Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard

It's spring in Asvera, not that you'd know it just by looking. A thin layer of snow still crusts the borders of the walking paths, and slicker still is the ice on the rocks where land meets sea. A damp, clammy chill has descended on the small Norwegian village, born of a freezing drizzle that shrouds them in mist. Perfect weather for staying inside by a fire, a warm drink in your hand, enjoying close company.

Thor is doing none of that.

He stands on the edge of the small cliff behind his house, waves crashing below him, well out of reach of their spray. His long wool coat moves in the breeze, heavier and thicker than his cape once did, but it does not feel right to stand before nature's magnificence without it. Not with what he plans to do today. His hair tied back, his beard trimmed and braided, he looks up at the gloomy, gray clouds above and feels a lightness in his heart, a deep Knowing that he is at a loss to explain to anyone else. Anyone mortal.

He is the god of thunder - a god of the skies. A storm is not melancholy, not as humans understand it. It is an untamed freedom, a wildness whose presence demands respect, the natural ebb and flow of wind and water. By its grace the flowers bloom and the crops ripen, and the earth produces her bounty in abundance. Even now, after a bare handful of years, Thor can feel the green beneath his feet as it stirs from its cold slumber, a deep presence that seems to envelop his very soul and grows stronger each year. A locus of life, bound by the one who feeds it. The humans who remain here say that the village has grown greener every year since Asgard came, their nets filled with fish every voyage, their fields heavy with food and medicine at the height of harvest. What will these islands look like in five years, Thor wonders. In a handful of decades? A century? He is growing roots like the mighty oak itself, still shallow with time, but questing ever deeper to bind his heart here.

Once he had found it impossible to look on the shattered remains of his people, sheltered in abandoned homes as refugees from the greatest cataclysm ever known. Now he can hardly imagine leaving it.

Thor thrusts out a gloved hand, and Stormbreaker leaps into his grasp, pulling him into the sky with one swift movement. Wind streams through his hair and his coat as he soars upward, rain flattening against his upturned face and streaming away, the village growing ever smaller beneath him. The clouds loom heavy and low, and soon he is among them, a thick gray fog that seems impenetrable until he abruptly emerges into sun.

The sky rolls out as a dark carpet beneath him, and above, blue sky and golden sun. He slows, stops, the wind all but gone as the storm roils under his feet. And still he feels that verdant thread, the potential sleeping in the earth far below the storm, a land coming to know her king as surely as old Asgard ever had. Not a land inherited from his father, and his father's father, built on blood and conquest. No, never that.

Thor's kingdom is hard-fought and hard-won, a realm of his own making, grown from the ashes of what once was. A sapling, growing stronger from the tests of wind and might. A mighty tree, some day.

He descends as quickly as he rose, emerging into wind and rain again, the village stretching out beneath him. Asvera has more than doubled its borders since its founding, little lights glinting across the archipelago, like small jewels in rough rock, stubborn and defiant. He makes a slow circle of the settlement, and his heart is full of a strange joy that he cannot place. Something he has not felt since before the war. The simple pleasure of flying, not to hasten into battle, but simply because he wanted to.

No gleaming gold palace awaits his landing as he turns toward home. Just the glint of a small lighthouse, and a cozy cottage on the cliff.

This is Asgard.

Above the arctic circle, it is the height of summer in Asvera, which is to say that this fine cloudless day is a mere thirteen degrees Celsius, despite the sun refusing to set for the entire last month. It makes it easy to lose track of time without sunset to mark the passing of days, and has caused no end to sleeping difficulties among the Asgardians who now call this village home, but it also has its benefits.

The smaller islands now sport towers of Asgardian and Wakandan designs, linked to their fellows by softly glowing bridges tall enough to permit the passage of fishing boats beneath. The bridge that links the archipelago to the mainland is concrete and stone, and physically painted with rainbow colors, a pale imitation of the Bifrost that had once linked Asgard to the rest of the Nine Realms. There's no golden palace to be seen, nor much of any gold at all, really, except for the occasional painted rune on the doorposts of a home.

Where once there was a football pitch, now there is a grain field, planted deep with oats and rye and wheat. Thor's house was once a lighthouse keeper's cottage, perched on a rocky bluff at the farthest reaches of the largest island overlooking the vast sea to the southwest. A Bifrost rune is etched into the rock between them, the king's preferred landing zone for visitors to the village, at least those who arrive by PINpoint. The house itself is fairly plain, with little to indicate that it's the home of the Allfather save for the pair of ravens currently perched at the peak of the roof. One of them calls out at the arrival of a newcomer, and Thor quickly opens the door to greet him. His hair has been brushed and braided back, his beard plaited along his cheeks and chin, and with the eyepatch in place he might pass for a much younger Odin if not for the smile on his lips and the decidedly Midgardian-style sweater and jeans he's dressed in. "Loki! You made it."

[For use when bakerstreet (and other memes) become subject to captcha, so we don't need to play riddle games with robots to have fun times.]

The trunk of the tree glimmers with rainbow-swathed stars, a great nebulous pillar that rises nearly beyond the range of sight as it towers overhead, branches stretching from horizon to horizon. Seven jeweled orbs float among the leaves, spinning serenely beneath the glow of their suns, and if he squints he can make out the shapes of continents and seas on their surfaces. One limb is burned to cinders, blackened scars tracing down the length of the trunk, droplets of melted gold hung suspended amidst the char. Another is cold and dark, interlocking rings encased in ice like a fruit frozen on the vine.

A great pool beneath arched roots lies before him, its waters still as a mirror, reflecting the orange glow of a blazing funeral boat at its center, its prow draped high with golden silks bearing the triquetra of Odin's house. He is too distant to see a body, shrouded or not, the flames roaring silently skyward in a pyre fit for a king, bright sparks drifting on unseen winds as they climb the branches of the cosmic tree.

Three figures stand on the quiet shore. Thor would know them anywhere, and his heart aches in his chest, his throat closing with unshed tears as he approaches, long grasses swishing against his armored legs, the weight of a winged crown resting on his brow, his cape tattered and pinned at his hip.

Heimdall stands as strong and tall as he did in life, the golden sentinel whose eyes watched over Asgard and its protectorates for thousands of years, the shattered hilt of Hofund in his hands as if the blade was still whole and battle-ready. "Thor Odinson," he intones, warmth in his deep voice as he gazes upon his king. "Do you swear to guard the Nine Realms?"

Thor had been swift to answer once before, without a single moment of reflection on what those words would actually mean. He's done so little for the other Realms since the fall of Asgard, barely able to cope with the demands of the survivors and his own infirmity, not even when the shockwaves of the Mad Titan's victory had culled their populations and left them wanting, save for one small visit. He has no excuse for his neglect since, none but his own cowardice, and for a moment he opens his mouth to say so. But Heimdall's golden gaze is proud, and full of a gentleness rarely seen from the watchman.

He may have failed them, just like he failed everyone else. But it does not have to always be so.

"I swear," Thor murmurs.

A hand claps down on his shoulder, warm and friendly, and Thor raises his gaze to look into the eyes of Volstagg, a tankard grasped in the man's other hand. "Thor Odinson," his friend greets him, a smile on his lips. "Do you swear to preserve the peace?"

Peace... Thor had once craved war, the rush of battle and fire and blood, glorying in the enemies that fell before him. He had counted his victories by the bodies left behind, and thought himself invincible, truly a god as humans thought. But now... now he counts his victories in lives, in those left behind to build anew. Hela's domain was death, a perfect weapon crafted to slaughter millions without a single regret, a reaper of men with no regard for good or ill. But Thor... Thor was born to be her opposite. A god of life, and of balance, plucking weeds and paring away rot so that new healthy growth can flourish.

A weapon to destroy, or a tool to build.

Thor would readily pick up his axe in defense of others, even now, and use every tool he has to bring an end to the conflict, whether by word or by sword. But he no longer thirsts for it, seeking enemies where there need be none, intent on his own glorification through bloodshed. Now he finds fulfillment in rich brown earth and teeming fish-filled seas, and in the cries of new infants who will never know the horrors of Ragnarok and Thanos' culling, except in stories told by their elders.

"I swear."

"Thor Odinson," the final figure says, and Thor nearly weeps at the sight of green leather and golden horns, his brother standing tall and unbroken with Gungnir in his hand. Those green eyes are clear and unbloodied, a sadness hung about him like a cloak, yet with a brotherly fondness that does not seem entirely a front. "Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition, and to pledge yourself only to the good of the Realms?"

There is so much that Thor wishes to say to his brother. So many things left unsaid in life, so many opportunities cut short, untreated wounds that healed wrong and were never rebroken and set right. Thor could linger for a thousand years and never come to an end of the things he wishes to say, to both give and seek forgiveness for wrongs dealt on both sides. He wishes he could hold tight to Loki and never let him go, a brother he would choose again and again to claim as his kin.

But Loki is dead. And even a trickster can only cheat death so many times before his tricks run dry.

Valhalla may yet await Thor, at the end of his days. And when it is his time to enter that golden hall, his loved ones will be waiting for his arrival. How could he face them if he did not do everything he could to ensure their people thrive?

"I swear." His voice nearly chokes in his throat, and he reaches out as if to grab Loki's wrist before realizing that it is with his false arm, faltering before he can sully him with the symbol of his failure to protect his people from those that came to cull them. His failure to protect Loki.

But Loki reaches out in turn, clasping Thor around the forearm, untroubled that he grasps smooth metal instead of warm flesh. "Words alone do not make a king nor an Allfather," he says, leaving Gungnir standing as a rooted sapling at his side, silvered oak leaves wreathing its points in a crown. "But a willingness to do what must be done, and a love for the people he serves. You'll make a fine leader, Thor. But we would give you a gift to help you on your way, if you would have it."

"Of course." What else could he possibly say? Even if this gift is naught but words, Thor would cherish it all the same.

Loki smiles, and takes Thor's prosthetic hand between both of his own, slipping something into his palm and curling the fingers closed. "The Wheel turns, as it always does. But it does not turn in place, with no path ahead. Travel forward, and wake, dear brother."

Thor's eye flies open and he sits upright, sucking in a great lungful of air. Yggdrasil no longer looms above him, replaced instead by the cream white ceiling of his house in Norway, the light of the Worlds Tree reduced to mere sunlight streaming in from uncovered windows. The weight of his armor is gone, the softness of cotton wrapped around him beneath the warm covers of his bed. The sound of waves crashing against rock and the call of seabirds ring out faintly through the walls of his home, and the tug of the weather in his bones tells him there is going to be a light rainshower within the hour.

Everything is normal, as it should be. It was just a dream.

Except Thor has had dreams, and he has had Dreams. And this one does not fade with the waking, as true dreams do. And when Thor looks down at his hands, his metal fingers are curled into a loose fist on his lap.

He opens his hand.

Nestled in his palm, warm with life, are a pair of pale blue, brown-mottled eggs.

Day by day, the darkness grows.

The sun travels across the sky in a low arc, barely aloft for six hours before sinking below the horizon and casting Asvera into night. Most days, the stars shine above, glittering in a sea of foreign black smeared with the milky trail of the galaxy's spiral arm, a strange monochrome that Thor is still not used to, even after all his time spent on Midgard.

The village, however, is anything but bland black and white. Sometimes it's hard to tell which villagers are human and which are Asgardian, adopting the fashions of their new home as the weather grows colder, trading linen robes and leather jerkins for woolen lusekoften and cotton sweatshirts, bright splashes of color against the frost that dusts the earth. The daylight hours are precious few, and the Asverans use them to their fullest extent, hastening to build bridges to neighboring undeveloped islands and raising houses for the displaced. Thor joins them, sometimes, lending strong back and shoulders to the cause, a king lifting beams and bricks side by side with shopkeepers and fishermen. Sometimes Hulk puts in an appearance, his withered right arm held securely in its adjustable sling, but his other side still as strong as a dozen humans as he hefts heavy loads one-handed. Envoys from Wakanda pool their resources with the village, using their nanotechnology to fabricate structures as strong and improbable as old Asgard once had.

And slowly, day by brief day, the village transforms.

Thor looks out over the archipelago as the weak winter sunlight fades. Below the bluff where the lighthouse sits, the village sparkles like a hundred tiny jewels, electric bulbs and witchlights glowing side by side and casting their brightness into smoke rising from hundreds of hearths. The boats are all tied up in the harbor, sheltered from the open sea by rock and breakwater, unmoved by the waves. The outlying islands have sprouted towers that blend Wakandan style with Asgardian, each housing dozens of families comfortably just a short walk across the new bridges that faintly glow in shades of blue and purple. Across the bay at the grassy bluff where Odin breathed his last, a flicker of flame marks the new memorial for the fallen, a stone carved with the names of those who fell after Ragnarok and did not return, and a so-called eternal flame that - they assure him - holds no such magic as Hela wielded.

It's barely afternoon, too early for sleep despite the darkness, a cold wind sweeping down from the north and bringing a promise of snowfall with it. Thor pays it little mind, wrapping himself up in soft warm clothing and clutching a blanket around his shoulders in lieu of a cape, holding a warm mug between his hands as he looks out over what they have built. It is not Asgard, but... it's home, now, a little more every day.

A flicker of green catches his eye, and slowly, ribbons of emerald light wind their way through the black skies of Earth, shimmering and coiling like a great serpent and casting its glow from horizon to horizon. Thor's breath catches in his chest. He'd forgotten this strange quirk of Earth's skies, a magic born of the sun and given life in the dark, gleaming in shades of all-too-familiar green.

Maybe it's a sign, and maybe it's not. But Thor knows which one he would rather believe.

The reflection of Loki's seidr weaves across the sky, and Thor feels no chill as he watches its silent dance above him.

[Trigger warnings: depression, alcohol abuse, panic attack, suicidal thoughts.]



( Cut for length )

[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.

[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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