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

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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.

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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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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

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