To my Guinevere
Do you know the story of Lancelot and Guinevere?
Of course you do. I told it to you, when we were drifting between dreams and reality one night, too tired to wake, too restless to sleep. How Lancelot fell in love with King Arthur's fiancee when he came to collect her, to bring her to her husband. How she, despite her better intentions, fell in love with him. How he carried her favours in battle, and loved her above even his own code of honour. We never found out how the story ended.
Beautiful one, my beloved...Lancelot never loved Guinevere half as much as I loved you. As I still do love you.
I haven't acted it, have I? From the instant I awoke, and I saw your face once more...of course I knew it was you. I would always know you. But I was tainted, unclean, a devil before an angel's feet. How could you still love me, still want me? I -your knight in armour, your mismatched hero - I tried to kill you, Blackarachnia. I held your spark in my hand, and I was laughing and screaming all at once. I knew who I had murdered. I could sense you across a room, do you think I wouldn't realise who that glowing light belonged to? Jetstorm mocked and Silverbolt wept, my darling, but who won in the end..?
For all my strength, my devotion to you, my honour...I could not save you from myself.
And that's why I never came to you. I would hear you crying out from nightmares - you didn't think I knew that they had returned, did you? - and I would never approach to wake you, reassure you that Tarantulas was long gone, that I'd never let him hurt you again, or even hold you close. I stayed on sentry, watching for Vehicons, pretending even to myself that I didn't hear. It was like being Jetstorm again - one half claiming one thing, the other half disputing it. You rescued me from Megatron only to lose me to myself. And this is worse. There is no other person to blame, and still the sick sense of helplessness. I had sworn loyalty to war, and I could not go back on my word. Worse, I never tried. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I can't put up any defence whatsoever. It's too late for me to tell you that I love you, isn't it? It would never, could never, sound quite right. Rattrap was right, though it pains me to say this - I committed romantic suicide. You tried to help me, and I cut you off, tried to redeem me and I refused to be saved. You risked everything on one gamble, and you won only to lose once more.
I don't even understand myself anymore. I wasn't lying when I said I didn't know who or what I was. I hate this body - a condor, a vulture, a bird who feeds on what is dead. Not the wolf or the eagle, with the wind in their faces and the chase in their blood. I know I was a strange looking Maximal. I was boxy and built like a door, with a muzzle,and ears that flicked in every direction and flattened when I was angry. But rather this than the angled warrior with features as sharp as his words to you.
It's a sick reversal of fortune, isn't it? You became a Maximal, having never been a Maximal in your living memory. I refused your entreaties though I wanted what you offered. How could I do that to you?
Do you remember the Beast Wars? Surely Megatron didn't take that from us. I remember. I remember an angry Predacon realising she'd been using a Maximal freak for a pillow. I remember getting shot for certain "true Maximal self" speeches. I remember defying orders to come and find you - we almost wrecked it that time, didn't we? We almost handed Megatron the Ark on a silver platter, as Optimus never...he never let us forget. But it all worked out, didn't it? And at that time, I didn't care how the story proceeded, only how it ended. I was with you, I never asked asked questions.
I miss my rose coloured spectacles at times. There's no comparing this callous samurai to your lover, is there? I feared coming back to find that someone waited for a lover that was as good as dead. I ended up doing that to you. I don't feel alive anymore, Blackarachnia. I've been one half of a whole too long to ever be able to bear being alone once more. And I don't blame you, I've never blamed you. This has all been my fault. My stupidity, my arrogance, my pride and my outright insanity lost you. I want to win your heart once more, but I've forgotten how.
I looked up the story of Lancelot and Guinevere again, if you're interested. Once they'd recovered the archives... I haven't had much to do with my days, and looking up the legends of an obscure carbon-based race called humans suddenly seemed like an interesting prospect. I found the end of our story, Blackarachnia. Because we always were Lancelot and Guinevere, not Romeo and Juliet, if you can bear to think of Tarantulas as Arthur.
They were discovered. Mordred, the deceiver, the canker of the Round table, arranged that he would "catch" the pair in the Queen's chamber, with two other true knights as witnesses...or was it one? I can't remember. They condemned Guinevere, ordered her executed for treason. She had never agreed to marry Arthur - her father had married her off (odd, since she was a Celt, and Celts were a matriarchial society where a woman chose her husband), and she was to die for a love that she could neither avoid nor condemn. Lancelot rescued her at the eleventh hour, and they escaped. But then...news of Arthur's death reached them. Lancelot was so consumed with guilt that he deserted Guinevere and became a hermit. After that, she joined a convent. They died alone.
Do you know what I did when I read that? I slammed the file shut and wept, as hard as I did when I saw your still body on the operating table. Only I had none of the anger to numb it. Lancelot loved Guinevere, but he destroyed her in the end. His guilt kept them apart when no other force remained to do so. Arthur was dead, the war was over...they could have been together. Their story might yet have had a happy ending.
But as you know, my Guinevere...it just wasn't meant to end so neatly.
...
Blackarachnia...come home. I don't want to have the story end without so much as a goodbye. I don't know if...if we can ever be the same, but...
Please. Come home.
Do you know the story of Lancelot and Guinevere?
Of course you do. I told it to you, when we were drifting between dreams and reality one night, too tired to wake, too restless to sleep. How Lancelot fell in love with King Arthur's fiancee when he came to collect her, to bring her to her husband. How she, despite her better intentions, fell in love with him. How he carried her favours in battle, and loved her above even his own code of honour. We never found out how the story ended.
Beautiful one, my beloved...Lancelot never loved Guinevere half as much as I loved you. As I still do love you.
I haven't acted it, have I? From the instant I awoke, and I saw your face once more...of course I knew it was you. I would always know you. But I was tainted, unclean, a devil before an angel's feet. How could you still love me, still want me? I -your knight in armour, your mismatched hero - I tried to kill you, Blackarachnia. I held your spark in my hand, and I was laughing and screaming all at once. I knew who I had murdered. I could sense you across a room, do you think I wouldn't realise who that glowing light belonged to? Jetstorm mocked and Silverbolt wept, my darling, but who won in the end..?
For all my strength, my devotion to you, my honour...I could not save you from myself.
And that's why I never came to you. I would hear you crying out from nightmares - you didn't think I knew that they had returned, did you? - and I would never approach to wake you, reassure you that Tarantulas was long gone, that I'd never let him hurt you again, or even hold you close. I stayed on sentry, watching for Vehicons, pretending even to myself that I didn't hear. It was like being Jetstorm again - one half claiming one thing, the other half disputing it. You rescued me from Megatron only to lose me to myself. And this is worse. There is no other person to blame, and still the sick sense of helplessness. I had sworn loyalty to war, and I could not go back on my word. Worse, I never tried. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I can't put up any defence whatsoever. It's too late for me to tell you that I love you, isn't it? It would never, could never, sound quite right. Rattrap was right, though it pains me to say this - I committed romantic suicide. You tried to help me, and I cut you off, tried to redeem me and I refused to be saved. You risked everything on one gamble, and you won only to lose once more.
I don't even understand myself anymore. I wasn't lying when I said I didn't know who or what I was. I hate this body - a condor, a vulture, a bird who feeds on what is dead. Not the wolf or the eagle, with the wind in their faces and the chase in their blood. I know I was a strange looking Maximal. I was boxy and built like a door, with a muzzle,and ears that flicked in every direction and flattened when I was angry. But rather this than the angled warrior with features as sharp as his words to you.
It's a sick reversal of fortune, isn't it? You became a Maximal, having never been a Maximal in your living memory. I refused your entreaties though I wanted what you offered. How could I do that to you?
Do you remember the Beast Wars? Surely Megatron didn't take that from us. I remember. I remember an angry Predacon realising she'd been using a Maximal freak for a pillow. I remember getting shot for certain "true Maximal self" speeches. I remember defying orders to come and find you - we almost wrecked it that time, didn't we? We almost handed Megatron the Ark on a silver platter, as Optimus never...he never let us forget. But it all worked out, didn't it? And at that time, I didn't care how the story proceeded, only how it ended. I was with you, I never asked asked questions.
I miss my rose coloured spectacles at times. There's no comparing this callous samurai to your lover, is there? I feared coming back to find that someone waited for a lover that was as good as dead. I ended up doing that to you. I don't feel alive anymore, Blackarachnia. I've been one half of a whole too long to ever be able to bear being alone once more. And I don't blame you, I've never blamed you. This has all been my fault. My stupidity, my arrogance, my pride and my outright insanity lost you. I want to win your heart once more, but I've forgotten how.
I looked up the story of Lancelot and Guinevere again, if you're interested. Once they'd recovered the archives... I haven't had much to do with my days, and looking up the legends of an obscure carbon-based race called humans suddenly seemed like an interesting prospect. I found the end of our story, Blackarachnia. Because we always were Lancelot and Guinevere, not Romeo and Juliet, if you can bear to think of Tarantulas as Arthur.
They were discovered. Mordred, the deceiver, the canker of the Round table, arranged that he would "catch" the pair in the Queen's chamber, with two other true knights as witnesses...or was it one? I can't remember. They condemned Guinevere, ordered her executed for treason. She had never agreed to marry Arthur - her father had married her off (odd, since she was a Celt, and Celts were a matriarchial society where a woman chose her husband), and she was to die for a love that she could neither avoid nor condemn. Lancelot rescued her at the eleventh hour, and they escaped. But then...news of Arthur's death reached them. Lancelot was so consumed with guilt that he deserted Guinevere and became a hermit. After that, she joined a convent. They died alone.
Do you know what I did when I read that? I slammed the file shut and wept, as hard as I did when I saw your still body on the operating table. Only I had none of the anger to numb it. Lancelot loved Guinevere, but he destroyed her in the end. His guilt kept them apart when no other force remained to do so. Arthur was dead, the war was over...they could have been together. Their story might yet have had a happy ending.
But as you know, my Guinevere...it just wasn't meant to end so neatly.
...
Blackarachnia...come home. I don't want to have the story end without so much as a goodbye. I don't know if...if we can ever be the same, but...
Please. Come home.