It's something to focus on that isn't the staggering, crushing loss that consumes his every waking moment, and Thor does not hesitate to grab it as a lifeline. His own recent memories of Nidavellir still burn hot in his mind, his body remembering well how it felt to burn alive under the star's fire, but he rather doubts that Prometheus' friend will require such drastic measures from him.

It will be less urgent, at least.

"I think... I would like that," he says, looking back down at the arm he wears now, absently flexing the fingers. It's a wonder the prosthesis held on long enough to forge the axe, never mind surviving the battle that came immediately on its heels. "The dwarves I know are... no longer making such things. I don't know anyone else who could make a replacement that could withstand me."