Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-08-15 08:03 pm
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-08-15 08:03 pm
Setting an Example
Months have passed, and with the turning of the Wheel, Asvera has begun to find its rhythm in the world. Fishing boats come and go, bringing back their haul to feed the Asgardians and their friends. The football pitch is finally cleared of scrap and plowed under, planted with wheat and oats, and the beginnings of a hedge of lavender and juniper line the main road, growing higher and stronger every day. The greenhouse is in full bloom, sprouting vegetables and fruits and herbs in abundance. The streets are filled with the sounds of people, of everyday life, pushing on to establish themselves in this alien world that is slowly becoming home.
Some enterprising soul has taken it upon themselves to paint the bridge leading to the mainland, striping its sides with all the colors of the rainbow. It looks nothing like the Bifrost bridge had, and the paint did not last long enough to finish the western side, but it is still a splash of color in a village that is gradually becoming flush with new green growth among the glacial rock.
It's progress. Not Asgard as it was, but something new. Something emerging from the ashes of what they were, diminished yet still fighting to thrive.
Thor wishes he could say the same of himself.
There are days when he feels almost himself again, for a time. When it seems easier to get out of bed and clean himself up, to eat breakfast and walk down to the greenhouse to help tend to the young plants there, to watch the ships come in and unload their catch. But it seems that, inevitably, something will remind him of what he's lost - a scent on the breeze, a voice that sounds too close to a loved one's, a flash of green or gold - and he finds his good mood blackened, soured. Those are the days he drinks the most, even if he must wait until after dark, when no one is around to persuade him otherwise.
The days that follow are usually the bad ones.
There are still times when he can't bring himself to leave the house, too drained to make the effort to walk across the island. Days when he can't stomach eating much of anything, no matter what it is, whether it's something he once favored. And on the worst of the lot, there are times when he does not have the energy to make himself get up for the day at all, and spends his hours in a daze, not sleeping but unable to do much of anything else, losing hours of his life that he can never quite remember. It's maddening, and Thor does not understand it at all, wishing only that it would go away.
It's on one of these days that he has a visitor.
He doesn't get up to answer the knock on the door, but there's been no need to lock it, so it swings open after several moments of waiting. Light footsteps trace a path straight to where Thor lies on the couch, half-buried under a woolen blanket and dully watching television, though he has no idea what is even on. But now there's a person standing between himself and the screen, so his gaze flicks up to see who it is. Eir is standing next to the couch, her stern face softened slightly at the sight of him, her healer's bag slung over her shoulder. "Your Majesty," she greets him, without a hint of disappointment to find him like this.
It takes him a moment to find where his voice has gone, not really in the mood for conversation. Especially if this is something that'd be better served at a council meeting... not that he's been to them as often as he should. "Lady Eir," he answers, and whatever this is about, he hopes it's quick. "Need something?"
"Actually, I believe it's you that needs something," she corrects him, and ignores his frown as she sets down the bag on his half-cluttered coffee table. The couch sags slightly as she perches herself on the edge of it at his hip, reminding him uncomfortably of times spent in the Healing Hall of Asgard after some youthful misadventure. She'd been much the same then as she is now, both in appearance and in temperament, and she cares little for whether he thinks he needs her help or not. "Midgardian medicine is primitive, but they have a surprising understanding of ailments of the mind. I've been studying their knowledge for several months now, and between Lady Harley's understanding of mind healing and your friend Lady Amelia's expertise in herbalism, I believe we've developed a treatment that may help those of our people who are struggling."
This is the first he's hearing of it, or perhaps he's been told and forgot. Either way, it seems like... good news? But Thor doesn't understand why she's here, telling him. "And... you... need my permission to give it to them?" That's his best guess. He is still the king, in name anyway. Not that he's been the leader he should have been.
But Eir gives him a pitying look, reaching into the bag to pull out a glass flask filled with a thick, pale lilac fluid. "No, my king. I'm here for you."
For... him? But there are others more deserving of the help than him. Innocents. What right does he have to be helped, when so many others must go without? "Me? Not the children?"
"Not until we know the safe dose for them," Eir says, carefully measuring out three drops of the potion into a small cup. "And how effective it is for the adults. Until then, it may be a challenge to get our people to accept that these conditions can be treated at all." She hands him the cup and he takes it automatically, staring dumbly at its contents. She waits a few moments, but when he doesn't drink, she places her hand on his shoulder. "They'll follow your example, my king. Help them, by helping yourself. They still need you. We all do."
Thor doesn't know if he believes that. But he doesn't have the energy to argue, either. So after a long moment's pause, he lifts the cup to his mouth. It tastes of lavender and bitter herbs, and does nothing at all to ease the emptiness in his chest.
Eir pats his shoulder and sets the flask on the coffee table. "Three drops a day, every day. It may take up to a fortnight before you feel its effects. If you begin to feel worse, send for me at once."
It takes him a long moment to realize she's waiting for him to respond, and he sighs, feeling more tired than ever. "Fine."
She nods, and Thor has no doubt that if he should fail to follow her instructions, he'll be getting an earful from her in short order. Not that he cares right now. Eir's eyes don't leave him, and he can't manage to worry about what she sees. Finally, she stands, taking up her bag and putting it over her shoulder. "Get some rest, Your Majesty. I'll be back to check on you later."
Rest. It seems like he's been doing nothing but, and for what? It doesn't matter anyway. But it's not like he has the energy for anything else. Not yet. His gaze drifts back to the television, and he hears the door swing shut, leaving him alone again. Like nothing's changed.
Save, of course, for the flask sitting on the table in front of him. Not the alcohol he knows so well, but something new. A promise of things yet to come.
Some enterprising soul has taken it upon themselves to paint the bridge leading to the mainland, striping its sides with all the colors of the rainbow. It looks nothing like the Bifrost bridge had, and the paint did not last long enough to finish the western side, but it is still a splash of color in a village that is gradually becoming flush with new green growth among the glacial rock.
It's progress. Not Asgard as it was, but something new. Something emerging from the ashes of what they were, diminished yet still fighting to thrive.
Thor wishes he could say the same of himself.
There are days when he feels almost himself again, for a time. When it seems easier to get out of bed and clean himself up, to eat breakfast and walk down to the greenhouse to help tend to the young plants there, to watch the ships come in and unload their catch. But it seems that, inevitably, something will remind him of what he's lost - a scent on the breeze, a voice that sounds too close to a loved one's, a flash of green or gold - and he finds his good mood blackened, soured. Those are the days he drinks the most, even if he must wait until after dark, when no one is around to persuade him otherwise.
The days that follow are usually the bad ones.
There are still times when he can't bring himself to leave the house, too drained to make the effort to walk across the island. Days when he can't stomach eating much of anything, no matter what it is, whether it's something he once favored. And on the worst of the lot, there are times when he does not have the energy to make himself get up for the day at all, and spends his hours in a daze, not sleeping but unable to do much of anything else, losing hours of his life that he can never quite remember. It's maddening, and Thor does not understand it at all, wishing only that it would go away.
It's on one of these days that he has a visitor.
He doesn't get up to answer the knock on the door, but there's been no need to lock it, so it swings open after several moments of waiting. Light footsteps trace a path straight to where Thor lies on the couch, half-buried under a woolen blanket and dully watching television, though he has no idea what is even on. But now there's a person standing between himself and the screen, so his gaze flicks up to see who it is. Eir is standing next to the couch, her stern face softened slightly at the sight of him, her healer's bag slung over her shoulder. "Your Majesty," she greets him, without a hint of disappointment to find him like this.
It takes him a moment to find where his voice has gone, not really in the mood for conversation. Especially if this is something that'd be better served at a council meeting... not that he's been to them as often as he should. "Lady Eir," he answers, and whatever this is about, he hopes it's quick. "Need something?"
"Actually, I believe it's you that needs something," she corrects him, and ignores his frown as she sets down the bag on his half-cluttered coffee table. The couch sags slightly as she perches herself on the edge of it at his hip, reminding him uncomfortably of times spent in the Healing Hall of Asgard after some youthful misadventure. She'd been much the same then as she is now, both in appearance and in temperament, and she cares little for whether he thinks he needs her help or not. "Midgardian medicine is primitive, but they have a surprising understanding of ailments of the mind. I've been studying their knowledge for several months now, and between Lady Harley's understanding of mind healing and your friend Lady Amelia's expertise in herbalism, I believe we've developed a treatment that may help those of our people who are struggling."
This is the first he's hearing of it, or perhaps he's been told and forgot. Either way, it seems like... good news? But Thor doesn't understand why she's here, telling him. "And... you... need my permission to give it to them?" That's his best guess. He is still the king, in name anyway. Not that he's been the leader he should have been.
But Eir gives him a pitying look, reaching into the bag to pull out a glass flask filled with a thick, pale lilac fluid. "No, my king. I'm here for you."
For... him? But there are others more deserving of the help than him. Innocents. What right does he have to be helped, when so many others must go without? "Me? Not the children?"
"Not until we know the safe dose for them," Eir says, carefully measuring out three drops of the potion into a small cup. "And how effective it is for the adults. Until then, it may be a challenge to get our people to accept that these conditions can be treated at all." She hands him the cup and he takes it automatically, staring dumbly at its contents. She waits a few moments, but when he doesn't drink, she places her hand on his shoulder. "They'll follow your example, my king. Help them, by helping yourself. They still need you. We all do."
Thor doesn't know if he believes that. But he doesn't have the energy to argue, either. So after a long moment's pause, he lifts the cup to his mouth. It tastes of lavender and bitter herbs, and does nothing at all to ease the emptiness in his chest.
Eir pats his shoulder and sets the flask on the coffee table. "Three drops a day, every day. It may take up to a fortnight before you feel its effects. If you begin to feel worse, send for me at once."
It takes him a long moment to realize she's waiting for him to respond, and he sighs, feeling more tired than ever. "Fine."
She nods, and Thor has no doubt that if he should fail to follow her instructions, he'll be getting an earful from her in short order. Not that he cares right now. Eir's eyes don't leave him, and he can't manage to worry about what she sees. Finally, she stands, taking up her bag and putting it over her shoulder. "Get some rest, Your Majesty. I'll be back to check on you later."
Rest. It seems like he's been doing nothing but, and for what? It doesn't matter anyway. But it's not like he has the energy for anything else. Not yet. His gaze drifts back to the television, and he hears the door swing shut, leaving him alone again. Like nothing's changed.
Save, of course, for the flask sitting on the table in front of him. Not the alcohol he knows so well, but something new. A promise of things yet to come.