[ it has been a long, long time since someone has thanked her and meant it sincerely. longer still since it was one of her own people, let alone her king. gratitude before the battle for asgard was found in payment β which fed a habit, which fed a need to forget. she'd told thor that she wouldn't quit the former but do her best not to fall back into the latter. and it's been hard as hell, she slips up still, and she's relearning what it means to not only hold herself to a higher standard but to be who she once was. valkyrie was a title; but as the last, it may as well be her name, too.
thor is king, now. but he is still young enough to wear the mantle of who he once was before the crown, too. so she feels no need to stand on ceremony with him. she doesn't hold back when they drink or when they fight. she doesn't mince words. but she's just drunk enough now to let the walls come down a little, holed up as they are away from the celebrations.
she asks for his hand and he offers it and without further ado, she tugs him down onto the floor to join her. she doesn't remember sitting (falling?) but that's nothing new; she knows, even with the room gently spinning and decades out of practice, that she is still one of the best. maybe she won, maybe she let him win, maybe it was a draw. but they're on the floor now and she reaches for her half-empty bottle of liquor to pour a splash on his bloodied knuckles. ]
Sorry, [ she mumbles, not really meaning it. but she's got a towel slung over her shoulder and rather than using it to mop the sweat off her face, she dabs at his hand, frowning a little as if that will make her eyes focus better. her lip is bleeding, slightly, but it just makes her smile. that old warrior spirit, maybe. ] Don't know if you should be thanking me for this, though.
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thor is king, now. but he is still young enough to wear the mantle of who he once was before the crown, too. so she feels no need to stand on ceremony with him. she doesn't hold back when they drink or when they fight. she doesn't mince words. but she's just drunk enough now to let the walls come down a little, holed up as they are away from the celebrations.
she asks for his hand and he offers it and without further ado, she tugs him down onto the floor to join her. she doesn't remember sitting (falling?) but that's nothing new; she knows, even with the room gently spinning and decades out of practice, that she is still one of the best. maybe she won, maybe she let him win, maybe it was a draw. but they're on the floor now and she reaches for her half-empty bottle of liquor to pour a splash on his bloodied knuckles. ]
Sorry, [ she mumbles, not really meaning it. but she's got a towel slung over her shoulder and rather than using it to mop the sweat off her face, she dabs at his hand, frowning a little as if that will make her eyes focus better. her lip is bleeding, slightly, but it just makes her smile. that old warrior spirit, maybe. ] Don't know if you should be thanking me for this, though.