Even a God Can Need a Friend [Open to friends]

[pirateangelbaby]

[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.

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[eumenis]

Furiosa can't speak for his people and wouldn't presume to try, but she doesn't think the less of him. Neither, she knows, would her people.

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.

[pirateangelbaby]

Thor's house is in a better state than he's prone to keeping it if left to his own devices, thanks to a helping hand from Harley. There's not nearly as much dust as there might be otherwise, and only a few empty bottles clustered on the coffee table in front of the couch, which is unquestionably the messiest part of the room with a nest of blankets that look like someone suspiciously Thor-sized has been sleeping there for weeks on end. The decor is still mostly as it was when he moved in, however, with framed paintings of sailing ships and mountains and the like, though the gleaming battleaxe propped up in the corner is unmistakably Thor's.

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.

[eumenis]

Since the Winter and all the turmoil it brought, Furiosa has realized something fundamental about herself: she doesn't belong in the Nexus. It's not bad place to be, it's useful for trade and visiting and making friends and allies, but it isn't her place, and it never will be. There is too much leeway there, too much softness. She is a creature honed and sharpened by the ferocity of the world around her. This world.

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.

[pirateangelbaby]

It reminds Thor somewhat of Stark’s old workspace, though the vehicles are neither sleek nor spotless as the billionaire’s had been. These are vehicles that have seen rough, heavy use, battered and dented, paint scoured away by sand and wind, cobbled together from a thousand different pieces ‘til every one is a unique work to itself, an exercise in resourcefulness and using what they have in ways they were likely not intended.

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.

[eumenis]

There are personal touches on each of these vehicles, as well. Thor may or may not notice, but many of them have dashboard ornaments, names carved or sculpted into the running boards, or ornamental designs on the hoods and windows. Even in the midst of harshness and deprivation, the people of the Wasteland find time to express themselves with craft and ornamentation.

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."

[pirateangelbaby]

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."

[eumenis]

That's a thought pattern that a War Boy would understand, certainly. They prefer death to defeat, and if Thor wanted to tell his tale of battling Hela, or of older battles against less personal foes, he'd find a rapt audience. Furiosa takes a longer view, though, in her quiet, grim way. She learned it in those first days out of the Green Place, on the dusty road with her dying mother. She shares it with Max. A single, vital instinct: Survive.

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.

[pirateangelbaby]

Though he’s had little direct involvement in assignments of labor and training, Thor is aware that the Asgardian children have been similarly called to help the adults in their work. Nothing strenuous or back-breaking, but anyone old enough to run messages or fetch supplies and tools has surely been assigned to some simple tasks that require no skill and pose no danger. But maybe one day soon, they will be established enough to allow for proper schools and tutoring rather than work. Not that Thor has any idea who might then be fit to teach.

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.

[eumenis]

Someone will step up when teachers are called for, if Furiosa's experience is any indication. Ace and some of the other older Blackthumbs have been used to teaching their craft to children all along, and took no persuasion to continue. Others with practical skills have stepped forward. There are fewer who have extensive knowledge of reading, writing, or history, but Cheedo filled that niche easily enough, and she was quick to take on other apprentice teachers. The good thing about knowledge is the further it spreads, the greater it becomes.

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."

[pirateangelbaby]

Here and there, Thor trails his fingers along the edge of the plants as he passes, light enough that he doesn't do much more than rustle the leaves but still compelled to touch, both by hand and the light brush of seidr. Just feeling the little pulse of life running through the greens. The garden is healthy, flourishing in a desert that would not be hospitable to them if left on their own, a testament to how diligent the humans are in caring for their crops. Life where there shouldn't be, on both accounts, thriving in spite of everything stacked against them.

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.

[eumenis]

Some of what they cultivate indoors is grown solely for seed. The inhospitable ground outside can't house tomatoes, for example, or water-hungry grains like rice, but the can grow enough to keep fresh, fertile seed available for a hopeful future, when they may be able to spread healthy plants far and wide across the Wasteland. Thor will see several types of rushes and cattails being grown in the hydroponic troughs, amongst the practical vegetables and herbs.

"Melothria," she says as he touches a delicate tendril, and points out the pinpoint-sized yellow blooms, and a tiny green fruit forming on some of the little vines. "They taste like cucumber and lemon. Dag says she thinks she can breed them a little bit hardier so they can be moved outside."

In response to the question, she grins and tugs at his sleeve, guiding him further down the line. "Most of this section," she tells him, gesturing to the back quarter of the chamber. "The greenthumbs are excited about these. We've got dill, coriander, several brassicas we didn't have before, bishop's weed, chicory and meadowsweet. I like this one best."

She touches one of the plants, a kind of mustard green that ought to look familiar to Thor. "I like bitter greens. These are good raw, and they don't wilt fast after harvest, so we've been eating a lot of them all over the Citadel. Roll them up with a little bean mash inside, and dip them in herbed vinegar, they're delicious."

It's hard to get enough food to go around with a population of thousands, but they're doing a decent job.

[pirateangelbaby]

It's hard to imagine sometimes that something so small might make the difference between life and death, but that is the nature of all things to grow into something greater, something more than they began. These little fruits will one day feed Furiosa's people, passing on their energies to fuel more life, their seeds saved to grow again. The Wheel keeps turning, even here.

Thor doesn't know enough of how to use his seidr to make their intended breeding project any easier, but he gives it a little spark anyway, little blue wisps that soak into the tendrils of the plant like water. Those who tend the garden might end up discovering that they're closer to harvest than they thought, or perhaps the fruits will grow larger, the herbs taller. Maybe they'll find that their crops use a little less water to flourish just as much, or that there are fewer instances of disease that need pruning away. However it manifests itself in the end, this harvest will be a good one.

He doesn't resist her pull on his arm, following her to see for himself the fruits of his generosity. Her people have put his gift to good use, the new herbs looking right at home alongside the old, and he smiles a little to see them. Maybe they would have filled this space with other plants, had he not helped, but he did and that means he did something good. Something right. It matters.

It probably isn't how the Asgardians would use the plant, but one thing Thor admires about humans is their creativity. Their use of what they have, transforming it into something new. "They're that popular, you say. Maybe we'll have to trade recipes."

[eumenis]

Furiosa's eyes widen a little as Thor's energy flickers and soaks into the plant. That wasn't lightning. She chooses not to ask, though, mindful of old Vuvalini tales warning that questioning a blessing risks breaking it. Instead, she'll watch and wait.

She leaves her hand on his arm, a casually friendly gesture. Honestly, her world has seen so much generosity from the Nexus, not just from Thor but from others, as well. But Thor's gift is special, for more than one reason. It came at Yule, for one thing, and if she's honest with herself there's still something special about meeting a god that appeared in so many Vuvalini tales, and who very solidly proves that everything Joe told them was a lie.

(She shouldn't need to have that proved. She knew, she always knew...but when you live in the midst of madness for too long, it stops sounding mad, and your sanity seems like it might be insane.)

Now isn't the time to tell him what it means to have him here. She's sensitive enough to know that. It's time to be friends; that's what's most important. So she smiles at him, showing her dimples, and nods. "I'm not a great cook, myself, but if you want, I can send you down to the kitchens. I'm sure they'll put you to work peeling potatoes, chopping beetroots..."

She's teasing.

[pirateangelbaby]

It takes Thor a moment to recognize that she's teasing, during which he wonders if there might be some safety advantage in not being able to accidentally cut one's own fingers while chopping vegetables. Though he supposes it still might blunt the knives, and he probably shouldn't be paying that little attention in a kitchen anyway.

But then he recognizes the tilt of her smile, the glimmer in her eyes, and he finds it's not too difficult to chuckle a little. "No shortage of work to do, is there?" As different as her Citadel is from the Norwegian village, it's nice to find things they have in common, too.

Her people have done so much, and come so far; what they've built for themselves is truly impressive. And with far less to work with than Asvera does, at that. He can only wonder what the village will look like if given the same amount of time, melding the old Asgardian ways with Earth, until they've made something entirely new.

[eumenis]

There is, actually, an advantage there. She's done plenty of peeling and chopping, herself, but the tease is more in her trying to put him to work. He could, she imagines. Might even do him good to have some rote task in his hands that he can focus on, to shut out the ache of the wounds in his mind. She's been there. But she's not going to actually ask. If he falls into something, she'll encourage it, but he's a guest.

"Never. And the more people there are, the more work," she tells him. "People are having babies. Healthy ones, one they choose to carry. And there are caravans coming to ask to settle here often. We try not to turn them away, as long as they're peaceful."

Beckoning, she guides him through another hydroponics chamber--this one with the tiniest seedlings and some rare, delicate plants that seem to be strictly tended--and to a juncture where there are two exits, both bright with sunlight streaming in. One leads left, to a staircase that clearly opens onto a terrace. One leads right, through a short round passage through the rock. On the other side, if he looks, he can see immense glass windows, a few dwarf fruit trees and vines, shelves with stacks of books, and a shallow pool. At the edge of it, the words our babies will not be warlords are carved into the floor.

"This is the Door that Never Closes," Furiosa tells him, sobering visibly, and for a moment the hand on his arm seems like it might be for her support as well as his. "Before, Joe kept his wives here. Now, it's our library. Do you want to see?"

She hates going into the former Vault, even now. It's her that named the passage the Door the Never Closes, to remind her it's safe enough to enter now, but she always gets chills, stepping into the room that was once a hell. But it's different, and the stacks of books often lure her in, as long as Cheedo or someone else is around, and if Thor wants to look, she's sure she'll feel safe enough with him.

[pirateangelbaby]

The way she speaks of children, of babies, makes it sound as though it's a miracle, something precious to be treasured. It reminds him of Solvi and her little one, one of the last good moments he'd had before everything had fallen apart, and the fact that both mother and baby still live. That they will form the foundation of the new Asgard as they adapt to their new reality, whatever it may be. The first of generation of Asgardians that will know Earth as their home, just as Furiosa's people are birthing a generation that will know this Citadel as their home, and not the one the warlord had ruled.

It gives him a good deal to think about, though he's still paying attention as he follows her through their garden, occasionally slowing to take a closer look at some of the little seedlings, tiny but determined to grow and thrive despite the desert outside these walls. But then they're moving on, leaving the hydroponics behind.

He's not sure what to make of the new room at first, a sort of... reading room, with a great deal of natural light coming in through the windows, but the pool and its text... it's only when she tells him what this is that it makes sense, or sense enough. Is that the reason she leans on him like she is now, or is there something more? It wouldn't surprise him if there was. So while he's curious to see what books have survived the devastation of her world, what resources they have for knowledge, he's hesitant to ask for anything that will disturb her further. He knows all too well now how the smallest things can drag deeper fears to the surface. "If... if that's all right," he answers awkwardly, looking down at her, uncertain. "It looks like a lovely library."

[eumenis]

Babies are a minor miracle in the Wasteland, particularly full-life, healthy ones. Infant mortality is still very high here, though they do the best they can for pregnant people. There simply isn't a lot of prenatal care available, and the world is harsh. Still, the population is growing. People from all walks of life are bearing infants, and more and more of them are full-life children. Moreover, the ones that aren't--the little ones born with limb deformities, odd lumps and asymmetries or some other disability--are better able to be cared for now. For the first time since the Old World fell, human life is considered inherently valuable here.

She glances up at the sound of uncertainty in his voice, and the intuitive care he's offering makes her smile a little. "It is," she reassures him. "I have bad memories of this place. Some days I want to go in to read, and I do. Other days, I can't."

She puts her hand in his and tugs him toward the door, calm and confident now. "Always easier when I'm not alone. But it's like that, having scars in your head from what's happened to you. Sometimes they ache worse than others. You'll see. And in the end you'll be all right."

[pirateangelbaby]

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.

[eumenis]

Knowing and monitoring oneself is a difficult task, but it's one that many people have to learn eventually, in one way or another. Someone with a chronic physical illness must learn to anticipate good and bad days. Someone with a wounded mind must watch and prepare for the same. Furiosa is never gentle with herself; she will charge into a mental or physical fight on a bad day because that's simply her coping mechanism, and it takes friends to talk her down more often than not, but she understands what's going on in her own head better than most. She may not be the best example for him, but she's not the worst, either.

The chambers beyond the passage are quiet today. The main room has only one plump, curvy woman in white and green seated at a desk, carefully repairing a book. She glances up as they come in, smiles at Furiosa, and gets distracted looking at Thor, because da-amn. Like others, she's too polite to say anything, though, and after a moment she looks back down at her work with a blush.

The large room they're in contains not just books and trees, but there is also a piano in one corner, a few other instruments propped nearby, and a row of chairs. The shelves closest to it seem like they're designated for sheet music, and there are words in ancient Greek carved into the wall in this corner.

There are a few other doors that lead into other rooms. Here, there seem to be more books, but also a few pretty things like statues, paintings, tapestries on the walls, and the like. This is both library and museum.

If he looks back, he'll see over the doorway they've come through, the words We Are Not Things are carved and painted in with green enamel to make them shine. Above them, an insignia carved of scrap metal has the image of a pair of boltcutters, the same thing Furiosa wears on her belt.

[pirateangelbaby]

It’s honestly impressive to see. In his time, Thor has seen civilizations crumbled into nothing but rust and rubble, history forgotten by future generations. Yet the Citadel and its people have preserved artifacts of the old world, not just in dry facts but real tangible works of art, touchstones of who they used to be. It makes him wonder if Asgard will ever achieve its like, even if the surviving craftsmen must recreate such things by memory.

What will Asgard become, as the centuries pass? How much of their heart still lives, buried and waiting to be rediscovered? What of the old ways will be forgotten, and what will be remembered? If humans can build something new from their own ashes, something beautiful and meaningful and defiant of all that tried to crush them, surely Asgard could do no less.

His gaze stops on the shining letters above the ever-open door, the rejection of their subjugation so clear that it’s been carved into the rock so none could deny it. “We are not things,” he reads aloud in a murmur, and thinks it a fine thing to base one’s community on. A world where every life is precious, a person, not some nameless faceless cog in a great machine that can be easily replaced.

Things can be broken, discarded, replaced. People cannot.

[eumenis]

Furiosa comes to stand beside him as he reads, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Those were the words of Splendid Angharad. She was captive in here, with four other young women, and the History Woman Miss Giddy. I was brought in to be their bodyguard."

"They hated me at first, but I couldn't blame them, since I hated myself at the time, too. It was Angharad that persuaded me to help them escape. If not for her, I might have lost myself for good. It's easy, when you've been beaten down, to become a cog in the system that beat you, without noticing you've lost your soul."

"All I wanted was vengeance against Immortan Joe, until I met the Sisters of the vault. Then I saw they had hope, and I wanted it to be real, for their sake. I think that's what keeps me going even now. There's still someone out there with hope, even if it's not always me. I can still be a reason they believe, even when I've got nothing left to give but the fact that I'm still standing."

"Sometimes, we make the world seem better for other people just by existing, even when we can't see it ourselves." She kisses the tip of her index finger and then boops him gently on the nose.

[pirateangelbaby]

If he had any doubts that her message was meant for him, not just as a story but as a lesson, those doubts are dispelled with that almost playful tap to his nose. Almost against his will, he smiles a little, his gaze drawn from the engraving to meet her eyes. It isn't pity when someone else has walked the same road you have, and tries to show you where the pitfalls are.

It's hard to take her messages to heart, when that heart struggles against letting go of things he holds as truth. But he wants to believe that what she says is true. That even if his hope is lost, that someone else will find their hope in him. That his survival means something other than that he was too unlucky to die.

"You're a wise woman, Furiosa," he tells her. "Thank you. I'll... I'll try to remember that."