Chapter Text
“What are you looking at?” the Senior Priest’s voice is sharp and reproving.
Fiberfoil ducks his helm immediately, abashed. “Nothing,” he mumbles. Ahead of them, a service has just ended; the large glass doors to the Chamber have opened and other priests and several lords are streaming out. In the midst of them, sparkling as brightly and brilliantly as a jewel, is Aerolin Prime.
The Prime! Fiberfoil’s spark is in his throat. He has never seen Aerolin from so close, and not from anything outside of a holovid before now, though he has been working in the Temple of Primus for almost a kilocycle. Today is the first time he’s been lifted from the lowest duties of keeping the perimeters of the temple spick and span, the first time he’s been placed in the official long regalia of the temple servants.
“Keep your optics down,” the Senior Priest hisses as they near the crowd. “When we enter the Chamber, stay to the side, make sure you don’t stand within two mechanometers of anyone, and start cleaning up as quietly as you can. Do you remember what you have to do?”
“Collect the sacramental fuel cubes, polish the benches and sweep the floor,” Fiberfoil recites as he struggles to keep his frame appropriately subdued. He’s too excited, and still almost disbelieving of his good luck that he finally gets to see some of what goes on within the temple - he’s determined not to muck it up.
“Good. I will rejoin the other senior priests in the garden for the Prime’s last blessings. Make sure you’re done within five breems. I will meet you by the door to take you to the wash areas, where you’ll learn how to clean the cubes and replace them properly.”
He bobs his helm in obedience, and then they’re at the doors.
The Senior Priest leaves him with a smooth about-turn. Fiberfoil steps quickly over the threshold, plucking the tray for the cubes from his subspace. From the garden, he can hear Aerolin’s lilting laughter, warm and welcoming. He has just decided to give in to the urge to sneak back to the door and peek out when he crashes, hard, into something.
The tray clatters to the ground. Fiberfoil is about to fall onto his own aft as well when a strong servo wraps around his wrist, steadying him. He stifles the urge to groan at the jolt, at the unholy racket the tray is making, and he prays fervently that the sound is not audible from the garden before his processor catches up with him and he jerks his helm back to his rescuer.
He looks up. And up. His throat seizes in panic.
The mech is enormous. Towering over him, at least twice Fiberfoil’s own height, the silver-gray lethally-barbed helm is all but brushing the top of the beautifully stained crystal ceiling. Darkly gleaming red optics stare down at him over thin lips set in a stern line, and from behind a massive chassis comes the deep, ominous rumble of an unnaturally-powerful engine.
It takes a moment longer for Fiberfoil to notice the thick, decorative gold lines painted up the mech’s colossal arms, and the large braided coil of metal magnetized to one heavily-armored shoulder. His processor almost cuts out then, because now there’s absolutely no doubt.
Lord High Protector Magnalock.
On his first day doing more than menial labor, within his first astrominute in the Chamber, he’s managed to fail the keep-two-mechanometers-away rule and collide into the most powerful mech on Cybertron. If he isn’t put away or offlined at once, he is probably going to be left cleaning the perimeter of the temple for the rest of his days.
“Are you alright?” Magnalock enquires. His voice is gravelly low but even with how soft it is, Fiberfoil can feel the barely-leashed force thrumming behind it. His wrist is released. Fiberfoil realizes belatedly and distractedly that nothing has been crushed, for all that the servo is big enough to wrap around his entire helm. With a squeak, hydraulics frozen between the urge to flee or give out, he manages to nod frantically, backing away.
Magnalock watches him as he plasters himself to the wall, edging further and further. The line of the Lord High Protector’s mouth relaxes a fraction, quirking up. With a smooth bend of one knee, Magnalock picks up the forgotten tray, then holds it out without a word.
Fiberfoil looks at it, then back up. Magnalock is...not angry?
He reaches out cautiously with his field before he can think about the wisdom of the action, and almost falls over again at the sheer breadth and overwhelming weight of the other’s field. For a long nanoklik, his fuel pump clenches a little- but then he notices the light pulse of amusement, an almost-imperceptible strobe through the blanketing heaviness.
Offense streaks in before Fiberfoil can quite manage to wrestle it down. He’s frightened, for good reason, but he hates being laughed at, and it- it was an honest mistake, surely nothing to be mocked for. Impulsively, he pushes himself off the wall and darts forward, ready to snatch the tray back.
He’s forgotten the long mesh regalia draped across his body and promptly trips on it, sending him flying face-first towards the floor. Before he can make contact with it though, Magnalock’s grip is on his shoulder and this time, the Lord High Protector doesn’t even try to stifle a short bark of laughter.
Fiberfoil looks up and his vents catch in his intake.
Magnalock is so close. With the larger mech having bent down to pick up the tray, they’re much more of a height now. Their nasal ridges are almost brushing, and the heat emanating from the Lord High Protector is incredible, an almost visible haze in the closed air between their frames. Fiberfoil’s spark stutters, giving an odd pulse. He licks his lips instinctively, and he sees as Magnalock’s optics drop to them.
“Magnalock?”
The Lord High Protector stiffens, but only for a moment. Then he’s releasing his grip on Fiberfoil’s shoulder, pushing the tray towards Fiberfoil’s frame and smoothly rising at the same time before turning to face the speaker at the entryway. “Yes, my Prime?”
“Is anything the matter?”
Fiberfoil’s attention is diverted from his own mortification by the gentle glow that fills the room as the Prime steps forward, canting his tall, elegant helm inquisitively. Even from behind Magnalock, Fiberfoil can feel the inexorable pull of another vast EM field. But where Magnalock’s is thick and heavy enough to drown in, the Prime’s is light, open and soft.
“Nothing at all,” comes the deep reply, and then Magnalock is moving away, heading towards the exit. Both Prime and Lord High Protector incline their helms to each other, and then Aerolin mutters something under his breath. The Lord High Protector snorts once. Without a backward glance, they leave, and Fiberfoil finally allows himself to collapse to the ground, tray pressed against his chassis, fingers numb.
***
Practicing for the ceremonial sword dances is always punishingly exhausting. Fiberfoil has always been rather flexible, and he enjoys pushing his frame into the intricate moves that let the elaborate costume swirl around him, but at the same time, keeping exactly in time with five other frames is hard work.
Thankfully, Silverhull has been a patient and generous friend and teacher. The other racing frame entered the temple four kilocycles before Fiberfoil and worked his way up to become a junior priest, but he is one of the few not to throw his rank around, and he doesn’t seem to look down on those in the bottom tier like Fiberfoil either. For all that Silverhull is older, they also enjoy the same whispered jokes on the more stately and serious members of the temple’s servants. Silverhull is wondrous with the sword dance, as quick as lightning, graceful while still strong - Fiberfoil privately thinks that Silverhull is good enough to lead the ceremonies, but of course the older and more experienced dancers stay at the front.
Nevertheless, Silverhull is considered skilled enough to be put to work teaching Fiberfoil. Their friendship has grown through the long cycles of practice in preparation for the festival.
It’s late by the time they are dismissed. Fiberfoil thinks longingly of the heated oil pools, but per the schedule, it’s reserved for the junior priests for two joors. He suddenly remembers that he has seen an unheated pool on the farthest side of the garden though - he’d noticed it from the outside before when he’d been cleaning the perimeter. It’s presumably out-of-use for being outdoors, and it’s tucked safely behind a hedge of crystal flowers. Perhaps it’s worth the slight chill to have his cables and struts soaking right away before he has to rejoin the rest of his cohort for recharge?
He bids Silverhull a quick goodbye, then races away. The fastest route to the unheated pool is past the Chamber. It’s an area which Fiberfoil has been steadfastly avoiding ever since the incident with the Lord High Protector. Magnalock must never have said anything about Fiberfoil’s mistakes though, because other than a critical examination of the floor and an order to repolish one bench, the Senior Priest had not said anything. Fiberfoil doesn’t know whether to be grateful or suspicious. He’s also still somewhat embarrassed and, if he’s honest with himself, a little irritated that the Lord High Protector had been laughing at him.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the heat that collects in his circuitry when he thinks of that intense red gaze, the unwavering strength of the hands that held him, or the sharp lines of those fierce and weathered faceplates.
Thankfully, with the late hour, the area seems deserted. Fiberfoil takes a cautious look around before hightailing it past the Chambers, remembering just in time not to rev his engine loud enough to attract any attention. Slipping through the garden, keeping his frame low to the ground, he moves in the general direction he thinks the pool is in before finally stumbling upon it.
It’s with a rush of triumph and glee that he slips the costume off, letting the heavy woven mesh fall in a rustling tangle. He tests the temperature of the oil with a finger and grimaces - it’s a bit colder than he would prefer, but a soak is still preferable to no soak. Flaring his plating once and then pulling it tight against him, he slides into the pool, stretching out and glancing up towards the stars.
It’s easy to forget the cold once he acclimatizes. The view of the twinkling, faraway lights is beautiful, and the utter silence around him is peaceful in a way he hasn’t really appreciated since he started his duties here. He lets his frame and his processor float away, losing himself in a bubble of tranquility.
After a time, his chronometer finally pings. He still needs time to clean up, wash the costume with solvent, and then head back towards the lower quarters. With a reluctant vent, he straightens, pedes sinking to touch the bottom of the pool before he turns to reach for a handhold to pull himself out.
Across the expanse of the secluded area, his optics lift and meet a flickering red gaze. The shock freezes his entire frame.
The Lord High Protector unfolds from the corner where he has been sitting, cloaked in the darkest shadows of the garden. A datapad is held loosely in one massive servo, but its screen is dimmed as though it hasn’t been read in a while. There is no way that Magnalock could have entered this alcove without Fiberfoil noticing, surely...which means that the Lord High Protector has been sitting there all this time.
He’s still frozen when Magnalock draws closer, and before he can push himself back to flee, one large servo wraps around his outstretched arm. He is lifted bodily from the pool with no apparent effort, and now the terror is taking over in uncontrollable tremors.
It’s terror and...and...
The remnants of the oil are spilling down his frame, rolling in thick streams across his suddenly flushed panels, and Fiberfoil thinks he should say something, anything - croak out an excuse, squeak an apology, snipe out a question about being watched - but his focus is completely taken up by the roiling desire in Magnalock’s optics and the scorching heat of the hands cupping him under his aft, holding him securely against that massive chassis. His own hands come up to land shakily on the thick shoulders, though whether his fingers are gripping tight or pushing away, he can’t tell.
“Do you want me?” Magnalock murmurs. That deep, rough voice is everything that Fiberfoil remembers. It lights an electric charge deep inside, seems to echo through every component within. The very resonance feels like it’s tugging at his spark, pulsing a rapid beat. His fingers curl and he gasps once helplessly. Everything around them seems to disappear.
It’s forbidden. Fiberfoil knows this. He’s a servant of the temple. His position now is the highest he will ever rise to, the highest that he’s even dared to aspire to, and the mech in front of him is so, so far above that. Magnalock is beyond blame, beyond magnificent, chosen by Primus himself to wield a blade in protection of all Cybertron. There is nothing for Fiberfoil in such an entanglement, nothing but the ash of his function and the doom of a future bleak with hopeless yearning.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes.”
Magnalock crushes their lips together.
Arousal pours like hot oil through every line, and Fiberfoil feels like he’s drowning. He’s scrabbling at Magnalock’s armor and Magnalock is sinking down to the ground, pulling Fiberfoil astride him. At some point, Fiberfoil’s panels have opened; he’s spread wide across that massive lap and he has never felt so hot, so wet, so ready. Magnalock growls against his mouth, reaching between them to brush the back of one battle-scarred servo against the delicate plates of Fiberfoil’s spike. Fiberfoil hears himself whimpering, rocking against the touch, inarticulately moaning when a large digit strokes further down. It sinks into the flushed, sensitive opening of his valve, and Fiberfoil jerks and muffles a gasp.
He’s distantly aware of the Lord High Protector’s thick, ridged spike pressurizing between them. It scorches a line against his plating, down the very center of his frame as he writhes on the fingers exploring and stretching him. But he can’t seem to move his lips away from Magnalock’s long enough to look. There’s something there, something at the very corners of his processor spinning wildly trying to make sense of all of this, but he feels so utterly exhilarated that he can’t pull himself away to think.
When Magnalock lines himself up, lifts Fiberfoil effortlessly and slides inside in one gloriously slow, slick movement, it feels so full - so right. Fiberfoil hears the shaky groan as it leaves his vocalizer and is swallowed up into Magnalock’s mouth, still slanted over his own. He’s clutching the back of Magnalock’s helm and the demands of his frame have taken over. He’s incoherent, bucking needily back and forth, desperate for release. For more.
His chestplates are transforming aside before he knows that he’s doing it, and it’s not until his sparklight is casting a dully luminous glow on them both that Fiberfoil realizes that this is definitely taking it too far. Except- except Magnalock makes a harsh, hungry noise, sliding one servo into Fiberfoil’s open chest. Knowing what that servo is capable of - the most violent brutality, unquestionable and all-encompassing power - and knowing that it could crush his spark chamber, offlining him instantly- As it strokes tantalizingly and without hesitation across the fragile crystal, it’s so much, too much.
Fiberfoil overloads with a scream. He’s so dazed that he only just notices Magnalock following him over with a tortured groan, hilting deep and venting hard, the barest tremble dancing across the thick armored plates.
They slump against each other, and Fiberfoil slowly becomes aware of the full-throttle of their cooling fans, whirring too loud in the silence.
Then the horror roars into sudden wakefulness in his processor. What has he done?
He slams his chestplates shut and flails, pushing weakly against Magnalock’s chest and trying to throw himself to the side. It works, but badly - he falls out of the Lord High Protector’s lap and lands with limbs askew on the ground. Magnalock’s optics glitter at him, gaze trailing hotly down, lingering on his chest before moving to between his legs where his valve is still gaping open, leaking a copious amount of lubricant and transfluid.
“We can’t- we shouldn’t have- ” he can hear the words spilling out in a panicked babble. The Lord High Protector may be allowed to have his dalliances, but Fiberfoil is certainly not allowed that same free rein. He’s destroyed any sense of propriety, his own boundaries for his lot in life, and if anyone ever finds out, he’ll be condemned and thrown out.
Magnalock is watching him silently, and Fiberfoil spares half a nanoklik to wonder at the considering flick in those red optics as he scrabbles for his costume. His chronometer pings at the same time, the final hammer-strike on his burgeoning agitation.
“I have to go,” he blurts, and then he turns and flees.
***
Fiberfoil has managed to push the encounter with the Lord High Protector out of his processor with sheer stubborn determination. He’s near managed to convince himself that it was a dream, that the growing longing in his chest is nothing but a total fantasy.
He throws himself into cleaning, into the practices, into memorizing the scriptures that he’s always been bad at. He manages to avoid the Chamber by volunteering for tasks only in the servants’ quarters and leaving the rest for his batch-mates, most of whom prefer to work in the sculptured gardens where they might catch a glimpse of the Prime and other honored guests.
But then the day of the ceremonies dawn, and Fiberfoil realizes with a jolt of despair that he won’t be able to avoid it any longer.
“What’s troubling you?” Silverhull asks conversationally as he carefully brushes the spray-paint over Fiberfoil’s plating. The dancers all require holy glyphs to be drawn over their armor for the celebratory dance and at any other time, Fiberfoil would have been delighted - the elaborate swirls of midnight blue and shimmering violet stand out beautifully against his own red and yellow colors. But the idea of seeing the Lord High Protector again, even if only from a distance…
What is he thinking, anyway? That he might mean more than a casual affair? It’s more likely that Magnalock has already forgotten how he looks, more likely that what they did is already buried beneath several nights of other willing frames and interfacing.
He takes a deep invent. “I’m just- anxious for the performance,” he says instead, and it’s not a lie. This is the first time that he will be dancing with the rest. He’s been positioned at the very back, in the corner, where he won’t be really visible. The choreography is such that he’ll be hidden by the lead dancers most of the time, but he does need to make sure his footwork is right in order to create the complex overall patterns and poses of the dance.
Silverhull pulses reassurance in his field. “You’re going to do great, ‘Foil. Just relax and do as we’ve practised. I’ll be right there with you.”
Fiberfoil leans against his friend gratefully. “That’s right,” he murmurs. “Thanks.”
The nerves settle, oddly enough, right as the dance starts. The stage has been set right in the center of the garden, and it’s far enough from all those sitting in the Chamber that he can’t actually see anyone beneath the decorative veil that has been fastened across his helm as part of the costume. He follows Silverhull’s cues and steps confidently into the moves that he’s practised over and over and over again. The even, harmonious fields of the other dancers sweep him into a languid sense of calmness.
It’s over before he knows it, and they bow low to the ground as they end. When they rise, Silverhull shoots him a pleased, proud grin, and Fiberfoil finds himself returning it, beaming hard enough to burst. They file out of the garden in single formation, Fiberfoil bringing up the rear.
Just before they turn into the servants’ quarters, a tall, slim guard steps into their path. There’s a short, quiet exchange with the lead dancer before the guard moves back, allowing them to pass. Fiberfoil thinks nothing of it until Silverhull, walking just ahead of him, crosses the threshold and the guard holds out a hand.
“Sixth-ranked, Fiberfoil: to follow me.”
Fiberfoil jerks his helm up in surprise, and just before Silverhull disappears behind the wall, he sees his friend shoot him a concerned look.
“What- what is this about?” he asks, trying to quench the bloom of worry in his core. Has he messed up after all? Is he to be taken to see the Head Priest, to be chastised for some misstep on such an important ceremony?
“Fiberfoil: to follow,” the guard repeats, dropping his hand and walking away.
It’s not like he can do anything else. Pedes suddenly heavy, Fiberfoil turns and pads behind the guard. The only sound between them is the soft jingle of his ceremonial wear.
He’s led towards the opposite direction. They move without speaking behind the Chamber where the low sounds of conversation still linger, and then veer and head down a pathway he has never been before. They pass small, warm-lit rooms, another garden, several large columns, and then abruptly enter a cavernous hallway.
The guard stops in front of a huge door that reaches almost to the ceiling, then bows at apparently nothing. The door slides open, revealing a dimly-lit passage.
“Fiberfoil: to enter.”
“Wha- ” he begins, even more anxious now, but the guard is already leaving without a backward glance.
There’s nothing for it. He steels himself, willing his frame to take one step forward, then two. The trepidation is cresting, alone in this unfamiliar place, but he pulls his shoulders back and forges forward until he emerges from the passage into a vast room.
“There you are.”
He stops dead in his tracks, his spark feeling like it’s about to spin right out of his chest. Slowly, slowly, he turns towards the voice.
The Lord High Protector is reclining against the head of an enormous berth, one arm draped casually on a raised knee. Once again, those dark red optics ensnare Fiberfoil, drawing him in as though magnetized. Without realizing it, he’s already moving there, one hand coming up hesitantly to touch the edge of the berth.
Magnalock is staring at him, expressionless.
“Who is he?”
The question is so incongruous, Fiberfoil wonders if his processor has already malfunctioned. “Who?”
“The other dancer. The one you smiled at when the performance was over. Who is he?”
The easy question doesn’t quite cover the hint of a threat, lurking barely beneath the surface. He casts his memory frantically back, wondering what on Cybertron the Lord High Protector is asking about. And then it hits. For one blinding moment, Fiberfoil worries that he has somehow gotten his best friend into trouble. “Silverhull? He’s my teacher, my mentor.”
“Is that all?”
He’s grasping at slivers as to how Silverhull fits into any of this. “Yes?”
Magnalock raises one optic ridge slightly. “Are you asking me if that’s all he is to you?”
Fiberfoil blinks. “No. No, of course not. That’s, uh. Yes. That’s all he is to me. Why?”
The Lord High Protector...relaxes, if that’s what Fiberfoil can assume by the uncurling of the large fist resting on the side of the berth. Without warning, that immense, devastating EM field is furling open, blanketing him in its heavy warmth and a subtle, heady promise of pleasure. Magnalock beckons with one finger and Fiberfoil finds himself climbing up onto the berth before he can question it. He shuffles forward on his knees until he’s sitting astride one heavily-armored thigh, the plating feeling dangerously heated against his own rapidly-warming panel.
His spark spins dizzily. Why is he doing this again?
A large arm curves around his waist, dragging him closer until their arrays are flush. The veil across his helm is lifted carefully, the fragile mesh pulled back and tucked behind his finials. Magnalock’s thumb strokes his cheek, his lip, and then the touch is replaced by the tip of a hot, questing glossa.
“Do you still want me?” Magnalock murmurs.
Primus help him. He can’t remember why he shouldn’t.
“Yes,” the word spills from him, urgent and craving. “Yes.”
***
It’s the middle of the night when the alarm blares throughout the temple.
Fiberfoil fights his way out of the tangle of blankets. His batch-mates are in similar states of disarray around him, scrambling to get up and answer the summons. There’s a strange pounding in his spark, a restless and frightened hollowing, and he barely manages to dismiss it long enough to follow the tide of the other servants flowing to the steps of the Chamber where the Head Priest stands solemn and straight-backed. Silverhull steps into line beside him, catching his hand with almost painful force.
There’s never been a gathering like this, which can only mean…
“Aerolin Prime is dead,” the Head Priest announces gravely. “Fallen in battle to the rebel forces sent by the Quintessons. The Matrix has been retrieved at great cost, and will be delivered here by the Lord High Protector’s guards at the earliest possible time. We must be ready to receive it, and to prepare the ceremony for the next selection. The Senior Priests will go among you and divide the necessary duties, and- ”
The rest of the instructions drown in the static filling Fiberfoil’s audials. He swings to face Silverhull, and though he already knows the answer, he chokes the question out anyway. “The Lord High Protector?”
Silverhull might have suspected, but has always been kind enough not to ask. Not to pry. His best friend looks at him and then pulls him close, hard enough to hurt.
“You know the Lord High Protector and the Prime were split-spark brothers, ‘Foil. If Aerolin Prime is gone, then Magnalock has passed as well.”
Light threatens to stream from his optics. His entire frame feels numb in Silverhull’s embrace. “That can’t be.”
But there’s no time for Silverhull to coddle him or to offer more comfort. His friend kisses him on the helm, dark blue optics full of pity, before moving to join the rest of the junior priests in the archive to update all the relevant scriptures. Fiberfoil knows he has to get to his batch-mates, because they’ve probably been assigned to clean again and he can’t just stand here, swaying in the sudden sensation that his fate has been ripped asunder.
A Senior Priest flanked by two of the temple guards surround him. He still can’t move.
“This is the one,” the Senior Priest says, nodding to the guards. “He must be disposed of before the selection. We cannot have any illicit connections to the previous Prime or Lord High Protector here when the new candidates arrive. Understood?”
They all but carry him away. And when at last they have escorted him far enough, and stripped off the insignias and glyphs of the temple, they chain him to an overhang hidden behind a twisted steel outcropping and leave him there to starve.
The grief takes him long before the energon dries in his lines.