princehonorable | (no subject)

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thor

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In this state of sleep, he wanders the paths with a set state of being, his eyes open and his mind wider than his gaze. He clutches tight to a piece of old driftwood, but in his mind's eye, he's equipped with a sword again, patrolling the forests in search of a thief -- in search of his thief. There's something in his path, an impossible obstacle that he can't seem to conquer, and he can't even put a name to it.

He wields his weapon as he walks the pathways, a determined set to his shoulders -- as if burdened by armor rather than the light protection of a thin sweatshirt and pants. He halts when he comes across a worthy foe of a man, staring up and up, caught in this place between waking and sleep, gripping the driftwood ever tighter. "We have to hurry," he insists sharply. "The curse will be upon us if we delay," he tells the man.

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The realm of Tabula Rasa has its share of strange sights, many of which Thor has witnessed over the months. Spying a man in his bedclothes wielding a simple length of wood as though it were the deadliest of weapons would not be noteworthy in and of itself, but that that man so closely resembles a dear (and long thought lost) friend piques Thor's interest immediately, the warning falling on far from deaf ears.

Indeed, it is those same ears that notice the most telling clue of all: the accent. It sounds Midgardian, though the cadence, the phrasing, could very well be that of Fandral the Dashing. But surely Thor would have heard of his arrival if he had already time to acclimate to the mortal garb?

"Curse?" he echoes. "What curse?"

"The Queen and her will to destroy all happiness," he insists, a desperation wild within him. There's something -- someone -- that he's meant to be escorting to safety, but when he reaches for that knowledge, it only traverses faster away from his mind, leaving him in the dark. He takes another sleeping step forward, lifting his weapon as if anticipating the worst. "It's coming for us."

What remaining doubt Thor might have had regarding this man's identity disappears in an instant; similarities aside, this is certainly not Fandral, a fact for which he is most disappointed. But there is no time to linger on such disappointment, for this man -- whoever he may be -- possesses a desperation which demands Thor's attention.

Clapping a hand to the man's shoulder in an effort to steady him, Thor shakes his head.

"You are mistaken," he says, firm but gentle. "There is no Queen here."

The hand on his shoulders jolts him suddenly awake and whatever daze he's been wandering in clears, leaving David to stare in confusion at his sudden companion. He doesn't remember how he got out here, but not recalling is something of a trademark for him, these days. "I'm sorry, what?" he asks, clearing his throat, his tone devoid of all affectation, stripped down to the barest of confusion.

They make for quite a pair, thinks Thor, wryly. The man looks at though someone has only just returned home, life lighting his eyes where confusion darkened them only seconds before. Thor tilts his head to the side, regarding the stranger with concerned interest.

"I might ask you the same," he says, gesturing to the piece of wood. "Are you ill?"

Now that he's come to, embarrassment floods him and he manages a terse smile. "You could say that," he agrees, glancing to the wood in his hands before he drops it, listening to the clatter of it on the ground. "I was in a deep sleep when I got here and I don't really have my memory." Sure, pieces keep coming back, but the process is slow-going, at best. "I don't have the slightest idea what I'm doing out here, though."

"Were you asleep just now?" Thor has to ask, thinking it a likely explanation. He has heard tell of those who walk while unaware of their surroundings. "You were talking about a queen."

"I guess I was," he says, because he has no idea why he'd be searching for a Queen, at all. He takes a long look at the man standing with him, trying to place him and failing. Of course, that doesn't mean that he doesn't know him, just that his memories aren't cooperating. "I'm suffering from amnesia," he explains. "My memories aren't exactly, well, solid."

"You share a face with a dear friend of mine," says Thor, for he believes this to be relevant information for a man with no memory. Though he does not think this to be Fandral, despite the obvious similarities, perhaps there is more to this story than meets the eye. "But not a voice. When I saw you, I wondered if you might be him."

Thor pauses a moment, then asks, "Do you remember your name?"

"No," he says honestly. "My wristband called me John Doe. Someone else called me David Nolan. Neither of those feels like the person I'm meant to be," he insists, stubborn as ever. No matter how much they try and convince him that this is the life he's waiting to step into, he won't accept it. It doesn't feel right. "It's something else, I know it, deep down."

Thor had been intent on dismissing any lingering hope that this might be one of the Warriors Three the moment 'No' passed through the lips of this man with many names, but as he carries on with his story, that same hope is renewed. It could be a trick, perhaps one of Loki's. Something that happens in a future Thor may never yet live to see with his own two eyes. Could Fandral have been exiled, as well? Sent to Earth like Thor before him?

"Does the name Fandral mean anything to you?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't sound like it should, but at the same time, I don't -- I don't know. Nothing sounds right." He wishes that it did. He wishes, more than anything, that he could remember who he was. "Until then, I suppose I have to go by David Nolan. It's what Mary Margaret says my name is."

It had been a long shot, of course, but Thor feels disappointed anew, a fact which reads plainly in his features, though he does his best to curb the emotion. It is not this man's fault for sharing a face with a dear friend, nor is it that he apparently cannot remember his own name.

"Then David Nolan I shall call you," Thor replies, managing a slight smile, though it is not as bright as is his custom. "We should return you indoors."

The warmth is welcome in the face of his confusion. His memories already try to leave him, but now that he's begun to wake up in places where he can't recall falling asleep, it's grown worse. "Sorry, who are you?" he asks, trying to place the facts firmly in his brain now that he's solidly awake. "I'd like to go inside, yes."

"I am Thor, son of Odin and Prince of Asgard," he says, nodding once with the introduction as he turns around in the direction of the Compound. He does not anticipate the recognition that so often comes with his name, and so it is that he gives his full title. With the mention of the queen earlier, it seems somehow relevant. "Come, then. Have you been here long? Or do you remember?"

Something about that strikes a chord of familiarity in David, maybe the name, or maybe it's the title. He can't put his finger on it, though, so he abandons the train of thought to focus on something easier. "They said that they found me in the clinic a month and change ago," he explains. "That I just appeared out of nowhere, in something called a 'comatose' state. I was John Doe until someone told me that I wasn't."

And who knows? If this man had arrived first, maybe he would be responding to Fandral, after all.

"You've someone from your home?" Thor surmises, genuinely glad for the man, as he considers himself fortunate to have both friends and family in this strange realm. Whatever difficulties he may have had (and continue to have) with Loki, that they are lost together has made the homesickness more tolerable than it might have been otherwise.

"Her name is Mary Margaret," David explains, searching for the proper explanation in his mind as to what she is to him. He knows that he knows her -- she feels more real than anything he's ever known, but what does an amnesiac know about the world? Only what's in front of his eyes. "She says she knows me. She says that it's me. She recognized things about me," he says, fingers drifting to his chin. "Like this. Like my scar."

While Thor is not the most observant of mortals, just as he was not the most observant of gods, this man is not so difficult to read. That he has feelings for this Mary Margaret is plain to see, but that he doubts her story is equally as obvious.

"And yet you don't believe her," Thor replies, sounding curious. "I've met her once,, your Mary Margaret. She struck me as kind... Too kind to lie."

"I know," David agrees, because that's the most perplexing part in all of this. He truly doesn't think she has it in him to lie, but there are little things that begin to add up and the whole situation is strange -- too strange to be explained. "I guess I just don't believe that I live in some town in Maine with a wife named Kathryn. It seems like a story -- and not even a good one," he says forcefully.

Thor cannot help but agree with David's assessment; the story does seem rather dull for a man he found waving around a branch like a weapon.

"When you were sleeping, you said something about a Queen," says Thor. "One who intended to destroy all happiness." He shoots David a frank sort of look. "That sounded more exciting than... Maine."

"Unless Maine is a more interesting place than Mary Margaret would have me believe," he remarks, shaking his head. "I don't know. I haven't had any of my memories, but I've been in something of a coma for a long time. Maybe I just dreamed it all. Maybe I was trying to escape the monotony of my life?"

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