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.”
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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.”