"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.