping that he's not too busy because he's about to get some very noisy company!

There are a few Asgardians who might give the wee little Loki a doubletake, old enough to remember when the sons of Odin were knee-high rascals getting into trouble every other week. Most of the survivors are young, however, and the elders are few and far between. There are a handful of Sakaaran ex-gladiators among their number as well, and to them, he's just another Asgardian child who surely must belong there.

"Oh, he's probably at home," one of them tells him, a tall kronan who seems to be taking well enough to the damp weather if the moss and lichen growing on his rocky skin are any indication. "Up on the big hill that way, see? Was all stormy last night so I don't think he's coming out today."

The house in question used to be a lighthouse-keeper's cottage, up on the southern bluff with an entire football pitch between it and the rest of the village. Or at least it used to be, before someone took a plow to it and dug it all up, leaving huge furrows that stretch from one end goal to the other, a hint of green here and there where whatever crops they've planted are trying to sprout. The house itself is small and white, and the door will swing open easily, unlocked.

Some of the decor inside is rather outdated, appliances dating back a few decades, including the television in the living room which is currently muted and showing images from some kind of drama. Half the paintings on the walls have been replaced by framed prints of Hubble photography, and there are a few knickknacks that might remind Loki of Thor, though it's clear he hasn't fully made the space his just yet. There's an uru-headed axe propped up in the corner next to a stack of dwarven kegs.

Thor has his back to Loki as he hammers a bracket into the wall above the mantel with his metal left hand, his hoodie's sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He doesn't look quite steady on his feet, peering at the positioning of the bracket a little too closely than is strictly called for, even if he does only have the one eye now. The smell of mead lingering around him a likely culprit as to why. His hair has grown out past his shoulders again, though he doesn't seem to have brushed it out when he got up this morning, and his beard has gotten fully and bushy. He doesn't quite notice he isn't alone just yet, stepping back to see if the bracket is level with the other one he's already placed. Eh, close enough.

The doubletakes earn a cheeky sort of grin and a playful bow from the child Trickster when he spots them. He doesn't mean any mischief, but he's clever enough to make the connection of what they likely remember, and so leans into the expectation just a little.

"My thanks, ser!" The kronan is absolutely exciting to run across, and Loki has to reign in his multitudes of curious questions in the face of his self-appointed mission to Find Thor. Though that doesn't stop him asking for a selfie with him- Leigh would undoubtedly be delighted to see proof he was making friends.

In her dry, disapproving of his shenanigans way that was.

Youth certainly means it's quick enough for the godling to dart towards the house, mindful at least in his enthusiasm not to trample any of the furrows. And by some miracle doesn't slam the door open with how easily it swings inward at his touch. He pauses only a moment, curious gaze skipping over the place Thor had chosen for himself, while Ikol flutters over to land on the arm of the sofa, clearly judging the God of Thunder's brackets.

"Thor!" If he didn't notice, well this was his warning, the tiny Trickster all but bounding across the room to claim his other-dimensional brother in a great bearhug. Or well. As great a one as his tiny arms could manage. Surely enthusiasm made up for that detail though?

Korg will absolutely take a selfie with the little tyke, raising one rocky hand behind Loki’s head in the best approximation of bunny ears as he can manage. Then he pats him on the head - gently of course - and waves goodbye easily, a smile on his face.

Thor jumps a little at the shout, taken off-guard by both the company and by the brother that has suddenly attached himself around Thor like an octopus. “Loki?” And not the Loki he might have expected, either.

Not unwelcome, though, certainly. It takes Thor a moment, but he eventually thinks to hug him back, slinging an arm around those little shoulders. “What’re you doing here?” And... is that a magpie on his sofa? Thor squints with his good eye, trying to tell if that’s the same one he’s met before or not.

It absolutely is a magpie, tail twitching as it hops up onto the back of the sofa, critical eye skipping over what Thor had been doing. "Your brackets are crooked."

"Ikol, be nice," Loki chided from Thor's embrace, grin widening as he peered up at him. "I came to the Nexus to visit you, and they told me you were in this town so I came here! You all found a much nicer place to set up shop than the Asgardians back home did, everything's all sand and rocks around Asgardia and the humans there are kind of... cranky about us being there."

He huffed as if annoyed by that before shaking his head. "But that's not the point! I've been practicing and I learned a new trick!"

Because of course the first thing he would do is beeline to Thor to show him.

Thor is currently a little too deep into his cups to think much harder on the whole talking magpie situation. Honestly, with Loki around, it doesn’t surprise him at all. He can only assume from the name that it’s not the other Loki, though that doesn’t stop Thor from rolling his eye at the bird. “You want to try?”

The little Loki in his arms is a hell of a distraction from having birds criticize his choice in home decorating though, and Thor blinks down at the little boy, just trying to process that whole string of words into something sensible. He’s begun to get used to the occasional visits by friends, the verbal dance around the subject of both the tragedy and Thor’s illness (weakness, his inner voice still whispers nastily), the hesitation in many of them as if they’re afraid they might break him if they say the wrong thing and probably being justified in doing so.

This youthful enthusiasm is almost refreshing after that, if a little overwhelming to suddenly be plunged into it headfirst. “You... you did?”

It is, and isn't, and likely isn't the best thing to consider while one is drunk. Only headaches lie that way. Ikol however just fluffs his wings and ruff, with a lazy sort of blink. "I'm not one for hammering."

The small Loki could if needed be gentle. But in his excitement he was a bit more enthusiastic and admittedly a bit impatient to show off for Thor. And generally just enjoying being around him in general, nodding cheerily at the question posed. "I did! I'll show you!" He wasted no time in grabbing Thor by the hand, not at all put off by the cold metal of it as he tugged, intending to lead him over to sit on the sofa if Thor let him. "Come sit, so you don't accidentally trample me in your stunned surprise!"

Very chatty, this magpie. Thor doesn’t remember his brother having a pet, or a familiar - another difference between their worlds, maybe.

“I would never trample you,” Thor protests, but allowed himself to be herded toward the couch, which thankfully looks a little less pathetic now that he’s cleaned up the blankets he’d been sleeping in for the last few months. Or, well, not cleaned up but relocated to the bedroom, but it’s progress anyway. He sits down heavily, and once Loki lets go of his arm, he worries his hands together absently in a nervous habit, not really aware he’s doing it. “So what’s this trick, then?”

Said magpie hopped along the sofa's back once Thor had sat, giving the man's hair a considering once-over. Gods but someone needed to take a brush to him. Maybe he could bully Loki into bullying Thor into letting his hair be taken care of. It's unseemly for a god to be in such a state.

The small Loki beamed at the assurance, especially once it's clear that Thor is letting him call the shots here. Once he was settled, the child hopped back a step, all but bursting with energy. "Okay so it'll just take a moment here..." And he was really hoping he could manage it a second time- it would be embarrassing otherwise! It did take a bit for anything to start happening though, but Thor would likely find it somewhat familiar, that mirage-like ripple of the boy's shape, that disappated only to leave an even smaller fox in it's wake, with perked ears and a big lolling grin.

"Tadah!"

It’s been so long since Thor’s brother first learned to change his shape - among other magics - that Thor really has no idea what to expect until it’s done. He recalls a time in their very early years of life where Loki had spent the better part of a week in various animal shapes, sneaking about as he pleased and hiding himself in small spaces to startle whoever happened to come across him. Was that before or after the stabbing incident? He can’t recall.

But the memories are a little stronger now, looking at the fluffy little fox cub who has never looked so pleased with himself as he does now, and something in his chest aches fiercely at the sight. “Oh, you... you are adorable, brother,” he says with a watery smile, leaning forward to see him better and reaching out his real hand to touch, if Loki will allow it.

It hadn't taken long for Diana to find out what had happened when she came looking for Thor in the Nexus. Nor to find out where to go to find him. She'd paused on her way, so when she came to the small village the Asgardians had inhabited, it was with Britomartis trotting along with her, quite happy even with the wagon the Mudbray was hauling with a variety of things she knew they would find useful, from salves, to fabrics for more clothing or blankets, fuel for heaters, and other sundries. If she'd also slipped in books and sweets for the children, well it was little surprise. She got directions to the grocery to leave the load with them, offering use of the wagon and Britomartis to help with some of the hauling that was being done while she was there. The wagon was small enough to go most anywhere a person could, and the Pokemon was more than happy to set to work for a bit and enjoy the workout so long as muzzle pats were offered.

She was tempted to stay herself, to help more, but she was on somewhat of a timer here as the sword at her hip reminded her. So she'd asked for directions to where she might find Thor, both wanting to see how he was doing and in a bit of selfishness wanting the help. Her trouble was something she could handle herself but after all that had happened, she craved some small anchor to beat back the homesickness, and of all her companions, Thor was the one who reminded her of home the most, male or no.

Though the village is in a better state than it was when Asgard first arrived, more supplies are always welcome. Compounding tragedies have left them all with so little to their names, so few belongings that have arrived on Earth intact, and most of what they’ve found in the houses here are foreign and strange if getting more familiar with use. Clothing, medicine, entertainment... all is as needed as food, and now that they are beginning to grasp the fundamentals of both fishing and gardening, food is a less dire need than the rest.

Diana’s offerings are accepted gratefully by the grocer, as is the loan of her wagon and the Pokémon to pull it. In return, the grocer calls for one of the town runners, a young man who looks to be about thirteen by human reckoning, to locate the king for their visitor. “This time of day he should be at the greenhouse,” the lad says, scrunching up his freckled nose as he tries to recall if he’d seen Thor there today. “I’ll take you there.”

The greenhouse is on the far north end of the island, near the bridge that leads to the mainland. It’s rather small but newly constructed, still smelling of fresh timber and its unscratched glass gleaming in the weak sunlight, fogged up from the inside with moisture. Despite its newness, the plants within are more than just seedlings and sprouts. Herbs and vegetables both look like they’ve been growing for the better part of a year, some ripe with fruits, some blossoming and attended by little native bees and beetles. The air is perfumed with the fresh, green scents of life.

Thor is seated in the dirt along one wall, poking holes in the soil with his prosthetic hand and carefully dropping a seed in each one, peering at it closely with his good eye to make sure his aim is true. He looks tired, but focused enough for such casual work, his hair tied back in a simple ponytail and his arms dirtied up to his forearms. A hoodie lies discarded on a low table toward the center of the greenhouse, leaving him in a sleeveless shirt and dark pants, a far cry from the armor he’d once fought her in.

He catches the movement of her entrance out of the corner of his good eye, and he raises his head to see who it is. “Lady Diana,” he greets her, surprise in his voice.

Even a God Can Need a Friend [Open to friends]

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CW: gore and stuff

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