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 Three: Interlude.
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It had been a long and trying cycle of the gods.
After abandoning (and insulting!) his creator's chosen Intended — a future Earl! — in favor of another night of being ravished on the altar of Solomus by a seeker who wouldn't even bond, Phantasm was furious. He couldn't disown Mirage as such; the Functionalists' own caste-laws meant he couldn't change caste and his creator couldn't adopt another not designed for the purpose of succeeding him. But he certainly was no longer welcome in their manor.
That didn't stop them from snarling invectives at each other until the Enforcers were called to separate them.
He tried several times to have another frame sparked to replace Mirage, and was granted several attempts, but Vector Sigma categorically refused to do so. That left Phantasm without an heir and Mirage in the lowest position one of his caste could be regulated to: archivist. Not even criminal defense lawyer, but one of the library glitchmice tasked with keeping every byte of data generated by Cybertron organized and retrieving it whenever someone in either the noble or merchant castes needed it.
It was work. Work he'd never been expected to do before and he was slow to adjust. A new friend, his roommate Orion Pax helped him. Orion was so like himself that Mirage ached. He dreamed of adventure, of the Cybertron he was certain existed beyond the duties of his caste. He watched gladiatorial matches and talked about what it might be like. Working with him was a constant reminder of why this, everything, was worth it.
Another reminder came in the form of the Festival of Epistemus, held in Vos this cycle, where Sunstorm proved himself the most suicidally reckless, though not the best if the words of his own commanding officer and spark donor could be believed, flyer on Cybertron.
"Am I still your Herald?" Mirage asked when the seeker came to over before the stands — the cheap seats — that were the only seats he and Orion had the resources for. The shuttle ride alone had almost beggared them.
He asked because his spark felt older, heavier. His youthful faith battered by hardship and loss. But Sunstorm had only held out his hand and hovered there. "More than ever."
Mirage had taken Sunstorm's hand and been pulled into the air. As was the tradition in Vos, they disappeared into the sky and stumbled out of a cliffside love nest sometime the next day. As it always had, the seeker's faith bolstered his own.
By the next Festival of Adaptus, Sentinel Prime's health had begun to fail. The ailment baffled his doctors and was eventually pronounced to be of a failing spark. No one knew when it would finally extinguish and it was a tired Prime with dulled armor that presided over a relatively lackluster Race of Adaptus.
Sentinel finally dimmed on the eve of the next Race of Primus and it was through a series of events so bizarre they could only have been divinely guided that the Matrix found its way to Orion.
Optimus stammered his way through the opening ceremonies of the Race and it was a strange mixture of grief and elation that reigned over the Festival.
And Mirage…
For a century and a half he'd been nothing more than a disgraced heir Vector Sigma refused to replace. Now he was the only one of his (official) rank who had the audio of an otherwise politically unconnected Prime. He was important to his peers again, and Phantasm actually approached him trying to make amends.
But he was also no more inclined to accept his creator's policies and politics than he had been the orn the Enforcers had dragged them apart before they came to blows. Less so in fact. It wasn't long before he received the first (presumably from his creator's allies) threat and Optimus assigned him a guard.
It also wasn't long before he was attending the parties again. At first he was thrilled because he'd enjoyed them when he'd been young, but then he realized just how much he'd fallen out of the habit of these things. They were tedious. His peers were small and petty and Mirage had no interest in gossip. He stayed long enough to shield Optimus from the cyber-piranhas, but the Prime was not expected to stay long and as soon as he was gone they closed in around Mirage, all wanting something. Favors, mostly, but also information, gossip, alliances, concessions or any number of things he wasn't willing to give. At least he hadn't yet seen Virtue at any of these things (rumor was that he's recovered from his mysterious ailment, but refused to leave his creator's manor), but sill... He at least tried to be subtle as he fled and retreated to an empty lover's nook in the remotest part of the Primal Palace gardens to find relief.
His tranquility was broken when another said, "Excuse me, Your Grace."
The title had been restored along with his status as Phantasm's recognized heir, though since Vector Sigma had never granted him a replacement neither had ever truly been taken. Mirage had taken immense satisfaction in making his peers, and especially his creator, use it whenever possible, but hearing it from a laborer's vocalizer brought him no pleasure.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, but," the boxy green mech gestured to a slightly overgrown collection of crystals with the diamond saw he carried for pruning.
"No disturbance," he replied, "I didn't mean to interfere with your duties." He made no move to leave though; the noise would keep his fellow nobles far away. Though as the boxy mech laid out his tools he did ask, "I was under the impression these gardens were always kept pruned."
The mech stiffened. "If you wish to report my negligence —"
"Not at all," Mirage interrupted, "I'm simply curious." The rest of the nearby crystals were as immaculate as he would have expected; whatever this mech's reason for putting off pruning that one patch, it was deliberate. Not negligence.
He felt himself being evaluated and resigned himself to being rebuffed. The gulf between castes always seemed so much larger than they should have been. Even as an archivist, the lowest of his own caste, few of other castes would speak to him except in an official capacity. More than law kept them separate from each other. Only the temples seemed to bridge those gaps. But the mech surprised him by finally gesturing him closer to the overgrown crystals and bidding him to look inside the tangle.
Five egg-shaped metallic pods rested in a nest of metallic scraps and non-mech built robotic manipulator arms and mircotools, all now inert save for the glow of energon and sparklight that shined through the thin outer plating of the pods. Cybercat forging pupa.
"They've adapted to scavenging our scraps," the mech explained, "but they still need peace and quiet to forge and split-spark and these gardens are one of the few places in Iacon they can find it. I try and leave the nests undisturbed until the parent leaves whenever I can."
Wonder, a familiar-strange thrill filled Mirage's spark. A secret, and innocent secret like finding the shed in their gardens; a discovery. "As you should," he murmured and humor bubbled in him when the mech's EM field flushed with surprise and pleasure.
Just then one of the Prime's guards peeked in, "You alright here, sir?"
Mirage recognized him. Escutcheon was currently assigned to his protection, though he avoided the bodyguard when he could. It irritated him enough when he finally found his charge again, hiding alone in some secluded corner of a garden or library or on top of a roof, but to find him in the company of a mech he hadn't vetted… he brandished his axe-shield, engraved with the Prime's seal, and Mirage remembered the words he'd heard over a century ago, when he'd been a different Mirage.
You will find him under the aegis of a new Prime…and he barked a laugh at how literal it was turning out to be.
Assuming this gardener was the one meant for him. Assuming he believed Sunstorm's prophecy at all.
"We're fine," he sent Escutcheon away and turned back to the dull green mech. "I'm Mirage. Your name?"
"Hound, sir."
"No 'sir'. Just Mirage." He turned back and gently touched the chrysalis. "And something tells me you know all these gardens' secrets; willing to share a few?" Willing to go on a small adventure with me?
Hound considered for a very long moment, then shrugged. "Sure."
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tbc