Thoughtful. With his head in his hands, he stands there, alone, on top of a cliff, a hill, or a mountain, his soul lying down curled up at the bottom of an endless ocean.
Dignified and well considered, noble even when nobody sees him. He will not bend though every nerve fiber is worn out and tired of self-control, restraint and obligation. Unbreakable.
Motionless, he stands tall with the weight of responsibility on his shoulders that is stronger than the deadly grip of the archenemy, deeper than the Well of All Sparks, heavier than the forge of Solus Prime.
Decisions… he never asked for them, but he took many, humbly accepting to be the servant of his own kind. By taking the burden. By feeling the pain. By speaking up and by remaining silent. By taking responsibility.
Feelings. The others are allowed to have them but he is bound to suffocate them. Bind them, kill them, bury them deep...
Curled up at the bottom of a bottomless ocean, he lies smashed and pinned to the ground by tonnes of water above him, the water that flows through him, that short-circuits his senses, that floods his ventilation systems, kills the compression in his hydraulics, removes the greasing from his joints and plants salty rust on his naked skin. He cannot move anymore, with his numb legs bent to his chest, arms wrapped around himself, his head hidden between the shoulders, stale face hiding his soul behind blank unfocused pale blue eyes, staring ahead, twitching a little, mouth half open in mute agony.
The water is icy and the sea is heavy and infinite. Water is pressing, water around him, water within him. Stifling, suffocating, corroding, freezing, exposing, drowning, itching, squeezing, whirling with the feelings that throb inside him. There will not be an end to this as long as his spark pulses inside his chest.
At times he wishes the water would just sink in, deep, into the deepest of his own depths, to put an end to all this, to extinguish the spark and all the feelings within, leaving nothing behind, so that he would not be so tired ever again. But the water is lighter than him. The water is lighter than air… It wouldn’t sink in.
He raises his head up from his hands and looks at the early sunset over the curved line of horizon. He does not even sigh, but remains motionless staring bluntly ahead. It hurts his optics with the still bright sunlight. Too numb to narrow his lenses he gets blinded for a moment. It’s like a relief, not to see for a second. To be cut away from it all by the deadly flood of white, the light of the end of the tunnel... Eventually the strained sensory system sends a weary warning to the processor forcing an automated reaction. He sees the world again with blunt remains of pain behind his optics reminding him of the momentary bliss of blindness.
Some are allowed to show feelings.
Some are allowed to be troubled.
Some are allowed to break down and cry.
Some are allowed to stumble, fall down and wait for saviours.
Some are allowed to be relieved.
He is not among them. This all is not for him. He has no rights, nothing for himself, and nothing of his own. Not even the right to admit it amidst his vast power and the honour of the highest responsibility. He has no right to cry and no right to bend his knees or curl up in pain inside the depths of his ocean. He has to stand tall even if nobody’s watching.
There are others who rely on him.
Believe in him.
Call him old and weak.
Talk behind his back.
Try to cheat him.
He is their slave and their father.
And he still believes, despite the deep shadows of doubt, treacherous reality, imperfection of life and its beings. Imperfection of himself... Like a desperate fool, like a lonely monk on the top of his mountain, like a mad saint in denial. Patient, consistent and weary.
Dead bodies float weightlessly. They gape into his blank blue eyes glaring void, out of place, out of character… the casualties, the victims, the warriors, the traitors, the politicians, the factions, the cliques, underground movements, the smugglers, the criminals, the refugees and the saviours, the revolutionaries and the villains, the sparklings and the old, their homes, their dreams... Colourful sparks staining his hands with responsibility. His responsibility. The feelings, the weakness, the death. Death is lighter than water. Death is lighter than air...
He never chose this life. He was endowed with it. It caught up with him like diluted poison inhaled with the air filled with ideas and visions that he believed once upon a time, against the normalcy and the goodness of simple hopes and dreams. For the greater good. Not his good. The good of the others. Of the innocent. To preserve life. To preserve hope. Against all odds. Against love itself… the one that was his own.
For sometimes, in deep recharge, he still dreams of love, of fulfilment. For he is filled with love and undefined longing. The dreams lead him sideways - to the touch of warm hands, to the throbbing of a loving spark, the heat of closeness and blue glow of trusting eyes filled with care and desire. To the bodies united in a grip of warmth, in an embrace of home. He wakes up tortured and empty, grasping empty air with his empty hands, with a weight in his chest and a heavy pulsing spark. He drowns in the ocean again and again, to die the slow and cold death that nestles in his calm, contained voice and sad eyes.
He puts restraints of rationality on his spark laboriously stopping the sudden fast venting and the pulsing of energon half way, swallowing it back inside, never letting it go, never freeing himself... from responsibility. He is just staring blank into the darkness falling around him. How many times the nagging thought of death ran through his mind? How many times did it keep him awake and working at nights, days, mornings and evenings, silent, determined, persistent? Solving problems of others. Getting up and going further every time he fell. With no exception. No mercy. No gratification. Never letting go. For the others who need him, rely on him, who look up to him, who make his life worthwhile. Who are the reason why he will endure, as long as the spark pulses in his chest.
The reason to be.