Summary: No-War, No-Factions AU. Festival of the Five: They were two stars circling a single gravitational point. One driven by faith, the other by desire. They came together only with the blessing of the Guiding Hand, and when they did all of Cybertron was caught in their orbit. They weren't destined for each other, but as Primus said: There is destiny, and then there is destiny.
Warnings: Sexual Content, including one (mild but detailed) tactile interfacing scene. Cannon-typical violence. Alien Religion and various issues thereof.
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Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory
Part One: Festival of Primus
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He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgement-seat
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet!
— Julia Ward Howe, "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory"
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Sunstorm competed for the gods' favor to show his dedication; he had never conceived he might one day actually win it. He was not worthy of Primus' favor and so he was unprepared for this moment.
Every fifty-three vorns the five gods, Cybertron and his four moons, aligned perfectly in the sky, becoming for a single night a single tidal force, and under the eyes of all the gods become one the Festival of the Five and a contest to win the gods' favor was held. Every fifty-three vorns it was a different contest, each associated with a different one of the gods. And Sunstorm had run every race, fought in the name of each of the Guiding Hand for centuries, ever since he'd been brought online. It was his way of worship. He was not the only one who entered a contest every time it came up, though he was the only one who had entered every fifty-three vorns. This Festival, Primus had shown him his favor and for the first time he or any watching could remember, a seeker had won the footrace dedicated to the Giver of Light and Life.
To Sunstorm the announcer's voice was tinny, distant, incomprehensible, as he asked who, as the winner, he would choose as his bondmate.
The crowd was hushed, waiting for his choice. The stared at him. He looked back, meeting each of their optics. He was expected to choose someone, if only for the night. This was part of the ritual and he could not decline, but there was no room in his spark for any but the Guiding Hand. Yet Primus had seen fit to give him this moment and so there must be someone here for him. The aging priest that presided over the ceremony was there, armor fading around the edges, and spark bright with devotion to match Sunstorm's own, and he would have chosen the priest in a sparkbeat, as would have been proper, but he was not the right choice here and now. He looked into each pair of optics he could see, tried to look into their sparks, for the pair through which Primus looked back at him.
Gold, the very light of Primus, enveloped him. He took a step forward, then another. Quiet turned to complete silence. Would this warrior-caste clone attempt to claim the Prime. Blaspheme.
But no, it was not to the Voice of the Ancients he knelt, but to the slender blue and white noble standing beside him. Still too far above Sunstorm's station to ever be considered as a mate under any other circumstances. A noble so highly placed that he stood next to the Prime could any other day have killed Sunstorm for so much as looking at him, but he would not question Primus' will.
"I have proven myself the worthiest of all the mortals who would come before you," ritual words from a less secular time when the winner would choose a priest of the god whose contest he'd just won, who would then become an altar upon which the winner would worship the god; very uncommon in this day where the winner choosing his mate was more about romance than worship and the priest caste had been systematically decimated by the demands of Functionalist theory. Priests found their calling, in defiance of becoming an alt-mode determined cog in the machine, and so there were very few left. "Have I proven myself worthy of your favor, if only for one night?"
He lowered his optics, humble beneath the gaze of the god's vessel.
Primus may have looked back at Sunstorm through those optics, but the mech himself was confused. He knew the words, both of acceptance and rejection, from his studies of history, but this had not happened before in living memory. "I—" He looked to another bot nearby, one with very similar optics but painted in pure silver. He was furious and made a sharp negatory gesture with his hand and the blue mech cringed. That was clear enough. He was to remain intact, the seal on his spark chamber untouched until he bonded to one of his own caste.
Prime's engine rumbled and he put his hand on the young noble's shoulder. "Your creator has no say in this Mirage. Only what you want matters here."
Mirage nodded and fidgeted under Prime's knowing eyes, then turned back to the seeker still waiting for an answer. Still kneeling.
He'd always liked watching the seekers fly. Like jewels with wings and this one shone brighter than most, like he truly had a star in his chest rather than a spark. A long time ago he'd even dreamed of touching those wings. He'd been very young and very curious. What did they feel like? How flexible were they? Was it true a seeker could overload just from wing stimulation? But the demands of his caste and the gulf between himself and those flying gems had eventually crushed those dreams to dust.
Now, with Sunstorm having exercised the winner's right to approach any of any caste — bridging that otherwise intraversable gap — and so perfectly still and patient in front of him — all those old dreams and questions came rushing back.
With a final defiant look to his creator, Mirage crouched to meet the kneeling seeker's gaze. Gold shined out of gold, like the star in his chest had broken free to spill its light from the mech's optics.
"For one night," he answered ritual for ritual, "my favor is yours and yours alone." And he leaned in as Sunstorm surged up and they caught each other in a scorching kiss.
And Primus looked on.
A tiny spark buzzed around Him excitedly. This one had been eager to explore but Primus had been holding it back.
There was destiny and there was destiny after all, and He was not above stacking the deck when he could.
This spark may be destined for a scandalous cross-caste romance that would shake the foundations of Functionalist society, but it wasn't destined to return to him, its frame having failed in its grief. Not if Primus had anything to say about it.
He looked back to the couple on the racetrack. Sunstorm blazed so brightly as he held a writhing Mirage down and lavished all the worship he could on the one the god had chosen for him. Already they had connected their networking cables and were well on their way to overclocking each other into unconsciousness. Virgins, both of them, and they were going to bear sparks in public, in Primus' Name, if they stayed conscious long enough.
Silently he sent them both the strength to do so, bolstering their reserves, before turning back to the eager spark.
"Now, that when you find him, he'll be willing to try," He said, "let's get you to Vector Sigma, Hound."
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tbc