The Thirteenth Bride
“So this is where y’ve been hiddin’,” Jazz said. Prowl’s doorwings shot straight up.
“My King,” he said.
Prowl gathered his composure. He took a moment to dust his servos on his thighs. The garden was taking shape. Some of the crystals in the long neglected garden had been too far gone to revive but Prowl had saved was he could and arranged them carefully so they would be pleasing enough now but would looking that much better once they had grown. It was messy work, he had dirt under his vestigial claws that would take some scrubbing to get out. Some of the ground had been quite hard and Prowl had found it easier to dig it up using them. Their lacquer was badly chipped, Prowl supposed before the feast next-cycle he would need to fix them. Would it be too unbecoming if he just left them their natural silver?
“You missed the feast,” Jazz noted and Prowl tensed.
“The feast?” He said. “Was that not to be tomorrow?”
“This cycle,” Jazz replied. At least, Prowl thought, as he climbed to his peds, the Torus King did not sound terrible angry.
“My sincerest apologies,” Prowl bowed his helm and doorwings as he faced the king. “I must have lost track of the mega-cycles.”
“Easy enough to do,” Jazz replied. “Did you spent all evening out here, digging in the dark?”
“I was tending to the garden,” Prowl said, feeling unfairly judged. “It is too hot to work during the mega-cycle so I come out in the evening.”
“No one’s stepped ped in this garden for vorns,” Jazz said as he looked over Prowl’s work. “It isn’t much.”
“I could not save all the crystals,” Prowl replied, defending himself. “I removed what could not be revived and rearranged what remained.”
“Why not send for the gardener?” Jazz asked. “He could have landscaped it for ya wit new crystals.”
“I like gardening,” Prowl said. “Just because these crystals are a little scraggly does not mean they should be thrown out. They will look beautiful when they have had the chance to grow.”
“‘M sure they will,” Jazz replied and Prowl’s doorwings slowly fell. He had not realized he had hiked them up so high. “But, perhaps ya’d like more to go with them?”
“Oh,” Prowl said. “There are a number of empty spaces.”
“Y’ll have yer pick,” Jazz declared.
“Thank you,” Prowl dipped his doorwings. “I am sorry for missing the feast. I was supposed to dance.”
“Ya still can,” Jazz replied. “Just for me, in my chambers.”
“If that is what you desire,” Prowl replied. He glanced down at his servos. “I should wash.”
“I’ll be waitin’ for ya.”
It was his turn. Prowl did not know if what he felt was anticipation or dread. He pondered the question as he made his way to the Sactum Ignitio’s washracks complex. A couple of the other brides were soaking in the steaming solvent bath, knowing the king was waiting, Prowl walked to the shower instead. Though he heard them whispering too loudly not to want to be heard, Prowl ignored them. They were not his friends, when all was said and done, they were not each other’s friends. If it suited them, when it suited them, they would stab each other in the back, this was a competition, after all.
They were the Thirteen Brides, omega princes and princesses, selected from kingdoms far and wide to compete for a chance to be the Torus King’s Consort. It was a straight forward competition, whoever kindled first won the crown and the rest would go back to their home kingdoms to be bonded off to some lesser mecha. Was it an honour to take a failed Bride for your own, or was it an insult? Prowl supposed it would feel different from Alpha to Alpha, groom to groom. He scrubbed his claws with a bristle brush, there would be no time to paint them again, the damnable lacquer took joors to set. Prowl just hated sitting there, staring at the walls while it dried.
There was no time to touch up his polish either. His legs were scuffed from crawling around on his knees in the garden. It would have to do to just be clean. Prowl moved quickly over to the make up table and applied a deep read polish that matched his chevron to his mouth and then outlined his optics in black. He still needed to put on his crystals and Prowl dashed out of the washracks and over to his private room off the sanctuary’s lounge. More brides were sitting. Their forced laughs sounded like knives to Prowl, he had no use for their backhanded compliments and snide insults. At least Prowl had polished the crystals of of his wrap and sleeves. He quickly tied the wrap around his waist and cursed as he struggled to get the sleeves onto his doorwings. After considerable struggle, he got them on. When Prowl looked at the time, he cursed again, he had already left the king waiting for a joor. Prowl ran, the crystals he wore jangling as he did. Before Prowl got three steps from his room, he realized he had forgotten one thing. He ran back inside and then back out again, clipping a strand of crystals to his chevron, as Prowl ran from the sanctuary he heard one of the other brides yell:
“What do you mean he picked HIM?”
Indeed. Prowl wondered that himself. He had not made much of an impression and had not tried to. For the most part, when the king visited the Sanctum Ignitio, Prowl was tucked away in the library or recharging so that he had energy to garden in the cooler joors of the dark-cycle. He was not a flirtatious mech and he found the way the other brides strut about and the way they spoke to tease the king’s lusts obnoxious. The idea of throwing himself at Jazz as the others did was just too unpalatable, Prowl would have only made a fool of himself if he had tried anyways. Barricade was supposed to have been the one sent here but he had run off with a secret bow. Too bad Prowl had not thought to do the same. Of course, had not had a bow to run off with but... that was neither here nor there.
“Pretty,” Jazz said when Prowl made his entrance and Prowl almost scowled. Pretty? That was the best he could do. “Ya don’t usually wear crystals.”
“They make a racket,” Prowl replied. Jazz smiled at him and Prowl felt like there were cyber-butterflies in his fuel tank.
“If ya don’t enjoy’em, by all means, take’em off,” Jazz said.
“They are part of the dance.”
“Show me.”
Prowl inclined his helm. He started slowly, turning his arms in the air and then folding himself over, sweep his arms down his leg as he stretched it out. As he stretch back up, Prowl rolled his belly and shimmied his hips. Jazz watched him with such intensity, Prowl dropped his hips, lifted his wells and twisted his arms out at his sides. What would Jazz think if Prowl danced this in the traditional style, with his wells bare and only a gossamer skirt with crystals overlaid covering his bare array. No doubt he would enjoy it but Prowl did not have the skirt for that sort of dance. The crystals he wore jingled as he rolled his hips and shook his chassis. There should have been a drummer playing to keep the beat or a whole band but Prowl found it freer dancing without them and without a great audience.
“Beautifully done,” Jazz said as Prowl finished.
“Thank you.
“Have you fuelled at all?” Jazz asked.
“When I rose,” Prowl replied.
“Coolant then,” Jazz declared. “And a light dessert. I want you in by berth this dark-cycle, Prowl.”
“I guessed as much,” Prowl replied.
“Yet, y’re surprised,” Jazz noted.
“I am...” Prowl started, then he shrugged his doorwings. “I suppose you would want to sample each of your brides.”
“Sample ya?” Jazz asked, he chortled. “‘M gonna devour ya.”
“Oh!” Prowl gasped as he flushed scarlet, a servo on his chassis.
“Ya been hidin’, Beautiful,” Jazz said. “I think ya like my library ‘n that sad lil garden better than me.”
“I... do not know you,” Prowl replied. He did prefer both those thing. Jazz laughed, seemingly delighted.
“That makes ya a lot more interestin’ to me,” Jazz said. “Then any of the others.”
“Oh...”
“I can’t think of a single one o’ that wouldn’t stab me in my recharge for the right price,” Jazz declared. “Or interface with any number o’ my court, ‘n pass the by blow off as my own. They’re schemers o’ the worst sort, because they’re so obvious about it. Whatever yer schemes, ya keep’em to yerself.”
“I have no scheme,” Prowl said. “I just thought... I would pass my time peacefully until one of them one the crown and I could go home.”
“What’s waitin’ at home for ya?” Jazz asked.
“Doldrums,” Prowl replied, honestly, twisted one of the crystal strands on his skirt. “A bonding, perhaps. Creations. The same bland life all Omegas expect to live.”
“It don’t sound like y’re anxious to return to that,” Jazz said.
“I am not,” Prowl replied. “But I am not flirtatious and I cannot sit politely while they try to one up each other’s provocations. It is tedious.”
“Y’re a delight,” Jazz said. “I knew ya would be the way ya talked to Wildfire.”
“Oh!”
“Y’re clever,” he continued. “Pragmatic. Y’ll make a fine Consort.”
“You... you have not ensparked me,” Prowl said. “I have not won.”
“Ya will,” Jazz replied. “Because ‘m gonna keep ya in my berth til ya do.”
