Chapter Text
Have you considered immortality? Of course. Most of us have thought about it, since no mortal looks forward to their last goodbye. We naturally dream of never having to depart on that final journey.
Mortilus knows this. He does not love his task, but he measures out the final spark-beats of each mortal's life with the utmost care. He considers it a sacred duty, one that was given to him by Primus himself.
Death comes equally to everyone. And although we cannot see this for ourselves, Mortilus knows it is a blessing that we do not live forever.
Listen.
.oOo.
On the day Mortilus came for Starscream, he found him huddled on the brink of what had recently been a chasm. A mountainside had collapsed, filling the gap with snow and ice and burying the Seeker's companion a mile deep.
For days, the Seeker had been digging. His own body, mangled by the avalanche, had eventually failed. It now lay in a heap behind him, half covered in newly fallen snow as the Seeker continued to dig with spirit-hands, clawing and cursing at the ice.
Mortilus watched, saying nothing. When the appointed moment came, he reached into the unseen tapestry of life and pulled out a single, glittering thread. It was a short thread, for the Seeker was still young, but it shone bright as starlight against Mortilus' palm.
"Ulchtar," he said as he readied his blade.
That name, in the old Vosian tongue, meant crying for the stars. In modern translation, it would be Starscream. Mortilus thought it a name well-suited to the life he was preparing to end. A life which had been spent exploring the galaxy with a single, trusted companion.
A beloved companion.
This was a kindness, Mortilus told himself as he counted the final pulsations of that young, guttering spark. It marked an end to suffering. Yet as he watched the Seeker, something happened which had never happened before.
Mortilus missed a beat. He lost count. The dying spark beat its last, and then… beat again. Mortilus made haste to cut the thread, but he was already too late.
A sharp cry sliced through the wind. "No!" Starscream lunged at him, still in spirit form. "You can't have him!" He seized the thread from Mortilus' hand. Mortilus tried to snatch it back, but his hesitation had been his undoing. His fingers passed through it like mist.
They stared at each other, Mortilus wondering how things had gone so terribly wrong and Starscream with a look of dawning realization. Starscream pressed the thread to his own spark, and just like that, the tapestry changed. Destiny rewove itself, and Mortilus vanished from the snowy plain. He was not there to see the lights of a passing freighter shining down through the clouds.
The freighter's pilot had received a distress signal and had come to offer aid. In the old version of the tapestry, he would have found a dead body and a faint life-pulse coming from far below the ice. He would have excavated the Seeker’s companion, who would have thanked him for the rescue, then descended into a spiral of endless grief.
As it was, the pilot did not notice the signal from beneath the ice. He found the unconscious Seeker, placed him in a stasis-pod within his ship, and carried him far across the galaxy until he eventually found a medical station equipped to care for Cybertronians.
The medics swore it was a miracle. The Seeker should never have survived; not his injuries, nor the stasis that had followed. Of course they knew better, being people of science, but some could not help whispering among themselves that it was almost as if the Seeker had become… immortal.
.oOo.
Mortilus did not speak of the incident, to anyone. In particular, he did not mention it to Primus. He did not wish the Creator of All Things to know that he'd failed in his duty. As time went on, however, Mortilus began to relax. The tapestry of life continued weaving itself as if nothing had changed, and perhaps nothing had. What difference, after all, could a single dropped thread make?
It came as a terrible shock when Primus summoned Mortilus into his presence and pointed to that very thread. "There is, on Cybertron, a mortal who cannot die," he said. "No matter how often he is cut down in battle, he rises. His subjects are calling him the Deathless One; the Immortal Spark; the Tyrant of the Firmament. Do you know anything about this?"
Mortilus was forced to admit that he did. Once he'd explained, Primus frowned. That was an unfamiliar expression on the Light-Giver's normally placid features, and it made Mortilus uneasy.
"This Deathless One, this… Ulchtar, has taken over Cybertron. His power has grown unchecked, thanks to his inability to die, and he is now spreading his empire to other worlds." Primus paused, his mouth curling downward as if he was tasting something sour. "I've been getting complaints."
"Complaints?" Mortilus was really uncomfortable now. "Complaints from whom?"
"Those other worlds have their own gods," Primus explained. "Those gods are not pleased that one of our own has slipped the fate of mortals and is wreaking havoc on their worlds. This has upset the balance, and it must be restored."
"I… yes." Mortilus gazed at the floor. "I can see how that would be a problem."
Primus placed a hand on Mortilus' shoulder. "Old friend, you must fix this," he said. "I don't care how."