sixthiterationlogs

Entry tags:

god jul.

WHO: Brigitte Lindholm
WHERE: The fountain; the inn; the smithy
WHEN: Morning of Dec 24, then the next few days. SHE & I HAVE AWFUL TIMING, I KNOW, sorry sorry
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: nope

Fountain arrival, Dec 24 (now locked to Anne)
The 23rd was lilla julafton, and thus a small breather before the Lindholm family’s main occasion tomorrow. Eight grown-up children were all home for the holidays, some of them carting spouses and children of their own, which meant the house was crammed to the rafters: Brigitte kept bumping into nieces and nephews in the hallways, the kitchen was a flurry of cooking and baking, and she occasionally had to go drag their father out of his workshop, where he’d taken refuge with his latest turret design. It was nonstop chaos until she finally fell into bed (which was a spare mattress on the floor of her mother’s sewing room, because being the youngest and a singleton meant losing all right to a real bed). She burrowed under the covers with a satisfied sigh, ready for Christmas Eve tomorrow and expecting to wake up with one of her nieces barreling into the room, all knobbly elbows and knees.

But when she next opened her eyes, she was drowning.

Brigitte floundered in a nightmare, except it was freezing, and too damned real. She came clawing her way up to the surface, gasping, limbs shutting down from sheer cold before someone’s arm reached in from the side, catching her and yanking her out to the edge. Her entire body contorted in on itself, shivering convulsively even as a blanket was thrown around her shoulders.

“Vad fan?”

Merry Christmas, Brigitte.

At the inn (OTA)
She’d spent the previous night on a good Samaritan’s sofa (it was, after all, the holidays), but in terms of a more permanent place to live, Brigitte gravitated to the inn as others had. In fact, she instinctively wanted the comfort of crowds rather than the privacy of an empty house: still reeling from the shock of arrival, she wanted the full hallways, the communal meals, the low buzz of voices in adjoining rooms.

There were only a few spare rooms left, though, so choosing one was a problem. She knocked on one door, then when there wasn’t a response, opened it — and jolted once she realised someone was already inside. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry, I thought this was empty—”

[ She can also be encountered eating in the inn, or rummaging the communal supplies! ]

At the smithy (OTA)
A couple days later, as soon as she learned there was a smithy, Brigitte roamed through the village until she found it. Not that it was that hard: it was one of the few larger buildings, and it had a pillar of smoke winding up into the cold sky, which was a reassuring sight — it reminded her of the forge back home. She watched it for a long time.

She could have just walked right up to it and pounded on the door right off the bat, but she sat in the park for an uncomfortably long while, thinking and considering, before she finally rubbed her cold hands against each other and approached, and knocked.

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[ No worries, I'd heard you were on vaycay/hiatus! ♥ ]

Brigitte accepts that massive hand and gives it a firm, enthusiastic shake, not minding (and in all honesty, barely noticing) the griminess. The sootiness and dirt of a forge is familiar to her and almost homey; the Lindholm workshop never seemed quite right unless you were perpetually having to wipe off surfaces and wash your hands of grease that never seemed to go away.

"Nice to meet y—" She was on autopilot, about to parrot off the niceties drummed into her all her life, but Brigitte grinds to an abrupt halt as her brain catches up with her ears. It's the mental equivalent of a jarring record scratch. The name is one thing, that's whatever, she's had friends named Tor, but the incredibly specific epithets and introduction that followed...

"Wait, excuse me." Had she misheard? "Did you say god of thunder and lightning? Is that a nickname, or..."

Thor beams at the strength and firmness of the handshake she gives him. It's one that conveys pride, friendliness, and a strong will. He vaguely wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, whether she might be a warrior. That's the sort of handshake it is, he determines: a warrior's handshake. It isn't intimidating - at least not to the Asgardian - but he imagines it could be to a weaker being.

His brows lift with curiosity as she cuts herself off, and for a brief moment, he wonders if he's said something wrong. Self-reflection of that sort isn't exactly a common occurrence for Odin's middle child, but he tries to do something like it in the split second before she continues speaking.

"Well, I suppose one could consider it a nickname of sorts, but it's really more of a title. For example, my father is - was - Odin, The Allfather, King of Asgard, God of War and Wisdom, Protector of Nine Realms .." He makes a circular motion with his hand to show that the list goes on for quite some time, but he's doing them both a favor to stop here. "Technically nicknames, but really titles. So I'm Thor, God of Thunder (and Lightning) and Prince of Asgard. Also one of the Sons of Odin, my brother, Loki, being the other." He adds, as an afterthought, "I also found out I have an elder sister? But we don't talk about her."

The more he goes on and the more details he fills in, the more evident it becomes that, no, Brigitte didn't mishear or misunderstand — this really is an actual Norse god standing in front at her.

And taking a moment to let that double-take fully sink in, she finally lets her gaze roam up and down, seeing more than just the initial tall-strapping-blond resemblance she was looking for. He is astonishingly good-looking and larger-than-life, all square jaw and broad shoulders and dazzling smile and twinkling blue eyes. Similar enough to the illustrations, though some of them had leaned towards flaming orange hair.

It's not like she'd actually believed in the old gods, but there had been a sense of kinship or ownership of them. You were fond of the idea of them, and glad to see them represented in stories whenever you came across them.

You didn't expect to encounter one in the flesh, shaking your hand and beaming.

"Oh," she says, and she's evidently gobsmacked. "It's, um! An... honour to meet you? Sir??" Oh god, what is the technical proper form of address for a god?? In a flustered panic, Brigitte bobs into an awkward half-curtsey.

"Sir?" Thor recites the word back to her with as much incredulity as he feels in that moment. He can't help but chortle at her half-curtsey, and he finds it incredibly endearing. "No, no, it's okay, we don't have to go through all that nonsense. If my father were here, you'd probably have to address him as Sir, or Allfather, or something like that, but not with me." He makes a bit of a face and shakes his head to prove his point. There had been a time where he would've demanded the respect and reverence he'd have thought a god deserved, but those days have long since passed.

Besides the fact that .. well ..

"I don't have any powers here, anyway," he adds on as an afterthought. He's doing a good job to mask the sadness that admitting this makes him feel, but there's the slightest falter in his congenial smile once he says it. "My beloved Mjolnir was also destroyed by shall-not-be-further-discussed stupid sister not long before I arrived here. Still a fresh wound." Okay, Thor, you don't have to unburden your problems on this poor girl. "Please, come in - Tony isn't here, but I can offer you the tour if you'd like. It won't be as informative or as scientific as his would be, but it'll get the point across. Come on, then," he says, taking a step inside and gesturing with his hand for her to follow.

"No powers doesn't change what you are, though. I got powers for the first time when I came here but I like to think I'm still me." Brigitte follows him into the smithy, stomping some snow off her boots at the entrance, despite the fact that it'd have melted soon enough -- the inside is warm and toasty from the fire, a nice contrast to the wintry weather outside.

As she looks around the forge, her initial kneejerk reaction is a bit of dismay -- the Edwardian technology is a far cry from her father's advanced workshop -- but then a kind of relieved familiarity takes its place. It might be old-fashioned, but at least it is a smithy. Besides, she's used to adjusting her armour on the road, working out of the back of a van. If she could get used to that, she can get used to this.

"Ready for the grand tour," she announces, barely biting back that unconscious sir at the end of her sentence, still sneaking glances at Thor and not quite believing that an actual god is giving her a tour. Like some incredibly friendly, incredibly blond real estate agent.

"How long have you been here?"

Thor glances to her to show that he's listening, that he hears the message in her words, but all he can really offer her is a polite smile. He hadn't dealt with the loss of powers all that well the first time they'd been taken, but he'd been distracted by bigger issues at hand - namely, the destruction of Earth. Here, there's no such catastrophe - which is good, he knows - but it means a lot of meddling and steeping in thoughts in which he'd rather not be immersed. The Forge provides a bit of a respite from them, but they're always at his feet, like a constant puddle he can't wade his way out of.

He'd much rather focus on his guest than continue that line of conversation, at least for now. These are the kinds of things he mostly keeps to himself, but he has a feeling, even based on such a limited interaction, that Brigitte would be the kind of person who'd listen and relate as best she could. A kind sort of soul, he thinks. Maybe he'll talk about it someday.

For now, though ..

"I didn't keep very good track the first handful of days I was here. They all sort of .. bled into one another." He was having a major freak out, that's what happened. He also had to deal with being susceptible to the cold for the first time, and he hated it. It took him forever to get dressed because he couldn't feel his fingers. Also, shivering? Terrible. Makes one so incredibly clumsy and bizarre looking, like a malfunctioning toy. "But I believe it's been about ... thirty days? Perhaps more, or perhaps less. But .. something around thirty." He looks to her, brows raised in curiosity. "Have you only recently arrived?"

Thirty. Okay, so at least he hasn't been here for a century or anything -- in some strange way, even a god can be plunged into the same situation she's in, can suffer the same disorientation and discombobulation. That normalises Thor even more than anything else he's said so far.

"I have, yes," Brigitte admits. Sheepish, self-conscious. "Within the past week. I know what you mean, though: there were a couple days where I didn't even leave my bedroom at the inn."

She'd always considered herself a practical person, one who rolled up her sleeves and simply got to work -- but dragging herself out of bed had been harder here than any other day she's ever had. That feeling of aimlessness and confusion, the lack of structure, not knowing what the hell to do with yourself. It was the whole reason she'd wandered to their doorstep now.

"No need to feel embarrassed about it," Thor replies, voice low, soft, and soothing. He tacks on a gentle, encouraging smile to show that all is well. His own beginnings in the village were less-than-impressive, and he's generally kept these details to himself. Bruce had been there to rescue him (ridiculous that he even needed rescuing in the first place, and from a glass tube, no less), but he'd not shared the events with anyone else, as far as Thor knew.

Still, seeing the look in Brigitte's face, the one that still felt overshadowed and under the weight of her advent here, Thor leans in conspiratorially and relays his own story.

"As you can imagine, it's ... a very harrowing experience, to go from being a god with endless powers to being stuck here, without anything, even your custom-made armor." He tugs at his coal-tinted and stained yellow scrub top. "My sister had destroyed Mjolnir, too, not long before I arrived here. A day or something before I wound up in the bunker. Also, my father died, partially thanks to my brother, so — you know, it was all .. a lot to deal with. Just .. a lot. But I've found and made friends here. I've found purpose here at the forge, helping others, helping the village. I won't say that I do not still mourn Mjolnir, my father, and my powers, but — it's good that you're here, and that you're out, seeking purpose. I hope that you find it — if not here, then elsewhere in the village."

Thor's little speech is a comfort, and one phrase stands out in particular. "I might be able to help with that, you know," she says after a pause. "The custom-made armour? I specialised in making armour back home. It probably wouldn't be as special as what you had, but if Mr. Stark's okay with me working on something like that, I could give it a try."

But then he relays the rest of the details, and despite his chatty, nonchalant tone, there's a potential calamity buried in the words. The destruction of Mjolnir. She's not familiar with Thor's particular universe, but she knows his stories -- knows how inextricable the god is from his hammer, and how the two go hand-in-hand. And then the death of Odin finally clicks a piece into place, considering that past-tense he let slip earlier, and Brigitte pauses right in front of the forge, more curious about him than the actual workings of the smithy.

"Oh, fuck." Straightforward, a little caught off-guard again, her eyebrows climbing into her hairline. A beat, then: "Are you okay?"

It had been recent. Now that she's putting two-and-two together, she's realising that -- god or not -- his father died just a month ago.

"You — you are an armourer?" Thor asks, eyes glittering with a light that's not really been seen there throughout his time in the village. The only times anyone might have seen something similar was when Tony was figuring out how to create a replica Mjolnir, and that light show was fleeting, to say the least.

At this news, there's practically a fireworks show going on somewhere in his eyes, and it manifests itself in a wide, toothy grin.

"Don't worry about Stark," he adds on, shooing away the thought dismissively. "If he says anything to you, you can tell him that you are aiding me, and I am certain he won't bother you again. If he does, you tell me." He pauses for a moment before adding on, "And I am certain that it will be just as, if not more special than what I had before." He reaches out and places a hand on her shoulder, the way he does with his friends, and gives it a warm, gentle squeeze.

Hopefully Brigitte's ready to have an ex-god as a friend, because she's locked herself in that position with her offer.

Thor's letting his gaze sweep across the forge, thinking of how they could accumulate the metals and materials necessary for her to create anything resembling armor, already starting to compile of list of what questions to ask Tony in preparation for this massive undertaking of a project, when her voice cuts through the low roar of the flames and gives him pause. He turns towards her, and he's so unprepared for the look in her eyes and her face that he exhales a sound of surprise. The concern is so genuine that Thor has to tuck his lower lip in, squeeze it between his teeth, in order to maintain his composure.

His closest friends have all been sympathetic to his plight — Banner in particular, who had been there through so much of it in Thor's recent days. But he'd expect that from them. They're his friends, after all. But this woman before him, who'd only made his acquaintance moments earlier, showing such palpable compassion takes him by surprise.

"This is a strange request, but may I hug you?" he asks.

"That's not a strange request at all, Thor," Brigitte says firmly. "It sounds like you've been through a lot. Even for a deity." Not knowing if he has anyone here for him, it's easy to assume the worst. If it had been her -- if Torbjörn Lindholm had perished right before she'd been whisked to a strange world and she was here, all alone -- she'd be even more of a goddamned mess.

So it's an easy decision, really, to step into his arms and let him pull her in, though the top of her head barely reaches his collarbone. Her secondary job as an impromptu medic had attuned Brigitte to this sort of thing -- gauging when tough love and a firm hand was needed for a skittish patient, and other times a gentler touch. And yeah, sometimes, you just desperately need a hug. It was another thing she'd learnt over the years: no matter how big and tough a man looked, that didn't mean they didn't need that glimmer of comfort sometimes.

(And then there's that strange new empathic power of hers, which seems to have latched onto this very trait of hers and leaned into it. As his bare arm brushes against hers, some of Thor's emotional pain trickles away and into her and she feels it right down to her bones, despite how effectively he's hidden it otherwise.)

Thor is mindful of his strength even as a much weaker mortal, but he gives his version of a 'bear hug' when Brigitte slips into his arms. Generally speaking, there is little that really puts a damper on Thor's mood. Yes, he jokingly pouts and can put on quite a show of making himself seem upset when he needs to, but he knows how fortunate he is to have so few memories tainted with grief and heartache.

That's not to say he's never experienced his share of anguish, of course, but his happier moments have far outweighed the others.

His mother's death, his father's death, Loki's first death (sigh), metaphorically letting Loki go while they were on Sakaar .. those are the moments that tear at his heart when he remembers them. Though he mourned and cried out for them, their fates of ascending to Valhalla provided him solace. Truly, it was the wish of all Asgardians and of all great warriors to meet the same fate — and looking forward to being reunited with his family when his own time came was great consolation.

Although the circumstances were wildly different, both of his parents' deaths had been sudden. There was no gradual eventuality he could look to, get used to, before they finally departed this world. His mother was murdered before his very eyes, and his father's time had run out before Thor could do a thing to change it. After Odin's death, he had no time for pain or sorrow; Hela showed up only seconds after, feeling the disappearance of the Odinforce. His priorities had to shift to that of survival, of protection, of victory.

And since his arrival in the village, it's been a similar situation for him: survival, protection, adaptation, adjustment. What it means to be a mortal again with all of the restrictions and regulations that comes along with it. What it means to be cut off from Asgard, from his home, from his people, from Heimdall.

Why else would he be at the forge from first light until sunset? Sometimes even later, well into the night? The busier he is, the more distracted he is, the less time he has for sorrow, for regret.

And yet, here in the presence of a virtual stranger, no matter how familiar she may be with the legends of he and his family, his walls have crumbled. All of his fortifications seem to melt at her compassion, and Thor isn't quite sure how to handle that.

But he knows one thing for certain: there's a warmth in her touch that extends far beyond the normal sort of solace one might find in a friend's embrace. It's deeper than that, as though she's reached into his very heart, his very soul, and extracted some of what has plagued him since his arrival. It's not all gone, and he doesn't expect it to be, but even the tiniest bit of relief is noticeable, and Thor can't help but let out a laugh at the feeling.

"I thank you, Brigitte," he says softly, hastily wiping at his face with his hands one after the other to still maintain the hug, "I believe that I needed this more than I had realized, and this compassion you have shown me will not be forgotten. I only hope that I can return the favor to you, in time."

Brigitte has already seen what her light grey powers can do, but this part is a surprise: that it works for emotional wounds, too, and not just a young boy's sniffling cold out of the fountain.

Perhaps Thor needed the comfort more, but you can't embrace someone without being hugged yourself, after all, and for a moment Brigitte can just let herself relax into the reassuring pressure of strong arms encircling her, her own hands barely interlocked around the small of his back. The bearhug is soothing. They’re complete strangers to each other, but any port will do in a storm—

"I think I needed that, too," she admits with a small huff of a laugh as he pulls back slightly. She hadn't even realised how starved she was for physical affection until finally catching this glimmer of it; a pale substitute for the horde of siblings and parents she left behind, a Christmas morning lost, but at least it’s something. Despite the fact that she can now feel Thor's barely-scabbed-over pain, a sorrow lodging in her chest as she takes on his grief with her power, it’s still better.

“The people keeping watch for fountain arrivals should give out hugs for the new people who are okay with it,” Brigitte says. Even she can’t quite tell if she’s serious or not. Mostly-joking. But also not.

"If I have been able to provide to you a fraction of what you have given me, I will consider it a good day," Thor replies with a soft, gentle smile. Whereas it seemed as though he was crumpling in on himself, as though quite literally crushed under the weight of his memories, he can feel the metaphorical parting of the clouds in his mind, and he knows he has Brigitte to thank for that. He doesn't like to toss his problems onto other people's shoulders (even if he doesn't verbally explain all that he's feeling but instead treads the current of their ferocity), but it feels nice to be able to bask in the radiance of another person's company for a little while. It's even better to be able to embrace that other person without any kind of hesitation or expectation, to be able to simply .. be.

He still has a great deal to work through when it comes to his own feelings, his grief, his new identity, his lost identity, and how all of it has come together to be his life now, but he feels encouraged by this encounter. Like somehow, even without Mjolnir, even without his ability to conjure thunder and lightning at will, he can still be Thor. And he can determine what that means, rather than having it all decided for him through name and bloodline alone. There's something terrifying in that prospect, but also liberating.

"That is a good idea! A hugging welcome brigade! Only for those who, as you said, are okay with it. I would never want to force a hug on someone who didn't want one." Speaking of .. he pulls her back in for another one. A tinier, less desperate one, but another one all the same. "My arms are here to hug you whenever you feel like you need one, Brigitte."

She lets loose a small, muffled laugh against his shirt, unexpectedly delighted as he pulls her back in again. That's another way he is like Reinhardt, at least: always exuberantly, effusively outgoing and ready to offer affection where he can.

"It's appreciated-- Thor." Her voice still skips slightly on his name, getting accustomed to saying it, the surreality of being hugged by an actual honest-to-god god. Someday, it'll come easier.

Brigitte wipes at her own face. Considering her powers, it's hard to tell whose emotions welled up in her throat and roiled across her face, but she weathers it anyway. Not at all what she expected when she came wandering into the smithy today, looking for a tour and to find the owner -- but they'd both needed it. It felt like a dam of pressure had finally cracked slightly, and perhaps showing that the new, unsettled life in this village could be alright after all.

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god jul.

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i'm cackling

i love them

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:') these two

me: accidentally slingshots from hilarity into feels, HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?? i love it tho omg

I SO RARELY HAVE TO WRITE SAD THOR ;_; BUT THANK U FOR THIS JOURNEY

& closed! dfkjghdfg