One Last Shot
Sep. 15th, 2019 08:02 pm[Trigger warnings: mentions of attempted and successful suicide, major character death.]
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[Trigger warnings: implied suicidal thoughts]
It's been months since Thor spent any significant amount of time away from home, and he's surprised to realize how much he misses it already. Surprised he's even thinking about Norway as being home, or that he would want to be there more than here, among his shieldbrothers and sisters, the Avengers. What's left of them.
It'd be one thing if this was a social call, like Steven's birthday. But this... this is something else entirely, and just the thought of what they're planning to do makes Thor's skin crawl.
The Infinity Stones no longer exist.
So they're going to go back to when they did.
They haven't even begun to tackle the problem of keeping the loops stable, of how to ensure that nothing they do in the past will affect the timeline and implode the entire universe in on itself. Today was just for determining where the Stones even were, and only Thor had known the location of the Aether.
Of course.
He honestly doesn't entirely remember what he said during his turn to speak, as if he'd left his own body and someone else did the talking for him. Disassociation, Eir has told him it's called. He's pretty sure he stuck to the facts, about how no one knew where Bor had hid the Reality Stone until Jane stumbled across it during the Convergence, and that the only time they might have a chance at getting it from her would be when she was on Asgard. And then he'd pretty much checked out at the realization that no one else here has been to Asgard but him, and that if this insane nonsense of a plan actually works, they're probably going to send him there.
To Asgard.
Of course, chances are still pretty high that this isn't going to work and this is all just chasing wildfowl, but either way as soon as today's planning session was over, Thor made a beeline for his room to retrieve one of the last bottles of mead he'd brought along, and has found himself a quiet spot elsewhere in the complex to get as drunk as he can on what supplies he has left. The roof is as isolated a spot as he can find, under the open sky, which is streaked here and there with clouds that blot out some of the stars. Thor sits on the edge, unconcerned by the meager drop of a few stories, and turns his eye skyward to watch the slow shift of the weather above, and takes a long pull from the bottle.
It's been months since Thor spent any significant amount of time away from home, and he's surprised to realize how much he misses it already. Surprised he's even thinking about Norway as being home, or that he would want to be there more than here, among his shieldbrothers and sisters, the Avengers. What's left of them.
It'd be one thing if this was a social call, like Steven's birthday. But this... this is something else entirely, and just the thought of what they're planning to do makes Thor's skin crawl.
The Infinity Stones no longer exist.
So they're going to go back to when they did.
They haven't even begun to tackle the problem of keeping the loops stable, of how to ensure that nothing they do in the past will affect the timeline and implode the entire universe in on itself. Today was just for determining where the Stones even were, and only Thor had known the location of the Aether.
Of course.
He honestly doesn't entirely remember what he said during his turn to speak, as if he'd left his own body and someone else did the talking for him. Disassociation, Eir has told him it's called. He's pretty sure he stuck to the facts, about how no one knew where Bor had hid the Reality Stone until Jane stumbled across it during the Convergence, and that the only time they might have a chance at getting it from her would be when she was on Asgard. And then he'd pretty much checked out at the realization that no one else here has been to Asgard but him, and that if this insane nonsense of a plan actually works, they're probably going to send him there.
To Asgard.
Of course, chances are still pretty high that this isn't going to work and this is all just chasing wildfowl, but either way as soon as today's planning session was over, Thor made a beeline for his room to retrieve one of the last bottles of mead he'd brought along, and has found himself a quiet spot elsewhere in the complex to get as drunk as he can on what supplies he has left. The roof is as isolated a spot as he can find, under the open sky, which is streaked here and there with clouds that blot out some of the stars. Thor sits on the edge, unconcerned by the meager drop of a few stories, and turns his eye skyward to watch the slow shift of the weather above, and takes a long pull from the bottle.
Growth Begins From a Tiny Seed
Jul. 10th, 2019 01:28 am[OOC: Set after this thread.]
Thor sleeps until nearly noon, undisturbed by nightmares or visions, or the sounds of Harley and Pamela getting breakfast in the kitchen. Pamela is gone when he finally wakes, and for a long moment, Thor frowns up at the ceiling, unable to put his finger on what is different but positive that something is.
It's the first time he's slept through the night sober in weeks.
Today, he needs no coaxing to get off the couch and bathe, letting his hair dry on its own instead of being smothered under a hat. He feels... odd, almost detached from himself, as if he's forgotten how to exist in his own body. But it isn't like before, when numbness had consumed him from the inside out, and left him feeling like a shell. Rather, something has been put back inside that shell of a man, and now he must relearn how it fits, for however long this will last.
It may be temporary. Thor does not know. But for once, the constant guilt gnawing on his bones is lessened, held at bay by something he cannot name. And, for once, he finds that he has something to look forward to, a reason to leave the house without being prompted, wolfing down a sandwich before venturing out into the village.
The sun peeks through gray clouds as he makes his way towards the greenhouse, and some Asgardians bow their heads to him as he passes, a gesture he reflexively returns. The Valkyrie does a double-take when she sees him, her eyes sweeping up and down as if checking for something, and she looks faintly pleased not to find it. "Majesty," she greets him, giving him a friendly thump on the shoulder. "Good to see you out and about." There's more, but she bites her tongue, and he doesn't ask. Their conversation is brief, but oddly normal - no awkward questions, no lingering looks - and when Thor finally reaches his destination, he is surprised to realize that he's actually smiling slightly.
The greenhouse is pleasantly warm inside, the soil in the plant beds dark and moist, and faintly glowing with life in his senses. Without even touching them, he can feel the fragile, tender roots that are beginning to burrow into the earth, seeking water and nutrients. Thor lightly trails his right hand over the soil, and wisps of seidr pool around his fingers, trickling down to the young seeds and whispering their encouragements. Drink deep. Grow your roots. Reach for the sun. And under his fingers, life begins to take hold, slender green shoots pushing up through the crumbled earth.
Looking back now, Thor does not know why he feared this part of himself. Why he would be embarrassed to bring life, to balance all the death he has dealt. It is not only men who have wielded swords in Asgard's defense. Sif, the Valkyries, Thor's own mother. Their blades had been sorely needed, and none had cared that they were women, when they were all that stood between Asgard and disaster.
But weapons are not what Asgard needs now. They need food, and peace, and nurturing. A refuge, Asvera in truth, not just in hope. Thor is no seidrmann, and he never will be. Nor will he ever be Odin. And he is not the king that he had wanted to be. But Asgard is burned to ashes, and so has the man he once was. But maybe something can yet grow from that desolation, as a forest regrows after a wildfire. And if that growth comes from the magic of a man... why does it matter, if it is what's needed?
Thor does not yet know who he is, this person he has become. Broken, beaten, unwell in ways that seem like he will never heal, forever haunted by the losses he can still scarcely comprehend. He has brought death to the universe on an immeasurable scale, and that can never be undone.
But as he kneels in the dirt and watches green sprout between his fingers, coaxing these simple little lives to grow and flourish under his touch, it feels like a step in the right direction.
Thor sleeps until nearly noon, undisturbed by nightmares or visions, or the sounds of Harley and Pamela getting breakfast in the kitchen. Pamela is gone when he finally wakes, and for a long moment, Thor frowns up at the ceiling, unable to put his finger on what is different but positive that something is.
It's the first time he's slept through the night sober in weeks.
Today, he needs no coaxing to get off the couch and bathe, letting his hair dry on its own instead of being smothered under a hat. He feels... odd, almost detached from himself, as if he's forgotten how to exist in his own body. But it isn't like before, when numbness had consumed him from the inside out, and left him feeling like a shell. Rather, something has been put back inside that shell of a man, and now he must relearn how it fits, for however long this will last.
It may be temporary. Thor does not know. But for once, the constant guilt gnawing on his bones is lessened, held at bay by something he cannot name. And, for once, he finds that he has something to look forward to, a reason to leave the house without being prompted, wolfing down a sandwich before venturing out into the village.
The sun peeks through gray clouds as he makes his way towards the greenhouse, and some Asgardians bow their heads to him as he passes, a gesture he reflexively returns. The Valkyrie does a double-take when she sees him, her eyes sweeping up and down as if checking for something, and she looks faintly pleased not to find it. "Majesty," she greets him, giving him a friendly thump on the shoulder. "Good to see you out and about." There's more, but she bites her tongue, and he doesn't ask. Their conversation is brief, but oddly normal - no awkward questions, no lingering looks - and when Thor finally reaches his destination, he is surprised to realize that he's actually smiling slightly.
The greenhouse is pleasantly warm inside, the soil in the plant beds dark and moist, and faintly glowing with life in his senses. Without even touching them, he can feel the fragile, tender roots that are beginning to burrow into the earth, seeking water and nutrients. Thor lightly trails his right hand over the soil, and wisps of seidr pool around his fingers, trickling down to the young seeds and whispering their encouragements. Drink deep. Grow your roots. Reach for the sun. And under his fingers, life begins to take hold, slender green shoots pushing up through the crumbled earth.
Looking back now, Thor does not know why he feared this part of himself. Why he would be embarrassed to bring life, to balance all the death he has dealt. It is not only men who have wielded swords in Asgard's defense. Sif, the Valkyries, Thor's own mother. Their blades had been sorely needed, and none had cared that they were women, when they were all that stood between Asgard and disaster.
But weapons are not what Asgard needs now. They need food, and peace, and nurturing. A refuge, Asvera in truth, not just in hope. Thor is no seidrmann, and he never will be. Nor will he ever be Odin. And he is not the king that he had wanted to be. But Asgard is burned to ashes, and so has the man he once was. But maybe something can yet grow from that desolation, as a forest regrows after a wildfire. And if that growth comes from the magic of a man... why does it matter, if it is what's needed?
Thor does not yet know who he is, this person he has become. Broken, beaten, unwell in ways that seem like he will never heal, forever haunted by the losses he can still scarcely comprehend. He has brought death to the universe on an immeasurable scale, and that can never be undone.
But as he kneels in the dirt and watches green sprout between his fingers, coaxing these simple little lives to grow and flourish under his touch, it feels like a step in the right direction.
[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 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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.
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.
A Gray Dawn
May. 25th, 2019 09:35 am[Immediately follows this prose, which contains Endgame spoilers. Spoilers are implied here but not stated outright. Trigger warnings: depression, alcohol abuse.]
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"Remember this place... home."
May. 25th, 2019 08:40 am[Contains mild Endgame spoilers, follows this thread and this thread which also contains plot spoilers. Trigger warnings: Depression, alcohol abuse, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts.]
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[Endgame spoilers, takes place after this thread which also contains spoilers. This thread contains depression/disassociation, panic attacks, alcohol abuse, and suicidal thoughts. Thor is in a very bad place and has many unkind thoughts about himself that are not necessarily true.]
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A Healing Touch [for coldsong]
May. 9th, 2019 09:15 pmA week after the world came to an end, after the shock has faded to deeper-seated grief and he has been forced to venture out of his solitary room every day, Thor has managed to scrape enough of himself together that he no longer feels ready to fall to pieces at the slightest pressure. Still fractured, still broken pieces held together through his sheer force of will, weaker than it once was in the face of his greatest defeat. But holding, nonetheless.
It feels like an eternity and yet no time at all, but Loki's words have dug deep and planted roots in what's left of his heart, and he knows he cannot shirk his duty. He is still the king of Asgard, and he is needed, no matter how few remain alive. He is not the only one who has lost everything, not the only one struggling to make sense of this horrible new reality they have found themselves in, and if anything, his responsibility in not stopping the slaughter makes it even more necessary that he start making an effort to help those he has harmed so grievously.
For that... he must start by seeing to the refugees. Or by letting them see to him.
Thor hasn't been back to the Nexus since that awful day, but Loki had given him what he needs to return and find what he's looking for. He scribbles a brief note that he shall return and leaves it on the common room table, then retrieves Stormbreaker and ventures outside to open the Bifrost and cut across the dimensions to his destination.
It feels like an eternity and yet no time at all, but Loki's words have dug deep and planted roots in what's left of his heart, and he knows he cannot shirk his duty. He is still the king of Asgard, and he is needed, no matter how few remain alive. He is not the only one who has lost everything, not the only one struggling to make sense of this horrible new reality they have found themselves in, and if anything, his responsibility in not stopping the slaughter makes it even more necessary that he start making an effort to help those he has harmed so grievously.
For that... he must start by seeing to the refugees. Or by letting them see to him.
Thor hasn't been back to the Nexus since that awful day, but Loki had given him what he needs to return and find what he's looking for. He scribbles a brief note that he shall return and leaves it on the common room table, then retrieves Stormbreaker and ventures outside to open the Bifrost and cut across the dimensions to his destination.
Home Is Where...?
May. 9th, 2019 12:10 am[OOC: Contains minor spoilers for Endgame. Trigger warnings: depression, alcohol abuse.]
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We All Fall Down
May. 1st, 2019 07:48 am[OOC: This prose addresses Thor's mental state after Infinity War, set before Endgame. There are no significant plot spoilers for Endgame, but use your own judgment on whether this qualifies as a spoiler for you. Trigger warnings: Depression, self-blame, the beginning of alcohol abuse. Thor is not okay; this is all hurt no comfort.]
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It's been easily two hundred years since Thor has set foot in Nidavellir, but never has he seen it so dark. So silent. Where once were the clanking of gears and the roaring of forge-fire, and the laughter of dwarves at work, now there is nothing but a vast emptiness that stretches all the way around every ring of the forge, his own footsteps far too loud in a place where they should be drowned out with ease.
Eitri's eyes hold the same anguish that Thor feels in his own heart, failure to protect his people from the Mad Titan's calculated rampage, the horrible fear of being alone at the end of all things. But the dwarf knows the fate of his people for certain, their bodies left where they fell, slaughtered to the last man. Thor still holds desperate hope that somewhere out there, Asgard yet lives, scattered and diminished but alive. But they will not be safe until Thanos is defeated, and once again, Thor does not hesitate to face certain death to do everything he can to stop the Mad Titan, to make the madman suffer until Thor's hands are drenched in his lifeblood, and avenge the fallen who now feast in Valhalla, long before their time.
He stands in the iris mechanism of the forge and braces himself for the agony to come, a pain of the body that will surely pale in comparison to the black hole that now devours him from the inside out, grief and rage and desperation consuming his every waking moment. His hand reaches up to grasp the pendant around his neck, a token given by a mirror of his brother - gods, Loki - and he chokes back a strangled sob as he tucks it carefully beneath his cuirass to protect this fragile thing from the raw destruction to come, something he could not do for Loki, or Heimdall, or any of the others who fell to the blades of Thanos and his Children.
Yet here Thor stands, without them, when he should have died to protect them first.
Perhaps that is his curse. But curse or no, weregild is now owed to Asgard, and Thor will stop at nothing to extract every drop of blood in the Titan's veins as recompense for the slaughter.
"Allfathers, give me strength," he prays, and pulls the handles down, the forge cracking open at his back and unleashing the full force of the neutron star upon the man in its path, blasting over and through him as if he was nothing, an ant in a firestorm, and the only mercy is that his left arm cannot hurt any longer. The fulgurite around his neck sputters to life, but Thor cannot hear the voices that sing forth over the sound of his own screams and the roar of the star's fire as it burns deep into his flesh, searing him down to the bone. At his belt, his PINpoint shrieks unheard as the cosmic fire lashes out and sets it ablaze, a howling scream of energy that joins the stellar beam on its path to the forge, carrying Thor's agony and rage and despair alongside, pouring into the melting uru to be given shape and purpose.
Thor howls his torment as the star-fire flays him alive, screaming until the darkness creeps in and drags him into its depths, drowning him in its silent sanctuary. His grasp slackens, his eye slides closed, and his last thought is to wonder if he will wake to Valhalla.
He lets go, and is plunged into night.
He wakes with thunder in his blood and bone, hand clenched around the gnarled handle of a greataxe, drenching him with its power and vitality until he literally glows from it, scouring him of weakness and pain and filling him up with a howl of vengeance so loud that it is a wonder he cannot hear it with his ears.
Death, the axe cries, and Thor's grip tightens around its haft in agreement.
He lifts his head, eye alight with blue-white fire, and raises the axe high, reaching deep for the current of the Bifrost that hums just outside of sight, calling to Yggdrasil to carry them all to Earth. To war. To Thanos.
And to bring justice to his murdered people.
Eitri's eyes hold the same anguish that Thor feels in his own heart, failure to protect his people from the Mad Titan's calculated rampage, the horrible fear of being alone at the end of all things. But the dwarf knows the fate of his people for certain, their bodies left where they fell, slaughtered to the last man. Thor still holds desperate hope that somewhere out there, Asgard yet lives, scattered and diminished but alive. But they will not be safe until Thanos is defeated, and once again, Thor does not hesitate to face certain death to do everything he can to stop the Mad Titan, to make the madman suffer until Thor's hands are drenched in his lifeblood, and avenge the fallen who now feast in Valhalla, long before their time.
He stands in the iris mechanism of the forge and braces himself for the agony to come, a pain of the body that will surely pale in comparison to the black hole that now devours him from the inside out, grief and rage and desperation consuming his every waking moment. His hand reaches up to grasp the pendant around his neck, a token given by a mirror of his brother - gods, Loki - and he chokes back a strangled sob as he tucks it carefully beneath his cuirass to protect this fragile thing from the raw destruction to come, something he could not do for Loki, or Heimdall, or any of the others who fell to the blades of Thanos and his Children.
Yet here Thor stands, without them, when he should have died to protect them first.
Perhaps that is his curse. But curse or no, weregild is now owed to Asgard, and Thor will stop at nothing to extract every drop of blood in the Titan's veins as recompense for the slaughter.
"Allfathers, give me strength," he prays, and pulls the handles down, the forge cracking open at his back and unleashing the full force of the neutron star upon the man in its path, blasting over and through him as if he was nothing, an ant in a firestorm, and the only mercy is that his left arm cannot hurt any longer. The fulgurite around his neck sputters to life, but Thor cannot hear the voices that sing forth over the sound of his own screams and the roar of the star's fire as it burns deep into his flesh, searing him down to the bone. At his belt, his PINpoint shrieks unheard as the cosmic fire lashes out and sets it ablaze, a howling scream of energy that joins the stellar beam on its path to the forge, carrying Thor's agony and rage and despair alongside, pouring into the melting uru to be given shape and purpose.
Thor howls his torment as the star-fire flays him alive, screaming until the darkness creeps in and drags him into its depths, drowning him in its silent sanctuary. His grasp slackens, his eye slides closed, and his last thought is to wonder if he will wake to Valhalla.
He lets go, and is plunged into night.
He wakes with thunder in his blood and bone, hand clenched around the gnarled handle of a greataxe, drenching him with its power and vitality until he literally glows from it, scouring him of weakness and pain and filling him up with a howl of vengeance so loud that it is a wonder he cannot hear it with his ears.
Death, the axe cries, and Thor's grip tightens around its haft in agreement.
He lifts his head, eye alight with blue-white fire, and raises the axe high, reaching deep for the current of the Bifrost that hums just outside of sight, calling to Yggdrasil to carry them all to Earth. To war. To Thanos.
And to bring justice to his murdered people.
[Part 2 of 3] What More Could I Lose?
Apr. 27th, 2019 09:20 pmThor wakes with a scream, throwing himself onto his feet and nearly toppling over as his knees threaten to buckle, his body still weak as a newborn foal. He reaches out to brace himself and nearly falls again as he grasps at nothing with an arm that is no longer there, the severed stump treated and bandaged, and he leans heavily against a storage cube as he blankly stares down at it, uncomprehending.
This is not Valhalla.
He sucks in air to feed starved lungs, hears the scrape of boot against metal behind him, and carefully turns his head to see-
A flash of green leather, long black hair, and his heart leaps into his throat-
But no, his eye focuses, and that same heart plummets into his stomach like a stone. A woman with large dark eyes and feathered antennae.
Not Loki. Never again Loki.
The woman is not alone, her companions all aiming weapons at him as if they expect half a warrior-king to be a threat to them, and under normal circumstances they would be right. But Thor's heart cries out far more loudly than his wounds, his world shattered in front of him one by one, and he sees no sign of any other Asgardians on board this vessel. No survivors picked up from the massacre.
Thor's shoulders slump, the storage cube all that's holding him up as he turns a weary, heartsick eye on what must be his rescuers. "Who the hell are you guys?"
The Guardians of the Galaxy are not the most considerate hosts, but Thor cannot bring himself to care about their manners, still in the numb grips of shock. They fetch him a blanket, at least, and a bowl of some kind of soup that tastes flavorless but hot, and though his hand trembles as he raises the spoon to his mouth, at least it's something that does not require two hands to eat, feeling unbalanced by the lack of weight to his left every time he moves.
He listens half-heartedly as his rescuers discuss the massacre, until he learns of Gamora's parentage, and nearly upsets the half-eaten bowl of soup as he stalks forward to confront her, numbness giving way to the smoldering ember of rage sparking to life in the pit of his belly.
Gamora is not her father. He has no quarrel with her. But if he cannot save his people, he can still avenge them. And for that, he will need a weapon.
And Thor knows just the place.
Off the ship, however, the emptiness grows until it sits hollow in his chest, the rabbit and the tree making far too little noise to fill the silence where there should be people. He'd thought that Asgard had been reduced to so few, a mere two thousand where once were tens of thousands, but two thousand seems a blessing now.
He sits in the corner of the pod alone, slowly rubbing at the tenderness of the ruin of his arm, and wonders if there was more he could have done. More he could have given. He would have lost both arms, would have died to save Asgard, but instead he watched as his people were slaughtered like goats for the feast, elders and children alike, and he feels broken in a way that has nothing to do with his arm.
Even the rabbit seems to notice, and though his words give Thor something to focus on outside of the gnawing grief that tears at his soul, it does so very little to ease the pain.
All he has left is his vengeance, and if that is not enough, then Thor has nothing else to give.
Nothing else to lose.
He turns away, silence falling throughout the pod again as Thor prepares to take the emptiness and the grief and transform it into purpose, into an all-consuming rage that will spill Thanos' blood across the cosmos to match the gruesome trail he's left through the eons, and he's startled from his thoughts when something metal heaves into his lap, moving parts clanking together. Thor blinks, and looks down to see an arm, skeletal and inelegant, but roughly close to match what he's missing. Puzzled, he looks up at the rabbit, who shrugs and says, "If fate does want you to kill that stupid crapsack, you're gonna need more than one arm."
The winds of anger momentarily gone from his sails, Thor frowns. "You just happened to have this lying around?"
Rabbit climbs into the pilot's seat, and looks back over his shoulder with a grim yet mischievous glint in his beady little eyes. "Pal, I got a whole box of arms. If that don't suit, take your pick."
Despite himself, despite everything, Thor manages a smile. If even this small creature can be kind, perhaps there is hope yet left. For him, for everyone. "Thank you, sweet rabbit."
This is not Valhalla.
He sucks in air to feed starved lungs, hears the scrape of boot against metal behind him, and carefully turns his head to see-
A flash of green leather, long black hair, and his heart leaps into his throat-
But no, his eye focuses, and that same heart plummets into his stomach like a stone. A woman with large dark eyes and feathered antennae.
Not Loki. Never again Loki.
The woman is not alone, her companions all aiming weapons at him as if they expect half a warrior-king to be a threat to them, and under normal circumstances they would be right. But Thor's heart cries out far more loudly than his wounds, his world shattered in front of him one by one, and he sees no sign of any other Asgardians on board this vessel. No survivors picked up from the massacre.
Thor's shoulders slump, the storage cube all that's holding him up as he turns a weary, heartsick eye on what must be his rescuers. "Who the hell are you guys?"
The Guardians of the Galaxy are not the most considerate hosts, but Thor cannot bring himself to care about their manners, still in the numb grips of shock. They fetch him a blanket, at least, and a bowl of some kind of soup that tastes flavorless but hot, and though his hand trembles as he raises the spoon to his mouth, at least it's something that does not require two hands to eat, feeling unbalanced by the lack of weight to his left every time he moves.
He listens half-heartedly as his rescuers discuss the massacre, until he learns of Gamora's parentage, and nearly upsets the half-eaten bowl of soup as he stalks forward to confront her, numbness giving way to the smoldering ember of rage sparking to life in the pit of his belly.
Gamora is not her father. He has no quarrel with her. But if he cannot save his people, he can still avenge them. And for that, he will need a weapon.
And Thor knows just the place.
Off the ship, however, the emptiness grows until it sits hollow in his chest, the rabbit and the tree making far too little noise to fill the silence where there should be people. He'd thought that Asgard had been reduced to so few, a mere two thousand where once were tens of thousands, but two thousand seems a blessing now.
He sits in the corner of the pod alone, slowly rubbing at the tenderness of the ruin of his arm, and wonders if there was more he could have done. More he could have given. He would have lost both arms, would have died to save Asgard, but instead he watched as his people were slaughtered like goats for the feast, elders and children alike, and he feels broken in a way that has nothing to do with his arm.
Even the rabbit seems to notice, and though his words give Thor something to focus on outside of the gnawing grief that tears at his soul, it does so very little to ease the pain.
All he has left is his vengeance, and if that is not enough, then Thor has nothing else to give.
Nothing else to lose.
He turns away, silence falling throughout the pod again as Thor prepares to take the emptiness and the grief and transform it into purpose, into an all-consuming rage that will spill Thanos' blood across the cosmos to match the gruesome trail he's left through the eons, and he's startled from his thoughts when something metal heaves into his lap, moving parts clanking together. Thor blinks, and looks down to see an arm, skeletal and inelegant, but roughly close to match what he's missing. Puzzled, he looks up at the rabbit, who shrugs and says, "If fate does want you to kill that stupid crapsack, you're gonna need more than one arm."
The winds of anger momentarily gone from his sails, Thor frowns. "You just happened to have this lying around?"
Rabbit climbs into the pilot's seat, and looks back over his shoulder with a grim yet mischievous glint in his beady little eyes. "Pal, I got a whole box of arms. If that don't suit, take your pick."
Despite himself, despite everything, Thor manages a smile. If even this small creature can be kind, perhaps there is hope yet left. For him, for everyone. "Thank you, sweet rabbit."
[Part 1 of 3] Destiny Still Arrives
Apr. 27th, 2019 09:09 pmThe Statesman quakes beneath Thor's boots, metal screeching and groaning like a beast dying from a messy kill, shuddering in its death throes. Another blast rocks the ship and he stumbles, rapidly searching for his footing as he makes his way toward the main hall, heart thundering in his chest. Screams echo through the corridors, panic and terror spreading through the refugees trapped on the vessel that was to be their salvation, and may yet become their pyre.
It's utter chaos, worse than the evacuation of Asgard, a confused mass of Asgardian orphans and widows and widowers all struggling to know what to do, and hundreds - thousands - of eyes turn beseechingly to their king as he appears in their midst, looking desperately to him to save them.
There aren't enough escape pods for them all, and they all know it.
But that's not the only avenue of escape, either. The only question is how long they have.
"Asgard!" Thor shouts over the cacophony, and the crowd quiets enough for his words to carry over the entire nation, even without Gungnir to silence them. "Hear me! All children and their guardians, make for the Nexus portal at once. All other non-combatants to the escape pods!" None of those dismissed wait to hear more, the people quickly streaming out of the main hall, but there are so many. Too many.
Not enough time.
"Valkyrie, take the Commodore and as many people as it can carry," Thor tells her, and she scowls and opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off with a raised hand. "I need you to gather the escape pods once the danger is over. Get the people to Earth, and find Steven Rogers or Natasha Romanoff. They'll grant you access to the Nexus for the rest. And find Loki, the other one. Norns willing, that's where they'll be."
"But your Majesty-"
"Go! We don't have time to argue."
Valkyrie curses and punches him in the chest, furious, and stalks away, her blue cape rippling angrily behind her. She doesn't look back, and Thor does not watch her leave, his attention demanded by those who've yet stayed behind. Loki, looking pale as death itself, eyes wide with a fear Thor has never seen on him before. Heimdall, grim-faced and clutching shining Hofund in his fist, the watchman's golden eyes staring right through Thor as he keeps his gaze upon the leviathan of a ship looming over the Statesman like an eagle descending on a mouse. The militia that the Valkyrie has been training, a mere handful compared to the ten thousand Einherjar that once protected Asgard, a ragtag troop of commoners nowhere near ready for real combat.
Their enemy will not wait.
Thanos is coming now.
"Every moment we still fight is another moment our people have to escape," Thor says to those who remain, and though he's fought in a thousand battles and come close to death on many occasions, never have his hands trembled as they do now, knowing that all of Asgard now hangs in the balance. He clenches his fists tightly, lightning skittering over his hands and arms, and squares his jaw to hide the fear. "If Valhalla calls us home today, we're damned sure going to send the Titan and his minions to Hel first. For Asgard!"
"For Asgard!" the militia cry out in reply, raising their weapons in quaking hands, voices trembling with terror, yet standing their ground at the side of their king. Even though it will almost certainly mean their deaths.
Asgard will yet live. They have not come all this way for nothing.
In the heart of the Nexus, one of the many portals hums to life, and a flood of people begins to stream forth. Too many children, too few adults, screaming and crying as distant sounds of thunder and explosions chase them through the doorway, and black acrid smoke belches out of the portal with every person that passes through.
There's still more waiting to come through yet when there's an abrupt screeching of buckling metal and shattering glass, and on the other side, there's a brief glimpse of terrified faces and a starfield where the hull should be before the portal blinks out entirely. The archway lies crumpled in on itself, smoking and silent.
Thor crumples to the deck, gasping for air through mouthfuls of his own blood, just another body in the sea of the dead and dying. He tries to roll over, to push himself to his feet, but his arm refuses to obey, lying limp several feet away from his body, the stump of what's left only succeeding in painting crimson smears against the floor, his lifeblood steadily draining his strength with every beat of his heart. He tries to summon the storm in his bones, but manages only a feeble spark between his remaining fingers, and nothing more.
He can do little but listen as Thanos' ship carves the Statesman in half, the tortured groan of metal ripping apart and the roar of hull breach in the distance, as his henchmen prowl through the slaughter and brutally end the lives of those who still draw breath, and pray that someone - anyone - has made it to safety.
A withered creature smiles at the massacre as it paces softly through the bodies, voice raised as if in praise. "Hear me, and rejoice. You have had the privilege of being saved by the Great Titan..."
It's utter chaos, worse than the evacuation of Asgard, a confused mass of Asgardian orphans and widows and widowers all struggling to know what to do, and hundreds - thousands - of eyes turn beseechingly to their king as he appears in their midst, looking desperately to him to save them.
There aren't enough escape pods for them all, and they all know it.
But that's not the only avenue of escape, either. The only question is how long they have.
"Asgard!" Thor shouts over the cacophony, and the crowd quiets enough for his words to carry over the entire nation, even without Gungnir to silence them. "Hear me! All children and their guardians, make for the Nexus portal at once. All other non-combatants to the escape pods!" None of those dismissed wait to hear more, the people quickly streaming out of the main hall, but there are so many. Too many.
Not enough time.
"Valkyrie, take the Commodore and as many people as it can carry," Thor tells her, and she scowls and opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off with a raised hand. "I need you to gather the escape pods once the danger is over. Get the people to Earth, and find Steven Rogers or Natasha Romanoff. They'll grant you access to the Nexus for the rest. And find Loki, the other one. Norns willing, that's where they'll be."
"But your Majesty-"
"Go! We don't have time to argue."
Valkyrie curses and punches him in the chest, furious, and stalks away, her blue cape rippling angrily behind her. She doesn't look back, and Thor does not watch her leave, his attention demanded by those who've yet stayed behind. Loki, looking pale as death itself, eyes wide with a fear Thor has never seen on him before. Heimdall, grim-faced and clutching shining Hofund in his fist, the watchman's golden eyes staring right through Thor as he keeps his gaze upon the leviathan of a ship looming over the Statesman like an eagle descending on a mouse. The militia that the Valkyrie has been training, a mere handful compared to the ten thousand Einherjar that once protected Asgard, a ragtag troop of commoners nowhere near ready for real combat.
Their enemy will not wait.
Thanos is coming now.
"Every moment we still fight is another moment our people have to escape," Thor says to those who remain, and though he's fought in a thousand battles and come close to death on many occasions, never have his hands trembled as they do now, knowing that all of Asgard now hangs in the balance. He clenches his fists tightly, lightning skittering over his hands and arms, and squares his jaw to hide the fear. "If Valhalla calls us home today, we're damned sure going to send the Titan and his minions to Hel first. For Asgard!"
"For Asgard!" the militia cry out in reply, raising their weapons in quaking hands, voices trembling with terror, yet standing their ground at the side of their king. Even though it will almost certainly mean their deaths.
Asgard will yet live. They have not come all this way for nothing.
In the heart of the Nexus, one of the many portals hums to life, and a flood of people begins to stream forth. Too many children, too few adults, screaming and crying as distant sounds of thunder and explosions chase them through the doorway, and black acrid smoke belches out of the portal with every person that passes through.
There's still more waiting to come through yet when there's an abrupt screeching of buckling metal and shattering glass, and on the other side, there's a brief glimpse of terrified faces and a starfield where the hull should be before the portal blinks out entirely. The archway lies crumpled in on itself, smoking and silent.
Thor crumples to the deck, gasping for air through mouthfuls of his own blood, just another body in the sea of the dead and dying. He tries to roll over, to push himself to his feet, but his arm refuses to obey, lying limp several feet away from his body, the stump of what's left only succeeding in painting crimson smears against the floor, his lifeblood steadily draining his strength with every beat of his heart. He tries to summon the storm in his bones, but manages only a feeble spark between his remaining fingers, and nothing more.
He can do little but listen as Thanos' ship carves the Statesman in half, the tortured groan of metal ripping apart and the roar of hull breach in the distance, as his henchmen prowl through the slaughter and brutally end the lives of those who still draw breath, and pray that someone - anyone - has made it to safety.
A withered creature smiles at the massacre as it paces softly through the bodies, voice raised as if in praise. "Hear me, and rejoice. You have had the privilege of being saved by the Great Titan..."
A Private Funeral
Apr. 20th, 2019 08:12 pmBlue-gray waves lap at the gravelly shore of the sea, glinting with the last glimpse of red sunset as the skies darken with twilight, strange stars tracing out unfamiliar constellations in the blackness above.
It's not the same as home, the skies too dark without the glow of Asgard's nebula to illuminate the night, but perhaps that's for the best. In this darkness, Thor can almost pretend that the Great Waterfall lies just beyond the range of his sight, carrying endless waves over the edge of the world into the void.
A small wooden ship rests on the beach, only large enough for one warrior rather than the three it represents, but he has little in the way of resources and the Warriors Three have long traveled as one company. Perhaps it's fitting that they should be carried to the golden hall of Valhalla the same way. Their grave goods lie together, a small offering of blades and armor, the closest to his friends' favored arms as he could find, swathed in silks of black, red, and blue.
It doesn't feel like enough. But their bodies burned with Asgard itself, and Thor has nothing else of theirs to send to the sea and stars. It will have to do.
A small stone-circled fire burns a little further up the beach, accompanied by a pair of camp chairs and a small cooler of ale, for after the burning. Across the arms of one chair rests a bow, and an arrow properly prepared to carry flame.
The Warriors Three deserve far more than this, but Thor is not certain he could bear to hold such a massive burning for all those who were lost, not if he is to be the strong king that Asgard needs in these uncertain days. Just the sumbel aboard the Statesman in the week after Ragnarok had been difficult enough, as those who remained had moved from shock to grief, grasping at what little tradition they could uphold to ease the pain.
No, Thor cannot grieve in front of them, not when he must be the king. But he is not entirely without friends, and for those... for her... he can still be Thor, instead. No matter how little she remembers what she's lost, just yet. She will. And he would not deprive her of this chance to say goodbye, too.
It's not the same as home, the skies too dark without the glow of Asgard's nebula to illuminate the night, but perhaps that's for the best. In this darkness, Thor can almost pretend that the Great Waterfall lies just beyond the range of his sight, carrying endless waves over the edge of the world into the void.
A small wooden ship rests on the beach, only large enough for one warrior rather than the three it represents, but he has little in the way of resources and the Warriors Three have long traveled as one company. Perhaps it's fitting that they should be carried to the golden hall of Valhalla the same way. Their grave goods lie together, a small offering of blades and armor, the closest to his friends' favored arms as he could find, swathed in silks of black, red, and blue.
It doesn't feel like enough. But their bodies burned with Asgard itself, and Thor has nothing else of theirs to send to the sea and stars. It will have to do.
A small stone-circled fire burns a little further up the beach, accompanied by a pair of camp chairs and a small cooler of ale, for after the burning. Across the arms of one chair rests a bow, and an arrow properly prepared to carry flame.
The Warriors Three deserve far more than this, but Thor is not certain he could bear to hold such a massive burning for all those who were lost, not if he is to be the strong king that Asgard needs in these uncertain days. Just the sumbel aboard the Statesman in the week after Ragnarok had been difficult enough, as those who remained had moved from shock to grief, grasping at what little tradition they could uphold to ease the pain.
No, Thor cannot grieve in front of them, not when he must be the king. But he is not entirely without friends, and for those... for her... he can still be Thor, instead. No matter how little she remembers what she's lost, just yet. She will. And he would not deprive her of this chance to say goodbye, too.
[IC, open to all] Thor Fight Club
Mar. 26th, 2019 08:10 pmIt's a beautiful spring day in the Nexus, rolling green hills boasting bright splashes of color where flowers have blossomed in all their glory, birds singing in trees sheltered with new green growth, and the sun is shining merrily through puffy white clouds, the breeze only a little on the cool side.
In one of the flatter fields out towards the Wilds, however, things are not quite so peaceful at the moment.
There's an enormous rough ring marked out with scorch marks in the grass, large enough to rival the gladiator arena on Sakaar, and on the edge of the ring there's a cloth laid out with a small variety of weapons that look... well, very second-hand, to put it mildly. But enough to give a good selection of swords or axes or hammers, with a shield or two for protective options.
Thor stands to one side, checking his armor to make sure it's securely fitted before battle, training session or not, and can't quite chase away the grin on his face in favor of a more serious, kingly expression that he probably should be wearing. Learning to compensate for his missing eye is a matter of life and death, probably, whether his or someone else's, but he can't help but feel excited to face something other than a half-assed training dummy shoved into the corner of the cargo hold.
Right, then, who's up for a little sparring with the god of thunder?
In one of the flatter fields out towards the Wilds, however, things are not quite so peaceful at the moment.
There's an enormous rough ring marked out with scorch marks in the grass, large enough to rival the gladiator arena on Sakaar, and on the edge of the ring there's a cloth laid out with a small variety of weapons that look... well, very second-hand, to put it mildly. But enough to give a good selection of swords or axes or hammers, with a shield or two for protective options.
Thor stands to one side, checking his armor to make sure it's securely fitted before battle, training session or not, and can't quite chase away the grin on his face in favor of a more serious, kingly expression that he probably should be wearing. Learning to compensate for his missing eye is a matter of life and death, probably, whether his or someone else's, but he can't help but feel excited to face something other than a half-assed training dummy shoved into the corner of the cargo hold.
Right, then, who's up for a little sparring with the god of thunder?
