The Invictus - Chapter VII

[thecrazyalaskan]

Chapter Seven

~ Age seven ~

 

The ion storm was one of the fiercest yet that year. Winds roared down from the distant mountains like a wounded mech, the thunderclaps rattled the house on its foundation, the lightening lit the room far better than any sunshine.

 

Positron turned onto his side as a thunderclap burst in his audios. He has having trouble sleeping as it was, thanks to the aches spreading like a poison vine throughout his body, without the storm roaring in his audios making his wrists and fingers ache.

 

“Hey, Papaw?” a familiar voice asked behind him.

 

Positron turned back onto his back, and then onto his other side, his body screaming in protest and for sleep. “Yes, Grandson?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

 

Prowl stood with slightly hunched shoulders. “Papaw, the storm is really bad,” he said softly.

 

“It is, Grandson,” Positron agreed, nodding. “Are you frightened?”

 

“No!” Prowl quickly denied.

 

“Did you come to visit me at this early hour then?” Positron teased, reaching over to stroke his helm.

 

“No…” he answered again. “I thought that the storm was so bad that it would scare you. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

“Thank you for your concern, Grandson,” Positron said sincerely.

 

“…Are you gonna be okay?” the youngling pressed.

 

“I believe so,” the elder replied.

 

“I think I should stay here—just to be sure,” Prowl said, sitting on the floor next to his grandfather’s bed.

 

“Well if you’ll be staying here, perhaps you should lie in a bed,” Positron offered. “Just like when you were little, remember?”

 

“I’m not little anymore, Papaw,” Prowl grumbled as he climbed into bed and covered himself with the blanket. “I’m seven.”

 

“Ahh yes, you are—so very grown up,” Positron replied with a smile. “Seven year olds are never afraid of ion storms are they?”

 

“Not the tough ones like me,” Prowl pointed out.

 

A great thunderclap rattled the room. The youngling yelped and curled into his grandfather’s chest hull. “Stupid ion storm,” he grumbled.

 

Positron gently hugged him in consolation, laying his audio over his sparkchamber. “The storm will pass, Grandson,” he whispered.

 

Prowl cuddled closer, listening to the elder mech’s spark pulses—whoomwhoomwhoom… whoomwhoomwhoom… whoomwhoomwhoom… “Papaw?”

 

“Yes, Grandson?”

 

“Your spark sounds weird—why does it sound different from mine?” he asked, lifting his optics to search Positron’s faceplates.

 

Positron smiled gently and stroked his grandson’s helm. “It’s because my spark works differently from yours, Prowl,” he answered.

 

“Why?” Prowl asked. This was certainly new.

 

“My spark is older—I am older,” he explained gently. “It has to pulse differently to keep me functioning.”

 

“Is your spark sick, Papaw?” Prowl whispered.

 

“In a way,” Positron replied slowly. “That’s why I get tired easily, and why sometimes I’m in pain.”

 

“Your spark hurts you?” Prowl asked in mild shock. “You need to get a new one, Papaw!”

 

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple, Prowl,” Positron said softly. “My spark is who I am—it’s what makes me your papaw. If I got a new spark, I couldn’t be your grandfather anymore.”

 

“B…But I want you to be my papaw,” Prowl whimpered.

 

“So do I, Prowl,” Positron gently agreed. “That’s why I do not want a new spark.” That and there is no procedure to replace the sparks of the aged.

 

“But your spark hurts you,” Prowl stressed.

 

“That’s why I go to the medic—I have been given medicines to help my spark and other aches that I get from time to time,” Positron explained.

 

“Why do you hurt so much, Papaw?” Prowl whimpered.

 

“It doesn’t hurt that badly, Grandson.” Even though he hated to lie to him, he saw no need to burden Prowl with details of pain that could cripple him if he left it go untended to.

 

“Why, Papaw?” Prowl asked again.

 

“Just comes with getting old, I guess,” Positron answered softly, kissing the youngling’s forehead.

 

“You’re not old, Papaw,” Prowl giggled, kissing his grandfather’s cheek.

 

“Oh good,” Positron laughed as he hugged his grandson. “I was getting worried.”

 

Prowl giggled, not minding the thunder and lightning so much anymore, and laid his audio against Positron’s chest hull, wrapping his spindly arms around the older mech’s neck. The white noise formed by the triple pulsing of his grandfather’ spark lulled him into the deepest stasis Prowl had ever known.

Comments

Chapter Seven

[lunaeshark.livejournal.com]

You're VERY brave, Prowl. I'm 16 and storms can still scare me.

Re: Chapter Seven

[thecrazyalaskan.livejournal.com]

Awww. I love storms-- we don't get them that often up here, though.