⚜ — ❛ Standing Mortal ❜

⚜ — ❛ Standing Mortal ❜

( ⚜ ┊ @forgedcold. ⎦;

When Shockwave decided the universe should die, Megatron could never have anticipated this. 

Draped in a sense of rapturous timelessness, the apostate watched the Prime before him. Though his insides consisted of hollow wormholes–twisted paths to oblivion–nothing knotted him, penetrated him deeper than this kenotic, displaced noble. 

Oh, and he was but a despotic wretch. A sinful, ragged monster who stood at the precipice of the Pit only to be warned at the gate: abandon all hope, ye who enter here! 

Librarian and Savior King, how beautiful he was among the rows of datapads and ramshackle shelves. The stories and tales of old he guarded, protected, indulged in for his own reprieve; hardly did they compare to the stories within him, the ones Megatron wished to learn. Always did the velvet words brush against his audials, filling him to the core. 

In the dimness around him, Megatron felt suspended within the cosmos. Surely the stars crowned this noble king. 

Hardly was there a breath of space between them–the apostate did not look for surprise. Might the Prime read the repentance upon his face. 

Carefully, he pulled back upon the datapad Optimus held, lowering it. Slowly, he stooped, tilting the Prime’s face to his.

“I am going to kiss you.”

In a moment, whole galaxies were born and died–nothing was better than this beginning.

⚜⋅⋅⋅||; Defiant of all expectations, time never stood still—not for the moments of rapture && mirth, only for those moments where anguish && vexation hung in ornamentation; this was why joy spun past and sorrow was dwelt on. When in the company of Megatron, Optimus knew again an external serenity his spark could not lose, not even in a miasma of provincial lament wrenched through his spark to experience Cybertron’s downfall. Distress left him as once it had never taken root, same as before the Well buried deep towards Primus’ spark and when the world belong to the Thirteen and they were all still so young.

           Stars to SUNS—the deliquescent grace of HEAVEN’S nurturing warmth.

              The THIRD DAY for Optimus had come not once, but twice. The first had been a resurrection and return to face a war his cross to bear, and to see to it that justice be served with righteous strength. RESOLUTION came to all then, the ( legacy ) of the Primes had come into its entirety when Optimus finally faced the full weight of his responsibility and finally seen to it the sentence of his own EQUAL & OPPOSITE.

             Having known the movement of his own spark and the death of which had made it so, Optimus and returned to the Well and gave up his spark. It was better off not within his possession; he had done his job, he had walked out of the Gethsemane, carried his cross and worn the CROWN OF THORNS.

             It was done.

             Fragments of what came to follow remained shattered in the Prime’s antediluvian memory, their jagged edges sharp and unwelcoming. Pieces that briefly free-floated through his consciousness and coalesced to show a vision of Megatron’s face not as his known it, not of this universe. It was eldritch and fused with Unicron’s touch. Guilt struck the warmonger’s face, showing one undeniable truth: He knew not what he had done—forgive him, GOD, for he knew not what he had done.

             Now the ( apostate ) knew,              just as they always came to know.

             Primus—❛ THE FATHER ❜—summoned his ❛ SON ❜ to heaven,              to the WELL and all its atavistic glory.

             Come son,              Put down your Cross,              Leave your Crown behind,              Rest your weary head.

             Their SINS have been ( PAID ) with ⋅ b l o o d.

             Without total memory of what had happened since the moment of his first resurrection and his second, where was one insoluble truth revealed from the SPARK to the MIND: Optimus ascended to this new universe, his HEAVEN to await the coming rapture. Through its light he had seen pearly gates in all its splendor, only to pass through in cycle—what flowed to Primus flowed outward again.

             Here he was enraptured by Megatron—one in the same, yet entirely different. Every horror that had been wrought on ( his ) Cybertron had been inflicted with exponential horror, and every choice for redemption had come to pass here.

             In optics of ever-red he saw the quest for forgiveness, a contentment at accepting his own guilt. Megatron of ( this ) world never saw to hand blame to another, but gladly took his own cross on a lesser hill.

          So be it they were in provincial harmony—           the ❛ MESSIAH ❜ && the ❛ APOSTATE ❜

             It had taken two universe, two worlds, two lives to finally bring in harmony as Primus had seen fit. Optimus had lived well his life of celibacy, accepting it with few regrets and fewer improbity. The first had been stolen and presumptive, in the shadows of a revolution destined to tear the two brothers apart—and their world with it.

             Now it had been on the ( other ) side, and now              no thief could take what was silently accorded.          「 sparkBEAT 」

             Megatron had seemed to think of everything; this was no spur of the moment action, but carefully constructed in preparation. He had even accounted for their size and rearranged his mass to lessen the disparaging difference in their frames. Still, Optimus had to crane his neck to met their lip-plates together. He could hear past all the racing thoughts his cydraulic system pinch in his stretched cervical motor lines.

             He could FEEL the flicker of his E.M. field expand with vigor and fervor, intermingling with Megatron’s; both clicked their coolant systems to an audible power level.

             It—{ this kiss }—broke just as all systems stalled within by his conscious command—he didn’t want to miss a single experience, which meant he shut down the fans and listened to the movement Megatron’s body.

             The Thirteen fit into a design, the first of many to come through Primus’ divine power as a CREATOR. There was a pattern and a role in them, that functions not at the removal of even one. Their quarrel had ended their age. Still, Optimus carried onward with his. He was the INNOVATOR & the PEACEMAKER. Words came to him the way movement came to Amalgamous or Vector knew of time. His words seemed humble, but their impact remained powerful.

             They wove their way into sparks && minds, enrapturing those who listened and infuriating those who defied. Optimus could cast a spell on those around him, and the spellbound knew the touch of THE DIVINE through his gift of oration.

             Now he stood there…

          Mortal & Speechless.