Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The fire crackled merrily, slowly devouring the embers that fed it in the hearth at the center of the hut. Around it, Ratchet moved from shelf to shelf to retrieve dried plants, letting his hands be guided only by the memory of having carefully catalogued everything in its place. In this way, he worked exactly as any self-respecting healer should: quickly, cleanly, and efficiently.
A mixture of fresh, pungent herbal scents hung in the air, along with something sweeter from the oils he kept nearby.
The healer’s hands were remarkably agile despite being calloused and covered in old, long-healed cuts; scars he had acquired over time while learning his trade.

Ratchet wasn’t sure how long he had been working on the concoction, but it hardly mattered. If there was an emergency, someone would surely come running to fetch him, as they usually did.
The thought had barely crossed the healer’s mind when the door of his hut flew open, causing the flames in the hearth to flicker.
“Ratchet.”
A familiar voice called to him. He sighed and turned around.
Sunstreaker stood in the doorway with the unmistakable expression of someone in trouble, and Ratchet crossed his arms, already knowing he was right.

“What did you and Sideswipe do this time?”
Sunstreaker opened his mouth as if to deny the accusation, but quickly closed it again, clearly trying to find a better way to phrase his answer. His blond hair was slightly disheveled, and his breathing came fast and ragged, as if he had been running to reach him. At last, the young man’s blue eyes met the healer’s green ones.

“It wasn’t really our fault… not entirely. We told him not to come, but he wouldn’t listen.”
The young warrior spoke as Ratchet stepped toward him. It wasn’t the first time he and Sideswipe had shown up at his door asking for help: once for medical attention after exploring places they shouldn’t have, another time because one of them had the brilliant idea of blindfolding himself before shooting an arrow. In any case, no matter how much Ratchet grumbled or scolded them, he always patched them up without telling a soul about their antics.
They trusted him, and that had put Ratchet in the very uncomfortable position of becoming their point of reference.

“Calm down, boy. Tell me what happened.”

Sunstreaker paused, finally catching his breath.
“It’s Bumblebee… he saw us heading into the woods to hunt and insisted on coming with us.”

At those words, Ratchet’s eyes widened.
“How on earth did you decide to bring him along? He’s barely more than a child.”
Without waiting for the rest of the story, Ratchet grabbed his cloak and stepped out of the hut with him.

“It definitely wasn’t our idea! We told him it was a terrible one, but he-”

“I can’t believe you couldn’t say no to a kid.” Ratchet muttered as he walked briskly, Sunstreaker at his side.

“In our defense, he is very stubborn.” The other muttered, as if afraid of being scolded further. “And he’s not hurt anyway. I think.”
Ratchet stopped dead in his tracks as the rays of the setting sun struck his long red hair, the small braids tied with woolen thread swaying slightly as he moved.

“You think?” the healer repeated.

“Well… he was with us in the woods and then… he disappeared.”
Sunstreaker was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, but in that moment he looked like a child again as he avoided Ratchet’s angry gaze; just like when Ratchet had scolded him years ago for sneaking into his private honey supply.

“You-”
But the insult died on Ratchet’s lips as he set off again, heading toward the woods near the village.
“Pray to the gods we find him quickly, and that Optimus doesn’t hear about this.” The healer muttered as his cloak swirled behind him, each step driven by the mix of fury and apprehension that had taken hold of him. Bumblebee was young and inexperienced, alone among the wild creatures that roamed those woods, and to make matters worse, darkness would soon fall, as it always did on those short autumn days.

Just before they passed through the wooden fences that protected the village, a whistle made them both turn.
“Where are you going?”
Sitting against the trunk of a large tree was Jazz, his legs crossed as his fingers plucked the strings of the harp resting against his shoulder. His dark skin made the white gauze covering his eyes stand out even more, and yet, despite his blindness, his head was turned directly toward them.

“The woods.” Sunstreaker replied promptly.

“It’s none of your business.” Ratchet cut him off, continuing to walk.

Behind him, a faint melody began to rise, sweet and nostalgic, carried by Jazz’s expert hands.
“As you wish.” The minstrel replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But be careful. Some whisper that the real hunter walks among the trees.”

Ratchet didn’t turn around, letting Jazz’s words hang in the air like his music. He definitely didn’t have time to ponder what they meant, and besides, he didn’t really care. Everyone in the village knew he was the least religious person of them all. Prophecies, signs, visions in the smoke; none of it made sense to him. Not even the various blessings of the gods.
Not that he didn’t believe in their deities, oh no; he simply thought they were far too busy to cast an eye or lend an ear to human affairs.

“Do you think Bee is in danger?” Sunstreaker muttered as the two finally reached the woods.

“I think we need to hurry up and find him, and that you shouldn’t believe every vaguely prophetic word you hear.”
The boy didn’t add anything else, simply nodding. The guilt was clearly written across his face.

“I’ll head over there and call Sideswipe. Maybe he found him.”

“I’ll go this way. If no one has found him by dark, then go get Optimus.”
Sunstreaker nodded, and the two split up.

Ratchet walked deeper into the woods, which he knew like the back of his hand. He certainly wasn’t a hunter, yet he often came here to gather herbs and other ingredients he needed, or simply to stretch his legs away from the bustle of the village.
He wasn’t afraid of what lurked among the trees, as if his status as a healer somehow protected him from danger. But Bumblebee was just a boy. Would he hold his bow steady in the face of danger? Would he run like the wind, or stand frozen in fear? Would he wander deeper into the forest in the vain hope of finding the way out, only to get lost?

Ratchet sighed loudly as the edge of his cloak hissed against the leaf-strewn path. He stopped for a moment, straining his eyes for any sign: a piece of cloth caught in the bushes, tracks in the soft earth. But he saw nothing, so he continued walking.

It wasn’t long before the healer began to feel something strange. At first, he couldn’t quite place it; just a vague unease twisting in his stomach.
Then, slowly, he understood.
The forest had suddenly fallen silent.
The birds had stopped singing. The rushing river seemed to have vanished. The branches no longer stirred in the autumn breeze that had caressed them moments before. Even the leaves beneath his feet had grown quiet, their cheerful crunch fading into nothing.

Ratchet’s heart began to pound.
This wasn’t a good sign at all.
He quickened his pace. He had to find Bumblebee as quickly as possible. And yet, as he walked, he couldn’t shake the unpleasant feeling of being watched. But every time he turned around, he found nothing; only trees, and that unnatural silence.

The healer walked deeper into the forest, and his feeling that something was wrong grew even more intense when, above the trunk of a tree, he saw something terribly familiar. He approached it, quickly realizing that it was a spatter of still-fresh blood, judging by the bright red stain.

By now Ratchet was running, leaping over fallen logs and dodging tangled roots as he desperately searched for Bumblebee, following the trail of blood that seemed to lead him down that grim path. His mind was blank, filled only with urgency; with the need to hurry, with the desperate hope of finding the boy alive.

Then he burst into a clearing and saw him.
The boy was kneeling on the ground, his faded yellow cloak almost entirely wrapped around him. Bumblebee turned, his large blue eyes locking onto Ratchet, filled with terror that seemed to ease, if only for a moment, at the sight of the healer.
“Ratchet!”
He called out in a trembling voice.

Ratchet hurried toward him.
“Kid! Are you all right?” Ratchet asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
But he soon realized that the blood that had led him there did not belong to Bumblebee.
It belonged to the enormous white deer lying in front of him.

“I… I didn’t mean to hit it.”
The boy shifted aside to make room for him, his bow lying forgotten in the grass.
“I saw something moving through the trees and thought it was a normal deer. Only after I released the arrow did I realize it was white.”
Ratchet immediately understood the reason for the tremor in his voice. A white deer was no ordinary animal; in the old stories it was a sign, a manifestation of the gods themselves. Practically the only creature that should never be hunted.

Ignoring Bumblebee’s panicked whispers, the healer knelt beside the animal and laid a hand on its white coat. It quivered beneath his touch.
Still alive.
The arrow was buried deep in its shoulder, and suddenly the trail of blood that had guided him there made sense.
Slowly, the deer opened one large black eye. A low, guttural sound rumbled from its throat.
“Gods… what have I done…” Bee whispered, covering his mouth with a pale hand.

“Move away.” Ratchet’s voice was calm and firm. One hand reached for the arrow while the other rummaged through the belt at his waist, searching among the small pouches of herbs and tools he carried.
Bumblebee didn’t argue. He shifted back as Ratchet leaned closer to examine the wound.
The white fur was soaked with blood, staining it a deep crimson around the shaft of the arrow protruding from the flesh. Ratchet quickly gathered what he needed: strips of linen, antiseptic herbs, and the small canteen of water he always carried.

“Here.” Ratchet said, pressing the small mortar into Bumblebee’s hands. “Crush the sage and yarrow. Quickly.”
The boy obeyed without a word.

The deer watched him as Ratchet’s hands slowly approached the arrow embedded in its shoulder. For a moment, feeling the animal’s warm breath against his face, Ratchet had the strange impression that the creature understood exactly what he intended to do.

He inhaled slowly.
Then, with a sharp motion, he snapped the shaft of the arrow. The deer shuddered weakly beneath him. Before it could struggle, Ratchet was already pulling the remaining piece free, slow and careful so the barbed tip wouldn’t tear the flesh further.
Blood spilled over his hands.
The deer let out a deep groan; a raw, guttural sound that rolled through the clearing and seemed to echo in the unnatural silence of the forest.

Ratchet poured water directly onto the wound to clean it. As he did, he began to notice a few details.
The animal’s antlers were larger than normal; enormous and majestic, a branching crown worthy of the king of the forest. The stag itself was massive, and its white coat almost seemed to glow with a light of its own. The creature looked as though it had stepped straight out of a legend.
Yet Ratchet was not afraid.
True, his heart was pounding, but more from the urgency of correcting Bumblebee’s mistake than from any sense of reverence.

“Give me the mortar.”
The boy obeyed at once. Ratchet took it and applied the crushed herbs to the wound, securing them in place with a strip of linen.
For a normal patient he would have recommended rest, prepared tonics, and watched carefully for signs of fever.
But this was clearly not a normal patient.

For a moment, Ratchet could do nothing but stare at his work, uncertain of what would happen next.
Then, as if it had never been pierced by an arrow, the animal rose to its feet.
Not slowly, not on trembling legs weakened by blood loss. The stag rose in all its regal majesty, towering above Ratchet, who was still sitting on the grass with blood-stained hands resting in his lap.

The animal’s dark eyes flicked briefly to the bow lying nearby, then to Bumblebee, who stood frozen, staring at the creature in stunned silence.
Ratchet quickly pushed himself to his feet and stepped in front of the boy, spreading his arms as if to shield him.
He didn’t know how long he remained like that. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his tunic, his body rigid, planted firmly between the stag and the terrified kid behind him. Even Bumblebee seemed incapable of moving.

The animal could have charged him easily, impaling him on that magnificent crown of antlers.
Instead, it simply watched them. Its black nose twitched in their direction, as if testing the scent of the air; of fear, of blood, of something else entirely.
Then, at last, the stag turned.
With a single powerful leap it vanished beyond the edge of the clearing, swallowed by the trees.

As if realizing he had been holding his breath until that moment, Ratchet drew in a deep breath. Around them, the forest seemed to come back to life: birds called to one another in the distance with soft, melancholic cries, leaves fluttered in the wind, and everything slowly returned to its natural rhythm.

Ratchet took a few more moments to make sure that Bumblebee was frightened, yes, but not hurt. Once he was certain of that, he picked up the boy’s bow, and together they started back toward the village.

“Ratchet.”
The boy’s voice made him turn just as the trees began to thin, allowing the light of the setting sun to brush their faces. “Do you think the gods will punish me?”

The healer looked at him for a long moment. He wanted to tell him no, to tell him not to believe every legend and tale Jazz had ever told him. And yet, what he had witnessed in the clearing had left even someone as skeptical as Ratchet feeling uneasy.
“I think the gods understand mistakes.” He finally said. “Especially the protector of the forest and the hunt.”
Bumblebee lowered his gaze again, his large blue eyes still clouded with a worry no boy should have to carry.

“Hey.” Ratchet placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him and gently turning him back toward him.
“You should go speak with the druid as soon as we get back to the village. I’m sure he’ll know some ritual to help you make amends.”

“Do you think it will work?”

Ratchet smiled through his red beard and ruffled the boy’s golden hair.
“I think the gods will appreciate it. The protector of the forest seems like a decent sort.”
Bumblebee’s face brightened immediately. As soon as they reached the village, the boy dashed off toward the druid’s hut as fast as his legs could carry him.

Ratchet lingered behind, watching from a distance as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe -apparently just back from the woods themselves- caught Bumblebee before he could reach the door, wrapping him in a rough embrace.
Despite the boy’s laughter and protests, something inside Ratchet kept him from sharing in the relief of the moment.
The deer’s black eyes. Its great antlers. The effortless way it had risen to its feet despite the deep wound.
The memory of it all lingered in his mind. Had that truly been an ordinary deer they had encountered?

***

The leaves crunched beneath the hooves of the great white stag.
As he moved deeper into the forest, it seemed as though the trees themselves bent their branches aside, careful not to hinder the path of his magnificent antlers. The gauze and herbs the healer had applied slipped from his shoulder, revealing blood-stained white fur; but the wound had already healed within moments, making the dressing unnecessary.

The animal continued walking, his head held high and proud, his white coat almost seeming to glow in the deepening shadows of the forest as the first stars appeared in the indigo sky.
Then he stopped.
His ears twitched as he sensed a familiar presence. He didn’t even need to see it to know who was there.

“Well, that’s certainly not something you see every day.”
Leaning lazily against the trunk of a tree stood Rodimus, the god of fire, smiling at the stag. His arms were crossed over his chest, covered by a beautiful red tunic trimmed in gold. His auburn hair, shaved at the sides, was as tousled as ever, and beneath his bright brown eyes his face was split by an amused grin.
Even from that distance, his body radiated heat.

The stag watched him, tilting its head slightly to one side.
“A god who first gets shot by an arrow from a little boy,” Rodimus continued, still leaning comfortably against the tree. “And then gets patched up by a human.”

The stag’s black eyes narrowed, revealing something far older than his outward appearance. He turned fully toward the god, who watched him with the air of someone who had just witnessed the most entertaining scene imaginable, and took a step toward him.
Then another.

Slowly, his body began to change.
The fur vanished, giving way to warm amber skin. His hind legs became human legs, covered by dark linen trousers and a pair of leather boots. As the creature rose upright, his forelimbs transformed into strong arms adorned with bronze bracelets, and his muzzle reshaped into the face of a young god with golden eyes, a sharp nose, and high cheekbones.
His long hair fell in a braid down his back, threaded with strands of gold. Though his torso remained bare, a long dark cloak wrapped itself gently around his broad shoulders, fastened by a golden clasp.
Beneath eyes that seemed to illuminate the entire forest ran two streaks of red paint, and from his pointed ears hung a series of rings that swayed lazily with the movement of the deity’s head, still crowned with the same great antlers as his stag form.

“So, Drift; how do you feel?” Rodimus asked with a teasing grin. “Humiliated?”
He had seen his friend transform into woodland creatures so many times that the metamorphosis no longer impressed him.

Drift pursed his lips as he stopped in front of him.
“Humiliated is not the right word.” He said, thoughtful for a moment. “I’m… impressed. Confused, perhaps, even if this isn’t the first time a human has shot an arrow in my direction.”

Rodimus burst out laughing.
“Well, maybe you should stop turning into animals that people hunt.”

Drift struck him lightly on the shoulder, which only made him laugh harder.
“You know it’s the only way I can observe them up close. And besides, they’re not a threat.”
The two moved away from the tree together, walking side by side through the forest as night slowly settled over it. But darkness was no obstacle; Rodimus’s presence alone was enough to light their path.
“It’s just… I had never seen one of them take the trouble to heal a wound inflicted by another human.”

“I don’t know what was stranger,” Rodimus replied, “that; or the fact that you let him.”
For a moment silence enveloped them as their steps carried them along the course of a river, its waters glimmering faintly beneath the first timid stars.
Drift’s mind replayed the scene again and again: the healer’s focused green eyes, his hands slick with blood as they worked quickly to close the wound.

“You shouldn’t let a human puzzle you so much.” Rodimus continued, as if he had glimpsed the storm of thoughts raging in his friend’s mind. “He probably did it to avoid angering us. Humans rarely act out of pure altruism; we both know that.”
Drift nodded slowly at the words as he stepped into the river, the water lapping against his thighs while Rodimus hopped across the stones to keep from getting wet.

He knew his friend might be right. Humans were often selfish, fearful creatures.
And yet…
The way the man had not hesitated to heal him.
The way he had stepped between him and the boy, despite his fear.
Those images refused to leave his mind.
The light in those eyes.
The freckled nose.
The long red hair falling like a waterfall of fire.
A heavy sigh left the god’s lips as he reached the opposite bank, his clothes drying almost instantly.

“So,” Rodimus asked, landing beside him with an easy leap, curiosity flickering in his brown eyes. “What do you plan to do? Even if that healer treated the wound, the boy should still be punished. Builds character.”

Drift considered the question for a moment before nodding slowly.
“I think,” he said at last, “that I should pay a visit to the village.”

*

Drift knew the simplest thing he could do would be to appear in the boy’s dreams. Perhaps in the form of a deer; frighten him a little, make him understand that the god of the hunt had decided to pardon him this time, recognizing his mistake.
Yet he chose to visit the village in person.

Thus, unseen by human eyes, he slipped silently past the wooden fences surrounding the settlement. His cloak whispered against the earth of the narrow paths, though to any mortal it would have seemed nothing more than the night breeze brushing through the grass.

He still didn’t know exactly what he intended to do, or why it felt so important to come there himself.
Perhaps Rodimus’s words had driven him here. Or perhaps…
He stopped.
The humid night air hung thick around him as his golden eyes scanned the huts, some still glowing faintly with firelight through their wooden walls.
No. He wasn’t here to see the healer again, he told himself as he resumed walking.

And yet, the moment the thought formed, memories rose unbidden: hands pressing herbs against the wound, that focused expression, the soft clinking of a belt heavy with tools and medicinal plants.
Drift closed his eyes briefly.
The cool night air seemed to vanish, replaced by the scent of his own blood mingling with the healer’s ointment.

“Well, it’s not every day you see a god walking among mortals.”
The words made Drift turn sharply. Who in the world could see him?
Before him, seated at the base of a tree with a harp resting against his shoulder, was a human. Blind, judging by the cloth wrapped around his eyes.

“That was a poor choice of words.” The man continued with a quiet chuckle.
Drift glanced around, wondering if the man might be addressing someone else; but the clearing was empty.
“Well, I haven’t truly seen you. How could I?” The man added lightly. “It’s more of a presence. One that’s rather difficult to ignore, oh great Drift.”
The deity opened his mouth, then closed it again, slowly approaching as the man’s fingers began to pluck gentle notes from the harp.

“Interesting.” Drift said simply, leaning slightly closer to him. The man’s amused expression never seemed to fade. “It has been many years since I last encountered a seer. A real one, at least.”
Drift stood there for a moment, listening to the quiet melody and watching the movement of the man’s hands.
“What is your name?”

“Jazz, my lord.”
The man showed no fear; alone in the dark, in the presence of a god. His blindness might have made him seem vulnerable, yet he appeared perfectly at ease. Drift understood why.
The energy surrounding him was unmistakable.
A seer.
Someone capable of sensing the subtle currents of the world that escaped the rest of mankind. It mattered little that he could not see the mortal plane; the divine was clearer to him. A mortal bridge between the two realms, able to speak to both men and gods.

“Jazz.” Drift repeated softly. “Why are you not in your hut like the others? Night has already fallen.”

“Day or night makes little difference to me, my lord. Only the warmth of the sun truly announces its presence.” Jazz tilted his face slightly toward the sound of Drift’s voice. “And besides… I felt you arrive. It’s comforting, you know.”

“You do not know the reason for my visit.” Drift replied. “I may be here to punish you all.”

“Oh no,” Jazz said with a small smile. “The lord of the forest and the hunt has left his sacred woods and come all the way to our humble village, alone and invisible to mortal eyes.”
His smile widened just slightly.
“You came here not to punish… but out of curiosity.”
Drift did not answer.
 He simply took a slow step back.

“I just wonder,” Jazz’s voice called after him, making Drift pause, “how far curiosity will lead you across the line between mortal and immortal.”

A faint smile curved the god’s lips.
“You truly are a seer.” Drift replied. “And quite fond of riddles.”
Then he continued walking, Jazz’s laughter following him through the quiet night, all too aware of the weight those enigmatic words carried.
He knew that such a sentence could mean everything and nothing at the same time. Not even a god could speak with certainty about a prophecy; and besides, it was far too early to give those words such importance.

Slowly he walked through the deserted village, his fingers brushing the wooden doors as he searched for the house of the boy who had shot him with the arrow.
But when he finally found it, he did not enter.
Something stopped him.
A scent.
Fresh and sweet at the same time; the unmistakable fragrance of the herbs that had been pressed against his wound earlier that day.
Drift turned slightly. Only a few steps away stood the healer’s hut.

As if he had completely forgotten why he had come there, Drift moved away from the boy’s hut and headed toward the healer’s, like a predator drawn by the scent of blood.
He examined the walls but found no opening through which to peer inside. The only sign that someone was still awake was the faint glow of firelight spilling from beneath the wooden door.

Drift hesitated for a moment.
Even he was not entirely sure why he wished to see the healer again. Perhaps to confirm that his hands were exactly as he remembered them. Perhaps to look into those green eyes and discover whether the man had acted out of kindness, or simply out of fear of divine retribution.

In any case, Drift gently pushed the door open and slipped inside the hut like a breath of wind.
The door closed softly behind him.
The man, who had been standing at a table preparing his medicines, turned sharply at the movement.

Drift held his breath as those green eyes -lit by the flickering fire- passed over him without seeing him.
The healer’s expression, tense for a moment, gradually relaxed. And Drift could not help but notice how… beautiful he was.

His pale skin was dusted with freckles, especially across the bridge of his nose, which looked as though it had been broken more than once. His long red hair was woven into several small braids, some bound with woolen threads and others with metal rings. They fell over his shoulders and down his back, his body hidden by a loose white linen tunic.
The absence of boots and belt suggested that the healer was preparing to retire for the night.
And yet he was still working. Perhaps he simply could not sleep.

As the healer turned back to his work with a quiet sigh, Drift stepped a little closer, studying him more carefully.
There, along the line of his jaw, the beard had begun to turn white.
A mark of time.
In any other man, the god might have seen it as a reminder of human frailty. But here -though he could not explain why- he found it almost fascinating.

Drift’s hand moved instinctively, the fabric of his cloak whispering softly against his shoulder.
Like a river flowing inevitably toward the sea, his hand rose toward the man’s jaw, as though he could not stop himself.
Then-
There was a knock at the door.
Drift withdrew his hand as if burned, suddenly coming back to himself.
The healer sighed loudly and moved toward the door, completely unaware of the deity standing only a few steps behind him inside his own hut.

Drift glanced down at his hand, as if trying to understand what had driven him to such a reckless gesture; this strange curiosity toward a mere human.
“Optimus, what are you doing here so late?”
Drift shifted slightly to get a better look at the newcomer.

The man standing in the doorway was taller than the healer. Judging by the white streaks in his thick black beard and the dark roots of his long hair -tied back in a half-ponytail- he appeared to be of a similar age, perhaps slightly older.
His blue eyes were deep, and his expression kind.

Drift noticed something else as well.
Engraved upon the man’s chest -visible only to divine sight- was the sigil of Wing.
The blessing the father of the gods bestowed upon those he judged worthy of leading their people.
So, this must be the leader of the village.

“I’ve heard about your… little adventure.”
There was no reproach in his tone, only the warmth of an old friendship. What role must the healer hold within the village to enjoy such affection from its leader?

“So you found out, huh.”
The healer pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, sighing heavily.

“It’s my duty to know such things,” Optimus replied calmly, though a shadow had fallen across his face. “Ratchet.”
Ratchet.
The name sounded unexpectedly sweet to the god’s pointed ears.
“I’m glad Bumblebee is safe,” Optimus continued after a moment. “May you all remain so. But what happened today…”

“I know,” Ratchet interrupted him. “Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were reckless. I think-”

“I’m not here to talk about their antics. I’m here to talk about the white deer.”
Both men fell silent as a heavy quiet settled over the hut.
Were they… about to speak of him?
Drift knew he should not have been listening. Human affairs were none of his concern, and Wing would surely have been disappointed if he used his divine presence to overhear mortals speaking about him.
He could have transformed into a mouse and slipped out through the still-open door.
But he didn’t.

“Winter is approaching.” Optimus continued gravely. “We cannot afford to have angered the god of the hunt.”

“The deer stood up and walked away.” Ratchet replied thoughtfully, and the events of the evening returned vividly to Drift’s mind as well. “I cleaned and treated the wound, but the way he regained his strength so quickly makes me think it certainly wasn’t my skills that saved him.”
No, Drift thought, but they certainly left more of a mark than that arrow fired by inexperienced hands.

“We’ll apologize tomorrow. Go speak with the druid when you have the chance and ask him which rituals would be most appropriate.”
Ratchet’s face darkened slightly at those words.
Drift watched him with curiosity. Were they not on good terms with their druid?

“Why me?” The healer asked, crossing his arms. He must have been a respected man indeed to speak so plainly to the village chief. “I don’t have your authority.”

“No,” Optimus replied calmly, his expression softening into a small smile again. “But Pharma will be in a better mood speaking with you than with me.”
The healer considered this for a moment, biting his lip in a way that made Drift unconsciously hold his breath.

“All right. I’ll talk to him.” Ratchet finally agreed with a sigh. “But in exchange, you need to give Bumblebee a bit more experience. It’s better for him to hunt with you or Elita than sneak around with those two troublemakers.”

Optimus’s laughter filled the hut, warm and gentle.
“That seems fair to me. The boy is old enough to use a bow now. I’ll have Elita show him what to aim for.” Then he gave Ratchet a final nod. “Thank you, old friend.”

“Yeah. You’re welcome.” Ratchet replied with a tired sigh.
The village chief then departed, and Ratchet closed the door behind him.

Drift knew he had stayed longer than he should have.
He looked once more at the healer’s weary face as the man returned to his table, then forced himself to leave.

As he walked back toward the forest, wrapped in the deep silence of the night, Drift realized he no longer cared about punishing the boy who had shot him with that arrow.
He no longer cared about offerings or apologies either.
That night he had learned the healer’s name.
And it was the only thing that filled his thoughts.

Chapter Text

That night, Ratchet had a strange dream in which he found himself standing in the same clearing as the day before. Before him stood the great deer, its beautiful white fur flecked with red, the wooden shaft of the arrow still embedded in its flesh.
Yet the deer did not appear to be in pain.
It walked calmly through the clearing, watching the healer with its large black eyes, its imposing antlers crowning its head as though it were the king of the forest.

In the dream, Ratchet was not afraid.
The deer was not threatening. Instead, it regarded him with a kind of intelligent curiosity, as though the gaze before him belonged not to a beast, but to something far more aware.
The animal seemed to glow with a light of its own, silhouetted against the warm autumn colors of the forest. And for a moment, Ratchet felt perfectly at peace with the world around him; as though he had found his place within it.

The healer took a slow breath and stepped toward the deer.
The animal did not move, only tilting its head slightly to the side without taking its eyes off him.
It was not afraid of him.
Why should it be? This was its domain.

But when Ratchet reached out to touch it, he suddenly realized with horror that the animal was dripping with blood.
The wound opened again. Blood began to pour from the deer’s side; thick, bright, and unstoppable.
Panic seized him.
The animal was losing too much blood.
Yet the deer seemed completely unfazed, standing motionless as the blood soaked its white coat and spilled onto the forest floor, forming a dark crimson pool at its feet.

Ratchet woke with a gasp.
He was lying on his pallet, wrapped in blankets, drenched in sweat, his heart hammering violently in his chest.
It was not the first time he had dreamed of blood and wounds. He was a healer, after all, and that shade of red was part of his daily life. Yet no dream had ever unsettled him like this.

He ran a hand over his face, his pulse still pounding like a war drum.
As if angering a deity weren’t enough, now there were mystical dreams to deal with as well, he thought, getting up reluctantly, not quite ready to start the day.

He had dreamed of animals from the forest before. Each creature carried its own meaning, or so the druid claimed, but he usually preferred to let those dreams fade away beneath the warm light of morning.
Yet the moment he bent over the basin to wash his face and closed his eyes, the image of the white deer returned to his mind more vividly than ever.

Of course, if he went running to the druid every time he had a strange dream, seeking interpretation, he would be no different from Red Alert. The poor man had practically been banned from the druid’s hut after spending night after night there, describing in painstaking detail every dream his mind conjured.

Ratchet’s thoughts continued to wander as he fastened the belt around his waist, heavy with pouches filled with herbs, tools, and small glass flasks that clinked softly against one another. They followed him as he pulled on his cloak and boots and stepped outside the hut.

The problem was that a dream this vivid -after what had happened the day before- was impossible to ignore.
And that wasn’t all.
Just before Optimus Prime had knocked on his door the previous night, Ratchet had felt something move nearby. A presence. Something alive.
Yet when he had turned, there had been no one there.
Perhaps the simplest explanation was the correct one: he was getting old and paranoid. What a shame. He would much rather grow wise than simply lose his mind.

He inhaled the crisp autumn air and walked through the muddy village paths, still damp with the night’s dew.
For a moment, he even considered telling Pharma about the dream.
The thought did not please him in the slightest.
The druid would undoubtedly take it as a personal victory if someone as indifferent to rituals and prayers as Ratchet came seeking an interpretation.

Ratchet wanted nothing more than to ignore the dream and continue with his day.
But the deer’s gaze had been too intense.
The white of its fur too vivid. The red of its blood far too real.

Pulling his cloak tighter around himself, Ratchet continued through the waking village.
He raised a hand in greeting to Ironhide, who was busy lighting the forge. He waved to Arcee as she hurried toward the well, and nodded to Prowl, who returned the gesture with his usual impassive expression, arms crossed over his chest.

Almost without realizing it, Ratchet found himself standing in front of the druid’s hut. A series of symbols carved into the wooden door distinguished it from the other houses in the village.
Even from outside, the smell of sage and smoke lingered in the air.

The healer sighed and knocked.
It did not take long before the door opened to reveal Pharma’s tall, slender figure. His long blond hair fell over his shoulders, a few strands braided with bone beads and feathers, while his high cheekbones made his gray eyes appear even sharper. Yet at the sight of Ratchet, the druid’s gaze softened.

“Ratchet. My friend, it’s good to see you here so early.”
Ratchet merely nodded, searching for the right words to explain what had happened the day before, but Pharma spoke again.
“Have you eaten yet? I was just about to.”
Well, Ratchet thought, if he was going to tell him the whole story, he might as well do it on a full stomach.
So, the healer soon found himself sitting on one of the wooden benches around the crackling fire, sharing bread and honey with the druid.

The hut resembled his own in some ways, with dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, but beyond the altar, the sacred symbols, and the many amulets, what truly set it apart from the other dwellings was the strange, mystical atmosphere that seemed to saturate the air.
Perhaps it was the animal antlers hanging along the walls, perhaps the collection of ritual staves and ceremonial daggers. Whatever the reason, in that place even someone like Ratchet had the impression he could almost feel the presence of the gods.

“So,” Pharma began, resting his long, tapered hands on his knees. “I suppose this isn’t a social visit.”
Ratchet sighed and finished the last bite of bread.
Before Pharma had completed his arduous training as a druid, the two of them had been inseparable. How many times had Prowl scolded them for wandering too deep into the woods in search of rare herbs? How many nights had they spent lying on the grass, staring at the stars and talking about everything and nothing?
And now, years later, Pharma had not lost his uncanny ability to sense when something was troubling him.

“I’m afraid not.” Ratchet admitted. “Yesterday I went into the woods to retrieve Bumblebee. The boy had wandered too far with his reckless companions.”
The memory made him roll his eyes, but his gaze soon drifted toward the hearth, lingering on the dancing flames.
“When I found him, he was kneeling on the ground. In front of him lay the body of a deer he had just shot with a single arrow.”
Ratchet’s green eyes shifted back to Pharma, who was listening with complete attention.
“That deer was white.”

The druid said nothing, but Ratchet clearly saw him hold his breath.
A bad sign.
“It was larger than any deer I’ve ever seen. I removed the arrow and treated the wound as best I could. Then it simply… stood up. As if it hadn’t been bleeding to death just moments before.”
He paused, frowning slightly.
“It looked at me; but not the way animals look at you.” The more he spoke, the more absurd the story sounded, yet the seriousness on Pharma’s face encouraged him to continue.
“It felt like… I don’t know. Like it was really seeing me.”

“And then?” Pharma prompted.

“And then it was gone.” Ratchet finished, feeling strangely relieved to have finally spoken the words aloud. “It ran into the trees and disappeared as if nothing had happened.”

A silence fell between them, thick with the smell of sage and something far more tense.
Ratchet did not miss the shadow that had crossed the druid’s face, and his stomach -recently comforted by bread and honey- tightened with a bad feeling.
“I told you this because I think the god of the hunt might not be too pleased that we harmed one of his sacred creatures.”

“It must have been quite an experience if even you have come to ask me how to earn the gods’ forgiveness.”
Ratchet crossed his arms, annoyed.
He knew that look. The faint smirk tugging at the corners of Pharma’s thin lips confirmed it. Beneath the druid’s robes, the amulets, and that composed demeanor, Pharma was surely dying to make some sarcastic remark; to tease him, to mock the idea that Ratchet might suddenly fear divine wrath.
But as befitted a wise and composed man, he kept the comment to himself.
As if Ratchet were not already embarrassed enough.

The druid merely cleared his throat before speaking again.
“The god of the hunt will not be pleased to learn that a human has harmed one of his most sacred creatures. Yet Drift is not a vengeful deity; only a just one.”

Ratchet watched him rise and walk toward the altar.
“What is taken from the forest must be returned.”
He saw Pharma rummaging across the large stone table, searching for something.
“Earth to earth,” he said at last, returning and holding something out to him.
In the flickering light of the hearth, Ratchet realized Pharma was offering him a dagger.
“Blood to blood.”

The healer took the dagger carefully, turning it over in his hands. The dark wooden handle bore engravings Ratchet could not decipher, and a strange unease settled in his chest as he feared he understood what the other meant.
“Should I bring him… some blood? Mine?”

Pharma studied him closely, his grey eyes hard and cold as stone.
“The ideal offering would be that of the boy who shot the arrow.”

Ratchet stiffened.
“No. Bumblebee is just a child.”

“Don’t be foolish.” The druid replied curtly. “He was old enough to hunt creatures that should not even be seen by mortal eyes. He is old enough to face the consequences.”

“No.” Ratchet repeated firmly. “I’ll do it.”
For a moment the two men stared at each other in silence, Ratchet’s hand tightening reluctantly around the dagger’s hilt.

“You are a fool.”

“Blood to blood, right? It doesn’t matter whose.”
Pharma’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing more.
He knew Ratchet was right.

“Cut the palm of your right hand; the one that released the arrow. Let the blood fall where the deer’s blood once stained the earth.”
Pharma spoke at last, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly beneath his tunic.
The healer finally rose, sliding the dagger into his belt.
“And tell the boy to come see me. Even if the blood that touches the ground is yours, a ritual of forgiveness will be the least he can do.”

Ratchet rose from the wooden bench with a heavy sigh and headed for the door, Pharma following him. But just before leaving, as he fastened his cloak, he turned back to him.
“Hypothetically,” he began, as if they were discussing the weather or the harvest and not something that was clearly bothering him far more than he wanted to admit. “If someone were to dream of a deer, and that deer started bleeding… what could it mean?”

Pharma studied him for a moment. His eyes widened slightly, a spark of something indecipherable flickering within them, though it lasted only a fraction of a second.
“And hypothetically,” he replied, “was the deer in this dream white?”

The healer shrugged. “Maybe.”
The druid pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers, clearly exhausted by the contradiction between Ratchet’s lack of faith and his sudden interest in mystical dreams.

“The white deer -besides being one of the favored forms in which the god of the hunt manifests- is also considered a messenger of the gods.” Pharma explained, crossing his arms and making the long sleeves of his linen robe billow softly. “Its appearance, not only in the forest but even in a dream, means you have been noticed by the divine. The blood, meanwhile, represents your debt to the forest.”

“But why me? I didn’t hurt the deer.”
Ratchet tried to keep his voice calm. Wonderful. The last thing he needed in his quiet life was to attract the attention of the gods.

“I cannot say.” The druid replied. “But it seems you were chosen to interact with something sacred.”
He paused, then added with a faintly amused smile: “Or perhaps it was simply a dream.”
What wouldn’t Ratchet have given to believe that.

***

“You were late last night.”
Rodimus dropped onto the grass beside him, watching with lazy curiosity as Drift continued carving a small piece of wood.

“I didn’t realize I had to report my movements to you.” Drift replied calmly, not lifting his golden eyes from his work.

Beside him, Rodimus snorted.
“You don’t.” He said easily. “But it’s interesting that you lingered so long in that human village.”
Drift’s knife paused mid-carve.
After a moment, he finally turned his head, meeting Rodimus’s gaze. The god of fire was watching him with open amusement, as though he knew something Drift himself had yet to understand.
“So,” Rodimus continued, stretching out comfortably on the grass and folding his arms behind his head. “Tell me what you saw.”

“I saw humans. What else was I supposed to see?”
The sound of the nearby river rushed steadily beside them, mingling with the soft creaking of branches swaying in the autumn breeze. Yet Drift’s thoughts drifted elsewhere; back to the healer.
Ratchet.
Even thinking his name filled his chest with an unfamiliar warmth.

“Oh, come on, don’t be so dull.” Rodimus groaned, shutting his eyes as the sunlight warmed his face. “Did you punish the human who shot you with that arrow?”

“You won’t leave me alone until I tell you everything, will you?”
Rodimus opened one eye and flashed him a slow, knowing grin.
Drift sighed and turned the unfinished wooden figure between his fingers.
“I did not punish the young human.” He admitted at last. “But I did meet the one who healed my wound.”

“You met him,” Rodimus repeated, rolling onto his side and propping his head on one hand, “or did you go looking for him?”
Drift shot him a sharp look.
But the sudden warmth rising to the tips of his pointed ears gave him away instantly.
Rodimus burst out laughing.
“Got you.”
 
“I don’t- I don’t go looking for mortals!” Drift exclaimed indignantly, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks and forcing his gaze back down to the wooden figure in his hand.

“I never said that.” Rodimus replied, chuckling, more amused than ever. “I said you went looking for one in particular.”
Drift wanted to hit him -to wipe that infuriating look off his face- but he didn’t. Instead, he pressed his lips together and pushed himself to his feet.
“Where are you going?” his friend called after him.

“Away from you and your ridiculous assumptions.”
The god was already preparing to transform -perhaps into something swift, like a hare- but Rodimus was faster, stepping in front of him before he could.

“Don’t be like that.” He said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Why don’t you tell me about this human instead? It’s the first time I’ve seen you this curious about one of them.”
Drift looked at him for a moment, noticing how the teasing in Rodimus’s brown eyes had softened.

“I don’t know why I’m curious, all right?” He admitted at last with a sigh.
The two began walking without any real destination, letting their feet guide them through the woods they knew so well; woods they were so deeply connected to that they almost felt like an extension of themselves.
“Besides the fact that I’ve never seen a human heal a wild creature before,” Drift continued. “I keep thinking about the feeling of his hands on my wound… and the green of his eyes. The same color as the forest in summer.”
Only then did he realize he had been staring at the ground the entire time.

“I still don’t understand.” Rodimus said with a sigh as he casually took the wooden figure Drift had been carving and examined it. “Humans are so… fragile. Disease, war, famine. Even time itself can end their brief lives. It makes no sense for a divine being like you to be troubled by something so fleeting.”
The god of fire handed the carving back to him.
“Why don’t you talk to Wing about it?”

Drift considered it for a moment.
It was true. With centuries of experience and boundless wisdom, Wing would certainly know what to say. He could reassure him, tell him there was nothing strange about his curiosity toward humans; that their lives were, after all, shaped by the will of the gods.

And yet, something held him back.
For reasons he could not quite explain, Drift felt he did not want guidance this time. He wanted to follow these feelings himself, to discover where this strange curiosity would lead him.
Was it foolish? Perhaps.
But deep down, he knew he had to see it through.
 
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Drift said calmly as a thin mist curled around their ankles. “Ratchet is a human who was fortunate enough to touch a god. I am a superior being who felt a spark of curiosity. That’s all.”

Rodimus suddenly stopped walking.
Drift looked up and met his gaze, finding him staring in shock. The brown eyes, warm as sunlit tree bark, were wide, his lips slightly parted, copper-colored brows raised in disbelief.
“You… do know that human’s name.”
The god of the hunt did not answer. He simply gave him a faint smile.
“Drift! What the hell are you getting yourself into?”

For the first time since this whole matter had begun, Rodimus looked genuinely worried.
“Don’t worry.” Drift replied lightly. “I just wanted to know who he was. Now I do.”
The mist rose slowly around them, drifting upward to brush lazily against their knees. Drift took a step forward, but Rodimus’s hand suddenly closed around his wrist.

“I’m not Wing.” The fire god said. “I don’t have his wisdom. Damn it, I barely care about anything that doesn’t amuse me.”
There was an unfamiliar urgency in his voice.
Drift felt something uneasy settle in his stomach. The concern he saw on Rodimus’s face seemed to seep into him as well, threatening to shake the certainty he had held until now. Interacting with a human couldn’t be so terrible… could it?

“But there’s a reason we don’t have direct contact with humans.” Rodimus continued. “There’s a reason only a few of them possess the gift to see between our worlds.”
He gestured vaguely toward the forest.
“This is little enough, but even I know it. There’s a reason they look at me with fear when they glimpse me in the flames. A reason your presence is known only through wild animals.”
Drift drew in a breath. Rodimus’s grip tightened briefly around his wrist.
“Don’t do it.”

A moment later, the warm pressure of his hand disappeared.
“And I thought you were the adventurous type.” Drift muttered.
The god of fire bristled, trying to hide his irritation behind concern.
“All this fuss over a name.”

“You shouldn’t even care that names other than ours come out of human mouths.”

At that, Drift couldn’t help but laugh.
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were afraid.”

“I am not afraid.” Rodimus snapped. “And you are an idiot.”
His cheeks flushed red with irritation as Drift took another step toward the deeper forest, where the fog thickened and obscured everything beyond.
“This is not going to end well.” Rodimus muttered under his breath, though he made no move to stop him.

“You’re going to see him again, aren’t you?”
Drift did not answer.
He paused only long enough to offer a final smile, which was met with a weary sigh.
Then he turned and walked on.
The deeper he moved into the mist, the fainter Rodimus’s presence became behind him, like a flame slowly fading in the wind.

Branches and leaves crunched beneath his boots. Then Drift bent forward, lowering himself onto all fours.
In an instant, hooves replaced his feet, white fur spread across his skin, and antlers crowned his head.
Moments later he was trotting through the forest in the form of a stag.
Behind him, the fog closed like a veil; separating the world of mortals from that of the gods.

***
 
Ratchet walked alone through the forest.
He was glad he had not brought Bumblebee with him. The boy had been far less pleased when Ratchet had sent him to spend the day with Pharma, making amends for his innocent mistake.
Ratchet could hardly blame him; he himself would have much preferred wandering the woods and shedding a little blood rather than spending another moment in the druid’s tent, with the thick smell of sage hanging in the air.

But now, alone, trying to retrace the path that had led him to Bee and the wounded deer the day before, Ratchet was no longer so certain he wanted to be there.
An unpleasant feeling crept over him.
It was as if something watched him from the branches above, following his every movement, waiting for him to make the smallest mistake.

Although the sun stood high in the sky, the healer had walked so deep into the forest that he could barely see it anymore. The thick canopy of branches swallowed the light, their leaves still stubbornly clinging to the trees despite the arrival of autumn.

Yet it was not only his excellent memory that guided him farther and farther from the village in search of that cursed clearing.
There was something else.
A strange pull that grew stronger with every step, as though something in the forest were drawing him toward it.
The mere thought sent a shiver down Ratchet’s spine, while the dagger Pharma had given him weighed heavily in its sheath at his belt.

Ratchet recognized the clearing the moment the forest fell unnaturally silent around him.
Despite the cool air, sweat clung to the back of his neck and his breathing quickened. Part of him was irritated with himself: he was about to perform a ritual meant only for him and the god of the hunt, and yet fear was tightening its grip around his heart.
That wasn’t right.

He sighed deeply and finally stopped in the clearing from the day before. The grass before him still bore the faint imprint of the stag’s body where it had lain stretched upon the ground.
Not even a trace of blood remained.

Ratchet knelt in the same place where he had knelt before and closed his eyes.
In his mind he saw the wounded white stag clearly; the arrow protruding from behind its shoulder. Then his thoughts returned abruptly to the dream from the night before: the blood pouring endlessly, and the same stag standing before him, staring with black eyes that held a depth no wild creature should possess.

Slowly, he pushed those thoughts aside.
He breathed deeply, letting the heavy silence of the forest calm him rather than overwhelm him. Instead, he focused on the memory of tending the animal’s wound; on his intent, his instinct to heal, to mend.
He hoped Drift, the god of the hunt, would feel that intention as clearly as he had.

Then the healer opened his eyes.
And suddenly everything he needed to do became clear.
With steady hands he drew the dagger from its sheath, holding it in his left hand while the cold blade rested against the palm of his right.

“I take responsibility for the boy’s guilt.” He said clearly, his voice the only sound that seemed to move through the trees.
“Earth to earth. Blood to blood.”
The words sounded far too solemn on Ratchet’s tongue, yet they were honest.
“I don’t know if you’re listening,” he added quietly, “but this is for you, Drift; god of the hunt.”

The blade pressed into his palm.
Pain flared instantly as the metal bit into his flesh. Blood answered at once -hot and red- spilling from the wound as Ratchet’s hand tightened around the dagger, pushing the cut deeper.
He bit down hard on his lip, a groan escaping him as the blade traced a line across his palm, beginning just above his thumb and ending just before the bone of his wrist.

The dagger slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground.
Ratchet clenched his hand, forcing the wound open to draw out more blood. Large drops fell beside the dagger, soaking into the earth like crimson tears.

Ratchet squeezed as much blood as he could from the wound before straightening, staring for a moment at the red stains that marked the blades of grass, now yellowed by autumn, as if waiting for something to happen.
He didn’t know how long he remained there, his palm throbbing, staring at his own blood in the naive hope that something supernatural might occur.
Nothing did.

With a slow sigh of resignation, he took a flask of water from his belt and poured it over the wound to clean it.
Using one hand and the help of his teeth, he managed to wrap a strip of linen around the cut, sighing as he watched the pale fabric quickly darken.
He wiped the blade of his dagger clean as well and returned it to its sheath before standing. He couldn’t wait to return to his hut and properly treat the wound.
But he never had the chance to turn around.

Something stopped him where he stood, freezing him in place.
In that unnatural silence, any sound not made by him could only mean trouble.
The rustle of leaves.
The snapping of branches.
A deep, guttural sound.
Ratchet’s breath caught in his throat as he realized, in that moment, that he was afraid.

He should have run. He should have fled, put as much distance as possible between himself and whatever lurked among the trees.
But his legs refused to move, rooted to the ground like the trunks around him.

Then something stepped out of the shadows.
Ratchet’s green eyes widened, his lips parting in silent astonishment as the enormous white stag appeared before him.

It was even larger than he remembered. Its magnificent antlers rose high and proud, and its white coat seemed to bring its own light to that dim corner of the forest.
Its black eyes fixed on him.
For a long moment the creature simply watched him. Then its gaze shifted to the blood-stained grass, and finally to the bandaged hand Ratchet instinctively drew close to his chest.
The stag took a step toward him. Calm. Graceful. Every movement worthy of the ruler of that place.

Ratchet had no idea what he should do.
Seeing a sacred animal once in a lifetime was already considered a miracle. But twice in two days?
Perhaps it had come to punish him. Perhaps it wanted more blood.
And yet its gaze was not threatening. If anything… it seemed almost curious.

The creature stepped closer to Ratchet until less than a pace separated them. Then it stretched its beautiful white neck and brought its face near his, sniffing him.
The healer stiffened, as if he were facing a predator rather than a great stag. After all, it wasn’t every day that a creature sacred to the gods came so close to him.
The animal was so near that Ratchet felt its dark, wet nose brush against his cheek, yet he did not step back.

Then the stag lowered its head toward the blood Ratchet had spilled on the ground, the crimson drops staining the forest floor. It studied them for a long moment before releasing a soft snort from its nostrils; a sound Ratchet desperately hoped meant approval.
“It’s for you… for Drift.”
The healer ventured the words hesitantly, unsure what else he could possibly say.
The stag immediately lifted its head and looked back at him. For a moment Ratchet regretted speaking at all, but something in the creature’s gaze seemed to soften.

Everything felt unreal: the forest around him, the creature standing before him, the memory of its blood once staining the clearing.
Yet Ratchet could not bring himself to leave.
Not because he expected the creature to dismiss him, but because part of him wanted to remain there forever, simply to exist within that calm, divine presence; a living symbol of the gods who had always been part of his world, though they had never revealed themselves except through signs and whispers.

Only then did Ratchet realize how fast his heart was beating, thoughts piling one upon another in his mind.
How ironic.
To be the least devout man in the village… and the only one who could claim such an encounter.

Then the healer’s blood ran cold.
In the air, as if carried by the wind, a voice rang out; low and calm, sweet as honey yet as steady as the trunk of an ancient oak.
“You bled for another.”
Ratchet’s eyes widened, but it did not take him long to realize the words had come from the stag.

“You righted his mistake and returned what was taken.”
The creature continued to watch him, its large black eyes seeming deeper than ever.
Ratchet suddenly realized it was probably not very polite to stare at a sacred creature like that, so he quickly nodded.
The stag’s gaze fell to the injured hand Ratchet still held close to his chest, as though the throbbing pain were the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.
“Show me your wound.”

And the healer obeyed.
With his left hand he untied the knot he had made earlier, freeing his injured palm from the linen bandage. The simple gesture took him a moment, his good hand trembling.
Slowly he extended his arm, revealing the cut, where fresh blood still welled in small crimson drops.
The stag lowered its muzzle toward the wound, studying it for a moment before running its thick, rough tongue over it.
A shiver of pain and surprise ran down Ratchet’s spine, and he found himself unable to pull away as the creature repeated the gesture a second time.

When the stag lifted its head again, the skin that had been torn open by the dagger only moments before had already closed. Only a smear of drying blood remained as proof the wound had ever existed.
Ratchet stared at his hand in disbelief, bringing it closer to his face and touching it carefully with the other.
No wound.
No pain.
Not even a scar remained.
As if nothing had ever happened.

“I… thank you.”
The words slipped from his lips, uncertain and quiet. No apprenticeship, no teaching, nothing in his life had prepared him for a moment like that.

“Go home, healer.”
The deity’s voice reached him again like a breeze through the branches.
“I have decided to forgive the mistake.”
A feeling close to relief filled Ratchet’s chest.

Part of him wanted to remain there, to question the creature, to bask for a little longer in its divine presence. But he knew their time was limited, and that it would be unwise to test his fortune further.
So Ratchet bowed his head slightly, took a few careful steps back, and then turned to leave.
But before the trees could swallow him from sight, he glanced back one last time, meeting that vivid, watchful gaze.
Then, with the soft rustle of his cloak, he was gone, walking back toward the village.

***

Drift remained where he stood, staring at the exact spot where the healer’s cloak had vanished, swallowed by the forest.
His great deer heart was still beating hard, as if something ancient and primal had compelled him to act the way he had.
He had done something terribly -impossibly- stupid, and he knew it.

Rodimus was right. There was a reason the mist separated their worlds, why human eyes were not meant to rest upon gods.
And yet the taste of Ratchet’s blood lingered on his tongue, as vivid as ever.
It was extraordinarily sweet, awakening something ancient and wild within him; something he had not felt since Wing had first found him centuries ago, wandering alone through the forest, feral and frightened.

Part of him wanted to follow the healer. To reach the village. To reveal himself in his human form, if only to touch him skin to skin instead of settling for the scent that still filled his sensitive nostrils.
Drift huffed loudly, more out of restless frustration than any real purpose, and began wandering through the forest.
Not toward the path Ratchet had taken, but toward no destination at all; simply moving, as if the tension coiled inside him demanded release.

What he had done had been a mistake. He knew it.
Yet he could not drive those green eyes from his mind, wide with fear and wonder.
Nor the cascade of red hair over the healer’s broad shoulders.
Nor the freckles scattered across his face like constellations.
Damn.
This was going to be a problem.
And he knew it.

Chapter Text

That evening in the village, Ratchet was restless. He had never been particularly fond of celebrations, feasts, or singing, but he had never felt as isolated as he did at that moment.
He sipped his mead while sitting on a wooden bench, far enough from the crackling fire that its warmth barely reached him, yet close enough that he could not escape the shouts of the villagers or the sound of Jazz’s harp.

When he had returned to the village earlier that day, he had wrapped the linen bandage back around his right hand, even though the wound had vanished without leaving the faintest mark, completely healed by the rough tongue of the hunting god in his stag form.

A normal person would have rushed back, pounding on the druid’s door to tell him about such an incredible encounter. But for some reason Ratchet did not want anyone to know, as if the experience had been meant for him alone; a memory to guard carefully.
After all, who would believe that he, whose only ritualistic devotion amounted to little more than drinking spiced mead, could have been touched by a god?

And so he said nothing.
The ritual had been performed. The apology had been accepted. Bumblebee could sleep peacefully, and Ratchet could return to his duties as the village healer without further trouble.
At least, that was what he thought.

Then, when the sound of drums and laughter grew a little too loud -fueled by too much mead- Ratchet decided it was time to retreat to his hut.
But before he could even stand, someone slipped into the seat beside him.
The healer turned and found Jazz’s bandaged face lit up with a smile.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The man asked in a playful tone, setting his harp beside him.

“Off to sleep. This day has lasted far too long.”
Ratchet muttered, emptying the last of the mead from his mug.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that-”
Jazz said, reaching out toward him. But when his hand brushed Ratchet’s right hand, the words died in his throat.
He remained still for a moment, his fingers lightly touching the back of Ratchet’s bandaged hand as if he were holding his breath. Then, slowly, he pulled his hand away.
“Well, well.” He said in a lower voice. “It’s certainly not every day someone is marked by a god.”

Ratchet’s eyes widened, completely taken aback.
“Marked?” He repeated, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. “I have not been marked by anyone.”

Jazz only gave him a small smile in response.
“The only other person in this village who bears a similar mark is Optimus Prime.”

“You don’t have to be a seer to know that.”
Ratchet muttered, glancing toward the fire not far from them.
Optimus was their leader. He had passed the trials, proven himself worthy to lead them, and Wing himself had confirmed it with his blessing.
But Ratchet?
He had done nothing extraordinary; nothing except tending to a wounded deer.

Besides, Jazz had always been a strange fellow. Every now and then he would offer cryptic words to anyone willing to listen, and some impressionable youngsters mistook them for prophecies.
No one truly took him seriously.
But what he had said about Ratchet’s hand… How could he possibly imagine it had been touched by a god?

“I don’t know what you did,” Jazz continued, his expression turning serious for a moment. “But the god of the hunt has decided that you will somehow fall under his protection.”
A silence settled between them, thick with questions the healer could not seem to shake.
Then Jazz patted him on the back.
“Oh come on, even without seeing you I can practically hear your mind working itself to exhaustion.” The man said with a laugh. “It’s a festive evening, and you’re under the protection of one of the most important gods of all. That sounds like a good reason to celebrate.”

Ratchet was about to tell him that he had every reason to be worried, since it made no sense for a healer to be marked by a deity of the woods and the hunt, but Prowl’s arrival silenced him.
The man had clearly drunk quite a bit and sank onto the bench beside Jazz.
“What are you two talking about?”

“Oh, nothing. Just Ratchet and the fact that the god of the hunt himself has taken a shine to him.” Jazz replied with a smile.

Ratchet opened his mouth to deny everything. The last thing he needed was for the entire village to hear about this. But Prowl simply looked at them both with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, right.” The village leader’s advisor said dryly, clearly not believing a single word Jazz had said.

“Why did you come over here? Tired of the party?” Jazz asked, and Ratchet was glad no longer to be the center of attention.

“I just needed… some fresh air. Away from people.” Prowl replied calmly.

“Sure. And maybe a tree to hide behind while you vomit up the gallons of mead you’ve been drinking.” Ratchet muttered under his breath.
Jazz burst out laughing.

“I’m not drunk.” Prowl replied coldly, his blue eyes narrowing as he stared at the healer, glassy and bright with mead.

“Of course not. Too bad your face is completely red.” Ratchet said at last, rising from the bench. “I’m a healer. I recognize the symptoms.”

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see you with a red face.” Jazz added with a sigh, earning a glare from Prowl.

“Touch him. His cheeks are definitely warm.” Ratchet advised, adjusting his cloak while Jazz’s bandaged face lit up as he turned toward the other.

“Don’t.”
Prowl immediately raised a finger toward Jazz, as if that alone could stop him. In response, Jazz simply reached out, brushing his hand against Prowl’s, and burst into laughter once more.

“Hey, are you leaving already?”
The blindfolded man asked as Ratchet stood and stretched. He must have sensed the shift in their movements.

“What do you mean, already? I’ve been here all night. I’m going to sleep.”
The healer replied with a sigh. After the day he’d had, he definitely needed rest; preferably dreamless. Specifically, the kind untouched by visions, omens, or anything that even remotely resembled the presence of a god.
And so, after taking his leave of the two, Ratchet made his way back toward his hut, taking a slight detour to avoid running into anyone who might try to keep him for another mug of mead.

Maybe he shouldn’t have isolated himself like that. Maybe he should have told the druid. Any sensible person would have. But something held him back; that same quiet, selfish urge to keep the experience entirely to himself.

Almost unconsciously, his fingers brushed over the linen bandages wrapped around his right hand, still perfectly clean.
The mark of the god of the hunt, he thought as he walked, the distant fire casting trembling shadows over the huts.
None of it made sense. Ratchet wasn’t even a hunter, and his connection to the forest barely went beyond gathering herbs and ingredients for his work. When he was younger, he had sometimes prayed to Velocity, goddess of medicine and healing; but a deity like Drift? No. This had to be nothing more than a chain of coincidences.

If Sunstreaker or Sideswipe had found Bumblebee that day, they would have been the ones marked. Wouldn’t they?
But was he really sure?
After all, he had been the one to tend to the deer.
For a moment, the image of those black eyes resurfaced in his mind -bright, intelligent, ancient- and he found himself wondering whether he truly wanted to forget any of it at all.

***

Prowl’s gaze was fixed on him. Jazz couldn’t see it, but he could feel it clearly, like water against his skin.
The memory of Prowl’s blue eyes was almost impossible to erase, as was the seriousness of that gaze; the sharp lines of his face, as if carved from ice. His brown hair was always neat, tied back in a simple ponytail, without braids or ornaments. Not like Jazz, who had always worn rings and woven threads in his hair. Even now that he could no longer see himself, he still had Arcee braid it for him, feeling her hands move carefully through it, weaving in bone beads and yarn.

“Are you okay?”
Prowl’s question pulled him briefly from his thoughts. Jazz turned toward the sound of his voice, smiling faintly. There was a softness to it; a trace of concern most would have missed, but one that stood out clearly to ears trained to catch even the smallest shift.

“I am. Why do you ask?”
There was a brief pause before he added, lightly, “You’re the one who’s drunk. I should be asking you that.”

“I’m not drunk,”
Prowl repeated, irritation creeping into his tone, and Jazz chuckled.

“Your breath smells like mead. Did you know that, even as Optimus’s advisor, you’re still human? You’re allowed to enjoy being alive once in a while.”
Prowl didn’t answer, only let out a quiet snort. Jazz, unable to resist, decided to test a theory.
He reached out, guided by the warmth of the fire -and of Prowl beside him- and brushed his knuckles lightly against the other’s cheek.
He felt the subtle hitch in his breath. And the warmth.
So warm.
Warmer than he remembered, from a face that had always seemed as pale and cold as the winter snow soon to cover their lands.

He felt Prowl stiffen at the touch -barely more than his fingers brushing against his skin- but he didn’t push further, slowly withdrawing his hand.

“You are drunk.”
Jazz repeated with more confidence, letting out a soft laugh to ease the tension that had settled between them. He heard the other sigh heavily, but this time, Prowl didn’t argue.
“You know, I was thinking that-”
But Jazz never finished the sentence.

A sudden pain struck his head -violent, throbbing- forcing him to double over with a groan, his hands flying to his temples. He felt Prowl move immediately beside him, hands gripping his shoulder, but he could no longer hear his voice. It became distant, as if carried away by the wind.
The pain intensified.
Even Prowl’s touch began to fade, dissolving like snow under the sun. It felt as though an axe had been driven straight into his skull.

Then, suddenly, it was gone.
The pain vanished. And so did the village.
Jazz’s eyes widened.
Before him, there was no darkness. No blurred shapes. No faint glimmers of light.
There was… everything.

An endless landscape stretched before him; gray waves of a furious sea crashing into one another, white foam bursting into the air beneath a heavy, cloud-choked sky. Sea and storm seemed to share the same rage.
His breath caught.

Slowly, he lifted his trembling hands, staring at them, at the deep tone of his skin, the shape of his fingers, the pale lines of his palms now slick with saltwater. It felt real. Too real to be a dream. He could feel the wind, smell the sea, the sting of salt against his skin.
And above all, he could see.
A clarity he had long forgotten.

Only then did he realize that his feet weren’t touching solid ground. He was standing on nothing; suspended above the restless surface of the water.
But the thought barely had time to settle before something began to take shape on the horizon.
A boat.
A dark speck against the endless gray, cutting through the waves as it moved toward him.

The closer the boat came, the more details Jazz could make out.
It was long, low against the sea, like a beast carved from wood, its figurehead shaped into some ancient creature. The great sail -white and blue- billowed wide, catching the wind that drove it swiftly toward him.

As it drew nearer, he could finally make out the figures aboard.
Men. Strong, hardened by storm, by battle. Their painted shields lined the sides of the ship, a row of color that felt less like decoration and more like a warning. A promise of war.

Jazz had heard stories. Tales brought by travelers who had passed through the village; whispers of warriors from the sea who left nothing behind but fire and ruin. At the thought, something tightened uncomfortably in his stomach.
He wanted to turn. To run. To find the shore, reach the village, warn them.
But he couldn’t move.
He was rooted in place, suspended there as the ship advanced.

When it came close enough for him to see their faces, his breath caught.
One of them stood out.
Tall, wrapped in furs, long black hair whipping in the wind. A cloth covered his mouth, marked with symbols Jazz didn’t recognize. Around his neck hung a string of bones. A sorcerer? A clairvoyant? The mark of the gods upon him was strong.

For a moment, their gazes met.
And his eyes -dark brown, so deep they almost burned red beneath the storm’s gray light- sent a chill down Jazz’s spine.
But the man didn’t truly see him. His gaze shifted, drifting past him, toward something else.

Then another figure stepped forward.
Even taller. Broad-shouldered, his body wrapped in leather armor. His long hair, braided, matched the cold gray of his eyes; like the sea itself. Deep scars marked his face, and the grin that stretched across it carried the unmistakable thrill of a man eager for blood.

Then the ship passed him.
Jazz turned, following it with his gaze; and that was when he saw it.
The coastline.
And with a jolt of horror, he recognized it.
The beach beyond the rise.
His village.

The realization struck like lightning, and with it, the same searing pain returned, tearing through his mind. His eyes squeezed shut as the vision fractured.

When he opened them again, it was gone.
The sharpness. The clarity. The light.
Darkness returned; along with the familiar blur, and the quiet dominance of his other senses.
Hands gripped his shoulders.
Someone knelt in front of him.
Prowl.
Jazz realized he was trembling, his skin slick with sweat despite the cold autumn air.

“Are you okay? Should I take you to Ratchet?”
That same note of concern lingered in Prowl’s voice.
Jazz clung to his arms, gripping the linen of his sleeves as if to anchor himself; steady his trembling hands.

For a moment, he let himself sink into the safety of reality, into the strange comfort his blindness offered him now, and into the presence of Prowl kneeling before him. He could feel his gaze on his bandaged face without needing to see it, as always, and he was grateful, grateful to be here, with him, far from that ship heavy with warriors.
To feel the warmth of the fire against his skin, not the lash of the sea wind.
To stand in the darkness of night, not beneath the cold light of the storm.

“I have to… I have to talk to Optimus. I saw something.”
His voice came out thin, almost breathless, as if he had run all the way here. He didn’t need sight to picture Prowl’s expression; the slight frown, the lift of one eyebrow creasing his pale forehead.

“Jazz, if this is one of your ‘visions,’ I remind you that Optimus is a busy man, and-”

But Jazz pulled him closer, gripping his wrists until he felt the other’s warm breath against his face.
“A boat. Warriors. Our coast. It was all so clear- so… real.”
His hold loosened, giving Prowl the chance to pull away.
He didn’t.
He remained there, close, his breath held.
Maybe he didn’t fully believe him, but he had known him long enough to listen.

“I can still taste the salt on my lips. Hear the waves crashing. And I saw the colors of the sky and the sea, as clearly as when… as before…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Prowl gently freed his wrists, only to lift his hands to Jazz’s face. His palm rested first against his damp forehead, then along his cheek, and Jazz let out a quiet breath, leaning into the touch.

“Get up. Let’s go see Ratchet.”
At those words, Jazz recoiled.

“You don’t believe me.”
He said it simply.
Prowl didn’t answer right away. For a few moments, the space between them filled with the distant sounds of the celebration; the crackle of fire, the clatter of mugs, the rise of laughter.

“I didn’t say that.” Prowl replied at last, his tone cool, controlled in that way it always was when challenged.
Jazz heard him stand, brushing the dirt from his knees.
“It’s late, and we’ve both been drinking. If you truly had a vision -whatever it was- you can speak to the druid tomorrow.”

Jazz pressed his lips together.
He knew what he had seen had been real; terrifyingly real. And yet… it could still have been a premonition. A fragment of something yet to come. Something that required interpretation.
So he didn’t push further.

Prowl didn’t add anything else. But when Jazz realized the other hadn’t left yet -his presence still there, close and unmistakable even in the night- he couldn’t help but smile without lifting his head.
“There’s no need to worry about me. I’m fine. Go to sleep.”

Prowl didn’t reply, but Jazz’s keen hearing caught the soft sigh that escaped him. He lingered a moment longer before turning away, the sound of his footsteps -firm and steady- fading in the direction of his hut.

Only then did Jazz allow himself to breathe.
The images from his vision -too vivid to be meaningless- kept flashing through his mind.
“Maybe I’m going crazy.”
He murmured to himself, stretching out along the wooden bench. He caught the rustle of leaves nearby, the faint, delicate sound of small paws moving through the undergrowth.
He turned his head.

He couldn’t see it, but he was almost certain there was a fox nearby, just beyond the dim reach of the firelight.
Jazz tilted his head slightly as the animal came to a stop, and a smile spread across his lips.
“Oh? Maybe I really should go talk to the druid tomorrow.”
He whispered, as if the creature could understand him. It remained still, watching him.
“A sacred deer. A vision of storm-wracked destruction. A god walking among mortals…” He went on softly. “That’s too many coincidences, don’t you think, lord Drift?”

The fox lingered for a moment longer.
Jazz felt the soft brush of its tail against the leaves of a nearby bush before it slipped away toward the huts, leaving the bonfires and celebration behind.
The man followed the light rhythm of its steps with his ears until the sound faded completely, wondering what the gods had in store for them all.

***

The fox’s small paws moved swiftly, weaving between men staggering back to their huts as the village celebrations slowly died down.
Of all the humans he could have encountered, the seer had to be the one to catch him prowling around.
Drift wanted to sigh in annoyance, but his current form wouldn’t allow it, so he vented his frustration by flicking his full, elegant tail with restless agitation.

This had been a terribly foolish and reckless idea, and he knew it; so much so that he hadn’t even told Rodimus he was returning to the village.
He had already been a fool the first time he came here, then speaking to Ratchet in his deer form… and now he had returned a second time.

And yet, he hadn’t been able to get the healer out of his mind all day.
Everywhere he turned, he saw him.
The vivid green of his eyes. The freckles scattered across his pale face. The deep red of his hair, the white threading through his beard.

He hadn’t been able to focus on anything.
He hadn’t finished carving the wooden statuette he had been working on. He hadn’t paid attention to Rodimus as he spoke. He hadn’t even avoided the puddle he had stepped into, much to his friend’s amusement.
He had been so distracted that he had nearly been spotted by a pair of hunters scouting the area.

By evening, exasperated with his own restlessness, Drift had considered confronting the problem at its source.
Perhaps if he saw the healer again, he would calm down.
Perhaps the storm brewing in his chest would finally settle.
Perhaps, after meeting those moss-green eyes one last time, he would find peace.
And so, driven by that naive hope, he had slipped back into the village in the form of a fox; unaware of just how wrong he was.

He knew he could have returned in his human form, unseen as he had done before.
And yet, he had chosen this.
And the more he tried to convince himself it was simply for speed, the more an unwelcome thought pressed its way into his mind; that he had chosen this form so that he might meet those eyes again.

Shaking off his thoughts -or at least trying to- Drift continued to pace, sniffing the air with his pointed snout, searching for a scent he had only caught briefly, yet which seemed to linger in his mind.
There.
At last.
A blend of medicinal herbs, fire smoke… and something warm, something inviting, that drew him in like a spell.

Following that trail, Drift easily found the healer’s hut.
The door stood slightly ajar, and with a gentle push of his paw, he slipped through the narrow opening, finding himself inside Ratchet’s hut for the second time.

The healer sat on a wooden bench before the fireplace, staring absently at the flames crackling before him. For a moment, Drift had the unsettling impression that Rodimus somehow knew exactly where he was.
He shook the thought away with a small flick of his soft fur and took a few careful steps closer.

Settling into the dim light, Drift drank in every detail.
Ratchet wasn’t wearing his cloak, but his boots were still on; he must have been busy the moment he entered. His shoulders slumped forward with exhaustion, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped in one hand, his gaze lost in the fire.

Drift had never understood human fragility. He had always considered it a kind of weakness, almost embarrassing. Fatigue. Hunger. The need to drink from safe water. The constant risk of illness or injury. All of it felt distant, incomprehensible.
And yet, watching the faint lines of exhaustion on Ratchet’s face, the way his eyelids threatened to fall closed despite everything… something in Drift tightened.
There was no disgust. No annoyance.
Only something unfamiliar.
Something that felt dangerously close to protectiveness.

For a fleeting moment, he imagined the healer’s head resting against his shoulder, eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady with sleep.
Drift’s tail twitched.
As if some instinct deep within him wanted to chase that image, and make it real.

“And what are you doing here?”
At those words, a shiver ran down the hunt god’s spine. His body instinctively tensed, ready to bolt, before he realized Ratchet was speaking to him.
Oh.
Damn it. He had been seen.
Then again… hadn’t that been part of the plan, even if only subconsciously?

“You shouldn’t be here.”
Ratchet sighed, watching him, not with annoyance, but with a kind of quiet amusement.
Drift realized, in that moment, that he had made the right choice coming in this form.
The way the healer was looking at him; he never wanted to forget it.

Then Ratchet stood.
Drift stiffened again, every instinct screaming at him to run, but the healer didn’t approach. Instead, he set something down on the ground before stepping back toward the bench, leaving space for him.

Drift approached slowly, drawn in by both the gesture and the scent.
Smoked fish.
Did this mortal truly believe that he, Drift, god of the hunt, would eat such a pitiful offering left on the floor?
And yet… when the expected indignation failed to rise, replaced instead by the faint, unsettling thought that refusing might somehow displease the healer, Drift stepped forward and lowered his snout.
He sniffed. Then he ate. Slowly.
Aware -painfully aware- of Ratchet’s gaze on him.

When he finished and lifted his head, his small fox’s heart nearly stopped.
Ratchet was smiling.
It was the first time he had ever seen him smile.
The corners of his mouth curved gently, faint lines forming at the edges, while the green of his eyes softened into something unexpectedly warm.
Fortunately, he was in his fox form.
No one expected him to speak, because in that moment, he wouldn’t have been able to.

“You can stay and warm yourself if you want. The nights are getting colder.” Ratchet said at last. “At certain times of day, you can already smell the snow, but maybe-”
He paused. Then shook his head slightly. The smile faded.
“Look at me. First, I have visions of sacred deer talking to me… and now I’m talking to a fox as if it understands me.”
They held each other’s gaze, and Drift realized his tail was wagging just a little too eagerly.
“Am I going crazy?”
At that, the god simply tilted his head to the side.
Ratchet let out a long sigh.
Silence settled in the hut, broken only by the crackle of wood slowly being consumed by the fire.

Then Drift took a step toward him. Ratchet looked up again, and their gazes met once more.
Something shifted.
Suddenly, the man’s green eyes widened, catching the dim light that filled the hut, and Drift froze.
“You… again.”
A cascade of emotions crossed the human’s freckled face; confusion, realization, fear… and something else. Something harder to name.
“Why are you here?”
Ratchet murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his body stiffening in a way that mirrored Drift’s own.

Drift wished he could answer.
For Ratchet’s sake; for his own.
But the truth was simple, and utterly incomprehensible: a pair of eyes the color of rain-soaked grass had led him here. The need to see a mere human again.

And now that he had… nothing had settled.
If anything, the storm inside his chest had only grown worse, stronger, louder, impossible to ignore.
So, he did the only sensible thing he had done all evening.
He ran.
He slipped through the narrow opening of the door and fled, weaving between legs, diving into the bushes, racing toward the forest.

Only once he was alone did he slow, his body shifting as he returned to his form among mortals.
He kept walking.
And walking.
Until he could go no further.
His breath hitched, unfamiliar and uneven. He had to brace himself against the rough bark of a tree, one hand pressed to it for support, the other clutching at his chest beneath the cloak draped over his shoulders.

His heart was racing.
But not from the run. Not from the fear of being seen.
Perhaps it was because he had eaten food offered by a human?
No.
It wasn’t humiliation. Nor shame.
It felt as though he had been struck again. As though an arrow had pierced him once more.
Only this time, it wore the shape of the healer’s smile.

Something moved behind him, and Drift spun around, only to find Rodimus’s worried face lit by the pale moonlight filtering through the branches.
“I knew you were following me.”
Drift huffed, irritation sharp in his voice as he quickly dropped his hand from his chest, trying to compose himself.

“Oh yes, I followed you; and I was right to.”
Rodimus shot back, raising a hand to his forehead in exasperation.
“You snuck into the human village again.”
Drift stared at him, incredulous.
“Have you lost your mind? Did you lick some mushrooms and decide to go live among humans?”
Then Rodimus planted his hands on his hips. How ironic, to be scolded by him of all people.

“At least I don’t stalk my friends like some kind of snake.”
Drift snapped, crossing his arms, trying to keep his irritation in check.

“You are an idiot.” The god of fire sighed, his shoulders finally relaxing.
“Look, I get it. Your healer has hips that scream ‘take me’ and hands like they were forged by ancient lava gods, but -repeat after me- you can’t keep showing up in front of him.”
Drift felt heat rush to his face. He opened his mouth to retort, but Rodimus was faster.
“You know Wing will find out somehow. And he won’t be happy about it.”

“Wing loves humans, I don’t see how-”

“Wing likes humans as a whole. As part of the balance. As the link between us and the earth itself.”
Drift fell silent.
“You don’t care about humans. You don’t even like them.”
Rodimus continued, his tone softening slightly as he stepped closer.
“You like that healer; or at least you’re curious about him. And that can be dangerous. It can make you weak. Make you lose sight of what really matters.”

“And what really matters?”
Drift asked.

As if he had been waiting for nothing else, Rodimus slung an arm around his shoulders and started walking.
“I’m glad you asked, mighty god of the hunt. For starters; drink mead with your best friend.”
Drift rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth still lifted into a faint smile.

Even so, he couldn’t quite focus on Rodimus’s endless chatter.
His thoughts kept drifting back, to the village. And to the healer.

***

“I’ve heard that Drift has returned to the human village.”
Wing spoke simply, seated upon his throne of branches and roots, a gift from nature itself to the deity. His long white robes fell over the grass, still damp with morning dew, and his pale gray hair seemed to catch the light of dawn.

“Really?”
Rodimus replied, feigning surprise as he stood before him.
He knew.
From the moment Wing had summoned him, he had known what this conversation would be about; Drift and his recent… escapades.

Rodimus had tried to warn him in every possible way. Come on; not even he, who had done enough stupid things to keep a campfire entertained for years, had ever done something this reckless. Crossing the boundary between gods and humans?
And for what?
For a healer he had a crush on?
Please.
The man was handsome, sure, but to go so far as to expose himself like that? He would never have expected it from someone as cautious as Drift.

“Rodimus.”
The way Wing said his name made him lift his gaze immediately. It wasn’t a reprimand; more like a quiet invitation to admit something already known.
“Do you know why the fog separates our world from that of humans?”

Rodimus shrugged.
“To keep them from drinking all our mead?”

“To protect them, and us.” Wing replied, as if he hadn’t heard him. “The world rests on a series of fragile balances. There are lines that must not be crossed.”
Rodimus tilted his head slightly, not entirely sure he was following.
“But the truth is, our worlds are also kept apart to protect our hearts… which are far more fragile than they appear.”
Wing’s gaze darkened, and for a moment Rodimus felt him grow distant, as if lost in memories too far away to reach.

“Why are you telling me this and not Drift?”

“Because, like any young god, Drift is more likely to listen to his friends than to his mentor.”
The sigh that escaped Wing made him seem, for a fleeting moment, tired; as if his existence had stretched on for too long.
Then he straightened, meeting Rodimus’s dark eyes once more.
“I’m not asking you to restrain him. Not by force, nor by threats. Just… try to reason with him. Watch over him from a distance, if you must, but do not let him remain among mortals for too long.”

Rodimus, unable to form a proper response, simply nodded.
He didn’t like any of this.
He didn’t like the idea of his friend wandering among mortals just to steal a glance at that healer. He didn’t like the position Wing had just placed him in. And he especially didn’t like not understanding the reasoning behind any of it.

Without another word, he gave a small nod of acknowledgment and turned away.
He had only taken a few steps when Wing’s voice called him back.
“Rodimus.”
The god of fire stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“Have you heard it again?”

Rodimus’s lips pressed into a thin line. He knew exactly what he meant, and he found himself forced to nod.
“Yes. Every day it grows stronger.”

“Describe it to me.”
Wing’s voice was calm, almost gentle.

Rodimus drew in a slow breath, searching his thoughts for the right words.
“It feels like… someone is calling to me.” He said. “At sunset, when the sky burns red -as if the flames themselves were devouring it- I hear it more clearly. It’s a call. A song. A prayer.”
He swallowed. “It comes from far away. Beyond the fog. Beyond the forest. Beyond the village.”
A pause.
“It comes from the sea.”

“Go on.” Wing murmured.
Rodimus closed his eyes, trying to grasp that elusive sensation again; to relive the call that had haunted him for days.

“It sounds ancient.” He continued quietly. “Like an invocation from a time when fire was called by another name. As if someone were begging it to rise… to consume.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Sometimes I see a man.” Rodimus added. “I think he’s the one calling me. I think he wants something. And I don’t think it will be long before I hear him clearly.”
A shiver ran down his spine.

He opened his eyes again, meeting Wing’s thoughtful gaze.
“Wing… who is calling me from the sea? And why would anyone seek fire to burn instead of to warm?”

Wing did not answer immediately.
And Rodimus did not take that silence as a good sign.
“I don’t know yet.” Wing said at last, his hand resting thoughtfully against his chin. “But I have the distinct impression that we are standing in the calm before the storm.”

Later, when Wing dismissed him with a quiet smile, Rodimus walked away with his heart still pounding.
What he had shared had been enough to concern him. And he had been right to leave something out.
The detail of a pair of eyes -gray as storm clouds- watching him in his dreams.
Calling his name.

Chapter Text

“Haven’t you finished it yet?”
Rodimus asked cheerfully, appearing behind the large boulder Drift was leaning against, seated on the ground, making him jump in surprise.
“You’ve been working on that for quite a while now.”
He added, not bothering to apologize for his sudden appearance. He leaned an elbow against the rock, reaching toward his friend, who instinctively hid the wooden statuette in his hands, as if Rodimus had caught him doing something he shouldn’t.

His friend was right.
It had been several days since he had started carving that piece of wood.
At first, he had meant to shape it into a deer, planning to leave it somewhere in the forest for hunters to find, just to amuse himself with their startled reactions.

But then he had met Ratchet.
And the more he worked the wood, the less it resembled an animal. Slowly, he had given it a beard. Eyes. A nose. A faint frown; too precise, too familiar not to resemble a certain healer.
That was why he had decided to finish it in secret.

But ever since he and Rodimus had crossed paths, his friend seemed able to find him anywhere, no matter how much he tried to be alone, or hide. Like a faithful hound following a scent, Rodimus always managed to track him down.

“It’ll be finished when it’s finished.”
Drift muttered, making no effort to show his work, holding it tightly in his hands.
A grave mistake.
Rodimus noticed immediately, his eyes lighting up with that all-too-familiar spark.

“What are you carving?”
He asked at last, a grin -more like a smirk- spreading across his face, caught in the lazy glow of the afternoon sun.

Drift instinctively pulled his hands back as Rodimus leaned closer.
“A deer.”
He replied quickly, only to find his friend’s face suddenly hovering over his shoulder, close enough to feel the unnatural warmth radiating from his skin.

“Bullshit.”
Rodimus didn’t hesitate. His arm shot forward, reaching for Drift’s hands, still tightly closed around the piece of wood.

“Stop acting like a child!”
Drift snapped, suddenly half-sprawled on the ground, the forest floor a mess of red and orange leaves beneath him. His arms were stretched above his head, keeping the statuette out of reach, while one foot pressed against Rodimus’s chest, holding him back.

But his friend wasn’t about to give up.
“Then stop keeping secrets from me!”
Rodimus leaned forward again, stretching as far as he could despite the pressure against him.

“I don’t have to tell you everything- Rodimus!”
His foot slipped.
And in an instant, Rodimus crashed forward on top of him. The two of them tumbled together, wrestling in a storm of dry leaves and dirt.

“Why all the secrecy? Let me see!”
Rodimus’s hands closed around Drift’s, fingers forcing their way between his palms, trying to pry them open.
Panic flared in Drift’s chest -sharp, sudden- mingling with the adrenaline of the struggle. He shifted, bracing his foot against Rodimus again, this time against his stomach, and shoved him back with force.
Caught off guard, Rodimus stumbled and fell backward, landing in a pile of leaves.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, both breathing hard.
Rodimus’s wide brown eyes reflected his surprise, his auburn hair even more disheveled than usual, leaves clinging to his coat.
“Was that really necessary?”
He asked.
Neither of them had time to recover before a third voice cut through the air.

“That’s exactly what I was about to ask.”
They both turned, covered in dirt and still breathing hard from the struggle, only to find Wing standing over them, his expression carrying the same knowing smile of someone who had just caught his children making a mess.

His long white tunic, tied at the waist with a red cord, seemed to glow softly against the warm hues of autumn. His golden eyes caught the sunlight, and when he smiled, fine lines formed at the corners, each one a quiet mark of time and wisdom.
Beside him stood Velocity, goddess of medicine and healing, her hands clasped behind her back.
Her large blue eyes regarded them with the same amused curiosity as Wing’s; two bright sapphires set in warm amber skin.

“He started it!”
Rodimus blurted, scrambling to his feet as he brushed dirt and leaves from his clothes.

“What? That’s not true!”
Drift shot back indignantly, pushing himself up and doing the same, quickly slipping the wooden statuette back into one of his pockets.

“Does the reason for your fight even matter?”
Wing asked calmly.
At those words, Drift and Rodimus exchanged a glance, both forced to lower their heads in embarrassment at having fought over nothing.

“No, Wing.”
They answered in unison, like children facing a parent’s reprimand, not two powerful deities.

“Good.”
Wing said, just as calmly, placing one hand on Drift’s shoulder and the other on Rodimus’s. Their gazes lifted back to him, as if that simple gesture had somehow absolved them.
“Velocity and I were taking a walk in the woods. Drift, why don’t you join us?”
As Wing’s reassuring touch left their shoulders, the two friends exchanged another look. Drift could practically read the words in Rodimus’s eyes: oh, you’re in trouble now, reinforced by the way his lips twitched, trying -and failing- not to curl into a grin.

“I would be happy to, Lord Wing.”
Drift replied through gritted teeth, falling into step beside him and Velocity.
Behind them, Rodimus bit his lip, clearly struggling not to burst out laughing at his expense.

Holding back a sigh, the god of the hunt found himself walking beside them.
On one side, Velocity’s long turquoise tunic brushed lightly against his dark cloak. On the other, Wing walked with his hands loosely clasped, his expression serene as he basked in the last warm rays of sunlight filtering through the thinning branches.

“It’s been a long time since we walked together, hasn’t it?”
Drift didn’t answer; he simply nodded. He knew there was a reason Wing had asked him to join them.
The carved figurine, bearing the healer’s likeness, suddenly felt heavy in his pocket, as if it carried the weight of his guilt, the quiet certainty that he had done something he shouldn’t have.

But Drift knew Wing well enough to understand that he would never confront him directly.
He would circle the matter. Soften it. Lay it before him and let him reach the truth on his own.
Drift hated that.
He hated how Wing could make him confess without ever raising his voice -without threats- simply by guiding him, gently, through his own thoughts.

“I was admiring the beauty of autumn,” Wing continued calmly. “So warm, and yet so melancholy. The end of summer -of heat and life- and the bridge toward winter, with its cold and quiet darkness.”
Drift cast a sidelong glance at Velocity as Wing spoke, unease beginning to coil in his chest.
“It was then that Velocity came to speak with me.”
Wing added.
He stopped.

The clearing opened around them; carpeted in red and ochre leaves, resting as though waiting for the wind to carry them away.
With a small gesture, Wing invited Velocity to speak.
The goddess inclined her head slightly, her long black hair -woven with golden threads- slipping over her shoulder.

“Well, yes…” She began. “I was checking on the village healer just beyond the forest, and I noticed something…”
At those words, Drift’s heart gave a sharp, heavy thump.
“You see, there’s this healer; quick fingers, precise hands, an exceptional knowledge of illness and remedies. He has my blessing, of course, but for the past few days… something has felt off.”
Velocity looked at him then.

She had always been a somewhat absent-minded goddess -forgetful, uncertain of her own judgments- but in that moment, her gaze was sharp. Focused. Almost accusatory.
“The healer in question is under my protection,” she went on, “and yet… he bears the mark of another god.”
Drift’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“Why did you mark my healer?”
Velocity placed her hands on her hips, her long turquoise sleeves -trimmed in gold- fluttering with the motion. Her expression shifted into a comically severe frown, as though she had caught him meddling with something that wasn’t his.

He’s not yours, Drift thought, but he didn’t say it aloud.
He knew that marking the healer would be a problem, especially given how easily the gods grew jealous of humans who drew upon their gifts.
Yes; he definitely shouldn’t have done it.

“There must be some mistake. I haven’t marked any healers.”
He said, crossing his arms to reinforce his words.
But Wing’s presence lingered at his side, and Drift found himself adding, more quietly: “At least… not intentionally.”

“Then you did do it!” Velocity snapped. “Why the hell would you do that? Don’t you have enough hunters relying on your favor? Now you’re going to start marking humans who have nothing to do with you?”
At that point, it became clear why Wing was there.
He wasn’t simply there to hear a confession; he was there to mediate.
Velocity was furious, and the last thing Wing needed was a conflict between the god of the hunt and the goddess of healing.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Drift repeated, stubbornly holding his ground.
Or rather, refusing to admit that he hadn’t marked just any human, but someone who had been living in his thoughts for days.

Velocity crossed her arms as well, her blue eyes flashing with restrained anger.
“Then why did you do it? Do you have any idea how important my blessing is to his work? Your interference could cause serious harm; especially to him.”
That hadn’t even crossed Drift’s mind.
A blessing was a deity’s way of nurturing a human’s talent; guiding it, strengthening it.
A mark, on the other hand, was something else entirely.
It was possession.
A closer, more personal bond between a god and a mortal; a private channel, a sign of particular favor. And Drift had completely failed to consider that, by marking Ratchet, he might weaken his connection to Velocity; the goddess meant to guide his hands and ensure his success.

“I told you; I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Drift repeated. But as he spoke, his gaze met Wing’s -calm, steady, filled with that quiet kindness so uniquely his- and it felt as though the god had looked straight into his soul.
Drift sighed.
“The healer performed a ritual of apology in my place, so a kid wouldn’t have to. He cut his palm, and his blood soaked my clearing. I healed his wound because… his altruism impressed me.”
Velocity rolled her eyes.
Wing, however, remained silent, his gaze lingering on Drift, his expression thoughtful, almost troubled.

“As far as I’m concerned, he could have saved the entire forest from a fire, and it still wouldn’t be reason enough to mark him.” The goddess said, unimpressed. “Remove your mark from him.”

Drift stared at her as if she had just said something absurd.
“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

“That’s your problem.”
Velocity snapped. “Ask Rodimus to burn it, reopen the wound while he sleeps; just get it done.”
With that, she turned and walked away, her long tunic flaring behind her.

Drift watched her go, her figure disappearing into the mist where it began to thicken; the threshold of their divine realm.
“I have no intention of harming the mortal to remove the mark. There has to be another way.”
He said, turning to Wing, hoping for guidance.

But Wing seemed distant.
“You placed your mark on that human without even understanding what it meant. Why?”
Under his calm gaze, heat crept up Drift’s neck, reaching the tips of his pointed ears.
It had been a foolish act; and he knew it.
He, who had always granted blessings to the most skilled hunters but had never marked anyone, now found himself facing the consequences of something he barely understood.

“I… I don’t know.” He admitted quietly. “I just wanted to heal his wound. I didn’t want him to feel pain anymore.”
He lowered his gaze, trying to hide his shame.
But Wing’s hand gently lifted his chin, guiding his eyes back to his.

“I know why you did it.” Wing said softly. “There are things we cannot explain; feelings that take hold of us and refuse to let go.” A pause. “But for your own good… stay away from that mortal.”
Wing’s hand brushed against his cheek, and there was something in his eyes, something veiled, something sad.
“There are ways to remove the mark without causing him physical harm. Make him forget you.”

Drift’s heart skipped.
He could do it. Of course he could.
Ratchet had never even seen him in his human form; it would be easy to appear before him and erase every trace of their encounters from his mind.
And yet, the way the healer had looked at him, the quiet kindness in his voice.
Drift didn’t just want to hold onto it.
He wanted more.

“I know this isn’t easy for you.”
Wing continued, his hand falling away, leaving Drift alone with the weight of his words.
“But trust me… it is better for both of you.”

***

Jazz sat on the wooden bench inside the druid’s hut, his hands pressing insistently against his temples. Around him, the heavy scent of sage and ash did nothing to ease the pain that felt as though it might split his head in two.
“Move your hands.”
Pharma’s voice cut through the haze, dry and unimpressed.

Jazz obeyed, only to feel the druid’s fingers apply something cool and oily to his temples.
“If you just had a headache, you could have gone to Ratchet instead of wasting my time. I’m sure his hut is stocked with peppermint oil and half a dozen other remedies.”
Pharma muttered as Jazz let himself sink into the touch with a quiet sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Pharma, but I really needed to speak to you about this kind of headache.”
Pharma said nothing at first, continuing the slow, deliberate motion of his fingers before finally pulling away. Jazz heard him move around the hut, likely searching for a cloth.

“All right,” he said at last, returning. “Let’s hear it. Why would the village storyteller need the druid?”

“If I may, I prefer ‘village entertainer’… or ‘bane of boredom,’ if you like.”
His attempt at humor was met with an irritated snort.
“I came to you because this headache isn’t caused by the change of seasons, the wind, or anything earthly.”

“Maybe it’s because you never stop talking.”
Pharma replied sharply, and Jazz felt him sit down beside him on the bench.

He couldn’t help but laugh.
“And here I thought you had no sense of humor.”
But sensing the shift in Pharma’s mood -and unwilling to be thrown out before he could finish- Jazz quickly continued.
“The other night, I had… a vision. It was vivid. Real. My eyes saw the sea, my skin felt the wind, my ears heard the crash of the waves.”

He wasn’t sure Pharma fully believed him, but the way the druid held his breath told him he had his attention.
“On the horizon, there was a ship; filled with warriors. They had a sorcerer with them. And when I turned, I saw where they were headed…” A pause. “Our coast. Since that night, the headache hasn’t left me. It comes and goes, but it never truly fades.”
Another pause.
“Like an omen.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?”
Pharma’s tone might have sounded dismissive -almost brusque- to anyone else, but Jazz’s keen hearing caught the note of concern beneath it.
And that was all he needed to know.
Pharma believed him.

“No, it wasn’t a dream. One moment I was in the village, surrounded by laughter and the warmth of the fire; and the next, I was suspended above the sea.”
Jazz tilted his head slightly toward where he sensed the druid standing.
“Pharma… I didn’t see that vision as shadows and fragments pieced together from memory. I saw it with a clarity I thought I had lost after… the accident.”

For a moment, Pharma said nothing.
Then Jazz heard him sigh.
“If what you’re saying is true -if a ship full of warriors is heading our way- then we need to inform Optimus.”
Jazz didn’t need sight to feel the weight of Pharma’s gaze on his face, as though he were trying to read the truth behind the blindfold.
“Now, go. I’ll consult the gods myself and decide what to do.”
Jazz nodded slowly, reaching for the gnarled staff he sometimes used when venturing too far from his hut, and made his way toward the door.

His fingers traced the wood of the door before settling on the handle.
“Between the vision, the headaches, and the… rather noticeable presence of the gods, I’d say there’s little doubt that something significant is unfolding.”

“What do you mean?”
Pharma’s voice came from just behind him.

“Ratchet went into the woods. When he returned… he carried Drift’s mark.”
Jazz didn’t need to turn around -or to see- to know that Pharma had gone completely still.
“I felt it. As clearly as I feel Wing’s mark on Optimus.”
A pause.
“I don’t know what happened in those woods. But it’s… reassuring, in a way, to know that one of us has caught the attention of a deity as important as the god of the hunt. Don’t you think?”
When no answer came, Jazz knew the conversation was over.
And so, he left.

Once outside the hut, Jazz stood still for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun on his skin.
It was strange; despite the hint of winter in the air, he had always found the autumn sun warmer than at any other time of year.

Slowly, he began to walk along the dirt paths of the village, letting his staff guide him, warning him of anything in his way -a rock, a root- while the voices of passersby greeted him cheerfully.
But one voice stood out from the rest. And that was enough to catch his attention.
Prowl greeted him, his tone urgent, brushing past him quickly and leaving behind a familiar scent; one Jazz would have recognized anywhere.
Prowl smelled clean. Fresh. Like someone who washed regularly in the river, even during the colder seasons. And beneath that, a faint trace of lavender, an oil Ratchet had once recommended to help him stay calm.
Jazz liked it.
“Where are you going?”
He asked, turning slightly, picking out Prowl’s footsteps among the others as they came to a halt.

“Home.” Came the curt reply.

“Alone?” Jazz asked, taking a step toward him.

“Do you see anyone else with me?”

“Well, no. Not at all.” Jazz laughed softly, and without another word, he reached out, brushing Prowl’s cheeks with his fingertips.
Just as he had imagined. Warm.
He was definitely blushing.

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”
Jazz heard him falter, his words stumbling over themselves. His fingers lingered a moment longer before slowly withdrawing, as if reluctant to break the contact.

“You’ll never get used to it, will you?”
He heard Prowl sigh, tired.
Sometimes Jazz had the feeling that, between the two of them, it was Prowl who had been most affected by his blindness.

Since the accident, Prowl had taken care of him; bringing him first to Ratchet, then to Pharma, hoping one of them could restore his sight.
But there had been nothing they could do.
So Prowl had guided him by the hand through the village until he had memorized every path. He had helped him dress until he could manage on his own. He had offered his arm countless times during their walks, and even now, though Jazz no longer needed it, he still leaned on him.

Of all of them, Jazz seemed the least troubled by his loss of sight.
Because despite everything, he had gained something far more precious.
Revelation; clairvoyance. The ability to see beyond appearances, even through the disguises of the gods.
The privilege of speaking directly with them.

And yet, Jazz would have given it all up.
Everything.
Just to see Prowl’s sky-blue eyes one last time.
To see his cheeks flushed by the cold wind, his brown hair catching the autumn light, his lips curving into that familiar, irritated expression that suited him so well.
Yes. He would have given up everything, just to see him once more.

“You can make it up to me by offering me something to drink.”
Jazz said it lightly, a faint smile on his lips, ignoring the dull ache beginning to pulse at his temples, something he was slowly getting used to.

“I don’t have any beer or mead.” Prowl replied. “I just got back from a meeting with Optimus Prime.”
But Jazz had already slipped his hand around his arm, and Prowl, without thinking, had started walking toward the familiar path that led to his hut.

“It doesn’t matter. Milk and honey will do.”
And so, Jazz found himself seated on a fur-covered wooden bench inside Prowl’s hut, a warm cup cradled in his hands. The faint tang of milk mingled with the sweetness of honey, the scent rising lazily to his senses.

They sat in silence for a while.
And that was fine.
There are few people with whom silence feels natural, comfortable, even.
But eventually, the minstrel’s curiosity got the better of him.
“So… what did you talk about with Optimus?”

“The usual. Livestock, harvest, preparations for winter.”
A brief pause. Jazz heard him blow gently on his drink.
“Jazz… I know I told you the other night that what you saw might not mean anything; that it could have just been the mead. But while I was speaking with Optimus, I couldn’t stop wondering if I should tell him anyway.”

Jazz tilted his head slightly in his direction, easily picturing the thoughtful, conflicted expression on his face.
“I told Pharma. I think he believes me.”

“All the more reason, then. We should organize a meeting; you, me, Elita, Optimus, and Pharma. So you can tell them what you saw.”

“I think Ratchet should be there too.” Jazz added calmly, taking a slow sip of the warm milk and honey, savoring its soft, creamy sweetness.

“Ratchet?” Prowl echoed, and once again Jazz didn’t need sight to imagine the slight lift of a brow. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

“I don’t know yet.”
Jazz replied, lightly tapping his fingers against the cup.
“But I have a feeling his new… divine acquaintance might be able to help us.”

***

Ratchet’s ears had been ringing all day.
At first, he ignored it, pretending nothing was wrong. But after a while, a doubt crept in; could someone be talking about him?
No. Impossible.
He didn’t lead an adventurous or particularly interesting life. He had no relationships that could possibly make him the center of rumors or gossip. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was happening behind his back.
By evening, though, he had already dismissed the thought entirely. Why would anyone care about him beyond his skills as a healer?

The sky was slowly turning red as Ratchet sat outside his hut, on a bench carved from the trunk of an old fallen tree, quietly admiring the small garden of medicinal herbs he had cultivated over time.
He knew he should hurry, gather the last twigs, cut the remaining roots before nature slipped into its long, inevitable sleep until spring.
But for now, he simply sat there, contemplating his work with quiet pride.

“Are you watching the grass grow?”
A voice asked mockingly.
Ratchet turned to see Pharma leaning against the wooden fence surrounding the garden, his white tunic hidden beneath a dark cloak, his long blond hair shifting lazily in the evening breeze.

“I’d say I’m watching it hibernate.”
Ratchet replied calmly.
Pharma didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed open the gate and stepped inside, though he didn’t sit beside him.
“Did you miss me that much?”
The healer asked, glancing at him with mild curiosity. It was rare to see Pharma outside his own hut.

“Oh no,” Pharma replied dryly. “I came to retrieve my ceremonial dagger. You never told me how your little apology went.”

“Well, I think it went well. No news is good news.”
But Pharma’s gray eyes narrowed.
Without waiting for permission, the druid stepped into Ratchet’s hut.
“It’s on the table; try not to mess anything up. I just cleaned.”
Ratchet muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around himself, not bothering to follow him inside.

A moment later, Pharma reemerged, fastening the sheath at his waist.
“You know, Ratchet, for someone who claims not to believe, and who just returned from a ritual, you seem remarkably calm.”
There was something in Pharma’s tone, something Ratchet couldn’t quite place. But it was enough to put him on edge.

“Are you saying I should be more agitated? Perhaps I’m supposed to be having some kind of mystical vision?”
Ratchet asked, rolling his eyes.

But Pharma didn’t look amused.
“Show me the hand you used to draw the blood.”
At that request, the healer opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. What fault was it of his if the god of the hunt himself had healed the cut? What fault was it of his if that same god had slipped into his hut that very evening?
Well… not that Ratchet had any real proof. But the way that fox had looked at him had been far too familiar to be a coincidence.

“Why should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”
For a moment, they simply stared at each other.
Then Ratchet, almost instinctively, tucked his right hand beneath his cloak.
The gesture didn’t escape Pharma’s sharp gaze. If anything, it confirmed his suspicions.
“So… did you have some kind of divine encounter that suddenly turned you into a believer?”

“I’ve always believed in the gods.” Ratchet muttered, eager to end the conversation. “I just don’t believe in magic, omens, apparitions; anything I can’t see.”
And yet, he had heard Drift’s voice clearly. He had felt the rough tongue of the stag against his hand. He had recognized that same gaze in the fox’s eyes.

Part of him wanted to tell Pharma everything, just to be done with it.
But another part -quieter, more stubborn- refused. Whatever had happened in the woods it was his.
Ratchet didn’t want anyone else to know. Least of all Pharma.

“All right.” The druid said at last, the sharp glint in his eyes dimming. “Then let me remind you of one thing.”
He paused.
“Look into any legend, any tale in which a god becomes attached to a human, and you’ll find that none of them end well.”
With that, Pharma turned, his cloak sweeping behind him as he stepped through the small gate and left.

“Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind next time I run into a god.”
Ratchet muttered.
But Pharma didn’t stop. Only when he was gone did Ratchet finally exhale, as if he had been holding his breath the entire time.
The sun was setting, taking the last of its warmth with it, leaving only a cool breeze in its wake. It was time to go back inside.

*

That night, Ratchet’s dreams were more restless than ever.
Images flashed before his eyes -blood, deer, arrows- chasing him as he ran barefoot through unfamiliar woods, dark branches tangling in his tunic, clawing at him as he tried to escape.

When he opened his eyes, wrapped in his fur blankets, his body was drenched in sweat.
It was still the dead of night, judging by the cold moonlight filtering through the cracks in the hut.
Ratchet tried to sit up, dragging a hand over his damp face, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he forced himself upright.

But as soon as he tried to move his right hand, he realized he couldn’t.
Something was holding it.
A jolt of panic shot through him as he turned; and found two golden eyes staring back at him, wide, mirroring his own shock, set in the most striking face he had ever seen.
His hand was clasped in the stranger’s, palm turned upward.

For a moment, Ratchet could only stare at those features, softened by the pale light of the moon.
Two streaks of red paint ran beneath those golden eyes, shaped like lightning bolts against sun-kissed skin. White hair fell to his shoulders like silk, some strands braided with gold thread, others adorned with bone beads. His pointed ears were lined with silver rings and crowning his head a pair of magnificent deer antlers.

For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other.
Then Ratchet opened his mouth to scream.
But the sound never came.
The stranger’s hand clamped over his mouth, swallowing the cry and reducing it to a muffled gasp.
“Please- don’t be afraid.”
The voice was warm. Soft. Like summer itself.

Ratchet’s breath came in sharp, uneven bursts.
The man tried to pull his hand away, but the moment the pressure eased, Ratchet tried to scream again.
And was silenced once more.
“Ssh! You’ll wake the whole village like this!”
The man’s voice sharpened, urgent now, his hand still firm against Ratchet’s lips.

But Ratchet twisted just enough to force out a few words.
“Who… who the hell are you?”
He tried to pull away, but the grip around his wrist was iron-strong.
“What are you?”
He corrected, his gaze flicking from the man’s face to the antlers.

“That’s not a very polite question, is it?”
There was a hint of irritation in the stranger’s voice.
This couldn’t be real.
Ratchet had to be dreaming. It was the only explanation; anything else would mean accepting that something like this had slipped into his home and was holding him there for reasons he couldn’t even begin to understand.

He wanted to struggle. To run. To scream again and call for help.
But then, something in the man’s gaze caught his attention.
A spark. A glint he had seen before.
No.
It couldn’t be.
He had to be losing his mind.
“Drift…?”
The name slipped from his lips in a breath.