An ill feeling had settled on Thor since his return to Two from the Capitol. It had been so profoundly somatic in the beginning that he had broken down and saw the medic who covered the miners, but she had been rather baffled. His cough and its associated nausea they initially attributed to the different food that he was unaccustomed to ingesting, an explanation which escalated to a possible allergy when it persisted almost half a week after his return. Occasionally, the idea that it was the result of a traumatic brain injury sustained from the rescue was vocalised, but Thor declined seeking a second opinion in the Capitol, playing of the symptoms when the medic suggested going for the third time.
Back in his home in the Village, Thor took to self-medicating with more of the moonshine purchased from one of his closest friends in the mines. Only once did the man question the increase in the former Victor's purchase. He had tried asking a second time but the look Thor had given him had stopped the words in his throat. For the rest of the week, Thor barely ate, subsisting on liquid meals as they seemed to be the only thing he could tolerate. The cough lingered as did the nausea but the migraine had all but gone away and the muscles in his stomach ceased feeling so taut. The blond looked awful, an entire one-eighty from the dashing and composed man he had been during his most recent tour of the Capitol. Dark circles casted a heavy shadow over his face and the bright blue of his eyes seemed dim. The gauntness in his cheeks was disturbing, and while Thor had not been much of a narcissist since the days after his Games, he couldn't stand the way he looked in the mirror.
Leaning back in one of the kitchen chairs, Thor ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as he caught the knots between them. With a heavy sigh, he gave up untangling the mess of blond strands, instead pulling it all back in a haphazard topknot. Before him on the table sat a half empty and unlabelled bottle, only seconds from joining its fallen brothers somewhere on the floor which had become a disgusting mess since his return. Some of the bottles were splintered, thrown in a fit of rage that Thor couldn't remember. Certainly a few had just rolled off the table and crashed to the floor, but that excuse couldn't be made for all the shards that were scattered throughout the room.
Under his shifting weight, the chair creaked as if it was growing tired of supporting him. More than a handful of times in the past week, Thor had woken up still sitting in the same spot after having passed out right at the table. His back and neck were incredibly stiff, cracking and resisting movement when he finally got himself up. Pain or not, Thor had gone to the mines and worked until the final whistle cried out to the men still lingering in the tunnels. The nightmares had come back stronger than ever and only when he was claustrophobically caged within the rock, comforted by the rhythmic metallic clank of pickaxes striking the stone, was he able to forget the imagery. It was a brief reprieve, but just long enough to preserve his already tenuous grip on composure. Each new day chipped into him, slowly breaking him like a man eroding ore; eventually the vein would break open and be exposed and for Thor, his breaking point was growing nearer.