Her Greatest Son

[stainless]

Title: Her Greatest Son
Characters/Pairing: Mother-Allspark (see notes), Megatron, Optimus, Sari, Prof. Sumdac briefly
Verse: eerian_sadow's Mother-Allspark AU (which is an AU of Transformers Animated)
Wordcount: 1,580+
Rating: PG because it's sad.
Warnings: Spoilers for Megatron Rising, character death, general melancholy
Summary: This is, as I mention above, set in eerian_sadow's Mother-Allspark AU (basically TFA with the Allspark as a character, who I'm so glad she let me borrow for this.) This is basically my telling of the climactic moment of Megatron Rising from the Allspark's point of view.

Thanks to meaisin_caoin @ lj for beta.

The Allspark heard the noise and rattle of the missiles striking the ship, though she did not need to hear them. She did not need audio sensors to hear or optics to see what was happening beyond.

Even if she'd had neither, she would have known her son was coming.

He was close enough now that she could sense his thoughts: fierce and bright thoughts, thoughts the colors of flame and fire. The orange of molten metal. The yellow of crackling electricity. The white of the sparks of the victors -- and of the fading sparks of the dying.

If she had possessed legs or similar servos, she would have fled. But not because she was afraid of him.

She did not fear him. How could a mother fear her own child?

Especially when so many sparks like his swirled within her. Some had come before him, long since freed by war from the frames that had held them. Others wheeled and spun, singing songs of conquest as they waited to be born.

Some would follow him, if they could. Some would defy him. All felt his presence, their turning quickening as they sensed him coming close.

Their dance filled her with sorrow, a sorrow that she'd carried from the beginning of this war. The warrior sparks she held were proud, proud and hard, and she wanted to take a mother's pride in them.

But the war her son had begun so many vorns ago turned her children against her children, warriors and peacemakers alike, tearing at one another until all was ruin.

If they knew, the ones like her son, swirling with anticipation as he burst into the room where she lay hidden, they did not understand. Or did not care.

The cost would be greater even than watching her children rend one another. Their war had come, finally, to another world.

The creatures here were short-lived, fragile, shining brightly with life and then passing away. If her children's war spread here for good, the warriors would crush these beings under their heels.

The creatures were small, yes, small and strange. But they were some other creator's children, and they would suffer at the hands of her great son and the hands of her sons and daughters who took up his banner.

The Allspark knew the pain of losing children, knew it over and over until she spun and churned with it, wheeling endlessly over and through herself, seeking balm and finding none. She did not wish such pain on any other creator, however strange a creature it might be.

And one of the daughters here was, somehow, both her child and the child of an alien creator: a spark like those she held within, wreathed in the flesh of the alien beings. How it had happened, the Allspark did not know, but it had. The child -- for it was a child even by the reckoning of these short-lived creatures -- was hers and yet not hers, of this world and of her own.

That small daughter was with her now, beating on the metal of her casing. Her words were strange, her message clear: "He is coming. Do something. Help me. Save us and yourself."

I am sorry, smallest daughter, she answered, in words she knew the child would not understand, and would rail at even if she did. I cannot fight him. I cannot defy him. He, too, is my son. And those who follow him, their optics fierce and bright, are as much my children as you are. This war is not mine to fight or to win.

But if you fall, I swear to you I will remember, so long as sparks remain for me to birth and hold, to carry within and bestow and take back when lives' journeys are ended.

She tore herself from her despair to see another of her sons striving with him. This one was young, young and afraid. But he had honed his fear into an energy that drove him on. It gave speed and force to his wild leap as he threw himself at her great son, driving him into the wall beyond.

It was nowhere near enough. With one kick, her great son sent the younger sprawling.

Do not do this, my great son, she thought wildly, even as her children within danced to hear his gloating. Do not use me for destruction. Your enemies too are my sons and daughters. Harm them yourself, if you will it. But do not use me in this. Please.

Then another of the little ones came forth, something sparking in his hands. The energy caught her great son by the feet, and he crashed to the floor in his turn.

She knew the small creature. He was kin, somehow, to her small daughter. She did not understand it. But whatever passed for the small thing's spark, somehow he too was a creator, with a creator's love for the tiny young one.

I will remember your bravery, too, she promised, co-creator of my smallest child.

And then there was only her great son and his gloating, as he swept his enemies aside, scattering them like ashes.

The unborn warriors inside her sang. Her great son reached into her housing and drew her forth, the bright sphere of her light shining in his hands.

His own chest lay open, his spark beating in time to her pulsing as she recoiled.

Slowly, carefully, his red optics gleaming in anticipation, he drew her to his chest, his spark crackling a welcome.

Frantic, throbbing wildly in her fear, she sent him the images that she had drawn from his mind.

Himself, a blinding light seeping out from between his chest plates even once he'd closed them again as the union of his own spark and her power filled the housing in his chest to overflowing. His kind, their optics gleaming scarlet and pitiless as they fell on anything and anyone in their way.

That pleased him, as she knew it would.

Then she sent the rest.

The others, the peacemakers, fallen and suffering, the metal of their frames twisted beyond recognition. Their azure optics, cracked and broken, staring up at nothing. Their chests torn open, their sparks' light fading as they guttered and died.

Those sparks would have no place to go back to after the frames that held them failed. Not if he hid her within his chest, tucked away where they could not reach. Even the warriors would not return unless he opened to admit them.

He would, probably. They were his kind. But he could refuse, if he deemed them unworthy.

And she did not know what would become of the sparks of her peacemakers, her gentle sons and daughters. Perhaps they would swirl through the galaxies forever, seeking their rest and never finding it.

Perhaps, without their home to return to, they would simply fade away.

You are a warrior, my great son. To you, all things are weapons. But I was not built to become your weapon. I was not made to destroy what I create.

The dark hand paused, holding her. She twisted and wheeled, her warrior children eager to join him, the rest of her holding them back.

He stared a long moment. Then a grin spread over his silver faceplates, hard and cold.

"What is this, now? Vorns ago, I made my choice. There was no going back. Did you really think I made it without understanding its price?"

The hand moved swiftly, too quickly for thought or memory. Then a fierce consciousness caught her, gripped and held her, and her warrior children sang again in answer.

Energy burst free from her -- from her and from him, entwined at the root, merged through to the deep beginning. It caught and held her younger son, who roared his agony.

And his shame. He had lost. And all would be lost. For him, and his kin, and all the galaxies.

I am sorry, my brave young one, she thought, even as her power sped toward his spark, overcharged, lethal.

Her smallest daughter cried his name. She quailed. One son's agony was already too much.

Why have you cursed me, my greatest son?

And then she saw it, faint in her own light, caught and held in her young son's hand. A gift from her to her smallest daughter, not so very long ago.

A gift that could end this, if her young son realized how to use it.

The young one stared into the light, through the weakness and the pain.

His blue optics widened. He understood.

Then he shook in shame and fear. He was a soldier, but only because he had to be. His kind were peacemakers, and did not destroy.

It was one of her children that answered him. One of the warriors, who had long since lived her time and returned, on the wings of fire and burning, to her mother's waiting core long vorns ago.

Strike, damn you! Pathetic fool. Strike, or we're all lost.

He did.

The Allspark felt it pierce her, a horrible shattering pain. For long moments, its torment was all she knew.

Then her own light seared away all other awareness. She burst, her children flying free of her in all directions, to live or drift or perish as fate saw fit.

I love you, my children, she thought as it tore her apart. I wish you all bright destinies.

Even you, my greatest son.