If not for the very concept of natural balance being tainted for him by the Mad Titan's philosophy, Thor might think deeper on the matter. He, too, has brought death to countless thousands of enemies, razing battlefields and scouring them of their armies, his lightning often turned to destruction. And he was good at it, a god of thunder and war who loved the roar of battle and the singing of his power in his blood and bones. Yet that is not all that he is, this side of him rarely practiced, the ability to bring new growth back in the wake of devastation, as a new forest grows from the ashes of the trees that came before. And with his love for battle utterly gone in the wake of his most bitter failure, Thor struggles to know what to do with himself.
The garden, at least, is one place he can still do something good. Something helpful. Even if it does not make up for what he has done.
Amelia's words do strike at his heart, and his metal fingers creak a little as he curls them in on themselves. You could save an entire people. But he hadn't, in the end. He sees it every day when he looks at the village, when he thinks of the empty spaces across the rest of the planet, the universe. Thor can encourage new growth, new life, plants and fish and fowl to take the spaces of that turned to dust, and healthy babies for the survivors. But he can't restore what was lost, and that is the failure that strikes him deepest of all.
He knows she didn't mean it that way, even before the apology, and he manages a smile that doesn't quite reach his eye. "Thank you. I... I hope it does too." He can't help but feel guilty for his ingratitude, the way he finds hurt in words meant to praise, his brighter mood dimmed. Just one more way he is still failing.
He shoves it down, even more loathe to ruin her youthful enthusiasm with his weakness, and forces his fists to uncurl. "If you want to watch," he says, trying to sound as though nothing is wrong, "you should know, it might affect you too. It's... not something fine-tuned."
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The garden, at least, is one place he can still do something good. Something helpful. Even if it does not make up for what he has done.
Amelia's words do strike at his heart, and his metal fingers creak a little as he curls them in on themselves. You could save an entire people. But he hadn't, in the end. He sees it every day when he looks at the village, when he thinks of the empty spaces across the rest of the planet, the universe. Thor can encourage new growth, new life, plants and fish and fowl to take the spaces of that turned to dust, and healthy babies for the survivors. But he can't restore what was lost, and that is the failure that strikes him deepest of all.
He knows she didn't mean it that way, even before the apology, and he manages a smile that doesn't quite reach his eye. "Thank you. I... I hope it does too." He can't help but feel guilty for his ingratitude, the way he finds hurt in words meant to praise, his brighter mood dimmed. Just one more way he is still failing.
He shoves it down, even more loathe to ruin her youthful enthusiasm with his weakness, and forces his fists to uncurl. "If you want to watch," he says, trying to sound as though nothing is wrong, "you should know, it might affect you too. It's... not something fine-tuned."