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.