Fatigued though he was, the feline smile that touched Medea’s lips set a wry one tugging at his own. Though the power of the Stones when concerted in purpose was so overwhelming as to blind and deafen the wielder to nearly anything else, Medea’s magic was too distinct – in effect and in feeling – for Thanos to forget, even during a fight. He knew every repulsor blast from Stark, every bullet from the Widow and the War Machine, and every incessant bolt of lightning from Thor had been softened by her spells of warding in the name of her war-god. No doubt the battle would have demanded a far graver toll if not for Medea’s presence working to shield his from worlds away. Wounds that should have been disabling had merely slowed him. Beyond that, she’d ensured he was twice as dangerous to the Avengers as he’d ever been on Titan.
Her magic had served him. Thanos had always delegated the task of dispatching his more mystical enemies to the Maw, who was ever eager to prove his own powers superior to such beings. With his death, Thanos might have felt somewhat vulnerable to the more…arcane practices of the universe, something Titans admittedly had little natural talent for. But Medea, who crackled with power in Reality’s perception, more than made up for that. He even felt it when they were joined together, all his bellicose vitality finding in her every breath and gasp and moan some mystical counterpart. And it left Thanos feeling – reinforced. Balanced.
Indeed, he…may very well have owed his life to her. A strange feeling. In haler moments, where his warrior’s pride ruled, it might never have occurred to him. But as Medea’s palm gathered to the hard line of his jaw, and her eyes – the same hue as Power - studied his unblinking, and the pain in his chest eased to a murmur where it should have been a shout, the thought came. A strange feeling indeed…even a new one. He’d never known it. Even on Titan.
Thanos pursed his lips, contemplative. The pillow beneath his head was warm and slightly wet with sweat, and he felt a faint whisper of fever in his blood. did lift himself somewhat, and made no protest and little movement as Medea tended to his wounds. The most he would allow was a slight furrowing of his already imperious brow when Medea took the measure of his heat with the back of her palm. Pain was a fact of life he had long since accepted. Admitting to pain...well. One thing at a time.
“I’m well enough,” he managed to say, “that you don’t have to stop me from sitting up.” He was pleased his voice had gathered some of its familiar iron reverberation – but then, so had his headache. Thanos grunted, though with as raw as his throat was from battle, it sounded more like steam escaping some overheated mechanism. His eyelids rose some, enough for his eyes to meet Medea’s.
“…though I could do with a drink.” The warrior in him wanted a strong one, perhaps an amphora of that strong red liquor Medea boasted of from her homeland, but Thanos knew water would serve him better. If he’d been strong enough to use the Stones, he would have conjured water and a meal...
...and there his own body betrayed him, for his stomach suddenly growled at a decibel range that would have made the Obsidian beast snarl in challenge. Thanos set his jaw, embarrassed. He was ravenously hungry – but for now he supposed he could trust that to Medea, who was more than capable herself. He leaned into his hand of flesh upon the cot, while his face leaned into the small, soft, pale hand that cupped his cheek. "And maybe something to sink my teeth into."
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Her magic had served him. Thanos had always delegated the task of dispatching his more mystical enemies to the Maw, who was ever eager to prove his own powers superior to such beings. With his death, Thanos might have felt somewhat vulnerable to the more…arcane practices of the universe, something Titans admittedly had little natural talent for. But Medea, who crackled with power in Reality’s perception, more than made up for that. He even felt it when they were joined together, all his bellicose vitality finding in her every breath and gasp and moan some mystical counterpart. And it left Thanos feeling – reinforced. Balanced.
Indeed, he…may very well have owed his life to her. A strange feeling. In haler moments, where his warrior’s pride ruled, it might never have occurred to him. But as Medea’s palm gathered to the hard line of his jaw, and her eyes – the same hue as Power - studied his unblinking, and the pain in his chest eased to a murmur where it should have been a shout, the thought came. A strange feeling indeed…even a new one. He’d never known it. Even on Titan.
Thanos pursed his lips, contemplative. The pillow beneath his head was warm and slightly wet with sweat, and he felt a faint whisper of fever in his blood. did lift himself somewhat, and made no protest and little movement as Medea tended to his wounds. The most he would allow was a slight furrowing of his already imperious brow when Medea took the measure of his heat with the back of her palm. Pain was a fact of life he had long since accepted. Admitting to pain...well. One thing at a time.
“I’m well enough,” he managed to say, “that you don’t have to stop me from sitting up.” He was pleased his voice had gathered some of its familiar iron reverberation – but then, so had his headache. Thanos grunted, though with as raw as his throat was from battle, it sounded more like steam escaping some overheated mechanism. His eyelids rose some, enough for his eyes to meet Medea’s.
“…though I could do with a drink.” The warrior in him wanted a strong one, perhaps an amphora of that strong red liquor Medea boasted of from her homeland, but Thanos knew water would serve him better. If he’d been strong enough to use the Stones, he would have conjured water and a meal...
...and there his own body betrayed him, for his stomach suddenly growled at a decibel range that would have made the Obsidian beast snarl in challenge. Thanos set his jaw, embarrassed. He was ravenously hungry – but for now he supposed he could trust that to Medea, who was more than capable herself. He leaned into his hand of flesh upon the cot, while his face leaned into the small, soft, pale hand that cupped his cheek. "And maybe something to sink my teeth into."