Thor Love Quotes

One of these days, I would love to exit a world without being pursued by an angry mob.

Here is your flaw, Shaitan, Lord of the Dark, Lord of Envy, Lord of Nothing, here is why you fail. It was not about me. It’s never been about me.” It was about a woman, torn and beaten down, cast from her throne and made a puppet. A woman who had crawled when she had to. That woman still fought. It was about a man that love repeatedly forsook. A man who found relevance in a world that others would have let pass them by. A man who remembered stories and who took fool boys under his wing when the smarter move would have been to keep on walking. That man still fought. It was about a woman with a secret, a hope for the future. A woman who had hunted the truth before others could. A woman who had given her live, then had it returned. That woman still fought. It was about a man whose family was taken from him, but who stood tall in his sorrow and protected those he could. It was about a woman who refused to believe that she could not help, could not heal those who had been harmed. It was about a hero who insisted with every breath that he was anything but a hero. It was about a woman who would not bend her back while she was beaten, and who shown with a light for all who watched, including Rand. It was about them all. ~Rand al Thor

Because: Love Never Dies, What is Within is More Important than What is Without, The Best is Not Always the Most Obvious and Once You've Loved Truly, Thor, then You Know the Way

Great. There was no scenario in this whole damn thing where Jack didn't come off looking as awesome as the love child of Thor and Optimus Prime.

I LOVE IT when gods offer to pay for a dinner that’s already free. Almost as much as I love assault squads that show up after the assault.

We are alike in many ways, you and I. There is darkness in us. Darkness, pain, death. They radiate from us. If ever you love a woman, Rand, leave her and let her find another. It will be the best gift you can give her.

Lord Th– I mean, Thor,’ said Sam, ‘Won’t you come with us? This is an important battle – the fire lord Surt, Fenris Wolf. Surely that’s worthy of your attention.’ Thor’s right eye twitched. ‘That’s a fine offer. Really. I’d love to, but I have another pressing appointment –’ ‘Game of Thrones,’ Marvin explained.

Otis clopped forward and sighed. "Well, if you need a volunteer to die, I suppose I can do it. I've always loved weddings-" Shut up, dummy!" Marvin said. "You're a goat!

Also guys, it would be awesome if you could upvote the information I've added letting everyone know that some of these quotes are fake and aren't real or cool things to spread around. :) Thanks Hiddlestoners!! ^_^

Nowhere is it written in stone that you must love in only one way, only one person, only one time. You haven't missed your shot at love, because love isn't just one thing.

I'm sorry. You went too far.' Lovely. What an epitaph.

Where is the graveyard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a time when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter today? And who of Huitzilopochtli? In one year - and it is no more than five hundred years ago - 50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried out with the sun. When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha and Wotan, he is now the peer of Richmond P. Hobson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler and Tom Sharkey. Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother Tezcatlipoca. Tezcatlipoca was almost as powerful; he consumed 25,000 virgins a year. Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quetzalcoatl is? Or Xiuhtecuhtli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Of Mictlan? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitl? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard-of Hell do they await their resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Of that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jackass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods, but today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them. But they have company in oblivion: the Hell of dead gods is as crowded as the Presbyterian Hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsullata, and Deva, and Bellisima, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshipped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose - all gods of the first class. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them - temples with stones as large as hay-wagons. The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests, bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake. Armies took to the field to defend them against infidels; villages were burned, women and children butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence. What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of: Resheph Anath Ashtoreth El Nergal Nebo Ninib Melek Ahijah Isis Ptah Anubis Baal Astarte Hadad Addu Shalem Dagon Sharaab Yau Amon-Re Osiris Sebek Molech? All there were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following: Bilé Ler Arianrhod Morrigu Govannon Gunfled Sokk-mimi Nemetona Dagda Robigus Pluto Ops Meditrina Vesta You may think I spoof. That I invent the names. I do not. Ask the rector to lend you any good treatise on comparative religion: You will find them all listed. They were gods of the highest standing and dignity-gods of civilized peoples-worshiped and believed in by millions. All were omnipotent, omniscient and immortal. And all are dead.

Because: Love Never Dies, What is Within is More Important than What is Without, The Best is Not Always the Most Obvious and Once You've Loved Truly, Thor, then You Know the Way.

Over all the millennia, only you have ever loved me, Thor. Only you have ever looked at me with affection in place of condescension. Why, then, am I killing you, and not the others? Because you stopped.

Happiness in life is all about three things—something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to.

I am no Christian. These days it does no good to confess that, for the bishops and abbots have too much influence and it is easier to pretend to a faith than to fight angry ideas. I was raised a Christian, but at ten years old, when I was taken into Ragnar’s family, I discovered the old Saxon gods who were also the gods of the Danes and of the Norsemen, and their worship has always made more sense to me than bowing down to a god who belongs to a country so far away that I have met no one who has ever been there. Thor and Odin walked our hills, slept in our valleys, loved our women and drank from our streams, and that makes them seem like neighbours. The other thing I like about our gods is that they are not obsessed with us. They have their own squabbles and love affairs and seem to ignore us much of the time, but the Christian god has nothing better to do than to make rules for us. He makes rules, more rules, prohibitions and commandments, and he needs hundreds of black-robed priests and monks to make sure we obey those laws. He strikes me as a very grumpy god, that one, even though his priests are forever claiming that he loves us. I have never been so stupid as to think that Thor or Odin or Hoder loved me, though I hope at times they have thought me worthy of them.

Christianity - and that is its greatest merit - has somewhat mitigated that brutal Germanic love of war, but it could not destroy it. Should that subduing talisman, the cross, be shattered, the frenzied madness of the ancient warriors, that insane Berserk rage of which Nordic bards have spoken and sung so often, will once more burst into flame. This talisman is fragile, and the day will come when it will collapse miserably. Then the ancient stony gods will rise from the forgotten debris and rub the dust of a thousand years from their eyes, and finally Thor with his giant hammer will jump up and smash the Gothic cathedrals. ... Do not smile at the visionary who anticipates the same revolution in the realm of the visible as has taken place in the spiritual. Thought precedes action as lightning precedes thunder. German thunder is of true Germanic character; it is not very nimble, but rumbles along ponderously. Yet, it will come and when you hear a crashing such as never before has been heard in the world's history, then you know that the German thunderbolt has fallen at last. At that uproar the eagles of the air will drop dead, and lions in the remotest deserts of Africa will hide in their royal dens. A play will be performed in Germany which will make the French Revolution look like an innocent idyll. (1834)

Being happy boils down to three things. Something to do. Someone to love. And something to look forward to.

Love never dies, what is within is more important than what is without, the best is not always the most obvious, and once you've loved truly, Thor, then you know the way.

Sometimes, no matter how hard we try for someone and hope that they will get better in time – they never do. Abusive relationships shouldn’t have a key to your chambers of heart. Hold your key and keep it close. Don’t end up getting addicted to such pain or human beings – for that matter. You might not be Thor but they can surely be Loki & hold you prisoner to their trickster nature.

But that was the thing about loss: Death could rip love from life, but those memories stayed behind, burning a hole through the heart.

According to Annabeth, our family, the Chases, had some sort of special appeal to the ancient gods. Maybe it was our winning personalities. Maybe it was our brand of shampoo. Annabeth’s mom, the Greek goddess Athena, had fallen in love with her dad, Frederick. My dad, Frey, had fallen in love with my mother, Natalie. If somebody came up to me tomorrow and told me—surprise!—the Aztec gods were alive and well in Houston and my second cousin was the granddaughter of Quetzalcoatl, I would totally believe them. Then I would run screaming off a cliff into Ginnungagap.

I LOVE IT when gods offer to pay for a dinner that’s already free. Almost as much as I love assault squads that show up after the assault. I never got the chance to complain about it, though.

For the love of Thor, I was missing him even when we were in the same room together. The force of the feelings, and the virtually all-consuming nature of them, made me want to hide under my desk until my brain and my heart and my vagina came to a consensu

I love you Hiccup, although my stiff lips will not let me make the kind words I hear other mothers speaking... I cannot change or regret the wandering Warrior I am. But by Thor's thunder, I can fight for you, with all my Warrior heart, and this is one thing that I truly excel at.

He went crazy over Greek mythology, which is where I got my name. They compromised on it, because my mom loved Shakespeare, and I ended up called Theseus Cassio. Theseus for the slayer of the Minotaur, and Cassio for Othello's doomed lieutenant. I think it sounds straight-up stupid. Theseus Cassio Lowood. Everyone just calls me Cas. I suppose I should be glad--my dad also loved Norse mythology, so I might have wound up being called Thor, which would have been basically unbearable.

He had the three ingredients to happiness right in the palm of his hand and he knew it—something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to.

Love Me Some Weasel Soup

I think I’m going to take it as a compliment,” he said as one of the corners of his lips bent up just the tiniest little bit. Smug Clark Kent look-alike. “Well, it’s not.” I reached for my mouse, clicking to open a random folder. “Thor or Captain America? That would have been a compliment. But you are not a Chris. Plus, no one cares about Superman anymore, Mr. Kent.

Nothing says ‘tough love’ like kicking your non-hetero-normative kid to the kerb so they can experience abuse, drugs, high suicide rates and constant physical danger. Thanks, Mom and Dad!

When it got to be time to design the week—a period of time, unlike the day, month, and year, with no intrinsic astronomical significance—it was assigned seven days, each named after one of the seven anomalous lights in the night sky. We can readily make out the remnants of this convention. In English, Saturday is Saturn’s day. Sunday and Mo[o]nday are clear enough. Tuesday through Friday are named after the gods of the Saxon and kindred Teutonic invaders of Celtic/Roman Britain: Wednesday, for example, is Odin’s (or Wodin’s) day, which would be more apparent if we pronounced it as it’s spelled, “Wedn’s Day”; Thursday is Thor’s day; Friday is the day of Freya, goddess of love. The last day of the week stayed Roman, the rest of it became German.

From all the books I read in this series, it is both the most nonsense and severe of them all, I sense a dark turn from now on. I love how David Tennant sings the songs We could be safe at hearth and home Around a fire with loved ones near Instead we brave the cold dark wave The salty kiss of a Hero's grave Looking for a land we saw... Once before... long ago... HO! We could take the easy way Stay at home with loved ones dear But here we are on rocking waves Sails spread out like dragons' wings... Lost out in a hurricane... Looking for a land we saw.. Once before... long ago.. HO! Glory comes not to the weak A treasure land shines out so strong We see it clear from far away O Great and Brave and Mighty Thor I hope that that was land I saw Once before... long ago.. HO!

He was the most enigmatic man she'd ever met. On the one hand he was a Thor-like sex warrior, perfectly at home slinking around the debaucherous outposts of his commercial empire, and on the other hand he was a man who craved his solitude and privacy and loved this rare and extra-ordinary setting. It was a heady combination, and it left Sophie wanting very much to know the roots of this man who existed between the two extremes.

Matt pointed at Fen, "Fen's a descendant of Loki, trickster and troublemaker. Laurie is, too." Laurie smiled at Baldwin. Then Matt gestured at the twins. "They're Frey and Freya. She was a goddess of love and beauty, he was weather and fertility. And I'm, uh, a descendant of Thor. I'll ... umm ... fight the Midgard Serpent." "Thor smash," Reyna interjected. "That's the Hulk, not Thor," Matt started to explain. "Whatever," Reyna muttered.

There is little to share, but we may discuss it when you have consumed the two hard-boiled eggs with which our new cook has favoured us. Their condition may not be unconnected with the copy of the Family Herald which I observed yesterday upon the hall-table. Even so trivial a matter as cooking an egg demands an attention which is conscious of the passage of time and incompatible with the love romance in that excellent period.

I lied,” she said again. “Because I loved you then, and I love you now, but I can’t keep loving you like this when it hurts more than it helps, when it means I have to break myself into pieces, hide myself away. Our love isn’t good for us, because we aren’t us when we’re together. I try to be the girl I think you want, and you love her. I love the boy who was his father’s son, only better. But you aren’t him, and I’m not her. Somehow we’ve tricked ourselves into thinking this is love.

In a solemn tone, like a priest chanting a mass, beating time in the air with a stiff finger, Slote quoted: " 'The German Revolution will not prove any milder or gentler because it was preceded by the Critique of Kant, by the Transcendental Idealism of Fichte.  These doctrines served to develop revolutionary forces  that only await their time to break forth.  Christianity subdued the brutal warrior passion of the Germans, but it could not quench it. When the Cross, that restraining talisman, falls to pieces, then  will break forth again the frantic Berserker rage.  The old stone gods will then arise from the forgotten ruins and wipe from their eyes the dust of centuries.  Thor with his giant hammer will arise again, and he will shatter the Gothic cathedrals.' " Slote made an awkward, weak gesture with a fist to represent a hammerblow, and went on: " 'Smile not at the dreamer who warns you against Kantians, Fichteans, and the other philosophers.  Smile not at the fantasy of one who foresees in the region of reality the same outburst of revolution that has taken place in the region of intellect.  The thought precedes the deed as the lightning the thunder.  German thunder is of true German character.  It is not very nimble but rumbles along somewhat slowly.  But come it will. And when you hear a crashing such as never before has been heard in the world's history, then know that at last the German thunderbolt has fallen.' "Heine - the Jew who composed the greatest German poetry, and who fell in love with German philosophy - Heine wrote that," Slote said in a quieter tone. "He wrote that a hundred and six years ago.

You don't wear jewelry, do you? Besides your wedding ring, I mean?' 'Now often. If is not that I disapprove. I simply don't take the time to bother with it. I've been given a few trinkets over the years, but rarely wear them.' Thora looked down at her hand, the plain thin wedding band, the unadorned wrist, and a memory struck her. She said, 'Frank gave me a gift once - a find gold bracelet with a blue enamel heart dangling from it. He said it was to remind me that I was more than his helpmeet and housekeeper, but also an attractive woman. I was sure I'd break the delicate chain, and the heart clacked against the desk whenever I wrote in the ledger. So I put it back in its box, and there it has remained ever since.' Nan said gently, 'We've all been given gifts, Thors, and ought not to hide them away. They remind us that we are blessed and loved. They give pleasure to those who see them - especially to the one who bestowed the gift in the first place.

Describe a cat for me,’ Morgo said. ‘Let it take shape in your mind. All your recollections and associations with cats.’ Thors Provoni thought about cats. It seemed a harmless thing to do as they waited out the six days until they reached Earth. ‘Opinionated’ Morgo said at last. ‘Me, you mean? On the subject?’ ‘No, I mean cats. And self-centred.’ Angrily, Provoni said, ‘A cat is loyal to its master. But shows it in a subtle way. That’s the whole point, a cat gives himself to no one, and this has been his way for millions of years, and then you manage to knock a chink in his armor, and he rubs against you and sits on your lap and purrs. So, because of his love for you, he breaks the inherent genetic behavior-pattern of two million years. What a victory that is.’ ‘Assuming the cat is sincere,’ Morgo said, ‘Rather than trying to cadge extra food.’ ‘You think a cat can be a hypocrite?’ Provoni asked. ‘I’ve never heard an insinuation of insincerity directed towards cats. Actually, much of the critisism comes from their brutal honesty; if they don’t like a person then shit, they’re of to someone else.’ ‘I think,’ Morgo said, ‘When we get to Terra I would like to have a dog.

On Becoming a Poet in the 1950s" There was love and there was trees. Either you could stay inside and probe your emotions or you could go outside and keenly observe nature. Describe the sheen on carapaces, the effect of breeze on grass. What's the fag doing now? Dad would say. Picking the nose of his heart? Wanking off on a daffodil? He's not homosexual, Mom would retort, using her apron as a potholder to remove the apple brown betty from the oven. He's sensitive. He cares. He wishes to impart values and standards to an indifferent world. Wow! said Dad, stomping off to the pantry for another scotch. Two poets in the family. Ain't I a lucky duck? As fate would have it, I became one of your tweedy English teachers, what Dad would call a daffodil-wanker, and Mom ended up doing needlepoint, seventy-two kneelers for St. Fred's before she expired of the heart broken on the afternoon that Dad roared off with the Hell's Angels. We heard a little from Big Sur. A beard. Tattoos. A girlfriend named Strawberry. A boyfriend named Thor. Bars and pot and coffeehouses, stuff like that. After years of quotation by younger poets, admiration but no real notice, Dad is making the anthologies now. Critics cite his primal rage, the way he nails Winnetka.

If we cannot at once rise to the sanctities of obedience and faith, let us at least resist our temptations; let us enter into the state of war, and wake Thor and Woden, courage and constancy, in our Saxon breasts. This is to be done in our smooth times by speaking the truth. Check this lying hospitality and lying affection. Live no longer to the expectation of these deceived and deceiving people with whom we converse. Say to them, O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. Be it known unto you that henceforward I obey no law less than the eternal law. I will have no covenants but proximities. I shall endeavour to nourish my parents, to support my family, to be the chaste husband of one wife, — but these relations I must fill after a new and unprecedented way. I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. I will so trust that what is deep is holy, that I will do strongly before the sun and moon whatever inly rejoices me, and the heart appoints. If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth.

In the end, it is not what you choose to do that changes your destiny. It is what you choose to love.

... I grieve the fact that there is so much hardness of the heart among people who ought to know what love of one's fellow man implies. But we must display patience and humility in the face of God." from Deep Sea

In previous life I was Thor. In the next one I’m a Decepticon.

King Edmund of East Anglia is now remembered as a saint, as one of those blessed souls who live forever in the shadow of God. Or so the priests tell me. In heaven, they say, the saints occupy a privileged place, living on the high platform of God’s great hall where they spend their time singing God’s praises. Forever. Just singing. Beocca always told me that it would be an ecstatic existence, but to me it seems very dull. The Danes reckon their dead warriors are carried to Valhalla, the corpse hall of Odin, where they spend their days fighting and their nights feasting and swiving, and I dare not tell the priests that this seems a far better way to endure the afterlife than singing to the sound of golden harps. I once asked a bishop whether there were any women in heaven. “Of course there are, my lord,” he answered, happy that I was taking an interest in doctrine. “Many of the most blessed saints are women.” “I mean women we can hump, bishop.” He said he would pray for me. Perhaps he did.” ― Bernard Cornwell, The Last Kingdom 42 likes Like “The bards sing of love, they celebrate slaughter, they extol kings and flatter queens, but were I a poet I would write in praise of friendship.” ― Bernard Cornwell, The Winter King tags: friendship 40 likes Like “The preachers tell us that pride is a great sin, but the preachers are wrong. Pride makes a man, it drives him, it is the shield wall around his reputation... Men die, they said, but reputation does not die.” ― Bernard Cornwell, The Last Kingdom tags: preachers, pride, reputation, shield-wall 39 likes Like “I am no Christian. These days it does no good to confess that, for the bishops and abbots have too much influence and it is easier to pretend to a faith than to fight angry ideas. I was raised a Christian, but at ten years old, when I was taken into Ragnar’s family, I discovered the old Saxon gods who were also the gods of the Danes and of the Norsemen, and their worship has always made more sense to me than bowing down to a god who belongs to a country so far away that I have met no one who has ever been there. Thor and Odin walked our hills, slept in our valleys, loved our women and drank from our streams, and that makes them seem like neighbours. The other thing I like about our gods is that they are not obsessed with us. They have their own squabbles and love affairs and seem to ignore us much of the time, but the Christian god has nothing better to do than to make rules for us. He makes rules, more rules, prohibitions and commandments, and he needs hundreds of black-robed priests and monks to make sure we obey those laws. He strikes me as a very grumpy god, that one, even though his priests are forever claiming that he loves us. I have never been so stupid as to think that Thor or Odin or Hoder loved me, though I hope at times they have thought me worthy of them.” ― Bernard Cornwell, Lords of the North

three rules for happiness. Something to do. Someone to love. And something to look forward to.

I threw on a pair of leggings - not my threadbare ones - and a Thor shirt. The shirt would remind both me and Logan that he was not actually the hottest guy in the world.

She's with Sif. And although she is my heart, she is only one warrior. I can not - I will not - lose others because my attention faltered. And she's with Sif. And she's a fine shield-maiden, fast and strong and deadly. Trained with Thor himself. To love a warrior was to understand mortality in a way Brunnhilde normally wouldn't.

Ladies and gentlemen, might I remind you that Hosea the prophet married a prostitute for the sake of a sermon illustration. You think maybe we Christians might stay married to illustrate the grace of God? You’re a bonehead and God loves you. Go and do likewise to your spouse.

and their worship has always made more sense to me than bowing down to a god who belongs to a country so far away that I have met no one who has ever been there. Thor and Odin walked our hills, slept in our valleys, loved our women and drank from our streams, and that makes them seem like neighbors. The other thing I like about our gods is that they are not obsessed with us. They have their own squabbles and love affairs and seem to ignore us much of the time, but the Christian god has nothing better to do than to make rules for us. He makes rules, more rules, prohibitions and commandments, and he needs hundreds of black-robed priests and monks to make sure we obey those laws. He strikes me as a very grumpy god, that one, even though his priests are forever claiming that he loves us. I have never been so stupid as to think that Thor or Odin or Hoder loved me, though I hope at times they have thought me worthy of them.

Christians understand (or should) that life is not bound up in whatever makes them happy; it’s whatever makes God happy. The irony is that when you concern yourself with what delights God, you find yourself happiest. The Christian understands that he’s made himself miserable by trying to make himself happy. He’s made himself miserable by following his own wisdom. That’s why he has changed his mind about “following his heart” and now follows God’s wisdom in God’s Word instead. And in doing so he has discovered happiness as the byproduct of obeying God. People who love God find their greatest joy in making him happy.

hell and we eliminate something vital to God’s character, namely that our God is a consuming fire (Hebrews 12:29), completely holy, infinitely pure and righteous (Hebrews 1:9), a God who will not let the guilty go unpunished (Exodus 34:7). Eliminating hell changes who God is. Removing hell doesn’t make God more loving. It makes him smaller, more like us. Thankfully, the gospel is about the good news that God is holy.

Harvath shrugged as his phone chimed. “That’s social media for you. There’s a reason the intelligence community loves it so much.

As far as he was concerned, he had the three necessary ingredients to happiness: something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to.

I landed on the roof of the hospital with a soft thud. The city was beautiful at night with all its lights on. Somewhere out there was Ryan, pacing the streets, hurt and angry, not understanding. I didn’t understand it, either. It was an abstract, somehow, a theory, this love. I loved everything. This city, my story, the Norns, Thor, Odin and the writer. I loved the einherjar, the battles, the books and my sisters. I loved it all to the point of my heart breaking. I loved it all for its beauty. So maybe I was capable of falling in love, after all. I was in love with the illusion. The stories intertwining underneath it all. In love with how it all came together to create an ongoing tale. In love with the fiction.

Even now, after all this time, I remember the heavy scent of smoke and mead in the air. I remember the glints from the hundreds of golden shields on the walls and the ceiling. I remember the look of pride in my father’s eyes looking across the einherjar. I remember the rush of voices when Thor came once in a while and walked through the hall, Mjolnir hanging from his belt and his wealth of red hair lighting up the gloom like another coal burner. And this is my story. I, who have lived across time and space. I, who have jumped worlds and turned back on my choices. I, who gave up one identity for another. I understand now why I chose as I did. It wasn’t a random act or even an unknowing one. I had it all figured out all along. I knew where I was going and I chose every step of the way. The most common mistake is asking: “Why? Why did this happen to me? Why is it this way? Why can’t it be otherwise?” The problem isn’t the why. The problem is that it is turned outwards. Instead, ask: Why did I choose this? The answer will always be: Because this is how I get my thrills. Always. It all comes down to how you want your story to be.

Thor would have accepted that love and life can be snatched away in the blink of an eye and that, if we’re fortunate enough to find love again and an opportunity to live again, we should take it.

It is all people seem to care about—single or taken, both words somehow a violence. But there is a space outside those words where Brindle and Fig reside, and it is part of what makes them so well suited for each other. They are not single, floating through life independently and alone. They are not taken, like a victim of some theft. Perhaps what they are is given, honestly and hopefully, to one another in equal partnership.

Rangers love war like some men love bad women.

It took two breaths for her vision to clear, and but one for her to realize the world was upside down, and someone—a man, judging by the thick calves before her—was standing very close to her. She was dripping wet and freezing cold. A shiver coursed through her, but the uncomfortableness was nothing compared with the pain in her head. Her blood seemed to be filling her entire face at a rapid pace. It whooshed in her ears. She tried to lift her head to see who stood in front of her, but it was useless. Her neck muscles refused to obey. The whooshing became a roar, and darkness began to eat at the corners of her vision. She struggled to form a call for help, but it was nearly impossible. Her tongue was in revolt, and sand seemed to line her throat. She swallowed and strangled out one word. “Help.” A grunt resounded above her, followed by a brown wooden bucket being set beside her head, and then a man appearing as he crouched. Well, not any man, but Thor MacLeod, her husband. He looked as unhappy to see her as she felt to see him. A grimace turned his lips down, his dark eyebrows almost touched in a V, and his eyes, well, his eyes had been transformed to a swirling, violent sea. Crimson smeared across his right cheek in an ominous path. “Hello, wife.” The last word rolled with distaste off his tongue. That was fine with her. She didn’t care to be wed to him either. “It seems wherever ye are trouble finds ye.” “And yet knowing this ye are so dimwitted as to seek me out,” she snapped as a wave of dizziness overcame her. She had to squeeze her eyes shut against it, while inhaling a breath as well as she could, given she was hanging upside down. And why was that? “Why am I upside down,” she demanded, cringing at the weakness of her tone. “One in yer position should nae have such a haughty tone,” the man shot back. She hated that he had a point. “What, pray tell, sort of tone would it please ye for me to take, my lord? If ye’ll tell me, I’ll do my best to adopt it,” she said, trying to sound genuinely like she cared, but she could hear herself, and she knew she’d failed miserably.

Lots of people were well-meaning, but they were lazy. They didn’t exert the basic duties of good citizenship. They believed anything and everything that flashed across their phone or computer screen. They believed that if they were in a group, or a feed, of like-minded people, all the information being pushed at them was true. They didn’t realize that the information spaces where you felt safest were where America’s enemies loved to seed their propaganda and disinformation.

Like the night mist twining itself about the hills and hollows of the land, he enfolded her then, his mouth softly fierce upon her lips, her breasts, her belly as he led her up a wending mountain path of the Northland, past fairy rings and elfin trees to a place where Thor's hammer, Mjöllnir, split the heavens asunder, and Rhowenna knew she soared higher than the gods in Asgard before floating gently back to earth, to drift like a swan upon a wild Northland mere

made Harvath want to suck-start his Glock. Lots of people were well-meaning, but they were lazy. They didn’t exert the basic duties of good citizenship. They believed anything and everything that flashed across their phone or computer screen. They believed that if they were in a group, or a feed, of like-minded people, all the information being pushed at them was true. They didn’t realize that the information spaces where you felt safest were where America’s enemies loved to seed their propaganda and disinformation. Harvath loved his fellow countrymen and women but loathed the ones who couldn’t be bothered to fact-check what they were reading and hearing. Being a responsible steward of the American republic meant doing the hard work of being truthfully informed.

In fact, one of the most renowned lasers in these types of practices is the Thor laser, and after designing lasers for corporations, Dr. Casalini built increasingly complex and effective models of the Thor for 904 Laser, his group practice in Orange County, California, which specializes in anti-aging treatments and pain management.

Have You or Someone You Love Ever Suffered from Lindworms?

The gender thing wasn't what surprised me. A huge percentage of the homeless teens I'd met had been assigned one gender at birth but identified as another, or they felt like the whole boy/girl binary didn't apply to them. They ended up on the streets because - shocker - their families didn't accept them. Nothing says "tough love" like kicking your non-heteronormative kid to the curb so they can experience abuse, drugs, high suicide rates, and constant physical danger. Thanks, Mom and Dad!

Because conspiracies, by their very nature, are unfalsifiable. That’s what makes them so dangerous and why the Russians love them so much. They’re experts at weaponizing them against the U.S. and derive a huge return on an incredibly small investment. It’s like injecting the population with an aggressive form of societal cancer. Once it’s in the body politic, all the Russians have to do is sit back and watch as our country eats away at itself and gets weaker and weaker.

But that’s what this was—love. Nothing else could poison her from the inside out. Nothing else, except maybe a glassful of magic

It sounded like a dream, one Ingrid couldn’t afford. Romantic love was altogether too much and not enough for Ingrid. She felt as though she might drown in the pursuit of enough love.

The long and short of it was, though Ingrid’s patience for romance was thin on the best of days, she knew her capacity for it was not limited by gender. She’d thought it didn’t matter. She was with Linden. There was no reason to ever acknowledge or indulge that part of herself. But now, as the realization of Gwendolyn Meyers’s identity washed over her, she knew how very neglected she’d left it. No matter who she was with or what gender they were, it was still part of her.

Loving him was a lucky accident.

It’s okay, you know.” Alex’s hand slid around her shoulder and squeezed gently. “To miss him, I mean...I think letting yourself miss him is good. It means even though it’s over, it wasn’t all bad. It means at least you got something out of it along the way.

Alex palmed her forearm lightly and gave her a questioning look. Are you all right? he seemed to ask. She remembered the way his gentle touch had grounded her so when she’d lost herself at the orphanage and how his hand in hers had made the President’s Ball more bearable. If he gave her coffee and brushed back her hair, would she recoil? The answer rocked her, but not like a violent sea, more like being pushed on a swing. No. It was something.

Linden.” Ingrid cut through his words, letting her fingers reach through the bars as far as they would go. “I’ll always want to see you.” She smiled sadly, knowing the words were true but in a different way than they might have been once before. He was not the warmth in her cheeks or the heavy rush in her chest, he was not an embrace to come home to or even a person she really knew, but he was Linden, and she didn’t think there would come a time when she didn’t feel just a little joy to see his face.

I had been a reader of THOR in college. I had read the Stan Lee and Jack Kirby stuff. I had loved it. I had been a Norse mythology fan since I was a kid and was thrilled to discover a comic that was kind of based on Norse mythology-there's not a one-to-one correspondence, but there's no reason there should be. I was delighted to find it, and I didn't care that it wasn't exactly the myth. For one thing, Thor didn't have red hair in the comics. I was fine with that. - Walter Simonson

Life is short. Love who you are. Love what you do. Make every day count.

According to Annabeth, our family, the Chases, had some sort of special appeal to the ancient gods. Maybe it was our winning personalities. Maybe it was our brand of shampoo. Annabeth’s mom, the Greek goddess Athena, had fallen in love with her dad, Frederick. My dad, Frey, had fallen in love

love,

U.S. Navy SEAL Jack Carr (ret.) was once again incredibly helpful with details for this book. He also continues to be one hell of a thriller author. If you haven’t checked out his books yet, do it. You’ll love his writing. Thank you, Jack.

Sometime in that wet darkness, Thor’s Day turned into Freya’s Day. Freya was Woden’s wife, the goddess of love, and for all of her day the rain continued to fall. A wind rose in the afternoon, a high wind that tore at Wintanceaster’s thatch and drove the rain in malevolent spite, and that same night King Alfred, who had ruled in Wessex for twenty-eight years and was in the fiftieth year of his life, died.

At the cross, we realize that God’s love and God’s wrath are not only compatible, but they embrace.

I’ve always like Medieval literature. As a young girl I read mythologies and Norse legends, that sort of thing. I loved Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. While I was studying at Middle Tennessee State University for doctoral program I came in contact with more ancient literature. I examined older literature more seriously which intrigued and fascinated me very much; I was drawn to it. For the book I used all my own translations of Beowulf from my doctorate. Culture is contained in language, if you study a language you’ll see bits of culture, because the words are different and you see into the lives of the people. The Anglo-Saxon language touched me very deeply. Some of it is the heroic. Some of it is the melancholy. But there is also honor. You uphold, you fight to the death. Even if you watch movies, like Marvel comic book movies, like Thor: you want the great ones to win. Its even better if they have a fault. But you want the heroic character to win.

Nope.” Halfborn chuckled. “One time in Uppsala, I met this lovely—” His story was cut short by the sound of horns echoing through the hall. At the thanes’ table, Helgi rose. Since this morning, he’d repaired his suit jacket and clipped his beard, but he was now wearing an oversize war helmet—probably to hide the damage Alex Fierro had done to his dead-buzzard hairdo. “Einherjar!” his voice boomed. “Tonight, only one fallen warrior has joined us, but I’m told the story of his death is quite impressive.” He scowled at Samirah al-Abbas as if to say, It had better be. “Rise, Alex Fierro, and dazzle us with your glorious deeds!