Asgard had been much the same in how battle scars were seen as marks of valor, each one no doubt with a rousing story of how it had been earned on the field of battle or against a dragon or some such tale. Even now, there's a part of Thor that feels oddly comforted by his stronger resemblance to his father, as if that might help him be a better king somehow, or at least carry Odin with him in more than just memory. Though keeping his depth perception would have been nice. And all things said and done, it's still a wound he'd earned in battle with the goddess of death herself, a battle he'd won, in the end.
The arm is a different story, one that tastes of defeat thrice over. Maybe it would be different if he'd been victorious in Wakanda, or even if the stones had still existed when they had gone to the Garden. But he hadn't, and they didn't.
He rubs absently at the place on his arm where metal meets flesh, as if he could soothe that thought away as easily. Fortunately, the youthful chatter coming from Hush is distraction enough, and even though she rarely seems to pause to give him a chance to answer her many questions, he finds himself smiling a little by the time they reach the top of the lift. At times he finds his attention caught by the passing scenery, particularly at the sounds of music and voice. This place is busy and alive, the drumbeat of life itself, a far cry from the empty desolation he's seen in the Midgard he knows. This place is harsh, but the people are thriving in spite of it, the youngsters' enthusiasm undimmed by the hardship. And it hurts a little, in a good way, to see someone so young being so happy.
It's definitely giving him food for thought, and he manages a faint chuckle at Furiosa's comment as he steps off the lift. "I thank you for your story, and your service," he says, bowing his head slightly to both of the children. "You do your people proud."
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The arm is a different story, one that tastes of defeat thrice over. Maybe it would be different if he'd been victorious in Wakanda, or even if the stones had still existed when they had gone to the Garden. But he hadn't, and they didn't.
He rubs absently at the place on his arm where metal meets flesh, as if he could soothe that thought away as easily. Fortunately, the youthful chatter coming from Hush is distraction enough, and even though she rarely seems to pause to give him a chance to answer her many questions, he finds himself smiling a little by the time they reach the top of the lift. At times he finds his attention caught by the passing scenery, particularly at the sounds of music and voice. This place is busy and alive, the drumbeat of life itself, a far cry from the empty desolation he's seen in the Midgard he knows. This place is harsh, but the people are thriving in spite of it, the youngsters' enthusiasm undimmed by the hardship. And it hurts a little, in a good way, to see someone so young being so happy.
It's definitely giving him food for thought, and he manages a faint chuckle at Furiosa's comment as he steps off the lift. "I thank you for your story, and your service," he says, bowing his head slightly to both of the children. "You do your people proud."