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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[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."