InsaneJournal

Farewell
Title: Farewell
Author: Delilah Draken
Fandom: Transformers, Highlander
Character(s): Methos, Megatron, Optimus Prime
Sequel/Series: sequel to Guardian
Status: Finished
Disclaimer: The stories are mine. All the rest - characters and locations you've heard of in TV shows, movies, books etc - belong to their respective owners. I am just borrowing them.
Summary: Old rituals and older promises.
Author's Note: prompt #95 – Mime at tamingthemuse

Silence. Deadly silence, only disturbed by the rasping breath of tired pedestrians that minutes before ran for their lives. The kind of silence that reminds of the grave and mourning what is forever lost.

Somewhere a baby cries. The hushed words of the mother are no comfort for the young life.

He stands there, right in the middle of the devastated street, and wonders why the military men do not attempt to cover up what happened here. After all, there is a giant alien robot lying on the ground. More than one, he has to correct himself, but doesn't really care because there is only one here at the moment whose face he knows. And that only through pictures.

Slow, oh so slow his feet carry him towards the dead mountain of metal and weaponry. He ignores the other giants who walk around, making sure that their enemies' lives have truly been terminated. He ignores the frantic attempts of one soldier to barricade his way. He even ignores the boy scrambling back from the fallen god.

“Here you have fallen,” he speaks. The words are loud and and clear, like the whisper of an accomplished theatre actor. “Here you now rest.”

His fingers touch the cooling metal, follow the barely recognizable scars carved into an alien skin. He writes a poem of farewell onto the dead one, the sweat on his fingers serving as ink.

The words to the old song for the brave warriors, heroes fallen to destruction while on a quest of justice, resurface from the depths of his memory like the silken breath of a lover's touch. The lost language caresses his lips.

“Megatron,” he says in the clipped and barbled tones that he learned such a long time ago. Back then in the hidden valley where he was told stories of a glorious empire as old as time itself.

“Fare thee well, Lord Protector. Your children will look after the Prime for you.” With these words the ritualistic good-bye is at its end, his lips pressing a last kiss on cold metal.

Behind him someone flinches. He feels it more than he sees it and when he turns around there stands one of the giant robots, an arm extended as if its only wish was to touch the empty remains of a dead shell.

The Prime, for there is no other possibility of who else it could be in his mind, looks sad. How comforting then that the alien is painted in the mourning colours of red and blue.

The man known as Adam Pierson, who once was lord over life and death, can only shake his head at the display. There is no place for him in this play. There never was. And thus he walks away, back to what hopefully is his still intact hotel room and the chance of reuniting an old friend with a dead comrade.

The only problem in this plan is that he has not the slightest idea where the red-eyed flyer has gone to.