Summoning
Disclaimer: Transformers is the property of Hasbro et al.
Title: Summoning
Rating: K+
Word Count: ~4,500
Warnings: Mentions of war crimes (nothing explicit), slight emotional breakdown
Timeframe/Setting: G1, early/pre-war Cybertron
Summary: Desperate times, desperate measures. Prowl has nothing left to lose.
A/N: This is a sort of companion fic to Unawares. It is not a follow-up; more of an alternate take. Unawares was a Christmasy fic. This one is more Halloween themed. (It also features what is essentially a fixed point in time, which I wrote about before I watched Doctor Who. Re-reading that bit and freaking myself out slightly was what convinced me to finish it.)
Also available on FF.net.
He’d had to change the rites and the prayers. Every ritual he knew was meant to be performed by a group, usually under the watchful optic of an elder brother. Even the ones to be done alone were intended for more experienced mechs. Most of the ancient texts had been lost as well. All he had to rely on were the few tomes he’d managed to rescue - an eclectic mix, to say the least; the temple library had been vast and held data pads documenting everything from ancient holy scripts to recent tax records and everything in between - and his own knowledge.
Not for nothing had Icegleam called Prowl his brightest pupil. He could be counted on to memorize facts and figures, translate old texts, and supervise the youngest acolytes at their prayers. Prowl remembered his mentor’s small, fond smile as he worked. It was a treasured memory. While he was absorbed in the ritual, he could almost imagine that Icegleam was there with him, looking over his shoulder and smiling proudly. If anyone could pull this off alone, it would be Prowl. He hoped. For Icegleam and Twister and Failsafe and Spectre and all the other brothers he had lost, he hoped.
Prowl knelt at the foot of the crumbling altar. The air was thick with the scents of burning minerals and only dimly lit by the small, flickering flames. Prowl’s mind was clouded, too, with tension and worry and grief. He shuttered his optics, concentrated on his breathing and focused on calming himself. When he opened his optics, the hand holding the small, sharp energon blade was steady and he knew he was ready to continue.
He carefully slit an energon line in a gap between the plating on his palm. It splashed and pooled in grooves on the altar. He had been fasting for the past seven cycles for the ritual and for a moment he was distracted by the sight of his own vital fluid. When the grooves were full he staunched the wound and folded his hands in his lap to pray. Every step of the ritual had to be carried out precisely. The slightest mistake would negate all his hard work. There were more minerals to be burned, invocations to be spoken in ancient Cybertronian and High Vosian, crystallized energon and different minerals to be sprinkled on the altar. By the time he reached the end, Prowl was trembling with exhaustion and almost beyond caring if the ritual worked or not. He just wanted to get a ration of energon and tuck himself into a narrow cot in one of the lower cells and forget, if only for a little while.
“Ya should be more careful, little brother. Hang out a welcome sign like that and ya never know what kind of riffraff might waltz right in.”
Prowl jerked backwards in shock and fell on his aft. He stared up at the altar. Whatever he had expected, this certainly wasn’t it.
The figure before him looked bizarrely normal. It was a mech of unremarkable height and build, perhaps a little on the short and slim side. Its plating was the familiar stark black and white of a priest. It spoke in a smooth Polyhexian accent that matched the sensor horns and visor typical of Polyhex. It was lounging on the rough stone altar in a pose that could only be described as sensual. The expression on its face was unreadable, but it didn’t appear to be overtly angry, which was always a plus in Prowl’s mind.
Because he was Icegleam’s brightest pupil, the first thing out of his mouth was: “I’m not a brother. I’m just an acolyte.”
The figure - it wasn’t a mech, not really, no matter how unassuming it appeared - looked down at him and the edges of its lip plates curled in the slightest of smiles. It was not a friendly expression.
Prowl shuffled awkwardly onto his knees and dropped his gaze to the cracked floor tiles in front of him. “I mean . . . um - I am but a humble servant, my lord. Please take no offence, I only - I . . . um . . .” He could think of no good excuse other than ‘I am weak with grief and fatigue because you took everything I ever loved’ and a response like that was unlikely to win him any favors.
The mech - the being chuckled. It was a low, cold laugh that made Prowl’s struts hum. “On yer feet and look at me, wildling,” it said. “I’d rather have real spirit than false humility.”
Prowl scrambled to his feet. He was taller than the being sitting before him. It looked up at him insolently as his hands clenched at his sides and his door wings flared high above his shoulders before he settled them at a lower, more respectful angle.
“The summons worked,” he said, more confidently than he truly felt. “You were the one I called to and you are the one who came.”
“I came because you opened the door and asked for me. That don’t mean someone else couldn’t slip in while you was waitin’. Yer lucky I got here first,” said the being with a slow grin that was just as cold as its laugh. “I’ve been keepin’ close. Doggin’ yer heels, as it were.”
Prowl snorted. “How fortunate.”
The being spread its hands. “Believe it or not, there’s worse than me lurking out in the shadows.”
“Don’t you want to know why I summoned you?” Prowl asked sharply.
“I reckon I can guess, but I want you to tell me.”
Prowl’s nerve nearly failed him. He looked down, unable to meet that icy gaze any longer. “I want - I - I want them back,” he said shakily. “All of - of them.”
“Who, wildling?” said the being.
“P-praxus. Th-they destroyed Praxus. Everything. Every - everyone,” Prowl stammered. “I want th-them all back.”
The being whistled softly. “You don’t do anything by halves, do ya, little brother?”
Prowl glanced up to find the being stroking its chin as it stared at him thoughtfully.
“Tha’ wasn’t what I was expectin’, to be honest,” it said.
Prowl opened his mouth to ask what the being had expected of him, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted. “What does it matter?” he snapped. “Can you do it or not?”
The being looked surprised, then smug. “Can I? O’ course, I certainly can. Should I? Prob’ly not. Will I? No. Sorry, wildling.”
“Why not?!”
“For the same reason I can count on one hand the number of folks that ’ve come back in the whole history of Cybertron. There’s those that are s’posed to come back and there’s those that ain’t. The ones yer askin’ about are them that ain’t.”
“But -”
“Look, wildling. Praxus fell. We’ve known it was gonna fall for a long, long time. The when’s and the wherefore’s got shifted around from time to time, but it was always gonna happen. It’s important,” said the being.
“Why -”
“Don’t mean we’re happy about it,” it continued in a softer voice. “Don’t mean we wanted it. But it still had to happen, so it did.”
“You - you fragger.” Prowl’s fists were clenched so tightly he could feel the servos groaning in his arms. There was a film of lubricant over his optics clouding his vision and leaving trails of heat on his cheeks.
“There’s some things ya just can’t change, wildling,” the being sounded sympathetic, almost sad.
“You sparkless, strutless glitch.” Prowl stumbled backwards, away from the altar and the hateful being upon it.
“You think you’re th’ only one who’s ever lost someone?” the being asked, its voice regaining some of its earlier chill. “Everyone tries t’ bargain with me. No one ever succeeds.”
“I lost the whole city - the whole culture! My family, my friends, my home. The crystal gardens and the temple library. I - ” Prowl choked on a sob. “I was with the - the novice acolytes. I p-prayed with them. I told them Primus would protect us and he d-didn’t! We begged for hi-im to keep us safe and he let you win!”
“Here now, wildling.” The being sounded troubled. “This ain’t about winnin’ or losin’. I didn’t want this to happen. And neither did Primus.”
Hands settled on Prowl’s shoulders. He tried to wrench away with a snarl, but the being was strong despite its small stature. It held on while he sank to his knees and crouched down before him. For the first time in the decscycle since his whole world had come crashing down, Prowl allowed himself to grieve. Harsh, ugly sobs wracked his frame. The being held him at arm’s length, but he could feel the heat of its hands on his plating. It murmured in what sounded like ancient Cybertronian until he calmed.
“I know this isn’t what ya want t’ hear, but there’s nothing you can do,” the being said. “It’s been written on the heart of Cyberton itself. It can’t be changed.”
“But - but what can I do now? I’m the only one left.”
The being grimaced and Prowl almost smiled. “This ain’t my style,” it said. “I don’t council the living, you know that.” It sighed and glanced around, as if strangers might have popped up in the dusty old temple to eavesdrop. “But I can tell ya this - what happened to Praxus was important. It affects everything on Cybertron from here on out. But we don’t know why. There’s a million different possibilities based on a million different decisions. Maybe you survived for a reason, wildling. Maybe you’ll make one of those decisions that affects the course of history.”
Prowl gaped. “That was - um, that was rather . . . inspirational.”
The being blinked a few times behind its visor. Its face broke into a wide, cheerful grin. “It was, wasn’t it? I should try that more often.”
Prowl weakly returned its smile.
“Great, so, I’ve got places to go, people to see,” the being said, clapping him on the shoulder. “So, I’ll just . . . I’ll . . . be - what did you do?” Its hands tightened painfully on his shoulders and the being shoved its face close to his.
Prowl clenched his jaw and studied the tiles.
“Wildling!” The being shook him slightly. “What - did - you - do?!”
“Bound you,” he murmured. “It was part of the ritual.”
The being’s eyes had gone vacant behind its visor as it studied things beyond Prowl’s perceptions. He wondered if it could see the ethereal chains that bound them together. “You fool,” he whispered. “You glitching fool. There’s a reason no one else has ever completed that ritual.”
Prowl blinked at him. “It was very detailed and exact.”
“That’s ’cause the brother who made it went through a lot of trial and error. He died almost as soon as he finished the ritual, oddly enough. His brothers took it as an ill omen and never tried it.” The being looked at him sharply. “Kinda funny how ya just happened upon it.”
“Primus’s hand guided me. I saved whatever I could from the temple library. The ritual was in one of the texts I grabbed.”
“Ya don’t say,” the being drawled. “And ya just gave it a shot?”
Prowl shrugged. “I had nothing to lose.”
“Well, there’s always yer life. I ain’t bound to ya if yer dead.”
Prowl tipped his head, conceding its point. “Should I die, you would be bound to this temple. If it is destroyed, you would be bound to the land.”
“If ya did the ritual right.”
Prowl spoke with a casualness he didn’t feel. “I’ve done everything correctly so far. If we come to an agreement, I will release you. I doubt you’d find the temple or the land as accommodating.”
The being barked a sudden, harsh laugh. “I like ya, wildling. Lucky for you, I really like ya.” It sat back and folded its arms over its chest. “So, name yer terms.”
Prowl arched an optic ridge. “I already have.”
“Resurrect all of Praxus? Ain’t happenin’.”
“The temple, then. My brothers.”
The being shook its head. “No resurrectin’ of any kind. I already told ya why.”
Prowl’s jaw jutted stubbornly. “The part about an agreement means that we have to agree on something.”
“And ya still haven’t asked me for th’ easiest solution.”
“What is that?”
The being leaned forward intently. “Vengeance. Or justice, whichever you prefer. Set me loose on your enemies and I’ll destroy them all in the name of Praxus.”
But Prowl shook his head. “More destruction isn’t what I wanted.”
“Then I think you’ve bound yerself to the wrong entity.”
“You’re all I have so you’ll have to do.”
“I can really hear the awe an’ humility in yer voice when ya say it like that.”
Prowl just looked at him.
The being flung up its hands, hissing in frustration. “So what do ya want, wildling? Name yer price. I’m a busy mech.”
Prowl considered his options. He wanted Praxus. It was all he had cared about, all he had focused on. The being might compromise with him, but he sensed that it wouldn’t budge on that issue. What else could he want?
“You said that the future was uncertain,” he said slowly. “You said that decisions shaped it and every outcome was different.”
The being nodded warily.
“What if - what if I wanted to restore the Golden Age or . . . or bring about another one, a better one? What would I have to do?” he finished in a giddy rush.
The being stared at him. “You really don’t do things by halves, do you, wildling?”
“Well?” said Prowl.
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but ain’t that what that Megatron mech is after? Go join him and let me be.”
Prowl’s face clouded. “Megatron is a warmonger,” he snarled. “He and his followers destroy everything in their path. They slaughter innocents and raze defenseless cities. He claims to have a noble cause but . . .” He abruptly shook his head. “No. I cannot follow him.”
“So I’ll get rid of him.”
“Another would take his place. And another and another. There’d be no end to them, each as bad or worse than the last.”
“That’s the way of things, little glitch. What do you want, everlasting peace and happiness?”
“Why not?”
The being flung its hands up again. “Because it’s impossible!”
“Fine. Then I want . . . I want the most good for the most people.”
“You have fun with that.”
“You told me that you won’t change the past. You told me that decisions shape the future. I told you the future I want, so tell me the decisions I have to make to get there.”
The being glared at him. “That ain’t exactly my area of experteise.”
“Find someone whose it is, then.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m bound!”
“I shall grant you permission to leave in order to seek aid so long as you return in a timely fashion and do nothing to hinder me.”
The being stood up and bowed to him elaborately and mockingly. “By your leave, then, master.”
Prowl nodded and between one sparkpulse and the next the being was gone.
It went against ingrained habit to leave the altar and paraphernalia as it was, but he didn’t dare clean anything up for fear of disrupting the ritual. He checked to make sure there was nothing around the smoldering embers that might catch fire, double checked the locks on the outer doors, and descended the steps to the sleeping quarters below.
His refuge was a bolt-hole known only to the priesthood. A long, low stone structure tucked away in the foothills of the iron mountains less than a day’s drive from Praxus, it appeared to be one of many unassuming ruins in a ghost town with no name. The upper level was broken, dusty, and bare. It had suffered from looters, squatters, and various other wild creatures over the vorns. The lower levels were nigh-undetectable unless a mech knew exactly where to stand and which tiles to press.
The brothers were an ancient order. They had seen wars come and go and they wanted no part of them. They would defend themselves if necessary, but took no sides and would rather flee than fight. Once the youngest novices took their vows, they memorized the coordinates to a dozen safe houses in and around the city. The brotherhood had survived countless conflicts by not taking part in them, though remaining neutral was often easier said than done. When danger arose the brothers went to ground and protected their own, taking the weak and the helpless with them if they could, and so they endured.
Prowl made his way deeper and deeper underground. He passed storerooms of energon and medical supplies and equipment to make more of both. He checked maintenance rooms full of surveillance equipment that monitored the grounds above and the corridors below. He considered the wash racks already stocked with oil and cleansers, but decided he was too tired to bother. He finally reached the sleeping quarters on the lowest level - two hundred cells with double bunks built into two walls - and stumbled to the nearest berth, utterly alone.
He wasn’t alone when he awoke. The false-Polyhexian frame was sitting in on the berth opposite him, its visor glowing pale blue in the dark room.
“Oh, good, yer awake,” it said, and suddenly they were in front of the altar again.
Prowl found himself where he had been several joors earlier, kneeling at the base of the shallow steps that lead up to the altar. The being was lounging off to the side, leaning against one wall with its arms folded over its chest looking almost sulky. But Prowl’s attention was caught by three unfamiliar figures standing in front of the altar.
They were femme-type frames, one bright youngling, one mature femme, and one ancient matriarch standing all in a row. Their faces were turned towards him, though their optics were grey and dark.
“You will be a very strange conqueror, acolyte,” said the mature femme in the middle.
Prowl swallowed convulsively. “Conqueror? I don’t - I don’t want to conquer any -”
“All revolutions must overcome the present regime,” said the ancient one. Her voice was as harsh and raspy as her rust-spotted frame.
“You want to stop the fighting, don’t you?” said the youngling, her head tilted curiously.
“And how do you plan to do that, except by defeating them?” demanded the ancient one contemptuously.
“I wanted . . . um . . .”
She snorted. “Just as I suspected, a strutless dreamer. All wishes and no sense or strength.”
“No, I don’t think so.” The mature one tilted her head like the youngling had. “He was brave and clever enough to capture our brother.”
Her elder just snorted again. The figure propped against the wall growled softly in his chest - if Prowl’s mind referred to the femme-type frames as ‘she’ he might as well call the mech-type ‘he’ -and glared at her.
The youngling ignored them both. “The ones who destroyed Praxus will continue to wreak havoc until they are stopped,” she said solemnly to Prowl. “But there is a new power rising, a mech touched by Primus himself. He is weak now, and unsure. Many others will flock to his call, but he requires guidance and support.”
“Go to him,” said the mature one. “Lend him your strength and he will bring about the peace you crave.”
“You’re sure?” Prowl said slowly. “I wanted to stop the fighting, but it sounds like you want me to help lead an army.”
“We do not want anything,” the ancient one said sharply. “You set your terms for our brother and we are telling you how you can carry out your plans. Whether you heed our advice is up to you.”
“But how can you be so sure? The - your brother said that the future was too chaotic to tell what’s going to happen.”
“The future is fluid,” said the youngling. “Your enemies spawned a storm when they destroyed the city. There were a million possible outcomes. But it has . . . settled somewhat. The strength of your conviction has created a path for you. You need only to follow it to reach your goal.”
Prowl gaped. “I did that?”
She nodded with an enigmatic smile.
Prowl took several deep, steadying breaths. “How do I find him?”
Her smile widened into a delighted grin. She skipped forward and flung her arms about his neck. He automatically wrapped his arms around her slender frame. She giggled, kissed his shoulder, and whispered in his audio.
“Be fearless. You are a beloved son of Primus.”
Then she was slipping away from him and flinging herself at the being beside him. He caught her around the waist and swung her high in the air. She shrieked in delight and he laughed along with her; the broad smile looked oddly fitting on his face. She hugged him with all four limbs wrapped around his torso and Prowl was sure she was whispering to him as well.
The adult femme approached him and knelt down so that they were optic to optic. She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward to kiss his brow.
“Be strong. You have a pure and honest spark. Let it guide you to protect the ones you love.”
She turned to embrace the mech-type as the youngling danced back to the altar and the elderly femme approached Prowl.
The ancient one stood looming over him. She placed her gnarled hand on the top of his head, her wrist resting lightly between the points of his chevron.
“Be wise. Your mind is more powerful than you know. Wield it as you would a weapon and you will win this war.”
She spoke sternly to the other being in a low voice. Then she stepped to the altar with her sisters. Between one sparkpulse and the next, they were gone.
The being strolled to the altar and sprawled comfortably upon it. Prowl was still on his knees. They were right back where they had started.
“So, what’s the plan, master?”
“Don’t call me that. My name is Prowl.”
The being stilled and Prowl felt his attention focusing on him with palpable force. “Careful, wildling,” he murmured. “Didn’t anyone ever tell ya that names have power?”
“I carved yours into my protoform,” Prowl said dryly.
“Speaking of which -” the being said, hopping down from the altar.
“One more thing.”
The being froze in his tracks and gestured helplessly at the ceiling. “What now?”
“I need you to help me find the mech. The one touched by Primus.”
“You mean you’re really gonna do it?”
Prowl looked up at him, face guilelessly curious. “Of course. What else can I do?”
The being blew out a breath that was half sigh and half rueful laughter. “Oh, there’s plenty of things ya can do, sensible things, but I’m beginning to think you won’t do any of ’em.”
“I wanted to help people. They told me how to do it.”
“It ain’t gonna be easy.”
Prowl frowned. “I know that,” he said.
“You’re going to war,” the being said, his optics blazing behind the visor. “It’s gonna be long, and hard, and ugly. More people will die. Good people. People that don’t deserve it.”
“I’m not stupid!” Prowl burst out. “I know what it means! Just show me how to find the mech and then I can let you go.”
“That’s easy,” said the being. “I can have ya giftwrapped on his doorstep.”
“Wait.” Prowl scrambled to his feet. “Don’t - whatever you did before. I have to finish the ceremony here to release you.”
“Hurry it up, then.”
Prowl watched him carefully. “You won’t just vanish as soon as I finish?”
The being looked away and shrugged one shoulder with practiced nonchalance. “Things are about to get interesting. I may as well stick around.”
Much to his surprise, Prowl found himself grinning. “Really?”
“Don’t look at me like that, little brother. You’ll get tired of me as your shadow,” said the being.
Prowl sobered immediately. “I said I’d release you,” he said shortly.
“It ain’t as simple as that,” the being answered quietly. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Prowl’s chest just to the right of his spark chamber. There, hidden beneath the plating, ancient glyphs in Prowl’s precise script spelled out a name as old as the stars. Prowl shivered.
“You’re marked,” the being went on, just as softly. “You’re changed.”
“How?” Prowl breathed.
The being pulled his hand away and retreated a few paces. He shrugged again. “Who knows? Nobody’s ever done it before, like I said.”
Prowl’s optics narrowed. “You aren’t being very helpful.”
“I have been nothing but helpful, wildling,” the being said coldly. “There’s nothin’ in that ritual of yours that’s forcing me to play fair. Now release me before I change my mind.”
Prowl could feel the being’s optics boring into him as he worked. It wasn’t the first time he’d completed a ritual under scrutiny. He’d long since learned how to put it out of his mind and lose himself in the complex pattern of ceremony. The acolyte savored that last taste of familiarity until his task was complete. The fires were doused, the spilled energon and minerals were cleaned away, and Prowl was left feeling exhausted and strangely bereft. After everything he had lost, it seemed foolish to miss the tedious prayers and rites, but he did. His life was changing faster than he ever could have imagined. When he joined the mech touched by Primus, Prowl would no longer be an acolyte. He would be a warrior.
He looked up at the being. Part of him was surprised to see him still standing there. “I’ve been in the brotherhood all my life,” said Prowl. “We are teachers, advisors, healers. Am I going to die a fighter?”
The being smiled crookedly. “I don’t know. I truly, honestly do not know. But I know this.” He gripped Prowl’s shoulders again, as if to give his words physical weight. “You’ll be yourself, Prowl.”
Then, to Prowl’s utter shock, the being pressed a searing kiss to his lips. When Prowl opened his optics - and, to be honest, he didn’t remember closing them - their surroundings had completely changed. They were beneath the open air on a narrow, dirty street. Ramshackle houses were stacked together haphazardly. There didn’t seem to be anybody around to notice the sudden appearance of a desperate acolyte and a beautiful, terrible creature that was, at the moment, wearing the form of an ordinary Polyhexian mech.
Said being gave Prowl a little shake to get his attention. “You’ll be yourself,” he said again. “And that’s the best ya can ever hope to be.” His intensity vanished and he grinned wildly. “Now, let’s go find your figurehead.”
‘What is this that I can't see,
With ice cold hands taking hold of me?’
’I am death, none can excel;
I'll open the door to heaven or hell.’
O, Death (traditional dirge)