Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-06-15 09:04 am
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-06-15 09:04 am
Entry tags:
Even a God Can Need a Friend [Open to friends]
[OOC: This post and its threads may contain Endgame spoilers. Potential trigger warnings include depression, alcohol abuse, and suicidal thoughts. (See the bottom section of Thor's updated permissions page for more detail on relevant warnings, Thor’s triggers, and a disclaimer about his narration style.) If you intend to tag Thor and are sensitive to this kind of content, please let me know before we begin so that I can provide a safer roleplay experience for you. Individual threads on this post will not be warned for on a case by case basis.
Thor has left his current address with the remaining Avengers, Loki (coldsong), Prometheus (liverfree), and Sif (lady_sif). Other close friends are welcome to visit by getting coordinates from those listed, which may be done offscreen (of the Avengers, Rocket is the most likely to be out and about in the Nexus right now) - if in doubt, please ask the relevant mun. This post is intended to provide Thor with moral support as he grapples with his mental health; each thread will be treated as though it is a different day entirely so his mood and the immediate setting may vary. I do not mind slow tags, and this post will be perpetually open for a long while, so don't worry if you can't get to it right away but still want to play.]
Above the Arctic Circle, in the far north of Norway, the village formerly known as Henningsvær sprawls out across a tiny chain of islands. Despite the approach of summer, the weather is cool and overcast, sea breezes often sweeping through the narrow streets. For those approaching by road, the small single-lane bridge leading from the mainland now boasts a hand-painted sign in Norsk and Asgardian runes welcoming visitors to Asvera, which the local humans have taken to calling New Asgard. Population: 832.
Though much of the world still feels half-empty and apocalyptic, there is little of that here. Asgard has filled the empty spaces, each house claimed and occupied, as well as several hotels that once served seasonal tourists. Fishing boats come and go from the harbor, dock workers hard at work learning to repair nets and lines, others processing the day’s catch for consumption. There is no market, no selling of goods; everything is distributed communally through the grocery on the main island, every citizen entitled to a share, every citizen expected to work to support the others, save for the children who are too young.
The village is quiet, but busy. There is always work to be done, or new skills to learn to survive in their new home. The king, however, may not be so easy to find. Here in the tiny Norwegian village, there is no golden palace to give visitors a place to start looking. Perhaps it’s best to ask for directions.
Thor has left his current address with the remaining Avengers, Loki (
coldsong), Prometheus (liverfree), and Sif (lady_sif). Other close friends are welcome to visit by getting coordinates from those listed, which may be done offscreen (of the Avengers, Rocket is the most likely to be out and about in the Nexus right now) - if in doubt, please ask the relevant mun. This post is intended to provide Thor with moral support as he grapples with his mental health; each thread will be treated as though it is a different day entirely so his mood and the immediate setting may vary. I do not mind slow tags, and this post will be perpetually open for a long while, so don't worry if you can't get to it right away but still want to play.]Above the Arctic Circle, in the far north of Norway, the village formerly known as Henningsvær sprawls out across a tiny chain of islands. Despite the approach of summer, the weather is cool and overcast, sea breezes often sweeping through the narrow streets. For those approaching by road, the small single-lane bridge leading from the mainland now boasts a hand-painted sign in Norsk and Asgardian runes welcoming visitors to Asvera, which the local humans have taken to calling New Asgard. Population: 832.
Though much of the world still feels half-empty and apocalyptic, there is little of that here. Asgard has filled the empty spaces, each house claimed and occupied, as well as several hotels that once served seasonal tourists. Fishing boats come and go from the harbor, dock workers hard at work learning to repair nets and lines, others processing the day’s catch for consumption. There is no market, no selling of goods; everything is distributed communally through the grocery on the main island, every citizen entitled to a share, every citizen expected to work to support the others, save for the children who are too young.
The village is quiet, but busy. There is always work to be done, or new skills to learn to survive in their new home. The king, however, may not be so easy to find. Here in the tiny Norwegian village, there is no golden palace to give visitors a place to start looking. Perhaps it’s best to ask for directions.
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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."
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Her prosthesis is roughly the same structure as ever; she could get advanced materials in the Nexus, but she prefers for it to look oversized and clunky and threatening. His is a piece of art, though, and she can't resist cupping her metal hand under his wrist to hold it a moment so she can get a look. "Very pretty," she says, restrained because she's aware that people outside the Citadel don't see scars or stumps or machines the way her people do, but sincerely impressed.
"Does it always stay on, or can you take it off for a rest if you want to?" Letting go, she looks at his face thoughtfully for a second, then tugs at the buckles of her own prosthesis, undoing it and setting it aside. She sits comfortably, then, resting her stump on her knee.
Sometimes it helps wounded War Boys to see it. This is normal. This is what bodies do. It's okay. You're not broken.
Wounds inside are harder to deal with. She knows that, too. She lost the Green Place once, and all but two of her kin. Shop talk is a safer way to begin a conversation.
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Furiosa’s arm has its own ugly sort of beauty about it, in Thor’s eye, a visible testament of human ingenuity and creativity. No healer or smith took care to craft it to match what she lost, and whether that’s because they couldn’t or she wouldn’t, it makes little difference. It’s a part of her, an expression of herself, practical and intimidating and efficient in its construction. It suits her well, he thinks, just as he’s come to recognize his one-eyed face in the mirror as his own.
“It comes off,” he confirms, though most of the days he goes without, the long sleeves of his hoodies tend to conceal what’s left from view. Those tend to be the days he feels least deserving of the help, though he would resist calling it self-punishment, if asked. Not that he has a better excuse prepared, either.
But he watches her take hers off, comfortable and relaxed with herself as she is, and feels a strange pang of nostalgia for Asgard-that-was, where warriors would wear their battlescars openly as trophies of glorious victories.
Or maybe that is just what everyone else had assumed.
After a moment or two, Thor follows suit, unzipping his hoodie and finding the hidden release points for his arm, and places it next to hers. It feels sort of strange, relaxed like the bonds he’d forged with brothers and sisters in arms, except he has never fought a battle at Furiosa’s side before. Maybe it’s just the lack of scrutiny, like others trying to determine how he might have been wounded, or maybe there really is something to sharing common ground like Steve had said. But either way, Thor finds that he doesn’t mind it so much, right now. And maybe that’s what gives him the courage to ask, “What happened to yours?”
CW: gore and stuff
It's a tease, not a guilt trip. The power of a god would probably vaporize a tin cup right off the end of his stump if he had one.
She makes no effort to hide that she's studying both arm and residual limb as he removes it. There is no horror or pity in her gaze, just the calm acceptance that life comes with loss. She may also be checking for calluses on the stump or eyeing the surgical wound. "I bought a kind of a...sock thing, for mine," she says as he sets the prosthesis aside. "For the stump, I mean. A compression sock. Fits up to the shoulder, feels like an all-over massage. You might want to get one some time. I don't know if you get phantom pain, but it helps."
Her stump is older, and she's done a good job of keeping it from getting badly callused, but there are a couple spots on the end where the prosthesis rubs. "And aloe gel to keep the skin from cracking," she adds. "Although it's not so dry here, you ought to be better off than where I am."
The question makes her pause and hum thoughtfully, looking up at the sky with slate-green eyes narrowed against the sun. She tells a lot of versions of this story. Pups ask all the time, and it's better to give them a bullshit adventure tale than the real story. And when adults ask, she usually concludes they don't need to know. Thor is different, though.
"When I was a child," she says, "I lived in a Green Place with my mothers, and our clan, and our sister clans. We were good at keeping outsiders away, but...things happen. Raiders broke through our defenses when I was thirteen, and they took me, and my mother, and a few others. Abducted. Stolen."
"It was a slave raid. Looking for breeders. Our land was healthy, and so were we." She shakes her head. "Anyway. They dragged us across the desert in the back of a truck that was open to air and sun, hot and dry and thirsty. There were other girls there, too. Not sure where they'd gotten them all from. On the second day, another road gang attacked the caravan and in the melee the truck we were in got wrecked and went end over end. It was horrible, bodies flying through the air into the sand--"
"I got pinned in the wreckage by my arm. The truck was burning, but I saw my mother on the sand a few yards away and I thought if I could just get to her--" She gestures with the shortened arm. "I honestly don't remember how I yanked myself loose, or what was left of the arm after I did, but I got away from the fire. The War Boys who'd attacked the caravan saw it all and I guess I impressed them. They put a tourniquet on me and made sure to get me to the infirmary as soon as we made it back to the Citadel."
"It was too late for my mother." She looks down at the grass in front of her, reaches out a fingertip to run across the leaf of a little weed there. "But they cut off the pieces of my arm that weren't viable, sewed it up, even gave me a little blood. I bit every last one of them that got close, until I passed out. I still have the warning tattoo on my back, actually."
"It takes luck and strength to survive a serious wound in the Wasteland. I've had more than my share of both."
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He has, of course, received advice on caring for his stump from Fǫnn soon after his initial injury, and later Eir when she'd had a chance to look over her apprentice's skilled handiwork. But there is a difference between a healer's knowledge, earned through study and treating these types of wounds, and someone who has firsthand experience themselves, who shares the same loss of limb and has lived with it for many years. It's more personal, warrior to warrior, in a way that puts him oddly more at ease talking about it.
Like when it comes to feeling pain from a limb that is no longer there, for instance. It's something he'd once thought reserved for those who are going mad, and admitting to it still makes him wonder if he isn't, at times. "Sometimes," he says hesitantly. "Not often. But every now and then, I can still feel my fingers." It's disconcerting at best, though as Hephaestus had promised, it never happens while he's wearing the arm.
The way she pauses makes Thor want to take back what he'd asked, worried that he's overstepped his familiarity, misjudged her mood or... something. But before the silence can stretch on too long, she begins to tell her story, and then all he can do is listen and give her tale the respect it is due.
He'd expected to hear of hardship, and knowing a little of the way people treat each other on her Earth - the way women are treated - it doesn't shock him to hear the truth. But his mouth narrows to a grim line, the uncomfortable familiarity of it churning in his stomach. Not the same. But similar enough. And she'd been through all that as a child. "I'm sorry." Thor draws his knees up toward his chest, and loosely wraps his arm around them.
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Granted, the Winter taught her a few things about how softer people handle a crisis, and she's going to be warier going forward, but there's nothing to be gained by pointing it out. And Thor wasn't there at all. As far as she can tell, what's happened to him is beyond her world's ken. Wealth and resources don't matter so much when the disaster that strikes is wholesale annihilation of living people, with no means to mitigate it.
When he tells her he can still feel his fingers, she breaks into a small, awed smile. That is a fascinating and valuable thing to learn, that even a god can feel a phantom limb. She stretches out her stump a little and nods her understanding.
His discomfort and empathy with her story is reserved enough not to make her uncomfortable. She's not sure what to make of the pose he takes, though.
"I was lucky," she says. "In a way. They figured with an arm missing I wasn't fit for the Court. Put me in with the war pups, and I got to learn and train like a War Boy. The Ace made my first prosthesis to help me work on bike engines. Welded a wrench onto a cup and put a strap on it." She smiles, faintly, something nostalgic in it.
"You haven't met him yet. I'll bring him some time, if you'll let me." Reaching across to him, she rests her shortened arm across his knees. "If you'd ever like to visit the Citadel, you're still welcome. When I have free time, I help make limbs for some of the people who've lost theirs or were born without. Another example of someone getting along with one is always welcome."
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Maybe the Norns still have their hand in Furiosa's weave, spinning tragedy into triumph. If not for her place among the War Boys, would her Citadel have found liberation? Would the warlords have been overthrown if not for her efforts, her expertise, earned with weapon and tools in hand? What life would she, or those she looks after, have lived if not for this twist of fate?
If there's a similar point to the tale of his own weaving, then Thor has yet to see it. And his dreams have been of no help either, no visions since the day the Statesman was torn asunder. If there is something to be learned here, some purpose to find, it seems he must struggle with it on his own.
He doesn't flinch from her touch, just lifting his head a little to look over at her, reflexively searching her eyes for pity and only seeing kindness. Kindness he may not deserve, but it's what she has chosen to show him, despite everything she's been through. A kindred soul, of sorts, a leader who has endured terrible hardship and lost much along the way. Yet she still presses toward the future, whatever it may hold, seeking a better tomorrow for her people. Thor envies her a little for that.
He hasn't really left the village since he arrived here, weeks upon weeks ago, surrounded first by empty islands and later by the remnant of Asgard grappling with the reality of life on Midgard. It's easy for him to look at them and see what they've lost, see the empty spaces where there is only dust, the absence of the magic and technology that they'd taken for granted before it was gone. And knowing that everywhere else on Earth was struggling to cope with the loss of half the population, it hasn't exactly encouraged him to venture elsewhere, to remind himself of what he's done.
But Furiosa's Earth is not the same. And even though her people struggle against their desert for survival, it is no doubt very different from the arctic sea where Asgard now dwells, and full of people that he hasn't failed. "Maybe I will," he says, surprising even himself at how easily it slips out, even as anxiety twists in his belly at the thought of leaving his people for even a short while. "Are they used to visitors?"
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(Or, at least, her inability to bear a child for Joe. V8 knows his seed was bad. If that weren't the case, he could have had hundreds of children in the time he had to try for them. She doesn't expect a baby of her own at this point, though theoretically she's young enough still, but she's careful. Just in case.)
Seeing her touch isn't unwelcome, she moves around to lean against his side lightly, the same sort of proto-cuddle-pile she's shared with dozens of War Boys in the field and in the Citadel barracks. Warmth and casual camaraderie. He would benefit from more of that, she thinks. Leadership is hard and cold, and he seems to have have too much of it for the time being. Fireside storytelling and binding healing wounds for each other, watching each other's six; despite all the flaws in War Boy culture, Furiosa has taken a lot of comfort in these traditions, splitting her time between War Boys and Many Mothers and finding she needs both to heal.
"At this point," she says with a smile, "they've seen enough Nexus visitors they're not easily shocked. They always take notice when I bring a guest, but no one would object or be frightened."
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He needs this, as surely as he needs to breathe.
It leaves room for him to wonder what her people might think of him, a god who has fallen far from his lofty pedestal. Made more human in their eyes, perhaps. Is that a good thing, making him more relatable? Or will they be disappointed in what he's become? But he can't hide what he is, either, and Thor will never again be the same bold, naive warrior he used to be. Even if he lives another four thousand years and dies an old man, he cannot run from that truth. And if they look at him and see a failure, then so be it. It's what he is.
It's an oddly freeing thought, though it makes little sense for it to be.
"I'd like to see your Citadel," he says, before he can change his mind, before his doubts can creep back in and weigh him down again. "And meet your people."
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"It's okay," she tells him. "I don't bite."
(She does bite, but only if it's a life-or-death grapple. One really doesn't want to put one's mouth on people in the Wasteland. You know exactly where they've been and it's nowhere hygienic.)
"You know," she says softly, "I normally don't invite people from the Nexus to visit. There've been a few, but I don't like to bring people from softer worlds. I don't want to see anyone hurt unnecessarily, and I don't want to be pitied. Where I come from is hard and ruthless and it hurts, but the way we face it makes it beautiful."
"But you, you're invited, because I know what it feels like to lose everything, home and people, and to have to keep on anyway, and not know how to. There's nothing harsher than that."
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He's not quite sure what she means by 'softer worlds,' at first, but then he thinks of Asgard and endless feasts, of never fearing where he would lay his head for the night, of never questioning the wealth of his people - his family - or fearing it would ever run out. Countless things he had taken for granted before they were gone, and left him reeling in their absence. Those days are over, never to return. Compared to Furiosa's people, what remains of Asgard is still new to hardship. But they, too, must have started somewhere, perhaps with far less help than she is offering him now.
It's hard to be optimistic, knowing how far Asgard has fallen, trying to imagine what future might lie before them. How they might be shaped from the ashes of what came before. How much of their culture might yet be saved, and how much is already lost to them forever. But the way Furiosa speaks of her people... it's a brutal sort of hope, stripped of platitudes and niceties meant to soften the blow, yet utterly refusing to give in to despair. Life endures, no matter what the universe has thrown at them.
It makes Thor wonder what he might learn from them, how to keep hold of what matters despite the devastation. And that, perhaps above all else, is what pierces through the fog of uncertainty and beckons to him to come and see. "I'm honored," he murmurs, understanding that this is not pity, or a misguided attempt to raise his spirits, or an offer that's been given to many and it is simply his turn. It's a kindness, no matter which way he wants to look at it. So there's little to stop him from asking. "How did you endure it?"
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And that's a strength, if only he can shake off the pathology, with time and support.
Life endures, indeed. Survival is the one rule of the wild Wasteland. Any other moral code has to be carried with you when you venture out into it, like water and provisions, and just like with water and food, you can run out if you wander too long.
She considers his question for a long moment, looking at the sky. "One breath at a time," she says at last. "Not even a day at a time, or an hour, or a minute. One breath."
"After the Road War, I was left with holes on each side of my rib-cage, weak with blood loss, and I caught fever more than once. But worse than that, I had lost all but two of my clan, and I knew the Green Place where I grew up was dead. And the only chance I had of saving the handful of people depending on me was to return to the Citadel. I would have rather died, but I couldn't make that choice for them. So we had to get there and we had to win."
"But once the fighting was over, I thought for a while I might just be done. Even the air seemed to press on my chest, like when it was in my lungs before, but outside my ribcage this time. Holding me down. Most of what I did for weeks was sleeping."
"But the others kept visiting me. Kept bringing me food and...I'm not sure what all they said to me. I don't remember a lot of it. But they reminded me they existed, and so I just kept breathing."
"Eventually, the pressure started to go away again, and the breathing got easier."
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Privately, cynically, Thor has to wonder if the burden will actually ease, or if he will simply become used to the weight until he no longer notices it still crushing down on him. He's not certain which he likes less. Even as the weeks have passed, some days have been easier to bear than others, as if numbness is creeping into him like waves that rise and recede with the tide. Other days it is impossible to shake his darker thoughts, warring with himself in turn with regret that he had not been slain to spare him this, and hatred of himself for thinking he deserves such a mercy now. Yet still he wakes in his house, day after day, with thousands of uncertain years still laid out before him, a curse and a blessing both.
Maybe his own friends are the reasons he has made it this far at all. Loki sending daily messages, amusing anecdotes or photos of the children he's kept in his care, subtle prompting for Thor to answer, even if it is only a few words. Steven and Rabbit coming round to check on him every week or so, even if just for idle chitchat and a drink of water. Harley making a space for herself in Asvera, her cheerful persistence in establishing routines making it more difficult to sit around and drink all day. And now Furiosa, sharing an experience that seems eerily similar to his own in ways that matter, beyond the simple loss of limb they also share.
"You survived because of them," he says quietly, trying to process what that means for her, what it means for himself. Of the many moods that Thor now finds himself in, one of the easiest to find himself sinking into is loneliness, and that is a difficult trap to free himself from.
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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.
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Thor has no answers, not yet, but the thought is planted, sending down its roots within him.
Besides, he suddenly has more urgent things to consider. He looks over at her, mildly startled at how abrupt and immediate their departure is, cutting off the self-doubt before it can grow large enough to give him excuses as to why he shouldn't go. "A note?" he repeats, his thoughts successfully derailed enough that he actually considers it. He has a few haunts around the village, and while it isn't often that someone other than Harley or the Valkyrie actively seeks him out, he might cause a disturbance if they do discover their king missing and fear that he's left them to die somewhere. "That's... a good idea."
He picks up his prosthetic arm as he rises, and gestures for her to join him on the short walk up to his house. It will only take him a matter of minutes to find something to scribble on, tacking the short message to his front door. Gone with Furiosa, will return.
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She smiles at him when he looks over in surprise, and there's something of mock-innocence in it that might remind him a little of Loki. She knows exactly what she's doing here, but at least he can rest assured she has nothing but his best interests at heart. Nodding, she gives him a little squeeze before letting him go so he can stand. Like him, she has to collect her prosthesis, and she follows him inside comfortably, looking around a little but without judgment. She has no clue what the inside of a house is meant to look like. It could be cluttered, it could be tidy; it's not going to look like her rooms, either way.
Once the message is written and left, she tugs her arm back on, because that's where her PINpoint is buckled. A couple taps of the keys, and suddenly they're in the entrance of the tunnel between the lower garage of the Citadel and the passage to the Nexus.
Immediately, it's warmer, but also much drier. "You might not need that coat," Furiosa tells him. "At least not until after dark."
The lighting is dim, mostly gas lamps at this level, but there's a sound of a generator rumbling away nearby, and some sort of powertools that are being run by it. Furiosa tucks her right hand under Thor's bicep and looks a little excited. It will, she hopes, be fun to show off her people and what they've accomplished.
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For a very brief moment, Thor considers taking Stormbreaker with him, just in case. In case he needs a quick exit, or in case there is trouble. But something inside of him rebels at the impulse, uncertain if it's because of who that axe was forged to slay, or simply because he has had more than his fill of war 'til he is sick from it. He doesn't want it. Not now.
So he takes nothing but his arm, reattaching it with greater ease than Furiosa, and gives her a nod before he can change his mind like the coward he's become.
The sudden temperature change is a mild shock, if not unexpected or unpleasant. Thor has experienced deserts before, most recently in New Mexico, but even inside this earthen cavern he can still feel the tug of the weather in his bones. The atmosphere feels dryer than in Puente Antiguo, if not quite as hot as Muspelheim, and the parched air and earth speak to how long it has been since this land has seen any rain.
Thor has endured far greater heat, of course, but he sees no reason to be more uncomfortable than he needs to be. He hesitates a moment, realizing that his arm may draw more attention than intended, but Furiosa's confidence in displaying her prosthetic openly encourages him to strip off the hoodie and tie it around his waist, where he might easily put it back on if needed. "Lead on," he murmurs, loud enough to be heard over the drone of the generator. And as he follows, he turns his head to look around, curious despite himself to see what Furiosa and her people have made of their home.
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Here, she is in her element.
Of course, in the lower level of the Citadel, there's no danger in particular other than the uncertainty that looms over the world as a whole. There is radiation, levels that are not exactly healthy but certainly not imminently lethal to any but the most delicate living things. The water table and the climate of this world is wildly unstable. Here it is utterly arid, no rain but the lightest of acidic showers. Somewhere else on the planet, further north or all the way to the south, there may be storms shredding apart whatever remains of the land. Like Thor himself, this is a world that has been struck with a blow that reshaped it forever, and it is still struggling for a new equilibrium.
Furiosa leads him up an aisle lit by oil lamps, where narrow chimneys divert the smoke upward through a ventilation system dug into the rock. There are men and women both working on the vehicles, and children scamper here and there with water and snacks, sometimes handing tools to the Blackthumbs wrist-deep in engines. They all look at Furiosa as she passes, some of them glancing at Thor with unsubtle curiosity. Many of the men offer some kind of salute as they pass, hands interlaced in front of their heads. Furiosa smiles at some of them, nods and hums wordless greetings, and pats children gently with her metal hand if they come close looking for touch. She's headed for the lift at the end of the room, though, a large jury-rigged industrial-sized platform, easily big enough for a car or truck.
"I think we should go straight up to the gardens," she tells Thor as they step onto it. "It's cooler and less crowded there, and you can see the land all around from the lower terrace."
The two individuals operating the lift platform look adolescent, wiry and lean rather than filled-out. The shorter of the two seems to vibrate with excitement as they step onto the lift. The taller looks amused and puts a hand on her companion's shoulder to settle her. "All the way up, Boss?" She asks.
"The Library terrace," Furiosa says after a moment's thought. "Thanks, pup. Thor, this is Argo, and little one's name is Hush. Thor is a guest from the Nexus, you two. Be your best."
Hush immediately demonstrates why she was given her name: "Like in the stories??"
"Some people don't want to talk about their stories all the time, pup," Furiosa tells her, glances at Thor as if to make sure he's all right, then suggests, "Why don't you tell him a story about you, instead of asking questions about him?"
The lift ride will take a few minutes, after all.
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Being stared at is nothing new, though it’s been some time since Thor has found himself under so many strangers’ gazes. Thor does not recognize their salute, but as Furiosa does not return it, neither does he. Instead he finds himself automatically falling into step just off her shoulder, as he once followed Odin’s lead, her authority obvious in the way she carries herself here, the way her people defer to her. While Thor is in no danger of forgetting that he is a guest here, he finds himself relaxing a little at finding an old, comfortable habit to follow.
Once on the lift platform, Thor peers curiously upward, trying to see how high it goes. His attention is quickly caught by the youngsters, however, and he shuffles a little awkwardly under their excited stares. He looks very little like the brash young warrior he used to be, the one no doubt described in their stories, and yet the two youths don’t look disappointed to learn who he is, not for a moment. Whether it’s the battle scars or simply childish excitement that’s to blame, it’s still something of a balm to his sorely wounded pride, and Thor manages a small smile in return. “Probably,” he answers, “though it depends on what you’ve heard.”
Furiosa’s glance is returned with a grateful sort of look, though. He doesn’t think he’s ready to deal with a bombardment of unrestrained questions, as he once did with his adoring public. At least he can rest easy knowing that whatever he does here won’t be broadcast live to the world. “I’d love to hear one of yours,” Thor agrees easily.
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Battle scars are exciting to these children, badges of honor rather than marks of suffering. Thor may notice Argo peering between his left arm and Furiosa's, connecting the dots, coming to conclusions of her own.
Hush hops a little, remembers she's on a moving platform, and stills just as both Furiosa and Argo reach out to steady her. "Um. Sorry," she says, grinning. "I could tell you--oh! Oh, I caught a lizard this morning, Boss, and it only had one tail and there was a blue stripe down its back. And I took it to the kitchens to see if they knew what kind if was and if they wanted it for cooking and Atom Annie was in there and she said it was a kind she hadn't seen in years and years so I think maybe one of the trade caravans brought it with supplies and I was thinking I might keep it and not eat it after all. Mister Thor, do you know anything about lizards? Because I know Nexus people come from other worlds and I bet you've seen lots of animals that we don't have here anymore. Do you like turtles? I--"
And so on, and so forth. What Thor gets is not so much a story as an excited stream of consciousness, but at least the little girl doesn't seem to expect him to follow her entirely. She's just ecstatic to have someone listen to her.
The lift slides up past archways that lead into the sunlight, and darker bays where people are working. There's a sound of drums at one point, and rhythmic singing, but it's not long before they reach the upper floors. At that point, Thor can see that there's a large treadwheel that's at least partly responsible for the lift's operation. It seems to be run by a mix of human power and sturdy little donkeys.
Hush, to her credit, manages to find a stopping place as the lift slows, scampering to one side to lock the chain in place.
"If we could bottle your energy," Furiosa tells the child with a smile, "the rest of us would never have to work again."
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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."
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Any battle you can walk away from has not been truly lost.
Her thoughts are not so dark right now, though. She's watching Thor listen to the children of the New Green Place, the heartbeat of the Citadel in the form of drums and chant, and she thinks he may see something of value, if only he can hang onto it in his grief.
The children beam at the compliment and both give him that same salute the men below gave Furiosa: hands clasped in front of foreheads, then pulled down to their hearts. It's a combination of the V8 and the Vuvalini memorial gesture. Hush also bounces a little on her toes, excitement uncontainable, but Furiosa gives the children an approving nod and puts her hand on Thor's back to steer him away before they can start talking at him again.
"Some day," she tells him once they've moved off, "our children will be able to play more and work less, but in the meantime it's good for them to see how what they do is valued."
They're walking down a stony passage now, carved out of the rock and worn smooth by time and many feet and hands. There are paintings along the walls, and they probably mostly look nonsensical to Thor. They're mostly engine parts, gears and cogs, all twined with flowers and stylized bones. Up ahead, sunlight pours through the end of the tunnel, and there's a distinct smell of water and plants.
"This is the hydroponic garden," Furiosa says. "And the Greenthumbs' testing chambers. The more delicate plants and the ones we haven't tried on terraces yet grow here."
When they come out of the tunnel, the chamber at the end is very long, with windows cut into the rock along the whole length. There are curtains or blinds made of stitched and woven plastic and leather at the sides of each window, pulled back to let in the light. And the plants are everywhere, up to the ceiling, set up on elaborate gear and pulley systems such that a turn of a wheel at the end of each row will change their positions, giving each an equal turn at the sunlight and the shade.
There are a lot of people in here, too, mostly women and teenagers or children. It's light labor, checking the plants for bugs or disease and hand-pollinating them, but vital, and it requires good eyes. Thor may recognize some of the plants: tomatoes, strawberries, radishes, greens, and a huge variety of herbs.
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Either way, he understands the necessity. “Every citizen matters, no matter how small,” he agrees quietly, and thinks of those who are so young that they will never remember Asgard as it was. But they are precious nonetheless.
He can feel the garden before they arrive, the humidity in the air that clings around the greens, little blooms of warmth and life that call out for sun and sky. Uncertain what to expect in this place where nearly everything has been cobbled together and recycled countless times, he’s surprised and impressed when he sees their ingenuity, making use of what they have with the greatest efficiency available to them. Who else would have thought to create mobile gardens to maximize their growth potential? Human creativity never ceases to amaze him.
Arid weather is still weather, but part of Thor will always belong to the rain, and the water hanging heavy in the air here soothes him as he slowly walks the length of the garden, turning his head to fully take it all in. “This is incredible,” he says, and any melancholy thoughts are forgotten for the moment, his voice holding nothing but admiration.
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Furiosa relishes the thought of children that don't remember the Citadel as it was. Who know nothing of Immortan Joe but the name of a boogeyman that can't hurt them any longer. There will be elements that cling to the old warlike culture among her people, but slowly they are becoming tamer, fewer, and further between. It's essential that they be able to fight defensively, but a blessed relief that they no longer seek out conquest needlessly.
She watches his face as they move amongst the aisles of plants, and her head lifts a little higher at the murmur of praise. The Citadel had hydroponics before, but she and the Sisters have expanded the operation. They've had to, to feed their growing population. These plants, and the gardens above them, are some of the features of the place she's most proud of. "We had a bumper crop this last season," she says. "And we're starting new plants all the time. People from the Nexus give us seeds, and sometimes I buy them, and we trade for them. Some day soon, we're going to start taking the hardier seedlings to friendly settlements nearby and putting them in the ground for the people, showing them how to tend them. The more plant life there is in the desert, the better."
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He doesn't recognize everything that they're growing, of course, but it's a staggering variety for a place as barren as this. Which makes sense as Furiosa explains where it's all come from, and abruptly he remembers that he was part of those who gifted them with seeds, back at Yule. It feels like ages ago, though he knows it's been less than a year. So much has changed since then.
"Are any of these from the ones I gave you?" It's a petty sort of thing, but he wants to know if he's helped, even in some small way.
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