☽˚.⋆ optimus prime x human fem reader
݁ᛪ༙ by blade and steel — pt. 2 ݁ᛪ༙ 6.4k words
thank u for the love and support on the first chapter!! it really means a lot to me <3 also, if you’re curious, i whipped up a little design for what i envision for optimus in this here
<- previous
The feasting hall remains quiet, with no sounds other than the clinking of cutlery and crockery as the King and Queen enjoy their meals. You look down at your plate, which has the finest meats and vegetables that could be asked for, truly succulent and mouthwatering, but you have no desire for it. With a diminished appetite, all you're left to do is push the food around with a silver fork.
The King sits at the head of the table, adorned with his crown positioned perfectly on his head, his white hair complementing the gold. The Queen sits at the other end of the table, her mousey-brown hair braided back neatly.
It's hard to scrub the memory of Ronnin's deceased remains from your mind, even harder to rid yourself of the grief that has tormented you since. There is no one in this realm you trusted more than her, and without her, you're left with no one to confide in.
Your ladies-in-waiting are pleasant women, with amenable personalities and good humour, but they aren't Ronnin. You fear you'll never meet another like her again.
"Please eat, my child," the Queen speaks softly, noticing your aversion to food since Ronnin passed on.
"I am not hungry," you reply simply, quietly.
"The chef went to the trouble of preparing your favourites," she says, "It would be a shame to see it wasted."
The Queen is a kind, soft-mannered woman. She speaks in delicate tones and moves in such a way that you could be fooled into believing she's carried on clouds. She captures the hearts of everyone she meets, and you have borrowed many traits from her under her parentage.
"And the chef has my gratitude for it. I will be sure to deliver my compliments personally," you say back. "Please may I be excused?"
"You may not," the King interrupts, "We have the matter of finding you a new protector to discuss."
"My dear," the Queen says to the King, trying to stop him before he can say anything else. Despite her words, he does not heed the warning hidden behind them.
"It is vital that the position does not remain vacant. I suggest we hold a tournament for it," he says, setting his silverware down before lacing his ring-clad fingers together.
You continue to look down at your plate, shaking your head shallowly. Finding Ronnin's replacement has been the last thing on your mind, and how the King can proceed so insensitively is beyond you.
"Dame Ronnin departed from this world not even 24 hours ago, and you wish to discuss her replacement? Like she was a disposable pawn who can so easily be forgotten?" You retort with a bitter taste in your mouth.
"And she served you well and faithfully for many years. But as it stands, you are exposed without a protector," the King declares clearly and powerfully.
"Darling, I don't believe this to be the time," the Queen tries her hand at diplomacy once again, pleading with the King to understand why this is an inappropriate dinner conversation.
"If not now, then when?" He says, looking at her. "Are we to pussyfoot around this until their grieving period has ended? Who knows how long that will take?"
The Queen glances at you with a sympathetic look. The King can be obstinate and headstrong, something the Queen knows all too well. She just wishes, for your sake, he might show a shred of leniency under these circumstances.
"Do what you must, Your Grace," you say to the King, your tone tight and words spoken with restraint.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Standing in front of a long, oval mirror, your stomach ties itself in knots. In hopes of distracting yourself, your eyes trace the weaving details that are carved into the gold frame. You are met with your own unsettled reflection, dreading the events planned for today.
"Does this one please you, Princess?" Thessa, your lady's maid, asks as she drapes a beautiful jewelled necklace over your clavicle. Three striking rubies hang from the silver chain, making it a beautiful accessory for any occasion.
"Yes, thank you," you reply quietly.
This is the last thing you wish to be doing. Anyone else who suffers the loss of a loved one in this land is granted 14 days as a mourning period, during which they are not required to fulfil their daily tasks and duties. Everyone in this land is treated with equity and diligence. Everyone except for you. Because, as it's been made abundantly clear to you, you are not to live in line with the traditions your citizens have. You must be different. Perfect. Seen to have no weakness, for weakness would testify to the fact that you are not worthy of the throne.
Thessa moves to the dress she has already hung out for you, placed on the outside of your wardrobe. It's a remarkable dress, with a green and pink satin skirt and bodice that cuts into a sweetheart neckline, bell-sleeves that stretch far enough to hide your hands, and a sparkling overlay for the skirt.
It is beautiful, and would certainly be a statement piece for the tournament held in your new Knight's honour.
"I am more than pleased with your choice, Thessa. However, I am still in mourning. I would like to wear one of my black dresses for this occasion," you advise. She nods, disappearing into your colour-organised wardrobe to fish out what you desire.
You look at yourself in the mirror, twisting one of your rings around your finger. Your nose and lips are reddened despite no tears being shed. It's hard to believe that any good will come from today. It will be one of those drab duties where you have to show up for the sake of showing your face. No one will replace Ronnin in your heart. The King could hold a thousand tournaments, and no one would suffice.
"I think this one will do nicely, Princess," Thessa says. You study her choice; a long-sleeved, long skirt black dress with silver embroidery and embellishments. The black material itself has floral designs embossed into it.
"I agree," you reply.
She gathers the skirt of the material, bunching it so that she can place it over your head. You slip your arms through once you can, leaving her to shimmy the skirt down and neaten the length. She takes her nimble digits to the laced-up back of the dress, pulling the cord through to secure it to you.
"I know it is hard, Princess. But please have faith that this day will go well," she speaks as she continues to lace you in your dress. "I have a good feeling about it."
"It feels ridiculous to be in pursuit of another Knight so soon," you bemoan lightly, "How am I supposed to hold my head high when I want nothing more than to be buried within my sheets and sob?"
"The King simply cares for your well-being. He isn't good at showing it, but you are his priority," she reassures you.
"Only because he failed to produce another heir," you quip back under your breath.
Thessa hears you, flashing you a look of acknowledgement, but she decides not to answer. She fears the two of you will only go in circles otherwise.
. ݁ ⟡ ݁ .
Swallowing back the bile that threatens to spew from you, you steel your anxieties as you step onto the shaded decking before walking on shaky legs to your seat. Placed on the left of the King, whilst the Queen sits to his right. Thessa takes a seat on the other side of you.
A sizeable audience has already gathered to witness today's entertainment. It isn't every day that the people are treated to a tournament, so many of them ensured they carved the time out of their busy day to be here. The crowd bustles and chatters, keeping the atmosphere lively to a tasteful degree.
Sitting in the shade is a blessing you won't take lightly, as today seems to be particularly warm. Not a single cloud shows itself in the sky, allowing the sun to beam down without obstruction.
Perhaps black was not a sensible choice.
You sit, shifting slightly on the comfortable red cushioning as the corset bodice of your dress makes it even harder to breathe. You're practised in this, far too used to wearing restrictive gowns that threaten to render you lightheaded, but your growing grief and the heat certainly don't help things.
Right now, you should be with Ronnin. Paying respects to where she has been laid to rest. Not here, already seeking her replacement.
The King turns to you, noticing your pallid complexion. Comfort does not seem to find you easily, but your duty calls.
"I'm glad to see you managed to join us. Albeit later than I would've liked," he comments lowly.
Today, within the next couple of hours, your new personal Knight will be named. The person who will remain by your side to see to it that you are free of any dangers. They will have to be strong, worthy, honourable, and most importantly, faithful.
You clear your throat, sitting straighter in your chair as you look ahead before answering. "I apologise for my tardiness. There was a wardrobe disagreement."
"Hardly an appropriate choice for an occasion such as this," he reasons with you. It cannot be denied that the dress you're wearing is marvellous, but the King would have liked for you to be mindful that this is a day about you, not Ronnin.
The King's chief advisor, Yonik, appears between your seat and his. A peculiar man, with more secrets than there are stars in the sky. Despite all these years he's been in service to the King, you personally are still unaware of his origins. If you had to hazard a guess, you would say he gets his blond hair and tanned complexion from the Dry Salt Isles, which take weeks to travel to by boat and do not sit within the modern realm. Thankfully, his sudden appearance has spared you any further lecturing from your father.
"The tournament is ready to commence whenever it pleases you, Your Grace," Yonik says.
"Excellent news. Thank you, Yonik."
The advisor steps back from the chairs, returning to the furthest wall to watch everything from afar.
After a couple more moments, the King stands from his seat. The Herald blows the loud, baritone horn to notify all that the tournament is about to begin. Each individual gradually quiets down into silence before the horn has finished with its fanfare.
Once full attention has been brought to the King, he speaks, loud and clear for all to hear.
"I would like to thank you all for joining us today. It is now time for the best fighter to prove themselves worthy of joining the Royal Guard, and to be granted the honour of being the personal protector of the Princess."
You don't look at the King as he speaks, even though every other set of eyes is glued to him. Chewing the inside of your lip, you are unable to take your mind off the good memories you've shared with Ronnin. It's hard to accept that no matter what anyone does, she will never come back to you.
"I would implore you all to keep in line with good manners," the King continues. Sometimes, sports such as this can bring out a boisterous side to people that often borders on being distasteful. "With that said, let the trials commence."
As soon as the order is given, a set of large, heavy metal gates begins to grate against the dirt ground as the handlers pull them open for the challengers to make their entrances.
The sound of trotting hooves can be heard first, kicking up the dried mud as the first challenger rides in on his horse. He wears a full helm, paired with a pristine set of full-body silver armour. It's polished to perfection, but your first thought of that is perhaps that he's never seen real battle. He flies a green flag, one belonging to one of the smaller houses of the realm. His horse, a chestnut stallion, trots down the length of the arena before taking position on the other side.
Next, a challenger with all-black armour, inscribed with red runes, boasts a red banner. You recognise the runes as the Hellinston native language, though it's a language that has not been actively spoken for many centuries. His helm exposes his face, displaying beautifully carved features. His onyx mare is the night incarnate, with impeccable braids woven into her tail and mane. He follows suit, lining up on the other side of the arena next to the other participant.
Your interest is not held for long, already fatigued of witnessing this needless gallivanting. Two more soldiers enter, sporting chrome armour, but you've already forgotten the colour of their banners. They rode past, earning claps and cheers from the crowd, but your mind still remains elsewhere. Each one lines up as previously instructed, awaiting the matches.
A much louder round of applause rises from the crowd at the next warrior, likely to be the fan favourite. The King is nodding in approval, clearly liking what he sees. Your eyes are still void of any sparkle as you stare off into the distance, disassociating from this plane of consciousness. Thessa joins in on the clapping, looking at you to see if there's any reaction. What she finds is someone physically present, but entirely distant from themselves, like the moon after an eclipse.
The last warrior to enter turns nearly every head in the audience. It is a distinct presence that even has the steeds of the other champions shifting uncomfortably. Remarkably, it is such a gravitating energy that it manages to tear you from your thoughts. Your eyes refocus, and you take a sudden breath through your nose as you regain your awareness.
You look upon the new challenger, the breath from your lungs being all but robbed from you. He is staunch and striking, leaving an impression on you already.
It seems to be a sentiment that is shared by the crowd, who are all entirely magnetised by him. Attention has been suffocated by the other contenders, and it's amusing to watch the unison of moving heads as the newest participant moves through the grounds to join the others.
He is fashioned in red and blue armour, and from what you can see, there doesn't seem to be a single exposed point. It's not traditional armour, and not nearly as reflective. His blue helm is decorated with a red feathered accessory on top, his eyes are covered by a bright blue visor, and his faceguard is silver. Unorthodox would be one descriptor for it, if not a little daring. And if you look closely enough, you could be fooled into believing that his visor is illuminated.
He carries himself with a honed prestige that's rare to find in anything but nobility. His posture is perfect, his energy is a force field. Anyone would be impressed to come across someone as distinguished as this, and you are no different.
Even his mount is clad in bespoke armour, matching the colour palette of the rider. It is a large, formidable beast that seems bigger than any other horse you've seen. You suppose, looking at the proportions of this new challenger, any mount would have to have above-average strength to allow him to saddle it.
He takes his position beside the other challengers, who are also all looking at him. Next to them all, he stands out. He's larger, more robust, and sporting unique armour.
"Bear witness to the participants who will fight for one of the highest Knight positions in the realm," the Herald speaks through the bullhorn, his voice amplified for all to hear. "Challenger one and two are up first. Gentlemen, please make the necessary preparations and take your stances on each end of the tilt rail."
The first two riders who entered through the gates collect their lances from the handlers who offer them. The green flag bearer canters to the far side of the rail.
To your surprise, the Hellinston fighter trots over to the royal decking rather than taking his position. He makes eye contact with you, smiling in a way that's almost disarming. He stations himself at the foot of the deck, bowing his head to you. His pitch-black armour engulfs any light from the sun, and his midnight mare stands as elegantly as they come.
"I would be honoured if my Princess would give me their blessing," the soldier speaks. The King turns to you, looking at you with expectation. You can see it out of the corner of your eye, and deciding to play your part, you clear your throat before standing.
Walking forward, you collect a rose from the large chalice of flowers before approaching the soldier. You reach up, tucking the stem of the rose into the braided mane of his horse. Peering up at him, you smile softly.
"You ride a beautiful mount. I wish you the best of luck."
"When I win, I will be sure to gift her to you as a token of my loyalty," he replies with a kind smile.
Turning on your feet, you return to your seat to watch the joust unravel. The nausea is unsettling, you're hardly able to focus on anything else. Flashes of your blood-soaked dress continue to invade your mind, and for a moment, you swear you can feel the cold touch of Ronnin's hand on yours.
You take a deep breath, settling your hands in your lap to fiddle your fingers together. The King glances at you, ensuring that you are not behaving out of line. This day is ultimately about you, so every scrutinising eye is pointed in your direction.
Both soldiers take their positions on either side of the grounds, readjusting the jousting poles in their hands to get more comfortable. The horse you just graced with your blessing snorts, kicking its front hoof against the ground.
The stoic duochrome soldier stands steely and powerful in his waiting position. His mount does not fuss or waver, and he oozes nonchalant confidence. Not arrogance, but he knows himself. He understands his strengths and weaknesses.
Leaning over, you whisper in Thessa's ear. "Do we know the name of that warrior in red and blue?"
"Does he have your favour, Princess?" Thessa hushes back with a playful smile. You pull back from her slowly, eyeing up the individual once again.
"Perhaps," you reply quietly.
She giggles under her breath before looking over at him as well. His sights are set forward, watching the jousts as though he's studying them.
"I believe his name is Optimus Prime," she informs you.
You hum, settling back into your seat. Jousting sticks clash and clank together from the two fighters currently going at it, but your thoughts are drawn elsewhere.
Prime. You're not sure you've heard of a house with that name. Perhaps he's not from this land. His armour definitely lends to the idea that he isn't Velantrian. No metalworker in these regions crafts in that style.
The track your thoughts were riding is abrasively interrupted when you hear the loud crashing of metal armour against the hard ground. A wave of gasps and reactions spills throughout the audience, your eyes snapping up to look at who fell.
Roars of bellows and cheers erupt, and the Hellinston soldier stands victorious above the other, who was knocked from his horse, and seemingly, knocked unconscious. You sigh a breath, fiddling with your rings once again for mindless distraction.
Two foot soldiers march over to the fallen challenger as the handlers rein in and steady his horse. The soldiers collect the unconscious man, quickly rushing him from the field to the medical tent situated on the outskirts of the arena.
"The first victory is claimed by Tarlen of House Hellinston!" The Herald announces.
The man known as Tarlen basks in the glory of his first win, waving to the adoring crowd as he returns to the line of fighters to await his next opponent.
"Our second round for the day will be between challenger three and four. Please take your positions."
Challenger three approaches the royal deck. She flies a purple banner, which you believe belongs to House Gourk, if your memory serves you right. She grins at Thessa beside you, lowering her head in respect.
"I believe I would have my victory assured if the lovely Miss Thessa would grant me her blessing."
A light blush crawls over Thessa's cheeks as she stands, walking over to the chalice to pick out a flower of her choosing before threading it into the mane of the white horse. The fighter utters a quiet thank you before taking off to ready herself.
Taking her seat next to you, you shoot her a coy glance with a smirk on your lips.
"It seems you have an admirer, Thessa," you observe in a whisper.
Her blush grows stronger, averting her eyes from you. You giggle lightly before paying attention to the fighters taking the field.
"Begin!" The Herald calls.
With the command, both riders prompt their horses to bolt. The rhythmic sound of heavy footfall from the rampant horses bounces around the arena, creating a song for the battle.
The first spar is blown, jousting sticks clashing against metal armour. The abrasive noise of the wooden lance splitting sends shivers down your spine before the entire weapon clatters on the muddy ground.
One handler quickly obtains a new lance, jogging to meet the rider who lost their weapon and offers it over. The horse makes a sharp U-turn as the rider snatches the lance from the handler before they charge along the tilt rail once again.
Despite the fact that your attention should be devoted to the fighters in front of you, you can't help but glance in the direction of the mysterious individual whom Thessa calls Optimus Prime. You're insatiably curious to know more about him, and you're highly anticipating his battle.
You wish to remain as discreet as possible, attempting to reel back your gawking at him. You tear your sights away from him with great difficulty, focusing on the joust unfolding in front of you.
Although your eyes are witnessing the battle, your mind isn't committed. The actions are not processing as they should, and before you know it, the battle has taken a turn.
They duel, but it seems they are fairly equal in power. Both of them are dismounted, knocked clean off in the same fell swoop during a clash. A collective wince erupts from the crowd.
Thessa gasps, sitting straighter in her seat to look upon the Gourk woman she gave her flower to. Both challengers groan and writhe slowly on the floor, likely to be littered with bruises come the morning. There are worse fates to have as a result of losing or drawing a joust. Consider it lucky that they kept their lives.
"Our second battle ends in a draw! Both participants are disqualified!" The Herald booms through the bullhorn as foot soldiers and handlers retrieve the soldiers and horses.
That's the way of it. A draw is equivalent to a loss, and neither participant is permitted to retry. It's not a matter you worry yourself over, as it means that the event will be over quicker.
"Challengers five and six, take your positions and prepare yourselves!"
You sit forward a little more in your seat without explicitly meaning to, your interest brought to its peak. This is what you've been waiting for. Anticipation flows through your veins as you watch Optimus Prime take his stand on the far end of the tilt rail.
The call to begin is shouted through the bullhorn, and Optimus' reaction speed far exceeds his opponent's. It seems to fluster the other fighter, prompting his horse to bolt with a panicked knock of his heels.
Optimus delivers a strike that is so quick that if you blinked, you would have missed it. His opponent is steadfast despite his nerves, hitting back as hard as he can. The red and blue warrior circles around at the end of the rail, resuming his march to victory.
Watching him fight is a feast for the eyes. He is practised and diligent, seems to leave no openings, and moves as if the very art of battle was designed after him. It's spectacle enough to momentarily distract you from the curdling grief that plagues you.
He glides across this arena as though he were born for it, as if he knows it better than the back of his hand. He doesn't require a moment of respite or to find his bearings once reaching the end of the tilt rail. His steed dances to the beat of the battle, creating a flawless battle.
There's never been a warrior who's taken to this as effortlessly as he is right now. You don't believe the realm has ever been graced with such a polished fighter, even if it pains you to believe that. Quite frankly, it's unprecedented. Even the King and Queen are in awe.
Tarlen watches on, anxiety nipping at his heels. His mount senses it, causing her to snort and fuss on the spot. He pats her gently, trying to settle her, but he's entirely unable to look away from the monster ravaging the field.
Without a shadow of a doubt, Optimus will be his opponent. In truth, he believes that the foreign challenger is toying with his adversary, purposely dragging it out for the love of the sport. Maybe he likes to savour his meals, to have every ounce of flavour seep over his palate.
"He is fascinating, is he not?" Thessa murmurs to you.
"I am inclined to agree," you reply.
"Your favour may have blessed him more than any flower could," she says.
"Skill like that is not born from favour. It is crafted and perfected to the most acute degree," you comment, unable to keep your eyes off him.
The strikes Optimus lands are heavy and precise, and his opponent can barely keep up with them. Granted, he is doing an impressive job of staying on his horse. Just about.
It's hard for your eyes to follow the speed of the fight. Every turn Optimus takes at the end of the tilt rail leaves clouds of dust, his horse never once faltering. Both of them have been carved into the perfect fighting machines.
Upon the next strike, Optimus' opponent falls ungraciously from his horse, landing directly on his back and smashing the back of his head against the hard ground. He groans in pain whilst the impact rings through the metal of his helm. His skittish horse neighs and rears, its heavy hooves falling against the ground before galloping off.
"The victor of the third joust is Optimus Prime!" The Herald cheers.
The crowd roars with applause, struck with a powerful sense of admiration after watching the way he battles.
Before the foot soldiers can get up to help the fallen rider, Optimus dismounts his steed. The gentle beast remains still, patiently waiting for further instruction from his master.
Optimus walks over to his defeated opponent, offering his servo out. After a couple more grunts and groans, the man takes Optimus up on his offer. They lock wrists, allowing the mysterious fighter to hoist him back up onto his feet.
"A powerful fighter and well-mannered," Thessa hushes to you, "It's rare to come by someone who is both."
You hum in agreement. It's true, you've never seen a battle where the winner helped the loser regain their footing. It's a statement which you're yet to fully decipher.
"You fought well. Be proud," Optimus speaks, his deep voice tinny through the faceguard.
"T—Thank you. It was an honour to face you. It is a skirmish I will not soon forget," the other man speaks somewhat sheepishly. Even though he just got knocked on his backside, he can't deny how mesmerising it was to watch the Prime.
"Do you need assistance? If needed, I'd be willing to escort you to the medical tent," Optimus offers.
"No, no. I'm uh— I'm well, if not only a little winded."
The red and blue bot nods once in acknowledgement before turning to his horse. He utters a single phrase in a tongue you're not privy to, causing you to slightly cock your head to the side. He most certainly is fascinating, and a part of you hopes that he will come out on top by the end of the day.
He takes the reins of his horse, leading it over to the edge of the pit to join Tarlen. The two champions nod their helms out of respect before Optimus straddles his mount again to await the Herald's announcement.
"We have our final two contenders!" The Herald speaks, causing the crowd to whoop and clap. "Tarlen of House Hellinston, and Optimus of House Prime. Gentlemen, please take your positions."
So, this is it. One of these men will be your protector until they pass or are no longer fit for the role. Today, Ronnin will officially be replaced. Neither of them can hope to fill the void that the loss of her has left behind. Despite your excitement after watching Optimus perform, you still feel hollow and led astray.
A pin drop could be heard from the sheer amount of bated breath, every curious eye watching anxiously as the fighters stand at the ready.
Just as before, Optimus does not hesitate to charge the second the call to begin is made. Tarlen moves too, if not a short moment after. The banging drum of the hooves hitting the ground builds further excitement for every onlooker, and it's quickly cut short as the first collision booms.
Tarlen juts back on his horse, but manages to compose himself quickly after. Optimus didn't even flinch, turning sharply at the end of the tilt rail to charge again. He moves relentlessly, his mind and body entirely in sync.
There's a rampant fear emanating through the crowd that if Optimus maintains this level of ferocity, he may very well kill his opponent. It's as though he's studied the art of battle for a millennium, everyone else who faces him is trifling in comparison.
You can hardly believe your eyes. Blow after blow is landed on the black-armoured competitor, and he has no opportunity to strike back. This may be one of the most one-sided battles you've ever seen.
The King watches eagerly, utterly impressed by the prowess being demonstrated. This powerhouse would be more than worthy of serving as your sword and shield, but the conclusion of the fight is yet to be seen. It's entirely possible that the son of House Hellinston could make an unexpected comeback.
The next clash of Optimus' lance against Tarlen's armour causes the latter's horse to spook, rearing on the spot with a startled nicker. Tarlen adjusts, trying to stay atop his horse, but his feet fall from the stirrups, and the rest goes so quickly you hardly register it.
Tarlen tumbles off the back of his horse, hitting the ground with a loud thump before rolling. His horse snorts and whinnies as she kicks up the muddy ground, fussing in such a way that her armour rings.
Optimus' mount gradually steadies into a trot, then into a walk as the crowd gives him a standing ovation. He doesn't seem to relish it like others might, like he's too humble for such a thing. The Herald announces Optimus as the champion of today's trial, only fuelling the audience further.
Your heart rate picks up as the uneasy feeling sinks further into your stomach. You're mere moments away from knighting another, leaving Ronnin's position as nothing more than a note in history. This will be the first time you've ever known anyone else to protect you in the way Ronnin did, and it suddenly feels all too soon.
The foot soldiers have already collected Tarlen from the ground by the time you come back to your senses. He has one arm each around both their shoulders, limping through his injuries. He perks his head up, glancing over at you on the royal deck. You see his mouth move, and then the foot soldiers look your way too.
Changing course, the lead the wounded runner up over to you. You smile warmly as he approaches, seeing Optimus dismount his horse out of the corner of your eye. He hands the reins to the handlers, who take the beautiful steed into the stables.
Two royal advisors move into the field, approaching Optimus to have a conversation that you're not able to hear from this distance.
You stand from your seat, walking a few steps over to the front of the decking to meet Tarlen up close. He has a gash through his eyebrow, bright red blood trickling down his handsome features. You note the dents in his armour, which luckily took the damage in his place.
"I am sorry to have failed you, Princess," Tarlen says as he bows to the best of his capabilities.
"You have done no such thing," you reassure him warmly, "You are a marvellous fighter, and are worthy of Knighthood. I have no doubt you will achieve it in the near future."
"Your graciousness knows no bounds," he expresses deeply.
"Please, I insist that you take the necessary rest after your battle. I will ensure that Master Ephri, our finest healer, personally tends to you." You peer behind you, catching Thessa's eye. She hears your request loud and clear, standing from her seat to call for Master Ephri. The foot soldiers leave with Tarlen, guiding him to the medical tent where the other competitors are.
The royal advisors accompanying Optimus bring him to you, and you're astounded by how large he is. He's notably larger so close up, you have to wonder if his roots stem from the giants that roam the rolling hills in the far East of Velantra.
"Your Highness, allow me introduce you to your champion, Optimus Prime," one of the advisors says.
The Queen's sworn protector, Vamir, draws up to your side before kneeling and offering you his sword. It's the finest sword you've ever laid eyes on, crafted by the most talented blacksmith in the realm. Its long silver blade is sharper than obsidian, and the hilt is made of pure gold with engravings that took the blacksmith months to complete.
You take the sword, offering your thanks before taking a deep breath, turning to face the victor of the joust. His visor makes it hard to gauge any eye contact, and up close, it definitely seems like it has a built-in light effect. You've not seen such a thing before, furthering your conspiracy that he's come from a land beyond your scope of knowledge.
"Kneel before me," you order lightly. Optimus complies, lowering to one knee and bowing.
"Remove your helm."
He doesn't act as quickly as you expect. Your thumb rubs over the engraving in the hilt of the sword as your stomach winds itself into knots.
Rather than removing his helm in the way you expected, he brings his servos to the sides of his faceguard, pressing against the latches placed there. He removes the faceguard, but the angle of his bow means you cannot yet see his face. Next, you hear a subtle hissing noise, one you don't recognise. Your brows furrow with confusion, but all makes sense once he lifts his face to look at you.
Your gasp is stifled, but the Queen's is not. You gaze upon crafted beauty, but one metal in nature. His eyes are a unique kind of light, something that looks like sorcery. Only a mage could have created a being such as this. He is humanoid in structure and appearance, but he is a fraction removed.
Nerves have you gripping your sword tighter, unsure of what you are looking at. You've never seen anything like this before, and you aren't sure what to say.
"You are not…" You start, hesitating. You take in all of his features, your mind running through the mythical creatures like a rolodex to see what you can pair him with. Unfortunately, you come up blank. He is, put simply, a metal man, and nothing of the sort ever came up in your education.
"I am not of this land," he confirms the obvious. Of this land? More like this world. Your deep curiosity regarding this enigma of a being is growing ravenous with each new development that shows itself.
The crowd watches on nervously, nearly on the edge of their seats with anticipation. This day continues to get more and more interesting, it may very well go down in the history books.
"Native or not, we have our champion," the King speaks, not nearly as fazed as the Queen. "We must honour it. This is to be your new Knight, so you must continue with the ceremony."
You don't look at the King whilst he speaks, finding it hard to look away from the man before you.
But the King is right. This is your duty, and the warrior before you won the trial. You take a steady breath before lifting the sword.
"In the name of the Fated Ones, I charge you to be born anew," you say as you touch the blade of the sword on one of his large shoulder pauldrons.
"In the name of the Statans, I charge you to be just and faithful," is your next set of words, moving to his other shoulder pauldron.
"And in the name of the Keepers, I charge you to protect the innocent and maintain integrity." The last touch of the blade is brought to the top of his helm. With it, the ceremony has concluded. One chapter of your life has come to its end, and another is about to begin.
"Arise, and do so as Ser Optimus Prime, Knight of Velantra, and sworn protector to the Princess of the Realm."
next -> (w.i.p)
i hope u all have a lovely day <3 thank you for reading!!
