#griefful rancor

[marshmallow-biscuit-blog]

Womp womp

[my-little-cuppy]

that one au of the au

[zoropookie]

SWEET MELODY

☆ chapter eight — i don't care abt the homeless 🎂

You unlocked the key to your home after returning that night, presence in the air riddled with the absence of your brother.

The door creaked open, being greeted by the familiar scent of old books and a hint of maple in the air, meeting with the faint trace of the cinnamon scented candle you keep buying just because he did.

The silence was oppressing you, especially with how rough the reception was for you. You took slow steps through the corridor, your steps echoing slowly on the floorboards, creaking at every turn. Rancor poured into your eyes like a glass, the main room of the home left exactly how it was for years.

Every article of clothing on the floor, every knickknack and miscellaneous object wasn't moved. You hardly found the strength to go in there yourself, knowing that you wanted it to be a snapshot in time. The blanket you both snuggled into was laying there on the floor, in a halfhearted attempt beforehand to be folded neatly by your brother.

You sighed deeply after taking it in again, feeling your shoulders wrack in defeat, the tears pooling relentlessly. Enveloped in grief, you took a sharp breath in and shook your head, immediately heading towards your room to find the letter.

You panicked to find the letter again, going through every box and every single faded out picture that you could find. Nothing ever worked as well as it did with that letter, a flicker of warmth crashing on your body as anxiety made it's way to your lungs, forcing you to manually breathe.

"Where... where??" You murmured to yourself, almost in whimpers.

In haste, you pulled open drawers, scattered old postcards, flipped through dusty photo albums, taking in a lot of things that just made your heart ache more, but you couldn't stop looking for it. You needed that letter, the only thing you knew could momentarily connect to his thoughts.

Your breathing grew more labored once you trashed your entire floor with the past, each inhalation feeling like a struggle against you. Like there was 8 tons pressing down on your chest, the tears ruthlessly burning against the ducts of your eyes. "Where is it...?" You sobbed out, voice cracking with desperation.

You fell asleep that night, failing to soothe the raw edges of your pain. You were now left with both the painful night you've been through, and a lack of drive for your own profession. You couldn't say which one of those were benefitting you.

It was time for Mona to go herself, if your employees weren't going to bring it up.

She learned a long time ago that if anything was going to be done on her terms, she was going to have it do it herself. The bitter thought of your employees betraying you like this in terms of a business proposal is tragic to her.

She gazed whimsically at the cute setup that the bakery had been decorated with — fairy lights to wrap neatly around the hedge bush for the strays that were left on the floor after taking care of the surrounding foliage. Their soft glow accompanied with the first light of dawn.

Mona sat there in her car with newfound resolve, getting out after taking procedure to hide her face. She opened the doors to the bakery, the golden lights of the early morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long and wide shadows across every seating.

As she noticed two of the workers bustling behind the counter talking about something she had no knowledge about, one of them was arranging a tray of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. The other was decorating a cake.

One of them, with beaming golden eyes, looked up at Mona as he wiped his hands on his apron. "Can I help you?"

She immediately cleared her throat, offering a gentle smile as she candidly lowered the mask below her lips to hover forward. "If you could tell me where (Y/N) (L/N) is, that would be lovely."

At first, the two seemed ready to comply. Until the one with the lighter blue hair raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms to his chest skeptically. "What do you need them for?" He asked, his tone cautious.

Her smile didn't waver. "I have an oncoming appointment with them that hasn't yet been finalized. I figure I come here myself and make sure everything's taken care of. Oh," She looked in between the two, holding a hand out, "I'm sorry for not introducing myself. Mona."

Suddenly, the golden-eyed worker's eyes squinted as if he knew who she was. He was quiet, inspecting her with little intention on pressing her further. "Like from the girl group?"

After a confirming nod from her, he hummed and nodded himself slowly. "Get me an autograph from Xiangling, and I'll tell you government secrets too."

"Deal."

The other's eyes narrowed. "You're such a sellout, Gaming. They're... just prepping banana bread right now."

Gaming's expression softened up, and he nodded. It looked like there were almost hearts in his eyes, easily swayed by yet another temptress. "Sorry for the precaution, Miss Mona~ We'll get our boss right away."

As he left to go fetch you, the other smiled apologetically at Mona. "Sorry...we have to be careful now. Last time we went to go get them for a customer, they started throwing things in their face and shouting for a refund. I told that guy not to get the peanut brittle because of his peanut allergy."

"No worries." She nodded, a small chuckle coming from her lips. "I understand, you guys do great work it seems."

Moments later, you came out from the kitchen, curiosity striking you as you made eye contact with the soon to be client. "What's going on?" You asked softly, eyebrows furrowing. "Were the cupcakes too dense yesterday? I knew they were a little off, but I sold them anyway...I'm so sorry—"

"No!" Mona shot her hands up, "No, no. It's not that. I have some business to do with you. I wanted to come here to discuss it with you, since that's one of the only ways I can get ahold of you directly."

"Oh..." You perked up again, smiling. "Of course...follow me!"

previous ☆ masterlist ☆ next

THERE ARE not many things that can sway your interest ever since the "incident", but in spite of that, you pushed forward. you are now the owner of the biggest bakery chain in your city, consistently seeing couples and catering to them as such. you've been a big host at weddings, events for celebrities, and even a big support for your friends and family. you've even earned yourself a niche following as well by how sweet you are to everybody around you. but, even with your kindness, you don't have a particular spark that keeps you going anymore these days. that is until one of your employees starts suggesting you write love letters to customers who request your services. at first you thought it was a horrible idea that could easily turn into trouble, but that was until you were tasked with writing one to your own (very very famous) ex-boyfriend.

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@sketcheeee @st4r4ngel @xionri @scaradooche @lightyagamifan

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@franaby @vicslz @kamiboo @thegalaxyisunfolding @morgyyyyyyy

@feikyuu @tamikahoshiko @kissingkzuha @bbysatoruuu @rvoulte

@kinvasions @kukikoooo @adriannauodi @pumpkincitrus

[anghraine]

Oh, my best friend and I also talked about the unexpected glimpse of the Rancor keeper's grief in ROTJ. I was like, "even a monster can be loved by someone" and we're just ... oh.

Deliberate or not, it's very suitable for ROTJ!

[actual-bill-potts]

Finarfin shifted anxiously, smoothing down the front of his robes. He adjusted his sash. His braid had fallen over one shoulder and he hastily flicked it back, shifting from foot to foot.

Findaráto would emerge, any moment now, his firstborn son firstborn again. Where was he? His eyes strained for any hint of gold against the great dark gates of Mandos.

He and Eärwen had planned carefully every detail of this reunion. Well they had remembered the confusion that had attended the first Returnings of slain Teleri: how a joyous crowd had waited singing outside the gates, and how the newly-emerged Falathrim had flinched and drawn back from the noise, wept at the onslaught of body pressing near to new-formed body.  They had learned quickly to avoid large crowds, and keep the number of greeters to a quiet two or three.

Then there had been the confusion of the first euphoric rush upon the lifting of the Doom. The Great War over, loved ones coming home, and no decree from Finarfin could keep the Noldor who had waited for so long from gathering - until again Elf upon Elf flinched back from loud noises, from unexpected movements, from touch and from crowds. Then they had listened, and now only one or two at a time came to greet their child or parent, spouse or sibling.

When they had received the news, Finarfin and Eärwen had wrangled without rancor over every detail of this reunion. Should both go, or just one? Finarfin had wanted the former, afraid of giving his son offense; but Eärwen grimly recalled how many of those held by Gorthaur the Cruel flinched at first at familiar faces.

"You should go," she had said wearily, "for you departed from him in grief only, and I in deadly anger. I do not want to see my son afraid of me."

"Surely -" Finarfin had begun to protest. Then he stopped. He too had heard the stories from the prisoners they had rescued from Angband: prisoner upon prisoner, from tunnels that seemed to go on forever. He remembered how so many had fallen into despair at the sight of so many Elves, tall and shining: how many former thralls had cried out and begged for mercy at the touch of a friendly hand.

"Very well," he said; and then, tentatively: "are you still angry with him?"

Eärwen smiled at him, tired but there in all her silver glory. "I cannot be. This is a new Age, and one of my children is coming home. I have been angry for so long. I am weary of it."

Then there was the question of clothing. Should Finarfin wear his crown? Should he wear the style that had been the fashion in Findaráto’s youth, and which was now hopelessly out of date? Should they have new clothes made for Findaráto, or bring the old? Would he want to choose them himself? Would he be hungry?

The Returned, they had discovered, often came back full of the sensations they remembered most strongly, until their body reasserted its mastery over memory. Some wept unceasing and could not be comforted for days; some were overmastered by fear and flinched at every touch or motion; and some were simply - hungry, or in pain. And Findaráto, Finarfin and Eärwen remembered from the Lay of Leithian - how they had wept hearing it for the first time! - had been both before he died.

So Finarfin stood now, bareheaded and dressed in the softest robes he could find (he did not want to abrade Findaráto’s new-made skin, in case his son wanted an embrace), carrying a pack with food and water, miruvor and new clothing (soft as water within a tidepool), shoes if Findaráto wanted them, and the desperate hope he and Eärwen had felt when gathering the supplies, that their son would not feel the lack of anything.

There was a whisper, carried on a chill breeze. Finarfin shivered, then stilled as he heard the words: Thy son approaches. In mercy he is released. Live well and walk justly.

So many times he had heard those words spoken to others, presiding over reunions; and each time he had pushed down the desperate longing for his own children, brushed aside his grief-filled wondering: would his own sons come forth again? Would his daughter come home?

Then his mind was wiped clean of all as the shadows about the gate briefly grew lighter, and he caught the glint of gold hair to match his own for the first time in nearly eight hundred years.

All their careful preparations flew out of his head, the pack dropped from his hand with a clatter, and he stood rooted to the spot as first an elegant hand, then knee and foot, and finally Findaráto’s yellow-crowned head melted fully from the shadows and came together to form -

His son. His son! His first child, his beloved son who now stood blinking in the light of Anar, chest rising and falling, eyes falling upon Finarfin -

Finarfin held his breath as Findaráto’s brown eyes met his own. He kept every muscle perfectly still, for he knew if he did not exert the utmost control he would break and sprint for his son, and never let him go again - or else sink to the ground weeping. Findaráto, he thought, Findaráto Ingoldo, my firstborn, we love you, we have missed you so much; and from far away he could feel Eärwen’s spirit crying out the same.

Findaráto took a hesitant step forward, into the light, wavering as he found his balance. Then another. His eyes were very wide.

“Atya?” he said, in the Quenya of his childhood. “Thou art here?”

Finarfin felt his eyes fill, then overflow. Do not alarm him, he scolded himself, but he could not stop. Tears were running down into his cheeks, falling unheeded to the dirt.

“I am here, Findaranya,” he choked out. “Hinya - tyenya -”

Findaráto took another slow step forward. He was only an arm’s length away. This close, Finarfin could see the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. They had always sprung into full force whenever they visited Tirion and the light of Laurelin fell upon his son’s upturned face. Of course Findaráto would have had freckles in Beleriand, where Anar reigned, Finarfin thought, feeling oddly bereft. He reached out a trembling hand, slowly, ready to drop it back to his side in an instant at the slightest flinch.

Findaráto was still; then suddenly he fell to his knees in the dirt. The molten light of Anar lowering in the sky crowned him in fire.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I left thee. Thou wert grieving and alone, and I left thee.”

For an instant only Finarfin was stricken silent; then he knelt beside his son. “No,” he said. “Hinya, there is no - no debt between us, no grudge neither I nor thy mother bear thee, nothing - nothing thou needst apologize for, tyenya, hinya, Findaranya. Thou art -” he was weeping too hard to speak for an instant. He had to cover his face in his hands briefly; then he continued, through the tears. “Thou art here. Here, and alive.”

Findaráto turned to look at him. He was still so quiet within himself. Finarfin did not dare reach out and touch him, lest he dissolve into the lowering rays of fire and leave them again childless and bereft.

“I have missed thee, Atar,” he said, staring again at the road.

“And I have missed thee. Every day of thine absence.”

Findaráto looked up. “I have been - there is so much grief,” he said. “So much lost.”

“I know,” said Finarfin.

“But thou art here,” said Findaráto. His eyes flickered briefly up to meet Finarfin’s. “And Ammë?”

“She waits for thee,” said Finarfin. “I told thee she bears no grudge.”

“Thou art here,” repeated Findaráto. 

“Yes,” said Finarfin, “and I shall not leave - thy mother and I - we shall not leave - and I will kneel upon the road with thee all the night if that is thy wish.”

He meant it, he found, with skin and bone, muscle and sinew. He would cast aside his crown in an instant and sit upon this dusty roadside for an Age, if it meant his son would not leave again.

Findaráto blinked, and blinked again; then he pitched forward. His arms wrapped about Finarfin’s shoulders as they had in his youth - smaller then, but still his - his tears were wetting Finarfin’s braid set all askew, his pulse was beating against Finarfin’s chest.

Finarfin gathered him close as he wept, tears coursing anew down his own cheeks. “Hinya,” he said again. He could not stop saying it. “My child. My child is home.”

[deancasbigbang]

Willow

Author: thatpeculiarone

Artist: 7hunnyybunnyy7

Rating: Mature

Pairings: Dean Winchester/Castiel, Minor John/Mary, Minor Chuck/Becky, Minor Bill/Ellen, Minor Sam/Jess

Length: 71059

Warnings: Mentions of Alcoholism, Mentions of Past Conversion Therapy, Mentions of Internalized Homophobia, Minor Character Death

Tags: Reunions, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Pining, Childhood Friends, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Enemies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers

Summary: Castiel Novak had known Dean Winchester his entire life. Growing up together, the two friends' worlds revolved around one another, each of them looking forward to their annual summer get togethers at the Winchesters' farm and winery, located in the rolling hills of Napa, California. However, it only takes one night for seventeen years of friendship to all come crashing down. When Castiel confesses his feelings for Dean, his friend’s rancorous reaction sends him packing. Castiel leaves, and stays away for ten years. When Dean’s father John falls ill, Castiel begrudgingly visits the farm again for the first time in a decade. Castiel is nervous to relive that night. He is nervous to be back at a place that holds so many memories. He is nervous to see Dean for the first time in so long. While he grapples with his anger and hurt, he also has to grapple with the fact that the feelings he holds for Dean may still be there after all this time.

Link to Fic | Link to Art

[mulderscully]

i can not not be parasocial abt when i listen to ttpd a bit because it's so heavily focused on her personal life and it is absolutely insane to me how quickly she went from writing lover about joe, wanting to marry him, to getting bored and wanting to fuck matty while still dating him then when they break up she dates matty and wants to marry him and then they obviously have a really toxic relationship (and keep in mind he also was like this to halsey and fka twigs, taylor isnt the only person to like get this feeling from him???) and she wants to marry him??? and it's so intense for such a short time and it's like okay is she projecting her feelings for joe onto matty? she wanted joe to be matty, she wanted matty to be joe. and you know she loved joe and he didn't actually hurt her from how little rancor she has toward him, it's all just grief she feels for him when she does sing about their relationship. And now she's dating travis and she's probably gonna marry him lbr and how did she get over matty that fast like girle had a YEAR. but the silence of joe in her songs is so shocking. i feel like the only ones about him are so long, london, how did it end, and the prophecy and maybe down bad? that's so... like wow idk i'm just ruminating what people expected vs what we got and how Little we know abt what actually goes on in even the most famous persons life

[shadowthestoryteller]

Recently found a drawing method that I vibe with for characters, so behold the Bad Batch! At least their Adventures!AU version from my canon-divergent fic series ✨✨✨✨

When I say Crosshair's hair gave me so much grief, I mean it. He's likes to cause problems on purpose, doesn't cooperate for drawing or when I'm writing. But that's on brand honestly.

All had the same "base" but are tweaked slightly to reflect them not being 100% reg. None of them have only human DNA either; Hunter has Karkadon for his electromagnetic sensitivity, Crosshair has Nexu for his vision and his infrared sight capabilities, Wrecker has rancor for strength, and Tech... he has something. It's anyone's guess, his files were permanently destroyed.

Due to a subscription payment coming up for me, I'm also tentatively opening comms. My goal is $60, so that's roughly six headshots like this at $10 each (humanoid only). Or get two for $15. Or, if you have a clone oc you'd like, I can do those for $5 each. Payment would be through Paypal, and once the $60 threshold is met I'll probably close them again.

Hope you liked the Adventures!AU batch! Both TtFR and FNF are set to return in June!

[mahvaladara]

"We did it, Haurchefant. Goodbye, my friend, my love."

Khal had seen the weight of rancor and resentment time and time again, consume and take what the world had best. He had seen in Estinien the way the anger of the dragon consumed him. He would not follow the same path. He would not let rancor and anger besiege him.

And that's what he would do. The pope and his knights had fallen, and in the darkness he had found the way to the light and stars guiding his path. He would not let fury consume him, instead, he would brave on on his resolve. He would fight for the dream of his fallen friends. Peace among man and dragon and an united Eorzia.

He would hold on to the memories and do what lead him down this path in the first place. To guide and aid others in any capacity.

Though he would never forget Haurchefant or what he meant to him, now with a lighter heart, Khal felt the weight of grief leave him day by day. He would move on, and fight the battles of his fallen loved ones. Besides...

A smile better suits a hero.

"May you rest at last knowing Ishgard is safe."

[marshmallow-biscuit-blog]

Nightmare Cinnamon, just in case he never lets go instead of forgiving. Griefful Rancor ig

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt! Requested by @serpenthyne!

No. 20: EMOTIONAL ANGST

Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | “It’s not your fault.”

Do not read this <3 I cannot stress that enough <3

***************

Winter’s bite had begun to fade by the time Mikaila was well enough to be out and about.  Patches of green poked through the slowly shrinking piles of snow, and once near absent songbirds could be heard even within the densely populated streets of Durlyne.  It was as if Ssael himself wished to welcome his favored daughter back to the land of the living with a splash of color.

But Addilyn couldn’t help the frown that pulled at her lips as she spied the girl’s pallid features, her tell-tale Soud green eyes dull and lacking that familiar mischievous gleam.

“Oi, lass,” Addilyn said, forcing a playful lilt into her voice.  “Don’t you be scheming over there.  I won’t have you spelling my sword soggy when I have to assist in training later.”

Mikaila looked up from where she sat on one of the stone benches lining the temple’s pathways, the barest smile painted upon her pale lips.  Even so, it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  Addilyn’s heart nearly split at the sight.

She hadn’t seen the little spellwright since the weeks following that harrowing night, and even then Mikaila had spent much of it in a fitful slumber, burning with fever and writhing in terrible pain.  Addilyn had felt so helpless, the vibrant little troublemaker at death’s door with naught but prayers to be said in the hope that the doctor could keep her from the khert’s grasping hands.

But the wee lass was strong, a fighter if she had ever seen one, and she’d beaten back the very same khert that had taken her father.

And yet the sight before her left Addilyn at a loss.  It wasn’t grief or fear that lined the girl's features.  She seemed… troubled.  Haunted.

Addilyn hadn’t known what to expect when Lemuel announced that he’d be bringing his newfound daughter to the temple, but this somehow felt worse than a hysterical child’s weeping.  

A sigh escaped her as Addilyn moved to sit beside Mikaila, the stone’s cold surface seeping into her trousers and making her shiver.

“You’ve been awful quiet since your doting uncle left you in my care,” Addilyn said with an air of levity.  “And here I’d been ready to be wowed by tales of your valiant victory over the Crescian invaders.”

Mikaila’s small, gloved hands clenched into tightly balled fists, her gaze averted to the ground.  “Can I ask you something, Addie?”

Addilyn blinked in surprise, her brow raised.  “Of course.”

A quiet moment passed, one in which Addilyn could hear the distant sounds of a hound’s baying.  “Do you think I did enough?” Mikaila finally asked.

“Enough—?”  Addilyn was struck speechless.  Among the short list of things she expected her to ask, that was not among them.  “What do you mean?”

“Everyone talks about that night like I did something special.  Like I fought them off and saved the day.”  Her voice was low, but sharp as a knife’s edge.  “But I could have done more.  I know I could have.  But Papa was hurt and there were so many of them and—”

Mikaila trailed off then, her little shoulders trembling.  Addilyn thought she had begun to cry, expected to see tears streaming down her pale cheeks as hiccupping sobs built up in her chest—but her eyes were dry, and there was a deep anger and frustration in her brilliant green gaze.

“It’s all my fault,” she said darkly, and it was with that that she sniffled softly, though Addilyn suspected she would blame it on the still brisk air.  “Had I not been there, Papa would still be here.”

“Miki—” Addilyn tried, but Mikaila cut her off.

“Had I been born a boy, Papa would have taught me how to fight.  He wouldn’t have told me to run.  He would have told me where to aim.”

She said it with such rancor, such bitterness.  Addilyn had thought the girl would be wailing for her lost Papa, but instead she harbored a profound guilt for his demise.

“Miki,” she tried again, reaching out to place a hand upon Mikaila’s uninjured shoulder.  There was little she could give her in the way of comfort, and even this felt like a paltry offering.  “Your Papa didn’t like me much.  Especially when your uncle would bring me around you.  But even I know that he loved you so very much.  Fiercely enough that he fought to the death to keep you safe.”

Mikaila sniffled again, her eyes still trained on her hands.  The gloves were new.  A darker blue than her old pair.

“And,” Addilyn continued, sensing a rebuttal building upon the little wright’s lips, “I would never dare say that he’d have done anything differently had it been a lad at his side that night, rather than his beloved daughter.  He’d have told that boy to run to find help, to find the guard, to get home.  Just as he did you.”

It was then that a stray tear finally spilled over Mikaila’s lashes, and her hands began to shake.  Addilyn did not hesitate to pull the girl toward her in a tight embrace.

“It wasn’t your fault, Miki,” Addilyn said gently, but with an edge that brokered no argument.  “You scared off a horde of Crescians all on your own.  And you fought your way back to us.  You are strong and bright and so very brave.”

Addilyn pulled back slightly, a small half-smile upon her lips as she brushed the stray tears from Mikaila’s cheeks.  Mikaila met her gaze with a watery smile of her own.

“Never doubt that you did more than most lads older than yourself would have managed,” Addilyn continued.  “You sitting here right now is proof that you did more than enough.”

Mikaila sniffled again, nodding stiffly as she buried her face in Addilyn’s tunic, her voice muffled as she simply said, “Thank you, Addie.”

[hieromonkcharbel]

A Lament for Sin

Weep over your sin: it is a spiritual ailment; it is death to your immortal soul; it deserves ceaseless, unending weeping and crying; let all tears flow for it, and sighing come forth without ceasing from the depths of your heart.

In profound humility I weep for all my sins, voluntary and involuntary, conscious and unconscious, covert and overt, great and little, committed by word and deed, in thought and intention, day and night, at every hour and minute of my life.

I weep over my pride and my ambition, my self love and my boastfulness; I weep over my fits of anger, irritation, excessive shouting, swearing, quarreling and cursing;

I weep for having criticized, censured, gossiped, slandered, and defamed, for my wrath, enmity, hatred, envy, jealousy, vengeance and rancor;

I weep over my indulgences in lust, impure thoughts and evil inclinations; covetousness, gluttony, drunkenness, and sloth;

I weep for having talked idly, used foul language, blasphemed, derided, joked, ridiculed, mocked, enjoyed empty gaiety, singing, dancing and every pleasure to excess;

I weep over my self indulgence, cupidity, love of money and miserliness, unmercifulness and cruelty;

I weep over my laziness, indolence, negligence, love of comfort, weakness, idleness, absent-mindedness, irresponsibility, inattention, love of sleep, for hours spent in idle pursuits, and for my lack of concentration in prayer and in Church, for not observing fasts and not doing charitable works.

I weep over my lack of faith, my doubting, my perplexity, my coldness, my indifference, my weakness and unfeelingness in what concerns the Holy Orthodox Faith, and over all my foul, cunning and reviling thoughts;

I weep over my exaggerated sorrow and grief, depression and despair, and over sins committed willingly.

I weep, but what tears can I find for a worthy and fitting way to weep for all the actions of my ill fated life; for my immeasurable and profound worthlessness? How can I reveal and expose in all its nakedness each one of my sins, great and small, voluntary and involuntary, conscious and unconscious, overt and covert, every hour and minute of sin? When and where shall I begin my penitential lament that will bear fitting fruit? Perhaps soon I may have to face the last hour of my life; my soul will be painfully sundered from my sinful and vile body; I shall have to stand before terrible demons and radiant angels, who will reveal and torment me with my sins; and I, in fear and trembling, will be unprepared and unable to give them an answer; the sight and sound of wailing demons, their violent and bold desire to drag me into the bottomless pit of Hell will fill my soul with confusion and terror. And then the angels of God will lead my poor soul to stand before God 's fearful seat of judgment. How will I answer the Immortal King, or how will I dare, sinner that I am, to look upon My Judge? Woe is me! have no good answer to make, for I have spent all my life in indolence and sin, all my hours and minutes in vain thoughts, desires and yearnings!

And how many times have I taken the Name of God in vain!

How often, lightly and freely, at times even boldly, insolently and shamelessly have I slandered others in anger; offended, irritated, mocked them!

How often have I been proud and vainglorious and boasted of good qualities that I do not possess and of deeds that I have not done!

How many times have I lied, deceived, been cunning or flattered, or been insincere and deceptive; how often have I been angry, intolerant and mean!

How many times have I ridiculed the sins of my brother, caused him grief overtly and covertly, mocked or gloated over his misdeeds, his faults or his misfortunes; how many times have I been hostile to him, in anger, hatred or envy!

How often have I laughed stupidly, mocked and derided, spoke without weighing my words, ignorantly and senselessly, and uttered a numberless quantity of cutting, poisonous, insolent, frivolous, vulgar, coarse, brazen words!

How often, affected by beauty, have I fed my mind, my imagination and my heart with voluptuous sensations, and unnaturally satisfied the lusts of the flesh in fantasy! How often has my tongue uttered shameful, vulgar and blasphemous things about the desires of the flesh!

How often have I yearned for power and been gluttonous, satiating myself on delicacies, on tasty, varied and diverse foods and wines; because of intemperance and lack of self-control how often have I been filled past the point of satiety, lacked sobriety and been drunken, intemperate in food and drink, and broken the Holy Fasts!

How often, through selfishness, pride or false modesty, have I refused help and attention to those in need, been uncharitable, miserly, unsympathetic, mercenary and grasped at attention!

How often have I entered the House of God without fear and trembling, stood there in prayer, frivolous and absent-minded, and left it in the same spirit and disposition! And in prayer at home I have been just as cold and indifferent, praying little, lazily, and indolently, inattentively and impiously, and even completely omitting the appointed prayers!

And in general, how slothful I have been, weakened by indolence and inaction; how many hours of each day have I spent in sleep, how often have I enjoyed voluptuous thoughts in bed and defiled my flesh! How many hours have I spent in empty and futile pastimes and pleasures, in frivolous talk and speech, jokes and laughter, games and fun, and how much time have I wasted conclusively in chatter, and gossip, in criticizing others and reproaching them; how many hours have I spent in time-wasting and emptiness! What shall I answer to the Lord God for every hour and every minute of lost time? In truth, I have wasted my entire life in laziness.

How many times have I lost heart and despaired of my salvation and of God's mercy or through stupid habit, insensitivity, ignorance, insolence, shamelessness, and hardness sinned deliberately, willingly, in my right mind, in full awareness, in all goodwill, in both thought and intention, and in deed, and in this fashion trampled the blood of God 's covenant and crucified anew within myself the Son of God and cursed Him!

0 how terrible the punishment that I have drawn upon myself!

How is it that my eyes are not streaming with constant tears?.. If only my tears flowed from the cradle to the grave, at every hour and every minute of my tortured life! Who will now cool my head with water and fill the well of my tears and help me weep over my soul that I have cast into perdition?

My God, my God! Why hast Thou forsaken me? Be it unto me according to Thy will, 0 Lord! If Thou wouldst grant me light, be Thou blessed; if Thou wouldst grant me darkness, be Thou equally blessed. If Thou wouldst destroy me together with my lawlessness, glory to Thy righteous judgment; and if Thou wouldst not destroy me together with my lawlessness, glory to Thy boundless mercy!

(St. Basil the Great)

[estiniensays]

The wyrm's mind was as a vast and tumultuous sea. Endlessly its black waters churned, his grief and despair at Ratatoskr's murder never calming, never receding. And driven by this surging current came wave upon wave of unrelenting rancor.

[anghraine]

sambargestuff replied to this post:

Interesting. Having watched ROTJ in the theatre when it was released, I can tell you that the grief of the rancor's keeper was played for laughs. And it worked. People in the theatre around me laughed at the keeper. Of course, people think Boba Fett is the hero of the movie, so people are fucking stupid.

I mean ... I'm not sure the reactions of the theatre tell us much about what the intended purpose of the scene is or how to interpret it.

Roger Ebert's 1983 review opens with:

Here is just one small moment in "Return of Jedi," a moment you could miss if you looked away from the screen, but a moment that helps explain the special magic of the Star Wars movies. Luke Skywalker is engaged in a ferocious battle in the dungeons beneath the throne room of the loathsome Jabba the Hutt. His adversary is a slimy, gruesome, reptilian monster made of warts and teeth. Things are looking bad when suddenly the monster is crushed beneath a falling door. And then (here is the small moment) there's a shot of the monster's keeper, a muscle-bound jailer, who rushes forward in tears. He is brokenhearted at the destruction of his pet. Everybody loves somebody. It is that extra level of detail that makes the Star Wars pictures much more than just space operas.

Lucas said, "I like the idea that everyone loves someone. And even the worst, most horrible monster you can imagine was loved by his keeper. And the rancor probably loved his keeper."

[ravensilversea]

Victory Comes Late

Summary: Victory came too late for Ponds and for so many other brothers. Three years of war plus some months of hashing out a peace treaty written in the blood, sweat, and tears of his brothers but makes no mention of them at all. It’s a Senate proclaimed accomplishment, like they hadn’t refused to even consider peace for three years.

Tags: Canon Divergence, Palpatine Dies AU, Post-War, Light Angst, Grief/Mourning, Reunions, Bittersweet Ending

The largest exhibition hall in the Jedi Temple is almost too small for the sheer number of clone troopers in it now. Really, it is actually too small, but none of them are too concerned with the concept of personal space when this is the first time they’ve all been together for three years.

And yet, Fox pulls his helmet off and tucks it beneath his arm. His guard brushes past him, calling out into the space that’s already echoing with brothers trying to find each other. And yet, they aren’t all here.

Rancor Battalion is still on Kamino and participating in negotiations alongside General Ti to hopefully place the cadets and tubies into the custody of their brothers. The thought alone is almost inconceivable: entire batches of clones who never have to serve on a battlefield, who can stay together and stay alive for years longer than their elder brothers could.

“You joining the party, Fox?” Stone asks, coming to stand beside him.

“You really think Salvo would let us miss it?” Fox walks into the exhibition hall instead of just hovering in the doorway. “Besides, someone has to tell them all how the chancellor really died.”

Ao3

Stone coughs into his hand. “Would that be the actual story or another one of your tales this time?”

Fox refuses to learn about any of the details of Chancellor Palpatine’s, unfortunate, accident. It would ruin the fun of coming up with stupider and stupider ways the late chancellor died and sharing them around the caf brewer. Call it his own personal revenge against the man who insisted on calling each and every one of his brothers by CC or CT number and number alone, the way the Guard all but tiptoed around him, how many of his brother assigned to the chancellor’s guard when traveling off planet simply disappeared without a trace, and every single shiny who the chancellor sent down into the lower levels who came back in a body bag, if at all.

“I have a list of stupid ways for asshole politicians to die, and this might be my only chance to share any of them,” Fox says primly. “Allow me my fun.”

Stone shakes his head. “If you say so.”

They weave through a particularly thick crowd of brothers, and someone flags them down. “Hey commanders, I think your squads are meeting over on the stands!”

“That’ll be Cody’s idea,” Fox mutters as Stone thanks the brother for the directions. “Always did need to be on top of things.”

“Not sure the stands top Tipoca City’s comm tower.”

Fox looks up at the ceiling that rises so high above their heads it can barely be seen and then gives Stone a look.

“Okay, so maybe they could.”

The commander squads are gathered in a clump in the middle of the stands, and sure enough, Cody’s yellow-orange paint is higher than anybody else, shining like a beacon. Fox and Stone pass Alpha Squad on their way up the stands where Wolffe and Thire look about two seconds from murdering a squadmate or two.

“I’m sorry,” Gregor says just as they pass by, “but do you think you could repeat that? Or maybe replay it? I’m not sure I heard you correct-ly!” His voice rises sharply as he falls back under the weight of two brothers, and Fox hops up a handful of rows. Stone jumps back with a curse.

Poet looks up from their padd with a distinct ‘can you believe I’m stuck with them?’ expression of their face. Fox bites his lip and shakes his head, mentally wishing them good luck. 

Force, Alpha’s only missing Blitz whose stuck on Kamino. They all made it, the lucky bastards.

“Fox! Stone!” Salvo slams into Fox with a broad grin and pulls Stone up the remaining steps to wrap his arm around him too. For a moment, the three of them just breathe. “It’s good to see you again,” Salvo whispers.

“Yeah,” Fox pulls away and meets Gree’s eyes over Salvo’s head. “Wait until you hear what happened to the chancellor.”

“The old one, right? Cause the one we have now is an upgrade.” Gree throws a thumb back over his shoulder. “C’mon, we grabbed a spot by Chimaera.”

Fox starts laying out the first ‘So this is what I heard from somebody who heard it from somebody’ as they walk lengthwise along the stands until Gree and Salvo pull them down onto the benches. Just above them sits Chimaera Squad with it’s three near-silent members. As he tells his story, Fox watches Neyo try to get Keller and Faie to say more than a few words strung together, and it suddenly hits him that both Lock and Colt were dead.

The story ends, and his brothers make noises of disbelief. “Oh really?” Fox says. “Well, how about this one that I heard from a janitor who heard it from his sister’s husband’s brother’s friend.” Stone buries his head in his hands with a groan.

Ponds would have told Fox to stop by the second story, but he’s not around to hear them. The lack of protest from that quarter sits heavy in Fox’s chest. He barrels through the story anyway, almost even more spitefully. 

Victory came too late for Ponds and for so many other brothers. Three years of war plus some months of hashing out a peace treaty written in the blood, sweat, and tears of his brothers but makes no mention of them at all. It’s a Senate proclaimed accomplishment, like they hadn’t refused to even consider peace for three years.

Almost four years of war because of one man who strung them all along like dew drops on a tent-line.

Fox’s eyes land on a small empty space in a sea of brothers, and his next words die in his throat. There’s a brother standing in the middle of the empty space. He’s thin with shaved hair and implant scars. What’s left of one arm is in a sling across his body, and Fox knows who he is even without the blue of the 501st edging his almost shiny-white, probably borrowed armor.

Come get your Dominoes, Rex had messaged three years ago.

Unless they’re commanders, I don’t claim them, and even that’s debatable, he had messaged back.

Within days, Rex had informed him that due to the sudden death of their commanding officers and the subsequent lack of collection by Fox (Fox had rolled his eyes at this), he was personally taking them under his wing. Rex then spent every other message to Fox bragging about ‘his Dominoes’ like there wasn’t hundreds of Domino training squads spread throughout the army.

For a moment, Fox selfishly wishes that Echo truly had died on the infamous Citadel mission. Seeing him standing alone in a sea of reuniting brothers when Fox is the one who killed his last squadmate…

Victory really did come too late for Rex's Domino squad. 

The reunions and conversations continue on around Fox, blurring into the background. A sea of noise and color turning into a drone as a time seems to slow, but Echo never blurs. He continues to stand alone, seemingly in the middle of a swirling galaxy of brothers without a single person to welcome him home.

Fox finds his feet moving without any input from him. He's halfway down the stairs before Salvo asks him where he's going. “To get another Domino,” he says, almost under his breath, but his squad hears him just the same. 

The floor of the exhibition hall seems to echo with his footsteps. Which is impossible. First of all, the sheer number of clones in the room alone would drown out any noise Fox could possibly make even if they weren't talking at loud volumes. Second of all, there was no way in hell that the Jedi didn't sound proof this room within an inch of its life given the number of lightsaber duels- duels between children at that!- this room must have been used for.

Maybe his footsteps are echoing through him, Fox muses. He takes another step and feels it in his chest.

Time and sound suddenly crash into Fox. Conversations burst into a roar, suddenly Fox can hear so many squadname jokes all at once. It no longer feels like he's stepping through taffy, and all he can do is stand there. Like an idiot. Just in front of Echo.

Force, all he has to do is lift his arm and he could touch this orphaned shell of a brother.

Well, maybe not a shell, he reconsiders as Echo straightens, jutting his chin out a bit and brown eyes flashing with a challenge. There's still quite a bit of fight left in his one, which is more than Fox can say for the Chimaera commanders back on the stairs. 

“Echo,” Fox says, figuring that's as good a start as any.

“What do you want, commander?”

Fox falters. Opening and closing his mouth, he glances back at his squad who have ceased any and all conversations to stare at him trying and failing to talk to a CT.

“If you're here to apologize, don't. There's nothing you can say,” Echo continues, and Fox winces. If it was his squadmate shot and killed by another's hand, he doesn't think he would have said those words so mournfully acceptingly. No. Every trooper in this hall would likely have to hold him back from trying to beat the shit out of the one who killed his squadmate.

He flexes his hands, tries not to imagine how Aurra Singh's neck would feel wrapped in them as he squeezes the life out of her for what she did to Ponds. 

“It's not something that can be forgiven, no matter how much I regret it,” Fox says. “But that isn't why I'm here, trooper... Echo.”

“Then why, sir?”

For a moment, Fox hesitates, unsure of whether his invitation, his touch would be welcome, but he decides to do it anyway. He reaches out and gently grabs Echo's remaining wrist and lightly tugs it in the direction of the stadium. “Come on. No Domino gets left behind.”

He waits for Echo to take the first step, watching his brother's eyes blink, widen, and then sharpen. Echo looks past Fox towards the Domino commanders, and whatever he sees there, convinces him.

Fox settles Echo down in the empty spot where Ponds should be, and the way Echo looks around with brighter eyes and a harsh swallow tells him everything about how Rex's little dominoes must have gathered too.

Setting that aside, Fox turns back to his brothers. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, so the Chancellor had ordered breakfast and for some reason, this involved fish. And you know how fish have these tiny little bones they don't always manage to get out when preparing them?”

Gree sighs loudly as he realizes where Fox is going with this latest story about Palpatine's death, and Salvo begins slapping Fox's knee like that's going to stop him. Behind him, Echo muffles a snort, and Fox grins.

Victory came late, but not too late. There are still brothers here who were saved after all.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Willow

Author: thatpeculiarone

Artist: 7hunnyybunnyy7

Rating: Mature

Pairings: Sam/Jess, Ellen/Bill, Mary/John, Chuck/Becky

Length: 65000

Warnings: Minor Character Death, Talks of Grief and Loss, Talks of Alcoholism, Internalised Homophobia, Mentions of Conversion Therapy

Tags: Alternative Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Reunion, Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending

Posting Date: October 6, 2023

Summary: Castiel Novak had known Dean Winchester his entire life. Growing up together, the two friend's worlds revolved around one another, each of them looking forward to their annual summer get togethers at the Winchester's farm and winery, located in the rolling hills of Napa, California. However, it only takes one night for seventeen years of friendship to all come crashing down. When Castiel confesses his feelings for Dean, his friend's rancorous reaction sends him packing. Castiel leaves, and stays away for ten years. When Dean’s father John falls ill, Castiel begrudgingly visits the farm again for the first time in a decade. Castiel is nervous to relive that night. He is nervous to be back at a place that holds so many memories. He is nervous to see Dean for the first time in so long. While he grapples with his anger and hurt, he also has to grapple with the fact that the feelings he holds for Dean may still be there after all this time.

Excerpt: Castiel Novak had known Dean Winchester his entire life. Their parents had been friends for years before either of them were even conceived; a friendship that only grew once they came into the equation. He had been coming to the Winchester’s farm since he was still in diapers – in fact – he had pictures of him only wearing diapers on the farm. And in those pictures, Dean was always by his side, sporting his own, accompanied by a cheeky baby grin. They had been inseparable since the moment they met, growing from boisterous toddlers to rambunctious children. They’d run through the vineyards under the golden glow of the sun -- rosy cheeked as they chased each other through field after field, until one sent the other tumbling down. On rainy days, they’d trench back to the house with mud-soaked boots, sending their mothers into a frenzy as they shoved them into the bathtub, not letting them out until they scrubbed every bit of dirt off their bodies.  Even when they grew into teenagers, a time when everything was awkward and uncomfortable, they still seemed to fit together. Castiel looked forward to summers more than anything, wanting to escape the demands of high school and the pressure of attempting to be accepted by his peers, in order to see the one person who knew him better than anyone. The person who knew about his dislike for prime numbers, and would listen to him spout the guttural language of Enochian without even batting an eye.  To everyone else, Castiel didn’t seem to fit the mold. But to Dean, Castiel was just… Cas.  He had been expecting that summer to be the same as the last sixteen.  Yet instead, he’d watched his best friend turn into a nasty, arrogant asshole who had been ignoring his existence for weeks. A cool, callous person who was nothing like the friend he’d known his entire life. And finally, after days upon days of enduring it all, Castiel had had enough.  He knew where to find Dean. Despite being without a flashlight under the pitch black sky, his muscle memory led him through the rows of ripening vines all the way down to the creek. He could hear the quiet trickling of the water amongst the loud sounds of crickets. There, even in the darkness, he could see the silhouette of Dean, standing under the large willow tree on the edge of the property. It was Dean’s favourite spot on the entire farm, a fact Castiel had known about him since they were children. Soon, it had become more of their spot, where they spent most of their time during the summers.  As he approached, he heard Dean huff. “Figured you wouldn’t be sleeping,” he grumbled. “Did you think that maybe I snuck out to be alone?”

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