Transformers Fan Fiction ❯ Missing ❯ One-Shot
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By: Selah 
[G1] Though all he once held dear has been consumed in darkness, Mirage still clings to the fragile light of the artist within. (Meditaçao VII)
Anime/Manga: Transformers Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Mecha / Psychological | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 07.08.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 823 | Visits: 616 | Status: Completed
[G1] Though all he once held dear has been consumed in darkness, Mirage still clings to the fragile light of the artist within. (Meditaçao VII)
Anime/Manga: Transformers Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Mecha / Psychological | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 07.08.2003 | Pages: 1 | Words: 823 | Visits: 616 | Status: Completed
Author's Note: As always, I own no rights to Mirage or Transformers; they belong to Hasbro/Takara and a buncha others. SeaRail and Sinistill are my creations, however.
The nights are cold and lonely
And the days are hardly bliss
How could I know missing you
Would feel like this?
I am no poet, not like SeaRail or Sinistill. They are . . . were masters of their craft. SeaRail's quatrains flowed with the shimmering fluidity of a mercury river, falling so naturally from her mouth that she rarely spoke in anything else. Sinistill's words could change the forces of politics in our city-state. But no one else will hear their words again. They, like so many of the artist elite, now likely lie buried beneath the shattered bones of my city.
I curse this planet, this Earth. I curse this world that held us prisoner for millions of years, frozen in time. But more, I curse this world that awoke again the artist's spirit within.
I had divorced myself from my roots when I joined the Autobots; I had no other choice. Broken and alone, I could not remain as I had been, could not go back to the fantasy I had once lived. So I shunted aside my gentle side, for how else could I take part in the ugliness of war if I still possessed an artistic soul?
But this world, this Earth, with it's bold colors and vibrant life . . . it has fueled the curse that is a perfect memory. I remember the starlight balls and the radiant galas, where the artist elite of Tiras gathered to regale each other with their latest achievements. As a privileged son, so to speak, I was invited to every event, even though I was hardly an artist myself. I dabbled with the occasional poem, but my wording was clumsy and inelegant compared to those of SeaRail and Sinistill and others of their caliber. Still, the company was warm and welcoming for such a fine-crafted artist's son as myself.
So many things lost to the ugliness that is this war. And now we poison a new world with our hatreds, our violence. How much better it would have been if we had never awoken at all. Perhaps then I would know something of peace. Primus knows I do not know the meaning of the word now. For how can I be at peace when I am forced to bring ugliness into this world instead of beauty. I was the product of artistry, meant to add beauty to the world. I have by my own choosing perverted the sacred gift of life my creators bestowed upon me. I have become like Death, filled with cold and calculating efficiency in my new craft: that of espionage. I shroud myself in the ugliness of lies and deceit, little better than those against whom I have sworn to fight.
And what value is there in this fight if we have become as ugly and blackened as those against whom we struggle? Freedom is the right of all sentients, yes, but of what value is freedom to the citizens of a broken world? What joy can there be in victory if we have lost that which makes us noble?
I curse the day Megatron came to my city, casting forth his web of lies and power. I curse myself for a fool for the wrongs I have done, for the errors of my pride. I have been the worst brand of fool, thinking myself somehow better because of my noble lineage. All the while that I have floundered here in the darkness of this reborn war, I wonder at how SeaRail would react, could she see me now. Would she laugh at my foolishness? Would she frown in disapproval at the choices I made? Would she shy away at the ugliness that now overlays what was once beautiful to gaze upon? Would she turn her back on me, a fallen angel, denounce me as unworthy of the spires of the heavens?
Oh how I long for the end to this war! How I long for the day when I can at last set aside my rifle, set aside the darkness that so threatens to consume my very spark. Perhaps then I can win back some tiny peice of my soul from the devils to whom I traded all of myself. Pride. Wrath. Revenge. Mortal sins these are to the humans, as well they should be. My immortal spark longs for the end of this war, for the time when I can put an end to my own cold, solitary suffering.
I will see you in the gloaming, dark one. May Primus grant that solitary favor if no other.
Oh the nights are cold and lonely
And the days are hardly bliss
The longings wrap all around me
Like the whisper of your kiss.
Missing
Meditaçao VII
Meditaçao VII
The nights are cold and lonely
And the days are hardly bliss
How could I know missing you
Would feel like this?
I am no poet, not like SeaRail or Sinistill. They are . . . were masters of their craft. SeaRail's quatrains flowed with the shimmering fluidity of a mercury river, falling so naturally from her mouth that she rarely spoke in anything else. Sinistill's words could change the forces of politics in our city-state. But no one else will hear their words again. They, like so many of the artist elite, now likely lie buried beneath the shattered bones of my city.
I curse this planet, this Earth. I curse this world that held us prisoner for millions of years, frozen in time. But more, I curse this world that awoke again the artist's spirit within.
I had divorced myself from my roots when I joined the Autobots; I had no other choice. Broken and alone, I could not remain as I had been, could not go back to the fantasy I had once lived. So I shunted aside my gentle side, for how else could I take part in the ugliness of war if I still possessed an artistic soul?
But this world, this Earth, with it's bold colors and vibrant life . . . it has fueled the curse that is a perfect memory. I remember the starlight balls and the radiant galas, where the artist elite of Tiras gathered to regale each other with their latest achievements. As a privileged son, so to speak, I was invited to every event, even though I was hardly an artist myself. I dabbled with the occasional poem, but my wording was clumsy and inelegant compared to those of SeaRail and Sinistill and others of their caliber. Still, the company was warm and welcoming for such a fine-crafted artist's son as myself.
So many things lost to the ugliness that is this war. And now we poison a new world with our hatreds, our violence. How much better it would have been if we had never awoken at all. Perhaps then I would know something of peace. Primus knows I do not know the meaning of the word now. For how can I be at peace when I am forced to bring ugliness into this world instead of beauty. I was the product of artistry, meant to add beauty to the world. I have by my own choosing perverted the sacred gift of life my creators bestowed upon me. I have become like Death, filled with cold and calculating efficiency in my new craft: that of espionage. I shroud myself in the ugliness of lies and deceit, little better than those against whom I have sworn to fight.
And what value is there in this fight if we have become as ugly and blackened as those against whom we struggle? Freedom is the right of all sentients, yes, but of what value is freedom to the citizens of a broken world? What joy can there be in victory if we have lost that which makes us noble?
I curse the day Megatron came to my city, casting forth his web of lies and power. I curse myself for a fool for the wrongs I have done, for the errors of my pride. I have been the worst brand of fool, thinking myself somehow better because of my noble lineage. All the while that I have floundered here in the darkness of this reborn war, I wonder at how SeaRail would react, could she see me now. Would she laugh at my foolishness? Would she frown in disapproval at the choices I made? Would she shy away at the ugliness that now overlays what was once beautiful to gaze upon? Would she turn her back on me, a fallen angel, denounce me as unworthy of the spires of the heavens?
Oh how I long for the end to this war! How I long for the day when I can at last set aside my rifle, set aside the darkness that so threatens to consume my very spark. Perhaps then I can win back some tiny peice of my soul from the devils to whom I traded all of myself. Pride. Wrath. Revenge. Mortal sins these are to the humans, as well they should be. My immortal spark longs for the end of this war, for the time when I can put an end to my own cold, solitary suffering.
I will see you in the gloaming, dark one. May Primus grant that solitary favor if no other.
Oh the nights are cold and lonely
And the days are hardly bliss
The longings wrap all around me
Like the whisper of your kiss.