Chapter Text
Orion checked a tired sigh, only allowing his lips to turn down in a frown because the mask now covering his face hid the expression. He should be appreciative, and he had done his best to graciously accept each of the hundreds of gifts presented to him in his first orns as Prime - Optimus, he reminded himself; his name was Optimus now, not Orion - but it all seemed so unnecessary. What would he do with forty-seven casks of pure grade energon, ranging in vintage from 73rd vorn to 4027th? And that was only the pure grade - there was also high grade, mid grade, medical grade, low grade, concentrated, gelled, double- and triple-distilled, diluted, infused, and crystallised energon, none of which he had any need for when the last Spring of Primus welled up within the Temple of the Matrix, dwelling place of the Primes.
The last offering had been a crystal growth of the creeping variety, vibrant red in colour and coaxed into delicately curling spirals around the slats of a latticeboard. It was small, but beautiful, and had probably taken vorns to cultivate and groom.
"Thank you," he said, bowing his helm to the mech who had knelt to present it to him. "The beauty of this gift will remind me always of Primus' providence, and its fragility stay my hand to gentleness."
The mech's visor brightened with pride at Orion's words, and he bowed low before slowly standing. "Thank you, my Prime. Your pleasure brings me joy."
"And your joy brings me pleasure," Orion returned. "May Primus keep you, my brother."
An attendant stepped forward, and he handed over the gift as he had all the others, to free his hands for the next. "Please," he said, "take this one to the chamber of devotions; it is good to look on beauty while communing with our god."
“Very good, my Prime.” The attendant bowed shallowly, then straightened with the gift in hand. The mech who had brought it straightened also, his helm lifting and shoulders broadening all the more with pride. Orion held back another sigh and did the same, shifting into a more proper posture for what felt like the hundredth time this orn. A Prime does not slouch.
Two more mechs stepped forward to meet him. One fell into a deep bow while the other dropped to one knee, helm lowered.
“These two are the last of this orn,” murmured the mech to Orion's right. Trailmaker, he thought his name was, though he had been introduced to so many since accepting the Matrix that it was hard to keep them all straight.
“Thank you,” Orion answered, just as quiet. “I find I need to rest. How many more are there?”
“Another orn's worth, maybe two,” Trailmaker said. “Your people are pleased by you.”
“Would that they brought their gifts to those who need them,” Orion said sourly. “The energon, at least, must be sent where it can be used.”
“Of course, my Prime.”
Orion turned his attention back to the gift-givers then. The one who had bowed, a tall blue femme-class with a slim but sturdy build, was standing again and watching him with sharp, measuring optics. The other, a large red working-class mech, still knelt. In the femme's hand was a thick-linked chain, held only loosely; the other end was clipped to a collar looped about the mech's cervical column.
“My Prime,” she said, setting her free hand gently on the mech's helm. “I am Chromia, and this is my pet. He has served me well over the vorns, but now it is his wish to serve you instead, if you will have him.”
“You would gift me with your own pet?” Orion asked, disbelieving. The mech was a handsome creature, and to simply give him away was either foolish, incredibly generous, or indicative of some problem in frame or processor.
“It is not my first choice, far from it,” Chromia said. “But it is his. After all he has done for me, how could I rightly deny him this? He is his own gift to you, and this my gift to him.”
Orion bowed his helm solemnly. “Forgive me, Chromia. I spoke rashly. I am deeply honoured by such a personal gift as this. Come, my friend, and let me look at you.”
The red mech stood, and Chromia placed the end of the chain gently in his hands. She cupped his cheek, smiling softly, and stooped to drop a chaste, tender kiss on the crest of his helm. “I will miss you, my dear.”
“I'll miss ya too, m'love,” the red mech said, a slight catch in his vocaliser. “I jus' gotta.”
“I know. Shh, I know. Go on.”
Chromia's pet hesitated for just a moment, glancing at Orion and taking a half-step toward him before turning back and pushing up onto the tips of his pedes to reach Chromia's lips for a short, sweet kiss. “Don' forget me,” he whispered.
Chromia gave no answer except to shutter her optics and draw in a slow, shaky ventilation which rattled her vents, and her pet finally turned his back and approached Orion. He made to kneel again, chain offered forward on open palms, but Orion held out a hand to stop him. Up close, he could see the crisscross of old welding scars scattered across the mech's plating, and imperfect patches of colour where touch-ups had been done using paint that did not quite match.
A handsome mech, Orion thought, but not a beautiful one; his appearance was genuine, no alterations made for the purpose of impressing the Prime, and Orion found that he liked that. There was a story behind every imperfection on the mech's frame, he marvelled.
“May I?” Orion asked, reaching out a hand to touch a welding scar just above the mech's hip but stopping just before making contact.
“Do as ya please, my Prime,” the mech answered. “I'm yours.”
“You honour me,” Orion said, letting his fingers trace reverently up the length of the scar. Some day, he would learn the stories behind each of these; Primus forbid he should earn any more while in Orion's service. “What is your name?”
“Whatever ya wanna call me, my Prime, that's who I'll be.”
Orion shuttered his optics, surprised, then asked, “What were you called while you served Chromia?”
“Ironhide, my Prime.”
“And before that?”
“Ironhide still, my Prime.”
“Then Ironhide you shall remain, my friend. Far be it from me to change who you are.” Smiling, Orion stood and took the chain from Ironhide's hands. “I am finished here for the orn. Will you rest with me?”
“I'd love to, my Prime,” Ironhide said, looking up at him with optics as adoring as any he'd seen since becoming Prime.
“Prime,” Chromia called as they turned to leave. Orion looked to her, curious, and her posture was so rigid that he wondered how much it must break her spark that Ironhide had chosen to leave her. He sent a prayer down to Primus to bring her peace as she spoke, voice firm and strong: “He trusts you. Treat him well, and he will protect your home faithfully, but betray that trust and he will turn against you. Matrix or no, I will have your spark if you break his.”
“I understand,” Orion said, nodding slowly. “And Chromia? Please, if you desire to see him, do not hesitate to come here.”
“Thank you, my Prime,” Ironhide said later as they walked to Orion's recharge chamber together. “You were kind ta her.”
“I could not deny her generosity, nor her pain. I did what I could to ease her spark, and may Primus do the rest.”
“As it pleases Him, may He grant our prayer,” Ironhide said fervently, marking the sign of the globe between processor and spark with two fingers.
Orion unclipped the chain from Ironhide's collar as they entered his chamber and set it on the shelf above his berth, then settled down. “Will you lay with me? It would please me to have you close.”
“'Course I will, my Prime. All ya gotta do's ask.”
Orion smiled as Ironhide stretched out on the berth next to him. The warm, heavy weight of an arm curling protectively around his waist caused his engine to purr contentedly, and he nuzzled under Ironhide's chin before he could think better of it, the edge of his mask touching the other mech's collar.
“To you, my friend, I am only Or... Optimus.”
“Hmm. Go ta recharge, Optimus. I'll watch over ya.”
His spark warmed to the caring in Ironhide's voice, and finally the name of the Prime he had been given felt right. Held close by his pet, his guardian, his Ironhide, Optimus drifted into recharge.