☼ Wing ☼ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
winged_knight) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
re_alignment_logs2012-12-08 01:31 pm
winged_knight) wrote in re_alignment_logs2012-12-08 01:31 pm
[NARRATIVE/OPEN] Still loving what's gone...
WHO: Wing, Drift's remains and anyone who happens by.
WHERE: Mostly at Vector's Temple in the altar room, but he might be encountered carrying the body between there and Tankceptor's lab.
WHEN: A little while after this. (Ultra Magnus's announcement.)
WHAT: Wing recovers the body of his lover, friend and partner then treats is accordingly.
WARNINGS: Exploring stage 1 and 2 of grief here, so a some Very Sad Things to follow. Reference to character death by burning, reference to canon character death, grief, denial, anger...If you're skevved by integration with dead bodies you might not like this?
NOTES:This is mostly a narrative ficlet (TL:DR I know, it's cool) but if people want to tag it they are welcome to. (took it down for a bit while I worked out some continuity concerns, but it's back now!)
SOUNDTRACK: Redemption | Aurora | I Grieve
It's a gruesome set of tasks, but Wing does it all lovingly.
Regardless of formality, Drift was a Knight, and he--his frame, his memory--deserved to be treated as such. He'd been doing his duty to his commander, and doing right by his friend. He deserved better than to linger in the cold, dark of some lab, forgotten and alone. Not for Wing's beloved, no.
And so the other Knight walks, stoic with purpose, the charred and mangled form cradled in his arms as he returns the body to the temple of their patron Firstforged. Vector Prime had saved Drift once, perhaps he could again? Or perhaps Drift's own stubborn tenacity would prevail. Somehow. Wing lays the body on the altar, reverently, gentle in ways one might not even expect for a living mech. He shuns away any Acolytes that approach unless they are very express with their intentions.
The Knight lays Two Pure For This World at Drift's side for now, considering the Great Sword for a moment. It feels different than his own, younger version of the sword, heavier with the wisdom of Drift's experiences. And brighter, he imagines, with whatever part of Drift stayed with the sword, same as Wing had, the Wing that gave his life for Drift and Crystal City. Now he considers, at least they were together again.
He sets to work then, preparing the body for a more graceful rest, or a more pleasant return, as Wing would like to hope. He performs it all with an active stoicism, a veil of calm afforded by the ritual, covering over deep wells of emotion. Deft hands move about cleaning the frame, wiping the soot away from the blackened plating, scrubbing away charred energon and blistered paint. He misses nothing for he knows this frame intimately. Nothing can be done for that which is melted and deformed by heat, but he can touch up paint and pose the body as if Drift were simply...resting.
Wing sings a lament as he works, an old, traditional tribute for which the Warrior's Gate in Crystal City was named, one that speaks of sorrow at the end of a long journey but pays homage to the peace one finds beyond it. The release from duty, the reward for long service.
He manages his task fine until he gets to the helm. The face, inanimate; the optics, dark and cold. Air hitches in his vents and he reaches up, lovingly, attempting to smooth way the ghosts of pain that linger on the silver features. Even now he tries to coax a smile from Drift's face, his own self appointed-duty, since the very day they met. Wing's own helm dips then, heavy, his forecrest meeting Drift's as quivering fingers stroke the sides of the pale face. Several soft kisses land on the still features, the last upon the slack mouthplates before he finally draws away.
The jet sits back then and stares, long moments stretching into even longer ones, thinking, hoping, the light in those optics might simply flicker back on again. As if he could will it into truth with the power of his own spark. And there's a moment, a brief flash of anger at the Great Swords and their creator, that he could use his own spark to hurt and not to heal, to take life instead of give it. How is that fair?!
As the moments pass with no such favor, no faith rewarding miracle, the more final it feels: Death.
Four days. It'd been four days, maybe...Drift wasn't coming back. Perhaps...perhaps Vector's state, falling in battle to Ramjet, would prevent him from saving the swordmech...
He chokes on the thought, realization creeping into the cracks of his denial, breaking it down into pieces too small to keep hold of. Wing falls then, sagging slowly over the ragged chassis with a pitiful sound, his cheek coming to rest over the Autobrand as he presses against the cold chestplate, willing, praying for some warmth beneath, some glimmer of hope.
They'd had precious little time together; there was so much left they could do, so many things they could be for each other. And why like this!? Was it some sick form of irony, balance righting itself: Drift, always branded the traitor, killed by his own commander. This wasn't how heroes were supposed to die!
And himself. Why had he waited? AGAIN. He'd never bared his spark to anyone before, none of his previous relationships had felt deep enough. He'd thought maybe, this time. This was the one. And now, the chance was lost. He regretted not acting before the battle at Crystal City, and Drift spent millenniums never knowing he'd been loved because of it. Now it was Wing's turn to bear the burden of missed opportunities, a future unrealized.
He sobs under the weight of it, air rattling angrily in his vents as powerful hands clench around emptiness. It shakes him, figuratively and literally, for a long while. The effort saps what remains of his energy, but he can't go back to his room, cold and empty as it is. Not with the memories of the time spent together. So he levers himself up onto the altar, heedless of propriety, and curls himself around the still white frame, one wing stretching protectively over Drift, and lies there, shuddering, until recharge overtakes him.
WHERE: Mostly at Vector's Temple in the altar room, but he might be encountered carrying the body between there and Tankceptor's lab.
WHEN: A little while after this. (Ultra Magnus's announcement.)
WHAT: Wing recovers the body of his lover, friend and partner then treats is accordingly.
WARNINGS: Exploring stage 1 and 2 of grief here, so a some Very Sad Things to follow. Reference to character death by burning, reference to canon character death, grief, denial, anger...If you're skevved by integration with dead bodies you might not like this?
NOTES:This is mostly a narrative ficlet (TL:DR I know, it's cool) but if people want to tag it they are welcome to. (took it down for a bit while I worked out some continuity concerns, but it's back now!)
SOUNDTRACK: Redemption | Aurora | I Grieve
It's a gruesome set of tasks, but Wing does it all lovingly.
Regardless of formality, Drift was a Knight, and he--his frame, his memory--deserved to be treated as such. He'd been doing his duty to his commander, and doing right by his friend. He deserved better than to linger in the cold, dark of some lab, forgotten and alone. Not for Wing's beloved, no.
And so the other Knight walks, stoic with purpose, the charred and mangled form cradled in his arms as he returns the body to the temple of their patron Firstforged. Vector Prime had saved Drift once, perhaps he could again? Or perhaps Drift's own stubborn tenacity would prevail. Somehow. Wing lays the body on the altar, reverently, gentle in ways one might not even expect for a living mech. He shuns away any Acolytes that approach unless they are very express with their intentions.
The Knight lays Two Pure For This World at Drift's side for now, considering the Great Sword for a moment. It feels different than his own, younger version of the sword, heavier with the wisdom of Drift's experiences. And brighter, he imagines, with whatever part of Drift stayed with the sword, same as Wing had, the Wing that gave his life for Drift and Crystal City. Now he considers, at least they were together again.
He sets to work then, preparing the body for a more graceful rest, or a more pleasant return, as Wing would like to hope. He performs it all with an active stoicism, a veil of calm afforded by the ritual, covering over deep wells of emotion. Deft hands move about cleaning the frame, wiping the soot away from the blackened plating, scrubbing away charred energon and blistered paint. He misses nothing for he knows this frame intimately. Nothing can be done for that which is melted and deformed by heat, but he can touch up paint and pose the body as if Drift were simply...resting.
Wing sings a lament as he works, an old, traditional tribute for which the Warrior's Gate in Crystal City was named, one that speaks of sorrow at the end of a long journey but pays homage to the peace one finds beyond it. The release from duty, the reward for long service.
He manages his task fine until he gets to the helm. The face, inanimate; the optics, dark and cold. Air hitches in his vents and he reaches up, lovingly, attempting to smooth way the ghosts of pain that linger on the silver features. Even now he tries to coax a smile from Drift's face, his own self appointed-duty, since the very day they met. Wing's own helm dips then, heavy, his forecrest meeting Drift's as quivering fingers stroke the sides of the pale face. Several soft kisses land on the still features, the last upon the slack mouthplates before he finally draws away.
The jet sits back then and stares, long moments stretching into even longer ones, thinking, hoping, the light in those optics might simply flicker back on again. As if he could will it into truth with the power of his own spark. And there's a moment, a brief flash of anger at the Great Swords and their creator, that he could use his own spark to hurt and not to heal, to take life instead of give it. How is that fair?!
As the moments pass with no such favor, no faith rewarding miracle, the more final it feels: Death.
Four days. It'd been four days, maybe...Drift wasn't coming back. Perhaps...perhaps Vector's state, falling in battle to Ramjet, would prevent him from saving the swordmech...
He chokes on the thought, realization creeping into the cracks of his denial, breaking it down into pieces too small to keep hold of. Wing falls then, sagging slowly over the ragged chassis with a pitiful sound, his cheek coming to rest over the Autobrand as he presses against the cold chestplate, willing, praying for some warmth beneath, some glimmer of hope.
They'd had precious little time together; there was so much left they could do, so many things they could be for each other. And why like this!? Was it some sick form of irony, balance righting itself: Drift, always branded the traitor, killed by his own commander. This wasn't how heroes were supposed to die!
And himself. Why had he waited? AGAIN. He'd never bared his spark to anyone before, none of his previous relationships had felt deep enough. He'd thought maybe, this time. This was the one. And now, the chance was lost. He regretted not acting before the battle at Crystal City, and Drift spent millenniums never knowing he'd been loved because of it. Now it was Wing's turn to bear the burden of missed opportunities, a future unrealized.
He sobs under the weight of it, air rattling angrily in his vents as powerful hands clench around emptiness. It shakes him, figuratively and literally, for a long while. The effort saps what remains of his energy, but he can't go back to his room, cold and empty as it is. Not with the memories of the time spent together. So he levers himself up onto the altar, heedless of propriety, and curls himself around the still white frame, one wing stretching protectively over Drift, and lies there, shuddering, until recharge overtakes him.
I hope this is alright. And not too late. TTATT The Muse kind of demanded he be here...
Oh, sure, there were all those cartoons and comics and movies, yeah. But nine times out of ten, those things never delved into things like this. And really, he wouldn't have trusted them to give any true insight into the way things really worked, anyway.
His inadequate knowledge was what held him back at first. He wanted to help, it wasn't right that the bot had to perform the task on his own, especially not when everything he did had the obvious weight of someone who was mourning one of the most important people in their lives. There was a reason so many cultures across the Universe had set aside roles specifically for the preparation of the dead. It allowed those closest to the deceased to separate themselves from the unpleasant tasks and mourn properly.
But at the same time, he knew that it was foolish to step in and make assumptions on something like this based on his own and the other cultures he'd studied. Did the Cybertronians prefer to allow those in mourning to care for the deceased personally? Was it a task reserved for one individual? Was he even supposed to be here for this? He just didn't know, and it frustrated him.
He was almost about to turn and leave, distance himself from the ritual lest he overstep some unknown cultural taboo, but then the large mech began to sob, and curled up next to the body, and it was just more then he could take. He stepped forward, concern on his face as he stopped at the foot of the alter. He never could leave well enough alone when someone was suffering.
"Let me help." And almost reluctantly, "I mean...if it's allowed?" Bloody Hell, it was hard enough just admitting he didn't know. He was supposed to be the clever one!
Bring me all the muses!
Wing is a bit too lost in the moment to notice the newcomer, until the words are spoken. His helm lifts off Drift's chest, and for a moment he's uncertain as to the source of the voice. Shifting away from the altar, he sees him, the human called the Doctor, concern plain on his face.
There's something comforting in the offer. It's not the assistance he values the most, but the offering of it. Helping another is the highest calling one can aspire to. Wing had lived by those words for multiple millennium and it's a comfort to find, in a moment such as this, the favor returned.
And, because it's something to dispel the creeping feeling of being alone.
"Yes." His weary face warms a little. "If you like."
It might be a little bit difficult for the Doctor to ascend to the top of the altar, so Wing puts out a hand. Obviously he's done this before.