Chapter Text
Jazz huffed as he walked, anger and hurt still simmering just under the surface of his carefree gait. His big brother had been mercilessly teasing him again, so he’d snuck out to his favorite clearing in the crystal forest. The mechling was happy to get away from the boring old castle. Let Ricochet meet all those boring old dignitaries from Praxus, he was the heir, after all. As he’d been so gleefully saying, Jazz was just the spare.
Rico could be so mean sometimes!
Well, whatever! Jazz didn’t want to meet them anyway, even if the Praxian prince was supposed to be about their age. If he was anything like Ricochet, Jazz would rather get in trouble for being absent.
Jazz sat down in the soft tin-grass, legs splayed out in front of him, without a care for the properness of posture. He unsubspaced the items he’d “borrowed” from the laundry and kitchen. A small, soft silk-steel mesh that he put on the ground and two sealed containers that he put on top of that. One container held a hefty bundle of rust sticks (the dark, dark maroon kind, his favorite!) and the other was full of mercury infused energon.
He munched happily on a few rust sticks, pedes wagging back and forth in the tin-grass. He leaned back on his servos and looked up at the clear sky through the towering multicolored crystal branches. Each branch sparkled and shimmered in the light, casting rainbows down into his hidden little sanctuary.
Who’d want to be inside on a cycle like this anyway?
Though…
Jazz sighed a little sigh through his vents and let himself fall back onto the tingrass, turning off his optical center.
It did still hurt when he wasn’t included. When he was told over and over again, “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that little Jazzy,” and “Just go play in your room, Jazz, this is for important state business,” or “We only need Ricochet for this meeting, go on now.”
Granted, he was actually supposed to be at this particular meeting. The Praxian royal party and retinue had arrived late, late in the dark cycle when most of the castle had been recharging.
They were supposed to be doing the formal meet and greet now, but after a pointed jab by his older brother about how it didn’t really matter if he was there because no bot was going to notice him anyway, he’d run from the room before the attending servants could catch him; unceremoniously shedding the ceremonial garb on his way out the door. Hopefully he’d gotten away before Ricochet could see the glimmering tears of optical cleanser running down his cheek.
If Ricochet wanted to be the only bot in the spotlight, then he could do the meet and greet by himself!
Jazz was only a few vorns younger than Ricochet, and yet his elder brother got all of Sire’s attention. It wasn’t fair!
Maybe… maybe if their carrier was still functioning, he’d be spending all of that time by himself with him…
Jazz sighed again, feeling the good mood brought on by being in his favorite place slipping away.
“Excuse me, are you lost?”
Jazz yelped in surprise at the sudden voice, bolting upright, optical center snapping back on. He looked in the direction of the voice, prepared to make excuses as to why one of the princes of Polyhex was not in the castle meeting a foreign delegation like he was supposed to, only to have the words catch in his vocalizer.
The intruder into his sanctuary was another mechling around his age. He was obviously not a Polyhexian. He had no audial horns, not even stubs. Though his plating colors were sort of similar to Jazz’s own black and white, he had no accent colors save for a golden crest on his helm that displayed a shiny red chevron. And wings on his back. Not big ones like the pictures of Seekers Jazz had seen, but small ones that looked like they were the doors of his alt mode, arched back and out over his shoulder pauldrons making him look bigger than he actually was.
“I’m not lost. What are you doing in my meadow?” Jazz said, mouth getting the better of him.
The mechling gave a confused look. “Your meadow, is it? Forgive me for intruding.”
He took a step back and Jazz, suddenly not wanting to be alone and so-very-intrigued by this strange new mechling, found himself saying, “Wait! I don’t mind sharing. I have rust sticks and energon.”
The strange mechling stopped retreating, doorwings doing a set of movements that Jazz didn’t understand. After a klik, a very small smile lit his faceplates. “Are those the dark ones? I like those.”
“Me too! The light colored ones are so sweet they make my denta ache.” Jazz said happily, patting the spot beside him, inviting the mechling to sit down.
He did so and accepted a rust stick. “Yeah, I don’t know how my cousin can just gorge himself on those kind.”
“I know, right? My brother will eat them until he makes himself sick unless the ser-er, I mean, unless somebot stops him.” Jazz spontaneously decided that he didn’t want his new friend to know he was a prince. The mechling might do something weird like start bowing to him. He didn’t want that!
“I am called Pantera.” The mechling said with a little wing dip.
“I’m… Folgore.” Jazz said, giving the nickname his carrier had called him.
Pantera smiled, “Nice to meet you.”
They sat munching their snack until Jazz noticed something. “Oh, wow! You have a sword!” He hadn’t even noticed it at first, magnetized to the mechling’s back between his, admittedly much more interesting, doorwings. It was a beautiful thing that looked more like a piece of art in his sire’s gallery than a weapon. The hilt and blade were both made of a white, pearlescent metal that matched the mechling’s white plating. Geometric designs were etched from tip to tip.
“Oh, yes,” Pantera said, as if it was nothing special, “I’m training to be a knight.”
“That’s amazing! I wish I could be a knight.” Jazz said wistfully.
The mechling tilted his helm, confused, “Why can’t you?”
Because he was the spare. And spares were the bargaining chips of their creators and future sibling rulers. Because spares had to learn to be the paramount carriers for whatever lord they were bonded off to. And it wasn’t proper for carriers to wield melee weapons.
But all Jazz mumbled was, “Because my sire doesn't want me to. I know how to use an elctro-crossbow.”
“Those are only good for offence and if you have range. You should at least know how to defend yourself.” Pantera asserted.
“I want to learn,” Jazz confessed, “but no bot will teach me.”
More like, no bot would dare the fury of his sire if they were found out.
“I will teach you.” The doorwinged mechling said.
Jazz perked up. “You will?”
Pantera hesitated for just a klik, “Well, I’m only going to be here for as long as my creators are, and that’s only a deca-cycle, so maybe I can’t teach you about the sword,” Before Jazz could deflate at that, the mechling continued, “but I can teach you how to use a dagger.”
“Really?” Jazz totally did not squeak. His elocution tutor would be appalled.
The mechling nodded and pulled a dagger out of his subspace.
If Jazz had thought the sword was pretty, it was nothing compared to the dagger. The hilt was intricate and embellished shining black metal, while the blade was made of sparkling crystal.
“Woah. Won’t the crystal break if you hit something with it?” Jazz asked.
“It’s made of diamond.” Pantera explained. He handed the dagger handle first to Jazz. “Here.”
“Um, okay.” Jazz took the dagger. It felt heavy and intimidating in his servo.
“Like this,” The mechling’s servo was suddenly on his own, correcting his grip, “if you hold it like that you might drop it and cut yourself.”
They graduated from sitting and holding the dagger to standing and practicing swinging it back and forth. The winged mechling stood behind Jazz guiding the movement of his arm. Through the whole lesson, though he was striving to pay attention, Jazz was smiling, feeling happy and warm.
And they didn’t just practice with the dagger. They shared the rest of the energon Jazz had brought, they talked about their favorite music, crystals they liked, favorite foods. And Jazz found out that Pantera was a Praxian, he’d come with the delegation, though he wasn’t required at the meeting and decided to go exploring.
Jazz had never been so happy that he’d snuck out, that he almost forgave Ricochet for his hurtful words earlier.
After several joors Jazz looked reluctantly at the waning light. “I should go… my sire is probably going to send out everybot to look for me.”
“I should go, too.” The other mechling sounded as reluctant as he felt. “But we can meet here tomorrow?”
Jazz would scale down the castle wall with his knotted berth meshes if he had to.
“Yes! I’ll meet you here after the mid-cycle bells ring.” He promised.
“See you tomorrow, Folgore.”
“Until tomorrow, Pantera!”
It was totally worth the mighty scolding he got when he arrived back in the palace. But he was saved from any true punishment because the Praxian contingent had asked to move the formal meet and greet to another cycle. Their crown prince had fallen ill on the journey to visit their Polyhexian neighbors. Fortunately, it just looked to be a case of travel-sickness and not anything more serious. He just needed time to recover. The meeting was now scheduled for two cycles from thence and everybot was hopeful that the prince would be feeling better by then.
The Praxian nobility were being given the best guest lodging in the eastern wing of the palace. Since the Polyhexian royal family lived in the western wing of the palace, it was unlikely that Jazz would run across his new friend in the castle itself. It would be rude to attempt to seek him out in the eastern wing before the contingent had been properly met. And Pantera didn’t know that Jazz even lived in the palace.
And… Jazz sort of didn’t want Pantera to know he was one of the princes. Oh, it was bound to come out before the visit was over, but it was fun to have a friend who didn’t know about his rank. Pantera probably didn’t think that ‘Folgore’ was a commoner by any means; the rust sticks and quality of the energon would have given that away, but certainly not as high of a rank as prince.
While Jazz did truly wish for the Praxian prince to get better, this also meant that he could sneak out of the palace much more easily! The staff, his sire, and his brother would be too busy playing host to their guests to pay Jazz any mind. And while just this morning that would have made him depressed, now he had his new friend to meet in his meadow.
He couldn’t wait to see Pantera the next cycle.
Later that evening, Ricochet guiltily came into Jazz’s room with an apology tart he’d probably swiped from the kitchens. Though older, Ricochet was the same size as Jazz and they looked so similar in frame that bots often joked that they should have been twins. Though their structures were where the similarities ended.
Their coloring was opposite. Where Jazz had black, Ricochet had white and vise-versa. And where Jazz’s visor was blue like their carrier’s, Ricochet has gotten their sire’s orange. They also had very different accents; Jazz opted for simple red and blue racing stripes, Ricochet had a much more elaborate flame pattern on his chestplates.
Their temperaments differed greatly as well. Jazz was mellow and even-tempered, Ricochet was headstrong and outspoken. But they cared for each other greatly even if they sometimes didn’t always get along.
“I’m sorry I made you cry.” Ricochet said remorsefully, crawling up onto the berth with his brother when Jazz let him. “I didn’t mean any of those things, I was just nervous. Sire said if anything went wrong it would be my fault.”
“That’s not true.” Jazz replied. “Sire can’t blame you for the prince getting sick.”
Ricochet let out a vent. “I don’t think he does, but he’s gotten so strange lately.”
“I know.”
They snuggled together and split the tart between them.
Jazz was worried. Sire had become more and more unpredictable as of late. He heard the whispers from the servants when they thought no bot was listening. The king hadn’t followed his bonded to the well when their carrier died. At first, he was lauded because he claimed he was staying alive to nurture his creations until they were grown; a final promise to his beloved mate. But as the vorns wore on and he lingered, he became… unstable. Volatile mood swings. Bouts of fugue. A temper that could be fickle and capricious.
Mad, they called him; the Forsaken King.
“I wish you had been here.” Ricochet said. “I was so bored, I had to listen to Sire and his advisers talk all cycle. I didn’t even get to meet any of the Praxians.”
Jazz considered telling Ricochet about Pantera for half a klik, just to see his faceplates when he realized that Jazz had met a Praxian today, but decided against it. He wanted Pantera to be his secret for now.
“I just went to the market,” he lied.
“I’m still jealous. You’re lucky,” Ricochet sighed.
“I don’t feel like it sometimes.”
Ricochet tensed a little and then hugged Jazz tighter. “I’m sorry, again. Just hit me next time, okay?”
Jazz giggled and then pounced on Ricochet, tickling him. “If you insist!”
“Hey!” Ricochet’s engine sputtered with his laughter. They wrestled playfully until they both flopped over in mutual surrender. They fell into recharge nestled together.