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."