There's much he still has to learn about these kinds of battlescars, wounds that can neither be seen nor touched but can be reopened all the same, whether by sight or words or scent, yet endure the same hardship better some days than others. It feels strangely cyclical, like the rising and falling of a tide, an ebb and flow that can catch the unprepared by surprise.

He thinks on that as he follows her lead, content to go where she asks him to, and looks around the room as they enter. This too is a garden of sorts, one of knowledge saved and preserved, and he peers at the book titles though he knows he doesn't have a hope of recognizing any of them, probably. He's never been much for reading for pleasure, and Earth books in particular are something he's seen relatively little of. But these things from the old world have survived, an resource for those who can read their wisdom, and pass it down to the next generation. He can appreciate that for what it is.

"Nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass," he murmurs, though there will always be another storm. The god of thunder would know, wouldn't he? But no storm lasts forever, either, no matter how hard the wind blows or how loud the thunder.