Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-08-24 07:58 pm
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-08-24 07:58 pm
A Break In the Clouds
For a while, nothing seems to change.
Thor's routine continues as it has for weeks, save for one small thing. He wars with himself every day when it comes time to take his dose of Eir's medicine, so certain that he does not need it. That he shouldn't need it. It's not doing anything anyway, not that he can see. Why bother?
But if that's true, then he has no reason not to take it. And if it does eventually do something, then maybe whatever Eir learns from its effects on him will help those who deserve it more than he does.
Every day he asks himself the same questions, gives himself the same arguments. And every time, he eventually gives in.
The days continue to pass whether he wants them to or not. And little by little, he begins to take more notice of the world around him. The wildflowers sprouting between the glacial stones around his house, splashing their colors against the gray rock. A family of seabirds roosting in the support struts of the rickety lighthouse, calling to each other as they glide on gentle ocean breezes. The shadows of fish close to shore, picking at bits of plant matter that's fallen into the sea. One day Thor emerges from his house, intending to visit the greenhouse as has become his habit, and is so ensnared by the sight of the majesty of the mountain rising behind the town that he stands in his doorway for what feels like a century, watching the shadows of clouds slowly climb its face and spill over towards the sea.
For once, he looks at what is there and sees it.
It's not just the beauty of nature, either. Slowly, a day at a time, Thor wakes in the house that he's called his own and sees the dust collecting on the furniture in Harley's absence, and finds he cannot rest until he's wiped it all clean. When he runs out of fresh clothes, though he still lacks the energy to wash them himself, he tentatively ventures into the village to find a washer woman to clean them for him. When his back aches from yet another night spent on the couch, he shuffles groggily to the bedroom and stretches out on the bed's softness, and wonders why he hasn't been sleeping there the entire time. When he tires of the knickknacks and paintings on the walls, remnants of a dead stranger's taste in interior decorating, he removes them and puts them away, and pays a spontaneous visit to New York to retrieve some of the belongings he'd left with the Avengers all those years ago. Sailing ships and mountains are replaced by cosmic starscapes and woven tapestries, pointless bric-a-brac traded for small keepsakes of his own.
It happens so slowly that he does not notice at all, until he finds himself in the kitchen making breakfast, and the thought occurs to him that this house feels like his, and he cannot pinpoint when that began to be true.
He chews on that thought for an entire day as he makes himself busy in the greenhouse and in the grain field, working until he feels pleasantly tired instead of the bone-deep exhaustion that still gnaws at him on his darkest days. He still drinks before bed, enough that he passes the night without any dreams that he can recall. He still has an attack of panic when he accidentally changes the television to a talk show and overhears some celebrity or another blaming the Avengers for the devastation that has ruined so many lives, and Thor spends the entire rest of the day in bed with only mead for company. But those moments do pass, in time, and do not drag him down as deeply as they once did, not so deep that it's hopeless to try to escape it.
Life goes on, and this time, Thor begins to let himself go with it.
He visits the stables of flying horses that Loki once showed him, and barters his way into bringing one home, a magnificent white mare that he gifts to the Valkyrie as thanks for her aid in keeping Asvera afloat. She protests, and there's an old grief in her eyes, but a spark of affection also as she absently strokes the pegasus' mane and produces an apple to feed her with, and Thor knows that he's done something right.
He ventures to Alfheim and Vanaheim with gifts of crops from Asvera's harvests, though he knows it may not be enough to appease the anger of peoples long neglected by their absent Allfather in their time of need. Yet even here, word of Ragnarok has spread, and though there are some that spit at Thor's feet as he passes, others still bow to him with their hands over their hearts and tears in their eyes. Their cities and villages are too quiet, too empty, and they do not turn away the aid he offers, small though it is. He keeps his visit short, the hollowness aching in his chest until he can't bear to be among them anymore. But he returns again a week later, and this time when he comes back to Asvera, it's with a small herd of goats in tow. Not war goats, as he'd once owned and remembers fondly, but a breed meant for milk and meat and hides.
He sets aside a pair for Furiosa, as he'd once promised her before the worst had come to pass. The beasts are bigger than those in her Citadel's herd, strong and hardy, and the female is already heavy with new life waiting to be born. The rest become the foundation of Asvera's first herd, and soon the grocery begins to stock fresh milk and cheese alongside the produce that has been grown here, a familiar taste of home.
Home.
Thor leans against the doorway of his house on the bluff as the sun rises, a cup of coffee cradled between his hands, and inhales the steam as he watches the village down below. He is still not himself, and there is an ache in him that refuses to leave, burrowed deep into the shadows of his heart. But Thor is beginning to understand that he will never be that man again. Too much has changed. He has changed. Into what, he does not know. But there is no going back now. No returning to what was.
The pain of loss may never die, the weight of his guilt may never lessen. His moods may still wax and wane, some days too harsh to bear alone, driving him to drown himself in mead until he cannot think any longer. But today, at least, Thor has the strength to face what is, and see the good that remains despite it all.
This could be Asgard, Odin had said. And as Thor's eye passes over the village and sees Aesir runes engraved on houses, the colorful rainbow painted on the bridge, Vanir goats grazing in the greens at the base of the mountain, and the hundreds of Asgardians still living, breathing, working...
Yes. This could be Asgard.
It's not a place, after all.
Thor's routine continues as it has for weeks, save for one small thing. He wars with himself every day when it comes time to take his dose of Eir's medicine, so certain that he does not need it. That he shouldn't need it. It's not doing anything anyway, not that he can see. Why bother?
But if that's true, then he has no reason not to take it. And if it does eventually do something, then maybe whatever Eir learns from its effects on him will help those who deserve it more than he does.
Every day he asks himself the same questions, gives himself the same arguments. And every time, he eventually gives in.
The days continue to pass whether he wants them to or not. And little by little, he begins to take more notice of the world around him. The wildflowers sprouting between the glacial stones around his house, splashing their colors against the gray rock. A family of seabirds roosting in the support struts of the rickety lighthouse, calling to each other as they glide on gentle ocean breezes. The shadows of fish close to shore, picking at bits of plant matter that's fallen into the sea. One day Thor emerges from his house, intending to visit the greenhouse as has become his habit, and is so ensnared by the sight of the majesty of the mountain rising behind the town that he stands in his doorway for what feels like a century, watching the shadows of clouds slowly climb its face and spill over towards the sea.
For once, he looks at what is there and sees it.
It's not just the beauty of nature, either. Slowly, a day at a time, Thor wakes in the house that he's called his own and sees the dust collecting on the furniture in Harley's absence, and finds he cannot rest until he's wiped it all clean. When he runs out of fresh clothes, though he still lacks the energy to wash them himself, he tentatively ventures into the village to find a washer woman to clean them for him. When his back aches from yet another night spent on the couch, he shuffles groggily to the bedroom and stretches out on the bed's softness, and wonders why he hasn't been sleeping there the entire time. When he tires of the knickknacks and paintings on the walls, remnants of a dead stranger's taste in interior decorating, he removes them and puts them away, and pays a spontaneous visit to New York to retrieve some of the belongings he'd left with the Avengers all those years ago. Sailing ships and mountains are replaced by cosmic starscapes and woven tapestries, pointless bric-a-brac traded for small keepsakes of his own.
It happens so slowly that he does not notice at all, until he finds himself in the kitchen making breakfast, and the thought occurs to him that this house feels like his, and he cannot pinpoint when that began to be true.
He chews on that thought for an entire day as he makes himself busy in the greenhouse and in the grain field, working until he feels pleasantly tired instead of the bone-deep exhaustion that still gnaws at him on his darkest days. He still drinks before bed, enough that he passes the night without any dreams that he can recall. He still has an attack of panic when he accidentally changes the television to a talk show and overhears some celebrity or another blaming the Avengers for the devastation that has ruined so many lives, and Thor spends the entire rest of the day in bed with only mead for company. But those moments do pass, in time, and do not drag him down as deeply as they once did, not so deep that it's hopeless to try to escape it.
Life goes on, and this time, Thor begins to let himself go with it.
He visits the stables of flying horses that Loki once showed him, and barters his way into bringing one home, a magnificent white mare that he gifts to the Valkyrie as thanks for her aid in keeping Asvera afloat. She protests, and there's an old grief in her eyes, but a spark of affection also as she absently strokes the pegasus' mane and produces an apple to feed her with, and Thor knows that he's done something right.
He ventures to Alfheim and Vanaheim with gifts of crops from Asvera's harvests, though he knows it may not be enough to appease the anger of peoples long neglected by their absent Allfather in their time of need. Yet even here, word of Ragnarok has spread, and though there are some that spit at Thor's feet as he passes, others still bow to him with their hands over their hearts and tears in their eyes. Their cities and villages are too quiet, too empty, and they do not turn away the aid he offers, small though it is. He keeps his visit short, the hollowness aching in his chest until he can't bear to be among them anymore. But he returns again a week later, and this time when he comes back to Asvera, it's with a small herd of goats in tow. Not war goats, as he'd once owned and remembers fondly, but a breed meant for milk and meat and hides.
He sets aside a pair for Furiosa, as he'd once promised her before the worst had come to pass. The beasts are bigger than those in her Citadel's herd, strong and hardy, and the female is already heavy with new life waiting to be born. The rest become the foundation of Asvera's first herd, and soon the grocery begins to stock fresh milk and cheese alongside the produce that has been grown here, a familiar taste of home.
Home.
Thor leans against the doorway of his house on the bluff as the sun rises, a cup of coffee cradled between his hands, and inhales the steam as he watches the village down below. He is still not himself, and there is an ache in him that refuses to leave, burrowed deep into the shadows of his heart. But Thor is beginning to understand that he will never be that man again. Too much has changed. He has changed. Into what, he does not know. But there is no going back now. No returning to what was.
The pain of loss may never die, the weight of his guilt may never lessen. His moods may still wax and wane, some days too harsh to bear alone, driving him to drown himself in mead until he cannot think any longer. But today, at least, Thor has the strength to face what is, and see the good that remains despite it all.
This could be Asgard, Odin had said. And as Thor's eye passes over the village and sees Aesir runes engraved on houses, the colorful rainbow painted on the bridge, Vanir goats grazing in the greens at the base of the mountain, and the hundreds of Asgardians still living, breathing, working...
Yes. This could be Asgard.
It's not a place, after all.