Stormbreaker has healed the worst of it, and saved Thor's life as it had threatened to flicker out, so there is not much still etched into his skin to prove his ordeal. Magical traces of the rapid healing still lingering, perhaps, and an ache that's nestled itself in every one of Thor's bones, or so it feels.
He breathes out a humorless chuckle at Loki's demand. "I wasn't planning to." No, Thor's desperate ploy is unlikely to be repeated. Not now, when it's too late to make any difference. Stormbreaker may very well be the last thing Nidavellir ever makes, with no one left to work the forge.
Were this any other day, Thor might show more curiosity in his surroundings, familiarize himself with his brother's haven, ask questions about its intended purpose. But not today. Today, it's enough to be somewhere safe, and away from prying eyes, or from those who are bound to repeat the tale of his failure to any who will listen.
He has enough presence of mind to drop the axe so it leans against the bed, rather than leaving it in the middle of the floor, and wishes it was as easy to rid himself of the weight on his soul. The bed beneath him is soft and the natural scents soothing, and Thor is tempted to just collapse all the way and let his mind find its own oblivion, but his armor is filthy and Thor cannot bear to ruin even one more thing, no matter how small. Against his weary body's protests, he fumbles at the buckles of his armor, too tired and shellshocked to simply vanish it with magic.
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He breathes out a humorless chuckle at Loki's demand. "I wasn't planning to." No, Thor's desperate ploy is unlikely to be repeated. Not now, when it's too late to make any difference. Stormbreaker may very well be the last thing Nidavellir ever makes, with no one left to work the forge.
Were this any other day, Thor might show more curiosity in his surroundings, familiarize himself with his brother's haven, ask questions about its intended purpose. But not today. Today, it's enough to be somewhere safe, and away from prying eyes, or from those who are bound to repeat the tale of his failure to any who will listen.
He has enough presence of mind to drop the axe so it leans against the bed, rather than leaving it in the middle of the floor, and wishes it was as easy to rid himself of the weight on his soul. The bed beneath him is soft and the natural scents soothing, and Thor is tempted to just collapse all the way and let his mind find its own oblivion, but his armor is filthy and Thor cannot bear to ruin even one more thing, no matter how small. Against his weary body's protests, he fumbles at the buckles of his armor, too tired and shellshocked to simply vanish it with magic.