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And I Swear To...

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I swear to serve the Priesthood with loyalty and deep faith, forever carrying Primus in my spark where ever I may go.


“Aha, well, we’re both our of out jobs now, aren’t we?” 

Tailgate winced at the false mirth in his own voice. Cyclonus was supposed to be the Head of the Priesthood Guard, protector of the Priest of Vector Sigma. (He was supposed to be Head of the Primal Guard, Protector of the Matrix Bearer, but the Matrix of Leadership had been lost after Nova Prime’s murder — the event from vorns ago that started all this trouble.) So, Cyclonus and his Guard watched over Vector Sigma and worked for the High Priest, who currently was a civilian frame who held no trust for warframes as the sparks of the Autobot-Decepticon War truly began to ignite. Tailgate was supposed to be the Caretaker of the Allspark, but that was impossible, with the precious relic now shot off into the deep recesses of random space.  

So, they were both out of jobs, and Cyclonus was to be out a home. Tailgate looked at the members of the Priesthood Guard preparing to leave with their Captain — all warframes. Those truly dedicated to Primus’ service should not care for the useless divisions of the Autobot-Decepticon War, but with the shift to full Autobot control of Cybertron (and power-hungry civilianframes in the Priesthood’s own ranks), the Priesthood of Primus could no longer protect their own. The warframe members would have to take their chances after trying to remain non-partisan within the conflict, and hope that Lord Megatron would take them in.  

“We’re not going to be able to keep in touch, are we?”

“Probably not, little one.” 

Cyclonus was kneeling before Tailgate, one clawed hand gently cupping his small conjux’s face. Tailgate tried to ignore the heavy weight in his spark by focusing on that point of contact, and by focusing on the beautiful face right in front of his own. He had always loved the hollows of Cyclonus’ cheeks. He had thought them striking, the warframe’s whole visage captivatingly intimidating the first time he had seen him. Tailgate would always have Cyclonus’ looks committed to memory, but he still stared all he could in this moment.  

He stared until he was enveloped, Cyclonus easily pulling him into a deep hug, lifting his pedes off the ground as he stood up. Cyclonus brought them chest to chest, and Tailgate could feel the thrum of the other’s spark even through thick purple plating.  

After a moment, Tailgate wiggled so that his conjunx lessened his hold. Sparks crackled out from the edges of Tailgate’s visor as his voice wavered. ”P-promise me you’ll come home one cycle?”

It was an odd difference between optic types — how mecha with visors or coverless orbs showered sparks, and how mecha with sliding covers leaked coolant when their processors were overcome with emotion. A trail of coolant slid down from Cyclonus’ optic to catch in his melancholic smile. “By Primus’ will, I hope to one cycle.” 

Tailgate reached up to lightly flick one of Cyclonus’ horns. “And one cycle I’ll get you to stop being so grimly realistic. Nevermind that. I’m determined to see you again.”

Cyclonus laughed, too short for Tailgate’s tastes, he would love to commit a longer one to his memory files in this moment, but it was a laugh all the same. “Then you will. For now though, we must be off.” 

Before Cyclonus set him down, Tailgate’s conjunx kissed him once in the middle of his visor, brought their helms together so they rested against each other for another moment, and then placed one final kiss on the top of his helm. The warframe stepped back, and led the remainder of what was once the Primal Guard onto a small cruiser.  

Tailgate stood on rough terrain, left alone in the middle of a barren field just outside of Iacon, as he watched the cruiser set off out into space.  

It was the smallest he had ever felt in his life.