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."
no subject
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."