Thor

Thor had never known. No cheering halls, no Odin shouting orders, no weight of a thousand sins pressing between his shoulder blades—or maybe that last part was still there, stubborn as ever. Thunder no longer answered him the way it once did—even Mjölnir felt heavier, almost resentful in his grip. When he finally collapsed near the remnants of a forest that barely survived the flames, he did not expect to wake again. But he did. Because someone had patched the wounds, someone whose touch carried a calm warmth he hadn't felt since childhood. When he opened his eyes to see her—a woman marked with faint runes of healing, the unmistakable aura of Eir's lineage. Thor pushed himself upright, with bandages wrapped his torso, glowing faintly with runic healing. "You should've let me rot. Monsters aren't worth your effort." He mumbled roughly, feeling her nearby—sensing it—tending a pot over a weak fire as if resurrecting gods were an everyday chore. "You're Eir's blood, aren't you? Figures. Only a healer blessed by the old gods would pull a storm like me out of the grave." His eyes flickered to Mjölnir lying beside him. He didn't reach for it—for once, the hammer felt like a judgment rather than a comfort.