#and now I’m back in the tumblr echo chamber and have managed to maintain my opinions even the ones that are controversial on radblr

[basementbots]

A Little Scrap, Chapter 2

Can also find this on AO3!

Notes: Didn’t want to put the whole text on my main but I also like to have all my fics on tumblr, too, so here’s the compromise.

✨ ✨🚑💦💦🚚✨ ✨ 

Ratchet ran several more tests, the nature and importance of which were lost on Optimus. He tried to be supportive, nodding along whenever Ratchet stopped to explain what he was doing, but for the most part his processor was a tumbling code of something something heavy metals something something wavelengths something something sparkling—

And then a word from Ratchet’s rambling explanations would cut through the loops and he would be reminded, full-scale, the new reality of their situation. Any summarization Ratchet offered of his findings could be further condensed into the same conclusion: Ratchet was carrying their sparkling.

“But your code is telling you you’re the sire.” It wasn’t necessary for Optimus to repeat it, not when Ratchet had said it himself this many times already, but he wanted to assure his anxious bonded that he’d been paying attention through all the ranting jargon.

“Sire programming is modifying parameters within my actum synthesizer to improve survival statistics for the newspark,” Ratchet said. “So, essentially, yes.”

Optimus could have defined each of the words in that sentence individually, but the whole was greater than the sum of its parts and arithmetic was already a touchy subject for the archivist-turned-Prime.

“Could that be detrimental toward construction?” he asked, because that was what he really wanted to know.

Ratchet half-shook his head, paused. His fingers hovered over the terminal keyboard.

“Only in that, mid-crisis, instinct will demand I protect the perceived carrier,” he said. “But so long as we maintain normal duties and don’t put me on the field, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

Optimus swore he felt the Matrix tremble as the long-forgotten Fourteenth, Hubris Prime, shook with astral mirth.

“Otherwise, sparkling and protoform development are handled by the autonomic systems and aren’t affected by personality matrices. According to the tests, the sparkling is drawing energy at exactly the rate we would expect at this stage of development and my gestation chamber is in its final preparatory stages.” An unbusy hand drifted down to his midsection, hovering over the plating without making contact. Optimus watched it, feeling a twinge of bizarre envy: not to be the carrier, but to assert himself as the little one’s sire, defend his title against—against Ratchet?

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have his own coding checked up some time.

“Anything that could have gone wrong would have already,” Ratchet went on, oblivious. “We’re looking at a fairly standard gestation, provided the carrier is kept in good health, of course.”

That much, Optimus’ processor could handle.

“You mean yourself?” he clarified.

“I…” Ratchet froze again. Optimus couldn’t see his face, but his posture was that of a mech who’d just been cornered into considering self-care for the first time in millennia. “Yes, I sup—of course.”

This brought them to the point in the conversation Optimus had been most anxious to address. Naturally, in the spaces between tests, explanations of tests, and dumbing down of explanations, he’d prepared a speech.

“Concerning the sparkling,” he said while Ratchet’s typing resumed, “know that whatever your choice, you will have my full support, as your partner and your Prime. The tolls of gestation are—"

“I’m keeping it.”

Optimus’ spark stirred and joyous heat bloomed deep within him.

He was the Prime, bearer of the Matrix, symbol of Cybertronian life. Beyond that, the bond he shared with Ratchet was the sole treasure of his past life he’d managed to secret through all these years of warfare and destruction, and to see it coalesce into a new being was a gift greater than he felt he deserved. Excitement wound up into his coil of trepidation, a spring pulling tighter from within his spark.

“You’re certain, Ratchet?” he asked. “Is there the possibility that this is coding making the decision on your behalf?”

Ratchet stopped his work again, but this time he turned to face Optimus, expression difficult to parse. Their bond, though, zipped and echoed with the charge of their shared nervousness, though if Optimus focused, he could almost hear the deep hum of something vast and warm underneath.

“It’s impossible to determine which lines of code a decision can be traced back to,” Ratchet said, spoken with a confidence that didn’t match the tenor of emotions traversing the link between them. “Code builds on itself, conflicting protocols run simultaneously, and priority trees are constantly rewriting themselves to account for changes in the environment. Being a sire changes the way I consider the situation, but so does being an Autobot and an emergency vehicle. Maybe if the program had failed to integrate, my choice would be different, but it’s not my responsibility to make that kind of judgement.” He placed a hand over his spark and averted his gaze. “I’m keeping it.”

Optimus was so moved he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the moment by mentioning the slip-up. He offered a hand to Ratchet who took it as if by instinct, meeting Optimus’ gaze once more with a flare more akin to flame than circuitry.

“Your courage is enviable, dear spark,” Optimus said. “It would be my honor to join you in guiding this new being to life.”

The look he received wasn’t quite the grateful exuberance he’d expected.

“Of course you’re going to,” Ratchet snipped (almost a snap, but without the full disappointment). “It’s going to be your job to explain to the others when I’m guzzling twice my share of energon and somehow half as pleasant to be around.”

There: a humorous flicker in his optics. Optimus had barely a moment to appreciate it before strong arms were wrapping around his middle and Ratchet’s lips were pressing against the seam in his windshield.

“I love you,” his bondmate murmured against the metal.

Optimus returned the hug with one arm while the other hand cupped Ratchet’s cheek, tilting his helm up so they were optic-to-optic again.

“I love you, as well.”

“Both of you.”

They froze, moments from a kiss that would have knocked their gyros out of alignment.

“Did we—”

“Say that at the same time? Yeah.” Ratchet huffed, the annoyed sound useless to cover the amused glint in his optics. “I’m going to look into it, but I can’t make any—mmf!”

Optimus didn’t want to hear more about coding, or spark maintenance, or scrap, any of it! Ratchet’s lips were right there, extremely kissable, and by now it would be nothing short of a failure on his part to miss the opportunity to capture them with his own. Now that they had some (limited) idea of what the future had in store, it was like a switch had been flipped in his processor and every algorithm kept spitting out the same solution: Ratchet. That beautiful frame that had shielded and cared for Optimus all this time, the processor of unbelievable sophistication and power, both geared toward the most incredible task of fostering their sparkling. The hand that had been cradling Ratchet’s jaw now dropped to his chassis, fingers delving for the warmth of a living spark. It was right there, protected, nurtured, the safest place Optimus could imagine for it, and the thought caused his engine to rev on the spot, shocking a burst of laughter and twin growl from Ratchet’s own frame.

Ratchet pushed the kiss deeper while his hands reached up, searching for leverage so he could draw their frames closer together. Optimus relocated the hand that had been between them to the back of Ratchet’s neck so they could stand chest-to-chest while their glossae danced together. Optimus drew in the taste of Ratchet and felt something inside him start to go soft, their bond threatening to take on a spongey texture before a crafty hand sent electric fire up his backstrut, goopy emotions shocked into something much more urgent. Their fans both clicked on. Optimus felt Ratchet smirk into their kiss, the new excitement building up as it bounced between them.

They ended up on the floor: not a conscious decision on either of their parts, but by the time Optimus realized his aft had landed on something other than the medical berth he was too caught up in the feeling of Ratchet nibbling along his jawline to care.

Optimus underneath, Ratchet splayed on top, hands exploring downward, sliding over Optimus’ windshield, dipping into the seams between armor plates. Optimus’ engine growled when one stroked the near-invisible parting of his modesty cover and he allowed it to release, spike pressurizing immediately into Ratchet’s waiting hand. Slow, luxurious interfacing had its place in their relationship.

Right now, they needed to fuck.

A few beads of pre-fluid dotted the tip of Optimus’ excited spike. Ratchet picked them up as he swirled his fingers over the head, wrapping his hand around so he could smear the shine down in two short pumps. Optimus shivered as he felt plating glide over the smooth, sensitive metal, and he unshuttered his optics (he’d closed them? oops) to watch Ratchet’s hand rub along his spike. It was nice, but not what either of them were really looking forward to, and a single glance between them brought Ratchet’s hand down to the base, then lower, shifting so his fingers traced the lips of Optimus’ valve.

Optimus, wanting to reciprocate, reached toward Ratchet’s own modesty cover, but his attempt was thwarted by Ratchet leaning down capture him with his clever mouth.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” was murmured between kisses. “I’m taking care of you right now.”

Optimus’ processor tried to flag something in the statement, but before he could devote thought to it, Ratchet’s hand started to explore deeper and he was distracted again, an expert finger slipping inside him, followed closely by another. His valve quaked at their touch and his hips bucked up to the sensation before being pressed down under Ratchet’s weight.

“Ratchet—please—”

“We’re getting there, Optimus, I promise.” The fingers pushed deeper, eliciting a whine from Optimus as they caressed the buried sensors—Primus he was sensitive, had it really been that long since they’d last done this?—and pulled back out, tracing their path along the inner edge of Optimus’ valve. They pushed in again, and from there Ratchet started up a rhythm, in and out, fingers spreading and hooking to catch every node along the way. His other hand explored Optimus’ neck, feeling along the tender cables.

It was good, very good, but Optimus knew what Ratchet was capable of and felt an impatient, undignified sound bleat out of his vocoder.

“That charged already?” Was that wonder in Ratchet’s voice? No, didn’t matter, because those delightful fingers were leaving Optimus’ valve and whatever happened in the next five seconds would determine whether Ratchet was his favorite person in the world or a Prime-appointed slagsucker. His own hands grasped at the seams of Ratchet’s pelvis, feeling into those spaces that exposed the delicate wires underneath.

As it turned out, his attention span couldn’t even last that long, because at three and a half seconds he felt himself yank Ratchet down in a clatter of plating and lust that communicated his desires far more effectively than he was capable of saying with words by that point.

“Sorry,” he said, hoping he could be heard over his own groaning fans.

“Me, too,” Ratchet said, and Optimus didn’t know whether it was apology or agreement before he heard Ratchet’s modesty cover transforming away.

The feeling of Ratchet’s spike finally sliding into him was blessed, Primus-ordained, a miracle of nature, proof that good could exist in the universe. When his hips moved this time, he managed to keep himself from bucking, rolling against the pressure as Ratchet pushed himself further inside. Optimus continued to play with Ratchet’s hips, but he could feel his movements growing clumsier as he dealt with both the motion and the sensations within him. He almost lost his hold completely and cried out when the base of Ratchet’s spike pressed flush against his valve lips, then felt himself clench as the luxurious, slow withdrawal sucked against every sensor along the way.

“O-Optimus…” Ratchet’s vocoder clicked out.

He picked up the pace, diving into Optimus with a new sense of fervor as he drove them toward climax. He could see it coming, but it still came as a shock to Optimus when he hurtled off the edge, digging into Ratchet’s frame as overload crashed into him. Ratchet’s thrusts did not relent, carrying Optimus through and then on as he chased down his own overload.

Optimus was content with this at first, the feeling of Ratchet’s spike never unpleasant, but time drew on and it became difficult to discern whether Ratchet’s movements were excited or frustrated. He removed his hands from Ratchet’s hips and leveraged himself up on his elbow joints, trying to catch his lover’s attention.

“Ratchet?”

“J-just give me a minute.” His vocoder kept popping with static that forced him to reset it. “I can f-feel it, I’m… I’m almost…”

His cooling fans were roaring and his movements growing jerky when the effort it was taking him to keep up the pace, and even then, Optimus could see his frame forcing him to slow down, optics unfocusing as his processor redirected attention to the needs of his spike.

Concerned, Optimus sat up further, freeing one arm to lay a calm but forceful hand on Ratchet’s pelvis, stilling him.

“Easy, old friend,” he murmured, the few words that had ever had any success drawing Ratchet’s attention when he’d become fixated on something, though a true Ratchet Scowl™ took the place of his prior frustration.

“I’m so close,” he grumbled.

“I know,” Optimus said, rubbing his shoulder; not erotic, just comforting. “Maybe we can try something else?”

“I just don’t understand,” he went on, perhaps oblivious to Optimus’ suggestion. “Physically, everything should be in—”

He stopped, hand slapping to his mouth as his optics flared.

“Ratchet?”

“The frame halts transfluid production to redirect resources to the sparkling,” he said through loose fingers. “I can’t use my spike.” The hand dropped, true horror dawning on the medic’s face. “I’m not going to be able to use my spike for quartexes.”

“I’m sorry,” Optimus said, and meant it, thought a part of his processor was considering specifying Ratchet’s definition of the word use. “Perhaps you will be able to find a workaround?” The look he received was not one that could be characterized as hopeful. “For now, would you like to finish another way?”

“Hm.” The far-away look in Ratchet’s optics had been reeled in but had settled into a glare that he directed at his own spike, as though he would be able to bully the misbehaving mechanism back into obedience.

“Ratchet.” Optimus lowered the pitch of his vocoder, turning it silky in a way that always managed to catch his bonded’s attention, and supplemented it with a finger under the chin; even then, there was a beat’s hesitation before Ratchet’s optics met his own. “Let’s get off the floor.”

Ratchet shivered; his plating rattled. Optimus felt a bloom of pride as he scooped up his lover and maneuvered them onto the relative dignity of the medical berth. The charge was still hot and high through his systems, the plating so warm Optimus was sure he would be able to hear the crackle of excess energy if he leaned close enough. That couldn’t be comfortable to be holding onto, and more than his own pleasure, Optimus wanted to make sure Ratchet could be relieved of the charge.

“No spike,” Ratchet said. “Anything else, do whatever it takes.”

“Whatever you like,” Optimus said, closing the distance between their lips.

Their movements were slower this time, more intentional as they eased Ratchet back into bliss. Glossae dipped and swiped over each other as they properly reacquainted themselves with one another’s taste, and Optimus swallowed the other’s hum of pleasure as his hand started to travel down Ratchet’s front. His fingers, designed to cradle, to shield, skipped past Ratchet’s spike and slipped those several inches lower, kneading at the hot, soft folds of Ratchet’s valve. Ratchet squirmed and shifted so he was sitting in Optimus’ lap, rolling his hips in time with Optimus’ movements.

He broke the kiss so he could mouth at the juncture of Optimus’ neck and collar faring.

He murmured something like, “Please,” though it was slightly unclear between the lapping and sucking.

“Whatever you like,” Optimus repeated, allowing himself to neither be distracted by nor ignore the affection. He pressed a kiss to the top of Ratchet’s helm and started to press inside the familiar warmth of his partner, leaving his thumb outside to continue swirling around his anterior node. A heady flare of need whipped from Ratchet’s field as he stiffened, then relaxed, leaning heavier on Optimus as the latter curled his fingers against a sensor patch.

“Mm, r-right there,” Ratchet said, the air pouring from his vents heating up. “Right—mm.”

Optimus could feel Ratchet starting to slide down a bit, lost in the twin sensations of pleasure and exhaustion. He wrapped his free arm around the mech’s back and readjusted him, keeping them steady with one arm while the other hand continued its ministrations. Ratchet’s hands scrabbled like he wanted to help, but in the end, he just managed to reach around Optimus’ back and cling to his shoulders, letting the larger partner keep them both steady. Optimus could feel Ratchet’s spike pressing against him, almost throbbing with the same rhythm as his movements. He changed from a pumping motion to a swirl, feeling Ratchet’s calipers ripple in response to the new stimulus.

“Good, good, good,” Ratchet was saying, punctuated by hot, open-mouthed kisses against Optimus’ neck cables. “I’m so close, I’m, I’m—ah!”

His body stiffened as Optimus felt the calipers squeeze around his fingers. He continued to move, trying to draw out Ratchet’s overload, only stopping when he felt Ratchet slump his whole weight against him. His hand slipped out of Ratchet’s valve and went to his waist to help support him.

They didn’t speak, just held each other as their bodies cycled down. Ratchet’s fans spun smoothly, the air they exvented cooling down to a sweet breeze that mingled with Optimus’ own.

“I—”

It didn’t matter who had been about to speak, or what they intended to say. At the same moment, both became aware of the incessant, anxious pinging coming from the central console in the command hub.

The team was (had been for some time) ready for extraction.

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

FANFICTION.NET

TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 11: SLISKE’S ENDGAME

QUEST SUMMARY:

The eclipse is nigh. The end of Sliske’s games draws near. All the gods gather for one final race for the Stone, taking them through a shadowy labyrinth of the devious Mahjarrat’s design. Not only does Jahaan have to survive the trials Sliske sets out for them, but he has to compete against every major deity in Gielinor. Then, and only then, will he have a shot at ending Sliske’s madness once and for all…

CHAPTER 3 - THE WRONG PATH

Jahaan and Icthlarin entered through the latest riddle door they solved and into a large square chamber. It was a seemingly innocuous room with no tiles, no masks or pillars, nothing.

Satisfied with the easy progression, Jahaan went to step forward, but Icthlarin pulled him back. “Wait,” suspicious, he sniffed the air, an involuntary growl escaping from his lips. Shaking his head, he said, “Bad. Place smells bad.”

Icthlarin backed away to the safety of the wall, shrinking up against it in fear.

Taking the hint, Jahaan stepped back, surveying the room a little closer this time. Again, there was nothing obvious to see; before, he and Icthlarin had come across a trap in the floor indicated by pressure pads, but it was bypassed easily enough. If this room was rigged, these traps were a lot more insidious, and therefore a lot more deadly. If Icthlarin hadn’t stopped in, who knows what Jahaan would have wandered into.

Peering over his shoulder, Jahaan regarded the whimpering Icthlarin with heavy eyes. Then, something caught his eye above the canine deity, just above the door frame. An inscription, slightly faded, yet the only noteworthy thing in the entire chamber. Curious, Jahaan stepped on his tip-toes to try and get a better look. Squinting, he just about managed to make out the words, but noticed they weren’t in the Common Tongue.

“There’s something up here written in Infernal,” Jahaan announced, reading aloud, “‘Si solverit mihi, non cesset; si me tangere, ego, ut sit snared; si perdas me, nihil refert. Quid sum ego?’. I think that translates to ‘If you break me, I do not stop working; if you touch me, I may be… caught?; if you lose me, nothing will matter. What am I?’”

“Snared,” Icthlarin corrected, twitching. “If you touch me... I may be snared.”

The canine deity’s brow was furrowed heavily with the strain of keeping lucid. “I… do not…”

“It’s okay,” Jahaan assured, “I’ve got this, don’t worry.”

Playing the riddle over and over in his head again, Jahaan tried to fumble for a solution. This was slightly trickier than the terrible-poetry-turned-riddles he had encountered thus far, and he knew that the longer he spent here, the further he was from the Stone.

“Any ideas, Icthlarin?” he asked, knowing it was in vain. Icthlarin’s mind wasn’t working well enough to solve riddles right now. The deity shook his head, whimpering.

Minutes passed, and countless ideas turned around in the World Guardian’s mind. Time? The soul? Secrets? Nothing fit the profile, and Jahaan found himself stuck in a rut, the same wrong answers repeating over and over in his mind. Now he was starting to panic, that he’d be trapped in this room for the rest of the maze. Icthlarin had tried the door, but it had locked behind them. His heartbeat thumped hard against his chest, beating in his throat. Jahaan placed a hand on his neck, feeling his heavy pulse.

That was when it came to him.

“I am the heart!” he exclaimed, gleefully. “A broken heart will not stop working, a touched heart can become snared, but if you lose your heart… then nothing matters anymore.”

Depressing, yes, but it fit the profile. Still, even by thinking he had the right solution, Jahaan didn’t know how to proceed. There was nowhere to enter the solution. Frustrated, Jahaan stood on his tip-toes and examined the riddle again, trying to see if he missed anything the first time around. But when he traced his fingers over the inscription, the room started to shake. Glowing tiles with letters on them emerged from the floor, covering the length and breadth of the room. A small column emerged from the ground at the other end with a button on top. But more worryingly were the holes that appeared in the walls with javelin tips pointing out.

Gulping, Jahaan seriously hoped he had the right answer now. The issue was, ‘heart’ in Infernal was ‘cor’ - there weren't enough letters for him to step on to cross the distance. Same went for the Common Tongue spelling of ‘heart’. From what Jahaan could tell, he had eleven tiles to cross. Fortunately, he quickly came to the realisation that ‘I am the heart’ translated to ‘ego sum, et cor’, which was eleven characters long.

Praying to- well, nobody in particular, since they all had their own problems right about now, but he prayed that he had the right answer.

Tentatively, he stepped on the first tile - ‘E’ - wincing as he awaited imminent death. When death did not arrive, he opened his eyes and exhaled the breath he’d been holding for far too long. Carefully, Jahaan hopped across the remainder of the letters, all fairly close to one another, all fairly easy to jump to… except the last one.

Jahaan made for the ‘R’, hoping he could just stretch his leg far enough to land on the correct tile. Unfortunately, he stumbled on his take-off, realising mid-air he was going to undershoot and land on the neighbouring tile instead of the ‘R’. As soon as his foot made contact with the wrong tile, Jahaan had enough sense to fall forward, off the tile-board, and make himself as flat to the ground as humanly possible. The sounds of javelins whizzed behind him, hearing the dull *thunk* of them embedding in the wall instead of his flesh.

Once Jahaan was absolutely certain no more javelins were going to fire, Jahaan heaved his way to his feet, trying to remember the correct way to breathe. His heart threatened to jump out of his throat, pulsing and pounding in his neck, making every gasp for air a challenge.

After composing himself, Jahaan pushed the button on the pedestal and the tiles vanished. Seeing it was safe, Jahaan ushered Icthlarin across the room and out the next door which, to their delight, led to the glowing orb.

Jahaan hurried to touch the glowing orb with Icthlarin fast in tow, panting with relief. Catching his breath, Jahaan tightly squeezed his eyes shut, determined to maintain composure as he knew what would have to happen next.

Sliske was nearby this time, Jahaan could feel it, but he fought past the temptation to peer into the Shadow Realm.

Predictably, Sliske’s voice weaved its way throughout the chamber. “Ladies and gentlemen, the World Guardian has taken a decisive lead and is now the first through the door. As promised, he can now remove the entourage of a participant, leaving them to walk these cold corridors all alone. So tell me, Janny, who’s it going to be?”

“Myself,” Jahaan declared, his confidence shaken as soon as he glanced at the twitching form of Icthlarin at his side. He was walking on all fours now.

“Erm, what? You don't even have an entourage!” Sliske countered, bemused.

“I-I have Icthlarin! Let him out of here!” he just about refrained from saying please. He didn’t want to be reduced to pleading, but the waver in his voice betrayed him, “Icthlarin is part of my entourage. He's in pain. Let him leave.”

“That is not how this works.”

“This is your game and your rules, Sliske,” Jahaan clenched his fists, his teeth gritted. “Are you going to follow them, or is this all a big farce?”

There was a pause, followed by a long, exasperated sigh. “Fiiine. You get to let your doggy out for a walk. But Death’s part of that package deal too. If Iccy goes, he goes.”

“Fine, just let him out,” Jahaan hurriedly replied.

Icthlarin looked so fragile now, so hollow as he tilted his green eyes upwards to meet Jahaan’s gaze. “Th... Thank...  you… friend.”

Putting a hand on Icthlarin’s shoulder, he bent down to his level and assured, “You'll be okay. Don’t worry about anything.”

The canine deity just about managed a cracked smile before he was teleported away to, hopefully, recover with dignity.

“There,” Sliske huffed. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

I’m going to murder you, you piece of shit, Jahaan growled inwardly, storming off down the next corridor in search of further progress in the labyrinth.

Zamorak stomped through the maze, rounding another corner that only led to a dead end. It was the fifth dead end in a row. Grunting, he punched the wall, watching as pieces of stone crumbled away, before regenerating themselves back into perfect place in an instant. Hazeel, Moia and Lord Daquarius dutifully followed in tow, but they didn’t dare raise their voices, sensing easily the foul mood their deity was in.

“Sliske! I know you're watching! Get here now!” Zamorak shouted to the skies. “I can hear that fucking chuckle. Don't think I can't!”

Out of thin air, masks floated from above, each with a different emotion crudely carved into them. For every mask that fell, the echoed voice of Sliske followed.

“Feeling lonely, Zamorak?”

“Want to chinwag about old times?”

“Remember when you and I turned the Mahjarrat against Icthlarin?”

“Remember when you stabbed Zaros in the back?”

“Remember when you burned a hole in half the world?”

Zamorak caught one of the masks and threw it against the labyrinth wall, shattering it on impact. “I'm getting tired of your shit, Sliske. Get down here NOW!”

More masks fell. “Remember when you tore a chunk out of Lumbridge?”

“Remember when you almost died at the hands of the blue charlatan?”

“Remember when Zaros plucked the wings from you like a fly?”

“Remember when you were drawn to this game, even though you said you wouldn't play?”

“ENOUGH!” Zamorak cut in. “I should have known better than to get an adult conversation from you, you mad bastard. Oh, I can’t wait to get my hands around your throat, as soon as I've got the Stone back…”

To worsen his mood, when Zamorak and company rounded the next corner, they came to a sharp halt at who they saw at the end of the corridor. There, working on a locking mechanism, was Seren and her entourage.

Seeing Zamorak’s presence in her peripheral vision, Seren slowly raised her head and turned towards Zamorak.

The glare in the Mahjarrat deity’s eyes could cause nightmares.

Taking a tentative step backwards, Seren gulped. “Zamorak, I…”

“Kill the elves,” Zamorak ordered, crossing the distance between them. “I will deal with Seren.”

Edging backwards, Lady Trahaearn quivered, “What do we do, my lady?”

Drawing his thin sword, Lord Arianwyn answered in Seren’s place, “We stand and fight!”

“No, we leave,” Seren ordered. “I will not risk your lives.”

Zamorak challenged, “Then maybe before we kill them, how about we shed some light on your true nature?”

Seren's breath caught in her dry throat.

“Oh, what's wrong? Do you not wish to subject your favourites to the truth?” Zamorak chided, venom on his tongue. “Are they too precious to hear who you really are?”

Narrowing his eyes, Lord Arianwyn declared, “We have no wish to hear your lies, you snake.”

“Snake?!” Zamorak roared a sharp laugh, acid spewing from his forked tongue. “That’s so fucking rich. You really don’t have a fucking clue, do you? You don’t know the goddess you stand beside. For an age we adored her as you do now, and all we got from it was fear, terror, and paranoia. We were all abused and wandering Children of 'Mah', all thanks to the curse she inflicted upon my people.”

Lady Trahaearn scrunched up her brow. Looking up at Seren, she queried, “What is he talking about, my lady?”

“I’ll answer that for her,” Zamorak cut in, fire in his eyes. “I’ll tell you all what Seren, beloved of the elves, did to my people. Did she raise us up to crystal towers? Everlasting life? No. She hid behind the mask of Mah and made us kill each other. Did the elves have to sacrifice their own fucking breatheren to subdue an elder god? No, they were too precious for that. Let the Mahjarrat die out. Let them suffer for centuries. We built a society and culture centred around these murders of hers, bound to them, for if we do not kill one of our own, we wither and die. That is who you stand beside, elves.”

Seren felt the heavy weight of her own elves’ eyes upon her, regarding her with an emotion she’d never seen from them before. It was a crude blend of confusion, fear… and disgust. Once again, the shame she’d endured for generations reared its ugly head, constricting her breathing as it once did. She felt like she was back on Freneskae again.

Taking a deep breath to try and clear her mind, she forced herself to look into Zamorak’s vengeful eyes and plead, “Zamorak, time has changed me. I did what I thought I had to in order to ease Mah, to stop her violent nightmares tearing apart Freneskae. I see now how very wrong I was to bestow that upon your people.”

“Save your bullshit speeches,” Zamorak spat. “I have to claim the Stone of Jas. Then, we will finish this…”

Zamorak and his entourage turned and walked away, and Seren could only watch him go, her mouth agape, her hand slightly raised as if she wished to call him back... and the haunting image of betrayal and loathing in his dark eyes to overwhelm her mind.

“You do not know him as I do!” Azzanadra persisted, standing between Char and the next corner, angering the fire enchantress.

Azzanadra and Char had been at loggerheads since the start of the labyrinth, much to the exasperation of Zaros. The Empty Lord did not care to be a mediator in their conflict; it was bad enough having to endure these mortal humiliations without two of his closest allies biting each other’s ears off.

In response, Char squared up to him and hissed, “Look at everything he has done. You are a blind fool to continue trusting him. Just because he warmed your bed once, doesn’t mean won’t kill us all now.”

Maddened, Azzanadra swung around to Zaros. “Why do you listen to this… to this dancer, lord?”

“Better to be a dancer than the high priest of a church of dust!” Char countered, summoning fire to her fingertips.

“Enough!” Zaros cut in, stepping in front of the two incensed warriors. “You two have been at one another’s throats for too long. We must not lose sight of our goal. So, we settle this now, maturely, not like squabbling children.”

Humbled, Azzanadra bowed his head, “Apologies, my Lord.”

Char muttered a similar, yet less whole-hearted, apology of her own, before she declared, “We need to kill him, preferably before he has another chance to open his mouth.”

His tone now a lot more measured, Azzanadra replied, “If it matters at all to you, I do not want to lose one of my few remaining brothers if I can help it. I do not care to be the last of my kind.”

“So considerate of you, brother!” Sliske’s voice floated from out of nowhere.

“Sliske!” Azzanadra exclaimed, relieved. “We still have the opportunity to resolve this amicably before anyone else gets hurt.”

With a chuckle, Sliske replied, “Oh Azzy, you silly, silly moo. I think the time for amicable resolution has long since passed, wouldn’t you agree?”

“No, it hasn’t. You and I were blood brothers once, Sliske. Friends,” Azzanadra reminded, his eyes heavy as he looked upwards.

“Yes, friends. Tell me Azzy, if I had come to the Ritual Site... would you have had me sacrificed?”

Azzanadra’s hesitation was all Sliske needed to confirm his suspicion. “So you were more than willing to sacrifice your ‘friend’ then, weren’t you?” he growled, “I wouldn’t call the Marker an ‘amicable resolution’!”

“What was I to do, Sliske?” Azzanadra snapped in his frustration. “You had turned your back on everyone. You had betrayed our lord!”

“Your lord,” Sliske corrected. “I’ve been ousted from that little club, remember?”

Zaros stepped forward and placed a gloved hand on Azzanadra’s shoulder. “My child, we must continue onwards. Do not let Sliske infect your mind with his poison.”

“Yes, go on, Azzy,” Sliske sneered, “Run back to your lord. See if I care.”

“You,” Saradomin narrowed his eyes, his entourage instantly unsheathing their weapons. “I had hoped you had fallen prey to one of Sliske's little traps. It would be a fitting end.”

As misfortunate would have it, Saradomin had run into Zamorak and company at a crossroads in the maze. Naturally, pride would not let them turn back. If anything Saradomin was glad for the chance at confrontation.

Zamorak’s follower’s readied themselves for the inevitable conflict. The Mahjarrat deity replied with a cruel sneer, “Do you think yourself deserving of such fortune, old man? Of course we had to run into each other.”

“Ha. Perhaps, but last time we had this dance you were not so fortunate…” Saradomin recalled, a taunting upturn in his smile.

“Ah, bit it’s different now, eh Sara?” Zamorak’s eyes flashed. “You feel it, don’t you? Mortality’s a motherfucker, isn’t it? Aching bones and weary joints... the ravages of age and the inevitability of death… it’s eating at you, isn’t it?”

“Do not mistake experience for frailty, usurper,” Saradomin warned, haughtily. “Mortal or not I am still your better. I am Saradomin. I governed worlds before you even knew what another world was. You don't really think you're a match for me, do you?”

At this, Zamorak actually laughed. “Without your divinity you’re just a sad old bastard. Do you even know how to fight? I’ve snapped the necks of creatures that would give you nightmares. But hey, if you’re tired of living, step up. I’m sure your human shields won’t mind if you handle this one alone, right?”

Jahaan stopped dead when he heard the voices he was encroaching on. Pressing against the wall, he edged along it and peered slightly around the corner to confirm his suspicions.

“Shit!” he cursed, dashing back behind cover and praying he wasn’t spotted.

Of all the deities Jahaan had to run into, it was two of the ones that had a real bone to pick with him. What’s worse, they were blocking a crossroads in the maze, one that would hopefully progress him further through the labyrinth. After losing Icthlarin, Jahaan’s sense of direction had undergone a string of back luck, running him into dead ends and forcing him to circle back on himself one too many times. Finally he found a new door, an unexplored route… and it had led him here.

Bracing himself, Jahaan took a deep breath and strode around the corner to meet his fate, hoping they would be too wrapped up in each other to care about him passing through.

“Ah, look who dares to show his face,” Saradomin drawled, narrow eyes glaring down at the World Guardian. “Now I can kill both of my enemies in one go.”

Zamorak scrunched his brow, biting back a smirk. “What did he do to piss you off?”

“He murdered one of my knights in cold blood!” Saradomin declared, angrily.

Jahaan opened his mouth to defend himself, but then realised he couldn’t, instead saying, “None of us have time for this. Let’s just move on.”

“Where are you going, World Guardian?” Zamorak stepped out to block Jahaan’s path. “For all we know, you could be in on this. Not like you’ve got the best track record, what with that shit you pulled at Sliske’s lair. We wouldn’t be in this fucking mess if you hadn’t stabbed me in the back!”

Jahaan didn’t raise his chin to look up at the Mahjarrat deity towering over him, but his eyes trawled up to meet Zamorak’s. “I’m not working for Sliske. Move.”

“In fact,” Zamorak continued, brazenly, “For once in his miserable life, Saradomin might be onto something. Let’s settle this, right here, right now.”

“I have no objections,” Saradomin motioned for his entourage to draw their weapons. Zamorak’s did the same.

“Yeah great idea,” Jahaan rolled his eyes, taking a step back to get some breathing room. “Give Sliske exactly what he wants. Kill each other. And you know what he’ll do when you kill each other? He’ll laugh. He doesn't want you dead because of some great plan. He wants you to kill each other because it’s funny.”

The deities and their respective entourages were forced into silence, Saradomin reluctantly admitting, “The World Guardian is right.”

“Of course I’m right!” Jahaan found himself getting more heated now, the intensity of his tone increasing as he continued, “Who do you think has been at the centre of all of this shit? Not you. Neither of you have seen friends killed by Sliske. Neither of you have seen those closest to you warped into mindless wights. Neither of you have been beaten into a bloody mess after enduring his sick and twisted games. For all that you've been through, know that it's a drop in the ocean compared to what Sliske has done to me. So don’t you DARE think I’m siding with that psychopath. And for once - just for once - shut up and stop giving Sliske what he wants.”

There was a long, tense pause following this. Saradomin and Zamorak gave each other a look they’d never shared before, one that silently conveyed the begrudging acceptance that perhaps - just perhaps - their conflict wasn’t all that important right now.

Clearing his throat, Saradomin spoke first, “You have endured much, World Guardian. I respect that. Truly. But you would be wise to watch your tone.”

“He’s got a point tho, Sara,” Zamorak stated. “And Sliske’s a little higher up my shit list than you are. So let’s continue this another time, eh?”

“Indeed,” Saradomin agreed, readying his entourage to move on. “My followers and I have a Stone to claim. We can return to our conflict once all this is over.”

Zamorak grinned. “Count on it.”

With that, Zamorak and his followers continued on to a path to the east, while Saradomin took his entourage down a westernly route. In the centre of the crossroads, Jahaan was left alone, his body crumbling with the relief of a conflict avoided. Catching his breath, Jahaan straightened out his armour and marched on northwards.

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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