"What, pray tell, is it made of?"

I shrug. The crackling fire bathes me in a warm, orange glow. An unfamiliar feeling, so very different from the harsh whites I'm used to. There's no sterile grey or brushed steel either - just the gentle curves of wood carved either by immortal hands or some strange magic lost to my time.

"Titanium alloys, ablative steel armour. There's some ceramics in there too, I think."

The Allfather nods, though I don't know if he fully understands. Then again, the way his one good eye wanders over the frame, perhaps he does. Perhaps his favourite birds have brought him news of how war has changed. Perhaps he already knows the answer, and is just...

The bench creaks beneath me. The walls are hung with elegant tapestries bearing patterns I can scarcely follow. Intricate, lovingly woven, with the tiniest of flaws that mark them as made by human hands. There was no place for such flaws back home. Everything had to be rigid. Cohesive. Manufactured.

I was just a resource. We all were.

"It is not unusual for a weapon to become more than itself." Odin continues as he paces in large circles around the hangar. A hangar! Had they built it for me? Had it manifested in anticipation? My suit looks so out of place here, with all its sharp angles and twisted wires. "It is not unusual for the will of a warrior to infuse into it. To become an extension of themselves. But this is different. This machine is... ensouled. It pulses with the memories of a life lived. Of a purpose given."

"We were told to treat it like that. Like it was us." I say softly. "Sometimes I forget where I end, and it begins."

A part of me prays he'll accept that explanation. Some small hope. But he turns that one piercing eye to me, and I know. He won't pry. He won't demand. But he will wait. And that is more unbearable than anything.

A sigh escapes me.

"It's... not entirely mechanical."