#( in a way that allows old wounds to be healed after being untended to for so long ) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

libermachinae · 5 years

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Spark Light

Sequel to “Logic Circuit”

This fic is also available on AO3!

Summary: Prowl is as comforting as Earth’s new black hole and Bumblebee has turned avoiding grief into a sound career option. After the end of the world, though, certain allowances can be made.

⭐ 🐝 ⭐ 🐝 ⭐ 🐝 ⭐

Bumblebee was dancing when Prowl found him. Music eked out the speakers of a transport shuttle, biolights blended and churned together, and several hundred mechs celebrated their continued existence in the universe by pushing their worn-out frames to just the point of breaking. It was a final farewell to the Cybertronian empire, a blending of Eukarian, Devisen, Velocitronian, Camian, Cybertronian sound and life in a way that many had suspected would never come to pass. Under constellations that even those whose species had lived under would have to reacquaint themselves with, dented, scratched, mangled, torn, forgotten bodies danced until overshot joints gave out, weakened armor buckled, frayed wires snapped, and in so doing they made their grief physical and gave it life.

It was the wrong place to seek out new friends. Bumblebee, every eager, ever lively, persevered for as long as he could, until a familiar voice pushed his designation into the space between songs and his optics threatened to flicker out entirely.

“Well, buddy,” he said, putting on his characteristic grin, “it’s been a while.”

Prowl had led him away from the party, up a slope and into the woods surrounding the refugee city. The low hum of thousands of voices carried through the trees, and between the gaps it was still possible to see the lines stretching outside of the Cybertronian aid stations, where volunteers had been working for hours to find solutions for every problem brought forth, from missing limbs to missing friends. Bumblebee had been with them for a couple hours before his human supervisor realized that he’d been one of the mechs directly involved in the battle. He was issued a firm command to take the rest of the night to recuperate, even though he pointed out that the war had prepared him for campaigns much longer and more grueling than this one had been.

Walking away while people still needed help had been one of the most frustrating parts of this long, terrible day, but at least from up here he could see the lines and knew they were moving. Even just a few hours out, progress was being made.

“It has,” Prowl said, glancing back to Bumblebee after letting himself observe the proceedings below. “Is your new body handling well?”

“It’s Wheeljack’s work, what do you think?” He proudly tapped his knuckles against the Autobrand on his chassis. “Getting back into the fight, it was like no time had passed at all. For I could tell, I’d just onlined from a really long recharge cycle.”

“But that wasn’t the case.” Though it wasn’t phrased like a question, the inquiry was there, and both knew Bumblebee was too good at picking up cues to miss it.

“No,” he said, dropping his hand, “I was aware for most of the last few years. Believe me, there were times I would have done anything to drop into defrag for a few hours, but I guess when you’re only kind of alive-ish your processor doesn’t work exactly the same way. I was pretty limited in what I could do.”

An unspoken answer to an unasked question. He’d worked with Prowl for long enough to be sensitive to the subtleties of such a trade of information, though he would always prefer to be forthright.

“How did you find me?” he asked. Even if he didn’t like the game, he knew how to play it, and that sometimes a risky move like a diversion was necessary to get ahead.

“Windblade noticed you while doing a sweep of the area,” Prowl said, accepting Bumblebee’s lead. “She was concerned but felt it would be out of line for her to interfere.”

“And she knew you wouldn’t be bothered by that ‘procedural nonsense.’” Bumblebee regretted the words as his vocalizer was synthesizing them. No matter how he smiled or the cute way his helm tilted to one side, there was no way to turn them into the casual quip he’d intended. Time had not yet healed that old wound, and all he’d done was exposed the damaged protomesh under the plating.

It wasn’t like he was seeking treatment for it, either. Left untended for so long, the frayed circuits and warped edges had become as familiar to him as any other part of his psyche, the way the war had shaped him to the point that he could not remove its influence and still remain Bumblebee of Iacon. He was his failures, and the last thing he wanted was for those who had pointed them out to think he resented them for doing so. Criticism meant people were paying attention. It was a reminder that his leadership had not existed in a vacuum, that there were reasons more than just personal shame to keep trying to be better. His one relief was in knowing that he’d revealed this vulnerability to the mech he knew wouldn’t try to take any of it back. He’d known Prowl to feel regret on only a handful of occasions, and never once bore witness to him expressing it openly.

“We each found the manner in which events played out on Cybertron to be disagreeable, for our own reasons,” Prowl said now, the burn of his optic as steady as his voice. “It might be inappropriate after all that we have done, and all that we allowed to happen, but I do still consider you my best friend. I wanted to check on you myself.”

The declaration surprised Bumblebee. Not being called Prowl’s best friend, which he’d known for some time and been unable to reciprocate for reasons they were both familiar with, but hearing that the sentiment remained even with the intervening years and numerous mistakes stretching out the space between them.

“And what’s the prognosis?” he asked, doing them both the favor of putting off that conversation for another day.

Prowl stared at Bumblebee; his lip twitched.

“Oh, come on, really?” Bumblebee said, waving a hand. “I’m fine—well, I will be. If almost surviving the war taught me anything, it’s that there’s always a way to bounce back. And anyway, right now, I can’t really say that I’m feeling any worse than everybody else. There are some mechs down there who lost way more than I did.”

He stopped himself before he could go too far down that road, realizing that he was starting to quantify lives in the same way that had gotten Prowl is so much trouble towards the end. Their dynamic only worked so long as he was the subjective one, the one who processed individuals instead of numbers, who couldn’t say how many Autobots were stationed at a given base but could tell you half the staff’s favorite energon supplements.

“Here,” he said, brushing away the carpet of needles and pinecones before settling himself onto the dirt. “We worked so hard to save these stars, why not take some time to enjoy them?” Whatever grit got into their joints and seams now would be a negligible addition to the filth caked to their plating. Dust and mud had combined with congealed energon to leave ugly streaks across most Cybertronians’ frames, paint dulled or rubbed off entirely in patterns that probably could have retold the story of the battle if observed carefully enough. Everyone was walking around with a narrative of what they’d been doing when the world nearly ended, and although Bumblebee would be glad to rinse himself of it once the washrack stations were operational, the sense of solidarity provided him with another reminder of why they’d put their bodies through such torment in the first place.

Prowl sat, leaving space enough between them that a third mech could have joined them comfortably. Gaze angled up, to the galaxy that somehow felt just as far away now as his home world, Bumblebee allowed himself to sink back into the feeling he had enveloped himself in at the party: spark spinning in its chamber, fuel pump beating against his lines, gyros calibrating, optics sensing, vents whispering. His body was alive, working, its systems operating in tandem to keep each other functioning. For the first time in years, he could not only see the world, but touch it, grasp it, and the burden of that responsibility was one he accepted with gratitude.

Responsibility under the scrutiny of others was much easier to manage than one taken on with no supervision. Managing Starscream had been a challenge not just for the logistical work involved, but because Bumblebee had never had anyone to assure him that it was the right thing to do, especially given his own track record in leadership. At the same time, there were elements of his self-appointed position that his processor longed to dwell on a little longer, memory files initiating playback without his consent and being halted just as quickly.

Late nights spent pouring over datapads, exhaustive lists of information on—stop.

Unshared cubes of celebratory engex after Starscream’s—stop.

Arguments with Starscream of completely forgettable—stop.

Starscream flying low over the rooftops of New—stop.

Starscream sentencing a mech to—stop.

Starscream standing at the podi—stop.

Starsc—stop.

Stop.

Queue for deletion.

Bumblebee’s sparked jumped and he immediately unqueued the file, holding it at the forefront of his processor to watch the playback: Starscream spinning on a heelstrut and pushing off his balcony with his thrusters, transforming midair and blasting off across the city. It was Starscream’s usual routine and Bumblebee likely had identical copies for every morning he’d spent in that self-indulgence of a penthouse, but he played it through several more times before returning it to his archives, processor finally sated.

Memories were all that remained of Starscream now, and that made them precious: impossible, irresponsible to discard.

His spark was spinning too fast. Silence wasn’t working; he needed to think about anything else.

“Are you okay?” he ventured.

Physical evidence of the battle was ubiquitous to the point that Bumblebee had stopped noticing its presence, but he hardly had to search for it once he started paying attention again. Like everyone else, Prowl’s finish was dusty and dull, paint rubbed off and armor dented in varying patterns across his frame. He was also littered in surface-level scratches, each of them glinting with jagged bits of shrapnel, and his shoulder betrayed the efficiency of some Maximal’s claws. It was all surface-level damage, which meant he wouldn’t be seen until the next round of medical exams took place, but it was still an interruption of the body and its normal functioning. The shadow occupying one side of his face was as loud and present as it would remain unmentioned, too like the new spaces between the stars.

And yet, his remaining optic burned like all the stars still clinging to life, refusing to be extinguished by this or any other darkness.

“I realized some things, about myself and my work, that I’d never had an opportunity to give voice to before today,” Prowl said. He let his singular gaze drift back to the masses of Cybertronians making their way through what could, for now, be considered their home. “For the first time since our return to Cybertron, maybe even since the start of the war, I feel like what I need to do and what everyone else needs from me actually align.” His lips quirked. It wasn’t a smile, but Bumblebee was under the impression that it was all Prowl was capable of now. “How I feel about such a revelation doesn’t matter; I’m going to do what’s necessary regardless. But I have to say, it’s pleasant.”

“It’s the first time in your life the choice doesn’t have to be a hard one,” Bumblebee said, “that’s probably why it feels good. It’s a relief.”

Prowl had his specialties, each of debatable merit and value, but this was Bumblebee’s: listening, filling in the gaps, forming the words that the speakers themselves couldn’t say but needed to be heard. People talked to Bumblebee because they knew he listened, and not in the way Prowl did, cataloguing information and storing it for later use, usually to the detriment of the subject. Bumblebee listened to understand. Though he struggled at times with sympathy, he still often found himself caring about those who opened up to him, causing him to wonder at times the motivations for even some of the most despicable acts performed in the war, regardless of faction origins. He’d stagnated some during his disastrous attempts at leadership, both for the Autobots and Cybertron as a whole, but the talent had remained, and in the years since he’d had nothing but time to practice and hone it.

Conveniently, it also made it easy for him to set aside his own, far less optimistic self-realizations.

“I’m happy for you,” he said, and though it was sincere, it was also inadequate. On all the planets Cybertron’s war had brought him to, not one had a word that would be able to encompass everything he was feeling in that moment, on that day.

“Thank you, Bumblebee.”

They grew silent and settled, trading glances between the cold stars above their heads and the living ones milling around the valley’s basin. It struck Bumblebee that his earlier search for company had been misguided in the same way his attempts at leading had been. He had a reputation for getting along with everyone, but experience by now had taught him that it only applied in one-on-one scenarios. On the dancefloor, surrounded by mechs eager to grab a drink and dance with the first bot to reach out to them, the energy had been right, but there’d been nowhere for it to go. Passed from dancer to dancer, he hadn’t worried about anyone looking too closely at him, accidentally peeling away the palatable upper layers and revealing that which he himself wasn’t ready to look at too closely. He was hurting, that much was obvious, but so was everyone else, and he’d thought that if he’d reached out to enough hurting mechs then maybe it would meet that need he had to connect and understand the internal structure of others.

He didn’t know how the night would have ended if Prowl hadn’t found him. Most likely, it wouldn’t have; he would have stayed on until the last dancers wandered off with the rising of the sun, and then returned to the aid stations to demand they let him help. As things stood now, he doubted he was going to be able to recharge with all the thoughts spinning through his processor, but better to spend these unintended waking hours with someone who he knew, to whom this day and its repercussions would mean the same as they did to Bumblebee.

“Without knowing what you do now,” Prowl said, “would you have tried to stop Optimus from annexing the Earth?”

The question was unexpected, the curiosity backing it a facet of Prowl that Bumblebee was not familiar with. He turned to look at his companion but received no responding glance.

“You mean, if we hadn’t known it would be our last salvation?”

“Yes. Obviously, it turned out to be in the benefit of our species in the end, but on principle, would you have stood against Optimus Prime?”

Bumblebee leaned back, letting his optics slide over the dance of the cosmos.

“It’s not like I could never disagree with Optimus, we argued plenty of times,” he said. “Pretty much every opportunity he took to leave the Autobots, I pointed out what a terrible idea it was, and I was right!”

“So, you’re saying the annexation was a similarly poor maneuver.”

Bumblebee wilted. He’d started to think that this conversation might avoid turning into an interrogation.

“No,” he said.

“It was a good decision?”

Bumblebee ran a hand down his faceplate, ignoring the bits of dirt that came with it.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t even here for most of it. Can you—Primus, can you not ask me that question?”

“What should I ask you, then?”

“What?”

Prowl finally twisted to look at him, not just his face, but his whole chassis turning to face Bumblebee, who was inadvertently reminded of how much smaller he was than most of the other Autobots.

“You clearly have something on your mind, Bumblebee,” he said. “What’s the question you want me to be asking?”

It took Bumblebee’s processor a moment to understand what was happening. Like he had done for so many other mechs, Prowl was now trying to reach across that void, to help light that space where the self grew thin and words couldn’t reach, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to do it on his own and asking for help to finish. It was a ridiculous request, and unselfish in a way that Prowl alone could achieve.

“What I told you earlier,” he said, words coming in such a rush they nearly scrambled, “ask me why.” He had no doubt Prowl would know what he was talking about. It was the only thing he’d managed to say that night of any substance, and Prowl’s constantly running battle computer would have picked it out and categorized it as such.

Prowl’s optic flashed.

“Why were you limited?” he asked. “Why didn’t you stop Starscream?”

There it was. The question that had been following Bumblebee for years, the one he could never close despite his spark’s aching need for resolution. His fans clicked on as his struggling processor started to heat his core, digging and calculating for the answer that had always eluded him.

“He’s tricky,” Bumblebee said, tracking the distances between stars with his optics, “and not just in the way he lies constantly, although that doesn’t make talking to him any easier, for sure. It’s more like his processor is constantly at war with itself. He’s scared of everything, but also entirely overconfident in his ability to defend himself. He doesn’t believe in anything, but still sees himself as destined for some greater purpose. Every time you think you’ve started to figure him out, there’s a contradiction, or he just sabotages himself to keep from being too predictable, and you can never be sure which way it’s going to go.” He meant it literally. Prowl’s battle plans had frequently been sidetracked by Starscream doing something unexpected, though there was no need to open those old wounds by pointing it out explicitly. “His processor works in layers, and they go so deep I don’t think even he knows what the core really looks like.”

It felt good to say it all out loud, to know that at least one other person might now understand the psychological labyrinth he’d been working through over the past few years, even if it brought Bumblebee no closer to understanding how Starscream functioned.

Had functioned. He realized belatedly that he’d said his whole piece as though Starscream were somewhere down in the valley, barking orders at the rest of the refugees.

“It’s a decent analysis, but it doesn’t answer the question,” Prowl said. “Anyone could tell you that Starscream is a difficult mech to work with. Why is it that your approach failed to yield results?”

Bumblebee frowned.

“I already said what I wanted to.”

“And I’m sure that was very individually gratifying for you, Bee, but you told me the question to ask and now I expect you to answer it.” Prowl’s expression was stern, and Bumblebee realized he was no longer talking to his old friend Prowl, whom he had accompanied on his first trip to a nightclub and had gotten flustered when a certain rookie grounder so much as entered the room. This was Commander Prowl, leader of the soldiers posted on Ark-19, greatest tactician of the Autobot army, and ruthless pragmatist.

He had half a mind to leave right then. He always knew it was possible for conversations with Prowl to take a turn like this, and normally he would find some way to laugh it off and change the subject, but he’d done that so many times that day he knew his defensive optimism was already spent. His tactile sensors were prickling from the extra energy being processed to match his frustration, and he could feel a familiar scowl starting to settle on his faceplate, one he’d hoped would go away once the main threat had been disposed of. It was only by the weight of loss that he stayed down, the knowledge that his spark wasn’t ready to handle another goodbye, especially one done out of anger. The crease remained between his optic ridges, but he did not move away from his spot on the ground.

“I wasn’t good enough,” he ground out.

“Even if that were true, I would expect you to be more specific.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” he spat. His anger was being fuel by a tangible, uncomfortable heat emanating from his overclocked processor, and he had to vent out a few cycles of hot air before he could trust himself to say more than static. “At first, I figured it was all just a game to him, so I tried to use logic. Find the moves that help him win and give Cybertron a better future, seemed simple. Except, he always found something wrong with it. Either this person didn’t trust him, or that idea had too many contingencies. I could never solve all the problems to make him confident in anything I had to say.

“So, I changed tactics. If he was going to push against concrete solutions, then I could just work him through theoretical frameworks, explain why certain things were wrong and let him make the logical steps to make the right choices. I know it sounds ridiculous, but he wanted to stay in power, and even he realized he would have to be a decent ruler in order to make that happen. It seemed like a good plan, and sometimes it even seemed to work. But then something minor would happen, one of the delegates would spook him or a disaster outside anyone’s control would cause some civil unrest, and he would go straight back to his old habits. I could never figure out what he needed from me.”

“You didn’t know what someone needed to hear? That’s hard to believe.”

“Well, like I said, he was a challenging mech to understand.”

“You made the galaxy’s foremost war criminal switch sides after a few minutes alone together, yet your years spent with Starscream offered no insights at all into his inner workings?”

Prowl was right: Bumblebee was making excuses again. He leaned forward and touched his face, remembering the unfeeling sensation of the battlemask, how it had acted as a buffer between him and Megatron right up until that last critical minute. Being around Starscream had always left him feeling exposed. Even if the other mech didn’t dig in the way Bumblebee had, he always knew how to push back, peeling away the layers of Bumblebee’s arguments and finding the hidden agendas Bumblebee hadn’t even realized he’d been hiding. Though he never felt the need to question his own intentions, the incronguity between method and motivation had given him pause on numerous occasions.

“I tried to be a political advisor, and then some sort of morality coach, and I was always doomed to fail on both accounts because Starscream already had mechs who could function in either capacity. What he needed, and what I failed to provide for him, was a friend.”

It had been no mere accident, either. Trapped in infraspace, kept apart from his friends and forced to watch as they scattered themselves across the galaxy without him, he’d been in just as desperate need for connection as Starscream. Aware of that desperation, though, and the effect Starscream had already proven to have over mechs much less easily swayed than Bumblebee himself, he had recognized the inherent danger in opening himself up to Starscream in any way that mattered. Even if infraspace had been his eternity and he’d never had to face the Autobots again, even more reason not to let himself be shaped into someone he could no longer recognize. So, with political rhetoric and claims for the common good and one-sided efforts to learn how Starscream’s processor operated, he had held intimacy at bay.

And still despite that, he had come to care for the other mech. He knew he was not alone in that: numerous others who’d been swept up in Starscream’s political dealings had ended up with some stake in their leader’s wellbeing, to variable degrees, but he knew there to be more to the connection than the keeping of Cybertron’s population. That had been the start, and remained the basis for some time, but the moment Starscream stepped into his cell, Bumblebee knew he could not leave the fallen titan to his fate. Had Shockwave never returned, he would have stayed for the entirety of the life sentence, acting as companion to the one person in the universe who needed one even more than him.

A part of his processor kept carefully encrypted finally released, and he wondered if Starscream would have opened the Talisman if he’d known there was someone who would miss him.

His vocalizer was working before his processor had decided how to communicate the thought.

“But something must have gotten through to him. I don’t know if it was actually anything I did, but he sacrificed himself to bring down Unicron. He died a hero.”

“Hm.” Prowl was staring at him, analyzing and cataloguing, calculating future outcomes. Bumblebee could almost see the process at work behind his optic, and he wondered if he’d picked the wrong mech to share all this with.

“I’m sure you mean that sincerely,” he said, “but I do feel it my obligation to remind you that this is the same Starscream who proposed to have Metroplex space bridge to Earth while more than half the population was still trapped on Cybertron.”

“I know, Prowl.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know, I know.” Bumblebee drew his fingers through the dry upper layer of the soil, relishing the feeling after spending too long dwelling on the time in his life when he’d had no body to do it with. “Somehow, despite that, he ended up a true hero. I just wanted one other person to know.”

That felt like the closest he’d come to saying something true all night. Sure, he’d meant everything he’d said to Prowl, and in a certain context and for practical purposes it was true. All of it, though, was part of the system of layers of his and Starscream’s own making, and no matter what degree his honesty took, he always felt that there was something buried deeper, a further truth, like crystals buried in the roots of ore deposits. The desire to not be alone with his knowledge, though, that was pure. Even if Prowl didn’t share his view, took Bumblebee’s faith as a judgement on his character and nothing more: better that than to live alone with his belief for the rest of his life.

A streak of light flashed across the sky, its beauty reabsorbed before it could even be appreciated, and with a wrench of his spark Bumblebee realized that this was his final farewell to Starscream. The other departed would get funerals, boisterous reminiscences shared over pints of engex, teary quiet moments of remembrance, but there was no one with whom he could share this grief, no one who would understand what they’d been through, the intense bond that had been somehow formed from a conjunxing of desperation, loneliness, and a shared hope for Cybertron’s future. In the coming days he would lack the time to give adequate thought to the questions he still had, and as the present stretched gradually away from the past, memories would become unreliable, recollections of certain events contested until all that remained was a winged silhouette and a feeling of ever more unachievable ambition. Starscream’s eulogy had been written in words only ever spoken aloud, his legacy unforgettable and yet perpetually unclaimed.

“Establishing Starscream’s role in our history is going to be an essential if divisive task in the years to come,” Prowl said, once more reeling Bumblebee back in. “You will likely not find companions to agree with you in equal measure to those who oppose your viewpoint, but I would advise against rising to their challenges. Your skills would be better served elsewhere.” He made to stand, brushing off dust as he righted himself. “From what I’ve heard, an old colleague of mine has taken an interest in the new protoforms developing within Trypticon. She’s hoping to assist in their education and development, give them an opportunity to live lives free of the choices we were forced to make. It’s something to consider.”

“What, becoming a teacher?” The suggestion so surprised Bumblebee that he didn’t think to stand as well.

“Yes. You’re one of the few mechs I would trust with such a responsibility, Bumblebee.”

Prowl’s sincerity gave weight to the air, and for one brief moment, it was like the last several years hadn’t happened, and they were once more brothers in arms, fighting the oppression of the Decepticons and defending innocent life wherever it needed them. Bumblebee could never miss the war, but the links he had formed with his fellow Autobots were such that could only be sustained through a cocktail of mutual need for survival and crushing belief that the cause they fought for was the right one. Despite every well-meaning promise between veteran comrades to keep in touch after the fighting was over, there were some connections that could never be revived back to what they were when life and death were commodities in a galaxy-spanning trade.

The spinning of Bumblebee’s spark slowed, its chamber aching.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Good.” Prowl crossed his arms in front of his chassis, his weight shifting in the direction of the tree line. The moment was over; there would not be another.

“I’m going underground in the morning,” he said, voice still steady. “I’ve picked up some fragile cargo that will need to be stored in a more secure location.”

“Oh. Are you coming back?”

“Most likely, once I feel security is up to my specifications.”

“Well, I’ll be here,” Bumblebee assured, easing back again. “And hey, if the Lost Light’s back by then, maybe we can grab Hound and Ratchet and go out for a drink. You know, almost like pulling the old Iacon crew back together.”

“We’ll see if the timing actually works out so well,” Prowl allowed. It wasn’t a flat rejection, though he did turn to leave. “I suspect you’ll be busy soon enough.”

“We’ll see,” Bumblebee echoed. He liked the thought of being busy, of having a role to play in this fledgling society, but he wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be yet. For a couple hours, he’d thought that maybe morale boosting could be his duty to the survivors, but this conversation had him thinking differently. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be known as the passive listener anymore, even if the alternative terrified him, memories of looking down on his Autobots plaguing his processor.

It would be different this time, he told himself. He would make it so. And if he was really serious about making changes from his earlier tactics, he knew one obvious place to start.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you on Cybertron,” he said. The words came naturally, like they’d been sitting in his processor for some time, waiting for him to discover them. “I was so wrapped up in everything else going on that I didn’t notice, but I should have, and I’m really sorry.”

Prowl paused, back to Bumblebee, the whir of normal systems working louder than anything else in the night.

“Prowl?”

“I heard you, Bee. I… I heard you. Have a pleasant night.”

It was simple, a clean cut. Prowl’s form disappeared into the darkness and Bumblebee couldn’t say for sure if he would ever see it again. He suspected he would; though Prowl liked to disappear from time to time, he never trusted the rest of them to be completely left to their own devices and would inevitably slip back into the command structure to keep things operational. Though everything was different now, it was comforting to think that some of their bad habits might stay just the same.

He looked up to the night sky, wondering if it would always feel incomplete, and tried to guess if his emotions were those that one was supposed to feel in such a moment.

“Finally. I was starting to think you might’ve already found my replacement.”

Bumblebee whirled around.

The glow was the first thing he noticed, light bleeding off Starscream’s immaculate frame while illuminating nothing around him, neither the branches his armor rippled around as he moved, nor Bumblebee’s own plating as he turned himself fully, optics wide and flickering rapidly. He was smirking, of course, lit red optics piercing through the night like beacons calling a ship home.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” he chided as he strode forward, grace betraying none of his years spent in military service. “You didn’t really think I was just going to leave you to manage my legacy on your own, did you?”

He was smiling, not smirking, Bumblebee realized, smiling and radiant and gorgeous, and in that moment, he knew he’d been lying to himself every time he said he was afraid of becoming Starscream’s friend. He’d befriended questionable characters before, offered a listening ear to those who had nothing to offer but hateful rhetoric and come away from it stronger in his convictions and his loyalty to the Autobot cause. The wariness that had plagued him in infraspace, that had him turning his newly-built back on Starscream the first moment he could, was forged from the knowledge that his feelings for Starscream had the potential to run much deeper than any of the thousands of friendships he’d formed in his several million years online.

When Starscream came striding through the trees that night, frame glowing like he’d taken the light of Primus with him when he’d slipped out the doors of death, Bumblebee realized, without needing to say it out loud, that to offer his spark to Starscream would mean never getting it back. Starscream could reject him, belittle him, take off into the cosmos and never return to Bumblebee’s side in whatever years they had left, and still Bumblebee would feel the slow-burning jagged wonderful ache, this new desire to be known in a way that had never been of interest to him before. Though he believed (hoped) Starscream was desperate enough for company that he would not betray Bumblebee for this unfortunate truth, the thought of another mech having that much power over him was terrifying, and he was grateful that it seemed they would now have plenty years ahead to let those feelings develop before a time came for critical decisions to be made.

Worries for the future, then. On that day, with the sky twice as dark as it had once been and the shadows of their past lives draped overhead, mechs of all backgrounds were dancing together, celebrating those stars they had managed to save in time with their mourning for those they did not. Bumblebee and Starscream met in the middle, both talking too fast to understand what the other was saying, their shared lights more than enough to illuminate their new world.

#maccadam #transformers #starbee #bumblebee #prowl #starscream #my writing #fanfiction

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blankdblank · 7 years

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Alone at the dance - Pt 1 Going Home

...

Bilbo Baggins along with his older Sister, had been in your custody since the day Elles fell, His Grandparents, Parents and his twin sister had died in the attack from Smaug. Around ten years before the Journey you had gone to Gondor at the request of King Arathorn, his wife was having complications with her pregnancy, you had helped her through them, shortly after Arathorn was killed, leaving his wife distraught, you took her to Rivendell on your way back to the Shire. She could barely contain her sorrow, and had remained there but deciding to leave Middle Earth after her young son was weaned off of her milk, entrusting him into your care, knowing you would keep him safe until the time came for him to be King, reluctantly Elrond agreed to keeping the secret, swearing his family and close servants that had known his lineage to secrecy along with his location. Shortly after this Bilbo’s sister and her husband had a boating accident, leaving their baby boy Frodo an orphan, Bilbo and you took him in as well, being the only people Frodo allowed to hold him after he lost his parents. The boys were spending the night at the Gamgee’s Home when the Company arrived, they gratefully agreed to take care of them while you were gone, sending word to Elrond about your Journey, his Twin sons had arrived the next morning by dragon to keep watch over them until you got to Erebor, when they would fly them back to Rivendell, where they would stay with Elrond and his sons until Erebor and your former home were repaired enough to house them.

You had joined the company along with Bilbo, though you were not given a contract. Thorin still insisted you be paid handsomely for killing Smaug and named you an eternal ally of his people, much to Dain’s displeasure. You refused to take the gold but he insisted on leaving you a line of credit, which he recorded so if you ever wanted or needed gold you could send him word, Also assigning you and Bilbo rooms in the Royal Wing. King Dain had not trusted you from day one but had gained respect for you when you still saved his life in battle and the lives of his family.

...

Rebuilding Erebor/Dale

...

The Half Hobbits that all made up the Mithril Army and their families that had arrived to help heal the wounded all took up their old homes in the Half Hobbit Marketplace/City and sent word to their full Hobbit relatives that used to live in Elles it was safe to return, and re-tilling their lands and quickly growing food to sell in their markets for Laketown and Erebor. Along with Thorin and Dain sending word out to any Dwarves that wanted to return. Until the other Dwarves returned you helped wherever you could, ending up with several jobs, somehow always ending up being covered in inches of grime and dirt, just how the Company had always found you along the journey, barely able to notice the true shade of your skin or how beautiful your hair really was since it was always dirty and knotted along the way. Then through Mirkwood you had added a thick layer of spiderwebs, twigs and leaves.

...

Moving back Home

...

You had spent the last two weeks assisting with the rebuild, since the Dwarves returning to Erebor had been snatching up their old Jobs, leaving you out of a job yet again. After your last day in your repair job in the forges, you returned from fixing an old machine leaving you covered in smoke and grease, then returning to your room wanting to bathe, to find a distant relative of Thorin reclaiming the room that he had assigned you, throwing your small potted plants and drawings out into the hall, thankfully the rest of your belongings you had kept in your enchanted bag, you quietly gathered your things and placed them gently in your bag.

The Company had barely had time for you except Bilbo who was by your side most of the day, sharing meals with you, the two of you forcing the Elf King to join you instead of awkwardly staring from the distance. You three had become close friends, his son often joining you, and since he had the habit of following you and neglecting to eat you had gifted him an enchanted Hobbit bag filled with food so he wouldn't get hungry while he shadowed you, he was eternally grateful and cherished the gift you had given him.

You made your way through the Mountain, to the old Half Hobbit marketplace and city built into the small dwarf mountains at the base of Erebor across the river from Dale. The Elf King spotting you from Dale and making his way to you, following you from a safe distance, curious where you were headed.

You forced your way back through the old rusted gate leading from the newly reclaimed Marketplace that the Hobbits and their families had reopened and were still cleaning, into the city inside the small mountain, Bilbo spotted you from the distance as he assisted with repairing a small cafe, joining your side and you quietly informed him that your room had been stolen.

You led him to your old home that you had abandoned when Erebor had fell, and he quietly helped you unpack your things and helped clean the windows and place your potted plants back in your untended gardens in front of your house, not yet planting them but setting them out so they would get the most sun.

Bilbo helped you scrub it clean, repaired you pedal powered washer and dryer so you could wash your clothes and sheets, along with checking the plumbing, chimneys and stove, and set up your sons rooms.

King Thranduil had been wandering through your old garden, admiring how even though it had been decades your garden had been the least overgrown and seemed to still show a hint of how beautiful it used to be.

Pt 2

#Bilbo #Frodo #Elles #Thranduil #TheCompany #Erebor #Thranduil x Reader #lotr #hobbit #Thranduil x Reader OC

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sarahburness · 5 years

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We Keep Going, One Tiny Step at a Time, and We Should Be Proud

“Don’t wait until you reach your goal to be proud of yourself. Be proud of every step you take.” ~Karen Salmansohn

One of the greatest ironies of being human is that we’re often hardest on ourselves right when we should be most proud.

Let’s say you finally find the courage to start a dream project you’ve fantasized about for as long as you can remember. You push through years of built-up fears, overcome massive internal resistance, and take the leap despite feeling like you’re jumping through a ring of fire, above a pit filled with burning acid.

It’s one of the most terrifying things you’ve ever done. It dredges up all your deepest insecurities, triggers feelings you’d rather stuff down and ignore, and brings you face to face with the most fragile, vulnerable parts of yourself.

The fact that you’re even willing to take this risk is huge. Monumental, really. Just getting on this long, winding path is an accomplishment worth acknowledging and celebrating. Most people avoid it. They do what they’ve always done and remain stuck in discontent, wishing they could know a life less limited.

But you? You’re trying. You’re taking a chance at being who you could be, knowing full well there are no guarantees. You’re a f*cking rockstar. A total badass for giving this a go. But you likely don’t see it that way.

You likely think you’re not doing enough, or doing it fast enough, or doing it well enough for it to count. You might get down on yourself for not learning more quickly, or having a perfectly honed vision and plan from the start.

Instead of giving yourself credit for every inch you move forward, you might beat yourself up for not leaping a mile.

Or maybe you’re not pursuing a dream for the future. Maybe you’re facing a pain from the past.

Let’s say you’re finally leaning into your anxiety or depression instead of numbing your feelings with booze, food, or any other distraction. Perhaps you’re in therapy, even, trying to get to the root of your complex feelings and heal wounds that have festered, untended, for years.

It’s intense, draining work that few can understand because there’s no visible representation of just how deep your pain goes. No way to fully explain how tough it is to face it. No way to show how hard you’re trying, every day, to fight a darkness that seems determined to consume you. So on top of being emotionally exhausted, you quite frequently feel alone.

Just acknowledging the pain beneath the mental and emotional symptoms is an act of immense bravery. And allowing yourself to face it, however and whenever you can—well let’s just say they should give out medals for this kind of thing. You’re a f*cking hero. A total badass for doing the work to save yourself. But you probably don’t see it that way.

You might think you aren’t making progress fast enough. Or you’re weak for having these struggles to begin with. Or you suck at life because sometimes you fall back into old patterns, even though on many other occasions, you don’t.

Instead of giving yourself credit for every small win, you might beat yourself up for being a failure. As if nothing you do is good enough, and you’ll never be good enough, because you’re not perfect right now.

Because if it’s not all happening right now—the healing, the growth, the progress—it’s easy to fear it never will. And it will be all your fault.

If it seems like I’m speaking from personal experience, that’s because I am.

I followed a decade of depression and bulimia with years of self-flagellation for not healing overnight and magically morphing into someone far less fragile.

I responded to childhood trauma by abusing myself for acting insecure and emotionally unstable, even when I was actively trying to learn better ways to live and cope.

And I crucified myself for every cigarette and shot when I was trying to quit smoking and binge drinking, even though I quite frequently went long stretches of time without doing anything self-destructive.

Through all this internal whip cracking, I consistently reinforced to myself that I was weak for not changing overnight when really I should have acknowledged I was strong for making any progress at all.

It was like I was watching myself treading water, with broken limbs, while screaming at myself to hurry up and get stronger instead of throwing myself the rope of my own self-encouragement.

In retrospect, this makes sense. This is how most of us learn growing up—not through validation but punishment. We far more often hear about what we’re doing wrong than what we’re doing right. So instead of supporting ourselves through our deepest struggles, we berate ourselves for even having them.

Though I’ve made tremendous progress with this over the years, and I’m no longer in crisis, I still find myself expecting instant perfection at times.

I’m currently pushing myself far beyond the edge of my comfort zone—so far I can’t even see it from where I’m precariously floating.

I’m writing more here on the site after years of working through an identity crisis I’ve never publicly discussed.

I’m trying to get funding for a feature film I wrote, with themes that are deeply personal to me, knowing the “low budget” is still no easy amount to raise, and I might fail spectacularly.

I’m working on multiple new projects with third party companies—something I’ve avoided in the past because I’m a control freak who doesn’t easily trust others to take the reins.

And I’m doing it all while pregnant—six and a half months to be exact—at almost forty years old. So on top of all the usual fears that accompany big risks and changes, I’m juggling your garden-variety new parent concerns, with a few geriatric-pregnancy-related worries for good measure. (Yes, geriatric. My uterus could be a grandmother!)

I’m pushing myself into a new league, far outside my little work-from-home introvert bubble, while frequently feeling both physically and emotionally exhausted. I’m finally giving myself the leeway to evolve after years of saying I wanted to grow but refusing to let go of my comfort to enable it. And really, I should be proud.

Every time I take a meeting when I’d rather do only what I can accomplish myself, every time I send an email for a new opportunity when it would be easier to passively wait for whatever comes to me, every time I push myself to be the brave, fulfilled person I want to be for both me and my son, I should throw myself an internal parade. A festival complete with a float in my own image and endless flutes of the best champagne. (I know, I’m pregnant, but it’s internal, remember? Keep the bubbly flowing!)

But do I do this? To be fair, yes. Sometimes I do. And I’m proud of myself for that. I’ve come a long way from the self-abusive girl who only knew to motivate with intimidation and fear.

But other times I can be pretty hard on myself. It’s like I have this vision of how this should all work, and when, and I blame myself if I can’t meet my rigid expectations on my ideal timeline.

I don’t always step back and see the big picture: That there are many external factors I can’t control, and I need to be adaptable to deal with them. That it’s hard to learn new things, and no amount of willpower or dedication can make the process instant. That some things simply take time, and this isn’t a reflection of my worth or my effort.

I get impatient. I get frustrated. I get anxious and resistant.

And really it all comes down to attachment. I resist this slow, uncertain process, and bully myself into making things happen more quickly, because I want these things so bad I can taste them, and I fear they may never happen at all.

I want the freedom these new opportunities could provide. I want the creative fulfillment of bringing my vision to life. I want the things I tell myself I should have made happen years ago, and I want them now so I can focus on the joy of attainment instead of beating myself up for having “wasted time.”

But none of this internal drama is useful or productive, and it certainly does nothing for my motivation or focus. It’s nearly impossible to create from your heart when it’s totally eclipsed by anxiety and fear.

The only way to do anything effectively is to accept where you are, let go of the outcome, and throw yourself into the process.

So going forward, when my mind tries to bully me into doing more than I reasonably can or shame me for my pace or my progress, I’m going to remind myself I’m doing better than I think. We all are. And we all deserve more credit than we likely give ourselves.

We all deserve credit for facing our demons, chasing our dreams, and showing up every day when it would be easier to hide.

We all deserve acknowledgment for every tiny step forward, no matter how slow or timid, because creating change is hard.

We all deserve recognition for the many internal hurdles we overcome, even though they’re not visibly apparent to anyone else, because often they’re harder to tackle than even the most challenging external obstacles.

And we all deserve the peace of knowing that who we are right now is enough. Even if we have room to grow, even if there are things we’d like to achieve, we are good enough just as we are. And it’s okay to be right where we are.

It’s okay to be messy, inconsistent, and not always at our best. It’s okay to feel insecure, unsure, lost, confused, and scared. It’s okay to make massive advances on some days and just get by on others.

Would it be nice if we could instantly transport ourselves to the idealized future we see in our heads? Sure. But that’s not really what it means to “live our best life”—despite what our YOLO-promoting culture would have us believe.

Living our best is embracing what is, while working to create what can be. It’s doing the best we can with what’s in front of us, and accepting that nothing else is guaranteed. Because this is the only moment we know for sure we have.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get to the end of my life and realize I missed most of it because I always felt it needed to be more—and that I needed to be more—to fully appreciate and enjoy what I had while I had it.

So today, I’ve decided to be proud. Of my strength, my efforts, my progress, and the fact that I keep going. Whether I’m wounded, weary, or worried, I keep getting back up. I keep moving forward. I keep evolving. I am doing the best I can. And so are you.

About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She’s also the author of Tiny Buddha’s Gratitude Journal and other books and co-founder of Recreate Your Life Story, an online course that helps you let go of the past and live a life you love. An avid film lover, she recently finished writing her first feature screenplay and is in pre-production now.

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The post We Keep Going, One Tiny Step at a Time, and We Should Be Proud appeared first on Tiny Buddha.

from Tiny Buddha https://tinybuddha.com/blog/we-keep-going-and-we-should-be-proud/

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lianthehalfling-blog · 7 years

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Chapter 1 - Bachelor Party

Parish Inlay (Paladin - Trey), Torac (Ranger - Eric), and Mindel (Sprite Theif - Paul) slipped from distant Black Cat Taverns to the Vigar Black Cat.. as did I. This sudden change was the beginning of my adventures abroad. Me? My name is Helianthus, but I don’t look much like a sunflower. In fact, I don’t look very nice at all. White hair with a red blaze down the center, overweight, and glowing green eyes. I mean, Glowing Green Eyes! The gods certainly played a joke when they gifted me to my parents.

Since Helianthus is such a mouthful, I go by Lian. It was Parish who first asked about the town. Jargreen, the ever present keeper of The Black Cat, told us we were in a new town. Kindness itself, Parish bought me a breakfast of oatmeal. Since I only had a handful of coin left to myself I was very greatfull to the Paladin.

Mindel showed up in the common room a few minutes after us.... then the Sprite, Mindel. I wasn’t sure what to make of Mindel. He has a really annoying voice and seems very confused about everything. He also seems to only care about himself... but when we left the inn, well.. I’ll get to that.

A maid to the mayors daughter showed up in the inn with a story of her mistresses Fiance having vanished the day before. A prophecy told that if Melody, the mayors daughter, was not wed by noon the next day that she would become a priestess of Lys. The head of the local guard also wanted to wed Melody, and the maid suspected he had Richard, the fiance, hidden away. Her mistress promised a reward if we could find Richard and get him to the temple on time. How much? 200 gold! And since I was practically broke, this would be welcome money.

Maizy, the maid, thought Richard was being held on a small island, inside of a ruined light house, but warned of crashing boars who lurked in the lands between the town and the water. Large, feral beasts they were, likely to attack as soon as they saw us.

With little else to do, Parish, Torac, Mindel and myself set off towards the island to see if we could at least earn some coin. Mindel seemed desperate to get home, and Torac had been pulled away from his job on a Caravan. Of all of us, only Parish seemed comfortable with where we were and what we were to do.

It was a short trip out of the town gate and into the fields beyond. Tended Crops and orchards soon passed into forgotten farms. I saw at least one Apple Orchard that could have been tended and kept up with little effort. I worry what must have happened that whomever owned the orchard would have left. Why would they leave their trees untended?

Beyond the orchard, past the forgotten grape vines, we heard the sound of grunting and a shaking of the plants... and a HUGE boar, twice my height, rushed out of the underbrush. It was surrounded by normal size boars and all of them sounded outraged by our presence!

As the boars rushed us, I realized why Parish and Torac had placed them selves in front of Mindel and I. Because they were in front, the boars rushed them first, giving Mindel and I a chance to keep out of the boars way.

The boar that rushed Parish arrived with a clangor as it’s tusks met armor and shield, but still managed to hurt my friend past his defenses. Another and another charged in, attacking Parish’s dog and Taroc. The others belled wide around those in front to try and sneak in on Mindel and I from the side. With a widened stance, Parish’s lance pierced one of the boars as it charged, the beasts own weight impaling itself, but then ripping free to slam into Parish.

Trying to keep them at bay, Taroc had loosed arrows, and I had fired a bolt from my crossbow at the boars, but my attack only scratched and maddened the beast further. Once the boars had closed, I could no longer shoot them without hitting my friends. Instead, I fell back upon my training as a healer, binding wounds on those hurt by the boars, helping them to survive the horrific battle. Blood was everywhere and my ears hurt from the screams of the boars as they were cut down by my companions. Their squeals made me want to run and hide, but there was no place to go. It was fight, or die.

At last, the boars were dead. Enigma’s grace allowed me to do some healing through prayer and ritual. It was not enough to fully heal my friends, but it would hold them over until more could be done.

After such a fight, you would think we would go back to town. I could feel my hands shaking, my heart throbbing... but I felt more alive than I had in a long time. As a group, we continued on wards towards the island. We approached the water, and an old, decaying bridge stretched from the shore to the island. Below the bridge, gigantic crabs scuttled about on the rocks, seeking out prey.

The task seemed daunting. Climb down to wade across the water, but fight the crabs... or brave the broken down bridge and risk falling through one of the two huge holes where the bridge was simply missing. It was Mindel who found the planks that someone had hidden on the far side of the holes, and that confused pixie who flew over and replaced the boards so we could cross the bridge.

On the far side of the bridge, on the island, a drunken singing could be heard in the distance. Male voices raised in muddled song. The singing gave us pause. Was this just a bachelor party? Were Richards friends simply getting him drunk and partying with him in the only private place they could get away from the women?

Parish bravely stepped forward into the ruins, his faithful dog by his side, and greeted the singers. Oh, they were so drunk. At least one keg was empty, and one of them was trying to set fire to themselves in a vain attempt to cook sausage and beans. And at the back, bound, gagged, was Richard. His cousins at the behest of his uncle, had decided to save him from marriage. They had gotten it into their sozzled minds that if they kept him here, then he couldn’t wed and then Melody would marry Richard’s Uncle, the head of the town guard, instead!

Now, everyone should know that there is no reasoning with drunk people. In fact, the more you try to reason with them, the more you want to get drunk yourself so your head doesn’t hurt. On the other hand, we really didn’t want to hurt them. Sure, they were drunk and kidnapping their cousin... but it didn’t seem like they wanted to hurt him. They really thought they were helping him! So, instead, we joined the party.

Now you’re thinking, but what about poor Richard? Well, I’ll tell you. Those cousins of him were so drunk that it only took another hour or so before they were falling asleep. Too much beer, too fast, and they were out like a light. We then untied Richard and, after he had a quick chance to do his business in the bushes, we gave him some of the food we had rescued from the drunkards. Then, back across the bridge, and back towards the town we went, discussing how we were to get him to the temple on time before the town guard tried t hide him again. After all, we had faced down the boars. What else was there to fear?

Yeah, if you’re ever traveling, don’t EVER think that.

Partway back to town, an Owlbear, his feathers in a ruffle, came charging out of the woods! Could this be the monster that drove off the farmers, the farmers who left their orchard and fields untended? We didn’t know, and for a few moments I couldn’t think! Again, the front of our group was charged by a monster that had burst from the woods! Because there was only one owlbear, Parish and Taroc could keep him away from the rest of us, probably saving Richard, Mindel and myself from a messy death.. Beaked to death by an owlbear!

Taroc and Parish’s swords glinted in the fading sunlight, heavy stroke biting into the Owlbear despite it’s thick hide! Whenever the Owlbear would attack, Parish would wedge his shield between the bear and it’s prey. Both the warriors were incredible, moving side by side, keeping the pressure up on the Owlbear with their fierce blows! Each time it tried to use it’s bulk to grapple, they would brace and block and turn it’s attacks aside! Again, as the blows came in I was moving to heal what injury I could, trying to keep ahead of the damage the Owlbear was doing. Why, even with wounds that would kill a lesser beast, the Owlbear fought on, it’s eyes turned glassey with death! Until finally, the creature fell, never to rise again.

Looking down at the Owlbear, Parish got an idea... and yes, it was the sort of idea that an adventurer would get. He would drag the carcass of the Owlbear into town and go to the mayors house, seeking shelter and healing of the wounds he had recieved from the monster. As he did so, Taroc, Mindel and I would sneak Richard over to the Mayors Garden, where Maizy would meet us and let Melody know her Fiance was alright.

It was Taroc who pointed out just how heavy the Owlbear was, and that it hadn’t gotten any lighter in death. He would join Parish in going to the Mayors house, while Richard, Mindel and I would go to the garden...

And so it was done. Parish and Taroc made a wonderful distraction, actually selling the monster to the Mayor to be stuffed and mounted! They were given healing by the local temple while Richard, Mindel and I met with Maizy and Melody. We would wait until morning, Mindel and I keeping watch, until it was time to get Richard across to the temple.

Thankfully, the gods seem to favor fools and idiots, because both Mindel and I slept through the night but nothing attacked us and no one caught us. The next morning we brought Richard to the temple in time, the wedding occured, and we all got to take part in the feast afterward. There was music and dancing and lots of wonderful food to eat! Melody was good to her promise, slipping us a purse filled with gold coins. Parish also shared out the bounty he got from the mayor for the body of the Owlbear! All in all, it was a start. Confusing, scary, exciting.. but a start.

#lit rpg #ad&d 2e #gaming

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