The Time-Traveler's Wyrd
Nov 13, 2013 19:26:39 GMT -5
Post by Thor on Nov 13, 2013 19:26:39 GMT -5
Megan would be travelling the morrow, and up at nearly dawn in order to do so. Her suitcases had been packed for several days, a process which had involved much cursing and many do-overs. He did not scrutinize her behavior, but he believed she was angry at leaving. Veidt was involved, no doubt.
Thor had in concern tried to speak to her of it, but where before she had only been slightly awkward, a stilted manner of behavior that brought up cracked smiles and memories of Darcy Lewis and - and Jane, of course - now she seemed to avoid his company. Strange business. He had never had his brother's skill at deciphering the manners of others. In old times, he would have contacted him. It was not impossible now. They had these 'cell phones', though he had required a replacement after being too ungentle with his first. But Loki, too, avoided his company. Perhaps with better reason, but more of a pain. Thor was honest with himself. He knew Loki's reasons for wanting to avoid him, but he had hoped that the thirty years would have mended Loki's heart. It seemed that to Loki, it had been only one. So he had lost thirty years from Jane Foster's precious mortal lifespan and still gained nothing. It was the fault of no one, but the thought was bitter and occasionally all encompassing. There was very little for Thor to do about it but grieve, and he had grown weary grieving. In spite of all he'd learned, he was a man of action, and there was still no action to take.
He recognized that the world he lived in now was different from the one he had visited in more than era. The legacy of people like Veidt or others he saw had never been left on that old world. He dimly recalled the man Tony Stark he had seen on the newstands - perhaps, if Tony Stark was here, Jane Foster was as well. He had cast about for knowledge of her, and finally found some. A Jane Foster lived with her mother and father in England. It had taken some persuasion and a few lies to convince Loki to take him there, but his brother had done so, lazily clutching a coffee, waving his hand about, almost the Loki he had known in the past but for a comfort with himself and a greater discomfort with Thor that he knew would bloom into an open wound with enough time spent in his presence, but if he could not have his brother back, he could perhaps find Jane. Thirty mortal years on, he knew, would place Jane at an age that in mortal years exceeded that of his own mother. He did not care. Any time with Jane would be precious. The only pain that remained around his heart he would not allow to root in his consciousness: the realization that either she had a family, and had moved on, and he could be nothing but a dim memory, or that she had lingered in that memory all this time, and her love was superceded by loathing and depression. Which was worse, he could not know.
But when he finally found himself walking down the one and only street, hope and only hope built under his breast. He heard a shout from a happy child, and lowered adult voices. Which was Jane's, he could not say, and then a voice called her name.
Thor took up a running pace, halting, barely out of breath, outside the gate.
A little girl wrapped in a thin blanket was running up the steps with a stick clutched in a small pink hand. Her mouth smeared with food and her eyes bright, light brown hair in a braid down her small back. Jane's daughter? Granddaughter? He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat.
She ran into the arms of a woman who resembled Jane (a daughter?) and was scooped up.
"Jane Foster, you're filthy," said the woman, scolding. "Let's get you inside."
And Thor knew instantly what had happened and released the gate as though its iron were scalding, stumbled away from this house and hurried on down the street, until when Loki had finally found him, he was chiding him and calling him oafish for running off instead of meeting him where they had agreed. It numbed him to his pain, for Loki was behaving as he had when they were young together.
Jane Foster was a child.
Jane Foster had yet to grow up and meet him.
If she had been old, even if she had wanted nothing more than his friendship, he could have borne it; he could have lived with her to the end of her days and he would not have asked the universe for any more. But this was almost a condemnation. She lived, and yet he could not ever speak to her. His mind raced the first night and day, trying, though he knew his mind was slower than his brother's, to find a solution to end his unhappiness. But there was nothing. To introduce himself to Jane even only hoping to be her protector, a childhood friend or guardian, and he would irreparably destroy the relationship he had hoped to have. He could resign himself to the protector of an aging woman with a family, for it was a Jane that knew him, a Jane that was his equal. There was nothing right about speaking to a child, when he had such passionate feelings for her adult self. He could not take that out of the equation. Even if he chose to never act on the love he held for her, what if she still met him, his past self, in her future? What if she found him, and came to love him, bolstered by her childhood memories? It would be ghastly. Manipulative and wrong. He could not play with the forces of human emotion - or his own. He would not.
What, then? Ignore her existence until the time came when she knew him and waited for him?
He knew then it would be another thirty years of longing. He could resign himself to that, but he had never had much ability to bear waiting or unhappiness.
And to get drunk was impossible on this plane.
Nothing to do but sit in silence and bear it.
Thor had in concern tried to speak to her of it, but where before she had only been slightly awkward, a stilted manner of behavior that brought up cracked smiles and memories of Darcy Lewis and - and Jane, of course - now she seemed to avoid his company. Strange business. He had never had his brother's skill at deciphering the manners of others. In old times, he would have contacted him. It was not impossible now. They had these 'cell phones', though he had required a replacement after being too ungentle with his first. But Loki, too, avoided his company. Perhaps with better reason, but more of a pain. Thor was honest with himself. He knew Loki's reasons for wanting to avoid him, but he had hoped that the thirty years would have mended Loki's heart. It seemed that to Loki, it had been only one. So he had lost thirty years from Jane Foster's precious mortal lifespan and still gained nothing. It was the fault of no one, but the thought was bitter and occasionally all encompassing. There was very little for Thor to do about it but grieve, and he had grown weary grieving. In spite of all he'd learned, he was a man of action, and there was still no action to take.
He recognized that the world he lived in now was different from the one he had visited in more than era. The legacy of people like Veidt or others he saw had never been left on that old world. He dimly recalled the man Tony Stark he had seen on the newstands - perhaps, if Tony Stark was here, Jane Foster was as well. He had cast about for knowledge of her, and finally found some. A Jane Foster lived with her mother and father in England. It had taken some persuasion and a few lies to convince Loki to take him there, but his brother had done so, lazily clutching a coffee, waving his hand about, almost the Loki he had known in the past but for a comfort with himself and a greater discomfort with Thor that he knew would bloom into an open wound with enough time spent in his presence, but if he could not have his brother back, he could perhaps find Jane. Thirty mortal years on, he knew, would place Jane at an age that in mortal years exceeded that of his own mother. He did not care. Any time with Jane would be precious. The only pain that remained around his heart he would not allow to root in his consciousness: the realization that either she had a family, and had moved on, and he could be nothing but a dim memory, or that she had lingered in that memory all this time, and her love was superceded by loathing and depression. Which was worse, he could not know.
But when he finally found himself walking down the one and only street, hope and only hope built under his breast. He heard a shout from a happy child, and lowered adult voices. Which was Jane's, he could not say, and then a voice called her name.
Thor took up a running pace, halting, barely out of breath, outside the gate.
A little girl wrapped in a thin blanket was running up the steps with a stick clutched in a small pink hand. Her mouth smeared with food and her eyes bright, light brown hair in a braid down her small back. Jane's daughter? Granddaughter? He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat.
She ran into the arms of a woman who resembled Jane (a daughter?) and was scooped up.
"Jane Foster, you're filthy," said the woman, scolding. "Let's get you inside."
And Thor knew instantly what had happened and released the gate as though its iron were scalding, stumbled away from this house and hurried on down the street, until when Loki had finally found him, he was chiding him and calling him oafish for running off instead of meeting him where they had agreed. It numbed him to his pain, for Loki was behaving as he had when they were young together.
Jane Foster was a child.
Jane Foster had yet to grow up and meet him.
If she had been old, even if she had wanted nothing more than his friendship, he could have borne it; he could have lived with her to the end of her days and he would not have asked the universe for any more. But this was almost a condemnation. She lived, and yet he could not ever speak to her. His mind raced the first night and day, trying, though he knew his mind was slower than his brother's, to find a solution to end his unhappiness. But there was nothing. To introduce himself to Jane even only hoping to be her protector, a childhood friend or guardian, and he would irreparably destroy the relationship he had hoped to have. He could resign himself to the protector of an aging woman with a family, for it was a Jane that knew him, a Jane that was his equal. There was nothing right about speaking to a child, when he had such passionate feelings for her adult self. He could not take that out of the equation. Even if he chose to never act on the love he held for her, what if she still met him, his past self, in her future? What if she found him, and came to love him, bolstered by her childhood memories? It would be ghastly. Manipulative and wrong. He could not play with the forces of human emotion - or his own. He would not.
What, then? Ignore her existence until the time came when she knew him and waited for him?
He knew then it would be another thirty years of longing. He could resign himself to that, but he had never had much ability to bear waiting or unhappiness.
And to get drunk was impossible on this plane.
Nothing to do but sit in silence and bear it.