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Rhodian Heights glimmered under a weak summer sun.

It had rained overnight, and puddles gathered in every dip and trench in the landscape. Over the plains, mist hung in the air, limiting visibility. Megatron’s vents puffed white with every step.

Iacon’s towers rose over the surrounding hinterlands, pale silver against the blue morning sky. Cracks spiderwebbed through their ornate architecture, the cladding pockmarked by missile craters. Some of the outer ring had collapsed entirely. Megatron could very nearly taste victory through the ceasefire.

It had been three orns since the white flags had gone up over the city walls. The time for negotiations had nearly passed, with no sign of an ambassadorial party from the besieged city. Megatron’s Kaoni army was readying itself to continue their assault at midnight that night.

Megatron stretched his arms over his helm, working the night chill out of his shoulder joints. There was an ache in his left deltoid hydraulic systems, courtesy of a lucky blow from the Iaconian Heir himself. It was lucky the prince’s sword had failed to bite into his armour, the flat of the blade rather smacking against his side with enough force to dent through two layers of armour and damage the components beneath, else Megatron himself, the dread Warlord of Kaon, might have been resident in his own hospital tents last night.

His thoughts strayed, as they often had since, to that Iaconian prince. Until this campaign he had not given much thought to the city’s ruling clan. The Warlord was a conniving wretch, a coward, he’d thought, until the fool had had the temerity to annex a rich mining territory on their shared border which henceforth had owed its loyalty to Kolkular.

To give the Iaconian Lord credit due, it had been a hard-fought war. Megatron had been thoroughly – forcibly – educated in the treacheries and strengths of the Iaconian line.   

These seemed to lay firmly in the hands of the Warlord’s children. Three Heirs-Elect, the eldest of whom was the very same prince to have given Megatron a run for his money on the battlefield yesterday. That alone was cause to sit up and take notice of the mech – few among the Northern Courts could match Megatron in battle. He was not the oldest of the Court Warlords for nothing.

His name, so Megatron’s former ambassador told him, was Optimus. A bright, shining prince, much-loved by the Iaconian populace. His skills were many, his faults few. He sounded like many popular heroes whom Megatron knew to have been complete pompous aftheads in person. His Sire’s reputation paled in comparison.

The old mech must have been made quite nervous by that, for him to send his likely successor out in battle against Kaon’s horde.

Megatron spared himself a chuckle. He bent his knees and sprang into the air, folding himself into his altmode. His jet engines roared to life in the same instant, and he shot upwards into the blue, blue sky.

Iacon was situated in the middle of a broad, flat valley. From the ground it seemed as though the silver Towers rose impossibly high into the atmosphere, dwarfing everything else around. From the air, the illusion was quickly shattered. Megatron left the tips of the towers behind within klicks, and the distant mountains rose up from the horizon to greet him.

There were few flightframes among Iacon’s inhabitants. He supposed if you wanted to make people believe in the city’s illusion of majesty, it was counterintuitive to allow them to see the truth for themselves.

He yawed left, spinning through a high-atmosphere gale. Gravity gripped and tugged at his wings. He was no Seeker to live his life on the wing, but this was good enough. He dove towards the valley floor, shooting through the middle of a drifting bank of cloud. Gravity fell away. His altimeter dropped to less than a league, half a league. He pulled up steeply, the heat of his exhausts boiling away the acid-laced puddles on the ground beneath.

The camp flashed into view. He braked in midair, dropping out of altmode beside the stocky frame of his seneschal.

“Soundwave, report.”

Soundwave sent him a flurry of databursts, his gaze not leaving the gates of Iacon. “Kaoni forces: well-rested, eager to continue siege; current weather: clement, acid rainstorm expected within two orns, flash-flooding possible near mountain passes. Surveillance suggests Iaconian populace unusually active, awaiting confirmation of rumors.”

“Which rumors?” Megatron asked, narrowing his optics at the data on his HUD. The rainstorm could make things unpleasant should the siege drag on. He aimed to have broken down at least the first set of gates by nightfall, allowing his soldiers to occupy the outer districts of the city while they worked on any further defences. Planning for the worst, however, was the best strategy.

“Internal coup: rumoured since war began.” Soundwave’s docks whirred, his chestplates folding open. Two of his flighted cassettes tumbled out. “Laserbeak orders: observation, distance five hundred mechanometers, assistance if required. Ratbat orders: close observation, gain access to Warlord’s Tower if possible. Risk analysis subject to current events, use judgement where necessary.”

Laserbeak jetted away promptly. Ratbat remained for a moment, clinging to Soundwave’s collar struts and nuzzling the carrier’s glasslike dock cover before flitting away.   

“A coup, hm?” Megatron said, watching them go. “A strange time to try.”

“Likely motive: desperation,” Soundwave said. “Warlord: unpopular. War: unpopular. Both commonly resented, privately ridiculed.” He pinged Megatron a grainy image file, likely taken from his cassettes’ video observation, of a crudely-drawn caricature of the Iaconian Warlord on a shop window. “Prevailing opinion: defeat, inevitable. Iacon: mostly conquered.”

“Good. Perhaps they’ll remember that in the future, next time someone tries to take what is mine,” Megatron growled.

“Such course of action, wise,” Soundwave agreed diplomatically.

Joors passed. Megatron’s senior officers began to join them: Blackout, Strika, Flamewar. They passed the time waiting for the returning cassettes by going over battle plans for the following day, troubleshooting tactics and arguing over whose companies had been responsible for which victories, the latter of which was a common pastime in the upper ranks.

Sun stretched gilded fingers across the landscape; the flags on the distant city ramparts whipping in the wind.

Soundwave straightened abruptly, turning towards the open air. Two small shapes came into view. He opened his dock; Laserbeak and Ratbat alit on his wrists before hopping neatly into their compartments. His processor hummed audibly as their systems connected, his visor dimming. His chestplates closed up, and he turned to face Megatron.

“Theory: confirmed. Warlord Archaeus deposed, Consort imprisoned. Responsible: Heirs-Elect Optimus and Elita.”

Optimus strode along the external corridor, his spark wrenching in his chest. Wind toyed with his frame, the occasional strong gust threatening to push him through the gaps between the overarching buttresses and over the side of the tower.

Steps echoed behind him, his sister easily keeping pace with him. “Optimus, we don’t have to do this,” Elita said, her voice too even to be real. She always had been the more practical one. “Not this way. We have other options.”

“Other options which will cripple us for vorns,” he countered. “We can’t afford to pay an indemnity with either credits or non-monetary assets. Both together would leave us with no way to support ourselves. What’s more, we’ve already lost a great deal of our land and resources to Kaon; what more could we give him? Our Court assets are worth less than a tenth of the minimum fine for a war of this magnitude. Would you sink us into a debt which would take centuries to pay off?”

“We may have no option other than to do so,” Elita snapped. “I won’t risk you against Kaon’s caprices, brother!”

He turned on her, guilt pulsing in his spark. “I won’t risk any of you! One Warlord’s insult should be repaid by another’s sacrifice. I will go to him and surrender myself. If he accepts my capture, you will be safe. All of Iacon will be safe. I have to try, Elita.”

“What happens if he doesn’t accept?” She crossed her arms, her expression torn. “What happens to the rest of us if he does? What would you have us do without you?”

“What you can,” Optimus said. He glanced out at the valley, venting deeply. Elita’s field reached out, fearful longing heavy in its wavelength. “You’ll find my will in the safe in my berthroom. You’re my heir. I want you to use all that spoil of our Sire’s to rebuild Iacon, city and hinterlands alike. Find yourself a Consort, maybe. Make yourself into a better Warlord than he ever was.”  

“You’d better keep yourself alive,” she said, her optics blazing. “Come back in a few vorns. I’ll show you Iacon then.”

Optimus chuckled, fear loosening his glossa. “I look forward to it. Name an Heir for me.”

He turned away, and the glint of sun on the massed Kaoni forces made half-processed energon rise in his intakes. He turned back to Elita, impulsively wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She was half a span taller than him. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, gathering himself.

“I have to do this, but I don’t know if I have the bravery to go through with it,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Tell me it’ll be all right.”

“I can’t do that, Optimus.” Elita hugged him tightly. They were barely four lunar cycles apart in age; raised as warriors, they’d grown up together, and the idea that they might never see each other again was terrifying. “For what it’s worth, I know we’ve done the right thing. We just… have to make the rest work, now.” 

“Yes, we do.” He clung to her for a few moments longer, letting go only when the panicked nausea in his tank subsided. “Thank you. I’ll be praying for you every night.”

“As will I, brother,” Elita whispered. “We’re both going to need it.”

It was early evening, and the shadows of the western mountaintops were creeping across the valley floor as the sun continued its journey behind the curve of the planet.

The gates of Iacon opened. Two small mechs bearing white flags left the safety of the city, approaching the massed Kaoni forces. They stopped halfway, lingering nervously in the no-man’s land between the walls and the invaders’ camp.

“About time,” grunted Blackout, his rotors rustling impatiently.

“Indeed,” Megatron agreed. He sent Soundwave the signal.

Two of their own warriors took up white flags in place of their swords, and strode out to meet the Iaconians.

It seemed to take full joors. Megatron fidgeted, safe in the knowledge that no-one would dare comment on it.

The Iaconians, it turned out, were not small at all – distance, and the sheer scale of the Iacon gates, had simply created yet another illusion.

A comm crackled in his audial. :: Lord Megatron :: Soundwave sent. :: Iacon enquires: Lord Megatron, amenable to meeting with current Warlord to discuss future? ::

“They want a face-to-face negotiation, do they?” He considered rejecting the offer for a moment, confident that even should he do so, victory was assured. Soundwave, however, had put a curious emphasis on ‘current’. Perhaps it might be in his best long-term interest to see whoever thought they were running the show here. If only to assure them how wrong they were in their assumption.

“Inform them that I would enjoy meeting the new Warlord,” he said instead. “I am sure that between us, we may draft out an intelligent solution to this little squabble.”

:: Acknowledged. ::

They waited, again. Megatron watched intently as the two negotiating parties split apart, their discussion apparently ended.

Half a joor later, a much larger, grander group left the gates of Iacon. At its head was the very same mech whom Megatron had faced in single combat not even an orn past.

Their conversation would be private. A tent had been erected for that very purpose. Megatron had little trust in the new Warlord’s goodwill, but cold logic assured that he would be safe. The Warlord had very little cause to attack him at this stage; to do so would be a stain upon his clan’s honour far greater than defeat.

He waited inside the tent, nursing a bowl of fine sweet highgrade. Truth be told he didn’t like the stuff much, but it was a status symbol in the North. It never hurt to give the illusion of being far better off than you were when hosting an impressionable young enemy.

The tent, though small, was draped in the colours of his clan, rich metalcloth flags forming thick walls between the interior and the world outside. This would not only be a visual feast, but would dampen the sound of their voices so that those outside would not hear their negotiations. Fae-lights glimmered in the corners, their smoky glow illuminating the room. He sat on a small backless chair, a copper-inlaid iron travel table at his side. Mesh cushions were strewn on the carpeted floor around his pedes.

The tent flap was lifted away, and the last of the golden sunset speared into the room. Flamewar, dressed to the crown in her vizieral regalia, announced his guest: “My Lord – the Warlord of Iacon, Optimus.”

Optimus was an unusually tall mech. Like Megatron, he had to duck a little to pass through the very average-height tent flap.

His proportions were leaner than Megatron’s, long-limbed with his broad shoulders the only obvious indication of his physical power. He carried himself like a seasoned fighter, however; his movements were precise, no motion wasted, and he stepped light on his pedes, almost like a dancer. He bore weapons – short blades on his forearms, and a massive longsword upon his back. His gaze was careful, measuring, but Megatron did not think he was imagining the apprehension in those Iacon-blue optics.

Megatron raised his cup. “Welcome, Warlord. Would you care for a drink?”

Optimus approached, warily. “I would appreciate that greatly, Warlord.”

His voice was deep and rich, his words ritual. Megatron gestured to the unoccupied seat at the other wide of the table.

Optimus sat, careful to face the opposite wall of the tent rather than Megatron himself. Discussions between warlords were filled with stricture meant to protect the participants from inadvertent insult. Their meeting might be private, but it would not be entirely personal.

Megatron filled a small steep-sided bowl the mirror of his own with the sweet energon. Optimus took it, murmuring thanks.

“My seneschal tells me that you are not yet an orn in your title,” Megatron began conversationally. He studied Optimus’ reaction closely. “It seems a rather odd time to make a bid for power. A powerful enemy at the gates complicates things.”

Optimus sipped his energon for a moment before answering. “It was not power I wanted. I would not have done this if I believed that it was any less than wholly necessary.”

“I see.” He sat back, resting his cup against his thigh. “Your clan is well, I trust.”

Optimus blinked. Not quite a flinch; he was too well-trained for that – but close enough. Guilt, Megatron surmised.

“My sisters are well,” he replied. “Fortunately most are mated housemecha and no longer reside in Iacon. Elita and Ariel have taken command of the clan in my absence. Our carrier has requested to stay with our Sire for the moment; Sire is not… in his right mind.”

All true, according to Soundwave’s intelligence. Megatron wondered why the young Warlord had given no thought to lying.

I’ve been playing politics too long, he thought wryly to himself. Honestly was refreshing.

Optimus’ expression firmed, and he looked up, meeting Megatron’s gaze. “It is clear that Iacon was the aggressor in this war. Therefore, as the wronged party it is Kaon’s right to demand recompense.”

“It is,” Megatron agreed. He hadn’t expected Optimus to come out with it so boldly. Honour with these northern Courts tended to translate to ‘unable to admit their own wrongs’. “Is that all you came to say to me, young Warlord?”

Optimus sighed through his vents. “It is not. The truth is that this war has gone on far longer than Iacon could afford. Only my Sire’s pride has kept it going. Iacon is destitute. Our trade has vanished, our coffers are empty, our people are tired and injured. We removed our Warlord out of desperation. We wanted an end to the fighting.”

Megatron grunted. “So you came to ask me what I wanted in reparation, and to tell me that whatever I wanted, you couldn’t pay? That seems a rather foolish thing to say, under the circumstances.”

Optimus shuttered his optics. He lowered his helm, his lips moving in silent prayer. “I hoped you might accept a substitute, until such a time as we are able to pay our debts.”

“Oh?” Megatron frowned at the last dregs of sweet energon in his cup. “An interesting proposal. Where do you expect to find an acceptable substitute for an entire nation?”

Optimus took a deep breath. “Its Warlord, perhaps.”

There was a long silence.

Megatron kicked his processor into gear with a startled frown. A Warlord was neither king nor Prime, not exactly. Divine right did not apply to them; they fought and warred for their titles, and retained them by strength of frame and wit alone. They were the best and brightest their nations had to offer, a reflection of that nation’s strengths and wit. A strong Warlord made a strong nation. A weak Warlord resulted in a weak nation.

One only had to look to Iacon for an example.

For a Warlord to offer himself in order to settle a debt was almost unheard of. It had happened, however, in the distant past which few alive today were familiar with. Optimus was right; he was an acceptable substitute.

Optimus had a reputation among the Courts for being bookish, intelligent. Megatron had dismissed the rumours after witnessing his skill in battle – they seemed of little consequence to the reality.

Perhaps they had been right after all.

“Why should I accept the service of the son of one who has been a grievous thorn in my side for such a long time?” he said slowly, testing the waters. “Were I to do so, how might you possibly serve me? I have many subordinates, many warriors. Tell me why I should want for more.”

“I am not my Sire,” Optimus replied. He stood, unhooking the longsword from his back. He took the blade in his hands and laid it on the table, offering it hilt-first to Megatron. “If I am to serve you, it is not my place to tell you how I might do so. I am a warrior; you have seen my skill on the battlefield and I think it best to leave any evaluation of such to you who has so much more experience than I.” Rather than sit back on the chair, he knelt, steadying himself with a hand on the table. “Regardless, I represent my nation in service to you. I will do what is asked of me.”

“Except pay me my money,” Megatron said, raising his optical ridges.

It wasn’t that he was unimpressed – because he wasn’t, at all. What Optimus was offering was something much more powerful than money: allegiance. Iacon, despite its current misfortune, was an old, powerful state. It had prestige unrivalled amongst the Northern Courts. It was a trading hub, a center of learning and religion. In good vorns, it was rich beyond belief. Allegiance with Iacon would be, in the long run, far more valuable to Kaon than immediate restitution. Megatron’s inner politician rubbed his servos together in glee.

“Even that, eventually.” Optimus met his gaze steadily. “If you accept my offer, Elita will take over as Warlord in my stead. She will work on rebuilding our nation, and when she is able to she will begin paying our debt.”

Megatron digested that with a thoughtful look. “And what will happen to you, while she is playing at being Warlord? When your debt is paid and your term of servitude is over, will you go back to that?”

Optimus shook his helm. “I never aspired to be Warlord in the first place.”

Megatron raised his brows in surprise. Such devotion to his nation, coupled with a lack of ambition? Unheard of, in the cutthroat world of the Warlords.

Optimus had guessed his thoughts, by the wry smile in his optics. “I understood the advantages of the Warlord’s position intellectually, but I can’t ever remember actively seeking it out until now. It was always something which I knew would happen someday. Ambition was not needed – fortunately, because I never had any. It was something which always disappointed my Sire.”

“There was some other calling, was there?” Megatron eyed the longsword. It was a beautiful, ancient thing, well-made and functional despite its elaborate design. Most warriors would be lucky to see one such sword in their whole lives.

“Not particularly,” Optimus demurred. “I am talented with many things, but there was never one which I loved above all others.”

Megatron gave him a sharp look. ‘Talented with many things’, bah.

He took the sword from the table, testing its balance. Perfect, of course. There was an ancient maker’s mark near the guard, blurred so badly with age that it was nigh-unreadable. It suited Optimus’ hand far more than his.

“If I were to accept your surrender, it would not be to take you as a warrior under my command,” he began. The situation had long since skewed from his expectations; now he was running on instinct and his native cunning alone. “Aside from any security concerns of my own, your life would be in danger. There are many among my army who have lost friends and loved ones to Iacon, some of whom might well be unbalanced enough to try to claim revenge from your frame. Should you take injury, despite your subordinate status towards me your nation would be forced to take actions which it could not afford. Given such a prize, I have no intentions of breaking Iacon for good.”

He swept the blade through the air with a practiced flick of his wrist. It stopped mere inches from Optimus’ neck.

“I would not take you as a courtier for similar reasons. Skilled warrior you might be, but the sheer force of numbers would overwhelm you.”

Optimus met his gaze, blue optics blazing. Megatron read both fear and respect in them. A flush of unexpected heat went through his neural net; an idea uncurling from deep in his spark.

“A long time ago, I lost my Consort to a challenge to my authority. I survived, of course, but  a Kaoni challenge is fierce and savage, and unfortunately, outsiders raised to be Consort alone seldom have the strength with which to weather them. Since then I have ruled alone, without an heir. As I grow older, this is a tenuous position to occupy.”

He removed the blade from Optimus’ neck, but the air between them was electrified. He dared not look away from those optics. “You, as a warrior born and trained, are different. You, I daresay, would not merely survive a coup, but would come out on top of the pile. Your will is powerful, and honed by true intelligence. No matter that you were not raised for the role of a Consort, an heir born of you could not fail to grow strong.”

The look on Optimus’ face was unreadable, changing too rapidly for Megatron to follow. He wondered whether he’d pushed the young Warlord too far. Alliances were often sealed with a bonding and the promise of an Heir, but Optimus was a warrior and a Warlord to boot, and what sort of warrior would let himself be bartered away like that?

Then again, the idea had been Optimus’ own to start with. Megatron waited for his reaction.

Optimus’s expression tensed, his optics narrowing. His throat cabling worked as he swallowed.

“I wouldn’t come back from that,” he said, slowly. “A Warlord’s bonding cannot be broken by any but the Primes.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Megatron agreed. It was a huge thing to ask of anyone, let alone one raised to be Warlord. Consorts were not allowed to take up the sword. Tradition forbade it.

He placed the sword back onto the table, the hilt pointing in Optimus’ direction. “What you must ask of yourself, Warlord, is this: Is my nation’s wellbeing worth my sacrifice?”

To his credit, Optimus thought long and hard. Megatron would not have accepted any less measured answer.

“Yes,” the Warlord said, eventually. “It is.”

Megatron smiled. He stood, nudging the sword towards Optimus. “Then you must take this sword and return it to your sister. You will have no need of it when you return with me to Kolkular.”

Optimus shuttered his optics, but his internal turmoil was written clear in every line of his frame.

“As you wish, my Lord.”

Optimus spent his first night in Kolkular staring at the ceiling in the suite of rooms in which he’d been locked.

He had tried to recharge, but it was not forthcoming. His processor worked overtime throwing scenario after scenario at him, posing questions for which he had no answer: had Megatron kept his word? Were Iacon and its citizens safe? How was Elita holding up? Had their Sire found his senses yet, or succumbed to his madness?

What was going to happen to him?

The rooms which he had been given were really quite sumptuous. Were they some sort of betrothal suite, in which a prospective Consort was to while away the orns until his mate-contract was written and signed? Unlike the collection of interconnected chambers which he had inhabited in Iacon, these were more like a single cavernous room with several tiered balconies built into the walls. His berth was on the highest, at the top of a grand staircase. Empty servants’ pallets occupied the one beneath. Kolkular was built downwards into the planet rather than up into the sky; there were no windows, and the lower levels were wreathed in shadow.

He lay on the massive berth, amongst the soft wirecloth covers and plump mesh pillows, arranging and rearranging them around his frame. Time passed. He sighed, his spark twisting itself into knots.

Early in the grey dawn joors, there was a knock at his door. The Lord of Kolkular came striding in.

Optimus hurriedly threw off his sheets and rose, hurrying down the staircase into the large guest balcony near the bottom of the suite. Kneeling and lowering his helm before the Lord as was custom in all the states he knew of, he calmed his worried spark and prepared to greet his future mate.

Two steps echoed in the cavernous suite. Digits curved beneath his jaw, lifting his gaze. Megatron bade him rise, steadying him with a servo against his hip when he stood too quickly and overbalanced.

Spark whirling with embarrassment, Optimus looked away. They were not the only mecha in the room; a full complement of the Warlord’s courtiers had gathered, respectfully quiet. Still more waited in the entrance room outside. Red Kaoni optics glinted at him from every conceivable angle.

An old courtier stepped forward to give him a traditional greeting in the rough Kaoni speech. Optimus thanked Primus for his tutors’ foresight; he could decipher much of it. An elder femme was introduced; she bowed to Optimus before taking up a position at his shoulder. He gathered that she was to stand in for his carrier in the Bonding ceremonies. Two more mecha, old warriors by their scarred plating, stood behind her in turn.

Prayers were said, notaries introduced. Despite the three mecha standing with him Optimus could not help but feel alone. His intakes tightened with apprehension, his vents coming shallow and quick. He bowed to each new mech, tucking away their names and courtly roles into a folder in his processor so that he would not forget. The Court Priest blessed him, speaking aloud in the achingly familiar liturgical language and anointing him with a cloth-of-gold purse. Gold dust danced in the air after the blessing was done; he held his breath for a long time, unwilling to risk a sneeze.

The meeting wound down after that. Courtiers filed out of the room one by one, leaving Optimus alone with Megatron, the old femme, and several elder-statesman mecha. The two big warriors remained, taking up stations on either side of the group.

Megatron took his servo, pulling Optimus close against his frame. This time, Optimus did not stumble. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders and met Megatron’s optics.

Together, they walked out into the hall.

Megatron led him down, down, well past the point where the web of tunnels connecting chambers in the Kolkular warren thinned out. Optimus felt the weight of the planet closing in over his helm. It was claustrophobic, dark and fearful. He fought to suppress a shiver at the thought of what it meant for him.

Megatron was a constant presence at his side, the Warlord’s EM field written in shortwave vibration, intense and nerve-wracking. He didn’t know how he could ever get used to a mech like that, all steel and blades, demanding obeisance in every movement his people made. Megatron had earned his awed respect, but it was sharp; it cut. Optimus kept expecting to feel pain every time the bigger mech’s forearm brushed against his own.

They reached a door cut into the side of the tunnel. Its rounded frame was etched with glyphs in such an old dialect Optimus could barely read them. He caught a glimpse of prayers for harmony, protection, support – and among them, darker wishes.

Lord’s mate and pleasure. Bearer of heirs. Mother of a nation.

He put a servo to his abdomen as he was ushered through, his spark executing a constricted belly flop.

The room beyond was all but dark, lit by a single, flickering blue fae-light. The ceiling was low and curved, festooned with draping metal-fibre fabrics, individual banners glimmering with iridescent hues. Flying buttresses in miniature lined the walls, branching out as they melted into the roof like some organic nervous system. The dark metal of the walls themselves was inlaid with ancient designs in bronze and electrum. The floor was open, a wide clear space gradually narrowing as it funnelled to the back of the chamber, where a cove built into the wall itself was layered with quilt after quilt of rich thermal wirecloth.

A small femme stood by the nest, her optics dimmed and lowered demurely. Small even for a minibot, she couldn’t have been much older than a second-vorn sparkling.

A clawed servo pressed palm-down against his lumbar plating, gently pushing him towards the back of the room. He chanced a glance rearwards over his shoulder. Their entourage entered; the two big warriors taking up vigilant positions at either side of the door, with the elder statesman and the dowager between them.

Optimus let himself be steered towards the nest, dialling his fans wider. He drew in a shaky intake. The burning fae-light gave off an exotic smoke which curled through the air in the chamber, exciting something deep within his coding. He dragged his gaze up to Megatron who looked back at him with an impassive, stony expression.

Optimus’ expression hardened in turn. He would do this.

Megatron’s servos settled on his shoulders, pressing down on him. It took him a moment to understand the hint, and when he did a shock of fear flashed through his emotional centres. He stepped forward, knelt in the nest, and stopped. What should he do?

He didn’t know – he had no idea what a housemech did to please his lord, let alone a Consort. His tutors in Iacon had shown him what to do when he as Lord took a Consort to his berth: how to keep from damaging them, how to ensure their union gave him an heir. None of which applied here, oh Great Primus—

He knew he would be penetrated, his valve seals broken by Megatron’s spike. Looking up at the Warlord, he wondered whether it would hurt. He knew that Megatron’s spark would touch his, imprinting, binding them to each other for better or for worse. He knew that his gestational systems would be activated, preparing them for the kindling merge to come.

But how he would be expected to act as he did so, he didn’t have the faintest clue.

He looked down again, suddenly ashamed of his lack of knowledge. What sort of Consort didn’t know how to be a Consort? Megatron had accepted him in return for Iacon’s safety. He needed to present himself better than this.

Weight against his back, a hot, heavy frame pressed against his, startled him. An arm wrapped around his waist, another at his shoulders, a strong servo reaching up and cupping his cheek. Megatron’s engine rumbled at a lower pitch than it had before, the massive warframe’s flight turbines humming deep and close. Optimus felt himself react, base coding taking over from conscious commands; he straightened, leant back against Megatron, his knees sliding apart as though to brace himself. But Megatron knew better than he what such coding was meant for, and a huge grey servo slipped between his thighs, stroking up towards his primary array.

One, two, three breaths. Optimus kept himself calm and still as those clawed digits traced the outlines of his valve panel. Megatron worked his claws beneath his plating and dug into his hip joints, teasing the wiring beneath. The servo against his face moved, rubbing the thumb over his lips. Optimus tasted weaponsfire char on the digit.

“Open,” Megatron rumbled, the first word he’d spoken all orn.

Optimus shuttered his optics. He scrambled to find the code to release his valve panel. The sharp snick of it echoed through the chamber; the wash of sudden air over his sensors made him twitch.

The sensation of Megatron’s claws against such a private, untouched part of him was… odd. Not particularly uncomfortable, but too foreign to truly enjoy. Optimus kept his optics offline, his body taut as Megatron stroked clawtipped digits over the metalmesh folds around his valve rim. Cool metal fired his sensor nodes, his array warm enough to feel the difference in temperature. The Warlord grunted. Approval, Optimus hoped. The slow inspection continued. Megatron found his anterior cluster, rubbing it lightly with the pads of two digits. The resultant burst of sensory data shocked a moan from him. His spark throbbed; warmth washed through his lower abdomen, his valve beginning to feel tight. He reset his vocaliser, silencing himself as Megatron pressed two digits together and worked them in against his entrance before parting them, spreading the exterior folds apart and baring him to the cold polar air.

“Oh,” he gasped, his hips twitching forward against Megatron’s servo. That was good – that was surprisingly good.

Megatron’s other servo caressed the curve of his neck, his clawtips working in between cables, searching for neural relays. As the servo at his valve worked him over, Optimus tensed, his hydraulics seizing up. Those hands had meant pain for most of his life, had been part of the ghouls his caretakers and carrier had frightened him into obedience with. “If you’re not a good little spark, Kaon’s Warlord will come to eat us all up!”

He was shivering now, the cold air sharp against his sensors as the first runnels of lubricant began to drip from him. It was a purely physical reaction to the stimulation, but Optimus spared a moment to be thankful for it anyway. When the first of Megatron’s digits pressed into him, the slide of it was slick and easy.

He’s seeing to my pleasure, he realised, tilting his helm into the servo now caressing his audials. The thought was electric. He spread his legs further apart, arching his back. The movement pressed him down harder against Megatron’s servo. He rested his own on top of the Warlord’s, riding the movement of his wrist. Megatron rubbed his entrance, delving into him, not quite deep enough to reach his seal. He withdrew, and pressed back inside with two digits.

The stretch made Optimus groan, suddenly aware of the pull of unused calipers inside him. He shifted uneasily, torn between wariness and the urge eating away at his base coding to bear down on those digits and ride them until the slight crackle of charge flitting over his nodes became a flood.

Megatron paused. After a moment he withdrew his fingers, shifting backwards, the weight of him disappearing from Optimus’ back.

“Down,” he ordered, punctuating it with a downward jerk of his helm. “Lay on your back and spread your legs.”

Right – the traditional position for claiming a mate. Optimus’ spark wrenched with humiliation. He should have remembered that.

He steadied himself, onlining his optics and looking up. The councillors at the door of the chamber eyed him steadily. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his bared valve, the trickles of his own fluids tracking down his legs. He swallowed, his mouth dry.

Megatron had been pleasuring him as though one warrior to another, both lords of equal rank.

Consorts and housemecha were taken on their backs, so that when they looked up at the world their sight would be filled by their warrior mates. When warriors took pleasure with one another, the symbolism was different: I trust you with my back.

Oh, Primus, he thought, turning to face the Warlord. He crouched before Megatron, arranging the metalcloth behind him before he laid back and spread his legs, wide enough that even a mech Megatron’s size could fit between them. Do I? he wondered. He did that for me. Why?

 Megatron gave him an unreadable look. Optimus met it with all the confidence he could muster, searching for an answer in those warlike red optics.

He found none before Megatron leaned forward, covering Optimus’ body with his own. The metallic scrape of his interface panel opening was muted only slightly beneath the roar of their engines. His field surrounded Optimus completely, sinking barbed wavelengths into him down to the protoform. He caught one of Optimus’ servos and guided it between their frames to grasp his spike together, letting Optimus feel the length of it.

It felt huge, hard and ribbed, thick enough that he wondered frantically how it would ever fit inside him. It seemed to swell in his grasp, the metal slide of it through his digits charged with promise.

Megatron shifted above him, optics glowing in the eerie semi-darkness. His servo wrapped over Optimus’, guiding the tip of him to Optimus’ entrance. He let it rest there for a moment while Optimus offlined his optics and let out a shaky gasp, concentrating on the feel of the broad head parting his outer folds.

Then Megatron gathered himself, hunching over Optimus, servos flattening against the curve of his hips. Optimus had a nanoklik to prepare himself before there was a smooth inward push and Megatron’s spike was slipping into him ridge by ridge.

His vision sparked and he cried out, his helm lolling back against the nest’s bunched quilts. Filling him, taking him, claiming him. The burning stretch of it was intolerable and simultaneously he never wanted it to end, too lost in the physical sensation to remember his caution. So good, so good—

Then there was pain, a snapping invasion of his core as Megatron sheathed that massive spike fully in him with one rough thrust. His seals – gone. It tore a wail from his vocaliser, half agony and half deep encompassing pleasure. It was nothing like battle wounds; it had hurt and he had liked that it hurt. Megatron laid on top of him, broad shoulders all that filled Optimus’ field of vision, so close he was inside him.

Megatron waited. Optimus was glad for it. The ache inside him faded, lost its sharp edges. Shuddering underneath the Warlord, Optimus lifted his legs to wrap around Megatron’s hips, needing him closer on an instinctual level. He rocked his hips, nestling that spike just a little deeper.

Then Megatron withdrew. Before Optimus had time to process the pang of loss at being so terribly empty he was filled again, a swift, precise thrust that rocked him on the quilts and lit up his valve in electric bliss. His internal nodes fired, their engines rumbled and roared and the vibration spread throughout his neural net, pure blessed sensation. His spark swelled and reached out, their fields mingling in mimicry of their bodies’ joining.

Again. Again, and again. Optimus arched and keened, conscious of begging (for what, he didn’t know) as Megatron sped up the pace, withdrawing until just the tip of him remained inside Optimus, the ridges that sectioned the shaft catching on what felt like every sensor node he had. The ache of his seals sharpened everything until he felt ready to scream for mercy, for release, anything to ease the knot of lightning inside him.

Ions gathered, electrons sparked. White heat struck with every thrust.

And he did scream as he tumbled into overload, his valve clamping down on the invader within him, back arching, legs locking around Megatron’s waist, Megatron’s name on his lips. His spark convulsed, acid burning through his circuits. It felt like dying, his processor blacking out board by board. His vision went dark, the exultant roar of Megatron’s own peak following him into enforced recharge.

He came back to himself slowly, exhaustion haunting his frame.

Above him, Megatron’s weight was his whole world, the hot length of spike inside him the first thing his sensornet focused on.

There was fluid in him as well, tracking from his valve up into systems he’d never realised he had before. Utterly unfamiliar and unexpected, but something about it was comforting. His gestational systems were activated – he must have done right after all.

Megatron shifted above him, rolling his hips in a languid thrust. Optimus’ valve twitched around that still-hard spike, the warm ache of stretched calipers and ruined seals for the moment dominant. He moaned softly, wanting to rest a while longer. Orns, preferably.

Red optics stared down at him, claws stroking along his central seam.

“Open,” the Warlord commanded, for the second time that day.

Again, Optimus obeyed. It took him a few tries to find the code sequence which shifted his pectoral plating and core armour aside; his processor was fuzzy with the remnants of overload. He hadn’t thought it would be so intense.

Nor Megatron, so willing to expend the effort to make sure that their first mating was at least physically pleasurable for him.

He squinted up at his soon-to-be Lord as his chest plates furled open, revealing his spark. Vivid blue light glinted off the planes of Megatron’s battle-scarred face and helm. Apprehension danced within his fuel tank. Optimus swallowed, his mental processes suddenly crystal-clear. Mating was one thing – bonding, another kettle of sodium chloride entirely.

He’d chosen this, gone willingly with the Warlord in order to protect that which was dearest to him. Was he allowed to be afraid? Because he was, right to the bottom of his spark.

Megatron propped himself up on his elbows, the cannon attached to his right forearm humming sensually. His chassis split and spiralled apart in three, four layers, far more armor than any mecha Optimus had seen before. Optimus made a small noise, his optics widening. Megatron’s spark was white, pure white. It swelled and crackled with violent energy, prominences reaching out of his spark chamber as though to grab Optimus and pull him in.

The Warlord lowered himself against Optimus’ open chest; slowly, carefully. His mouth brushed over Optimus’, the heat of his exvents thick and choking. They settled together, arms around each other’s shoulders. Optimus felt the flicker of a foreign touch against his spark as they began to merge.

Megatron tasted like iron beneath his thoughts, cast and blackened, rough and grinding. He shuttered his optics and some spiritual sense took over, storm clouds rising behind his coding until he could feel the lightning earth itself through every strut in his frame.

Wire coiled about him, caressing each digit on his servos and braiding through the currents of his consciousness. It glimmered with faint white light, pulsing with each deafening roll of thunder that rolled through his body.

He looked down at himself and saw liquid, blue as the night sky, endless. Stars glimmered in his depths, constellations wheeling through his belly.

Megatron’s hands took him from behind, blackened and scarred, sliding roughly over the clouded trough of his waist. Waves rippled through him where they touched. He heard Megatron’s voice in the void, thought-drowningly loud. There were no words to it. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the vast reach of a thunderhead rising up above him, riven with coils of lightning.

The cloud engulfed him, his vision went black. Something swelled within him. He fell, reaching out. Megatron took his hands, supporting him. The emptiness at his back solidified, the iron press of Megatron’s weight above him no longer oppressive. He was metal, blades and armour, with a sword in one hand and a shield on his arm. He glowed with lightning, optics of molten copper glowing out of a rough and ageworn face. He caressed Optimus’ body, following the flow of deep-water currents through him. His servos lingered on Optimus’ belly, palms-down; he told Optimus something in a muted faraway-thunder rumble. Optimus stretched and arched against the firmament beneath him. He slid his arms around Megatron’s broad chest, pitted cast-iron rough beneath his fingers.

Megatron slid his hands lower, parting Optimus’ thighs. Suns ignited deep in Optimus’ chest. He was no longer afraid.

He sat up and embraced the ancient Warlord, and their bodies joined together under the heat of the stars. 

A great deal later, the dream faded, and he slept.

Early morning glimmered through skylights high up in the Warlord’s Quarter of Kolkular. Megatron stepped into his private washrack and under the steady spray of solvent.

The second overload had knocked Optimus into recharge with stunning ferocity. Megatron, who ordinarily prided himself on his endurance in the berth, had very nearly gone over as well.

He’d come back to himself while they were still joined in frame and spark, and for a moment he’d felt the echoes of Optimus’ serene nature wrapping around his mind as the young mech’s consciousness withdrew. It had been… humbling, in a way. He had never met a mech quite like this one.

Optimus had been so pliant beneath him, so oddly trusting. The memory made Megatron’s array snick open, his spike extending. He caught it, stroking himself to full pressurization. Solvent trickled down his plating, warm and wet. He imagined Optimus beneath him again, limbs splayed, thighs welcomingly parted. His optics would be fever-bright, near-white with charge, his valve glistening with eager lubricants. Megatron closed his optics and remembered the tight heat inside Optimus, thrusting into his own servo. The pulse of his spark throbbed between his legs, reaching a crescendo. Silver transfluid spattered the floor of the washrack as he came.

Megatron reached out, steadying himself against the wall as the eddying flow of electricity swamped his processor. He groaned. It echoed faintly; he listened to it bounce around the chamber beyond the washrack stall, out of the range of his audials.

He was well aware of his own tendency towards fixation. There was no pack of gossips on Cybertron quite like a squad of warriors with nothing to do, and his subordinates chitchatted like pros. A sensible leader kept an audial out for the important topics of conversation and modified his leadership policies accordingly. The rest, unfortunately, was dross: who’s fragging who, whose mate got knocked up by whose best friend, what the Warlord might be eyeing up next. Jokes, particularly at the commanding officers’ expenses. Megatron might have been one of the most celebrated Warlords in Kaoni history, but even he was not immune to the odd bawdy tale.

From the moment their blades had met upon the battlefield, Optimus had never been far from the forefront of his mind. He had admired the young mech’s form, the way his frame so easily handled Megatron’s attacks. Stripped of his weapons, Optimus had proved no less attractive. Megatron had met (and fragged) his share of promising young warriors, but none had yet held his attention so strongly.

He shook his helm, turning the spray pressure up high so that it washed the remnants of his transfluid from the washrack floor. His spike depressurized, folding away.

He could not allow himself to focus so greatly upon the young Iaconian. Any slip of his attention would be met by courtiers only too happy to take advantage. His decision to take him as Consort had proved unpopular within the Court, despite the many advantages. Many of his courtiers had lost family, friends, in the long war, and loathed the idea that an Iaconian might be raised above them as Lord Consort. A Consort could only be raised a housemech, another subset said. Tradition demanded it.

Megatron growled, curling his hands into fists. His claws dug into his palms, metal groaning. To the Smelter with tradition. He still remembered finding the lifeless corpse of his first Consort, down in that ancient Confinement chamber. Nightbird had kindled barely three chords before. She had been so excited.

Well.

He sat down, bending forward so that his armor gapped open, allowing solvent to run beneath his plating. Yesterday he’d washed away the grime of the campaign, but some always remained, hidden in the seams and crevices of his armor. It had been the same when he cleared the Court of those involved in the coup which claimed Nightbird’s life. Cunning mecha had escaped his hunt. He still did not know how many remained.  

His thoughts returned to Optimus. He washed himself, and wondered how best to proceed from here.

There were three mecha in the room when Optimus awoke. Blinking away recharge, he refocused his optical lenses and tried his best to remember Consort protocols he’d never really had reason to study.

On closer inspection he revised his count to two-and-a-half. The third, the tiny femmeling, was barely waist-high to the other two. He wondered if it was due to age or frametype. The light wasn’t quite good enough for him to tell either way.

He vented heavily, attempting to sit up in the nest. His body protested vehemently.

Optimus groaned, and let himself fall back onto the sheets.

“Good morning,” a small voice said. It was the femmeling, her helm lowered respectfully. She approached the edge of the nest and knelt, still determinedly not making optic contact. “Lord Consort, my name is Arcee. I am to be your attendant while you undergo confinement.”

“I see,” Optimus said, raising himself to his elbows. What rules governed Kaon’s interaction with their servant classes? “You have my gratitude, Arcee.”

She nodded. “I am to remain with you at all times, except for when I am required to do your bidding. Our Lord has ordered that while you may not leave this chamber until his heir is born, our resources in learning and faith are to be made available to you.  I will assist you with personal care and companionship, should you require it.”

So he might be virtually a prisoner, but he would not necessarily find it dull. Optimus sat back, relieved. “I would like that.”

Arcee relaxed somewhat from her subservient pose, leaning back on her haunches. “Our honoured guards are named Ironhide and Chromia—” she gestured to the mech standing at effortless parade rest to the left of the chamber doors, a red-and-black warframe with a pair of massive cannons attached to his forearms, and to his companion, a massive dark blue femme Megatron’s equal in stature if not sheer presence.

Optimus nodded. It seemed to have been an acknowledgement, because both guards’ optics – blue rather than red, and comfortingly familiar – dropped from their forced gaze at the far wall and focused on Optimus.

Arcee dropped her voice. “Chromia’s my sister,” she said, without her former formality. “Ironhide is her partner. They’ll keep us safe when there’s trouble.”

“You say that as if it’s inevitable,” Optimus observed nervously.

Arcee’s optics grew big and round, and her field twitched as if she’d never considered the alternative. “Of course I do. This is Kaon. There’s always trouble.”

Optimus bit back a shallow laugh. He pushed himself to his knees, and the aching throb his valve gave at the movement was a harsh reminder of his new reality.

He hurriedly checked between his legs for remnants of last night. Gummy tracks of dried lubricant festooned the insides of his thighs, his groin, sticky spots of energon amongst it. Shallow clawmarks dug slivers from his hip fairings. Megatron had left his mark.

He vented deeply, shuttering his optics. He’d been taken, marked, and Bonded. His entire frame tingled with the feeling of Megatron at his back, on top of him, inside him. His spark whirled with the touch of the Warlord’s essence, the small kindnesses which had taken him by surprise. Tactile memories made his valve grow tight and wet.

He’d made his choice, and he knew that it had been the right one. This, though not the existence he had ever envisioned for himself, would be livable. His nation would grow strong under Elita’s rule. He might even see it again in a vorn or two.

Optimus opened his optics and looked at Arcee. “I had best prepare myself, then,” he said wryly. “How might I access a wash?”

Orns passed; routine settled in.

Tradition ruled every aspect of the Confinement period. This Megatron had expected, but he nevertheless found it repressive and frustrating.

Many of the traditions at least had some practical basis, he would admit. Some would protect his Consort’s health and spirit while he underwent Confinement; others would ensure that the child they would kindle would be carried and born healthy. Some protected both Consort and Heir from forces within the Court. Others still ensured that the Warlord’s attention would not be swayed from either in favour of the other.

The rest seemed seemed to have no meaning whatsoever. And if there was one thing Megatron loathed, it was wasting time on something which later proved to be absolutely useless.

He knelt in front of the Ark of Rites, bowing his helm. The neural net in the back of his neck prickled as two priests took up places behind his shoulders.

He’d never been entirely at home with religion. Only one person controlled Megatron’s destiny, and that was Megatron himself. There was no greater plan for the universe, no Rite which could divine meaning from the chaos of Life. It had taken him mere orns as a youngling to look at the suffering around himself, the mecha struggling to survive at all costs, and conclude with the rock-solid faith of youth that no just god would have created such a world.

He had not been such a fool as to proclaim his views to the world. It would have gotten him executed – and moreover, there was power in Primus’ name. Rather than fruitlessly deny that power, it cost him far less effort to simply… use it.

The language of the Rites was ancient, very nearly undecipherable to the modern listener. Megatron caught the odd word at whose meaning he could guess – likely more than most other mecha massing in the cathedral-house nave behind him, due to his age. The two priests synchronized their chants, and the words rolled through the massive cavern like a wave, crashing against the far walls, coming back in ghostly echoes.

The Chordal Rites were held every fourteenth orn. They were the most important of the minor masses, and unlike the fifth-orn and eighth-orn Rites, they required Megatron’s presence.

Ordinarily he suffered through the half-joor of prayers and ritual from the safety of his private balcony, set into the cavern wall just below the level of the Primal Dais.

Today, the congregation was all about him.

Tradition dictated that a Warlord’s responsibilities were threefold: to Nation, to Rites, and to Consort. Upon ascending, all Warlords pledged themselves in service to Rites and Nation. When that Warlord took a Consort, the pledges must be renewed, so that none of the three could be neglected.

He had used this very same tradition to successfully argue the legality of taking Optimus as Consort. His detractors had tried to insist that a Warlord could not be held eligible for the place of Consort; to do so went against Primus’ will. However, the young prince had never taken the pledges of Ascension. His brief tenure as Warlord of Iacon had been in name only.

Kaoni tradition went a little further. Megatron must present himself to Primus at every celebration of the Chordal Rite, from now until the time when his Consort became heavy with his Heir.

Apparently this was so that Primus would be generous and prompt in granting them children.

Personally, Megatron was of the opinion that a good fuck would do just as well. He could probably fit several into the Rite’s usual time slot. Optimus would be worn out and panting by the time they’d finished, his field heavy and satisfied, his plating marked with Megatron’s paint and fluids…

Megatron blinked, dismissing the daydream.

He tracked the priest on his right through his proximity sensors as the venerable old femme raised a bowl filled with sweet oil from the Ark. The mech on his left dipped careful fingers into it, then traced a double line down the back of his helm. His tactile net prickled.

The bowl was set back, and both priests knelt beside him. Further back in the church, there was a rolling clatter as seven thousand mecha dropped to their knees.

The Warlord of Kaon bent his helm, and thought of Optimus.

Despite the strangeness of the surroundings and the constant gloom, Optimus quickly became familiar with the Confinement chamber.

His days began whenever he wanted them to. This was fortunate when the lack of night and day began to mess with his biorhythms, causing him to wake up at midnight and drop unannounced into recharge during early afternoon. Arcee did her best to train her sleeping patterns to match his, and he, a naturally personable mech, was deeply grateful for her efforts. Every so often, however, he’d wake in the dead of night, neural net crawling with restless energy, and see her curled up under her thin wirecloth cover on the floor beside his nest, deep in recharge.

He thought of his sisters often, his carrier and Sire less so. Despite Arcee’s company he felt lonely more often than not. He missed Ariel’s exuberant charm, Elita’s charisma and wicked sense of humour. He missed sparring together in the morning sun, down on the practice pitches in the Tower’s rear courtyard; staying awake to plot together long after the lights had shut off for the night. He missed home.

The chamber was not quite big enough to exercise the way he was used to. The clear space just before the door was sufficient in which to practice his forms – empty-handed, of course – provided both guards were outside. He could pace up and down the chamber if the urge took him, but it was not satisfying, and after a few chords he gave up.

True to her word, Arcee was happy to collect books or study materials for him. She seldom shared his enthusiasm for academic subjects – she was in the middle of her second-vorn schooling, and her education thus far had been far more basic than what Optimus remembered of his – but her intellect was keen and her judgement far sounder than Optimus would have expected of a sparkling not quite half-grown. He quickly came to rely upon her in order to gauge the Kaoni viewpoint of their topics of conversation.

In the evenings, Megatron came to him. And though their coupling invariably left him drained and aching, he quickly found that the act itself was thoroughly enjoyable.

It wasn’t as if he’d been totally a virgin. He’d lost his spike seal vorns ago. Among the group of young warriors in which he’d grown up, there had been no such thing as a taboo topic. It had been an honour to share pleasure with the Warlord’s heir. Optimus counted himself lucky that he hadn’t developed an overblown sense of entitlement from such attitudes. He’d taken several of his friends’ valve seals, confident in the knowledge that they as warriors would never need them again. Certainly none of them had ever left his berth unsatisfied!

For Optimus himself, it had been a different matter. Framesharing was… nice. The physicality of it was pleasant, something entirely different from cabling up. It just hadn’t been particularly exciting.

Until the hordes of Kaon arrived upon Rhodian Heights, and Megatron came into his life.

Suddenly it was a stroke of luck that he had never enjoyed framesharing enough to ask any of his friends to take his seal. Without it, the mate-contract would not have been legally binding; no lord would take such a mech as mate for fear that they unknowingly carried someone else’s sparkling.

Tonight, it was cold in the chamber. Optimus wrapped another blanket around his frame and wondered idly what he’d been missing out on all this time.

Megatron had visited half a joor earlier. Optimus was young and strong, but as always, the Warlord had given him quite the workout. His valve ached, and the burn ran down the tensile cables in the insides of his thighs and up into his back. His neck and collar struts tingled with the sensor-ghosts of biting kisses, a warm patch just below the joint of his lower jaw where Megatron had sucked at his sensitive protoform until it began to sting. He could still feel the indents at his waist where Megatron’s servos had held him tight.

Most orns, Megatron gave him two overloads: one from his spark, and one from his valve. Today, he’d taken Optimus twice on his back, hooking his legs up over his elbows and pinning his shoulders down, before turning them over so that Megatron laid on his back and Optimus straddled his hips. Before Optimus could get used to the unfamiliar position, Megatron had lifted him, positioning Optimus over his spike before driving up into him, so deep and with such force that Optimus could only cry out his name as he tipped over the edge again.

Optimus had been close to slipping into enforced recharge when Megatron left. He’d let himself sleep, but it had been restless, and he had woken not long afterwards.

His frame felt strange. He’d thought perhaps he was feeling the effects of a delayed virus, but it felt like no virus he’d ever heard of. He felt unusually sensitive, his tactile net thrumming with the sensation of the wirecloth sheets against his plating. His processor felt taut, tired, as though his spark was somewhere far away. And yet, he couldn’t recharge. He thinned his lips, frustrated.

The door slid open with barely a whisper of steel on steel. A shadowy figure poked its head around the doorframe; blue optics inspected the chamber.

“Yeh still awake?” Ironhide asked, needlessly. He’d lowered his voice for Arcee’s sake, but the sound was stunningly loud in the silent room. “Ah can see yer optics in the back there, Lord.”

“I am having trouble recharging,” Optimus admitted, letting his helm loll back against the cushioned rim of the nest. Ironhide and Chromia had been a pleasant surprise. Both were old warriors, of a generation with Megatron. Unlike Megatron, both were easygoing, and surprisingly accepting of his frequent moments of culture-shock. Ironhide had even given him some tips on improving his form as he exercised that morning. Optimus got the impression that Chromia was still gauging him, but he had hopes that she too might prove to be a friend.

Ironhide made a gentle clucking noise. “Yeh want us ta stay out here?” he said, sympathetically.

Optimus shuttered his optics. “No, don’t trouble yourselves,” he said, onlining them again in the vague hope it might have made them feel less heavy. “I feel tired; I simply can’t seem to power down.”

Ironhide slipped into the room. Chromia followed, near-silent. “Have yeh tried a force-shut down?”

“Once. It worked, but I woke up two breem later feeling queasy. I thought perhaps it was a virus, but given my situation it seems unlikely.”

The two warriors shared a look. “Do you want to get a medic to check you over?” Chromia asked, her drawl far slighter than her partner’s. “It may be a minor code glitch, or it may be something more major. Your health is important.”

Optimus sucked his lip between his dente, resisting the urge to chew on it as he thought it over. Megatron would want him at the peak of health. It he wasn’t, and he couldn’t conceive because of it…

A rush of humiliation flowed through his frame at the thought. He fought it back, his spark growing hot and shy.

“Yes, please,” he said.

Chromia nodded. She bent over, whispering something into Ironhide’s audial, and left.

Optimus found he couldn’t lie still. A pede itched, a shoulder ached, a backstrut twinged, every time he found a position that he thought was comfortable.

In the end he threw the covers back and sat up. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well be doing something practical. He crawled to the edge of the nest and climbed out, blinking a sudden sway of vertigo away before he tried to stand up.

Arcee was still asleep, curled up like a cybercat on her pallet against the wall. She had only one thin sheet covering her.

He reached back into his nest for a thicker blanket, and gently tucked it around her small frame.

It took several breem for Chromia to return from the upper levels of the city. Two mecha followed her into the chamber: one a lanky femme with yellow optics and a thousand-yard stare, the other a third-vorn sparkling, very nearly fully-grown.

“These’re Cuirasse and Knock Out,” Chromia introduced, sweeping her massive hand in their general direction. “Cuirasse is our Master of Medics.”

Optimus inclined his helm in respect. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Cuirasse grunted, stepping into the light. The sound was so reminiscent of Iacon’s Master of Medics that Optimus swallowed back a sudden knot of homesickness.

“Let me see your coding,” she said, extending a servo, wrist cables deployed. “Your symptoms?”

“Inability to recharge, a small increase in sensitivity,” Optimus listed dutifully. Her brusque manner made him uneasy; his base coding shied away as she plugged into him.

“Any nausea? Internal cramps, stiffness in joints or motor cables?”

“None. –I did feel a little sick after I tried to force-shut down, but it didn’t last long.”

“Hmm.” Cuirasse’s medical codes flagged her into his system upkeep records. Optimus seldom paid attention to those; he understood little medical code and he was loath to mess around with something he knew so little about. “How is your energon intake? Tank levels?”

“I am kept well-fueled. Currently I am at sixty-eight percent.”

“Did you know your processing rate has increased by almost ten percent?” she asked, lifting her optics to meet his. She offered no explanation.

Optimus was silent for a long moment, fighting the urge to step back. “I… did not. Is that a problem?”

“I suppose your tutors taught you little about kindling and gestation, given your intended role.” Cuirasse passed him a file over the connection.

“Very little.” Optimus opened the file. It proved to be a digital book, detailing the mechanics and process of carrying in great detail. A knot in his core unwound all at once, his analytical protocols relaxing in the presence of information. He hadn’t asked for books on carrying, caught between shame and unwillingness to admit that he had come so unprepared into this situation, and the illogical urge that perhaps if he didn’t think about it, it would never happen. He was so very out of his depth here.

“It shows,” Cuirasse replied, her presence in his code drifting into another sequence of programs. She glanced over her shoulder at the red mechling who had come with her. “Knock Out, I require a thermal imager.”

“Coming right up,” Knock Out drawled, digging into a portable subspace pocket. He came up with a dire-looking piece of equipment. Cuirasse took it, opened Optimus’ lateral ports and hooked him up to it. It gave a loud, unpleasant beep.

A few steps away, Arcee came awake with a start. She looked wildly around the room until she recognised each person there. Chromia edged around the wall and knelt beside her sister, whispering something. Arcee relaxed, smiling.

Optimus swallowed a sudden burst of misery. He wished his sisters were here.

Cuirasse straightened, a satisfied note glimmering around the edges of her EM field. “I could find no virus. Fortunate, since you appear to be carrying.”

The words knocked Optimus backwards like a physical blow. He stabilised himself with a hand against the rim of his nest, sitting down abruptly. His optics burned. He blinked, his vision blurring.

“Lord?” someone – Arcee – said. “Optimus, are you all right?”

He lifted a hand, gathering the mental processes with which to speak. “I… I will be. Are you sure?”

“Ninety-eight percent certain, I’d say. Your body certainly thinks it’s pregnant.” Cuirasse watched him with intelligent optics. She reminded him of Elita, made older. “You’re early in the cycle, perhaps two or three chords. Do you want to inform Lord Megatron yourself, or would you rather I handled it?”

Megatron is going to be happy, Optimus thought, distantly. He realised that he had unconsciously cupped his hands over his abdomen. I’m carrying, he thought. A sparkling. An Heir.

Dizziness washed over him. He shuttered his optics, willing it to dissipate. This was what we always intended to happen, he firmly told himself. I knew that I was to end up carrying sooner or later. Megatron will be pleased; his plan worked. Stop being so afraid.

“I will,” he heard himself say. “When should I…?”

“Tell him? Well, tradition is that Consort decides the best time for themselves. Some wish to wait until they are sure. Others can’t bear to keep it to themselves. It is your choice.”

Optimus nodded jerkily. “I see.”

Tomorrow, he resolved. He found the memories of Megatron’s small kindnesses and clung to them for reassurance. I’ll tell him then.

Megatron had travelled throughout the great nations of the North, and in all his long life he had found no Court which celebrated like Kaon did.

The day Optimus’ pregnancy was announced, Kolkular woke up to a massive makeover. Every corridor and chamber was decorated, strung with the flags of Megatron’s long-dead clan. Every bare wall was polished and oiled to bring out the natural hues of the metal. The skylights in the great chambers were cleaned, and for the first time in many vorns the light of the surface reached down into Kolkular’s underground hub.

The Master of Ceremonies talked Megatron into a repaint. He still had a few scrapes and dings from the war, and they couldn’t have the Warlord showing up to his own celebration in such a state, could they?

He stepped into Sunstreaker’s deco shop, and immediately felt self-conscious. This was an emotion almost entirely foreign to his worldview, but he’d grown up a dingy street rat in the slums on the surface, and that little part of him which had never really gotten over it could not help but feel deeply out-of-place amidst the fine art which the artist liked to surround himself with.

Sideswipe stepped out of a side chamber, and grinned when he saw Megatron. “Congratulations, my Lord,” he said, sweeping an elegant bow. “How might we help you on this fortuitous orn?”

The red rascal was one of his most skilled young warriors, Megatron reminded himself. He’d earned the right to a little tomfoolery.

“My assistants inform me that I need a new paintjob,” he said dryly. “Is your brother intending to work today?”

It was, technically, a public holiday. Sunstreaker could usually be convinced to work no matter what the orn was, but he would charge through the olfactory sensors for it.

Sideswipe looked thoughtful. “I dunno. I’ll ask him.” His expression went blank. Megatron assumed he was contacting his twin through the split-spark bond they shared. Far stronger than an ordinary bond, it allowed them to think, move, and fight as one.

Sideswipe’s optics sharpened. “He says he’ll do it – for a price.”

“As I recall, his base price for a full-body redeco is twenty-five thousand shanix.”

“Thirty thousand,” Sideswipe countered, gauging Megatron’s reaction. Barter was common in Kolkular, but usually less so in the higher-end shops. Sunstreaker’s shop was as high-end as they came, but the twins hadn’t always been so sought-after. It was one reason Megatron preferred to come to them.

“Twenty-six thousand,” he replied by rote. He knew there was no way the twins would accept it, but one could always try.

Sideswipe rolled his optics. “What a tightwad. Twenty eight five hundred.”

“Acceptable,” Megatron grunted. He’d let the comment slide for now, but wait until the next time he met Sideswipe on the training courts!

He made the transfer. Sideswipe grinned as it landed in the business account. “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, my Lord. Hang for a few kliks; Sunny’ll be here soon.” He vanished back into the room from which he’d come.

Megatron sat down in the deserted waiting lounge, exventing impatiently. Late summer catalogues surrounded him, fashion spreads on the walls exhibiting the latest styles. He flicked through a couple, but found nothing to his taste.

It was seven chords to the day since he had returned to Kolkular with Optimus in tow. According to Cuirasse’s best estimates, they had kindled a little under a quartex ago – three chords into Optimus’ Confinement. Although Optimus had first informed Megatron of his pregnancy almost two chords ago, they had delayed the official announcement until now to coincide with the date of the Stars Festival and the orn of Prime’s Dance. It would be taken as a good omen for his Heir – and more to Megatron’s concern, it had given them time to confirm that Optimus carried a true sparkling rather than some phantom of cybiology.

He’d been restless ever since. Nervous, perhaps, although he’d never admit it to anyone. Theoretically Optimus was safe in Confinement, but should anyone intend to strike out at Megatron, his Consort was always going to be the logical target. Pregnant, Optimus would be unable to use his full skill and strength to defend himself.

He’d consoled himself by keeping Ironhide and Chromia guarding the chamber. Both were old and canny, and had served him over the vorns with loyalty and vigour.

There was a clatter from out in the shop. Megatron tensed, relaxing only when the faint strains of Sunstreaker’s snappish voice floated petulantly into the waiting room. The mech had a near-perpetual bad temper. Fortunately, this did not sound like a bad day.

The yellow twin appeared in the doorway, frowning. “Of all the days you choose to require my skills, you had to pick today.” He was even less respectful than his brother. Like Sideswipe, though, Sunstreaker had earned it.

“The life of the Warlord seldom leaves spare moments in which to take care of oneself,” Megatron said archly. “I have no choice but to take these moments where I can.”

The artist grunted. “Sure. And the rest of us have to pick up the slack. You know, they wanted me to paint a mural for the Dance at the Low Shrine.”

“I will make sure you are reimbursed for any business lost,” Megatron said, and meant it.

Sunstreaker blinked, slowly and evenly, like a cybercat. “They weren’t going to pay me,” he said. “It’s not the sort of thing you take money for.”

Megatron met his optics for a long moment. He imagined Sunstreaker in the small slum church up on the surface, amongst the tumbledown shacks and narrow acid-worn streets of the slums, standing with an airbrush in his servo and a group of lanky-limbed and malnourished sparklings practicing the Dance around his pedes.

“Well then,” he said, rising to his pedes, “In that case, I’d better choose something simple, so that it doesn’t take up much of your time.”

That evening, when Megatron stepped into the Confinement chamber, Optimus blinked twice and propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look.

Megatron strode with purpose towards the nest, slowing when he noticed he had Optimus’ rapt attention. He looked confused for a moment, then grinned.

“Do you like what you see?”

Optimus opened his mouth to reply, and a hot flush of arousal stole the words from his vocaliser. He bit his lip, willing his body to behave. “It is very… shiny.”

Megatron laughed. “Is that all?” He sat on the side of the nest, bracing his hands – now black, as though he wore cast-iron gauntlets – on his thighs and smiling his amusement at Optimus. The blue fae-light glow shone off his bodywork – silver, trimmed with white around the chest and shoulders. Black trim emphasised the lean lines of his waist and hips, a hint of red reaching up from the vents on his sides. “I am disappointed. The artist swore that it was the latest fashion in the Northern Courts.”

“It is,” Optimus confirmed. “The effect is… rather different on a mech like you, however,” he said honestly. Megatron looked less like a Warlord and more like a… Optimus didn’t have a word for him. Powerful, classy, aristocratic. Attractive. His vents quickened.

Megatron raised a thick optical ridge. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It is!” Optimus said, before he could stop himself. He glanced away, embarrassed. This was confusing – the whole conversation was ridiculous. Arcee would laugh herself silly if he ever told her.

Fingers took hold of his chin, gently turning his helm back towards Megatron. He felt the Warlord climb into the nest, his weight pulling the sheets tight. Optimus pushed them away from his frame, uncovering himself. Megatron’s other hand sought out his waist. His shadow covered Optimus, the light of his red optics sharp in the gloomy chamber.

“That is very good to hear,” Megatron murmured, his voice dropping to a near-subsonic rumble. He lowered himself to the sheets, letting go of Optimus’ chin and bracing his upper body on that elbow. He caressed Optimus’ waist and belly, his hand slowing to hover over his pelvic girdle. He looked as though he was about to say something else, but seemed to think better of it. His servo pressed flat against Optimus’ abdomen for a moment longer, then slid lower, moving between Optimus’ legs.

This again. Optimus did like it, but one could only go through the same motions every night for so long without craving something a little different.

He parted his thighs obligingly. As usual, Megatron skipped his spike panel entirely, cupping his valve array and measuring the heat within. Optimus burrowed his hands under the sheets and bunched them in his fists. He looked up at the Warlord’s face. Megatron’s optics were fixed on his array, and he was frowning.

Dare he say anything?

Optimus took a deep breath, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Megatron blinked. Surprise replaced the frown. “Nothing,” he said. “I was simply thinking. I do that occasionally, you know.”

“I am aware of that,” Optimus said, stung by the sarcasm. “I know your opinion of Northerners is low, but have I ever given you reason to consider me the same?”

Megatron stared at him with something like incredulity. It must have been like being bitten by a petrorabbit. Optimus knew he should probably apologise and defuse the situation, but his hackles were up and he’d spoken his mind, and he wasn’t about to act as though none of it had been the honest truth.

“No, you have not,” Megatron said at last. He withdrew his hand from Optimus’ array. “In fact, you have adapted to your current status far better than I had any reason to expect. Ironhide and Chromia report that you are pleasant and respectful company without being shy or a pushover, and that you are refreshingly free of manipulative behaviour and show a readiness to learn new customs and perform them to the best of your ability. It is… impressive.”

It was Optimus’ turn to stare. A ball of warmth settled into the bottom of his spark chamber and refused to dissipate.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to stop his voice from wobbling. “And you are… kinder than I had expected.”

Megatron huffed, his optics sharpening. “Kindly refrain from broadcasting that; it will ruin my reputation.” His voice held humour though, and Optimus smiled at the joke.

He turned onto his side, flattening his palms against the broad expanse of Megatron’s chest. “Might we try something a little different tonight?” he asked, made bold by the praise.

“Hm?” Megatron cupped his waist with one massive servo. “Do you have something in mind?”

Optimus thought for a moment. “Will it work like this?” he asked, lifting his leg and hooking it over Megatron’s hip. Megatron’s servo slid down his frame and held him there, their pelvic frames touching.

“It should.” Megatron rolled his hips lazily against Optimus’. His valve throbbed; the arousal had never quite gone away. “It is awkward, though, and the penetration will be shallower than you are used to.”

“I am curious,” Optimus admitted. “When I was young I found a book my governess had left behind in my chamber. It had… illustrations. I didn’t understand them then, but I do now.”

Megatron’s optical ridges raised. “Fascinating. You are full of surprises tonight.”

“How well do we really know each other?” Optimus pointed out. “Most days all we do is frag.”

Megatron went quiet. “You have a point,” he said, eventually. “I believe this is the longest conversation we have had since the ceasefire negotiations.”

“I’d like to know you better than this,” Optimus said. “For all his faults, my Sire was able to enjoy a close and loving relationship with my carrier. If I can’t have anything else, I at least want to know the sire of my child.”

Megatron touched his still-flat belly. He would not begin to show the pregnancy for another few quartexes yet.

“I will endeavour to give you at least that, then,” the Warlord said.

“Thank you,” Optimus replied.

They faced each other for a few moments, gathering the bravery to act. Megatron made the first move, as always: he hooked his servo behind Optimus’ knee and pulled his leg upwards, the motion tilting his hips forward. Optimus retracted his panel, reaching between them. His hands found Megatron’s spike, curving out into the space between them. He touched it, and his palms tingled with charge. He tightened his fingers around it. Megatron’s hips thrust forward, driving it through his grip.

A larger hand found his. Megatron shuffled closer to him, accidentally trapping Optimus’ arm beneath his frame. Optimus pulled it free with a grimace.

“Awkward, like I said,” Megatron murmured with a wry grin. He readjusted the angle of Optimus’ leg and tested the wetness at his entrance.

“I’m ready,” Optimus said, letting go of Megatron’s spike. He wrapped his arms around the Warlord’s shoulders and groaned his appreciation as Megatron pressed into him.

It took a while to build up enough charge. Megatron was right; the position was somewhat awkward. Optimus’ hip gimbal began to ache; the slight discomfort sharpened each wave of heated pleasure as Megatron thrust into him. He let his head fall back and gave a throaty moan. Megatron nuzzled at his neck, latching onto that place at the base of his throat and sucking mercilessly. His spark throbbed and his valve pulsed, tightening around Megatron’s spike. Megatron ground his hips into Optimus’ and his flight engine roared as he overloaded, spilling hot transfluid inside him.

Optimus waited for him to recover. He hadn’t overloaded, but he was nearly there, and he clutched Megatron to him with an anxious urgency, feeling his charge ebb as Megatron’s peak eddied away. Megatron pulled away, and he very nearly wailed as he felt the thick spike inside him withdraw.

“Please,” he begged, letting himself be rolled into his back. Megatron straightened out his leg and knelt between his thighs. “Please, Megatron.” He tilted his hips upward, offering himself in a way that would have been embarrassing if he hadn’t needed it so much.

“Be easy,” Megatron said, stroking his thighs. He bent over, lowered his helm, and lifted Optimus’ hips the rest of the way. Optimus felt the hot gust of his vents over his swollen mesh, the rough press of his scarred mouth and then the slick, darting pressure of his glossa working its way inside him.

“Oh,” Optimus moaned, shuttering his optics so that the sensation dominated his perception. Megatron suckled at his folds, teasing his deeper sensors. He rubbed the tip of his glossa around his anterior node, and Optimus saw lightning behind his optics. Megatron pushed his thumbs between the lower folds and bared his clenching entrance. He blew gently over the heated mesh and Optimus squirmed, crying out his name. Gentle licks swept the lubricant from his mesh. Megatron pressed his mouth hard against Optimus’ valve, thrust his glossa inside as far as he could reach and revved his flight engines hard. The vibrations were incredible. Optimus came so hard his world collapsed and his senses faded to blackness.   

When he woke up the next morning, there were a set of books of a dubious nature stacked beside his berth, and Arcee was huddled on her pallet, trying valiantly not to laugh her head off.

Quartexes went by, and Kaon prospered. The weather grew sharp and cold, and the first of the autumnal thunderstorms rattled the upper levels of the citadel.

Megatron found himself spending much of his time in correspondence. He had not had high hopes of receiving Iacon’s massive indemnity that decade, let alone within less than a vorn.

Elita, however, proved to be a force to be reckoned with. Over the summer she had rallied her nation, throwing off the shellshock which seemed to have settled over the populace following the coup and Optimus’ surrender. The rebuild began. Industry sprang up. Trade began to return to Iacon.

On the first orn of autumn, Megatron received a communique from the Iaconian Warlord, and a small initial payment.

At the bottom of the message was a small note, written in hopeful glyphs: Is my brother well?

Megatron shook his helm, smiling. Perhaps Optimus would like to reply himself.

He saved the message onto a datapad, and that evening took it with him when he visited Optimus in the Confinement chamber.

Chromia met him outside the chamber doors, saluting respectfully as he came along the corridor. Her steel-blue plating glimmered like molten zinc under the fae-lights; her blue optics, inherited from a Northern grandsire if Megatron remembered correctly, banked in good humour.

“Report, soldier,” Megatron ordered. Chromia dropped into a loose, relaxed guard’s stance, resting her arms over the crossguard of her halberd.

“All’s well on the southern front, sir. The Lord Consort seems to be in high spirits. ‘Hide says he’s talking with Arcee right now. Differences between Kaoni and Iaconian culture, he thinks.”

“He hasn’t grown bored of his current books?”

“No, sir. He never does, sir. Every time I go in there he’s got his helm buried in one or the other.”

“Good.” Megatron opened the door.

Ironhide’s input was indeed correct; Optimus and Arcee were sitting together in the nest, blankets laid thick around their shoulders against the winter chill. Arcee was tracing the shape of some figure on a glowing datapad screen, while Optimus spoke quietly, the look in his optics faraway and dreamy.

“Good evening, Consort,” Megatron said. Optimus focused on him with a start. “Has your orn been well?”

“Yes, it has.” Optimus straightened, the blankets falling away from his shoulders. “Thank you, Arcee,” he added, dismissing the young attendant. “Arcee has been helping me understand some of the differences between our nations. I find it disquieting how little we know of each other.”

“Ignorance breeds fear,” Megatron said, agreeing. “Fear breeds loathing, loathing disrespect, and disrespect, war. I think everyone involved agrees that alliance is by far the more suitable option.”

Optimus smiled. “Yes, it is.” He leant back, bracing his hands against the plush floor of the nest and arching his back and neck. “I feel stiff. I’ve spent too long sitting in one position.” He rolled his shoulders and winced as his neck joints popped.

Megatron’s gaze wandered down the lean curve of his chassis. Optimus’ belly was just beginning to swell, the mass of the sparkling inside him pushing his previously flat abdominal plates outward.

There was no shortage of pregnant carriers in Kolkular at any given time. Though the social divides between those raised as warriors and those raised as housemecha were leagues deep, there were few obstructions standing in the way of a housemech determined to do more with their life than raise children. Several of Megatron’s highest advisors had begun their political careers that way, aided by riding the coattails of their mates. Most tended to avoid becoming pregnant once they got to the higher levels – splitting one’s attention between raising a sparkling and running a nation required near godlike powers of concentration – but no form of contraception was one hundred percent effective. Accidents happened, and through them Megatron had acquired a fairly diverse knowledge of the carrying process for someone only involved in the role of an observer.

This time, it would be different. He looked at the soft swell at Optimus’ midsection, and realised anew every time that the life sheltered within was one of his own making.

“You’re looking at me again,” Optimus commented with a faint smile, sliding his hands over the bump. “Is it really so conspicuous?”

Megatron blinked and shook himself free of his whirling thoughts. “Only in that this is one of the few things in my life that I have not done before.” He approached the nest and sat on the side, gravity gradually pulling him backwards over the rim. “It seems entirely mundane until the child is your own.”

Optimus looked down, cupping his hands against his plating. “If I can be honest—it scares me, sometimes. This life is entirely dependent on me, and yet I was never taught how to take care of it for when the time came. Do you know, I used to think that the way we separate our children into warrior and housemech was arbitrary and limiting for both? I see now that while there are certainly criticisms to be made of the way the divisions are enforced, the classes themselves serve a vital role. I’m… terrified that I will do something wrong, lacking that knowledge that I would have been taught had I been raised a housemech instead of a warrior, and that our child will pay the price.”

Megatron’s neural net prickled at the thought. He moved closer, laying his servos over Optimus’. “Arcee was chosen as your attendant because she faces a similar situation. She was to be raised a housemech, but her Sire and elder full brother died in our war. She is not Chromia’s full sister; their carrier had remarried twice. Arcee is the eldest of her Sire’s children; she has two younger siblings, but both were assigned housemecha. In order to prevent her household from falling into someone else’s hands, she must become a warrior, because only then is she legally entitled to inherit it on behalf of her family.”

“Is that the full story? Arcee had told me a little of it, but I wasn’t aware that she had been forced to become a warrior.”

Megatron smiled. “She probably would have made that choice even had she not been required, to judge from what Chromia has told me of the situation. It is a difficult situation nevertheless. I thought you might benefit from an empathetic presence. That said, she quite obviously has never carried a sparkling. If you wish to speak with someone who has, I suggest Cuirasse.”

Optimus sat up straight in surprise. “Cuirasse is a housemech?”

“Yes.” Megatron frowned. “She is a medic. Why so surprised?”

“I thought— In Iacon, medics are almost always raised warriors.” Optimus gathered the covers around his thighs to disguise his consternation. “I thought it was the same elsewhere.”

Megatron shook his helm slowly. “Here, the vast majority are housemecha. Cuirasse I believe has two children, both now adult. One of my young warriors is courting her apprentice, and if one listens to court gossip it isn’t likely to be long until they are married.”

“I see.” Optimus’ optics went round and bright. “I would like to speak with her, in that case.”

“You will require a medical checkup in another few orns. Perhaps then would be a good time.” Megatron moved into the nest, rubbing the central seam of Optimus’ chest plates with his thumb. They had not merged in a long while. He wondered if Optimus might like to try it again today. “Also, I have received a message from your sister. She enquires after your wellbeing.”

Optimus swept the sheets behind him aside and lay down, naked hope on his face. “Is she well?”

“She is doing far better than any of us had reason to anticipate.” Megatron slid his servos between Optimus’ thighs and pushed them apart, baring his pelvic array. “I feel as though you should reply to her yourself.”

Optics wide, Optimus’ moue of surprise morphed rapidly into a broad, sunny smile. “Thank you, Megatron. I would like that very much.”

Megatron withdrew the datapad from his subspace and set it aside. Optimus watched it with eager optics, scarcely taking notice of Megatron as he knelt between his Consort’s thighs and spread his knees apart, forcing Optimus’ legs wider. “She’s going to be so surprised,” he said. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Megatron grunted. To his surprise, he found he meant it.

Optimus huffed through his vents, and made no reply.

There would be no adventurous position today. Megatron bent Optimus’ legs up so that they wrapped around his waist, their arrays scraping together with a galvanising tingle. Optimus bore it with patience as he was arranged to Megatron’s liking. He furled open his panel, revealing a valve already darkened with lubricant. Like most expectant carriers, he had become markedly more sensitive as his pregnancy progressed. It was now the easiest thing in the world to make him wet – certainly one of the easiest things in Megatron’s daily routine.

Megatron slid open his own panel, letting his spike pressurise on its own time. He rocked his hips forward and ground his lower pelvic components against Optimus’ open valve. There was little sensation in the thicker outer panelling, but that wasn’t his objective. He pinned Optimus’ shoulders to the sheets and brought his greater weight into play, bearing down on his Consort. Optimus groaned and squirmed underneath him. His hips rolled, rubbing his valve against Megatron’s components. He breathed Megatron’s name like a prayer.

Megatron’s spike reached full pressurisation. He pulled back, giving himself room to maneuver, and slid one hand between their frames to the heat between Optimus’ legs. There was lubricant everywhere. “You’ve made quite the mess,” he said, fondling Optimus’ swollen components. The heat spilling from inside him was incredible. He could do this all day.

Optimus cracked open his optics and raised one optical ridge independent of the other. It was a look of such measured dubiousness and, dare he say it, scorn, that Megatron very nearly had to laugh out loud.

He cupped Optimus’ array momentarily, and slid two digits inside that tight, hot valve. Optimus lifted his hips into the touch on pure instinct. He made an approving noise, half sigh and half groan. His valve flexed around Megatron’s digits; his internal calipers constricted in a wave, adjusting to their diameter. Megatron rubbed his thumb in lazy circles around his Consort’s anterior nodes, a thrill of heat running through his frame at the breathy moans Optimus made in response.

“Not going to beg today?” Megatron murmured into his audial. “Not going to ask me to frag you senseless?” He gently pinched the mesh over the small nub that housed Optimus’ anterior cluster and rolled it between the pads of his fingers.

“No,” said Optimus, when he could speak over the charge coursing through his frame. “Not today.”

As exciting as it had been to hear Optimus’ deep rich voice raised in helpless need, the strength and determination in him now was something on a level all of its own.

Megatron’s spike throbbed, his entire lower body flush with heat. His base coding took over. He withdrew his fingers, grasping his spike and covering it with Optimus’ fluids. Optimus arched, clinging to Megatron’s shoulders. His legs tightened around Megatron’s hips. His helm fell back against the sheets, and Megatron nuzzled the curve of his neck, mouthing at exposed protoform. Optimus tasted clean and sweet, an energon-bright tang against the tip of his glossa that would forever remind Megatron of Iacon glimmering proudly in the wintry sunlight at the top of the world. Starfire gathered in his spark and flowed south. He felt as though he might overload at any moment.

His spike sufficiently lubricated, he found Optimus’ valve again, and the head of his spike pressed heavy against his Consort’s swollen, leaking entrance.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice rough with arousal. It was so hard to hold himself back with Optimus there beneath him, open and pliant in his arms, but he tried valiantly, shudders wracking his frame with the effort.

“I am,” Optimus replied, shuttering his optics. His EM field twined with Megatron’s, made desperate with need. “Yes, Primus.”

“Wrong name.” Megatron gathered himself and thrust smoothly in.

Optimus’ frame opened up around him, clinging to him with all four limbs. His valve cycled down around Megatron and the sweet tight heat of him was intense enough to steal a groan from deep in his throat. Their arrays settled together, Megatron buried to the hilt within Optimus. Nodes fired, lightning arced and crackled between them. He could feel the faint swell of Optimus’ belly against his own abdominal plating, the bright urgency of the spark spinning beneath his chest. He braced his weight on one forearm and worked the other beneath the curve of Optimus’ lower back. The changed angle of Optimus’ hips brought new node arrays together and the magnesium-bright flare of electricity that leapt between them made Megatron rev helplessly, his turbines spinning.

He withdrew slowly, loath to leave his Consort empty. Optimus’ servos clenched against his shoulders, scraping curls of paint from his armour. He turned his helm, his cheek vent pressing against the side of Megatron’s helm. “Yes—oh, Primus, there, now—”

Megatron only made it halfway. He snapped his hips back in and his neural net lit up with charge. “Optimus,” he groaned, grinding his hips into Optimus’ as if he could force himself deeper by pure force of stubborn will. “Consort.”

“Yes!” Optimus’ vents came quick and irregular, his frame arching up against the length of Megatron’s chassis. “Ohh, I can’t— I hnnn, I need—Megatron, now!” He was so hot, so wet. The heat snapped and curled around them, their vents turning white in the cold air outside the nest. Megatron’s self-control snapped. He rutted into Optimus like an overexcited greenhorn, hard and fast and rough and oh, it was going to be hard to walk for the rest of the evening. Optimus babbled beneath him, broken prayers cut through with gasps and moans and shouts of Megatron’s name. Their plating clashed and somewhere in the back of Megatron’s fevered processor the thought occurred to him that everyone outside the chamber could probably hear everything. The idea made him unreasonably proud.

Optimus overloaded beneath him. The initial flood of charge whited out Megatron’s optical feed and Optimus’ peak hit him like a foundry hammer, a whole-body jolt of lightning. His spark compressed, then exploded outwards. He thrust deeply into Optimus’ valve and his entire frame locked up, holding himself there, hardly conscious of roaring as he emptied himself into his mate.

When it was over he barely stopped himself from collapsing over Optimus’ prone frame. Easing the spent tangle of their limbs, he pulled out, venting hard. His entire body was oversensitive, the cold of the chamber reaching in beneath his layers of armour and tickling his neural net. The mess of mingled fluids over his groin and thighs quickly became an uncomfortable chill.

Optimus’ legs fell open, his arms loosening from their death-grip around Megatron’s neck. There was a faraway look in his optics, like his processor hadn’t quite come back from wherever his overload had sent it. He was a mess from the waist down, covered in paint scrapes, dents, and fluids. Megatron touched his valve and he gave a full-body shudder. Silver trickled out of him, tracking down the curve of his aft.

He was still warm. Megatron considered him in silence for a moment.

Traditionally, after mating, the warrior should leave his mate to be washed and detailed in private. Today, though, Optimus was warm and welcoming, and the return route to his own chambers was long and seemed all the colder in comparison.

He lay down beside Optimus and pulled the tangled spread of the wirecloth covers over their frames. Optimus gave an imperceptible sigh, the life coming back into his optics.

The benefit of being Warlord was that, once in every while, one could do anything that one pleased.

Cold stretched fingers of ice deep into the heart of Kolkular as the vorn grew ever older. It was warmer in the Confinement chamber than anywhere else in the city, but Optimus soon began to feel the effects of winter.

Cold was not harmful to mecha on its own. The metals which made up their bodies were resistant to extreme temperatures, and remained functional even in the depths of the harsh Cybertronian winters. Provided the heat of their engines prevented their fuel tanks and chassis lines from freezing, it was possible to survive temperatures which approached those of deep space. Water was the real problem; ice and snow got everywhere and Optimus had seen too many young warriors die because of it. 

‘Functional’, however, did not necessarily translate to ‘comfortable’. Soon after he sent his first letter back to Elita, the cold got into his struts and gave him a ferocious, long-lasting ache. His sensory hardware had gradually become far more sensitive than usual over the course of his pregnancy, and he hadn’t been prepared for how badly the pain had hit.

Megatron had fussed over him like a cybercat with a sick kitten. Optimus felt guilty for laughing—it must have been frightening for his Warlord to have stayed with him while the medics worked to diagnose his problem; he’d been writhing and whimpering with agony, too exhausted to even scream. Yet the sight of Megatron returning time after time to check on him, rearranging the blankets in his nest and bringing him new heat packs to curl up around, had eased his worries. The pain had been frightening, but knowing that his mate was looking after him had brought warmth to his spark.

That too was strange to look back upon. Even until recently he had never been quite sure that Megatron’s initial kindnesses would last. Old thoughts died hard, and he had often wondered what would happen once the Heir Megatron wanted was born. He had tried to banish the thought, but it had burrs, and it hung on, dormant, where he least expected it.

Some days, the doubt struck stronger than others. Often he had found himself hiding under the blankets, knees tucked up to his chassis and hands pressed protectively to the growing swell of his abdomen, too afraid to so much as look at Arcee and his guards in case the hope that flared in him at the sight of their friendly smiles was in vain.

He’d been trapped underground too long, he thought, and spared the mental energy to resent the walls of the cave which held him tight. 

But then there had come his illness. And, following on its footsteps, a miracle.

Well. Not a miracle, not technically. It had felt like one to him, though, and when he’d said as much to Cuirasse, she had smiled and agreed with him.

It had been a cold morning, his vents condensing in the chilly atmosphere. He’d woken early, with a start, not quite sure where or why he was until his sensory centers came online and he felt a flutter of faint movement low in his distended abdomen.

Arcee had woken at his sudden movement. Her little nest was no longer quite sufficient to keep her tiny frame warm while she recharged. Optimus had wracked his processor to come up with a solution, loath to overstep his place as Consort but also unwilling to let her suffer in the cold. Eventually he had been able to bear it no longer, and offered her a place in his nest.

She had been surprised, but the cold by that stage had been enough that the idea of breaking one more tradition had not been enough to dampen her enthusiastic acceptance.

“What’s wrong?” she’d asked, her expression concerned.

Optimus had shaken his helm, searching frantically through the file Cuirasse had given him so long ago. “Nothing, I think…” The movements stopped abruptly, and he sighed, relaxing into the sheets. “I think I need to see Cuirasse.”

She’d come down that afternoon. His baby had been moving again. She had held her servo against his belly for a short while, listening to the faintest of clangs, then given him a sincere smile and congratulations.

Later, after a lengthy – and much-distracted – perusal of his sparkling book, he’d figured out what it was.

Sparkling fetal development was limited by two factors: the minimum size at which a sparkling’s tiny systems could support its spark, and the maximum amount of room which the carrier’s systems could produce within their body. In Optimus’ frametype, there was a very narrow window between these two measurements.

Development was kickstarted by the kindling of a newspark. At this point it was small and weak, and required the support of its carrier’s spark in order to survive. Within a couple of chords the carrier’s base coding would produce a frame blueprint from their own, and with the help of the raw materiel and nanites provided by the sire’s transfluid, the skeleton of a newling frame would be constructed. Once the basic systems were in place, the sparklet would descend into its new spark chamber, and as its auxiliary systems and components were completed, its processor would gradually come online for the first time.

Moving and kicking meant that his baby’s motor systems had been completed. Soon, Kaon’s Heir would be born.

From now until then, Optimus’ orns were to be punctuated with frequent medical appointments. It was important to keep an eye on things, Cuirasse had said, without specifying which ‘things’ were important.

Probably all of them, Optimus thought with uncharacteristic cynicism as the femme medic probed experimentally through his gestational hardware code.

He sat on the edge of his nest as usual, with Cuirasse kneeling on the floor in front of him, scrolling through the readouts on some device. The pose was somewhat awkward; he needed to lean back to avoid putting pressure on his generation hardware, and his back rapidly began to ache. Knock Out stood at Cuirasse’s left, ready to offer assistance if needed and pretending to look interested whenever his Master showed him something in the readouts. On her other side, Megatron hovered, far more attentively. Arcee sat in the nest a way behind Optimus, trying not to shiver.

“Everything looks very good thus far,” Cuirasse pronounced. Her mental fingers turned to Optimus’ generational histories and flicked through the records with the ease of much practice. “Frame type, armor pattern and spark inclination have been logged since your last checkup. I would say that you have maybe four chords of pregnancy left, at most. Three and a half, more likely.”

“That many?” Optimus looked down at himself in surprise. He had trouble seeing his pedes past his chest at the best of times – damned protruding windshields – but these days it was beyond hope. ‘Round’ was the most accurate adjective to describe him. It looked like he had a lobbing ball inside his belly. His back had curved and his hips had gradually widened in preparation for the birth (something that he still tried not to think about too much), exacerbating the effect. “It looks like I should explode if I get any bigger.”

Megatron looked faintly disturbed. Ironhide chuckled, and Chromia’s lips pursed as if she was trying to keep from doing the same.

Cuirasse simply smiled. “Fortunately, you won’t. Your baby is already about as big as she’ll be getting. These last few chords will be devoted to systems checks and frame reinforcement. You should see a lot more activity from her from now on.”

“Oh. I see.” Something knocked at the back of Optimus’ thoughts, begging entry. He frowned. “Wait – you said ‘she’?”

Cuirasse nodded. “I did.”

Megatron spoke up. “A femme, then?”

The medic nodded, a lopsided smile tugging at her mouth. “A femme indeed. She’s a warframe—a large one, it looks like—with very heavy armor patterns, likely groundbound with a high-stress engine. She’s smaller than I’d normally like for such a sparkling, but every other indicator of health is high, so I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Megatron’s field brushed lightly over Optimus’. He looked up, but his mate was staring into the middle distance, thoughtful as he had ever seen him. “There hasn’t been a femme Warlord in a very long time.”

Optimus exvented lightly, and decided he couldn’t take the strain anymore, shifting under the medic’s hands. The sparkling – Primus below, his daughter – moved within him, a tiny flutter registering in his internal sensors. “That may be my influence,” he said, shuttering his optics for the moment. He could still feel their attention on him. “There are many femmes in Iacon’s line. I have four sisters, an aunt and three femme cousins. My Sire’s sire, the late Warlord, was a femme herself.”

“Huh.” Cuirasse pressed her palm against his abdomen, measuring the curve. “That’s right, I remember Warlord Silvershore. I had the misfortune to meet her once. Formidable politician, that one, and a ferocious fighter. It’s a pity your Sire didn’t inherit it.”

Optimus smiled wryly. “My carrier was fond of suggesting that it seemed to have skipped a generation. Elita—my sister—inherited a double dose.”

“Musta been an interestin’ household ta grow up in,” Ironhide commented.

“It was,” Optimus said. A pang of homesickness drew his field tight around his frame. He laced his fingers together and rested his servos on his belly to remind himself that he wasn’t totally without family here.

He’d never been particularly close to either of his housemech sisters. They’d grown up in entirely different circles, he with the city’s young warriors and them with the other young debutantes from Iacon’s most noble families. Most days he’d only ever seen them at a distance. Then they’d gone off to be bonded to strangers, and he hadn’t seen either of them since.

He wondered how they had felt when their marriages had been arranged. Whether their new families had embraced them with open arms, whether they had felt lonely despite it. He regretted not having known them better.

His daughter squirmed and kicked, as if sensing his maudlin train of thought. He smiled despite himself.

“Stop that, you,” Cuirasse ordered wryly. “I need you still if I want to get accurate results here.”

This garnered no perceptible reaction. “Oh, wonderful,” she continued. “You’re going to be a stubborn one. I feel sorry for your poor carrier.”

“It’s a sparkling,” Knock Out said. “You can hardly expect it to hear, let alone obey you.”

Cuirasse waved a finger at him. “I am a midwife of eight hundred vorns’ experience. I know. Someday, you’ll agree with me.”

“I highly doubt that,” the red mechling snorted, crossing his arms over his chassis.

Optimus shook his helm. Come on, settle down, he thought, willing the sparkling to somehow understand. I’d like to get this over and done with.

She fluttered once, a final hurrah, and did so.

Thank you, he told her, smoothing his thumbs over his plating. Hopefully such prompt obedience, accidental or not, was a good omen for the future.

Trouble flared up on the border with Tarn half a chord later. Megatron sent Blitzwing to deal with it at the head of a battalion, just before an early snowstorm swept down across the southern lowlands and buried Kolkular under three mechanometers of acidic snow.

When the first messengers finally got through, he discovered that what they’d thought was a minor raiding party had in fact been sweep scouts for a full-sized army.

Blitzwing and his forces had realised this when, one day into a triumphant return with prisoners, the Tarnians had swept down out of the foothills, surrounded them, and methodically torn them apart.

Shaking with barely contained rage, Megatron had ordered the Kaoni horde be fully mobilised. Despite the biting cold outside, few people had protested.

Snow delayed their departure for a few orns. He spent most of those orns making preparations for war – the second time that vorn alone. Blitzwing and a depressingly small number of survivors straggled on homewards. Most arrived with severe injuries; some were little more than automated corpses. Each new arrival set the fuel in Megatron’s lines boiling.

Soundwave wouldn’t be coming with him this time. His housemech too was heavily pregnant, and Megatron felt that given his seneschal’s deep devotion towards his cruelly disfigured bondmate, it would not be kind to call him away and potentially make him miss the birth of the first child the pair had been able to bring to viability.

Plus, Soundwave was one of a very small handful of mecha who could be trusted to run Kolkular smoothly and properly while Megatron was away. Kaon produced many fine warriors, but finding those with the potential to excel in the political arena rather than war was like looking for misstrokes in Sunstreaker’s artwork.

Fewer still lacked the ambition to be trusted with such powerful roles. Megatron was self-aware enough to realise that he himself illustrated this problem perfectly.

He spent as much time with Optimus as he could spare. Optimus was plainly worried for him – and wasn’t that an amazing thing for a mech whom had once been just as much an enemy to him as the Tarnians were now? He did not voice it aloud, nor cling to Megatron when he left, but the look of his optics even when screaming in overload was one of a mech who wished he could.

And they did a lot of overloading these days. Optimus seemed to be near-constantly aroused. According to Cuirasse it was something to do with needing to sustain a higher charge level than usual for sparkling development and was perfectly normal for carriers late in their cycle.

Megatron hadn’t been worried, per se. He’d been more concerned for his ability to keep up with Optimus’ need. His ego had taken a significant blow when he had had to finish Optimus off with fingers and glossa three nights in a row.

His Master of Medics had laughed outright. This had not soothed him in any way.

“You’d be something godlike if you could keep ahead of it,” she’d said, which had settled his feathers somewhat. “It keeps coming back no matter how many overloads you have. As a medic, I recommend plenty of highgrade – forget about the hangover because you’ll be working it all off anyway. As a carrier… making the acquaintance of a vibrator or two might be a good start.”

Megatron did his best to forget that they’d ever had that conversation.

Optimus met him at the entrance to the Confinement chamber, a slight smile playing at his lips. His lean frame, once so evocative of the warrior that he was, was broadened and swollen, his field potent. It swept over Megatron as they approached each other, its wavelength sweet with relief. Out the corner of his visual field Megatron caught sight of Arcee slipping out into the corridor, anticipating the future with practiced ease.

Optimus’ optics were banked, the corners pulled tight in worry. He folded his servos against each other, resting them at the top of his swollen belly.

If the worst was to happen, their unborn daughter would inherit the title of Warlord of Kaon. Megatron had planned for it, just in case. His Generals, led by Soundwave, would form a Council of Regents to keep the nation going while she grew to adulthood. Unofficially, Optimus would join them. Soundwave had standing orders to allow Optimus influence, should there eventuate a conflict of interest between Council and Consort, but he could not legally be named Regent until he became a naturalised Kaoni citizen.

Megatron laid his servos palm-down on Optimus’ shoulders, tugging his scarcely-shorter Consort closer. Optimus let himself be pulled, tilting his helm upwards and brushing his lips over Megatron’s. His chassis radiated stressed heat.

Megatron stood there, letting himself be kissed without complaint. He derived no pleasure from the act; his mouth was greatly scarred and his lips had little sensation left – but it was how Optimus worked through his worries. He couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate being the centre of attention.

“Don’t make me raise her on my own,” Optimus murmured, drawing back to look Megatron in the optic. The subject of the sentence was clear – he grasped Megatron’s hands and drew them down to lie flat over his abdominal plates. The heat radiating from him quickly warmed the temperature gauges his Megatron’s palms.

“I will not say I won’t,” Megatron replied. “In my experience, such assurances are generally made lies.”

“I know,” Optimus said. He shook his helm slowly and leaned forward, pressing his forehelm to Megatron’s collar strut. “I had to say it anyway.”

Carefully not said was all the farewell and platitude Megatron could almost hear him thinking. Good luck. Be careful out there. Please, Primus, keep my mate safe.

Megatron glanced towards the nest. Optimus must have left it in a hurry; the blankets were in disarray and several pillows had fallen out onto the floor.

Gently he herded his consort back towards it. Optimus smiled when he realised what Megatron intended, but continued shuffling backwards, step by step with Megatron, rather than walk like a normal mech. “Forgive my whimsy,” he said, smiling.

Megatron huffed, but he’d never had any intention of doing otherwise. 

Optimus climbed into the shallow bowl of the nest without assistance, a feat greater than it looked for a mech so heavily pregnant. Megatron followed, markedly less practiced.

It had become a pain to mate face-to-face as they were supposed to. Optimus knelt in the middle of the nest, lowering himself to his elbows and glancing back at Megatron past the span of his shoulder. He arched his back, presenting his badly-leaking valve panel. Megatron’s spike tried to pressurise before he’d even managed to fold his pelvic panelling away.

He fitted himself in behind Optimus like the curl of a comma, reaching around Optimus’ side and between his legs. He rubbed a particular spot at the anterior seam of Optimus’ panel, and Optimus opened automatically, giving a little breathy moan.

“I still don’t know how you found that,” Optimus said, tailing off into an approving sigh as Megatron rubbed the shaft of his spike in a teasing stroke over his swollen external folds. “I didn’t even know it was possible.”

“Luck,” Megatron grunted. It was really more trouble than it was worth, trying to hold himself back from just fucking Optimus hard and fast. “And experience, and a bit of educated guessing.” He angled himself and slid inside his mate, stilling at the peak of the stroke and offlining his optics as he savoured the sensation of Optimus’ internals adjusting to his girth.

“I wonder, aahhhh, if there’s a spot like that on you,” Optimus said after a moment, pushing back against him with an eager twist in his field.

“Could be,” Megatron allowed. “I look forward to you attempting to find it.”

His first thrust caught Optimus mid-laugh. The result was a silly-sounding squeak as Optimus’ vocaliser tried to do two things at once.

Megatron decided against holding back. If he wore Optimus out well enough, he might get enough time for a quick nap before round two. He held tight to Optimus’ hips, teasing him with shallow humps and then pulling him back onto his spike and holding himself deep inside for long moments. Optimus’ servos fisted in the sheets, his vocaliser spilling deep, raspy cries that made Megatron’s entire neural net tingle. When he came, he shook and gave a dry sob, and the backlash sent Megatron over as well.

Megatron didn’t get his nap in the end, but Optimus came up with inventive ways to compromise.

Megatron stayed away for eighteen orns.

Optimus waited it out with a strange buzzing sort of impatience, his sense of tedium barely slaked by the knowing efforts of the sisters and Ironhide.

He knew why, intellectually. His carrier protocols were frustrated by the absence of his mate, the lack of exchange between their systems and the drop in transfluid donation towards the sparkling’s growth. The knowledge didn’t make it any easier to bear. His reprieve came only at night, when his systems spun down into their rest state and the dull need curling through his spark abated somewhat.

He found himself growing more active during the night cycles, curling up for fitful rests during the day—much to his guardians’ amusement. Cuirasse too kept a close watch on him. His abdomen grew rounder and riper by the day.

This night was still and quiet, the constant fae-light glow close and stifling. He was as alone as he’d ever been. Arcee was curled up by the rim of the nest, sleeping like a rock. Ironhide stood watch outside the chamber, unseen and unheard.

Optimus settled himself on his back under the draping awning, pinning it up so that it curved like the roof of a cave above him and propping his shoulders up on a pillowed sheet. Idly he pulled the wirecloth around his frame, burrowing his pedes under the massed sheets like a sparkling.

His daughter squirmed inside him, bringing a gentle smile to his lips. He cupped his servos over the soft swell that sheltered her. Helpless wonder coursed through his emotional protocols, his world narrowing down to the frame they shared. 

It wouldn’t be long now until he gave birth to her. Almost two full lunar cycles had passed since the orn Megatron had sired her on him, a cycle in which he had changed and grown so fast, so much that some orns he barely recognised himself. A pensive scan of his frame revealed little alteration but for the swell of his abdomen and the breadth of his hips, yet the spark which inhabited it had become an entirely new mech. A Consort, a carrier – and one whom had found to his great surprise enjoyment in fulfilling his duties.

He rubbed the pads of his thumbs in little circles over his abdominal plating, sorting through his thoughts.

He no longer felt lonely. It was difficult to pinpoint the moment at which the fear had given way to fascination, and fascination to friendship. He had friends, a kind mate, and now, a child. Elita regularly corresponded with him; Ariel, less regularly but no less enthusiastically. Cuirasse had been a helpful and empathetic mentor. Optimus finally felt prepared to enter his new life.

There was a small pebble sitting on the rim of the nest. Optimus took it as his daughter’s movements became more energetic, balancing it carefully on his abdominal plating. There was a moment heavy with expectation - then suddenly it leapt into the air.

Optimus bit his lower lip in glee. Somehow, although his plating did not seem to move enough to be seen by the unassisted optic, the impact of each kick was transmitted through the layers of his protoform and plating and into the pebble. It was a small thing, but he thought he’d never get tired of seeing it.

He retrieved the pebble from where it had fallen among the sheets beside him, replacing it upon the edge of the nest. He really should try to get some recharge.

He stared at the flags hanging from the ceiling for a few kliks, reading the prayers embroidered around their edges. Primus was in this room, and He had looked out for Optimus well.

Optimus shuttered his optics and pressed his palms together, bringing his servos to his forehelm. Thank you, he thought, hoping the Creator would hear him. I am grateful for the life given me. Thank you for my mate, my daughter, my friends and family.

Primus did not answer, but that had never mattered to Optimus. He’d always figured that Primus had bigger things to be worrying about.

He lay in the darkness a while longer. His engine ticked over quietly, his processor quietly winding down.

A noise from out in the hallway startled him. He pushed himself upright, his spark whirling nervously. Ironhide’s voice became audible, though the words themselves were lost. He didn’t sound alarmed, and gradually Optimus’ startlement faded away.

The door opened. A quiet figure entered. Optimus recognised the flared spikes that tipped Megatron’s pauldrons, the heavy shape of his armoured helm.

He smiled. The stress of the past chord and a half melted out of his limbs.

Megatron approached the nest in silence. He climbed in, moving the sheets aside, and lay next to Optimus, his movements whisper-quiet in the dark. The blue fae-light glow flickered around his silhouette, his optics glowing like banked coals as he turned onto his side and looked down at Optimus. One large servo settled on top of Optimus’, cupping the curve of his belly.

Optimus gazed back curiously, thrown off by the sudden tenderness. Ordinarily Megatron disguised it beneath a veneer of growls and smirking amusement lest it ruin his hard-wrought fearsome image. He didn’t like to be thought of as soft. Optimus thought it might have had something to do with the vaguely-hinted-at trials of his younglinghood.

Megatron exvented a puff of warm air, the content rumbling of his engine muted by the wirecloth surrounding them. His servo stroked across Optimus’ abdomen, the other hooking a sheet and drawing it across their legs. He did not speak, but the expression on his face lightened fractionally, his optical ridges quirking upwards.

There was a deep tear rent through one side of his chestplate. Optimus traced the length of it with careful fingers, frowning.

“Someone believed that they could get the better of the Warlord of Kaon,” Megatron murmured, his optics following the slow traverse of Optimus’ digits. “They were sorely mistaken.”

Optimus made a small noise of assent. “I know how difficult that is.”

“I have never forgotten your attempt,” his mate chuckled. “Were you older and cannier I suspect you might have even succeeded.”

Coming from Megatron, that was high praise. Optimus lowered his servo and looked away at the reminder of the life he would never return to. “I fought with everything I had that day. I was terrified,” he admitted, “but I was defending my home. I could not allow you to defeat me.”

“We never did settle that match,” Megatron said, the look in his optics distant. “That is a shame.”

Optimus made a face. “You are far older and more experienced than I.”

“And on your side is the advantage of youth,” Megatron pointed out. “Your strength and energy will last longer than mine.”

“Perhaps,” Optimus allowed. “Still, I am in no rush to re-enact that battle.”

Megatron huffed. “Then I suppose I must be satisfied by wrestling with you in the berth.”

A flush of heat went through Optimus’ neural net. “I suppose you must,” he said dryly, attempting to disguise the prickling arousal in his field.

Megatron grinned at him with narrowed, wicked optics. “Were it not for your condition, we might settle the score here and now.”

“There is not enough room,” Optimus said, nudging the tips of his pedes against the edge of the nest to illustrate his point. “Also, you’d wake Arcee.”

Miraculously, the femmeling had slept right through their discussion. Megatron lifted himself up and peered over Optimus’ frame with his optical ridges drawn together in the most ridiculously put out frown. “Why is she in here?”

“She was cold,” Optimus said. “I did not want her to suffer for my sake. I don’t want anyone to do that.”

Megatron gave him a measured look. “You will be a good housemech and a good Consort,” he said, his words ringing with confidence. “I could not have chosen better had I looked among all the Courts of the North.”

“Thank you, Megatron,” Optimus murmured, his spark fluttering with the unexpected praise. “You have done a great deal that you did not have to in order to make this transition easier for me. I am glad to be your Consort today.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Megatron murmured, reaching for Optimus’ waist and pulling them closer together. “I have not seen you for a long time. Have you been well in my absence?”

“I have.” Their servos met, Megatron’s much larger hands enfolding Optimus’ between his massive palms. “I worried, a little, but I have been kept well entertained.”

“I was not so lucky,” Megatron said. “War is one tenth action and nine-tenths sitting around waiting for things to happen. My subordinates are entirely too competent, and leave me little to bother myself with.”

“You should have taken a book,” Optimus said.

Megatron snorted. “It would have been lost on the first orn.”

“That is unfortunate,” Optimus sighed. “I take it that you won.”

“Who do you take me for? Of course I did. Tarn’s generals went running back through the mountains as though someone had lit a fire under their exhaust pipes.”

“Of course,” Optimus said, nodding. All of a sudden he felt sleepy, the steady thrum of Megatron’s engines lulling him into shutdown. “I am glad you are safe,” he said, offlining his optics and tucking his hands under his helm. “Will you stay with me for a while?”

“I don’t believe I am needed elsewhere until morning,” Megatron said. “Sleep, Consort. I will watch over you until you wake.”

Megatron had hoped to spend at least a handful of orns with nothing better to do than bother Optimus down in his chamber, but there was no rest for the wicked. A mere two orns after his triumphant return, Kolkular woke to uproar.

The apartment was a high-rent bachelor’s hideaway low down in the Kolkular warren. It had three rooms, each large and richly decorated. The thick metallic tang of decomposing protomass pervaded the atmosphere throughout all three.

“Murder,” said Flamewar, nudging the corpse with a dainty pede. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer mech, personally.”

The victim’s helm lolled back, sightless optics glinting under the harsh lights the Watch had brought with them. Megatron had had a hard time recognising him at first – whoever had removed him from the world of the living had done so thoroughly. He’d been a minor advisor in the Megatron’s Council, a stubborn aft of a mech with dubious connections and a history of casual violence.

He’d also been one of the most vocal detractors of Megatron’s plan to take Optimus as Consort.

Blackout loomed through the door behind Megatron, his rotors rattling gently with each step. He was perfectly capable of moving in silence, but it made Megatron antsy, and so they’d come to the compromise that he only did so when he had reason to suspect that Megatron was in danger.

“His landlord found him when he came to collect the rent,” Flamewar’s subordinate, a lanky Watch femme, put in. “Naturally, now the whole city knows.”

“Slag,” Flamewar said with feeling.

“Discussion inevitable,” Soundwave said. “Cassettes: listening for information.”

“Rumours, you mean.” Flamewar turned to Megatron. “This is not going to be neat. You remember the last thing he said in public.”

Megatron did. “‘I fear for Kaon’s future with an Heir born of an Iaconian whore,’” he quoted, sneering. “Fortunately, he will no longer have to live with that future. I move that whoever did this in fact did him a favour.”

“Wish they’d done us a favour instead, and left him alone,” Flamewar sighed. “Now the whole city is going to think you had him killed for the insult done to your Consort and Heir.”

“Let them,” Megatron grunted. “Perhaps the next mech will think twice before he opens his mouth.”

Word reached Optimus of the advisor’s murder two orns later. When pressed, Megatron said little about the circumstances. Optimus stopped asking, but he could not shake the suspicion that Megatron had omitted something important.

When Arcee came back from the public library the next day, wide-opticked and shaken, the magnitude of Kolkular’s unrest became apparent.

“There was a brawl in the Library Plaza,” she explained as her sister and Ironhide fussed over here, inspecting the scrapes and dents that covered her small frame to make sure there was no greater damage. “I lost the books, Optimus, I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to be sorry,” Optimus said, his optics fixed on the massive scrape that wrapped around her entire left forearm. She held her shoulder tense; it looked as though someone had grabbed her by that arm and swung her around like a ragdoll. “I am simply relieved that you seem to be all right.”

Her vents hiccupped. “It was frightening. Is that what it’s like to be a warrior?”

“No,” Ironhide grunted, pulling her into his lap. “When yer a warrior, y’can defend yourself. It’s still scary sometimes, but in a different way.”

“You’re a lot bigger than I am, though.” Arcee frowned, leaning back against his chest. “I’m small, and I know I’m not an adult yet but I’m not going to get much bigger than this. “How am I supposed to match up to everyone else when they’re all three times my size?”

Chromia sat beside then, looping one arm around Ironhide’s shoulders. “There’s a trick to everything. Look at Flamewar. She’s not much bigger than you’ll be, and she’s one of Lord Megatron’s most decorated generals.”

“The only advantages of size are reach, weight, and – usually – the ability to take a hit better,” Optimus put in. “Smaller mecha are faster, more agile, have greater endurance relative to their energy output, and are better than the rest of us at avoiding being hit in the first place. I was always taught that a warrior’s most dangerous weapon is not their blades or their strength but their intelligence. Cunning wins the most fights.”

Over the top of Arcee’s helm, Ironhide gave him a grateful grin. “What they said. Ya’ll be fine, kid.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, her optics dimmed. “I don’t think I want to go up there for a while. It’s only a few people causing the trouble, but everyone’s scared of them and you can feel it in the air.”

“Everything gets amplified underground,” Chromia said. “Kolkular is easily defensible, but being underground traps all the bad stuff in with us, and you can’t get away from it. That’s one thing I think Iacon got right with the towers.”

“Once, a long time ago, Iacon did build underground,” Optimus said. “There was a bad Warlord, and one winter someone was so desperate to escape him that she filled her apartment with gas and blew herself up. Half the city collapsed. Fifteen thousand mecha died, the Warlord and all his Heirs-Elect included.”

Ironhide hugged Arcee a little tighter. “I’ve never heard that story.”

“I was told it many times as a youngling, to remind me of my duty to my nation and its people. My youngest sister, Ariel, is named for the femme who orchestrated the explosion. It is telling that she is remembered as a hero and a liberator rather than a desperate terrorist.”

There was a long silence. The fae-lights flickered, the flags on the ceiling casting long shadows across the curved chamber walls.

“What happened next?” Arcee asked.

“There was fighting. A new Warlord came from the hinterlands and under her rule Iacon was rebuilt above ground in its present location. I am descended from her.”

“I always thought maybe there’d been a lot of flightframes in Iacon at some point,” Chromia mused. “Like Vos.”

“Yeah,” Ironhide agreed. “Feel better now, kid?”

Arcee nodded. “I hope no-one blows Kolkular up. I like it here.”

“As do I,” Optimus said, and meant it from the bottom of his spark.

Over the next chord and a half, pockets of violence flared up all over the city. Flamewar’s Watch gave up arresting people for it; none of those who had been seen to incite it were ever there when the peacekeepers arrived.

Megatron lost his patience when he ran into a riot blocking one of the main tunnels through the upper city. He stood at the edge of the fracas and fired his cannon into the ceiling, the echoing boom dying away into absolute silence.

“Haven’t any of you got better things to be doing?” he roared. “Go home to your mates and children! Have we not had enough of war already this vorn?!”

And that was a sentence he had never thought to utter, wasn’t it.

It seemed to work, however. The brawlers slowly unfroze, folding away blades and loosening fists. Those still able to walk away did so, fields slinking low in shame. A few brave mecha risked Megatron’s wrath to help the arriving city medics take the injured to the sides of the street, opening the middle to traffic once again.

Megatron opened a line to Flamewar, and found her occupied with seven simultaneous riots across the city. Her deputy answered the comm instead.

“It’s the same problem!” the mech squawked sharply, interrupting Megatron’s growled demand for the heads of the perpetrators. “They keep vanishing! It’s almost like they’re trying to distract us!”

“Then that is probably what they are intending!” Megatron snarled. “Mobilise the night shift! Keep the day guards on all public locations, have assistance ready should any locations need it but do not waste the mecha on strengthening guard detail before we know what these scrap-licking axlegrinders are going after! Contact Soundwave, have him deploy his symbiotes! I am not interested in excuses!”

“Yessir!” There was a moment while the deputy relayed his orders. “Sir, it’s all in the upper levels at the moment. I’d bet that whoever’s calling the shots is lower down.”

“In the high-class districts, you mean.” Megatron narrowed his optics. It would not surprise him in the least to learn that the perpetrators were noble.

“Yes, sir. The Priests’ Hole perhaps, even.”

“Right. Concentrate on the riots, but be ready to act lower down if the need arises.”

He snapped the unit shut, forcing his far-too-sluggish mind to move.

There were no hiding places in Kolkular that he did not know about. The upper levels of the city were densely populated; there was no way that anyone could move through them without being seen. Lower down, though, tunnels looped in a sparse maze. There were few dwellings or public chambers down there; it would be easy for plotters to cross the city unseen. The main lower run was seldom empty, but fewer people knew that there was a second cross-city run lower down, on the same level as Optimus’ chamber.

The Priests’ Hole was nearby. The Confinement chamber branched off from the same corridor which led to the main Primal shrine.

Megatron thought back to the dead mech. He had been very devout, often praying, often donating to the Rites. He had come from a devout family. His younger sister had entered the Rites, and was now an assistant to the Cardinal Trine.

Ice dropped into the pit of Megatron’s spark.

He did not stop to think. He ran.

Down through the Cataract, across the pan-Smelter plaza and into the gloom of the lower levels, the world blurring all around him.  His fans shrieked, cooling systems venting air faster than they could pull it in. His footsteps pounded through his struts, thuds echoing inside his helm. He skidded around the last corner so fast his gyros whirled. He braced himself against the wall and caught his breath, refocusing his optics.

Figures at the chamber door. Chromia’s blue flashed, barely visible behind eight unfamiliar warframes. She was outnumbered.

Megatron threw himself down the hallway. Distant roaring echoed in his audials and he dimly realised through the rage that it was his own. Chromia’s attackers turned. Cannon fire clipped his thigh, caught him full on the shoulder. He barely noticed the pain.

He smashed into the first mech like a freight train, snapping out his wrist blade. The mech parried once and stumbled under the onslaught, screaming as Megatron thrust one blade between the armour plates at the join of his shoulder, ripping upwards and through the joint mechanism. He tried to defend himself with one arm. Megatron swept it aside like paper, grabbing hold of his collar strut and tossing him into the wall.

He primed his cannon and fired twice. A short scream told him he’d scored a hit. He lunged for the next enemy and narrowly avoided a blast. The femme had a face he almost recognised. She snarled and slammed her fist into his mouth. He felt his dente crack under the impact, his helm snapping back. Instinctually he hooked his arm beneath her guard and sank his blade into her side, ripping it up and inwards through her diaphragmic armour. Energon spattered his arms and chest, and he knew he’d hit her fuel tank.

The chamber door was open. Out of the corner of his optic he caught the flicker of movement through it.

Bellowing, Megatron dove into the next knot of enemies. Ordinarily he enjoyed fighting multiple mecha at once, but this time every one of them delayed him for precious seconds. He fought to kill, spitting fury bubbling up through his spark and through every line of his coding. His opponents hesitated for a bare nanoklik in the face of his ferocity, and it was the last mistake they would ever make.

He turned, snarling, and came face to face with Chromia. She blocked his sword, her blue optics just unexpected enough to lift the blur of rage from his vision.

There were eight frames strewn across the corridor floor. All were dead, or dying. The blue glow of energon spattered  up the walls, pooling around their feet.

The echo of one last blast rattled the corridor. A frame came flying out through the open door of the Confinement chamber, its face and chest a melted ruin.

They stared for a moment, and then Megatron ducked into the chamber, urgency hammering at his chest. The fae-light glow was gone; he could see nothing. “Optimus!” he shouted, switching to infra-red. His cannon revved, whining with charge. A hot white glow spilled from the muzzle, lighting up the liquid sheen of energon on the floor.

The darkness heaved, reflecting his own cry back at him. He was suddenly afraid to the core of his spark.

 A warm shape detached itself from the rapidly-cooling frame beside the nest. It rose, striding towards Megatron. Twin points of blue light shone out of the darkness.

“I am here,” Optimus said, his voice too even to be natural.

Relief swamped Megatron all at once. He strode forward, his pedes skidding in pools of energon. Optimus’ frame entered his proximity scans. He seemed unhurt.

Warm white light lit up the chamber. Megatron looked over his shoulder momentarily. Ironhide was beside the chamber door, his cannons spinning. He’d turned on his headlights. Chromia ducked in behind him, and her optics were wide and shocked.

Megatron folded Optimus into his arms and looked around, deeply impressed.

“I’m sorry,” Optimus murmured into his chest. “I broke your lights. I could walk this room in my sleep, and I didn’t want to give them any more advantage than they already had.”

There were three mecha sprawled on the chamber floor, all three alive, but in varying states of misery. One’s vents came fast and panicked as he tried to stop the flow of energon from the main line in his neck; another whimpered quietly, his neck broken and his frame unnaturally still. The third lay facing the nest, one knee bent forty degrees the wrong way.

“You did all this unarmed,” Megatron said, gazing down at Optimus in shock. “You did it pregnant.”

“Unarmed combat was always my favourite,” his Consort said bashfully. “You wondered once why I never had claws installed, despite being a warrior? It is because I never needed them.”

“I can see that,” Megatron said. “You are unharmed?”

Optimus gently pushed at his chest, stepping back once Megatron let go of him. “Mostly.”

“What does that mean?” Megatron asked dryly. He frowned as Optimus’ expression tightened momentarily, optics narrowing in something like pain. “Optimus, are you hurt?”

Optimus shook his helm. “Not so much ‘hurt’, per se.” He cupped his hands over his belly and his lips moved faintly as he carefully put together his next sentence.

When it came, it hit Megatron like a tsunami.

“I… think our daughter is coming.”

Cuirasse arrived on the double, Knock Out trailing close at her heels. She made a beeline for Optimus, urging him back into the nest. “Lie back, let yourself rest.”

Optimus did so obediently, arranging the pillows into a more comfortable configuration beneath him. He’d leapt out of the nest at the first sounds of fighting outside the door, and his covers had gone everywhere. Arcee knelt beside him, waiting for the opportunity to assist.   

He vented slowly as a wave of cramps swamped his entire midsection. The pain was sharp, but not yet the agony that he had expected of birth. “It’s early,” he said, once it eased. “Will that make a difference?”

“It may,” Cuirasse said, frowning. She laid her hands on his belly and waited for the next contraction. “I don’t think it should. Frankly, sparklings come when they feel like it, and a chord premature is not unusual.” She glanced at the energon on the chamber floor and Optimus’ hands, the three attackers having been hauled away for questioning. “What concerns me is the cause of it. Stress to the carrier stresses the sparkling, and even if you suffered no external injury during the fight the activity could potentially have damaged your internals.”

“What is the best-base scenario?” Megatron rumbled. Optimus felt the berth dip behind him as his mate climbed into the nest. “How do we proceed from here?”

“Carefully,” Cuirasse said wryly. “Oh, Optimus, can you feel that? That’s a big one, isn’t it.”

Optimus shuttered his optics, fisting his hands in the sheets and holding on hard. The contractions were quickly getting more intense. Pain flickered through his neural net, orange warning notifications popping up on his HUD. “It is,” he said, breathing deeply the way his sparkling book had suggested in the birth chapters. “What should I do?”

“For now, keep talking to me if you can. If nothing else, tell me if the pain suddenly gets worse or if it changes in any way.” Cuirasse gently pressed down on the top of his belly, and something inside him eased. “Lord Megatron, it’s hard to say what the best case scenario will be. It might be that these are false contractions and that the sparkling will be born a chord or more from now. It might be that the support protomass has begun to shear off from the walls of his gestational chamber due to the stress he experienced in combat. If that is the case, we should be quickly seeing movement.”

Megatron stroked the top of Optimus’ helm, sliding his fingers to the tips of his audial fins. The touch was soothing. Optimus shuttered his optics, shunting his worries into a folder in the back of his processor and locking it.

This was it. His Confinement was nearly over.

The thought was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

He retracted his valve panel at Cuirasse’s request, making a face as her unfamiliar digits touched his external components, sliding into him. Her fingers were cold, covered in artificial lubricant. The touch was firm and clinical, and he was grateful for that. Still, he’d begun thinking of that part of him as Megatron’s alone, and the idea of anyone other than his mate seeing it made his spark whirl with sudden shame.

Cuirasse seemed to sense his discomfort. She withdrew promptly. “You can close if you want. Dilation hasn’t yet begun.”

“Is that a good thing?” Optimus asked.

She made a face. “It’s a neutral thing, really. Normal, but if it had begun then likely you’d have been in for a very quick birth, which we usually like for first-time carriers. I had a friend a while ago who had her first in less than two groon. To be fair, she was a large flightframe, and her baby was a minibot. You are in a very different place.”

Optimus tipped his helm back until Megatron’s face entered his field of vision, upside down. His mate’s hands slid down to his shoulders, rubbing the tense cables at the join of his neck. Megatron often did things with his hands when he was nervous or otherwise under stress. Often, lacking anything else to play with, he’d turned to stroking and touching Optimus. Optimus had woken several times in recent orns to his neural net buzzing with pleasure under Megatron’s wandering hands.

He closed his optics and followed Cuirasse’s original directive. Rest was important. He needed to conserve his energy.

Footsteps thudded into the room: Knock Out and Ironhide, returning with energon and medical tools. Optimus cracked open one optic, and decided he really didn’t want to know what they were for.

Knock Out laughed at his reaction. “They’re really not as scary as all that, you know. These are just the basics.”

“If things take especially long to progress, we may need to help you along,” Cuirasse explained. “You’re looking good so far, but it is best to be prepared.”

Optimus bit his lip. The sparkling book had given him an overview of the different forms which medical assistance might take. None had looked particularly pleasant.

The apprentice medic brought over a bowl of energon, handing it to Arcee. Megatron helped Optimus sit up and tucked him back against his chest. Optimus took the energon from Arcee with a grateful smile.

Things did progress slowly. The contractions gradually came more often, and grew more intense. It felt as though Optimus’ entire abdomen was being squeezed by a giant hand. Cuirasse checked his valve again and announced that he was two digits’ dilated. There was fluid coming out of him, of a sort he’d never seen before. It was thick and white, slippery like lubricant despite its consistency.

“What is that?” he asked. He could feel his body gearing up for another contraction, and braced himself accordingly.

“It’s lubricant,” Cuirasse confirmed. “Our valves are made for two purposes – mating, and giving birth. These, though related, are two very different purposes. Naturally, our bodies deal with them differently. A sparkling is rather more massive than a spike. Our usual lubricant would not be able to deal with it. When we are pregnant, our bodies begin to make this sort. It is on par with industrial-grade artificial lubricant, but markedly softer on the internals than anything science has been able to synthesize so far.”

Optimus rode out the contraction, gritting his dente and flopping back against Megatron when it was over. “Why is it white?”

Cuirasse shrugged. “Medical mystery. I freaked out over it when I attended my first birth. I was studying my pre-med papers, not even a medical apprentice yet, and my brother asked me to be there when he had his first. I don’t know why, but the sight of it coming out of him just made my higher processor shut down completely. I had to be carried out into the corridor before I could shake it loose.”

Knock Out snickered. “It is rather strange to look at.”

“It is, but have you ever wondered why? It isn’t translucent, but neither is transfluid, and most people like that well enough.” Cuirasse smiled wryly. “I find it fascinating these days.”

Megatron had the oddest look on his face. Optimus glanced around the room, and realised both guards had left. “Megatron? Are you all right?”

Megatron opened his mouth, but it took him a while to find the words with which to reply. “This topic of discussion is… enlightening.”

Cuirasse smirked. “Welcome to the world of the housemech.”

“I like to think I have never been remiss in my respect of you,” Megatron said, with the air of a mech inspecting each word for dirt on a minute scale before he spoke it, “but I am gaining an entirely new perspective on what exactly that respect entails.”

Optimus laughed, and winced as a sharp pain lanced through his internals just beneath his diaphragmic center. “Ah, Cuirasse, that was sharp. I don’t think it’s happened before.”

“All right.” She plugged herself into his systems and he showed her where the corresponding report had been logged. “I see.” Her expression grew somber. “Your anchor mass is pulling away from the internal wall of the gestation chamber.”

“Is that a problem?” Megatron gave voice to Optimus’ sudden worry.

Cuirasse dove into his gestational mechanics and Optimus lost track of her underneath a wave of contractions that turned sharp and biting. He made himself think of something other than the pain, loosening his right fist and extending the fingers one at a time.

“It’s happening earlier than it should,” he distantly heard her say. “Ordinarily as the cervical channel widens and the sparkling moves down into it, the anchor mass remains attached and it’s the umbilicus attached to the sparkling that detaches first. The other way around, the danger is that the detaching anchor mass will slip and either block the sparkling’s path, or become tangled in her frame and prevent her from entering the cervical channel entirely.”

Middle finger, index finger. Optimus felt the burn of fear swell in his chest.

“What can we do?” Megatron asked.

Cuirasse rolled her shoulders and gave Optimus’ belly a gentle rub. “Optimus, what you’re currently experiencing is the widening of the cervical channel rather than contractions as we tend to think of them; your muscle cabling is pulling apart rather than contracting, trying to open wide enough to allow your baby through. What we need to do is get this going a little faster so that the active phase of birth can begin. For that purpose, I’m going to apply a patch to your base coding which will accelerate the rate at which these contractions are coming.”

“I see,” he said, shuttering his optics and pulling his fist tight in the sheets. “It’s going to hurt, isn’t it.”

“Like the Pit,” Cuirasse replied. “With luck, the accelerant will work in your favour, however. Once the cervical channel is fully dilated, there is a tricky little bit of coding which kicks in and… it doesn’t exactly dull the pain so much as make it feel faraway.” She smiled wryly. “I’ve been a midwife for hundreds of vorns and I have given birth twice, and I still don’t know exactly how to describe the way it feels. It’s still there in the back of your mind, but you have far bigger things to be worrying about. In the meantime, I can give you painkiller patches to ease things if you want.”

Optimus watched the patch go to work in his coding. “I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to decide yet.” Cuirasse rested her hands on his belly and cocked her helm to the side as if she were listening for something. “I’ve treated plenty of mecha who decided that they wanted to go through birth without any pain treatment, but when the contractions were coming thick and fast screamed at me to give them pain codes. Likewise, I’ve treated an equal number who felt sure that they were going to need them, but discovered that actually the pain wasn’t as bad as they’d been expecting.”

“Does that happen often?” Optimus vented hard as his internal mechanisms attempted to tie themselves in knots. The idea seemed attractive, if hard to believe at this moment in time.

“Often enough. You know, I treated a mech back when I was first starting out on my own. He was an old mech, a warrior, but he had fallen in love with a younger comrade, and after a few hundred vorns of fighting together they’d started to want more out of life than the steady but highly untraditional relationship that they had. They’d taken a few chords off to try out life as a bonded couple, and lo and behold, he’d become pregnant. He went into severely premature labour and though we managed to arrest it, I had to put him on bed rest for the final lunar cycle of his pregnancy. He got all geared up to face an agonising and traumatic birth, but in fact when his time finally came he hardly noticed that he was going into labour for the first couple of joor, because compared to the pain of the first time, he could hardly feel a thing. By the time he realised something was up, he was almost fully dilated. When I arrived, he was right into the active phase and despite his mate’s panicking was taking it all in stride. All I had to do was watch to make sure everything kept going as smoothly as it was.”

By Optimus’ side, Arcee smiled. “That sounds really sweet.”

Cuirasse nodded. “It was. There have been a few others like it. It’s always good when they go well, especially when one or both of the parents is a first-timer. I had another patient who was in recharge when her initial phase started, and she almost slept right through it.”

Optimus shook his helm, unable to reconcile the idea with the pain eddying back and forth through his abdomen. Megatron looped his arms around his waist, protective servos hovering above his swollen belly.

Something inside him cramped. He shifted, raising himself on wobbly forearms. He opened his mouth to ask how anyone could possibly sleep through the pain that he was experiencing, and the accelerant codes chose then and there to hit. What came out instead was a choked scream.

He was distantly conscious of Megatron’s frame at his back, hands on his belly, even through the haze of agony distorting his world. Voices mumbled around him, Cuirasse’s sharp alto coming through with its edges filed off, the deep rough rumble of Megatron’s vibrating through his chassis and down into his spark. His neural net pulled inwards and he tried his best to curl up into a ball, his legs drawing up and his shoulders bowing down while his arms cradled his swollen belly.

Rather than restrain him, the medics worked with him. Megatron lifted him while Cuirasse and Knock Out tucked his legs beneath him, lowering him onto his knees as the contraction gradually ebbed. Optimus sobbed through his vents, the pain leaving him taut and exhausted.

Cuirasse said something, and he only realised it was directed at him when she lifted his helm with a servo beneath his chin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, gasping. “I didn’t hear.”

“Do you want painkiller codes?” she repeated patiently.

Another contraction hit. His sensory center began to glitch under the surge of data, and he heard a staticky roaring in his audials, like distant thunder rumbling through his frame. “Yes! Please!” he said, sobbing with the effort of putting together a meaningful sentence. He leaned forward against Cuirasse’s frame, cherry-red agony twisting through his internals. Oh Primus, it hurt, it hurt so much it burned away his thoughts and left him a mindless beast. He screamed, trying to push them away. Megatron held him tight against the length of his frame while Cuirasse installed the codes.

It took a moment for them to work, and when they did he collapsed with relief. The pain hadn’t gone away entirely, but now, it was bearable. That made all the difference.

Megatron murmured encouragement into his audial as it went on, kneeling behind him and resting Optimus over his lap. The Warlord didn’t seem to care that fluids were beginning to drip out of his valve, dribbles of white lubricant and pale yellow amniotic fluids tracking down his legs and onto Megatron’s thighs. Optimus’ internals gave a particularly hard wrench and he felt something more solid slide out of place. He shifted, the sensation noticeably uncomfortable even over the ache of his contractions, which were coming more or less constantly. The mass slipped out of him, proving to be some sort of sticky yellowish jelly. Along with it came a spurt of amniotic fluid, a silvery mass of tiny filaments and a supply tubes so thin he thought they were wires at first.

Cuirasse frowned at it. She urged Optimus to lie back, taking a device from Knock Out’s collection. It consisted of a handheld screen and a long slim plasmetallic wand. “I’m going to take an internal scan and see how well your anchor mass is holding on,” she explained, coating the wand with artificial lubricant. Optimus closed his optics as she gently slid it into his valve, the chill of the material desperately strange. He counted the seconds until it was withdrawn, exventing with no small relief.

“The good news is that you’re almost fully dilated,” Cuirasse pronounced, after studying the scan for a moment. “You’ll be getting ready to push any moment now. When it starts, you will notice a difference from what’s happening now. Your baby is presenting headfirst, which is good; after her head and shoulders come through the rest of her will just slide out as easily as anything.”

Optimus tried to think forward to that moment, and found he couldn’t imagine it. He’d carried her for so long he’d almost forgotten what it was like to not be pregnant.

With Megatron’s help he found his way upright again, bracing his hands against the bottom of the nest and leaning forward. His internal components gave a dizzying shift; his tank leapt into his mouth and his spark went wild. His world tilted on its axis and the pain faded into the background. Base coding took over, guiding him into the future. He spread his knees further apart, and when the next contraction hit, his entire frame bore down with it.

“Good, good,” Cuirasse’s voice murmured, loud in the sudden hush that gripped the chamber. “That’s it, you’re doing well, keep going as long as it lasts and let yourself rest when it fades.”

He obeyed, the painful scramble of his frame coming together like a miracle. The upper layers of his mind were blank, but beneath them his substrates seethed with instinct. He vented deep when the contraction faded, blasting hot air out of his internals and sucking the cold winter air deep into his core. Megatron’s presence at his back gave him something to focus on. He met the next contraction with glacial calm, his autonomics holding tight to the sensation of his mate’s servos stroking gently over his belly.

He would look back later and recognise it for what it was – a trance, of sorts. His focus turned inwards, his sense of time flowing away. He rode each wave of contractions, rising up between them and bearing down on the crest. His body moved like a dream. He’d never felt so in-touch with his frame, every strut and every cable bent to this one purpose, the way every generation before him had done so and the way his children would one day do as well.

Soon Cuirasse crouched before him, working her fingers into his valve. “Good, that’s good. Here she comes. Deep vents now, Optimus.”

Megatron pressed his mouth against Optimus’ audial and whispered, “I am so proud of you.”

He doggedly kept going, his senses drawing back to the small world within his nest. Sound filled his audials and he realised that he’d begun to scream again, stopping and starting with each new contraction that gripped his lower body. His valve was on fire, the burning stretch inside him sharp and shallow in comparison. He felt a bruising ache at his entrance, the lining of his outer components tearing beneath the mesh. The pressure grew and grew, the pain between his legs becoming shallow and laboured. He hung his helm and shuttered his optics, panting through his mouth, desperate for air. The contraction eased. Cuirasse’s hands skirted around a strange mass of deadened sensation at his valve.

He threw his helm back and cried out in shock as something gave inside him. The mass slipped partway from his body; Cuirasse caught it and eased it the rest of the way. He watched with wide, stunned optics as she sat back with his daughter held in the palms of her hands.

Great Primus below. She was so small. He couldn’t think anything else for a long moment, his mental processes were gone and his daughter was right in front of him.

She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound.

Knock Out passed Cuirasse a soft towel. She held the sparkling in one hand and vigorously rubbed the towel over her tiny frame. Yellow fluids and clumps of filaments came away, revealing white plating. Faint lines of silver and golden orange appeared as he watched. Cuirasse turned her facedown, supporting her helm, and gently blew into her dorsal vents.

Faint hiccups reached Optimus’ audials. Minute fingers twitched. She hung limply from Cuirasse’s hands for a moment, then suddenly, she came alive. The weak, raspy cries of a newborn filled the chamber.

All pain forgotten, Optimus reached for her with both hands. He slid his chestplates open and tucked her into the hollow next to his core, brushing his thumb over the rounded plane of her chestplates, so like her sire’s. His mind was buzzing, too full of emotion for his beleaguered processors to make sense of it. His spark whirled so bright and hot that it felt as though he housed a supernova within his chest. He nudged her miniature hand, the wrist only little wider around than the circumference of his thumb.

Movement near his chest startled him: Megatron’s servos, hovering just over Optimus’ forearms as though he couldn’t decide if he had the nerve to complete the gesture. “Can I…?” he said, wonderingly, his voice so soft Optimus barely recognized it.

Optimus smiled through his daze. He took Megatron’s servo and guided it to their daughter. Megatron hesitated for the barest moment before he touched her. His hand was bigger than her entire frame.

She squirmed underneath his touch, her little EM field flaring outwards for the first time. In it, Optimus tasted exploration, the first bite of knowledge that there was a world out there beyond herself. Already she was learning, turning herself outwards, investigating her surroundings. He was so proud of her.

They hadn’t thought of a name for her yet. It wouldn’t be officially recorded until she was presented to the Court at three chords old.

Afterwards, she and Optimus would take up residence in the Warlord’s quarters above, and the rest of their lives would begin.

Exhaustion rocked Optimus’ frame. He couldn’t recharge yet, the anchor mass had to pass out of his frame and he had to feed his daughter the first energon of her whole life and he had to watch her living, sure that if he closed his optics it had all been a dream and that he’d wake in his old berthroom in Iacon, under the clear blue summer sky.

As if he’d known his thoughts, Megatron took hold of Optimus, easing him back against his frame.

Optimus smiled, and rested.

“Everyone tells you about how much giving birth hurts, but somehow all of them forget to mention what happens afterwards.”

Optimus walked back and forth in front of the chamber door, his movements brisk and his attention entirely fixed on the tiny bundle he held close to his chest.

Six orns after giving birth, his frame had yet to return to its svelte pre-pregnancy contour. He’d been dogged by near-constant cramps – apparently his internal systems returning to their original configurations. According to Cuirasse this was entirely normal. She’d recommended plenty of exercise; hence the pacing.

Megatron sat on the edge of the nest amongst plumped pillows and soft coverlets, elbows on his thighs and his digits interlaced beneath his chin. He watched his Consort walk about with their daughter, and savoured the rare moment of peace.

Kolkular had spent the orn following the attack on Optimus’ chamber in a state of national shame. It had been palpable in the streets in places, within the Priests’ Hole and the Council Chambers. Megatron had seen it on people’s faces often enough in the past orns that he felt like it might not be an overreaction to strangle the next person he saw break optic contact with him in favour of a soulful staring contest with the floor.

Ironically, the shame he’d seen had proved to be a mark of innocence. Those mecha had known the perpetrators and perhaps might have supported the basic grievance behind their actions, but few warriors and fewer housemecha would consider an attack on a pregnant Consort anything but the lowest and most shameful form of treason. The very idea had been unthinkable – and that, Megatron thought, was why they had very nearly gotten away with it.

His practiced optic caught the shifting of balance in Optimus’ stride, the surefooted ease with which he moved. The only thing which had saved Optimus was his skill as a warrior.

Megatron thought back to his first conversation with Optimus, the words he had spoken with such confidence, filled with the assurance of victory and the sudden burn of lust. You, I daresay, would not merely survive a coup, but would come out on top of the pile. 

How right he had been! It made him want to laugh and never stop.

Optimus turned in front of the door and gave him a considering look. From the bundle in his arms, two round red optics stared owlishly out at the world.

“What?” Megatron said, very articulately.

Optimus stayed silent for a moment, then shook his helm, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. I simply remembered something that I am very glad happened, in hindsight.”

Megatron smirked. “As was I, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?” His Consort blinked, adjusting his hold on their daughter. “Perhaps it might even be the same thing.”

The sparkling, Kaon’s Heir, chirred loudly, wriggling within her bundle. They’d named her Morningstar. It had been Optimus’ idea, but Megatron had found the double meaning appropriate. She wasn’t fond of being wrapped up, but she’d found her claws far too early, and it prevented scratches in sensitive places at feeding time.

Optimus hoisted her higher on his chest, his optical ridges rising skywards. Although they both had very little experience in looking after sparklings, it was Optimus whom had borne the brunt of the learning so far. It would be his role to raise Morningstar while Megatron concentrated on the running of the nation.

He still hadn’t gotten the hang of babytalk – for which Megatron was exceedingly grateful.

“What is it?” he asked her, tucking a hand beneath her helm when she wobbled alarmingly. “What do you want?”

She trilled and blew a raspberry, worming a tiny hand out of the blankets. Her claws were still extended, tiny but sharp. They clacked on Optimus’ windshield.

“You can’t still be hungry,” Optimus said, gently tucking her hand back into the blankets. Morningstar screwed up her face and growled.

“I see,” said Optimus, nodding seriously. “That sounds terrible.”

She muttered darkly, as if to agree.

Megatron shook his helm at the strange tableau, and found himself smiling.

Optimus approached the nest, gently jiggling Morningstar until she squealed with laughter. “I feel as though you should hold your Heir for a while, my Lord. You at least have no windshield for her to try out her glass-cutting skills upon.”

Megatron hesitated for a nanoklik before taking her from his arms. Morningstar instantly quieted, gazing up at him with round optics. She’d inherited his optics, right down to the Kaon-red colour. Her armour pattern too was all his. No mech would dare suggest that she was not his once she had been presented to the Court.

He had not had the opportunity to hold her more than once before. It made him uneasy; he had never been more aware of his own size and strength than in comparison to this tiny little life he’d had a hand in making.

Morningstar herself didn’t seem to worry. She familiarised herself with the planes and contours of his face, concentrating intensely. Her mouth opened and she made a round shape with her lips. Her optical ridges rose into a caricature of surprise. I recognise you, her field said. Who are you?!

Megatron enveloped her with his field, tracing his thumb along the stubby crest on her forehead. It seemed to be the only thing she’d inherited from her carrier. Her optics fluttered shut. He took his servo away and she reopened then, giving him a hurt look – why did you stop?

Megatron laughed, and all his former hesitance bled away. He rubbed her helm until her systems wound down into recharge, and when he finally looked away, Optimus was smiling down at him.

He looked tired. His face was drawn tight and his optics seemed to have faded. Fatigue wound through the wavelength of his EM field.

Megatron reached out, and pulled him down into the nest. “You should rest for a while. I will keep watch over her.”

A reluctant flash went through Optimus’ field, but he held onto Megatron’s servo a little longer, giving it a grateful squeeze. He powered down, and soon Megatron heard his systems settle into the steady hum of recharge.

Megatron lay down beside him, and watched their daughter sleep.

Snow carpeted the Northern Courts as winter took hold on the surface of the world. Outside, diamond dust glittered in the air, azure skies stretching from horizon to horizon. The sun grew weak and distant.

Optimus entered the cathedral-house hall amid the hush of seven thousand mecha all trying to be very quiet. It was not a true silence; no-one could quiet the hum of their systems and the sound filled every space within the hall, a roar like distant avalanches raising prickles throughout his sensornet.

Morningstar wriggled in his arms. She wanted him to put her down and let her walk herself up the aisle. Unfortunately, this was out of the question – Optimus knew that if he did, she would be gone within kliks.

The Cardinal Trine waited at the central dais. Megatron stood with them, and Optimus had known him long enough now to recognise the strains of impatience drifting through his stance.

Nervous anticipation bubbled up through Optimus’ chest, warmth spreading through his entire frame. His Confinement was over. This was the final test. Once he left the cathedral, he would officially become Lord Consort. He and Megatron would be bonded.

As the Priest led him up the aisle, he felt the optics of Kaon’s citizens on him. Measuring him, weighing him up.

A Consort was just as important to a nation as its Warlord. While the Warlord gave the nation strength and leadership, the Consort’s role was guidance and support. The Consort’s role was diplomatic; their battles were fought with money and words, yet they were no less hard-fought than any Warlord’s victories. The Consort defended the State when and where the Warlord was unable to. Their partnership had to be fruitful and productive – they had to find ways in which to work together, lest the nation be lost to ruin. That the Consort gave birth to the Warlord’s Heirs was only the tip of the iceberg.

Intellectually, Optimus had known this. To experience it was another thing entirely.

He reached the dais, and as he’d been prompted, knelt in front of Megatron. He bowed his helm, then looked up and met his mate’s heated gaze. Morningstar chittered. He cuddled her close to his chest for a moment before offering her to her sire.

Megatron took her with gentleness Optimus had never expected from him. He held her against his own chest, letting her capture his fingers while the First of the Trine approached him, the blessing in a bowl in his hands. Morningstar noticed him at last, turning to watch him with no hint of fear. He dipped his fingers into the spiced oil and traced the glyph of Primus onto her helm. She babbled and tried to catch his fingers, smearing the oil all over herself. Optimus caught the hint of a smile on the ancient mech’s lips.

The Second knelt beside Optimus, murmuring a prayer. She was young and pretty, her optics glowing with an inner peace. Optimus had once considered entering the priesthood; looking at her, he saw what might have been his future had things turned out differently.

He smiled, closing his optics and repeating her prayers. He had no desire to turn back time and do things differently. As the oil of his blessing ran down his helm and dripped onto his neck, he added a private prayer to the end, thanking Primus for his kindnesses.

Megatron took his servos in hand. The Warlord knelt before him. His optics blazed red, his paintwork smooth and shining under the cathedral lamps. The Third of the Trine took their servos and bound them together with a braided rope of platinum, gold and copper. The First placed Morningstar beside them. She watched, her optics round and fascinated, as they took the vows which would bind them together for the rest of their lives.

Optimus’ spark whirled in his chest, and as he said the final words and they leaned forward to kiss each other, he realised that he had finally come home.

~FIN~