#Thanor

[drakoslav-art]

Thanor

Painting I made during several years. Inspired by dragon Thanor from The Dark Secret saga story by Luca Turilli of Rhapsody Of Fire. Music credit: Ad Infinitum, From Chaos To Eternity, excerpt from Heroes Of Waterfalls' Kingdom by Rhapsody Of Fire

[cilant-lis]

some stuff i drew while playing kingmaker

[fish-and-forbear]

Thinking so much about Thanor again tonight...

He didn't deserve the fate he got.

I have ten thousand thoughts about him, about what he means to me, about the concept of revenge, dragon morals, and wisdom/anger (in Rhapsody/Rhapsody of Fire lyrics and themes)

I am THIS CLOSE to following my heart and "reincarnating" Thanor into Grist + Neumes world to mesh with the steel dragon god of vengeance/cosmic irony/retribution. To give him a happier life and chance to grow and love and destroy and hoard and feast and do all of the dragon-y things he deserves to do.

He still gets to be a hero (in a story of choosing to go against your anger/evil side and do The Right Thing at great personal sacrifice) but instead of letting him be tortured by Nekron for forever he gets to come back as a cool undead dragon god and get a 20 ft tall knight boyfriend (Helm, my beloved) as well. uwu

Helm (human god of protection, guardians, the eternal watcher) and Thanor (steel dragon god of vengeance, cosmic irony, choices) they are so perfect together and I love them.

Also fully embracing Thanor would... really help explain a side of myself that I have forcibly ignored for. So many reasons.

Giving him a voice and a chance to grow, heal, and have the life he deserved (vs his original source, and the way I've buried this side of myself).

Needs a lot more thought and to be nurtured over time, gently and with caution. But feeling at peace with it.

Is it cringe? YES. But are we happy? The BIGGEST yes I can muster right now. c:

- Fisher

[swouse]

[enbymetalhead]

HERE BE DRAGONS

Imbracor of Blind Guardian, Tharos and Thanor of Rhapsody (of Fire), The dragon of Avantasia (no canon name, fan name TBC)

Representative of some of my favourite (perhaps top three) bands of all time. Seeing them all together like this makes me very happy.

[orathearsonman]

This experiment tested the hypothes that if we adied vitamin G, then it would herenge mung bean germinatven, and the data apported that. All three batches - Dil, 0.2, and 0.5 grams of vitemin ( added - had all 10 seeds germinate (100% suess rove). Meanuhile, the control grap nith pain water ind only 8/10 (80%) seed geminition. The vicision of vitin l clearly merenced awall gormnato rates. tawever, the gunlity of the gemintien (?) was beller in the control grap than i any of the 8 batches. The satis were langor and had amost completely cast off ther shells, while the IV lantehes were relatively small, still had nost of their hells on, and genovelly had thanor stalks (though ts worth notig thet the Dil batch had very long stalks). I don't know if the vitamin C had corleaded the seeis somehow, or if the merensed goritan rate resulfed in mire competitan, but the results are interestry! IF I nore to redo the study. I nouo voe tore beins and do more trials. As it stands, I cant see any mmerienl difference teleon the 3 IV butches, which is - pretty impordint. Plus, pure trials me impertent to see it the data remans. constamt, or If it nas por a Hoke.\

[444names]

male italian and english forenames + tolkienesque forenames with diacritics removed

Achan Adeuglor Adildacarm Agabran Agdumano Alash Alath Alattiant Aldaelm Aldam Aldenbar Aldon Aldowfabel Alfrek Alviell Amburione Amiadam Aminwe Amlor Anbrufil Anceles Ancil Andearich Andio Andirioelm Anfor Aniell Anistaril Anton Arazio Arazor Arcelair Ardil Ardory Areagus Arego Arianna Ariloy Arizio Arlegil Arlio Arman Armelye Armict Arther Astando Atanbadro Atarn Aurto Aurucil Azaro Bantor Barcol Barin Bathir Bathosa Battin Belleoron Benger Bephelmat Bepperio Berasto Beregio Berimo Berinimir Berne Beroben Berony Berry Berthir Bertz Berun Betarenna Betephew Betherence Betri Bettoc Bianso Boccol Boffan Bolattani Bolor Bonaldan Boredo Bortondor Brair Branny Brazio Briormo Carcy Carollema Cassino Celvair Cemin Cenzo Cestandino Chraleppo Cillanhel Clarthoro Cleano Colwe Criden Dagolo Danton Darean Darinel Darme Dartin Davio Davranglo Denimele Deniondold Detroma Develes Dirieletre Doheod Dorrun Dredir Durbat Durunilcas Eagolodock Eanus Earen Earmelvi Edhel Eitanole Elatuley Elduinven Elebrald Elerego Elfaulf Elloy Eltho Elumbul Emehtair Emmar Emyato Enryon Eofurolo Eomir Eorearmir Eorto Eotta Eredeon Eredmo Ereners Erettian Erfinickey Eruno Ervert Escart Escatto Eslivarco Esteley Etrizio Ettiancili Etton Fabar Faelisuin Falberun Falfrard Fedmundo Ferist Ferpelmel Fichar Fielembrey Finenzo Finer Fingwengor Finio Finzo Flango Fliamras Floth Fornor Foscar Frada Frampaco Franto Freanue Freglo Fregor Frether Frinyasto Gabrendiry Gaegon Gamin Gamir Gastius Gelmat Geloin Gelro Ghante Gianfren Giano Gilimo Gilmo Gimirimrol Gingertor Gionedened Giosco Giothel Gladohir Glivoric Gloro Golper Gonatirad Gorfio Gorruto Gosui Gother Graymo Gridudeo Gundon Gunzilloro Gwano Hadaither Hadand Haegor Hairando Halbatarno Halmo Hamin Haminuvi Hanico Hantato Hanus Hardur Harrek Henevor Hirarecto Hiryong Hored Hualvither Hubat Huglo Hugoriel Humberizio Hunared Huolo Huorn Hyanbulio Hyavir Idnermard Igimermo Ignarcirmo Ilvatio Imogerod Inelhar Isilippo Istin Istor Ithen Ivalaur Ivandil Ivatar Ivelu Ivilzo Jacasir Jener Jenue Jessimir Joabel Joheordil Jonio Kierahar Lacilmo Lacio Laian Laino Lairil Lanowyn Lassaure Lathado Latriano Legnarob Legothon Leman Lemmacion Lemmas Lemmore Lenicoseb Lessadinun Letharwene Leugolian Levido Liano Lobberth Lomon Lucandur Lucar Lucarm Luglorman Luigil Lukey Lundis Madon Maenio Magduil Magolfhil Maino Malele Manth Maran Marastelmo Marmaeld Marno Marthmong Marthorlo Masquir Matric Mattin Melmanakin Menico Mertha Mettini Michir Millano Millorold Minborry Minelor Mirioc Monweleg Morluille Mulpheo Nakhildo Naraddea Naranto Narog Nasse Natazianse Nattino Nedevezil Neley Nentimar Nesta Nevine Nicth Niele Nieredo Normaurio Ohnarmen Oincale Olaundro Olorolio Oloth Orenistis Orone Ottofurex Ovickto Owfaxwe Patan Patrio Pausha Pendist Perine Phalmo Phelute Phesaliona Picco Pielo Pristo Qualano Raddeon Radrio Raharidio Randil Ratantia Regrie Relippo Rence Rianino Roabiar Rolfhir Ronarore Ronatilmo Runardo Runariano Ruperves Sabindir Sacomar Salbel Samehtazio Sanald Sanco Santont Sardante Sardo Sarick Sarucil Savidoher Seleo Sephirino Seppo Shuor Siliacold Sillob Silmarmo Smele Smund Sorin Stamiri Stimlio Suelo Taromo Tavio Tello Teriel Thanor Thelo Thorminis Thregin Thrio Tianio Toccas Tonto Trillo Turbadel Turetrin Ulfir Uliam Ulkalfher Umattano Umbarommo Undil Valiamon Vallaldo Valviccil Vanair Vanar Vannio Vidertone Vienea Vindren Vinel Vitarco Waladoc Watir Winrond Wulphired Yandil Yaran Yaranco Yavriell

[444namesplus]

Acefaim Achfebeng Ahavouch Aichgehoch Aimgege Ainthitho Alnorel Amsono Amswogai Angvodu Apede Aporer Arcaco Arsseniunth Artopa Asogou Atuve Aucepoi Awidoums Bedoi Bifo Binor Bobu Bofa Bogerch Bonols Bosius Bothoi Bulom Bunii Cafo Camoi Ceniu Cigo Cigus Codol Cogoch Cotiu Cowois Cuvoi Dalous Dathiis Deco Dedong Defiu Dehe Derii Develm Dobos Docei Dodaing Dogol Dono Doro Doseuch Dother Duneu Duroms

Ebegan Ebete Ecepend Echbedou Echceserch Echgibeund Echhethi Echrugoch Echsodauch Echtholo Echtothoch Editha Edome Efibo Efosa Egapes Egehoich Egisein Ehuris Eichhobiun Eichnavel Eiditil Eigotol Eigudoich Eilesar Eilise Eimberois Eimoles Eimscowa Eingehol Einmohe Einobe Einthiwoich Eirenen Elcewu Elchthego Elmbwelou Elmslucemb Elmsvolum Elnaroing Elndsotu Elssithau Elstogu Eluruls Elvufain Elwupo Emstevun Endnemou Endvutai Engdegernd Engeferch Engluwo Engpaho Enthdowo Enthrorou Enwute Epefe Erchcimor Erchlowi Erchnimei Erhava Erhodeung Ermbhesis Ermthamumb Erngpethii Erngvotamb Ernhetor Ernhiwi Erntewoch Eropol Erswuheis Erviso Esatoums Esgego Eslumoum Esnecach Etherar Etodend Eubusil Euchhofu Euchvibus Eugefe Euleton Eunbodous Eundwisuunth Eungvegeums Eupothos Eututomb Euvatol Evomeu Faho Fari Fecor Fedoich Femouch Fenem Feneu Fesuu Fetoi Fewoch Ficar Figauch Fite Fohe Foho Foro Fowe Fulau Futen Gebun Geha Geseu Gethumb Gicon Gofom Gogei Gonurch Goto Guthe Hegas Hele Helem Herech Heter Hilech Hitem Hores Hotol Hovel Husouch Huwel Ibehoim Iistabo Iiswoseu Ilchfola Ilchpegul Ilnolam Ilnoworch Ilswupou Ilvedong Imbdathu Imblutulnd Impefe Imsvegerm Irewech Irmbowoch Irndlotos Irwalom Isvecorm Iumpobil Iunthdither Iuthugoi Lahel Lathuls Lefi Leham Leper Levelms Limoch Lobe Lobiu Lobum Lobuu Lode Lonel Loter Mawe Mehal Memolch Mesu Mider Mine Mipemb Mobuls Model Modoch Mofe Molul Momemb Mopou Mothe Munems Munurs Muthelm Nacomb Nelols Nereu Nereun Neteich Netheu Nidai Nomiu Nopui Novoich Ocemus Ochcemes Ochcohau Ochlobe Ochsepa Ochvawur Ociso Odaboim Odege Odovu Ofothol Ogobou Ohefom Ohoveu Oichlunil Oihigai Oimawo Oimspeli Oimthobei Oitegor Oivoring Olchfire Olegoch Olhogus Olnnaco Olsmihi Olwefel Omefem Omesei Omsiharch Omsmotes Ondthawon Onenolm Ongvenu Onpedolch Onsocerch Onthtodoi Onwefenth Opigum Oponerch Opope Orchsofo Orfothu Orlenan Orlocon Ormbbuce Ormgocer Orndtehaus Ornhafos Ornrowoimb Oroton Orpocei Orvawa Osbebois Osbowel Osdomach Osfowi Oslogem Osrigi Oswunes Otatho Othoveus Otocel Ouchvotou Oumgeriind Ounanoich Oundbotholch Ounemei Oupeno Ousgopoi Ousmotoin Ouvoruu Ovebei Pale Pebuch Pigols Pogolch Pono Refech Refich Reheu Relolch Rifelch Rigo Rimoun Rithos Rode Roderng Rogo Rose Rosol Rote Rufuu Saher Semo Siher Sithe Siwo Sohers Somong Sothouch Tathau Tebeu Tetenth Thacach Thanor Thecaung Thecuch Thefe Thege Thela Themech Theso Thigou Thisin Thoga Thogel Thola Thufoch Thuge Thumu Thurai Tivil Tocounth Tofou Togo Toto Towach Tunouch Tusurch Ubetho Uchrereun Ucowolch Udedals Uhovend Uichdego Ulchnove Ulmhotheis Umlabom Undosi Unfelou Unsowo Unutauch Urathoin Urchmori Urlowis Urnnonos Urude Urvothii Uspihe Uspone Uubalil Uudetiums Uufutho Uuhovun Uupobe Uvotheis Uvothoind Vado Valilm Vecimb Veloi Veres Vewech Vewol Vidurm Vige Vimo Viwes Vobolm Vogoi Votur Vulo Wecei Wecuch Wegal Weloch Weror Wica Wihei Wilos Witha Wiwa Wiwe Wogulnd Wohunth Wole Wonuu Worei Wothech Wotomb Wufern

Abanii Achgiva Adihiumb Afiwa Aicuvur Aifasumb Aifimil Alfila Aludach Ambbafin Andifuum Archbutirn Armavu Arthnadar Aruvarmb Asgahal Athuthul Aufarimb Avacii Awuwal Babui Bacuu Bapuum Batha Bigi Bigirs Bihach Bilils Bipich Bithi Bithuth Bubir Buciing Bucin Bucurth Bugi Bunum Buthiln Cabar Cagaimb Caha Camind Cawalmb Cawuth Cida Cigur Cinuch Cithi Curais Cutharn Dadi Dagui Dasai Dicuch Difalth Digalmb Diguth Diha Dinai Dipa Disuu Divui Divus Diwiu Dugauch

Ebifi Ebululth Efapun Efibal Efipath Efucaun Ehutirth Eibilui Eichwamur Eigavilth Eimbfibaith Eimufam Eipimalch Eisgiciu Eithnawim Eithtava Eitulam Elatui Eldifirch Elfigaund Elfigi Elhutich Elmbdigun Elmhisumb Elmthudath Elncatham Elnfivu Elnpiburs Elpadumb Elsaru Elsvarauch Embnigiu Embpuma Embriwur Embrucumb Embruhui Enabuin Enasu Endilil Engwivium Enpithan Epathirth Ermbsucimb Erndtiwun Ernruhuus Ernuguch Errupi Esilu Esniva Espihaumb Essufu Estharulth Esthihi Esugar Esvapur Etasaich Ethfugur Ethhavulch Ethlahi Ethsipand Ethugi Ethuthus Ethwutha Etufa Euchbanai Euchdasimb Euchnavis Eudufu Eunvuval Eupila Eussubuth Euvatith Euviva Evatal Ewabis Ewimun Faruu Faruumb Ficur Figais Fihi Fiturnd Fucai Fuga Funath Fupil Furu Futhaich Fuwiis Gabu Gaguich Garirch Garu Gasich Gawur Gicar Giha Giliu Gitas Githaimb Giwii Guburth Guful Gurau Haduth Hahuch Haniuth Hanu Hawurs Hicich Himuu Hipuimb Hucum Hufuis Hunach Hurin Huwa Ichfiga Ichhadarmb Ichpasimb Igidund Iigisath Iimulu Iipilir Ilngfudu Ilnluru Iltubam Ilvida Inthimal Ipahuum Irchhatumb Irpatuch Irthnawal Irtisal Isalus Isbirith Ithicir Ithpucuuth Iudasuch Iumrisul Iumwavus Lacu Laparng Lasirnd Lilil Linu Lisi Lugi Luhii Luhim Luvui Luwuth Madai Maduum Maliind Mani Maparch Maral Masirng Mathuch Mibau Miguch Mihai Miwii Muciun Mufuing Mugilch Muri Nada Nafum Nahus Naluith Nanaind Naru Nata Natun Nibi Nicang Nifir Nilun Niruth Nitam Nitui Nubiis Nudas Nudui Nugich Nugirs Nusirth Nutha Nuturs Nuvi Nuwim Nuwurs Ochsufim Oicabam Oichvathui Oigirach Oimbmufu Oisuhath Oithmihath Oithrisa Oitici Olnmapum Olnnuhi Olrimul Olthbadii Olthcanar Olthmumils Omahulth Omatith Ombbiwumb Ombniwith Ombranar Ombthuvai Ombvipi Ombwimur Opimis Opivu Oramuch Orchfibils Orchmima Orchpisau Orchsathund Ordaburth Orgipich Oribuch Ormbrurath Ornilal Orshadu Orsvuhius Orthbigai Osbapar Osdili Ositarth Osrisi Osruthich Ostathil Oswibi Otagalmb Othhihur Othici Oubagi Ouchtuvu Ouchvilai Ouciharn Ouhihulch Oumgagai Ovuthu Owatalm Owavulch Owunirs Pafaith Pagamb Pamurmb Pasith Patas Pihu Piluch Piluind Pinuumb Pisi Pivu Pudi Pusi Puta Puwul Racar Rafar Raru Ravalth Rawi Ricurch Rihuch Ruli Rulich Rumi Runir Ruparmb Rupu Rurach Rusalch Sacurng Safui Sagin Sahi Sathiuch Sibilch Sibir Sicu Siharm Siril Siwiu Subiuch Sugaumb Supuln Sutiuth Tabaind Tabind Tacind Tapar Tavuu Tawals Tawar Tawu Thacui Thafa Thahum Thanius Thihuch Thiti Thumi Thupuun Thuthar Tilath Tisith Tithil Tithus Tucamb Tudu Tuti Uichsali Uidagars Uidina Uigaha Uilural Uindbuduch Uitucii Ulburilmb Ulcumau Ulnhufa Ulsvithi Ulswavu Ulwavau Umbfigi Umbmapi Umhiruch Upiging Urhathu Urifam Urnviwaus Urpaca Ursdicais Uruhulng Urvutium Uuhudumb Uurusau Uuthrari Uuthvagals Uvibu Uwunau Vaduth Vimuumb Vubi Vudi Vuha Vumulm Vusa Vuvil Wabuch Waci Wacu Wadun Wana Wavalch Wavas Wavuund Wawium Wiha Wisi Witai Withan Wiwar Wudi Wuduum Wupi Wurulm Wuthir Wuwur

[mocweepe]

i complain a lot in the mornings i think but its just cuz i dont have an arsenal of good things tht happened 2day 2 balance out th bad yet.

[thebrakespearevoyage-blog]

I'm looking for any comments on a draft first chapter...

The Book of Malcolm.

 

(A Tale of The Great Continent of Old Atlantis)

By

Simon Bucher-Jones

PROLOGUE

If you believe there are parallel Earths, strung in a never-ending loop of probability like shimmering pearls – and many people do, even some physicists, and you can’t stop them – you’ll know that the many Earths are divided by tiny, tiny, differences.

These start at the level of probability packets inside atoms, but eventually these add up and start being noticeable. You (and everyone else) actually live as an entity spread across a billion or so nigh identical universes – this is why you can never find your car keys.

Eventually things start really differing: thus, on this earth fridges are (mostly) white (for ‘cleanliness’), and the milk goes in the door, whereas on that the fridges are (mostly) blue (for the frost-goddess Zamzung) the milk is stored in a special spigot, comes from yaks, and the fridges are powered by treadmills[1].

There are worlds where things we think of as fantasy really took place, fantasy being no more improbable than most history, and a lot more probable than most modern politics.

There are worlds like ours where Atlantis may be just a myth, or a memory of the Minoans. There are worlds where it was real. 

There are worlds where it may not sink: where the issue has yet to be decided.  This particular world here – this blue and green bauble on the Great Chain of Possible Earths - is one of them.  You know when you saw the film Titanic, the people in it weren’t worried by your knowing about its fate?  Well, most of the population of this Atlantis aren’t even looking out for Icebergs, not yet anyway.

This story is a tale of the Great Continent of Old Atlantis, 78 noticeable difference worlds to the ectward side of ours: any similarity between them and us is entirely due to the intractable workings of human nature.

Chapter One

Over three hundred years later a scribe would[2] write…

THE BOOK OF MALCOLM.

We know of our own knowledge, and of that which was revealed to us, and from the accounts of those who saw and heard these things that Malcolm was just fifteen[3] the year The Last New God appeared and the prophesies of Lan began once again to come true in Atlantis.  

Malcolm (Praise be to his name!) was a lowly shrine-tender in Bel-Thanor, the City of Bells, on this even the Ungodly Books of Patric, and Philiza agree. Accounts of his childhood exploits before this date, such as the Heathen tell, are not to the purpose of the those of the Way of Malcolm. Set such aside, my brethren.

We do not teach that he could understand the languages of birds and beasts, nor can it be considered historical that his birth was attended by omens. Such things are not impossible, but we do not know them to be true and it is not required of the Faithful that we should believe them. That he understood the languages of all the peoples of the world, is attested unto us. Let it be enough.

Deal with those who believe in such in the best ways, however, for they may still be brought to the truth. Refute most strongly though the claims of the heretic Talvanorists, that Malcolm was nothing more than an illiterate, a freeloader upon the charity of the good, abandoned by his parents. Let Talvanor’s dying recantation of his words remind us of the importance of revealed truth.

The Book of Malcolm

Letter to the Lemurians XII 1-4

(Orthodox Revised Edition, approx. 323 After Malcolm (AM.))

At the time of course, when Malcolm was a lad, things weren’t quite so…certain...

At the southern end of the Great Continent of Atlantis, around the wide mouth of the river Chan, in the last days of a boiling hot summer, the Festival of Godfall was taking place in Bel-Thanor, the City of Bells.  The noise was considerable and the smell was deliciously indescribable, compounding as it did the cookery of a hundred lands, and nine schools of the culinary arts.[4]  Atlantis called the peoples of the world to its shores to bear tribute, and to bring their cuisine.    

The end of Godfall announcing the beginning of Autumn – would come in due time, just as it had succeeded in the calendar page-turning sense Fool’s Eve, and High and Low Harvest, which in turn followed the Feast of the Princes, which in turn followed Lan’s Fast, and Year’s Turn.  Everything was bustling and splendid, and in its proper place. Storekeepers and merchants were already hard at work on the banners proclaiming that it was a mere 106 shopping days to next Year’s Turn.  The shops were full despite everything being more expensive owing to extra-holiday pay and the prospect that customers might be a wee bit merry and unlikely to notice that a bowl of Godsfall Pudding was suddenly three times as much.

The festival this year however was somewhat marred on its next to last day, in the normal enjoying things and getting merry sense, by the sudden and unlooked for eruption of religion into the religious festival.  Perhaps, ‘unlooked for’ isn’t quite right for the expectation of Godfall was the whole ‘true meaning’ of the annual feast days.  Yes, the celestial omens only indicated a ‘likely’ Godfall every forty-fourth year, and in fact there had only ever been three, but it was rank heresy to doubt that a God could come to Earth.  There was however, a large gap between not doubting there were, say, whales – and expecting to find one has swum up the river Chan and managed to fit into a gentleman’s bathing house on a specific Abzeusday.  The God manifested, it had to be said, in an absolutely traditional way, as a trembling of the earth itself, a blinding flash of light from the heavens – the rending of the wall of a standing temple – and a sizzling globe of blue-green energy roughly ten yars across – sitting in a shallow crater in the central temple courtyard of Atlantis’s most religious city[5]. 

Three times before a Deity had been called down from the Heavens to Signify the Possible Fulfilment of the Prophesies of Lan.  Each of these ‘New Gods’ had caused immense changes, brought Great Houses to ruin, exalted the lowly, changed for a time the laws of nature or the very meaning of good and evil, and shifted the positions of a number of mountains[6], but over thousands of years their power had waned at last, and Atlantis still stood as it always had, a shining jewel of a star shaped continent in the broad blue-green ocean.  It would remain to be seen what a New God would do about that.

If you had interviewed (a process which would have been regarded as impertinent as the science and horror of broadcast journalism had yet to arrive in Atlantis) the average Atlantean man or woman, or eunuch, or thingstress, in the street, that Zenoclesday, concerning Atlantis – you would have discovered a broad agreedly set of nationalistic opinions, whose certainty was only weakened only by their almost complete lack of truth.  

Atlantis, you would be told, was the terror of Lemuria and Hy-Brasil.  It was the supreme republic. It was – the Atlanteans would have insisted - the spiritual heart of the earth.  It somehow remained all these things even though it was presently; out-shipped numerically by Lemurian militant nationalism, tentatively allied with Hy-Brasil, again under the iron fist of an Emperor rather than an elected assembly, and without (until this morning) a recently potent God.  Politics and national pride demanded it.

With the Godfall an accomplished fact, the standing of Atlantis itself was again cast like dice upon the boards of fate.  For the fourth time since the martyrdom of the Prophet Lan by the Priests of Krakanoth, four thousand, four hundred and forty-four years before, the God-Power was in the ascendant, and the Priests would soon follow.  The Festival itself, celebrated every year since Lan ‘s martyr’s death[7] was nearly over but its consequences lay scintillating and boiling in Temple Square, an as yet unformed God, awaiting the attentions and devotions that would caress it, shape it, and ultimately bind it to a specific Church.  The last three Gods born: Amorphrodite, Zenocles, and Blanthro the Malicious (originally Blanthro the Good-Humoured) had come into existence in the same way; unlike the Gods who had existed since the dawn of the First Age of Humanity. The process was less random now in the Fifth Age, dependent not on the interaction between the fallen forces from the stars and small tribal groups, but on the actions of well-trained and professional God-crafters.

There was also the Great Hope, for while none of the other three New Gods had brought the Great Affirmation or the Great Calamity of the Prophecies in their respective Ages of Power - once again, all possible Power, or all potential Disaster was back on the religious and political agenda.  

The citizens of Bel-Thanor decided on the whole to buy more wine and keep drinking. 

This explains why as the bells kept ringing out, and apothecaries and minor magicians began the careful compounding of hangover cures, at least one of the three possible prophets of Lan (his status as yet unsuspected by any) was lying on his narrow bunk holding his head between his hands and groaning.

His name unsurprisingly for anyone knowledgeable in Atlantean history was Malcolm. 

Three times before the prophesied Holy Power had manifested in the many templed City, and been claimed by the best prepared of the Priesthoods.  Amorphrodite had brought new morals and new spice to the bedchambers of the mighty and the weak alike. Zenocles had brought the great age of the Quests of Self-Realisation, and no-one could contend that Blanthro, first hailed as the Kindly God of Humour before the horrifying nature of His Jests, had become apparent, had not wrought His own tremendous changes upon the face of the land.

Great Atlantis remained therefore a hodgepodge of competing religions and beliefs.  To the relief of the surrounding island nations, it had not become a Country As Of Gods Upon The Humbled Earth, granted Eternal Status as Top World Power Divinely Affirmed Forever, but on the other hand – to the relief of those Atlanteans who knew about the dark side of the prophesies - the three blessed generations concerned had passed without the necessity for the mass manufacturing of waders, the building of immense boats, or the wholesale alteration of everyone by magic or miracle from air to water breathing, all of which things might well have been needed if the negative aspects of the Prophesies of Lan came to pass.

By the summer of the year Four Thousand, Four Hundred and Forty Four after Lan, the scrolls of Lan, and the prophesies they had contained were mostly forgotten in detail, even among the magical classes, where they existed only in the censored form left by the Krakanoth ‘Quizition, but on that first autumn morning - in the city of Bel-Thanor, there were still five hundred and three boys or men called Malcolm, one hundred and seven called Lataric or Patric, and seventy-two girls or women called Philiza or Phliza.  According to the best contemporary scholarly reading of the Prophesy recorded in the Scrolls of Lan, Atlantis would stand inviolate – uninvaded, and supreme, until after Malcolm cut the golden knot, Patric found the key that worked both ways, and Philiza comforted (or possibly confronted) the beast that cries jewels, and if two of the tasks were accomplished in one generation, but not the third (reading in any order), Atlantis would last ‘Great Unto Eternity – Untouchable In Its Power, Supreme Ruler of The World’.   Admittedly, according to the second-best reading – because of the difficulties of rendering Lan’s antique dialect into more modern Atlantean - it was also possible that Malcolm would ‘scissor his beard’, Patric would ‘split the world egg’ and Philiza would ‘suckle the giraffe’ – but those interpretations were considered heretical, if not meaningless, despite the support of the Barber’s Guild and the Old Atlantean Giraffe Breeders Association.

It was no longer the case that every family had at least one child bearing one of the Three Names, for the detailed reason for the custom had been lost, over the intervening thousands of years – but tradition kept them from dropping below a residual popularity. They were good, solid – non-showy – Atlantean names.   They had none of the Bann Zimbian influence from the Southern Islands trade.  They did not affect the lisp of Court manners, the sibilant ‘zz’ for ‘s’ that still hinted of the ages of the pre-human Dragon Gods, who had first taught humanity their letters and speech, in the days before The First Godfall.

No one except the Weavers would have reacted at being introduced to a Malcolm, a Patric or a Philiza, and a Weaver would have hidden their recognition.  Like all those named in the Prophesies, the bearers of any of the three names were, without their knowledge – in most cases – under the gaze of a member of the Weavers Guild, if only to verify, and thereby discount, their continued uneventful and average existences, but the numbers concerned meant even the most worrisomely active could be given only the briefest scrutiny on the Looms of Fate on a normal day.  A hundred journeymen and women to watch ten thousand children across a continent could not aspire to see every moment, only a sufficiency.  The Weavers had magic, but they were not Gods – not yet.  The majority of the Weaver’s attention fell where all three names could be found, which tended to be where tribes met, in the four great cities or at the solstice circles.  They knew their Dread Duty handed down from the time of Lan Himself – in the hope of accomplishing the prophesies, the children must thrive, but should any two prophesies be accomplished, then the Order must decide whether to an attempt upon the third could be risked, or whether the children who bore the name of the third questor, be it Philiza, Patric, or Malcolm – must die, and quickly, and the name be taboo for a generation, lest Atlantis fall.

There was also, since the third ring of the Bells that morning, one New God, in Bel-Thanor which meant the Weavers were, perhaps, more alert than at any other time, in the last hundred and fifty years, and more focused upon that city.  Even so, if every Weaver gazing at the City of Bells had been polled, they would have been unlikely to pick Malcolm of Rime as being in any way significant among his five hundred and two namesakes.

Malcolm Rime – to put his name in the common mode - had a headache.  He had brought this on himself, partly by spending of the last of the small amount of money in the temple’s coffers for the month on temple wine (this was a financial headache), but mostly by drinking a lot of it (this was an immense hangover). The justness of the pain did nothing to dim the clamouring in his head.   He was a slight, young man of fifteen and a bit (still, many would say - if they paid him any mind - a boy), with fair hair, and watery eyes the colour of osprey’s eggs.  That wasn’t as attractive as he imagined it sounding: as osprey’s eggs were basically cream coloured with a hint of pink, and with brown blotches at one end.  He always looked as if he was looking at something else out of the corner of his eye, even when he was looking straight at you. If he’d had a threepenny bit for all the times that the late Bishop Marak had told him (gently but insistently) to look the world straight in the eye, he’d have had eleven shillings and threepence.  He had seen nine summers, and nine gruelling winters, before his family had ever come to the Temple City, and for the last six years he had toiled away at the Shrine, as the Bishop’s apprentice. Toiled was an overstatement.  Perhaps pottered away was more accurate, for the kindly and unassuming Bishop Marak had been happy to provide shelter for the boy in return for tasks that amounted to light dusting, providing a sounding board for the priest’s thoughts about theology, and the occasional game of chaz.  He had even been too good, or too vague a man to have demanded Malcolm’s virginity as many a dubious master might have of a serving lad.  Chaz and wine had seemed to meet his needs for any sensual excitement.  Malcolm had become quite good at the traditional Atlantean game played in a ceremonial bowl with a floating board in which as pieces of (each) side are ‘taken’ slightly heavier counter-weights are added until the board sinks. Victory consists of achieving a position of dominance that the other player concedes as being insurmountable without drowning all the pieces, whether red or grey.  Marak had been in charge of the first Temple the family had come across and Malcolm’s father had taken the view that, short of Godfall, one religion was as good as the next for a boy of an age to be apprenticed.  Malcolm’s mother Ellin, who had come from Sheeshay on the South coast, and had been raised as a follower of the Nine Singers, would in all probability have taken the fact that the first Temple they encountered was dedicated to them, as a sign that the Gods intended it as a suitable place for Malcolm’s working education, but for the fact that she had been dying and unable to give her surroundings any great attention.

One of Malcolm’s first duties at the shrine had been to help Marak prepare a shallow grave for his mother at the edge of the ceremonial pool of carp, in which grave, after the cleansing fire, her white bones were laid to rest.  There were so few worshipers of the Nine Singers now that, in the years since, Malcolm had helped officiate at only five other funerals, and there had never been any need to dig a second pond for the graves to circle.  The last official funeral had been that of Bishop Marak himself, a month after Fools’ Eve.

In the aftermath of that, of losing the man he regarded as a foster father, Malcolm had bought, and drunk, the wine.

It was now just after five bells, and the first brisk autumn dawn was beginning to break.  Since the fourth bell of the morning had rung an hour before (each peal progressively louder to wake up the citizens still drowsy from the weekends’ festivals), the Theological news was already being mulled over in the kaffee shops along Smallhope Street, and proclaimers were already leaving the city, heading towards Melabeck Moor to the north on horse-back.  It was considered an emergency, hence the horses. Proclaimers would traditionally walk, sometimes as far as ten thousand miles, the breadth of the Great Continent. An emergency was any event that might have effects that could overtake a walking man, if a news proclaimer tried to take word of an earthquake to somewhere where the houses had already fallen down, he’d be likely to be told it ‘just wasn’t news’, and be made to do some proper work like helping to pick things up.  Those heading for the fishing settlements of Atlantis’s southern coast walked.  Horses cost money, and the fishing villages weren’t important, even though the news itself was.  A Tenth[8]God had come to Bel-Thanor of the Temples – a fine healthy manifestation. Now that the raw power of the event was over – the lightning and the rolling auroras passed - it was time for the prayers and the incense to rise and the white robes to be laundered and the chasubles to be decked with ophries.  Mitres were being polished, and by some of the more militant cults – sharpened.   Within a week, a fortnight at the most, one of the High Religions of Bel-Thanor would have persuaded the Raw Power to take up residence in its sanctum, and the blessings and the cornucopia would begin anew.  The power, its God name and attributes known, would rise in its abundance.

For the ones failing to entice or entrap the nascent Deity, in all its ripe promise – there would be at best a gradual shedding of worshippers and a thin, cruel, period of doubt and repentance, until the joyous news of a merger with the Ascendancy, or at worst a forced acquisition and a dissolution. After the last three Godfalls, who spoke now of Xangrim of the Five Open Hands, or the Sisterhood of Melissandre?  Only historians and professors of comparative religion, (and the black robed Weavers) not any one toiling at the God-face of the Living Word.  Life was too short to worry about Defunct Gods who would invariably eventually resurface as demons, stories-to-frighten-children, or in the unluckiest cases, Travelling Lecturers about The Good Old Days.  There was a living Deity in town!

It was not a time for anyone of a religious vocation to be shirking.  Gods were, obviously all-knowing, and even the smallest mis-vocalisation of a psalm, or student grumbling at an ancient preceptor might tip the balance.  From the greatest to the tiniest[9] of the seventeen surviving competitive religions of the Great Continent, rose a cry compounded of religious fervour, fearful self-doubt, and a strong conviction that they’d be damned if their congregation would blink first.  It may be wondered how an – up to now - Nine God pantheon mustered seventeen religions. The answer is simple, eight of the seventeen were heresies, but no-one could quite agree which.  The Sect of the Chanson of the Nine Singers for instance revered all Nine Gods as elements of one Sacred Song, which was the Universe. The Red Priests of Krakanoth, however, maintained that Their God was a God of Silent Stoicism and Does Not Sing.  In an earlier age when the Nine Singers had more adherents, a brief accord was reached between the two religions when the Singers offered the suggestion that Krakanoth Might Be On The Drums, but this was now largely forgotten, as no one cared about the Nine Singers any more either to worship them or to condemn them as heresy.

The likely eventual effect on his job of the new Deity, was a contributory factor in driving Malcolm to the bottle.  He hadn’t needed to be told the news.  The innermost shrine in the Nine’s Temple, while tiny, had burned with the same supernal fire as all the others at the instant of Godfall, blue, soundless, and – to be honest – garishly ghastly, in its luminous insistence that something important was taking place.  In that grim blue-grey light of not-day, getting drunker had seemed quite a sensible response.   For Malcolm Rime, half-monk of the Chanson of the Nine Singers, the seventeenth and smallest sect, Godfall was an unwanted complication, and an end to what had been a comfortable if sparsely rewarded billet.  So far as he knew, the sum total of the Clergy of the Nine Singers left in the city of Bel-Thanor was same as its total number of priests and priestesses in the wide world of the Atlantic Continent, and the same as the number of people sharing his bed: to whit one – that is to say him.  The endowment that supported the order, left in other days by richer patrons and patronesses had dwindled to a point that would have been barely enough to maintain a Temple with a small congregation, but considered as a stipend for an individual who didn’t actually care if the Temple fell down or not, it was, while not lavish, adequate.  It paid for his meals. It had bought the wine, it even allowed for a tiny amount of frivolous spending money a month.   And if the meals had been herring and black bread, and the wine, meagre east-shore grape, he had no superiors to quibble about his performance and no inferiors to have to impress or order about.   Bishop Marak’s death (in his bed one night, peacefully, of simple old age) – Nine Singers elevate his soul - had left Malcolm without anyone to grant him the status of a full-monk, or acknowledge that at fifteen years and six months he was an adult by Atlantean law.  So, on the plus side his vows were half-taken, and he had enough to eat and a roof over his head, but on the negative, he disliked herrings (the cheapest foodstuff he could acquire – coming as it did, at minimal cost, from the few sea-coast villages where the Nine were still grudgingly acknowledged as worth offering to) and there was next to no chance that the Nine would survive the Glorious Outpouring of a new Golden Age.  He would soon need to start all over again in a different regime of worship, or, while he was disinclined to the thought, have to seek some form of actual physical labour.

The religious crisis didn’t sort itself out in a week though, or a fortnight – after a month the great glistening mass of the God was still fizzing and glowing white and blue in the city square, surrounded by Temples, Churches and Chapels with open doors.  Like a donkey between two equally enticing piles of hay – the God seemed likely to expire before it could decide where the sanctity was most concentrated.  The initial excitement was getting sour, and the Priests were jittery and ill at ease. A God needed a Temple, everyone knew that, although no-one liked to talk about why.

There were watchers posted now at the high minarets and on the steeples and towers. Watchers who kept vigil by day and night, with cross-bows with ancient, enchanted, meteoric iron bolts for ammunition. Malcolm knew the secret that Bishop Marak had confided to him in his last illness. Gods needed churches like hermit

Crabs needed shells, and for the same reason. 

Malcolm was sitting by his mother’s grave, and trying to wash the taste of breakfast (more herring, pickled) down with a cup of Kaffee (all the way from Hy-Brasil, and not an indulgence for every day, or even every week.) when the morning’s update of God related news reached him.  He was good friends with Patric, the news-reader who shouted his cheery – and occasionally not so cheery – news out with the same rising inflection whether it was good or bad, and if he’d had any herring to spare, he’d happily have shared some with the lad.  Malcolm called Patric ‘the lad’ in his head because although they were pretty much of an age, Patric was shorter with darker curly hair, and skin, and having lived all his life in and around Bell City, was also hardly the travelled man that Malcolm liked to imagine himself.  But Malcolm kept that name and opinion firmly in his own head, because Patric despite his sunny temper had iron capped boots, and had been known to break a man’s ankle with one kick – news proclamation, and its gathering being at times a hack-shin business.

‘Someone’s smeared green paint, over the portico of the Temple of Hestra.’ Patric said, conversationally, which for him, was loud enough to scare a heron away from the carp, even from his position at the little temple’s gate. ‘The Hierophant has ten novices on scaffolding, scrubbing at it, and she’s sent a strongly worded letter to the Ecumenical Guard, demanding that Hestra’s fane be protected from vandals.’

‘Green paint?’ Malcolm said, vaguely scuffing his sandals in the dirt.  Patric looked at them hard, and noted the tiny flecks of green where a careless or enthusiastic painter might have dribbled the leavings from their brush, particularly if working in the dark.

‘This time, yes Green. Of course, it was red when someone defaced the Three-fold statue of Amorphrodite.  You’d been scrubbing your hands hard that day, with Lye soap I remember.’  Patric was considerably more worried by this older defilement than last nights. Amorphrodite the three Faced Goddess of Love was beneficial enough in her first two aspects of ‘The Initiatior of Congress’ or ‘The Exemplifier of The Grace of Matrimony’, but all quailed at her third form ‘The Dreadful Nullity to Be Fled from Lest Demons Smite Thee’.  Although the scoff-graces sometimes mocked her as ‘Slag, Marry, A Void’, they were careful not to do so near her temple where the external intimate organs of some such taunters were still feeding sea-gulls on the black-iron spikes of Mansplainer’s Gate.

‘Really?’ 

‘Yes, really!  Honestly Malcolm, what the Bells do you think you’re doing? If someone catches you; well it’s a serious thing.  Not in normal times, you pay a fine or take a whipping. But there’s an unclaimed God in the City if you hadn’t heard, and if anyone finds you scuppering their chances of snaffling it, they’ll want your hide. Probably with an apology on it written in your blood with a pen made from your bones filled with ink from your eyeballs.  If Bishop Marak had lived to give you the octopus-inked eyeballs of a full monk.’

‘Well, I’m sorry he died – but I’m not sorry he didn’t have to stick a hollow needle in my eyeballs and blow ink through it.’

‘Might have improved you.’

A friendly scuffle developed, during which both young men – still boys at heart - partly fell into the carp pool.

After honour was satisfied, Malcolm returned to the subject.  ‘If it wasn’t these times, Hestra wouldn’t be paying me to deface Amorphrodite, and Krakanoth wouldn’t pay me to paint Hestra, and Amorphrodite wouldn’t stump up to break the stained glass in Hestra’s windows. I know it’s shoddy and self-serving, but this way they all stay free of primary sin and keep under the bat’s eye view for sanctity. Before the God chooses, I need enough money set aside to seek a new life. I’m tired of the Bells and the Gongs, and the shines and the singers, and besides...

‘Besides, you know Philiza may be leaving, and you’re going to traipse along after her without ever actually telling her how you feel?’

‘Possibly. High quality traipsing costs money, you know.’  Malcolm had not yet convinced himself either way.  Philiza barely knew he existed, and while he could withdraw the remainder the Temple’s funds, to start anew – there being literally no one to stop him – he had not yet managed to firmly decide that he’d be right to do so.

Looked on one way it was stealing.  Looked on another, it wasn’t harming a living soul.  Vagueness and indecision had always been the main unique selling point of the Nine Singer’s Faith, and Malcolm’s religious education had in that respect not helped his natural diffidence at all! 

He shifted on his stone seat, and sighed. He wished sometimes he was more like Patric.  The news-crier – short muscular, curly-haired, dark of skin, grey-of-eye, gifted with the gab – was already more or less married, although to be sure, Malcolm wasn’t quite clear whether the eventual wedding would be with Sharlon the barmaid at the Scarlet Heron on Leminkan Street, or Martha who occasionally came into the city driving her ducks to market, or both. It could well be both, two of the present religions supported polyamory, (Amorphrodite’s priestesses considering it a positive virtue, and the Church of Hestria regarding it as very much up to the conscience of the individual Hestrian.)  Whichever it was though Sharlon, or Martha or both, Patric certainly wasn’t painfully shy in the vicinity of women of any kind, and the ease with which he chatted to Philiza, when he and Malcolm had met her, suggested that he might even have actually kissed a girl. He’d not been struck into moons-eyes silence by Philiza’s raven locks, nicely up-turned nose, large brown eyes, and the glowing magician’s power-sign hovering over her head, casting its violet light down onto her dark velvet gown.

Malcolm had been.  The magicians were intimidating as a class, and their quarter of the city was both fascinating and mysteriously creepy. There were various kinds of magic workers in Bel-Thanor, and he didn’t feel he had them all sorted out in his mind even after nine years of gawping.  He’d worked out since that the sigil’s general shape had marked Philiza as an Artist Magician, but Malcolm didn’t know whether she was a musician, a painter, or a wordsmith. He had deducted since, from his memory of her slim unmarked hands that she was neither an etcher nor a sculptor, and the smithy arts were mainly mastered by men – for reasons of tradition or strength - but he could see nothing that would settle the matter beyond that. Some Artist Magicians carried a symbolic pencil or a brush behind one ear, or wore a brooch in silver of a tiny easel, open book, or a theatre mask, but she hadn’t.  At least not where he’d been looking.

The Art-Magicians were the magician class the main religions generally tolerated in the Fifth Age – unlike those driven into exile centuries before - but even they were now packing up shops and houses that had stood for two or three generations and preparing to move away. Once a Church inherited the Fresh God-power, there would be no need for magicians in this corner of the world for several hundred years, maybe for an age. When all the power and truth was once again focused in one testament, who would need the wordsmiths?  When the temple burned with glory and God-fire, who would need a painter?  The images of the God would paint themselves in men’s minds, and woman’s hearts.

When magicians were not needed, the pogroms would not be long delayed.  Things that did not serve the Churches or the Nobility, could not be allowed to exist in the possession of power.  Everyone knew that.  There were surprisingly few people left whose ancestors had not grasped that fact quickly enough, over the long history of the Imperial Continent.

Malcolm and Patric had been going through the Magicians’ quarter, a month before the Godfall, when Malcolm had first met Philiza.  Malcolm had been on his way to see his father, an errand he’d been putting off, and Patric had been happy to come along, breezy as ever, one eye out for news to add to his rounds, one eye – engagement or not, on the pretty ladies and the well turned-out men.  Keeping a weather eye on potential rivals, Malcolm supposed.

A magician – a painter – one who worked the science of turning men’s eyes this way or that, and could draw a crowd to stare at an image of a cat sketched on a wall for far longer than might seem reasonable[10], had once told him that men spent almost as long staring at men’s groins and those of animals, as they did at the eyes or other attractive characteristics of women.  Malcolm was absolutely certain that could not be true. There were definitely far more attractive women in the city than there were lovely goats, and given that he himself was adequately handsome, by local standards, the men were no great shakes either.  He assumed the painter’s remarks had been a form of spell: specifically a ‘saying’ that could not be tested in any way but which by being uttered made the utterer seem more intelligent and knowing.

He’d told Patric though, who’d laughed.

‘Paint-magics a load of old shit-splatters.’

Which of course had been just what you wanted your best friend to be saying when a gorgeous young female magician, bumps into you.  Oh yes, lets insult her colleagues and be vulgar. Thank you Patric, whom I do not know.

Malcolm had felt himself blush, and known instantly that any attempt to say anything sensible would result in a stuttering mass of old nonsense.   He found himself staring – however – into a pair of eyes and mysterious and violet as the flashing emblem above her head.

[1] But the yoghurt is excellent.

[2] Assuming the prophecies are correct, this can’t currently be guaranteed.

[3] Heretics say he was fifteen and six months, but we know what happens to heretics who don’t celebrate Malcolm’s Birth and Godfall at the same time in the year. So, take heed.  Footnote to the Orthodox Revised Edition, Saint Esandor of Lemuria 323 AM.

[4] Including the Death Cooks of Mu-Han who regard the searingly lethal bloat-venom of the Snapping Oyster as ‘bland’.

[5] Next to the horrible domain of the Seven Necromancers sometimes called Bel-Shanak-Var, or the City of The Blood-Drenched Ones, of which more later if we really have to.

[6] Including Mount What-The-Hell-Is-That-Doing-Here?

[7] In his martyrdom, the Prophet Lan had been tied to a rack, and his joints burst asunder by the tightening of drying cords, but He had refused to worshipped the Demon Krakanoth, and He had not betrayed his followers to Krakanoth’s quisitors.  After the passage of over four thousand years of gradual interpretation, re-interpretation, and disagreement, both Lan and Krakanoth were considered Gods, in the same pantheon, by Orthodox Atlantean believers and it could only be assumed that dinner parties among the deities involved now required carefully planning not to seat them next to each other. 

[8] Tenth in the total Panthenon, Fourth of the New – post Lanic Gods. 

[9] Almost, Malcolm had a headache.

[10] While this might not seem a very useful magic, painter-mages made a reasonable living drawing cats next to such slogans as GET YOUR FRUIT AND VEG HERE!  THE CAT KNOWS IT’S FRESH!  MEOW!

[crossiantgay]

So I got really inspired right when I woke up, so low and behold, this happened.

Royalty AU

Ships: logince

Warnings: implied sex, (nothing graphic, very brief mention) cuts and wounds mentioned (again, nothing graphic) virgil swears once, almost death (tell me if there' anything else)

(------)

Roman put on his grey pants. 

“And there’s another month of safety for my kingdom” He looked at Logan, who was laying on the bed. Logan stood up and nodded, also putting on his pants. “Indeed, my prince” He couldn’t help but smirk at how the prince stopped halfway through fixing his hair in the mirror and blushed. 

“I a-am a king, thank you” Logan started walking towards him. 

“Mm, some king that needs to solicit the safety of his kingdom each month.” Roman crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. Logan stepped towards the king, so they were only inches apart. He tilted Roman’s chin up with a finger so he was looking Logan in the eyes. Logan smirked and admired how flushed the king’s cheeks were. 

“Bratty bottom.” He leaned in closer and the king pushed him away. 

“Hey, you know our rule, no kissing.” He said sternly. Logan stepped back and nodded, putting his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Of course.” 

Roman sighed and handed Logan his sword. Logan looked the king coldly in the eye, drawing a shallow gash across his chest. This was his least favorite part of their interaction, to be honest. Everything about it felt wrong. Was it really necessary to harm his lo-King Roman just so it looked like they got into a fight? Roman turned slightly and Logan drew a few cuts on his arms. Nothing deep enough to cause harm, just enough to look impressive. Roman winced as Logan drew another one from his shoulder blade. Logan wiped the tip of the sword on the bedsheets and handed Roman the sword. Roman slid on his shirt, grimacing as blood soaked through the shirt, staining it. 

“Well, I best be going. Same time as always?” He put on his sash and slid his sword in his sheath. Logan nodded. 

“Of course. Your presence was pleasant, as always.” Logan winked and Roman chuckled. 

“You too” He slipped out the dark oak door and it shut with a resounding thud. 

(-----) 

Logan tapped his foot on the ground, impatiently. He kept glancing from the clock to the door. Roman was more than 3 hours late, an odd thing for Roman, who was never late. Logan sighed and slid his black cloak over his shoulders. He slipped a few potions into his satchel. 

“Well guess the prince’s kingdom isn’t going to be safe anymore.” He mumbled under his breath, as he quickly made his way down the stairs. He saddled his night-black horse and began to race towards the kingdom. 

(-----) 

He pulled on the reins as his horse skidded to a stop. There was not a person in the kingdom’s usually bustling streets, and all of the lights in the kingdom were out. He rushed over to a guard in front of the castle, the only person he could see. 

“What is the meaning of this?!” He exclaimed to the guard. 

“The king is in the medbay. He was stabbed by a citizen yesterday and is in critical condition. It is tradition that all the lights be turned off-” Logan cut him off as his expression paled. 

“He-he what?” The sorcerer looked the guard in the eyes and the guard nodded. “Until his final condition is known, all citizens are ordered to stay in their homes.” Logan shook his head and burst through the heavy oak doors and began racing through the castle, searching for the medbay. 

“HEY-” The guard yelled, but sighed as she realized she wouldn’t be able to catch the mysterious man. 

“Medbay, medbay….” Logan murmured to himself, reading the signs above the doors that told what room was which. 

“Grand hall-no, library-no… here! Medbay!” He burst through the doors and felt his knees buckle as he saw the king. He looked frail and pale. His usual glorious king seemed like he would break if he was hit by a gust of wind. All the tubes coming out of his arms and such weren’t helping. Logan kneeled by Roman’s bedside. 

“Hey, hey, Roman, it’s me,” He cupped Roman’s face with one hand. 

“...mom?” Roman asked weakly. 

“No, no, it’s me, Logan-” Logan felt himself breathing heavily as roman reached up his hand and held Logan's, bringing it down from his cheek. 

“Mom, I missed you.” Roman’s breathing became laboured. 

“No, no, roman, please-” Logan felt cold tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“I’ll be with you soon, mom.” Roman weakly smiled and Logan’s eyes widened.

“No, no, roman, no, please” Logan begged. “I’ll-I’ll never threaten your kingdom again, I-I’ll do anything you ask, please just stay with me. I-I can’t lose you, I can’t.” Logan started crying. 

“I love you, mom.” Roman smiled up at the man and Logan’s heart broke. 

“I love you too, Roman.” Roman’s hand went limp and Logan nearly screamed. 

“ROMAN-ROMAN please! Please stay with me!” A nurse walked over to them. He checked Roman’s pulse and nodded. 

“He’s not dead, he’s been slipping in and out of consciousness all day. You were lucky you got to talk to him.” Logan wiped his eyes and looked up to the nurse. 

“Is he going to d-” Logan couldn’t get the rest of it out. The nurse gave him an uneasy look. 

“We’re doing all we can.” Logan climbed into bed with Roman and held him, cuddling into Roman’s side and started crying. 

“Roman, please I love you so much and I can’t lose you” He said through choked sobs. “I don’t know why it took me this long to realize it, but I love you so much. I wish there was something I could do to make you-” Logan’s eyes went wide. He was a sorcerer, goddamnit. He was never good at healing spells, but he was more than an accomplished sorcerer. He was sure he could figure out a healing spell. He ran out of the doors of the castle quickly, mounting his horse and racing towards his castle. He raced up the stairs of his watchtower and began flipping through the pages. 

“Healing, healing healing, here!” He put his finger on a page. “Wound repair- perfect!” He read. He began reading off the ingredients, all of which he had. He gathered the ingredients he needed, reminding himself to get more thanor root.

(-----) 

He kneeled by the prince’s bed and flipped him over. The nurse let out a noise of protest and he shot her a glare. He started by mixing the ingredients together, then pouring them along the edge of the wound. He pressed a hand and almost winced at how cold roman’s back was. 

“Potion, work your magic

Fix his body and mind. 

Let this story not be tragic 

Restore what once was mine” 

He sighed and felt his own strength be drained slightly, as what happened when he performed a spell. He watched in awe as the skin around Roman’s wound began to knit itself back together, quite literally magically. His eyes flew wide as Roman began gasping for air and rolled over. 

“Wha-logan?” Logan smiled widely and kissed Roman. To his surprise, Roman wrapped his arms around Logan’s neck and kissed back. 

“What is this all about, specs?” 

“He thought you were dead and was crying. Then he did some voodoo stuff and your back is good now.” A grumpy nurse said flatly as he walked in. Roman laughed, a noise Logan didn’t realize he missed as much as he did. 

“Thanks for the 411, virge.” Who he assumed to be Virgil gave him a salute and began cleaning the medbay. 

“Really though?” He said, looking back at logan. “You-saved me?” Logan looked to the side, pushing his wavy black hair out of his face. “It’s not a big deal, reall-mph!” Roman cut him off with another kiss. Logan pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose as he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. 

“I am hereby in your debt, Logan” Roman did what he could of a bow in a hospital bed and Logan chuckled. 

“You broke your rule,” Logan pointed out. 

“Well you broke it first and to hell with rules, I almost died!” Logan smiled at Roman. “And if everything Virgil said was true, then I’m guessing a certain someone has caught feelings” He smirked and pointed at Logan. 

“Well I-um-”Logan sputtered. Roman laughed. “It’s ok, I love you too, Lo” Logan looked at Roman, shocked and Roman nodded. Roman offered out a hand.

“Who says to being more than enemies with benefits?” roman asked. 

“Enemies with benef- ROMAN HAVE YOU BEEN FUCKING OUR ENEMY?” Virgil called from the back

“Shh, Virge.” Roman cooed. 

“Whatever you say, your majesty.” Virgil said with a smirk. 

“I will accept your offer graciously, your majesty.” Logan said. 

“Hey, now you’re my majesty, technically.” Logan smiled before kissing Roman again. 

“Love you, my king.” Roman said and held his hand. 

“I love you too, my prince.” 

[arkan1126]

THANOR<3333333

Thanor (2011) - pencil and acrylic on paper

[vanillanaps]

So would Thanos and Thor be Ththucky??

Thanor? Thornos? Thar?? Thorn?? 😭

[swouse]

With the swouse's closure, i would like to announce that this blog will now be themed after the Thanor (Theo Manor). It will still be called swouse in Swimz' honor :]

[hjbender]

You've been bringing up the Thor/Thanos rarepair semi-regularly on asks about Frosttyrant; now you've got me curious... are there any fics you can recommend? 🤔 ...Are there even any fics/ficlets here on Tumblr or AO3?

I haven’t run across any Titanthunder (Thornos? Thanor?) material here on Tumblr, but I confess I didn’t conduct a deep search whenever I was looking, so I very well might have missed something. (And there might be new material since I last searched.)

As far as AO3, there was a grand total of like 6 Thanos/Thor fics the last time I checked. My memory is a bit dodgy, but as I recall, there was one in Chinese (a great noncon mpreg/forced breeding one; I used Google Translate to read it and it was pretty good, probably much better if a person were to translate it). Two were unfinished and never got to the actual pairing material, and another had it listed as a ship but there was no mention of it anywhere in the fic. That left a grand total of 2 fics and honestly I’ve forgotten about them and really need to hunt them up again. And again, maybe there’s been some new stories added since then.

Basically, anon, this ship is almost completely uncharted territory, and if we want to see Thor getting plowed by Thanos, we’re just gonna have to make it ourselves. Who’s game?

[444names]

french and tolkienesque forenames + all possible names generated through "put your initials here" elven name generator i found on pinterest

Addandanc Adlasal Admiriel Aerienna Aette Agdund Agoldor Alacherna Aladminsar Aladûna Algran Alion Aloïc Amaedanol Amalas Amand Amanhe Amartz Amauhúr Ambal Ambambar Ambaros Amdírisilm Amirien Amranhíril Amros Annedan Anole Anorn Anoît Ançoinrine Aradnar Aranoros Araphalion Araphar Ararohir Arath Arbel Arceorong Arienel Ariniond Arsarador Arthériend Arwind Aumenie Avianwen Balas Bamin Barmir Belrarlad Beluglórwë Belyë Bennatath Benwë Beredal Beredalas Beregalaen Beregoedh Berenanna Bereng Berené Bereor Bereren Beressë Berestor Bereth Berettel Beriel Berine Berohir Beron Beros Berris Berros Berum Berumbar Bolge Bomaumo Bomborn Bomich Bomir Bomuzand Borbern Boriel Boritë Bormir Borndanna Borohir Boros Borror Bortrieren Borwing Briel Brondine Caliel Carine Celegilri Celen Celenladla Celenna Celfaberen Celfar Celros Cenrosal Chadant Chaldber Chamadgune Chanting Charia Chermahtar Ciend Cilinriel Cilndiel Claan Clane Classar Colasar Colmard Cursardir Célimue Dacir Daladalmar Danang Dedanolwë Dethir Dundelcar Dunduramûl Dunlouis Dunron Dunúvi Durinwë Durolsaur Durégis Dáinnarla Elbelion Eldala Eldane Elebor Elebras Elego Elegolwë Elemena Elendurie Elerin Elinde Ellanna Elming Elring Elroien Elron Elucal Elwinberië Erebdir Eäraine Eäricolas Eärinimir Eärinmir Eärinros Eärmirwë Eärndiel Eäros Eärrien Eärrone Eärsariel Faberettel Fabludence Falaur Falian Falmanne Faradilis Farahir Faramahir Farandan Farar Farcil Fardil Farnan Faroie Faron Farth Farwin Faudrand Fauli Felucar Ferthal Finbereana Findirros Finduf Finie Finmirber Finrothos Florana Flore Floriele Florna Folfing Franto Frawë Frédérad Furorohien Fëana Fëancil Fëand Fëang Fëann Fëannarvé Fëanne Fëanorisar Fëant Fëanuereth Fílisil Gaberettel Gablas Galaen Galaereion Galamran Galas Galast Galcath Galirgung Galmir Gaviryong Gaétat Gerisil Gerront Ghânberene Giladir Gilbelm Gilimlaing Gilippe Gilmil Gilnanlas Gilranlas Gilrion Ginwë Glóind Glóinduis Gowen Granwin Grata Grion Halane Halas Hallestir Halroanhír Hanladsar Hanna Hanne Harand Helexan Helse Heredald Heron Huanros Huglan Hunwindaca Huolóin Huorlindil Huras Hurie Hurisil Huron Hursalas Hyavalaine Ibûna Idette Imron Ingundil Iryond Isephalin Isilin Istin Isting Istiush Jeana Jeanatar Jeancilmor Jeand Jeanisir Jeanna Jeannar Jesar Joëllemmax Karliamane Kevie Kilsaras Kúvan Ladurgue Ladwinsar Lebdir Lebnd Lebwend Ledane Legil Legolfarry Legon Legor Legorn Leieldoros Lemar Leorn Lerdilrion Lethéri Lexanur Lielriel Limont Lindalan Linron Liond Lipperen Lithor Lothel Lottel Ludredant Luglornd Luilm Lumel Léagalanc Lémelen Maelnd Magolen Mahagloé Mairoame Makassë Manieledal Manolie Manros Mansarazo Marana Marich Maronion Maróg Matar Maugdur Maulfwing Maurinean Maximond Mehtal Mendar Michelen Mickant Micor Mindril Mirmir Mogoth Mohir Morfinzog Morog Moron Mírdunin Míriond Nielegon Nolawen Nolia Nolwine Norine Noror Norothor Norros Nólianna Olfarmir Olgond Orlad Orohir Orowë Patrie Paurdane Peroddal Phalaego Phale Phelen Prieclas Raden Rancal Ranáind Rettonna Ropharah Réaladnd Régilwen Rémilisirn Ríman Sadorna Sambar Saranoros Saraph Sarmicel Shalambar Shambas Sildurohe Siline Silromin Silwensar Silwinros Simroedal Smagoaniel Smanmine Sméline Sylan Thalaum Thanor Thorfinwë Théodil Turada Turan Turaptite Turas Turdilina Turgorob Turleeda Turumavra Ugondancar Ulfin Vaielego Valador Valair Valamrorn Valar Valdal Valiond Vallen Valmor Valndil Valouil Valron Varór Vatar Vatte Walaud Yatrinwë Yavorostia Yvelegimir Yvoron Zilbarath Zimbarómi Zimir Élimë Éling Élion Émenzo Éodil Éodir Éodird Érôme Étarie