'Providence is blind when you're terrified'
Second post in as many days, sorry. But hey, I bring fanfic. Also, I have concluded that I cannot write my favourite characters and feel like I've done them any justice. And I might just have a god complex after writing this. We'll see, I guess.
Title: But To Be A God
Characters/Pairings: Primus
Verse: I'll say G1, but it could be any/all of them, really.
Rating: G
Warnings: Does waxing philosophical and the possibility of being pretentious merit a warning? Also, I'm playing very loose with any canon interpretations that exist out there.
Summary: For the tf_speedwriting prompt: 'Write! Without plotting, without thinking about what to write. You might take another prompt (from the Master List) to have a beginning and just write from there, without reading what you’ve written before. When you post, just correct the spelling and/or grammar mistakes, but otherwise post the quintessence of your spontaneity.'
The sun burns, bright and hot and oh-so fleeting. He passes it by without a backwards glance, letting the brief flash of fierce desperation wash over him before he weaves back out into the cold between the stars. The cold of eternity, because Time is an unfeeling entity that doesn’t care for the struggles of lesser beings. Its only responsibility is to endure, to make sure everything continues on as it should. And sometimes as it shouldn’t, but so long as it continues on, Time’s job is done.
He has had an extraordinarily long life. He has seen civilisations rise and fall. He has witnessed the death of a galaxy, the birthing of countless stars and the continuing expansion of the universe, further and further onwards into eternity. All the ugliness and horror and vice of sentient life has passed him by a thousand times over, and he has seen all the wonder and beauty and virtue there is to be found. There is nothing left to surprise him; nothing he hasn’t seen in some form exhibited by some race or some place somewhere in the vastness of the cosmos.
People call him a god, but he knows better. He is a pariah, a lonely old traveller condemned to wander forever, watching as various cultures and societies and peoples tear themselves to pieces time and time again. He has no hope for the people who seek his blessing and laud him as their creator and saviour. He cannot be what they need him to be, because they are not what they need to be. He has been for far longer than they have, and he knows that they will cease to be eons before he does.
A planet looms, cold and scared and lonely. Hostile to outsiders, holding on to its isolation as the only familiar thing in a universe full of horrors and nightmares in the endless dark. He regards it for a moment, and it trembles before he continues on his way. There is nothing he can do, and he has long ago ceased to be saddened by the fact. He is not even resigned, because he has accepted that this is the way things are and he is far too small and insignificant to ever effect a change in the very fabric of existence.
They cannot comprehend with their limited understanding that all things are trapped in a cycle, guarded jealously by Time and Destiny. Free will is an illusion, because there are only a finite amount of choices to be made, though they might seem limitless in their fleeting lives. He has long ago exhausted all his choices, and now he moves through the universe, a pale shade caught in the growing darkness of inevitability and despair. He is a slave, far more chained and blinkered than they are in their ignorance. They are not free, but they think they are, and sometimes he wonders if that actually does make all the difference.
His name is forgotten, lost at the beginning of Time when he thought he could resist; back when he thought he could make a distance. Alone, nameless and lost, he knows that he is not a god. He cannot save anyone, not even himself. He is a ghost, a faceless spectre condemned to watch the slow decay of eternity. He is nothing, broken time and Time again.
A star explodes, all its energy burning out in a single incandescent moment. He passes it by, and eternity tightens its stranglehold on the being they once called Primus.
Title: But To Be A God
Characters/Pairings: Primus
Verse: I'll say G1, but it could be any/all of them, really.
Rating: G
Warnings: Does waxing philosophical and the possibility of being pretentious merit a warning? Also, I'm playing very loose with any canon interpretations that exist out there.
Summary: For the tf_speedwriting prompt: 'Write! Without plotting, without thinking about what to write. You might take another prompt (from the Master List) to have a beginning and just write from there, without reading what you’ve written before. When you post, just correct the spelling and/or grammar mistakes, but otherwise post the quintessence of your spontaneity.'
The sun burns, bright and hot and oh-so fleeting. He passes it by without a backwards glance, letting the brief flash of fierce desperation wash over him before he weaves back out into the cold between the stars. The cold of eternity, because Time is an unfeeling entity that doesn’t care for the struggles of lesser beings. Its only responsibility is to endure, to make sure everything continues on as it should. And sometimes as it shouldn’t, but so long as it continues on, Time’s job is done.
He has had an extraordinarily long life. He has seen civilisations rise and fall. He has witnessed the death of a galaxy, the birthing of countless stars and the continuing expansion of the universe, further and further onwards into eternity. All the ugliness and horror and vice of sentient life has passed him by a thousand times over, and he has seen all the wonder and beauty and virtue there is to be found. There is nothing left to surprise him; nothing he hasn’t seen in some form exhibited by some race or some place somewhere in the vastness of the cosmos.
People call him a god, but he knows better. He is a pariah, a lonely old traveller condemned to wander forever, watching as various cultures and societies and peoples tear themselves to pieces time and time again. He has no hope for the people who seek his blessing and laud him as their creator and saviour. He cannot be what they need him to be, because they are not what they need to be. He has been for far longer than they have, and he knows that they will cease to be eons before he does.
A planet looms, cold and scared and lonely. Hostile to outsiders, holding on to its isolation as the only familiar thing in a universe full of horrors and nightmares in the endless dark. He regards it for a moment, and it trembles before he continues on his way. There is nothing he can do, and he has long ago ceased to be saddened by the fact. He is not even resigned, because he has accepted that this is the way things are and he is far too small and insignificant to ever effect a change in the very fabric of existence.
They cannot comprehend with their limited understanding that all things are trapped in a cycle, guarded jealously by Time and Destiny. Free will is an illusion, because there are only a finite amount of choices to be made, though they might seem limitless in their fleeting lives. He has long ago exhausted all his choices, and now he moves through the universe, a pale shade caught in the growing darkness of inevitability and despair. He is a slave, far more chained and blinkered than they are in their ignorance. They are not free, but they think they are, and sometimes he wonders if that actually does make all the difference.
His name is forgotten, lost at the beginning of Time when he thought he could resist; back when he thought he could make a distance. Alone, nameless and lost, he knows that he is not a god. He cannot save anyone, not even himself. He is a ghost, a faceless spectre condemned to watch the slow decay of eternity. He is nothing, broken time and Time again.
A star explodes, all its energy burning out in a single incandescent moment. He passes it by, and eternity tightens its stranglehold on the being they once called Primus.