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Ironhide: Morpheus' Lot
In his dreams, hidden behind a veil of tragedy and violence, there is no war. There never was, really. Everything still is as it has always been, coloured in succulent light while painted with dyes of devotion and valiant promises.
In his dream the world has not fallen apart at the seams, not lost its glamorous shine due to a people's folly. The temples are still whole, commanding, impressive in their solitude of eternal learning. Their doors are still open to a yearning plethora of curious learners. Not even once have they considered to close themselves up and chain their knowledge with a vow of dread.
In his dreams the royal brothers have never been parted by diversing opinions. There is no hate, no strife, no fight and no distrust. There is only a proud pair of rulers, the effulgent Prime and High Protector forever united in the holy triade, and the cities bow before their wisdom.
In his dreams he is happy. As happy as a warrior of his standing can ever be, that is. His boys have never learned what it means to hate, to fight, to kill. They will forever be the same young heirs he has cared for such a long time ago. They will never, never, never be forced to grow up before the time is right.
For this chance alone he is willing to die for. But alas, he knows that the rewriting of history is as dangerous as a god's humour, forceful training within a borderless vanity. It is not meant to be, this fickle dream of a possibility. Never was and will never be. The thought alone makes his heart throb in agony.
In his dreams he is allowed to be a part, to be close to the ones he has always protected. He is not forced to choose, to follow one and condemn the other. He does not get to become what he was built to be.
He is free. Free to love, free to hate, free to follow and to protect. He is bound by either rules or tradition. Neither honour nor deception is able to touch what he considers his one, his only point of weakness. Death alone is a master to his fate.
In his dreams, in those pale hours between gloomy recollection and betrayed contracts, only then can he open the doors of imagination and let loose the bolts of anger. His blades cut through amoral opulence and art devoid of feeling like a past that could not be. To create a haven, to keep safe his boys, that alone would have given him the greatest joy.
In his dreams he is young and innocent in a way that he has always denied being. Why else would he have obeyed Orion's command? Why else would he have destroyed his one chance at perfection with such idealistic magnitude?
In his dreams it is not Orion commanding a service believed by many to be the greatest gift. No, definitely not the cold and calculating Prime. Never this Prime. Instead it is another who asks, who pleads for permission.
In his dreams he bows to his Lord Protector in a way that Orion Prime would not tolerate in a thousand generations.
In his dreams his boys' line is what it has always been supposed to be, and not what it really is.
In his dreams...
There are days when he wishes his whole existence could be a dream.