Chapter 1: Trisha
Chapter Text
Trisha is a very proud mother. Proud of Edward in all ways any mother could be.
From the very moment he was born, she knew, he'd be great. Great at anything he wished to be.
“Anything but alchemy”, she whispered to the night, rocking him to sleep. “Anything but that.”
He was a loud toddler, wailing and crying but never without reason. He was clingy, tugging at her hair when she carried him, and later on when he grew, at her dress.
He was born in the snow of 1889. And for a baby born in winter, he grew to be healthy and warm. He was always loud, attentive, and driven. He was also active, zapping from one place to another with wide eyes that looked at Resembool with interest that could pick everything apart.
Once, she found him staring at Hohenheim’s study with interest and she pulled him apart before he figured out what it was. He was intelligent like that. “But why mommmmm?” He had whined. She doesn’t remember what she said.
What she does remember, is entering his study the very same night. She stared at the shelves filled with books. Wishing she could burn them and take them away from her son.
In the end, nothing she did prevented Alchemy from finding him. Even if Resembool is a small town, alchemy is well-known in Amestris. He found out and excitedly told her. She had wanted to cry.
He was six at the time.
He continued to grow, and so did his curiosity. Resembool’s library grew small, and so he turned to her. He was ten, so he still came to her.
He was ten when she first gave him one of Hohenheim’s books.
And he devoured it, soaking every word and array like a sponge. A few months later, he asked for another book. And she saw his eyes, shining and pleading, filled with life and interest, and love for this science. She gave it to him.
A year later, Ed pulled her apart from the kitchen and sat her at the table with all the seriousness an eleven-year-old could muster.
“Mom. Look.” Solemnly, he pulled out a block of clay, a piece of paper, and a pen. “Mom, focus because this is amazing,”
She knew where this was going, but instead of apprehension, her heart fluttered with happiness at the excitement in his face. “What is this Ed?”
“This is clay, mom. Clayyyyyyy from Mister Hans of the store. It made up of-” She heard all his rant about the components of clay, the structure of the array, and how it all worked.
“-everything is equivalent Mom, so I'll take this an-” She saw Hohenheim but also saw herself. She saw his passion but she also saw her tenacity. She saw she still loved Hohenheim, even if he left.
“-owwwwww see. This is what happens.” He placed his hands on the array, and blue light shone in plain daylight.
Once the alchemy was gone, she saw a little duck made of the previous lump of clay. A miracle she never expected, even if she still dreams of his return, to see it again.
At eleven, her son did his first transmutation.
“Seee Mom, see that. I just did that.” Ed said, taking the duck, jumping off the chair with the new duck and then handing it to her.
She loves Ed and still loves his father—Hohenheim, who left. Who left for some reason she knew, was because of this science her son loved so much. Behind the things he hid, and continues to hide.
“You did Ed.” She took her son in her arms and hugged him. “You did.”
They celebrated that night.
A year later, war bloomed in the south, and she was glad it was far from her and her son. The Rockbells left, wanting to help, leaving their two-year-old Winry to Pinako. She took Edward with her the next day, just so he would meet Winry, and learn how to help.
Sometimes she wondered, is Hohenheim there? Is he in that war? Yet, she never ruminated about it for long. He'd survive.
When Ed turned fifteen, she let Ed enter Hohenheim's office. She saw no point in keeping it closed, as she had given a grand part of his books one by one to Ed. At least this way, he’d get to explore as much as he wanted.
That day; she sat him down, and told him about his father. Who he was. How she loved him, and how he left.
Ed simply mulled it over and said. “He made you happy. I guess that is enough for now.”
And that was it.
For all of Ed’s temper. (All hers.) he left it at that. Never to be mentioned again.
But, she knows Ed doesn’t like Hohenheim. Not with how he pulled his face in a frown and pursed his lips as he entered the office for the first time.
Yet, Ed is an alchemist and respects knowledge. So he leaves it like that.
He grew up, feeling nothing for a father he never saw.
Around this time, Winry was already a five-year-old with a big smiles and a kind heart. Ed never said, but he had a soft spot for her, constantly spoiling her rotten. She was like a small sister to him.
Trisha wished Hohenheim was here to see his son grow to be a great person, alchemist, and friend.
She wishes she could give him a brother. She wants another son, to nurture another boy or girl that can accompany her and Ed. That can support Ed when she isn’t around. But Hohenheim isn’t here. So she only wishes.
When Ed was sixteen, she began to worry.
War continued. Ishval did not back down. Neither did Amestris. She saw newspaper after newspaper narrating the events.
She knew Ed was of age. She knew he could be drafted. So, from then on, she waited and waited for a letter to come and take Ed away.
Ed noticed and he comforted her with a smile. “It’ll be fine, Mom. They probably don’t even know I exist.” He said, grinning and laughing. “‘Sides, I’m not leaving this little girl on her own. She needs someone she can pester about automail.” He ruffled Winry’s hair, and she pouted, glaring at him before breaking into a fit of chuckles. “Pipsqueak.”
“Heyyy!” Winry said, eyes widening and pouting again.
Ed left to drop Winry off with Pinako, leaving her wishing this could last a little longer.
On Ed’s eigheenth birthday, they celebrated with Pinako and Winry and a couple of neighbors. They sang and cut a cake.
The next day, an officer of the military passed through town asking for the alchemist living in Resembool. Apparently, word of voice had reached East City about a genius Alchemist. A self-taught genius, proficient and innovative with his arrays. An Alchemist who knew arrays like the back of his hand, his area of expertise being everything. She wished Ed never took after Hohenheim in this. She, and everyone she knew, tried to hide Ed. Tried to be tight-lipped. Guarded.
Nothing worked. They found out and Ed’s existence as an alchemist was revealed to the military, to the recruiters.
She cried that night. And wished she could just tuck Ed away from that hell. But she couldn’t even get his father to stay. What could she even do?
The next day, Ed took her out for a walk. They visited Winry. Ed kept her entertained while she talked to Pinako. They returned home, ate, and then sat down.
They talked. Talked about what would happen while he was on duty, what they’d do when he came back. And what- and what she’d do if he… didn’t. Ed was methodical about it. Careful, patient, and regretful though he never voiced the last. He looked reluctant, but he knew there was nothing he could do.
They planned. Then, they waited.
He was called to East City and came back with a silver clock and a nickname. She wants to erase the picture of him in the uniform from her mind.
“Apparently, I am the second alchemist to enter this young.” He said to her. At the moment they were sitting on the porch of the house. She was looking at him, and he stared at that damned silver clock. He was dressed in blues, and she could do nothing about it. He chuckled but it sounded distant. “Always breaking records anywhere I go right?”
She wished he didn’t.
He came and went, claiming a family member needed special care as an excuse. For my power, he said to her, they leave me off the hook.
When he could, he continued to play with Winry, working off jobs and studying at the library as he had always done. They ate dinner, talked, and slept.
She saw him grow stronger and more cautious. His back getting tenser and straighter with the need to resist all the weight that fell on him.
He came and went between East City and Resembool, and Trisha missed him every day he was gone.
The new year rolled in. They celebrated. She deluded herself into thinking they avoided war. That Ed would not see the frontlines. Ed was wary but matched her energy with smiles and loud laughter.
On the first day of 1908, Amestrian Führer King Bradley issued the executive order #3066.
That morning Ed hugged her, hugged her so hard she could hardly breathe.
A letter arrived a month later, hidden underneath the piles of newspapers. It said:
Major Edward Elric, also known as the Golden Alchemist, is hereby directed to present himself at South City’s military base camp to serve his duties as State Alchemist in the Ishvalan War, as demanded by Executive Order #3066.
Failure to comply will lead to execution by gunfire for betraying and deserting his duties to Amestris.
Signed: Führer King Bradley.
Ed crushed the letter in his fist and walked outside. He shouted his lungs out. She cried.
She helped him pack, but there wasn’t much she could add to the luggage. Nothing that would protect him over there. When she wasn't looking, he took a photo of all of them together. She never noticed.
She walked him to Pinako’s place and saw him promise Winry he’d return, to play with her, help with her automails, and make new friends. Winry cried and Pinako had to take her inside just so she wouldn’t run after him.
She took Ed towards the train station, looking at him one last time before he marched towards hell and sand. They hugged, and no words could be said. She cried on her shoulder and so did he. Both enjoyed the last few seconds together.
“Take care, Ed.”
My son, my pride. Please, please, don’t die. Come back to me. Alive.
“I promise Mom. I’ll come back.”
The train left and she stood there, hoping that the determination in his eyes was enough to help him pull through.
Chapter 2: Edward
Summary:
The trip to South City and the first month in Ishval.
Notes:
This chapter is a bit longer (I think). I hope you enjoy it, and hope you have a nice day. I'm sorry if the format is horrible on computer, but i idk how to put it differently.
Thank you for reading.
Also, don't expect updates to come as frequently as this one. I have a math exam tomorrow and I haven't studied (if I fail I risk failing the whole subject) because I was speed-writing this. I have other exams that I need to lock in for, but I won't abandon this. (fr fr)
Thanksssssss
also, if someone wants to help me proofread and correct the text, id be so grateful fr. For me, that is the hardest part of writing. (I can help in exchange. I am jus unable to do it with my texts.)
Chapter Text
The train ride was uneventful. There were few passengers and even fewer stops. There hung a heavy silence, as they trekked through the borders of the East area and entered the South.
War, he could see, haunted even the villages here. They were ghostly silent, not a person wandering around, or children playing about. More stations were closed, so the train did not stop.
He was not surprised. War haunted everyone, including them, in Resembool. It haunted his mother, who cried for him. He hated it. He never wanted to be the reason his mother cried.
He clenched his hand in a fist and huffed. He hates this. All of it. The uniform is stuffy. Rigid. Unwanted. The silver watch on his waist taunts him.
The train passed another village, as empty as the last, and he glared at the landscape.
Normally, riding the train is left for special occasions. Like visiting East City to get some fancy gift, or for a short visit to the library when researching.
Lately, the notion haunts him. It’s a daunting idea to ride the train. He grows restless, his leg moving tirelessly. He has been forced to ride the train in blues lately, and he wants to tear the uniform apart.
He hates, how his mother looked at him, terrified and angry, but not angry at him.
He hates it.
He buries himself under alchemical arrays and equations. Estimating how sand would vary from the earth back home. How he should change the arrays correspondingly? How to make the alchemical circles more efficient, less time-consuming, and less dangerous to use when fighting.
He hates it.
When the array is over it looks deadly.
He crushes the paper in his fist and starts again.
He hates it.
He lets out a huff and closes his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping well, spending more and more time with his mother and riding trains between East City and home before he couldn’t return.
The train stops and he opens his eyes. It’s a train station taken over by the military. By his people. He takes his luggage and exits the train. Officers are walking around, supplies and weapons ready to be shipped off.
He ignores the movement around him and walks towards one of the military officers staring around, who is writing something in a small notebook.
“When does the train leave?”
The military officer grumbles something under his breath before he looks up. His uniform is messy, and the haircut is wrong. He has seen enough military lately to know that much.
He is also young. Young enough to be only five years older than Winry. He doesn’t want to think that he’s just two years older than this kid.
Once he sees the stars and lines on his shoulders he scrambles to fix his posture, giving a sloppy salute.
“Major, Sir! At 04:00 tomorrow, sir.”
...He hates this.
His face must show his distaste because the kid straightens his back so much he looks like he is about to snap. He didn't drop the salute.
“Thanks. At ease, kid.” He says under his breath and walks away.
He hears a sigh behind him, and he can’t help but mirror it. This is going to be a long… never mind.
He already wants to go home.
He has to repeat that a few more times, just so he can ask where he can sleep. Most of them fumbled, failing to give an exact place until one finally got it right.
Turns out there were makeshift barracks in what once was a waiting room. It’s cramped, and there is a lack of higher-ranked officers, probably because most are already stationed at Ishval. He is the higher-ranking officer in this makeshift base. Officers don’t ask him for orders, thankfully.
He throws his bag onto the floor and flops into the cardboard bed.
It’s a mess.
Everything is.
“Fuck.”
He swears and unbuttons his jacket, throwing it over a chair. He kicks off his boots and lets go of his hair. He has always liked it a bit long, similar length to his mother’s.
He doesn’t want to think about how they’ll probably cut it short when he gets there.
How he managed to preserve this length until now, is a miracle. State alchemists got a slightly preferential treatment, he realized. Not that he is complaining. Hopefully, he’ll be able to keep it as is.
He doesn’t change into a nightgown, knowing he’ll have to leave early.
Before he sleeps, he takes a look at the watch on his waist. He scratched a small array, barely visible when he got it. He activates it and the watch opens.
He stares at the picture of his mother, Winry, and Pinako. It hasn’t been two days and he misses them dearly. He traces the edge of the watch, pensive.
Then, an officer comes barging in saluting.
“Major, sir!”
He closes the watch in a flash of blue light and stares at the military officer. The same one he first encountered.
“Yes?”
He says, annoyed. Truly, if the guy comes for orders he’ll just say: Fuck off.
On the other hand, the officer looks amazed at the small showcase of alchemy. It’s the same look people would give him in Resembool. As if he is a miracle worker.
It reminds him of his mother when he first showed his first array.
“Sir, the train schedule has been changed. It leaves at 03:00, sir!”
He sighs, waving at the guy to relax. “Alright, officer…” he pauses, trying to see the name in the golden badge.
“Military officer Michael, sir!”
“Uh alright. At ease, Michael.”
The officer relaxes. This time, he skips the title. Why? Because he can and hates military titles.
They look at each mother, not knowing what to do now. He coughs slightly and Michael jumps slightly.
“Anything else?”
“No sir. By your leave.”
He salutes and leaves before Ed can ask him to not call him sir or major.
Ed sighs.
“Damn this.”
He falls asleep to the lull of the silent barracks.
He wakes up just in time to put on his jacket and rush to the train. Michael is nowhere to be seen, and instead just watches as officers load the train with boxes and boxes of what he guesses are weapons.
He boards the train, sitting in the empty wagon. The entire train is empty from what he can hear. Probably packed with weapons, though.
He does know how to feel about it. But this was his assigned train, so he could say nothing.
Taking out a notebook and a pencil, he busies himself with arrays. He draws circle after circle. While calculating.
If he needs to defend himself in a desert, sand, and heat are going to be abundant. Now, sand is not that much of a bad material for alchemical reactions. He just needs other materials to compliment. In the case he doesn’t have that, he can simply change the form of sand and make constructions out of it. The problem with that is stability. Sand is not known for his stability but if he were the presurice it with…
He starts to sketch, making mathematical calculations and approximations while rambling in his thoughts.
He is so immersed he doesn’t notice the figure standing in front of him.
…if he could potentially find a way to humidify the sand, and then extract the water from it while applying pressure he could…
The figure coughs slightly.
…then he’d have pressured balls of sand that have no cost. The form would be aerodynamic, opening for the possibility of throwing them at high speed. Like bullets. But that is if the sand is wet before transmuting because If not…
The figure coughs again.
…who the fuck?
“If you need cough drops ask someone else.” He grumbles, not looking up from the paper. He’s angry they interrupted his calculations. Not because of how damn early it is. Not at all.
Now where did he leave off?
“Is this place taken?”
He raises an eyebrow and looks at the man.
And almost choked.
“Do yo-… I um no. It isn’t.”
In front of him stands a huge blond man, with a ridiculous mustache and massive muscles.
He swallows a sarcastic comment along the lines of Do you see anyone else here? Because one punch of this man can have him killed (maybe not but still).
The man smiles and sits down.
Cue in the uncomfortable silence where he stares at the ma- at the major, who is also probably another state alchemist .
Well done Edward. Don’t be surprised if he shoots you in the back later.
His leg moves restlessly and the train leaves the station behind.
Is it too late to leave?
Staring grows too uncomfortable, fuck him and his lack of people skills , so he just returns to his equations.
He starts sketching another array when the man speaks.
“It’s nice to see another state alchemist around here.”
His tone is amicable and conversational. He looks up, just to see the man tilting his head while looking at the array he is drawing.
Okey, socialize Edward. Simple enough.
“Um… yes.”
He pauses and thinks. His name. He should introduce himself.
“I’m Edward Elric. A pleasure to meet you, erm…”
“Alex Louis Armstrong. The strong arm alchemist.” The man smiles amicably and offers one massive hand for Edward to shake.
He complies and is met by hands tough with callouses. Similar to his.
He realizes he didn’t say the moniker.
“Umm, I’m the golden Alchemist.”
Armstrong’s eyes widen.
“Oh, you are the other youngster.”
He raises an eyebrow at that.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“There’s a lot of rumors about you. But I can’t help but notice how different you are from Mustang.”
“Mustang?”
Armstrong leans in the cushions, his hair, which isn’t abundant but he won’t comment, shines in the morning sun. Which is frankly a comical sight.
“Yeah. Mustang was the other youngest state alchemist around. Until you came to the picture. He was rather bitter that someone took his title already.”
Ed snorts. “What a pompous ass.”
Armstrong chokes on air as he stares at Ed.
He realizes what he said, and hurries to cover up. “I mean, yeah. Technically I did not take his record. Just… replicated it? We share it, technically speaking.”
Armstrong blinks and then smiles brightly. “You have a bright mind, Golden, that I can see.”
Ed almost frowns at the moniker.
“Yeah. Don’t call me that. Edward, Elric, Ed can do just fine.” He adds.
Armstrong nods solemnly. “Then it is only fair you call me by my name, Elric.”
Ed nods and they return to a now comfortable silence. The train ride might not be that bad.
They spent eight long hours, talking about alchemy, sleeping, and silence.
Armstrong, Ed learned, was a very ceremonious and often exaggerated man. Grand gestures and expressions seemed to be his trademark and Ed didn’t mind. Because it meant he was honest, and Ed respects honesty.
When they arrived, they were guided to the South City’s command center.
It’s interesting, now that he has time to mull it over, that they are called to South City. Sure, Resembool is closer to Ishval, and by comparison, is further away here, yet Ed can’t bring himself to care.
He reports to a general, and he hates the man the moment he sees him. Pompous, prideful, and arrogant. He barked orders at Ed and he wanted to simply punch that self-sufficient smile out of his face.
Patience Ed, his mother's voice says. Patience.
Yeah patience, unless I want to be executed.
He saluted him and received the orders and instructions.
Turns out he is here to ambush the Ishvalans by entering from the South and then circling the East. Then, he’d encounter all other Amestrian forces and the rest of the enemy on the front lines.
He is, essentially, part of an ambush force.
Additionally, the general had all but barked at him, get rid of any Aerugan rebel you may find in the way. He was ordered to kill on sight anything that moved with motives slightly anti-Amestrian.
Fucking great.
He was paired with Armstrong, and they’d be the two-state alchemists of the missions.
Now, he sits in the bed he was given in the barracks. The actual barracks of the military base in the south city.
He was mulling over how he’d use alchemy.
He had seen Armstrong’s gauntlets while they were checked when they registered. They were practical and, while not light, definitely fit for the alchemist.
He needs a way that allows him to quickly start alchemical reactions. Fast, light, and malleable enough he can shape into anything he wants.
They were given three days to rest and prepare for departure, so he would use this time to get his weapon and imprint his array.
With that clear, he went to sleep.
He did a lot with those three days.
With the help of Armstrong and a few of his family contacts, a motion so political that he wanted to puke, he got enough materials to start working. He made several arrays, each unique and with its own purpose, slowly engraving them in the metal he was given.
After that, he planned the form, and this was the hardest part. Something light, hands-free, and simple to use. With enough material to transmute but transportable.
Finally, after an all-nighter, he figured it out. He transmuted the metal into two arm bracers. Thick enough to transmute, but light enough to have it in his arms. They went underneath his military jacket, which he took off most of the time because of the warm weather and deadly sun.
In the arm bracers, he engraved several arrays mostly around the top, the only part he wouldn’t be able to fully transmute so the arrays wouldn’t disappear, careful to not let them overlap, and potentially lead to a rebound. The arrays allowed him to change the shape into anything he wanted, which would most likely be a weapon. He could move around now changing the whole shape, but it was manageable.
He carries several drawn arrays in all his pockets.
He tries not to think about how he is using alchemy. How he is using his science to harm.
If he had been given more time and materials, he would have made bracers for his legs, but he couldn’t ask for more time, and Armstrong had already done enough.
On the fourth day, they departed by foot.
Armstrong and himself were leading and close in the group respectively. The soldiers marched silently towards Ishval from the South,
The march was long and hot, with the sun warming up the uniform and braces. He activated an array and changed them into thicker bracelets, in that way he would burn himself.
The soldiers in front of him were tense with anticipation, most of their hands over their guns.
He and Armstrong were not given guns.
Probably to save money.
He doesn’t think of the other possibility. One where they are the weapons.
They march and march and the sun goes down, they still have a long way to go, with still no enemy in sight.
It puts him on edge. Like the enemy would jump out from the bushes by his side. They wouldn’t though.
He hoped.
Still, the land around him showed signs of struggle. Small, previously occupied houses, were emptied. Ransacked probably, if the destroyed state attested to it.
They did not rest until the officer in command, a colonel with white hair, made them stop. They didn’t arm a camp, instead sleeping on the floor with their jackets as cover. They aren’t in the desert, so the night is not as cold as he heard it was over there. But a chill runs the land and flutters his uniform.
The colonel called them over (the two-state alchemists in the group.)
“Stay on guard, majors. Keep guard and kill any threat to the group. We resume the march by 03:00 on point.”
Ed wonders when they will sleep.
Armstrong pulls him apart, and Ed takes the chance to say. “How about we take turns? I go frost and then we switch.”
He considers and then nods with a look that screams of approval. “Great idea, dear Elric. Do not hesitate to call for my aid at any given moment.”
He leaves Ed to guard on his own.
Nothing happens but he gets to analyze the terrain and prepare. He is on edge the whole time, buzzing with energy and pressure, as the sleeping soldiers behind him remind him of what is at stake.
Fail, and they die.
He looks over his arrays again and again. Tries them once, to double-check. In one flash of light, one bracelet turns into a sword, rather short, but good enough. He practices modifying the terrain. In a flash of light, stakes grow from the ground, sharp and deadly.
He hates this.
Once the time comes and tiredness starts to kick in, he calls Armstrong to switch.
He falls asleep to the sound of sleeping soldiers and the wild.
A few hours later, Armstrong wakes him up. They continue to march.
While marching, and trying to ignore the growing pain in his legs, his mind wanders to Resembool. To Pinako and her excellent cooking. To Winry as her enthusiasm with automail and following the example of her parents. To his mom, who he hopes can be happy and not worry too much.
Such wishful thinking .
He thinks about the Rockbells, and if they might find each other. He knows they came as medics and still remembers the day after they left when he first met Winry because he had become so absorbed in his studies that his mom had him socialize with the two-year-old.
What would they think about him?
They march and repeat the same routine.
This lasts for another day before they find the first group of Ishvalans.
The Colonel stops them, shushing the rest of the group with a movement of his hand.
It was a simple village, of rundown houses and rustic roads. There was not a single sound, as if the building themselves were holding their breath.
He directs Ed with a sharp glare that makes Edward want to scream. “Make an elevated structure for the sharpshooters, Alchemist. And a trench for the rest.”
He is about to ask why when the glare of the man hardens and he has to comply.
He takes out one of the paper arrays and places it on the floor. He transmutes.
Where it was once flat, there is now an elevated surface with enough space for someone to lie down.
He repeats. Until there are three towards and a deep trench.
The colonel looks satisfied, with a grin and look of superiority of a man who thinks commands miracles, as the sharpshooters situate themselves. He turns to him and Armstrong.
“Go, and bring those vermin out of their hiding. Get rid of them swiftly. Leave no one alive. Don’t bother with those who try to run. The sharpshooters will handle it.”
He widens his eyes at the tone, turns to Armstrong and he just has a pained expression on his face. The colonel simply barks out: “ Now!”
Armstrong starts walking towards the village.
Ed can just follow.
The moment Armstrong pulls his arms back and punches the surface of the first building Ed understands.
He is not here as a soldier . As a major . As a man .
He’s here as a weapon.
The building comes crumbling down, and he hears the shouting of the Ishavans inside.
His throat contracts.
No.
Armstrong looks back at him, and his face is now serious and pained.
Blood bleeds out of the remains of the building.
He moves towards the next building.
He hates everything.
A few seconds of silence pass and then from the other buildings, Ishavlans come crashing out, with weapons and guns and anything of the sort. Shovels, brooms, hammers.
Ed can’t breathe.
Before they can reach him, Armstrong hits the ground with his gauntlet, transmuting the floor with a tremor which leaves the people crumbling down and trapped in the transmuted soil.
They die. Suffocated, crushed.
Fuck. He has to draw in a pained breath.
Fuck. He sees from the corner of his eye another surge of Ishvalans, coming towards him.
Fuck.
He reacts, doesn’t think, transmuting the bracelet into the sword and putting one hand on the ground, using the engraved arrays to transmute the soil into the stakes he practiced days ago.
The Ishvalans closer to him are impaled and swiftly die. The remaining halt, and disperse, some running away and the rest charging at him.
He hears the gunshots of the sharpshooters taking down the one who tried to escape. He hears the sound of gunfire and smells the blood.
He repeats the process. Another round of stakes coming out of the ground. He impales another round. He hears enemy gunshots and creates a wall behind him, protecting himself.
The ones that got too close were cut down. He pushed and cut arms and legs and heads. He put a hand on the ground, and with the array in his bracelet made a spear to impale the enemy in front of him.
None of the enemies had guns. Nor uniforms. Nor shoes.
Blood pooled around him.
Adrenaline kept him going.
“Elric!”
Armstrong called so he followed. He covered Armstrong from behind, creating walls and the sword grew red.
They worked like a well-oiled machine until all that remained were crushed buildings, buried bodies, and impaled corpses.
He heard the colonel call out to them. He looked at Armstrong and saw the blood on his face. The bloodied uniform. The blue only serves to highlight it.
He also looks like this.
Armstrong puts an arm in his shoulder and he resists the urge to puke. Adrenaline vanished as they returned to the colonel, who looked as fresh as before. He didn’t move a finger.
“Well done, majors! Very impressive.”
Ed would’ve vomited, if it wasn’t for Armstrong's arm in his shoulder.
“Keep it up, alchemists.”
Ed gripped the sword harder and let Armstrong guide him.
While the rest occupied the remains of the village, scavenging for resources, he puked behind a pile of rubble. Armstrong soothed his back and he puked a bit more.
He hates this.
“Armstrong.”
He says, voice strained and blank. He doesn’t feel real.
“Did we just kill all those people? Those kids?”
He tried to erase their faces, but they burned behind his eyelids. Their pain is clear in his memory.
He knows forgetting will never be an option.
Armstrong doesn’t reply, but Ed knows the answer.
Days blur from then on, just like Ishvalan settlements grow in number as they continue to march.
He can’t sleep.
Both he and Armstrong crush, impale, cut, and massacre the entire villages.
He kills on automatic as he does it. Let the adrenaline do the job. Carry him through.
None of the Amestrian soldiers die. All the refugees do.
“Congrats, Alchemists.” Dogs.
Armstrong now has eyebags that surround his eyes. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t comment much. He tries to keep the conversation with him, and Ed answers automatically without thought.
Ed feels like shit. He wants to stop. He wants to leave.
On the third settlement, an Ishvalan shouts: There are dogs of the military with them.
That Ishvalan dies a few minutes later as collateral damage of one of Armstrong’s transmutations.
Dogs of the military.
He huffs. No.
“Dogs” is too generous of a name.
Another time, they ambush a refugee camp at night. He transmutes a building and kills the Ishvalans as they sleep, with the eyes of the Colonel staring at him.
Monsters fit better.
The colonel claps at them, each time they finish. And where Armstrong just lowers his head, each passing day more and more sullen, Edward raises his head and stares at him. Looks at the grey hair and rotten grin of this useless military man and thinks.
“ Monster.”
Truth be told, he knows none of the other soldiers. Most of them are privates and corporals. Leading smaller groups were some sergeants. The colonel named Rodolph Di María, had a lieutenant colonel as his second in command. Ed hadn’t bothered to learn his name.
He knows no one and spends most of his time with Armstrong, who also spends most of his time with him.
And this alienation is not for a lack of trying to socialize. He has tried, so hard. To talk to them, and see if they need something, but it’s like they refuse his help. Disgusted by what he does, or terrified of what he could do to them.
And maybe, what he doesn't realize, is that he has gotten so used to looking with the eyes of a killer. When he approaches them, his eyes look dead and glazed over with the mechanical motions of killing.
Among the soldiers, they are the alchemists. Those who can crush, suffocate, and impale people without an ounce of hesitation.
Not that they see how he vomits most of his stomach fluid after the battles. Or how he can not sleep because his hands feel soaked in blood even after washing them raw. He always makes sure to never show this to the commander, so he retires himself and suffers in the distance.
During the day, he hangs with Armstrong in front of the group, vigilant and on edge of any threat.
This does not change, even when the terrain gets hotter and arid. Not even when they finally get to the desert the sand, and the sun. They still hang by the front, on guard.
Like dogs , he hears some private comment one night.
He glared at them, and they claimed up in a second.
At night, they settle by the side, far enough to not cause discomfort, but close enough to see any incoming threat and react on time.
Like dogs.
Both he and Armstrong have had differing reactions. Unlike Armstrong who sulks and regrets when he is not talking to Ed, he rages. He despises the colonel. His smile, his grin. His white hair. Despises what he represents, and the leash he has over him.
He hates him. Hates this.
The idea of killing the man came to mind. It’d be easy. He’s gotten good at it, these last few weeks. But something stops him.
Mother. Winry. Pinako. Resembool.
He knows he'd be executed if he were to follow through. He had to kill Amestrian deserters who tried to help some Ishvalans escape at the orders of the Colonel.
He doesn’t want his mother to suffer like that.
So he pushes through.
He grits his teeth at every order sent his way. Tightens his hand into a fist, and adjusts his arm braces.
That’s what he does best. Resist.
He tells Armstrong this much. When he stays frozen, looking at the body of a ten-year-old boy. The man had tightened his fist, his eyes endlessly staring at the mangled body of the child.
In the midst of the destruction, it was impossible to tell who killed the child.
“Whatever you are thinking.” He says at a distance from the group with one hand on the other man’s shoulder, even if it is uncomfortable due to his height. “Alex, listen to me.” The man barely turns towards him. His eyes are what the soldiers around them have started calling The eyes of a killer. “Don’t. Deserting is not an option. Ending yourself won’t help this kid or any other. Resist, Armstrong. Move forward and don’t look back. We’ll pay the price in our due time.”
He releases his shoulder and lets the man mull it over.
After all, it takes one dog to understand another.
Chapter 3: Edward
Summary:
More of the desert, a very patient colonel, and war.
Notes:
I love you all so much, like fr. Thanks for all the wonderful comments and kudos. Those are what made this chapter come out this fast:)))))) I haven't been able to answer, but I probably will (and in excruciating detail too) so stay tuned ;)
Also, please tell me if there are any typos that escaped me, its helps me a lot.
sooooooooo, yeah. This is a ride. Get your seatbelts on and enjoy.
Now that I am done with exams (I just need to prepare for the officials) I can focus a bit more on this. I don't want to burn myself out, so I'll probably slow down. Lol
Enjoy and take care
Chapter Text
Another day, this time a lot closer to the rest of the Amestrian troops, they got a taste of their own medicine.
But not really. He’s lost count of how many Ishvalans he has killed, ambushed, and massacred. The tactic of that general was regrettably successful. In no way, have they experienced what they have done.
A group of Ishavlans, not kids or women, but grown and armed adults ambushed them.
He and Armstrong did everything they could, but eventually, they got overwhelmed and separated from the rest.
He fought on one side, and Armstrong further away. It had to be this way. They couldn’t risk harming each other by accident.
Without the support of another alchemist, he was much more vulnerable. That day, he took a hit to his ribs with the blunt side of a shovel. He was almost shot and had to transmute a cocoon of pressured sand around himself to avoid the barrage of bullets that came at him. He almost died when a man slammed a massive rock down on the ground where his head had been when he slipped.
A man had grabbed him from behind by his hair while he was distracted, before bringing a gun to his temple. Before he could fire it though, Ed had already placed a hand on the floor. Had already transmuted the sand into a spear that killed him. Barely on time.
His head was filled with static as they struggled.
Amestrian soldiers died, one of the sergeants died, and the lieutenant colonel died while protecting Colonel Rodolph.
Or that is what the Colonel claims. Ed never saw the lieutenant as a particularly loyal man.
Reality finally finished sunk in. The automatic mode he had settled inside off vanished and he realized how close he was to death.
That he is just a human like those he is killing.
How close he was to abandoning his mother, just like Hohenheim did.
That day, for the first time, they tended to their injuries. He helped around, transmuting graves for the dead.
And if he made some extra ones for bodies that aren’t exactly theirs, no one has to know.
Now that Ed thinks about it. This is the first time they made graves to the dead. Before, they just left the bodies on the ground.
He hates it.
When night came, he sat by the edge, alone as Armstrong was still passed out from exhaustion. He waited for a threat as his thoughts wandered back to Resembool. He took his silver watch, which he had not allowed himself to open since that day in the military station, and opened it.
He was looking at the photo, trying to not cry out all he had bottled over these four weeks on the battlefield when a voice brought him back to reality.
It felt as if he was disrespecting them. Dishonoring his mother by even gazing at her when he is rotting in the blood of everyone he has killed. He shouldn’t be damaging those memories.
“Major Elric?”
He raised his gaze, and a private seven years older than him, stood there handing him a bowl of soup.
He doesn’t know what the man saw in his eyes.
Maybe he saw a young man with dead eyes. Or a sinner in need of comfort
.
But the man’s expression shifted from apprehension to understanding
.
He didn’t understand everything though. He can’t know what it means to use alchemy to take the life of a person.
But he understands enough.
“Are you injured, sir?”
His chest hurts, his head is aching, and the image of the gun pressed against his temple is there each time he closes his eyes.
In the back of his mind, he knows he should cut his hair to prevent today from ever happening again, but the idea repulses him as much as killing.
Maybe it's because he would be killing who he was before all this.
The man himself had a broken arm, which was treated messily.
“Not too badly. Are you?” He answers.
“Just a broken arm sir.”
He takes the bowl from his hand and takes a tentative sip. His stomach lurches but he pushes through.
He is about to take another sip when the private speaks.
“Thank you, sir. For protecting us today. And for digging those graves.”
His throat tightens. This time, not crying is a lot harder.
“It’s the least I could do.”
The man shakes his head.
“No, sir. It’s more than that. In the name of our fallen soldiers, I thank you, Major Elric.”
With a faint voice, he responds. “Thank you, private…”
“Matthew sir.”
“Thank you, Matthew.”
The other nodded and left.
Ed is sure he left so that he could save Ed some dignity when he broke into silent sobs.
They had to stay put and recover for a few days. During which his relationship with other soldiers improved. He doesn’t know why. He did the same thing he had always done in the group. But they breached the distance. Greeted him when he woke up and talked to him without it feeling like he was pulling teeth.
Not all of them did, but the five who did made it so much easier.
He asked Matthew as much. The man stared at him, as if the change was so big that he didn’t know how he didn’t know, and told him:
“It’s the first time we saw you suffer and break down like humans do.”
From then on, he brought Armstrong to eat with the soldiers. Talked with them, helped them, and joked with them. He met people and they finally opened up to him. Fewer comments were made. He no longer dealt with the Dogs of the military whispers when he turned his back. At least not as much.
While eating, he would whisper something to Matthew, and he’d laugh. Something about the Colonel’s decrepit white hair. For the first time in a month, he did something else other than blankly staring in silence and rage.
He met Katie, one of the few female privates, and she asked for help with a sanitary product. He, as a mother’s son, gave her what she needed. She thanked him so much that his ears almost fell off. From then on, when she could, she would save him a slightly bigger share of food than before.
Another private, Chris, found him awake in the middle of the second day stuck there, after just waking up from a nightmare. He can imagine what he saw: A sweating dog alchemist, that could kill people in a second, crying from a well-deserved nightmare. He sat at a careful distance, mindful of not startling him, and waited. Waited for him to calm down and breathe, before handing him a flask of cheap tequila. He said nothing, not even as Ed downed it in a gulp. That night, no one said anything keeping each other company in silence.
On the third and last day, a foreign private named Sergei asked loudly in a thick accent. “My name is Sergei Sokolov. How does your alchemy work, major?”
The camp was filled with silence, heavy with anticipation and dread.
Ed wonders if they had grown used to thinking of him as two different people: As a dog, and as a human.
He took a moment to look at the private in detail. He is young, with faint stress lines and a serious face. Ed wonders why he is here, in Amestris, and not back in Drachma. Or why he is here fighting for a nation that isn’t his. Ed won’t ask. It isn’t his place to do so. Of all the people here, he is one of the few that he hasn’t heard commenting on his actions.
At least not out loud though.
“It's complicated. Why the sudden interest, Sergei?”
“My brother is interested in it.”
He stops to think about what to say. Before everything, he would have entered a ramble on what alchemy is, what it can do, and how it can make life so much easier.
He doesn’t think that rant would be appreciated here.
He doesn’t think that he can bring himself to view alchemy that way ever again.
“Alchemy is a vast field with many specializations and each alchemist has his own… style. If you can call it that way.”
“I know that. My brother told me so.”
He blinks in surprise.
“Oh.”
“What I mean, is how do you do all that you do so fast? The transmutations you do always vary in form and range without you needing to change the array. Not that I have noticed.”
Ed admits he is a bit impressed by his observations. He is rather keen, or at least, his brother has shared with him more than Ed expected.
“These bracers. They have an array engraved on them. I made it so that its structure… is flexible enough, I guess you could see it that way. Still, no matter how simplified, it still follows the same rules as all alchemy.”
He nods and finishes for him.
“You can’t create matter nor destroy it. All transmutations follow the law of equivalent exchange.”
By this point, the rest had already lost interest, with only Armstrong following their conversation.
“Your brother seems to know a lot already, Sergei.”
The boy smiled a small thing that was leagues more genuine than the Colonel’s grin. “Yes. He is… very interested. I want to see if I can gather some information to take to him when this is over.” He says this lost in thought, sporting a fond look on his face, making him look as young as Ed had guessed.
He hums and doesn’t comment further.
Sergei doesn’t seem to mind. “Major…”
“Call me by my name, or anything else. Please.”
“...Elric. Would you mind me introducing you to him?”
For the third time, he is left surprised. “...I guess so. If you want to.”
Are you sure you want a dog like me around your brother?
Sergei nodded. “Once this is done, I'll write to you. I’d be very grateful.”
Ed falls asleep that night with a feeling of warmth nuzzling in his chest.
When they finally depart, it's because the Colonel gets tired of waiting for them to heal. After three short days, they are back on the road.
The colonel is a very patient man.
The heat of the desert is suffocating, and Ed yearns for the fresh smell of grass. He huffs, struggling to even open his eyes against the shine of the midday sun. Sand gets inside his boots. His blisters bleed and the arm bracelets burn his skin.
He pushes through.
He goes ahead, in charge of assessing the terrain, as he is more suited for terraforming. Armstrong follows a few meters behind, ready to provide physical support. The rest, the colonel, privates, and military officers hang on the back, a good ten meters behind them. This position allows him to see the desertic environment clearly, even more, when at the top of the giant sand dunes.
At the top of one of these massive dunes, he spots blurry silhouettes ahead, just after the lee side. The sun distorts them, but there are about five in the group. He halts immediately. The whole group stops behind him, unable to see, but he has no time to care with his eyes trained on the figures.
Armstrong catches up to him leans a bit and asks in a hushed tone. “Threats?”
At this distance, they seem to be dressed in blue. He realizes. He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. They seem to have Amestrian uniforms.”
He feels Armstrong turn to report to the Colonet, and he continues to examine them. Nothing seems amiss. The more he looks at them, the more their clothes look like their standard blue uniforms. Moreso, they should have found some Amestrian camps by now. If he remembers correctly what he was told all the way back in South City, there is supposed to be a compartment under the command of a Brigadier General, whose name he can’t remember.
“He says we should handle it from a distance. That there is no way to know if they aren’t Ishvalans dressing up as Americans to trick us.” Armstrong tells him, voice just as skeptical as Ed's.
He frowns. “Handle it? As in…”
Armstrong doesn’t need to answer for Ed to feel bile grow from the pit of his stomach. Oh. He understands.
“The colonel doesn’t want to take any risks.”
He hates that man.
“He has the sharpshooters on stand-by, and my alchemy doesn’t work well for long distances.”
It's up to him then. His neck prickles with the gaze of the Colonel.
He hates this.
Suppressing the urge to refuse,
he doesn’t want to be framed as a deserter for this, after all
, he takes out a piece of paper, and does the calculations in his head.
…At this distance, the energy consumption will be higher. It must be immediate for them to not notice the transmutation…
He takes a pen he keeps in his pocket, and starts drawing the array.
It sickens him, to use these calculations to estimate how much materials he needs to kill five people with sand.
In a second, he has the array nearly done.
This is why Bradley gave him his moniker. He is the golden child of the army. The genius with arrays, that can calculate and draw in a matter of seconds. Alchemy is as essential to him, as gold is to alchemical theory.
But before making the last line, he pauses.
…He could fake a rebound. Let this explode backward by transferring the energy in inadequate amounts, alerting the figures. He doesn’t have to kill them. He can actually prevent-
A hand on his shoulder and a gun pressed on his back shakes him out of his thoughts.
The colonel stands by his side, and his peripheral vision sees Sergei behind him. The private’s expression is pulled into a grimace. I'm sorry. It says, and Ed feels the gun behind his back tremble.
He turns to the Colonel, his expression morphing into something between confusion and pure, unfiltered hate.
“I was told you were far better at making arrays than other alchemists, Elric.”
He smiles, his face dripping with poisonous calm.
“I am.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
They are standing, in such a way the gun can’t be seen by those behind. Only Armstrong, Sergei, and the will Colonel know. To the others, they look as if they are planning how to proceed.
“Nothing else you do is worth nothing, Major. Don’t make me regret letting you tag along.”
Ed’s hands tremble, as much as the gun in his pressed against his back, for resisting the urge to choke the man.
“You see. I believe you are a capable man, Edward. It’d be a shame to say goodbye so soon, isn’t that right, Lance Corporal Sergei, Major Armstrong?”
He feels the barrel of the gun shock. He sees Armstrong tighten his fist. None can do anything about this.
The Colonel is a very patient man.
He leans on his shoulder, putrid breath on his face, and says right by his ear: “Finish the job, dog.”
He nearly crushes the unfinished array. Quickly drawing the line, he closes the circle, to then drops the paper to the ground. His hands press against it, and it lights up in blue rays of light. The sand morphs hardens and falls in an avalanche so fast none of the Amestrians can react.
They died. Crushed under the weight of sand and his hands.
The colonel pats him on the shoulder, a depraved smile on his lips. “Well done, Elric.”
He is about to shove his hand off when Armstrong stops him. One look at his face tells him: Endure, Eduard. Just a bit longer
The gun is removed from his back, for then to be pressed in harder. This time, not by Sokolov, but by the Colonel himself who forced the Lance Corporal.
“Not a word about this, right officers?”
He keeps facing the pile of crumbled sand and blood. He feels Armstrong nod by his side. He copies the notion, one hand tightening so hard that the nails dug into his palm.
The colonel leaves, with the now Lance corporal on his tail.
He hears his words, directed at the rest:
“It was a simple treat, that our majors already took care of. Keep your heads up, soldiers. We’ll keep moving forward. March ahead, for the future of Amestris. The rest is waiting for us.”
When they go down, he is the first to arrive. He stands before the pile of gore and thorn blue uniforms. He spots, on the crushed shoulder of a jacket, a blue with thick yellow lines epaulet. His mind circles the events, again and again. Repeating to him what he already knows and feels by heart for this war, this colonel, this military country.
He hates it,
that he understood,
and from the lecherous smile, the colonel sent him,
perhaps he understood too well.
A few sand dunes later, they encounter a destroyed Amestrian camp. This was the base they were supposed to arrive at. There are signs of struggle everywhere and almost nothing was spared. Documents are scattered on the sand, and the tents have been thorn to the ground. But that doesn’t surprise Ed.
What does, is the lack of death in the air.
There are tracks of blood all around, but there is no putrid smell of rotten flesh on the ground. The rest settle in the middle of the destroyed camp, and he wanders around the edges. Something about his expression must deter the rest because only Armstrong follows silently after his fuming pacing.
He kicks and finishes the job of destroying the ransacked base. He kicks and throws, just far enough to not be heard, as the remaining outer tents fall to the ground. He is about to the same to another tent, with Armstrong about to put a hand on his shoulder, likely to calm him before he is heard, when he finally smells it.
Corpses.
He rushes to the place of origin of the smell, and finds graves,
just covered wholes of sand with at least three corpses inside
. Over ten. Over twenty. He sees at least thirty piles of dirt, massive, lined up on the sand. From the size, he recalculates. There are around five or four bodies in each hole. Around a hundred and fifty people died here. Amestrian or not.
He files the pile that rises to his throat and he can't push it down.
He vomits, and Armstrong is there to make soothing movements on his back while holding his hair away from his face.
The smell comes back with the rush of the desertic winds, and Armstrong guides him away from the makeshift graveyard.
One hundred and fifty. One hundred and fifty.
Maybe, he vomited not because of the smell, but rather because he knows he has killed more.
Once they are far enough, Armstrong makes him sit down, wipe his mouth from the bile, and drink water from his flask. He downs it and hears him say.
“There is nothing you could do, Edward.”
He is about to refuse with a snarl like a dog who had his tail stepped on, but Armstrong stops him.
“No. There is nothing you can do. Spare yourself this weight, or at least let others share it.
The words hit a cord, and in a second he is dropping his head between his hands to muffle the sobs that wreck through him.
They had families. They had mothers, siblings, cousins, friends, and lovers waiting for them. They were living breathing people. He thinks, allowing himself to feel it come crashing down. Letting his mind imagine t he graves line up in his mind and the weight of all the lives he has taken drops on his shoulders.
The military shouldn’t do this. Isn’t it meant to protect? Isn’t it made to be for the people and by the people? How does his mother stand to even live in this country? How can he even stand living as a soldier of Amestris, as an alchemist, when killing is all he does? The feeling of the gun being pressed against his temple and back has him flinching, but Armstrong doesn’t back off. He sits by his side, silently accompanying him.
Not comforting, but company is enough.
He doesn’t need comfort. He had done nothing to merit such mercy. He thinks, pressing his palms against his eyelids, how dare men like that son of a whore of a colonel exist freely? What is the führer even thinking , when ordering this massacre ? His emotions bleed into despair and rust as anger.
What can he even do, other than hate silently and follow orders like a dog? Who is he to blame Sergei, when he is doing the same, but so much worse? A dog. He, Armstrong, and every other soldier here is a dog, forced to follow orders.
And he can do nothing about it now.
Just, endure.
The next day, Sergei doesn't approach him. Neither does look at him in the face.
He doesn’t care.
Or he does. He doesn’t know.
It’s hard.
He joins the others, who are oblivious to the graveyard behind them until the base that day. Some vomit, some don’t. Some gasp. All of them understand: This is war.
What they don’t realize, and probably will never know, is that the brigadier general had survived the ravaging of his military camp. It was just bad luck that he encountered an obedient dog, who was ordered to kill by a greedy colonel.
He keeps his head straight when they pass the graves. But the feeling of hopelessness sinks in his bones as deep as the smell of corpses stinks his clothes.
He sticks close to Armstrong as they head out, going ahead of the group, but this time to get a distance between him and the colonel.
He still feels the gun pressed against his back. An urge to punch the colonel stems from the memory. To defend himself.
Ha can’t, though.
They slog through the desert, more cautious than before. Rumors spread among the rest of the soldiers, about how Ishvalans dressed in the uniforms of the fallen comrades. The colonel does what he can to further the rumor.
Ed quickens his pace just a bit. Armstrong matches him.
Once they don’t hear the voices of the rest, he says to Armstrong. “Who are we supposed to meet up with now? Knowing what happened with this group.”
“I do not know. But the colonel must have something in mind.”
The look he sends is particularly nasty because Armstrong immediately coughs placatingly.
“I truly have no idea. Do you have any?”
He mulls over it before huffing.
“No. But it’s looking bad.”
And it is looking bad. Resources are scarce by this point. Food rations are decreasing and fast, meaning food rations are cut down. Drastically.
Ed has noticed that the colonel is so kind he eats for two.
Water is also waning, which is enough of a warning for anyone with a brain. Yet the Colonel insists they take alternative routes.
Why? Only the Colonel knows.
“We need to reunite with the other troops.”
Armstrong nods. “Agreed. Yet…”
He doesn’t need to finish for Ed to understand.
“Yeah. Well… he just needs a little push.”
By the look Armstrong sends him, for this to be his first plan it isn’t particularly good.
There is another reason for Ed’s praise as an Alchemist.
He is one of the few good generalists. Sure, there are disadvantages, but when you are him, being a generalist is the best way to go. His memory makes it practical, and his ability to craft arrays is best when applied to a wide range of materials and applications.
Which means that to the military, he is the cheapest version of a mechanic. That is also pretty neat because he can get close to the machinery with practically no suspicion.
Which is perfect for his plan.
The troop selects a soldier, typically one of the younger privates, to carry the communication device. It’s a heavy bag full of metals and wires. The one who is tasked to carry is free from fighting duties because of how heavy it is.
They are one of the few teams with this technology, as they are constantly on the move and letters are not as practical.
He needs to contact another troop. And get them to come to them.
He just needs that machine.
How he’ll get the Colonel to stay put, is a bridge he’ll cross another day.
He approaches Matthew during the march. Lagging slowly until reaching his position.
“Hey, Matthew.”
“Yeah?”
“Could you do me a favor?”
Matthew turns and looks at him. “Yeah?”
With that part of the plan done, he returns to his position as the front. Armstrong is looking at him so unimpressed that he almost laughs out loud.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The sun has set and Matthew comes to him when everyone else is asleep and he is on guard.
“It’s done. Just… are you sure you can fix it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you doubting me, Matthew?”
The other shakes his head. “No, sir. Good luck.”
Matthew walks away and Ed finds the communication machine broken a bit further from the group.
He starts working immediately.
Matthew did his job well. He broke the machine while conserving all the parts that made it up. He makes the array quickly and fixes the machine in seconds. Why did he need it broken?
Well, he needed an excuse if he was found with the thing.
Now, for the important part.
He tweaks it, experimenting with the frequencies until he finds one where someone answers. He insists until Armstrong wakes up to switch.
That night, no one answers.
He tries again two days later.
Food and water are scarce. More than before.
Only the Colonel doesn’t seem to mind.
Nothing that night either.
He tries again two days after that. It is much worse now. Some people are left without food, and one of the oldest privates fainted while marching.
They are exhausted. The colonel insists on changing routes, and Ed needs to stop this before they die of starvation.
Luckily they haven’t been found by Ishvalans. For now.
He calls a third time, and someone does answer.
“Copying? Intelligence officer Maes Hughes on the line.”
Ed almost cries with excitement.
“Yea. Copied. Major Edward Elric. Yes. Over.”
…
“…copied. Anything to report, major?”
Even under the static, he can hear the amusement in Hughes’s voice.
“Uh. Yes, officer. There is… we need to communicate and reunite with another troop for the replenishing of resources, food, and ammunition.”
There is silence.
“The name of your officer in command?”
“…Colonel Rodolph di María.”
…
“…mmm. Interesting.”
Ed perks up at the voice.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
If anyone were listening in, they’d say this conversation happened on a phone call between friends, not two soldiers in the middle of a war.
Figures.
“I understand why you ‘called’, major. But I need a location.”
He swears under his breath.
“Hmm?” Even the humm sounds like he is raising his eyebrow.
“Give me ten seconds.”
“Not to sound like Roy but, do I have to count?”
Ed huffs, sassy fuckers, and stands up, rushing towards Armstrong and shaking him awake.
“Armstrong. Fucking wake up.”
The other understandably wakes up shaken and ready to transmute something.
“Don’t kill me, but what are our coordinates?”
Armstrong indeed seems to want him dead right now.
Once he gets what he came for, he leaves to tell Hughes. Armstrong is going to kill him tomorrow if it doesn’t work.
Hughes just sounds amused. “Definitely more than just ten seconds, major.”
“Kindly, fuck off.”
Hughes laughs.
“Well, stay put, I’ll see if I can send someone to your location.”
He considers the risks and adds. “Preferably don’t try to contact us during the day. I'll be here every night.”
“...Copied. Good luck major. Out.”
The next day, even though he has one part fixed, his gut feeling tells him something is wrong.
This time, more than half of the privates are left without food. Only the Colonel, and the alchemists seem to have seminormal rations. And even theirs have drastically been reduced.
The colonel still eats like a pig. At least it is reflective of what he is.
The private who fainted is sickly pale. Many of them are, even if the sun should have left them with an unhealthy tan. some are even showing signs of a cold, that Ed knows will turn into pneumonia if not treated.
He expresses this concern to the Colonel. He is worried for his comrades after all.
And he needs them to stay in place if they want to be found.
“And let us get ambushed because some soldiers are sick? Elric, I did not take you for a brute.” The colonel snarls at him, before adding. “The more we move, the higher the chances to reunite and replenish.” He says this with the confidence of a man who killed his way to his position knows jackshit.
Thankfully, Armstrong seems to notice his struggle and comes to his aid with a: “Of course Sir, we understand. But consider, if we leave now most soldiers are sick, who will help us carry the heavy artillery? If we get ambushed, it’d be catastrophic for all of our reputations in the military.”
With that heavy bootlicking, they get the Colonel to stay put.
His gut feeling is never wrong. It was right in the new year before the führer announced Executive Order #3066. It was right when he came of age and he was drafted into the military.
This means that right now, when his gut feeling tells him there is something wrong he can’t help but feel on edge.
He just knows it. Feels it in his bones.
But just like in all those other times, he can do nothing about it. Other than living with the frustration until what he knows will come, arrives.
So, he waits it out.
He stands guard the whole day, waiting. While eating he waited, one hand on his bracer.
He is exhausted, from being in high tension the whole day. From the sun, from the cautiousness of everyone around him except from those who know him. From the feeling, a threat might pop out from the corner of his vision.
He is so exhausted, he falls asleep on his guard.
And what wakes him up, is not Armstrong, but the muffled scream of a private.
He jumps awake, immediately transmuting the bracer into a sword. He feels a hand on his shoulder and immediately whips his sword, almost cutting Matthew.
The hurt on his face cuts deep, but he has no time for that when an Ishvalan is approaching with a dagger from behind Matthew. His vision tunnels and pushing Matthew aside, he charges at the threat, swiftly dodging and killing him. He averts his gaze from the now-corpse, in favor of looking at Matthew.
He has to look away.
The fear in his expression revolts him.
What he finds makes the strength leave his body. The place is a mess. The privates who sat at the end of the makeshift camp died first, and silently. Now, most people have woken up, but they are tired, malnourished and sick.
They can’t fight back as they would have in a different situation.
And Ed almost just slept through it.
He clenchs his teeth and slams one hand on the ground, using the transmutation circle in his bracer to create stakes on the ground where the Ishvalans stand. It immobilizes them, but does not kill them, having to lower the size to balance out the energy cost.
The men shout in pain and Ed uses the other bracer, with another array, and creates spears, piercing and killing the Ishavlans close to him.
Those who were fast enough to avoid the transmutation charge at him while he had his hand on the ground. He, with his bracer still in the form of a sword, defends himself.
He hears Armstrong in the background, the groans and pained gasps of Ishvalans as they bleed out, are crushed or cut. But he can only hear the blood pumping to his head.
And the voice that told him he failed them.
He cuts another man, feels them bite and punch and kick and hit. He cuts his way through. Where though? They are surrounded. They were ambushed, surrounded.
But how did they find them?
He failed them by asking the Colonel to stay put..
His knuckles turn white and an object comes from the back, hitting him straight in the head. His head blanks for a second before he forces it to return.
There is a kid, an Ishvalan kid holding a bat.
Just as fast as he closes his eyes, he kills the kid. He doesn’t turn around to see the newly-killed corpse. The cooling body.
The radio signals. The conversation with Hughes.
His vision sways and bile rises up his throat.
It is easy to listen in radio conversations. Easy to eavesdrop, as long as you align the frequencies… oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
He fucked up.
This time, he does vomit. His hands tremble, his head swims and his vision blanks out. His heart is in his throat. And-
It 's his fault .
Fuck.
His idea caused this.
Blood around him cools on the sand. Darkening it. The air smells like death, and he killed them.
Another Ishvalan, and when will they stop coming? Why do they have to be so resilient, and so many? Why? Why did he fuck it up?
He doesn’t dodge, in favor of lodging his sword deep in the chest of the enemy. There is a grudge of blood, and the Ishvalan does over him.
A voice calls out to him and he turns just in time to see another Ishvalan throw a punch at him. He puts the dying man as a shield before throwing it towards the other, making the incoming threat tumble. He kneels on the ground, transmuting a spear that impales the falling man.
The voice calls out to him and he turns to see Sergei, his stomach cut and guts spilling out, crying.
He rushes there, ignoring the wet sound of his boots as they walk in blooded Ed sand and the feel of the uniform bathed in already drying grime.
He kneels by Sergei’s side, hands hovering over him.
“Sergei- I-“
“Elric. Listen.”
“Look I-
“Listen, Edward!”
He slams his mouth shut.
“I’m sorry, Edward. I- had no choice. He made me do it.”
Ed feels sick to the gut.
“I didn’t even want the promotion- No, I never wanted to be here.”
He hates this.
“Edward, listen to me. Tell my brother- tell him I tried to go back. And that I- I did not want to d-“
His last breath leaves the phrase mid sentence. Never to be heard.
It’s his fault.
He hears Armstrong shout something, a name, but his brain isn’t functioning. He is frozen, holding the hand of a corpse.
He hears a snap .
And the world burns.
Chapter Text
It has been a relatively slow day for Hughes.
Sure, some officers called and reported stuff, but nothing actually happened . He is actually grateful for this partial desk job situation.
He is not back in Central, East or Sout city, or actually in a desk. But it is considerably better than having to go walk under the horrible conditions of the desert just to kill.
It doesn’t mean he hasn’t had to kill. He has. He has looked the Ishvalans in the eye and fired, because he wants to go back. Go back and live, not for himself, but for García.
His desk job is not permanent, nor is it secure and away from the horrors of war, but at least he's not Roy.
With his gun, when he fires, he knows that could have done nothing to do anything else. When he kills, he knows this is about surviving, not living.
That’s just war.
Nothing is fair.
Roy has never been a realistic person.
Maybe that’s why he found success as an Alchemist.
Roy is an idealistic fool with a big bank of alchemical knowledge. His own ideals hurt him, and made him blind of the real nature of this war. At least until it was too late. It was too late, because Roy only crashed into reality when the smell of burning people came from his own flames.
And that… Hughes can’t truly imagine what it feels like.
Mustang knows as much.
Every Alchemist knows.
Even Kimbelee said it along the lines of: “None of you can ever imagine the satisfaction of knowing only your bare arms and arrays are able to extinguish another’s life.”
Roy didn’t share the sentiment.
He sighs, moving a few papers, ready to close his shift and go to rest.
Roy worries him. Sure, he talks to him, and Riza. But that’s all. He isolates himself into the corners of the room, to stare at his hand, eat, or talk the two of them in hushed voices.
He had tried to get him to socialize, once, but it ended badly. Apparently, some privates thought it would be good to praise him for his skill at burning people alive. Since then Roy has put a distance between him and the rest.
Some mistake it for superiority, but Hughes knows it is just Roy blaming himself.
He sighs again.
If only this wasn’t a thing. If only that executive order didn’t exist.
But it does and they have to live with it.
He is about to stand up and leave, to find Roy sitting in his bunk with eyes wide open in the middle of the night, when the radio suddenly turns on.
It was a bit faint but he could hear someone. Sighing he sits back down and answers.
“Copying? Intelligence officer Maes Hughes on the line.”
He hears a commotion on the other side, and a voice, young like Riza, answers. “Yea. Copied. Major Edward Elric. Yes. Over.” He sounds out of breath, and glad… And doesn't say anything else.
He can imagine a young guy just holding the radio, glad that someone answered, and it almost makes him laugh out loud.
“…copied. Anything to report, major?”
The officer almost rambles out the answer, but the urgency in his tone does not escape him. “Uh. Yes, officer. There is… we need to communicate and reunite with another troop for the replenishing of resources, food, and ammunition.”
He pauses and looks at the schedules for replenishing resources. Supposedly last week, there was a supply chain supposed to arrive at Brigadier General Cooper’s camp. But they never received confirmation. He thought nothing of it till now, but with this major calling out for help, something adds up a little too well.
“The name of your officer in command?”
There is a pause as if the major is reluctant to even name the person, which Hughes partially relates to. Sometimes commanding officers can be an honest-to-good pain-in-the-ass.
“…Colonel Rodolph di María.”
He pauses a that. Fucking Rodolph di María. Wasn’t he announced a captain just three months ago? He remembers because the guy had celebrated with a massive party in his very huge personal residence. It never made much sense to him, how fast he had been promoted, but he did not look too much into it. But with this…
“…mmm. Interesting.” He says absent-mindedly. Some officers just disappeared a while ago. They were nothing to write home about, and while they were high-ranking, in times of war people tend to disappear for a while. Some come back. Some don’t. But this rapid ascension through the ranks is not natural, and the timing… it fits perfectly.
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing.” If anything, this major must know something is fishy, if his tone when mentioning Rodolph says something. and the military radio… it isn’t the best place to discuss corruption in the military.
Return to the reason for the call. “I understand why you ‘called’, major. But I need a location.”
He hears a very well-placed fuck and decided the guy seems fun to be around. And if he is a major, he probably is an alchemist too. Which means he would understand Roy . And would probably take no bullshit. Which is perfect.
“Hmm?” He adds, prodding humorously.
“Give me ten seconds.”
“Not to sound like Roy but, do I have to count?”
Edward refuses to call him Elric not when he can tell he’ll probably get along just fine, and returns in a few minutes.
“Definitely more than just ten seconds, major.”
“Kindly, fuck off.”
Hughes laughs. Definitely not a lick-booter. This man was probably drafted instead of joining out of his own will.
“Well, stay put, I’ll see if I can send someone to your location.”
That someone is Mustang. He can change some documentation and get him to take a break from directly assaulting Ishvalan settlements. Besides, he is sure he can craft from information, just to get Roy to walk out of his self-wallowing grief.
“Preferably don’t try to contact us during the day. I'll be here every night.”
Again, interesting. This practically confirms everything.
Not everything but enough.
“...Copied. Good luck major. Out.”
Mustang is going to kill Hughes.
The sun makes him want to be able to walk with his eyes closed, while also getting rid of all the sand in his boots.
A gust of wind flies by his face, carrying tons of sand into his eyes.
He is going to
kill Hughes.
He can’t. He couldn’t he could never. The blood in his hands, under his nails, is already one drop too many.
Not fast, but slowly and very painfully. The nerve of sending him walking for miles in search of a lost troop is absolutely mind-boggling. A totally bastard move. He’ll send his condolences to García once he is done.
It started when Hughes arrived, very late at night to bother him. Their tents aren’t too far from each other, so they tend to visit one another, making use of his time stationed here before he is transferred. So, Hughes coming by his tent is not abnormal. Not even the time frame is because some visits turn into drinking together well into the night.
No. The absolutely abnormal and frankly disconcerting fact, is that he came took his flask away, and sat with a very serious-not serious look on his face that even he didn’t know what to expect.
And he definitely didn’t expect: “You, Roy Mustang, are going to be wandering the desert and bring to camp a whole missing fucking troop with little to no help. Also, the officer in command there is Rodolph di María.”
It was a loaded sentence. That was totally not said this way, but it sure did feel like it to Roy.
He had stared at the wall of his tent, processing the amount of information before giving Maes the most unimpressed look he could muster. He had argued with a: “I’m sure there are more people out there that can do that.”
Maes just grinned. “Not really. It isn’t only a rescue mission, but there is also
an excuse
a reason for it. You are also being sent to investigate the disappearance of the Brigadear stationed near there.”
His face might not have been the best because he added. “Look, get out of camp and the smoke in your head. Rescue this group, and investigate corrupt military officers for a while. A change of, while not scenery, tasks.”
“Maes-”
“No. I already did the paperwork. Do your thing tomorrow. If you really don't want, just return with the missing soldiers and say there was nothing to be found about the brigadier general.”
“...Alright.”
“... Just how did you get them to send me to fuck knows where? I want to know Maes. Did you sell your soul?”H
ow did you get them to release their most precious dog into the wild without a heavy caravan?
Maes just smiled.
So, he is wandering the desert with the very poor company of five privates who are terrified of him. One of them is a foreigner that's trying to get his stay in Amestris legalized by serving in the army. The others are Amestrians born and raised. Still doesn't change the fact they won't talk, walk, or even look in his general direction.
Jolly.
He is currently walking ahead of all the privates, leading the group and deciding which sand dune to climb or not to climb. At least Maes had given him coordinates.
In silence, they continue to wander through the desert. Sand gets in his boots, and on his uniform, making his skin itchy. His eyes feel like they are going to slip out of their sockets, burning with lack of sleep and a migraine.
The sun goes down, and there are still no signs of any Amestrian troops.
He is about to tell them to stop when a commotion gets his attention. There are loud screams, that are carried by the desertic winds and the flying sand.
With a hand sign, he gets the other privates to follow him, as he runs in the direction of the shouting.
It takes a while to climb the dune, without getting buried underneath all the sand, but what he finds at the top is not a pretty sight.
Nothing is a pretty sight here. All there is, is blood, fire, corpses, and smoke. All of his own making.
There are soldiers running amok. That is, if they are still alive, as most of them are dead, or bleeding, on the sand. The Ishavalans, either kids or women or men or seniors, take soldiers and kill them. The lack of strength behind the Amestrian’s retaliation is concerning.
Soldiers should not be this weak.
Unless they are malnourished or sick.
He scans the field while posing his hand to snap. He needs to know the locations of his allies before he fires. Before he burns to ashes the rest of the people he was supposed to rescue.
It is the only thing you know how to do, isn’t it? Burn and burn and burn, until the only one left to grieve is you.
He sees a figure, surrounded by tranmutates spears made of sand and impaled bodies. One of the alchemists then. The only thing he can see is his golden hair. The hunched form makes him doubt he is even alive.
He also sees Armstrong fighting for his life. He sees him punch the ground, pushing and crushing the lives out of the Ishvalans. This image doesn’t add up to his memory of the man.
But they have all changed, haven't they?
He lights up a small flame up in the air with a snap. Armstrong immediately recognizes the sound.
“Mustang!”
He poises himself to snap again and Armstrong nods grimly. He has also changed.
He snaps. Painting the camp in swirls of fire and screams.
The remaining Ishvalans die painfully by his fire.
He snaps again. And their ashes burn until not even those remain. Only charred spots in the sand.
The flames die, and Roy can’t bring himself to truly hate alchemy. Just himself. Because it is he who aims and fires. It is he, who took this tool given to him and used him to leave the stench of death impregnated in the sand of Ishval.
He descends the dune and greets Armstrong at the bottom. With every step, he is aware of the bile that rises up his throat as the smell of burning flesh reaches him.
“Armstrong.”
“Mustang.”
They greet each other and he can’t help but notice Armstrong is paler, with haunted eyes that mirror his own too closely.
He turns to the privates. “Look around for any survivors.” They do so immediately.
When he turns back to Armstrong, he is already looking elsewhere.
“Maes did not tell me you were here too.”
“I was not the one who talked with him.”
He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Figured as much. Who did then?”
“Another alchemist. You know him only by name. The golden alchemist.”
He raises an eyebrow. “The record breaker.”
A smile tugs at the grim face of the major. “Technically, he did not break any record. So do not sound so resentful, Mustang. He is quite an agreeable man, once you meet him.”
“We’ll see.”
They stand there. Feeling out of place amidst the ashes and blood even though they made it themselves.
“Before we search for the golden kid, are you injured?”
“No. Thanks to that… display of alchemy, I am not.”
He nods. “Good then. Let us search then.”
He takes the lead, letting his sight glaze over the bodies and charred pieces that touch his boots, and stain the sand. In fact, the moon above them sheds no real light. But he doesn’t want to light a flame. Not now, not here. No. Because he is not really looking. He is just walking around. Trying to not look.
But apparently Armstrong is because he stops and sighs. He turns around to face the blonde man.
“Found him?”
“Look there.”
He does, and what he finds is a sight that war has made so common and much more difficult.
There is a man, around Riza’s age, who’s kneeling by the side of a corpse. The corpse is just as unremarkable as all the other corpses he has seen. But the alchemist isn’t. He has blonde hair and a transmuted sword by his side. One hand holds the corpse gently, a metal bracer on his wrist. He breathes in and out in rapid succession while gripping the hand as if it will comfort the pile of blood and skin.
Roy wishes it was that way.
He looks like a fine and powerful alchemist. With strength in his muscles and a brilliant mind. The military’s golden boy.
His face looks so desperate, it makes Roy’s skin crawl.
He looks so alive , it hurts.
He wonders when he loses the ability to breathe without inhaling smoke and the fiery remains of innocents. When his eyes feel like staring at the charred eye sockets of his victims.
Armstrong, though, sees something else.
“… Give me a moment, Mustang. I’ll introduce you two later.”
He nods and steps aside. But he also hears Armstrong whispering to him. “Rodolph has been killing his way up. I’m sure you can do something with that.”
He isn’t so sure he can.
“Alright.”
He walks aside, leaving Armstrong to comfort him.
It’s not his place, nor his role here. And he still has another task to do.
He approaches the privates, who stand all around one hunched figure. The figure has white hair, wrinkles, and some horrible teeth. Rodolph di María in the flesh. From what he can tell, killing your way to the top, doesn’t not guarantee skill. The man is covered in bruises and cuts. His hair is partially burned, and the satisfaction he feels is not healthy, or even his, at all.
This is just a fraction of what a man like him should receive.
Any doubts vanishes. That he can do. He will make sure this man pays for killing all those Amestrian officers. For supporting this war. He will make sure of it. Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite.
“Colonel Rodolph.”
He salutes and the privates tense up. The irony of the moment is not lost on him. Privates do tend to prefer closeted liars and killers to him, who would burn them alive at an orders notice.
Roy is not sure he can blame them.
“The flame alchemist came to our aid. At ease. I am terribly indebted to you for this very unexpected rescue.”
He drops the salute in a second, switching for a small nod. “I am just protecting fellow Amestrians. I am sure you understand the sentiment… sir.”
He is smiling politely. The colonel smiles politely back. “I am very familiar with it, Flame.”
The privates shuffle around him but he pays them no mind. Instead, he focuses on measuring the colonel in front of him.
His shoulders are pulled backward, tense. His jaw is set into a smile that just invites him to look closer and stare at the cracks of his lies. His uniform is disheveled, filled with stars in his epaulet.
He knew it.
This man is full of shit.
“I am quite sure this place is inhospitable as it is, isn’t it sir?”
The colonel nods, one hand on his chin, not even faking to take a look. “In that, we agree. But where can we even go, in this place? Do you have any suggestions, Flame?”
He feels his smile turn slightly predatory while tightening his fists inside his pockets.
It’s his playing ground now.
“I am sure Brigadier General Cooper will be pleased to have us in his base.”
He watches the blood drain from the Colonel’s face.
“… I wasn’t aware he was stationed nearby. If so, this… tragedy could have been prevented.”
The afflicted tone makes him want to puke and take a drag of his flask but he just raises his eyebrows in carefully crafted surprise.
“Is that so? How tragic indeed.”
The silence coats the room, and the privates clearly want to leave. But not yet. He needs them here to have control, and power over this man.
“Private, tell me, how long did it take us to get from the main base?”
The soldier salutes and answers without hesitation. “An entire day, sir. With no rest in between sir.”
He nods. “Quite an arduous journey I remember. Yes.” He looks back into the colonel's eyes and adds. “I’ll follow your orders, sir. I can guide you to the location of the Brigadier General’s camp, which if I am not wrong is just a few hours away, or we can track for a day non-stop till we arrive at the main camp.”
The colonel considers it. Roy waits patiently. “I am sure my commanding officers will have questions about your journey up till now, too sir.”
“Then… guide us to the Brigadier General Cooper’s base, Flame.”
“A pleasure being of service, sir. How are your injuries, sir? The last thing we need is to put a strain on them.”
“The concern is well received, major. I have to rest before we depart. You are excused.”
He tilts his head and the colonel limps away.
… He despises men like this.
The privates are still hanging around, frozen in place. With a harsh voice, he scolds them. “Is he the only survivor, or do you want a promotion from him?”
The privates scram with a shaky salute. He sighs.
This day is already far too long.
He stares at the sand, but not really. His mind is flying at a miles per hour and he needs to sleep but can’t now . He can’t, not right here . Nightmares are the least he needs now.
“Mustang.”
He perks up and moves towards Armstrong, who is standing with a hand over the golden alchemist’s shoulder.
He leaves behind the imprinted silhouette of an Ishvalan in the sand. He leaves before it can choke him, to make him pay for his plethora of sins.
“Armstrong. Anything you need from me?”
“I am going to introduce you to my friend, Edward Elric. The golden alchemist.”
He pays the back of the Elric, and he feels the eyes of the man on him. Evaluating.
“Pleasure. Roy Mustang is the name.”
Elric nods and Roy can tell, that this is not a good moment.
“I am sure we’ll have more time to get acquainted, Armstrong. For now, you two should rest, we depart tomorrow.”
Elric nods and with a mumbled goodbye, slides out of Armstrong's hold and leaves.
Armstrong doesn’t even need to say anything. “Let him, Alex. He needs to be alone.” If it were him, that would be his wish.
Armstrong sighs but nods.
“I understand. That does not it mean I like where his mind goes.”
He shakes his head. “That is for his mind to know, and for him to process. He looks like a very dedicated, stubborn, and persevering person. He won’t stop here.”
He doesn’t need to look at him more than once, to know he will bounce back. Not perfectly fine. No one will be perfectly fine after this. But no one is perfect. What matters is that he keeps pushing.
If only he were that strong. Mae’s has had to pull him off much darker corners before. Where he had just wanted to stop.
He already respects this practical stranger. Is he growing soft?
”Are you any better Mustang?”
He hums and shrugs. “That’s for my flask to know, and for you to guess.”
“Well. My guess is that you are not.”
“Pot calling kettle.”
Silence surrounds them and Armstrong rubs his eyes.
“Go to sleep. Tomorrow we are heading to Cooper’s camp.”
“There’s nothing there, Mustang. Only graves.”
This whole desert is a massive grave, he huffs in his head.
The rest of the conversation is said in hushed voices, with the howling wind as their ally.
“I know. Even better. I need the colonel to dig his own hole. He is quite deep inside right now.”
“You might be the flame alchemist, but your influence goes as far as Hughes can go. Which is not much yet.”
He shakes his head. “No, Armstrong. Treason is an unforgivable crime at this time. Even allegations… are quite a sin. One punishable by death.”
“Mustang-“
“You see, Armstrong. They sent me here as the police, judge, and executioner.”
“What about your-“
“Did you know Armstrong, that his reputation is abysmal? No one wants him. No one will miss him. And if he has killed fellow Amestrians… then I am serving my country.”
Armstrong looks at him, bewildered, angry, and resigned. Roy knew he had asked for his help, with many other possible solutions in mind. Sadly, this is all he can offer.
He doesn’t know how to feel.
“…”
“…”
“You’ve changed, Mustang.”
Roy smiles, his eyes burn and the fists in his pockets tighten. The fabric of the gloves is straining and limiting.
“I wasn’t aware I was a mirror.”
They walk, and Armstrong doesn’t walk away in disgust or anger. He is displeased. But he knows there is no other way.
“It’ll be fine.” He says, looking at the remains of a blue uniform. “If I have to get rid of one corrupt soul to protect others, then I will without hesitation.” He sighs and closes his eyes. Images of children are engraved on the back of his eyelids. “I’ll do it until there are no new young sinners like us in our country.”
He was never here for himself. The country. Think of the country. Of Riza, of Hughes, of his aunt. They deserve better than this hell governed by blue uniforms. But you can't do shit, a voice whispers. In bad days that voice is particularly bad. You are just a major.
He knows it's right though.
Armstrong is looking at him, but he is looking at the sky.
“Go rest. I’ll take it from here.”
And so, Roy is left alone, staring at the stars while wishing he had the power to do it all now.
Morning comes in a flash and no more Ishavlans arrive.
With him here, he doubts they’d even try.
Turns out that there were very few survivors. Only three privates are semi-healthy. Then there are four in critical condition.
The rest died.
Roy stares at the corpses, not seeing their faces, and moves on. He has seen too many, and their faces are already blurred into one big smudge of skin, grime, flesh and blood.
Instead, he stares at Elric. He woke olio sometime in the early morning. He transmutes grave after grave. Grave after grave, he digs a hole. Grave after grave, he places a corpse inside. One after the other.
One body, one grave.
A luxury, at this time.
He looks at him, and is about to offer his help, but sees his eyes. The rage. The impotence. The desperation. The fear.
He doesn’t even think of intervening again.
He needs this. He needs this and Roy doesn't have a single right to intervene.
He knew he was right about him. Yesterday, in his chat with Armstrong.
This man is stronger than what he will ever be.
The colonel wakes up, when Elric has stopped. There is no food here, he discovers. He swallows saliva and grits his teeth.
He’ll sleep later.
He reunites everyone before they leave.
It’s a sad and sorry group. Thirteen privates, five of which are his. Three alchemists, one being him. One rat, being Rodolph the colonel.
“Let’s have a moment of silence for our fellow comrades.”
Elric is staring at him, and he is staring at the colonel. He needs to understand this man before he kills him. A monster he may be, but he is still human.
Once the silence grows too oppressive and he can also hear the shouting of hell under the sand at his feet, he continues. “I’ll take us to Brigadier General Cooper’s camp, following the Colonel’s decision. Follow, and don’t fail to report anything that you see. Understood?”
The colonel puffs his chest, The rest salutes, and he starts walking.
The sand dunes feel massive, even more now. He walks ahead, at a safe distance. The rest lags behind, as always. He insists to himself this is better.
Even if he wants to meet and actually talk with Elric. He can’t bring himself to breach the distance.
After an hour of walking like this, he discovers he doesn’t need to as Elric approaches him first.
He is covering his face with his military jacket, down to only a simple shirt. His uniform is messy, in a different manner than the Colonel’s. Here, it’s a lack of care for the military. In the other man… it’s just pure incompetence.
He wonders if Elric was drafted or willingly joined, like him.
He knows the answer. A good man like the one by his side would never willingly choose this life.
“I thought you were friends with Armstrong.”
“I am. We are acquainted.”
He can hear him roll his eyes. “Don’t give me bullshit. You are friends. So why are you all over here on your own?”
He raises an eyebrow at the other. “I’m enjoying the view, of course. Don’t you enjoy the hills of sand and more sand that hit you in the face and go inside your boots?”
“You are not even trying to make it appealing, bastard.”
“Never wanted to.” He feels a grin pull at his lips, the frown softening into a humorous expression.
“Come back here with us and brood like other people tend to do around here. In company. ”
“You are not even trying to make it appealing, golden boy.”
That gets a reaction. “ Golden boy?!”
“I mean. Isn’t that your moniker? Unless it was along the lines of the miniature alchemist. ”
“Call me that again, and I am killing you, fucker.”
“Golden boy or miniature?”
“Both, Flame.”
He pauses for a second. “Fair enough. I won’t call you miniature. You won’t call me flame.”
“Don’t call me golden boy either.”
“Then where’s the fun?”
“In keeping your kneecaps, asshole.”
“Gold, then?”
“Fuck no.”
“… Sun?”
“No.”
He sighs and puts a hand on his chin mockingly. “You are making things very hard for me, Major Elric.”
“You are an alchemist, figure it out.”
“I am afraid arrays are easier to understand.”
“Suffer, then.”
He laughs and takes his hands out of his pockets for the first time that day, stretching his back. This dune is particularly tall.
He hates sand. And dunes. And deserts. And the heat. He hates this environment.
So he thinks of nicknames.
“How about… Golderic?”
“What even is that?”
“Well, I thought I was quite obvious, but I am willing to explain if it is too much for you to understa-“
“I’ll call you salamander if you call me that shit.”
“… is Elric fine?”
“Mustang it is then, bastard.”
He tsks. “Technically, that was another nickname. An insult if I may.”
“And?”
“… nothing.”
Elric hums appreciatively and nods.
“Not so hard, was it Mustang?”
“Saying that hurt me on a spiritual level.”
“You whine a lot. How about you come to whine about it with us? At least you won't be whining to the sand. And that way Armstrong can suffer with me.”
“Then who’ll ensure the Colonel won’t get us killed by misdirecting us?”
Elric pauses and looks at the distance between them and the rest. Once he is sure, he adds. “What do you know about the Colonel?”
“More than I want.” He looks at the man, who has an open face and deeply grieving eyes. “This is my business, Elric. I’ll deal with him.”
He frowns and opens his mouth to talk so Roy tries to interrupt.
“It’s my responsibility and du-
But Elric interrupts him first. “Responsibility my ass. And since when has all this been your business? I am dead-ass certain that the people who died were from my team.” He says this and can see Elric fidget with his metal bracers, tracing the engraved arrays he hadn’t noticed until now. “I can’t tell you to fuck off, because you seem to have a grip over the situation, but don’t you dare push me away from what is my problem to solve.”
He has nothing to say to that.
Elric is, beyond all technicalities, right.
Yet, it is also interesting that for a man who seems to have no desire to partake in military rouses like a proper uniform, he seems invested in patching the mess from a corrupt military officer.
This amount of sincerity is refreshing, especially inside the fire of military plots and politics.
They walk in silence, and Elric doesn’t leave. He seems content to keep the same pace as him, so he lets him. It is not like it is unpleasant.
It makes it easier to walk without feeling like is carrying a massive pile of corpses on his back.
Finally, a good three hours later, the dunes open up to reveal the remains of what seemed to have been once a military base. “This was Cooper’s camp?”
Elric shakes his head. “I guess. We never got to see it in any better conditions. It had already been abandoned when we arrived.”
He pauses at that. He already knew Rodolph was lying but it was good to have his suspicions confirmed for him. “You have been here before?”
“Yes, once.”
The response comes chipped and he knows there is more there. But he can also feel the steps of the colonel coming from behind, so he doesn’t question further. For now. “We’ll talk later.” He says turning around to greet the colonel with a smile.
“This is Brigadier General Cooper’s base?” When he nods, the Colonel lets out a huff. “Sees to me that he was rather mediocre for a general.”
His smile widens. “Oh. I am sure you are much more competent, sir. It is a shame I haven’t been able to see any of it yet. The world seems reluctant to let you shine. What a waste.” He is playing it risky, for he is a major and the other a colonel, but Rodolph was never known for his patience.
“What is a true shame, Flame, is that your skills prefer shine over practicality. you have no particular use outside of this desert.” With a wave of his hand, the Colonel seems to dismiss him in favor of facing Elric. Elric, who is currently tightening his hand and jaw so hard that Roy is afraid they’ll crack. “On the other hand, the golden alchemist over here is much more practical. He has all the characteristics an alchemist should have, accompanied by a much more pleasing silence.” The man even tries to put a hand over Elric’s shoulder, but Roy sees how he stops as soon as Edward’s hand hovers over his arm bracer.
“Is that so? I must apologize if my performance has been so.. disappointing.”
The colonel narrows his eyes. “It is quite fine, Flame. You can’t truly people for who they are.”
He nods, and points at the remains of the camp in front of them. “May I suggest we settle down? I am quite sure we may depart by tomorrow morning to the main base. I might need the golden alchemist's help for a routine inspection. I am certain you’ll understand.”
“Why of course.”
He walks ahead with Elric on his tail, leaving the Colonel behind with the other soldiers.
Once they are far from the group, Elric says. “You are a bastard with everyone, aren’t you? Just more polite with others.”
“You’d call that polite.”
Elric huffs. “Of course not. In fact, I must thank you. I’ve been wanted to say shit like that since the first day.”
He laughs as they walk through the destroyed camp. None of them commented on the lines of graves, nor the stench in the air.
The sun goes down, as he surveys the area with Elric. He hears the rest of their small group settle on the edge the furthest away from the graves. In silence, he leads Elric away from the group, and a noisy colonel.
“Elric.”
The man, who had been staring at the horizon with a lost look in his eyes turns to him. He can’t even begin to list the emotions written in that expression. Sadness, anger, frustration, regret, exhaustion. Those eyes seem alive. Like there is a breathing, living soul with hope inside. Those eyes burned with resistance and a weight that could never be resignation.
An expression he is not sure if he’ll ever have. Not after what he has done.
It just makes him respect the man in front of him even more.
“Mustang.”
“Where is Brigadier General Cooper?”
“Why would I know that?”
“Because the Colonel seems to want you silent.” He says, looking at the moon and then back at Edward. “And you want to say something. It’s been at the tip of your tongue since this morning.”
Elric seems to run calculations in his head, and Mustang waits. Waits because he knows Elric understands. Because Elric is already a person he knows he could take off his gloves and be safe. He doesn’t, for he still feels like an enemy is waiting to appear from the corner and kill them both. He can’t let his guard down. Not here. Not yet.
Unease, and unsease set in his stomach, but he pays it no mind. He focuses instead on the thoughtful look on Elric’s face.
He hears somewhere in the back of his head, Madamme’s voice. “That is all in your head, boy. Go sleep. You need to sleep.”
He even hears Hughes. “I sent you there so you could have a change of scenery, not push yourself beyond exhaustion.”
The feeling of unease and haze doesn't pass.
“... Can I show you something?”
He nods, and Elric starts to walk away from the base and the group. They walk in the middle of the night through more and more sand dunes.
He doesn’t ask. He sees the concentration on Elric’s face like he is searching through hazy memories.
He just follows.
Under the light of the moon, he sees Elric take a deep breath. From the top of a sand dune, Elric points somewhere below.
“You can take a look.”
Roy descends and Elric stays behind.
As he goes down, the smell of decay gets to him, and his fingers twitch. He doesn’t need a flame to see the pile of brown sand. He just needs the moon to see a blue epaulet with thick yellow stripes and no stars. It will take a while for it to deteriorate before it is unrecognizable.
He doesn’t need to remove the sand to see the decaying corpse of the missing brigadier general.
He traced back from where he descended and stood next to Elric. From this distance, the pile of sand looks nothing more like a simple pile of sightly darker sand.
The stench, though… He won’t ever forget.
“I assume they were waiting for us. We arrived from above and saw them before they saw us. I used this array.” He is handed a small piece of paper with a terrifyingly simple array. He crushes it in his hand.
“Who gave the order?”
“Who else.”
“Why you?”
“Because I am versatile. Because I don’t hesitate like Armstrong. Because he could put a gun against my back and I would give in.”
“Wanting to live is not a sin.”
“And when it comes at the cost of someone else?”
He doesn’t know. He wishes he did. In his case, it is. The biggest sin. The worst sin, because he could have done so many different things but he didn’t. Doesn’t. His life is still his because he is drenched in the blood of innocents who paid for him.
Edward, though, couldn’t have done anything.
Unlike Roy, he came because he was forced to do so. Because he was never like Roy: Stupid enough to believe in the lies of this country.
Elric’s continuation brings him back. “I would do it again. If it means I live long enough to pay it back to the bastard, I’d do it again.”
“They sent me here as the police, judge, and executioner.”
“I won’t ask that of you.”
Elric stares at him. “And yet you’ll do it too. You are planning to do it..”
“He can’t continue doing this.”
“And it has to be you?”
“If I can stop this, ye-”
“You’ll be executed for treason.”
“No. This is my job.”
Elric pauses.
“How will you even explain it? How will you even justify it?”
He recites the speech he prepared. “Colonel Rodolph di María was executed for treason against Amestris. His actions and incompetence killed his superior officer, Franklin Cooper former brigadier general, and the officers under his command. Under the authority bestowed to me by the Führer, and as my duty state alchemy of the military, I protected my comrades from the threat he presented.”
Elric stares at him. He stares back.
There is no disgust, no apprehension. Just understanding, and bitterness.
“You are determined.”
He nods and with a sigh he tugs his gloves, pressing them tighter against his skin. “This is my job.”
Elric shakes his head. “No. If it were your job, you’d just ignore all this. This is justice.”
“Is it? Is killing a man true justice?”
“He’s going to pay. Even if it won’t do much to heal, this much is needed. Men like him are vermin. For Amestris to ever be better, we need fewer men like him in command. We need a change in who leads before we can even dream of something better.”
He doesn’t mention how they are no better. Plotting the death of a comrade. In an ideal Amestris, they are no better. He is no better, and he knows. How can a man create change, or even succeded, when on his good days he wants to put a bullet through his skull?
“-stang. Promise me one thing.” Elric grabs his arm, forcibly turning him. Making him stop staring at the horizon, to face the man who is leagues better than him, who is less of a sinner than him. “Promise me, that when this is over… that when this is over no child will have to see war. That no more mothers will have to suffer for the fate of their sons and daughters. That no more killers will rule this country.”
He feels a laugh bubble from deep inside his chest. God, what is Edward thinking? What is he thinking, when Roy is just another dog, whose leash is just as tight as the others? He doesn't notice that Elric is slowly becoming Edward in his head. He's definitely grown soft.
“What can I realistically do? I am just a major.”
“Mustang.” Roy.
Mustang looked at his eyes and immediately knew it was a mistake. Elric’s eyes are full of something. Roy doesn’t think there should be anything but disgust in there.
“I don’t care how. Just-” The hand on his arm tightens and he doesn't wince. “The how comes later. I'll walk with you all the way there if necessary. But please.”
His chest feels tight and he wants to scream.
What can he ever do?
He makes the mistake of looking him in the eyes. He finds something he can’t name. Won’t name. There shouldn’t be anything but disgust there.
Yet he also doesn’t want to see hate there. Never.
“I’ll try.”
Against those eyes, he feels seen. Peeled open. Bare for Edward to see. It is uncomfortable, to the point his skin crawls and he wants to leave. It is relieving because he is not alone. He never truly was alone, with Riza and Hughes. Without them, he would not be here. But, for the first time, he doesn’t feel alone. the pressure that is over his shoulder isn’t lifted, but with that gaze he no longer feels buried alone under all the pressure.
He feels like there is someone in the same hell as him.
“I’ll try.”
As they walk back, they discuss plans. How they’ll handle the colonel is the main point of conversation. This time, Edward walks ahead of him and Roy tries to follow his rhythm. The world is blurring along the edges, and his eyes are heavy with postponed sleep.
He still does his best to contribute.
Once they arrive, the plan is clear cut and defined. Only Armstrong is waiting for them, sitting by a dead ride.
Tomorrow, they leave this place. By tomorrow, Colonel Rodolph do María will die by his hands for the greater good.
The idealist in him asks. “Who gives you the right to dictate right and wrong? What gives you the right to take his life?
A voice, not his but a mix of many others says back: “The souls of those he killed. He has to pay for all he’s done.”
“Then, what about you?”
Edward’s voice cuts through the haze. “-stang. You should go to sleep.” He is about to shake his head when Edward continues. “You can’t drop dead just now. Remember.”
He sighs. You promised , he hears.
“Alright. Alright.”
“I’ll wake you up when the sun is out.”
“Thank you, Elric.”
He nods and pauses. He never brought sleeping gear.
Edward’s voice comes from behind, and when he turns, he hands him his stuff. He sounds amused and exasperated. “Take my stuff.”
“And you-“
“I’m taking turns with Armstrong, so I don’t need it.”
“Thank you. Again.”
“Don’t say it too much. It’ll grow old.”
“Aye aye.”
He settles on the ground, and with Edward talking in the background with Armstrong, he falls asleep.
He wakes up to Edward shaking him.
“Slept well?”
“I hate the desert.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He stands up and blinks the remaining sleepiness away. Armstrong comes up to them, holding two plates with canned food.
“Take this Mustang. This is the last of what we have. Warning, we found it here. There is no way of knowing its state.”
Roy takes it with a nod. “ Are you poisoning me, Armstrong?" The man in question just huffs. The eyebags on his face only help to make it seem more grim, even with a smile on it. He continues. "Then it's perfect we are heading back today.”
Edward nods. “Damn right. Finally.”
He laughs at his grumble. “What? Was the wandering life too much for you?”
Edward glares at him. “Shup up, city boy.”
He chuckles and looks around, spotting the colonel. The man was talking to two privates. Or more like scolding. His mood immediately drops.
“Are you ready?” Edward asks him, one hand resting on his shoulder.
“Yes. Do you know the plan, Armstrong?”
“Edward told me yesterday.”
“Great. I’ll leave the beginning to you then.” He nods at the two of them. Both nod back and they go their separate ways. Armstrong busies himself with organizing the remaining resources they have, hovering near Edward, who approaches the Colonel. He watches from afar.
He can’t hear what Edward says, but with the way the Colonel’s face twists, it must not be pretty. Edward continues to talk, and he has the growing suspicion that he is just venting from all he has been keeping quiet.
Just like they planned.
Then, the colonel who had never been particularly patient, raises his arm to punch Edward. He sees Edward stumble backward.
He hears the privates start to rustle and pay attention silently.
Just like they planned.
Edward adds something else, that has the colonel raging.
And then, the man shouts. Very loudly. Very clearly.
“You are nothing but a dog. Don't you know who I am? How dare you try and make a show out of what is a lie.”
Edward never raises his voice, instead, Roy watches as he calmly adds gasoline to the fire. He doesn't know what he said, and in the future, the other will never tell him. But Roy doesn't really care. Because it worked.
The man snapped, pouncing over Edward viciously, ready to choke him on the spot. With everyone watching.
Edward, dodges, faking effort. Armstrong shouts and if someone wasn’t watching, they certainly are now.
He tightens his hand. His turn now.
“What do you think you are doing, colonel?”
His voice easily carries through the camp. even without needing to shout. He does his best to look like a figure of calm to the privates. His steps on the sand feel loud, and the colonel backs up. He wonders what the colonel sees in his face.
Edward also backs slowly, as if hurt. He almost wants to huff. As if an alchemist could be threatened by this poor excuse of a colonel.
“Aren't you bothered by playing this role?”
Ed had rolled his eyes. “It's a role. Nothing else.” The grin on Edwards's face manages to be grim and light at the same time. “Are you alright with this? With your role?”
“I am. It benefits me the most. Ill be seen as the savior.”
“Not about that.”
“… I’ve accepted it by now.”
“Colonel, there is no explanation for your actions!” He extends his arms. This is a show. He needs people to believe him. To side with him. At least for now. “You were trying to kill a fellow Amestrian, colonel.” He looks at Edward, and the other nods at him. He turns back to the colonel. “That's treason, colonel.”
The old hag starts to mumble, clearly seeing where this is going.
“This is out of proportion. You are out of your mind if you think-"
“Against a state alchemist no less. You are a threat to this country. “
“Flame-“
“Under the authority bestowed to me by the Führer, and as my duty state alchemy of the military, I have to execute you. Don't make this any more difficult.”
The man tries to punch him but he dodges faster and easily. “Know I don’t extract any joy from this. But you are an enemy to Amestris.” He positions himself. The man tries again, but his fingers are faster.
Snap.
The man goes up in flames, the smell of burning meat impregnating the air. He shouts and shouts until he dies. Painfully.
He covers his nose under the pretext of being overwhelmed with emotion.
The camp is dead silent. Everyone watching the now smoking pile of burned skin.
“Let it be known to everyone present. The colonel died as a threat. This is for the good of the country.”
No one says anything to contradict him. They know it isn't that simple. But there is also no denying the facts.
The colonel
did
attack Edward.
Did try to attack Roy. To kill. And, i
t's not like anyone wanted the colonel.
He still didn’t deserve to die by fire. Burnt alive. No one does.
Mustang does his best to not face Edward as he turns to the rest of the group.”One minute of silence for our dead comrade. Then we are leaving now for the main base.”
He walks away, one hand trembling inside his pocket.
He doesn’t want to look at Edward. Not with the burned corpse behind him.
No one stays silent as they pack and leave. Not even for a second.
He is walking ahead, and he hears the muffled voices behind him. He is walking fast enough that the distance wont let him hear what they are saying. He has no interest in knowing what they are saying. It is clear what they are doing.
Gossiping.
He doesn't want to know.
He guides the group, trying to forget the smell. But he can still sense it in his clothes. In his hair.
In the hand on his shoulder.
He jumps at the sudden contact, one hand tightens ready to snap. Once he turns he drops the hand.
Edward doesn't look hurt. Instead, he tightens his hold on his shoulder. It's just him again. Armstrong stayed behind, but he can see the glances he sends him.
Edward doesn't say anything, just keeps walking by his side. It's done, Roy.
He nods in acknowledgment. Edward doesn't say anything for a while.
Two hours in, he finally talks. Regret eating at the corners of his mind.
“I'm sorry you had to smell it. The corpse.”
The other looks at him. “Why?”
“Because it's horrible.” Because it keeps him awake at night, wanting to lose his sense of smell. Because it is unbearably stuck in his nose, clothes, and hair.
“I had smelled it before. Two nights ago, when you first arrived.”
He is about to apologize when Edward interrupts him.
“Don’t. It grows old.” He huffs. Edward elbows him on the side. “No, really don’t. If you didn't do it, I would have. So thank you, Roy.”
“I'm sure that'd be better than burning alive.” It is a cruel thing to say, when all the other has done is comfort him.
Edward doesn't even look hurt. “No. It wouldn’t. Just… the Colonel paid for his actions.”
When will his time to pay come? How should he pay when his crimes continue to accumulate?
He simply sighs.
They get to the camp when the sun already set. He dismissed his privates. The rest, he directed them to get checked for possible injuries and then rest. Eventually it's just him and the two other alchemists.
Armstrong talks first. “How many people are stationed here?”
“I don't have the exact number. But this is one of the biggest Amestrian camps this far inside the desert.”
Armstrong hums. “Are Hughes and Hawkeye here?”
“Yes, they are.”
Edward seems to perk up. “Wait. Hughes, as in Hughes Maes?”
He raises an eyebrow at the other. “Well, yes. It's not like I know any more Hughes. Why? Does it ring a bell?”
“Fuck yes. When I… when I was trying to ask for help, he was the one who took the call. He was fucking annoying. Much like you, Mustang.” Ed grumbles and he laughs.
“I understand the sentiment. I'll introduce you two tomorrow. For now, go to my tent, there is enough space for you two there.” He points in the direction, of his tent, knowing its not far.
“And you?”
“I need to report what happened. The faster, the better.”
Edward nods.
Now that they are here, he feels like he can take a closer look at Ed. Here, with the tents surrounding them instead of more and more sand, he could stop to admire Ed. He can’t, but the realization is not unpleasant... He doesn't have time to think about that. A migraine from the idea of doing so is enough warning. He is emotionally exhausted and needs to sleep. So for now, he lets the thought go. Still, it hangs in the back of his mind. Hypocrite. Hypocrite. How dare you even think of something like that after all you have done?
As he walks away to report to his superior officers, he feels for the first time something that is not dread and desperation.
Something like hope.
Notes:
Okay so i kind of got carried away. :) I know i said i would take it slow but... I couldn't.
Anyway, here is a fourth chapter of this fic. this one was supposed to be a short introductory piece for Roy and Hughes into the story. But guess what: My brain didn't roll with that, so now we have this. I kind of like it better though. i have a clear idea of were i want this to head, though there is no clear definition of how many chapters it will take me to get there.
thanks for the comments. They are literally what fuels this five-hour writing binge lmao.
Take care and see you next time!
Chapter Text
To rest inside a properly made tent, protected from the freezing climate of the desert at night is such a fucking gift. He had never realized how much he took for granted.
It isn't like back in Resembool. No, there is no way he can say this is equivalent. But he can compare. The feeling of being inside the stuffy tent, sleeping alongside two people he can consider allies is enough to make him feel at least safe enough to calm his way down from a nightmare.
Before, in the wild with the Colonel, breathing while trying to ground himself in the present was hard. The wind, the cold, the sand digging through his skin was enough to persistently bring back the faces of those he killed in just a month. There, breathing was hard because the colonel and every other private wouldn’t hesitate to put a gun against his back.
He takes a deep breath as quietly as he can. The heavy breathing from Armstrong and the occasional snore from Mustang are comforting. Why? Don't ask him.
If you do he'll tell you he knows these two think just like him, and understand the hell he lives in.
He knows that he doesn’t need to expect a gun against his back from the man who cries for every life he has killed and the alchemist who made him a promise.
Morning comes and Mustang is the first to wake. As he stands, Ed stands with him.
The raised eyebrow the other sends him can never be not funny or infuriating.
“Didn't see you like someone who'd wake up early, Elric.”
“What are you insinuating, Mustang?”
The man exits the tent and he follows, if anything because it's the first time he sees Armstrong sleep so deeply.
“Nothing. I can assure you that you look like the most dedicated soldier out there.”
He fakes puking. “That bad? I'll make sure to erase that impression then.”
Mustang laughs. He can't help but notice how the lines of stress lighten, making him look his age.
“Don't laugh, bastard. I am serious.”
The camp is bussing with movement, even though it's still early. The tents are lined up, much more than he had seen coming here. No wonder it's one of the biggest Amestrian camps.
“So, are you stationed here often?”
They aren’t walking, just standing outside of the tent. The sun isn’t out completely yet. Leaving a wonderful sight to be seen, towards the horizon, and the trenches.
It’s ironic, that this sight exists on the same reality as the genocide they are part of.
He hates it so much.
“No, not really. I live a busy life.”
He snorts. “Didn’t seem like it, as you came to the rescue of a missing and considerably small team.”
Mustang shrugs. “You'll have to ask Hughes how he managed to pull that off. On that line, I'll introduce you two today.”
“Does having one very short call on a military radio count as a meeting?”
Mustang seems to consider it more than he had expected.
“Knowing him, it counts.”
He has to raise an eyebrow.
He notices how many privates pass by them yet no one salutes or acknowledges them. How Mustang doesn't seem to care, or the entire apathy from everyone around them.
“Sounds like he is interesting.”
Mustang chuckles. “Couldn’t be more right.”
The silence they fall into is comfortable. He watches as the people pass by them, mostly deadly serious with grim expressions, with the occasional smile of someone who is high on painkillers.
He passes a hand through his hair, which isn’t tied up as usual. He needs to trim it, as the tips are dry and dead.
I’ll probably have to transmute my own scissors and do it myself if I want to keep it this length.
Mustang is the one to break it.
“Not to be rude, but-“
“Be careful with your next words, Mustang. I can pack a mean punch if I want to.”
Mustang raised his hands in mock surrender, with that easy laid-back smile. The weight in those eyes is not gone, but right now, it seems that Mustang is not seeing through him, but right at him.
“What I mean to say is that both you and Armstrong stink. There are places for you to take a bath, clean that uniform, and get checked by doctors. Make sure to use those benefits before we are tasked to leave, Elric.”
“Any idea who I am being assigned to?”
That makes the easygoing, teasing Mustang falter. His eyebrows draw inwards. He already dreads the answer.
“As a state alchemist, there are many places where they could assign you. Depends on what your commanding officer reported about your performance.”
Both of them know that their commanding officer is dead, burned to a crisp by their verdict.
“So what did you say?”
“That you are a brilliant alchemist, with very good versatility in any field- do I need to keep going or do you get the gist of it?”
“Basically, you have no idea where I can end up.”
Mustang nods, and it's strange how easy it is for him to see the tension in his back and fingers.
“Correct.” There is more Mustang wants to say, and much more he wants to pry, but Armstrong interrupts their conversation by emerging from the tent.
“Good morning friends. Did I oversleep for too long?”
He is the one to answer, putting one hand on his hip. “Not nearly enough. Now, guess what.”
“What is it?” Armstrong says curious, with his shoulder not pulled as tight as when they camped out in the wild.
“Mustang here just said we stink. Can you believe that claim?”
Mustang just shrugs, with a smile adorning his lips. “Because you do, Elric. The stench almost did not let me sleep.”
As if, Edward heard him snore several times. He does not mention it out loud though. “Well bastard, tell us where we can bathe and you can stop whining. It doesn't fit a man in his honorable grays.”
“I am only twenty-two, even Armstrong here is older than me.”
Armstrong raises an eyebrow at getting involved, but Ed pays it no mind. He can't resist a laugh at Mustang’s indignation.
“By five years. You are at the perfect age for retirement, major bastard.”
“And you are barely out of your diapers.”
“I am eighteen.”
“Moreso.”
“Just tell us where to go, asshole.”
By this point, Armstrong looks ready to intervene. Though, he also looks amused, if the upturned eyes and brightening of his features attest to anything.
After that, it takes them no time to find where they can clean themselves. It's nothing like home, but the cold water is a relief in the heat of the desert. He had talked to Matthew about how much he missed showers once before food had gone scarce.
Before he had fucked up and basically sold his team to the enemy. Before he got Sergei, Matthew, Katie, and Chris killed. All of them dead, unable to get the last pleasure of breathing, and seeing the sunrise.
As the water washed down his back he thought about how he stole their chance to get a bath or sleep in a stuffy tent with those they trusted.
As he dries himself and puts on a new uniform, he can't help but think how he stole them the chance of going back to their mothers, their brothers, their sons, and daughters.
He hates it and wants to punch kick and scream because the only thing he did right was give them a proper burial.
Once his uniform is on, its stiffness helps him push any thoughts back. He needs to focus on now.
The doctor tells him he is fine, with just a small cavity in one of his teeth that is removed quickly. He knows he is fine, but he just needs to check. Just in case.
Mustang is waiting by the entrance of the medical tent with another man by his side. They are both comfortable with each other, but the topic of conversation must be a bother as Mustang’s face is pulled into a grimace.
The man says something to Mustang and he turns to see him with a smile.
“Elric, let me introduce you officially to Hughes, an intelligence officer tied to a very boring desk job.”
“Boring job with reasonable pay,” Hughes says to Mustang and then turns to him. “Pleasure to meet you in person, Major Elric.” There is a hand extended for him to shake.
“Same here. You must be the brain behind all the brawn, I'm guessing.”
Hughes laughs and Mustang lets out an undignified sound that has him wanting to laugh.
“Elric-“
“You’d be right, major. In fact, he’d be dead if it wasn't for me.”
There are implications to that statement that he leaves for later, instead saying. “Just Elric or Edward.”
“Edward then.” The jump to his name seems to be natural for the man. “Roy here was telling me about your worries on the placement and all. I have answers.”
He raises an eyebrow, for just an intelligence officer, Hughes knows a lot. “So fast?”
“I’ve got my ways.” The man says, relaxed in a way he found similar to Mustang’s. It must be a trait they picked up from each other. “Returning to the point. You are going to be assigned to the same squad as Roy.” Clearly, the man hadn’t been expecting this, if his surprised and nearly pained expression is enough to go by. Hughes pays it no mind. “You won't be deployed immediately. As someone put good word of your abilities as an emergency mechanic, you’ll be tasked to fix some stuff around before you leave.”
“I am not a mechanic though.”
“They don’t care.” The harsh reality in that statement is sobering. So is the expression on Hughes’s face. Realistic but not unkind. “But it’ll let you have a few days to rest and find footing.”
He nods, and the haunted feeling in Mustang’s eyes, as he stares at Hughes, makes him wonder if he had a hand in that delayed deployment. He has no proof, other than the despair in the other's face.
But even then, it’s a thought worth saving for later.
There is a moment of silence, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, where all three of them are just watching each other. Hughes's face is marked with understanding and joy, one of which Ed believes is just a way of coping. Mustang is just staging there, looking at him like there is something he is searching for.
He is the one to break this scene.
“Well, that sounds good. More generous than what I expected from the military.”
Hughes has a sardonic smile. “It is not something they do for anyone. Only a few have that benefit, and it comes for a high price.”
State alchemists are the favorite dogs of the military. By killing those innocent, they get bigger leeway.
He hates it.
Mustang seems to grimace, one hand picking at the glove absentmindedly. “The military is not afraid to show favoritism for those who do their job well.”
Ed wonder if he is counted among those.
If he is already enough of a dog to deserve being thrown spare food under the table.
He continues to stay with Mustang and Armstrong in the same tent until further notice. Not like it matters, because the other two are gone in a day. Shipped off to the trenches. So he is left alone in an empty and less comforting tent.
In the following days, he spends the time wandering around the camp fixing the things the superiors want him to fix. He fixes weapons, repairs structures, and machines of differing degrees of importance. He gets to see the office desk assigned to Hughes, a small thing cramped in a slightly bigger tent. He sees passing the commanding officer of the station. A tall general with a proper military haircut, firm face, and straight posture. He has the feeling of bleeding blue.
And Ed, who bleeds red hates it with vehemence.
Still, he isn’t expected to interact with the man or anyone else at all. The only person he talks to is Hughes, who is easy to spend time around. They spend time talking about their lives outside of Ishval. Where Ed shares stories about his mother, Hughes rants about his girlfriend, showing him pictures. It goes to the point that he feels he knows García intimately, and Hughes knows enough about Resembool to be considered a local.
One night, the night before his deployment, Hughes brings him a bottle of scotch and two glasses.
They drink in silence inside Mustang’s tent. None of them seem to be very fast drinkers, so the scotch is at ambient temperature.
“Hey Ed, have you written back home?”
He purses his lips. For all he missed Resembool, and his mother, Winry, and Pinako, the thought of writing them hadn’t crossed his mind.
It had, but it felt like invading the memory of how it was all before. What should he tell them about anyway? About his exploits as a state alchemist? About the sand, the sun, and the blood?
Thinking about writing home is something he hates. Because he hates feeling like an intruder when writing to his own mother.
“No, haven’t found the time.”
Hughes looks at him, in the way he does when he knows that someone is lying and isn’t afraid to show his disappointment. “Seriously, you are just like Roy. And not in the good sense.” He sighs and takes a drag of his drink and looks at Ed straight in the eye. “You should do it, Ed. Don’t be a stranger to your own family.”
He sighs and scowls at the man. Both at the same time. “To be fair, I did spend around a month lost in the desert because of a pathetic excuse of a colonel. And I wasn’t aware the mailing system was good all the way over here.”
“That is no excuse. And it isn’t, the mail gets checked, and it takes ages to get a response. But it's worth it, Ed.”
He hums and takes a sip. He doesn’t want to think about it. Writing that latter makes him feel like a stranger. He hates it. He never really understood the liking of alcohol, and while the small space of bliss it gave was pleasant, he never saw the purpose of chasing it. In a way, he could never become an alcoholic. the lack of control. The next day it leaves him off kilter. And the taste isn’t good, almost always going down like acid.
But, when he drinks like this. With a friend. It doesn’t burn as much.
Hughes and his easy company help make him feel less like a dog. Less like a stranger to himself.
“Stop pushing, I will write to them.” He downs the last of his drink and pushes it towards the other man.
Hughes shakes his head. “Alright, that’s enough for today.”
He takes his glass and Ed’s, walking towards the exit of the tent before turning with a look in his eyes Ed doesn’t really want to think about it. “Write that letter, Ed. You won’t regret it.” Ed nods and he can see Hughes suppressing a sigh. “Seriously, don’t be like Roy on that matter. give it to me tomorrow on the morning before you go. I’ll make sure it gets there.”
Hughes leaves before he can even begin to thank him.
The next morning, he has a letter clutched in his hand as he walks towards the meeting point.
It is a simple plain ground by the edges of the camp, where the soldiers destined to go to the trenches prepare for the march. The lines of blue uniforms make him uneasy. it makes him aware that he is somewhere he does not belong.
Not like he chose to be here.
Hughes stands by the sidelines, watching carefully at the soldiers with a detachment Ed knows he would recognize in himself.
Before joining the lines, he hands Hughes the letter pushed into his hands in a hurried thanks.
He does not see the smile on Hughes's face.
There is no big speech when they depart. Ed guesses that in the eyes of the general, there is no reason for one. They are not the main forces, and their role is merely complementary.
For once, he is relieved. He isn’t sure he could go through the general’s speech without vomiting in pure disgust.
The sun warms up the sand, and he definitely did not miss the suffocating feeling of the warm desertic air. Dune after dune he trails in the back of the group. It is not like before, when he was one of the two-state alchemists in the group, and the Colonel did not even try to act as his rank.
This time, he is only one of the many state alchemists in the group. Around seven, without counting him. Their commanding officer, a lieutenant colonel, is actually deserving of his rank, unyielding at leading the group.
So, with no need to take the lead, he stays behind. He watches the rear and drags his feet through the sand. Oh, how he wishes he could take his jacket off.
One private had tried, but he had been stopped with one glare from the lieutenant colonel. Fucking a man with a stick up his ass, as if he didn’t feel the heat himself.
He suffers in silence, as there is no Armstrong to complain to, or Mustang to bother. Or even a Hughes to amicably pass the time. All the other state alchemists here have this expression on their faces that he has grown to dislike.
It is the look of men proud of what they are doing. Of men aware of all the wrongs they are committing yet indifferent to it.
He hates it. And prays, to no god but the world, that if he ever has that look on his face, someone must shoot him inmediatedly.
The colonel raises one hand, and the whole group stops. In the distance, he hears shouting, gunfire, and commands. They have arrived at the trenches, and he already hates it.
The colonel, which Ed will make no effort to learn the name off, sends them off in different directions. He does so by barking orders, in a straight and matter-of-fact tone. He does so until the only ones who remain are him, and the other seven state alchemists. For the first time in the whole day, the man speaks to them.
“Majors! As a state alchemist, it is your job to exterminate the enemy without hesitation. Understood?!”
All seven snap into a salute, and he copies them by osmosis. “Yes, sir!”
“We have been sent here to support the forces of the fallen Liutenant colonel Davinson. I will be the officer in command of this battalion and you will be incharge of leading and operating the companies I assign to you. Understood Majors?!”
“Yes, sir!”
“You will report to me every decision you take. Understood?!”
“Yes, sir!”
Then, in a flash he is getting sent to lead the southwest company, which was under the command of a captain he didn’t quite catch the name of.
He rushes, and all the different majors do he same. All in different directions.
There is the sound of gunshots in the background, far enough for him to not be concerned for a stray bullet, but close enough for him to be on edge.
Why they did not say this information before departing, is beyond his mind.
The underdog is the last to know.
Ed is very much aware he is the underdog here.
When he arrives at his company, it is in disarray. The combat has not arrived to them yet, but the anticipation seems to be destroying the private's nerves. His hands are sweaty, and the idea of having to lead a company of around a hundred soldiers is sickening. What does he even know about leading people?
He remembers the graves in the deceased Brigadier General’s base camp. There were around a hundred bodies. A man of that rank was bound to have a bigger group under his command. That means they must have disbanded and gotten lost.
Either way, it doesn't matter because the man is dead and Ed isn't.
As soon as the captain sees him arrive, he salutes. “Major sir!”
It seemed everyone was aware of his role except him.
“At ease, Captain. What is the situation?”
The sounds of the fight are still distant and the position of the trenches tells him his role here is purely as a back burner company. Still. The fact they are inactive screams wrong to him.
“The combat has not reached us, sir. We received news of your arrival with the necessary reinforcement. Now that you are here, we are ready to follow your commands, sir.”
He wants to sigh and just go back to his tent in the main base. Or all the way back home, with Mom. He can’t though, and now he is responsible for a hundred soldiers with lives outside of this war.
He hates this.
“What have you been thinking, Captain?”
The man seems to have gotten whiplash. “Er. Well, sir. As the combat hasn’t found us, it means the situation is contained by the other companies. If we strike from the side we might surrender to the enemy, effectively removing the threat.”
His mind is working overtime just to get an idea of how the battalion is distributed.
If they were placed on the back there must be a reason. Therefore moving is not advisable.
The trench is not deep enough to comfortably fight for prolonged time periods, and the weapons carried by the soldiers are not for close combat. They are here as a long-reach support company. His head hurts and he looks at the bracer.
“Good suggestion but not for the situation. The sound of conflict is getting louder. Have the soldiers lay down and aim their weapons in the direction of the… city’s remains.” He looks at the horizon. There are a good seven meters of plain terrain they could take advantage of. “Captain! Get me three privates, and send them to me!”
The captain nods and issues the order for him, with a loud voice.
He takes out a piece of paper and improvises an array. He placed the paper and activated the array, the blue light expanding across the ground. A good five meters ahead, there is now a new fake trench. He carves a path towards there.
Once there, the trench is much deeper, and he transmutes a fake ceiling that hides the trench. From a distance, it looks like a normal piece of land, but they are protected from the sight of the charging Ishvalans.
The three privates arrive from behind and he turns to them.
“The idea is to have a direct deterrent for the Ishvalans. I need you three to tell me how many, when and where the Ishvalans are coming from. In that order and just an approximation. Tell me with at least five seconds before contact with them. Understood?”
The privates look confused but don't question. He makes holes for them to look through but not noticeable enough.
He takes one of them and separates them. “Private. You will be the messenger between me and the captain. Name?”
“Charles Wein, sir.”
“Charles, go and tell the captain to not fire until I give them the signal to. Understand?”
“Yes sir! What sign sir?”
“As soon as the blue lighting dies down, open fire.”
Charles nods and rushes back to the captain.
His hands don't tremble, as he draws a new array and places it against the wall of the trench. And he waits.
The privates are deadly silent, and as he looks back he sees rifles pointed at the city, ready to fire. It is weird, to know he has these people under his command. To have them listen. To
him.
It unnerves him. He’d rather not pull the strings.
He already killed his previous group. It is a danger for others.
The ground shakes and he estimates around fifty Ishvalans. All adults.
He knows he is not counting the children. Around 70 adult Ishvalans. Teenagers, and children, he does not want to think about them.
The privates by his side are sweating and Ed realizes he is sweating too.
By the sound, they are getting closer.the thump thump of their running is a good indicator.
Right around now…
“Sixty. Right in front. Contact in 6 seconds.”
He waits three before he initiates the array, and a blue light flashes.
On a range of seven meters, the ground turns into stakes that impale everyone charging in their direction. As soon as the light is gone, the guns are fired and hit the remaining Ishavalns who escaped his attack.
No person leaves this battlefield alive.
Ten minutes of pure gunfire later, Charles arrives from behind waiting for further orders.
“Are there signs of life in there?”
“No sir.
“Then, survey the area for survivors. If you find- don’t let them go.” It goes without saying what they have to do. Those are orders from the führer himself, and it is impossible to forget them when all they’ve done is kill for the man.
As soon as the privates start moving, guns in their hands, he approaches the captain.
The man must see something in his expression that makes him salute tensely, his shoulders out taught and face grim. “Major!”
He knows what he sees. He sees a man who killed nearly hundreds in an instant without trembling hands or vomiting even once.
He sees a state alchemist.
“At ease. What do we expect from here on?”
“I am not sure, sir. By now all we should get are some runaways, not charging forces like this one.”
Not to mention, that the so-called charging forces could not even retaliate.
“Then contact the lieutenant colonel. Report to him about our success and request for further orders.”
He hates this. He hates this manner of speech. He hates this cynical thought process he must reduce himself to.
But he would hate it more if all the men died under his command.
…he hates it all.
“Yes sir!”
The captain leaves, trying to find what he assumes is another military radio.
He doesn’t know what to do with the empty time he is left with. He shuffles with his hands and considers going with the rest of the privates and inspecting the bodies. With no one there to see, bile rises easily from his stomach and he discards the idea.
He doesn’t feel like himself, standing here calmly after killing so many people. Because they are that. People.
Hughes said once: “I need to return, I need to live because I am not living only for myself.”
Ed wants to go back to his mother, to Winry, to Resembool. But at what price? Is killing these people equivalent to his return?
He has a reason to live, but it still doesn’t justify it.
And trying to figure out the equivalent of a human life never felt possible to him. He never liked the prospect. He never will.
The captain returns. “The lieutenant colonel is asking for your assistance as a state alchemist in chasing and eliminating the remaining Ishvalans from the settlement. He says it should be carried out immediately, to prevent the regrouping of the enemy.
His hand tightens into a fist, and he squares up his jaw. The captain notices but doesn’t comment on it. What could he say? I'm sorry?
Ed doesn’t need an apology, he needs to go back home. He needs…
“Understood. I'll trust you to be in charge while I am busy. Report to the lieutenant colonel.” He says while fixing his arm bracers, in a way that he could call fiddling but won't.
The other nods. “Understood. Good luck, sir.”
“Same to you.”
As he walks away, the privates return from their inspection. No one was alive.
He didn’t expect otherwise.
There are whispers as he passes by them. Whispers about his alchemy, about the strategy. About his face. Whispers about their clothes had gotten stained but his were still perfectly blue.
They don’t approach him, preferring to stay by the edges of his peripheral vision. They want to watch him. See if he will cut or impale them out of a whim.
If it were for him he wouldn't be here.
But he doesn’t blame them.
In fact, it reminds him of what Matthew said to him. But any memory of any of them. Any of the privates he befriended and
killed, betrayed, forsaken
saw die is a bile-inducing memory.
He wants to shout and cry and break something at the pure hate he feels.
At the raw helplessness, he has engraved in his bones by now.
So he doesn’t think about them.
He does. Every day, and night.
He does, and their cries for help never get quieter.
His head is always ringing with the voices of children so similar to Winry he wants to claw his eyes out to not see the death that surrounds him.
He still has eyes because he needs them to see his mother once he returns.
He walks towards the ruins of the city. On the way, the sand tries to bury him among the debris and corpses. He pushes through.
He needs to. For everyone that is waiting for him to return.
For the response, he is waiting for home.
It takes him nothing short of ten minutes of walking for him to find the first Ishvalan.
The child is hidden underneath a piece of debris. He is bleeding somewhere around his shoulder and his leg is stuck under a block of cement.
His eyes are blown wide, while his hands tremble.
Ed suspects he isn’t crying because his body has no more energy to spend on tears.
Neither says anything.
He looks back and the camp is still fairly visible. He had underestimated how close the trenches were to the city.
Close enough for the firepower to send pieces of nearby buildings crumbling.
He feels a gun pressed to his back and no one is there.
“Are there any others?”
There was weeping.
Dry, desperate weeping.
Even from here, he still feels the eyes of the captain, the private, the lieutenant colonel on him.
Sobbing.
His hands are shaking as he transmutes the bracer into a sword. He kills the kid before he can try to beg.
“Promise me.”
Sergei. Matthew. Katie. Chris. Every Ishvalan he has decimated.
Sergei’s brother will never get to see the other again.
A nameless
to him, nameless to his
mother who died holding his child. Died impaled by
his
transmuted spears.
“Promise me, Roy.”
He wants to break down and cry. Or rage. Or weep. Or shout.
He stands still instead. Letting his boots get wet with the blood of the corpse.
His hand limply holds the sword.
He stands there. Letting the blood soak his feet while trying to gulp down the tears and disgust and hate and anger at everything .
Five minutes later, he moves on.
Boots leaving red footprints on his path.
The ruins welcome him with a sepulchral silence.
He stays silent too.
It's the least he can do as a dog.
Five hours later, he returns.
The privates no longer comment about his impeccably blue uniform. Or his face. Or his hands.
They simply moved away to let him pass, seeing him walk towards the captain.
Everyone watches as the other salute.
“It's done.”
“Understood sir. Should I report it, sir?”
“Do it.”
The silence in the camp is as stifling as the ruins.
So silent the blood flooding out of the corpses he left behind much louder.
“Understood sir!”
The captain marched away and he dropped his gaze to his hands. Red.
So red. Dry. Under his nails.
Red.
Like Ishvalan eyes.
He doesn't sleep that night.
He kills another group of incoming Ishvalans the next day. He hunts down those who remain. He hears whispers from the privates. Sees the captain's weary gaze. Feels the blood caked in his uniform, boots, skin, and hair.
He doesn't have the courage to look at his silver watch. Not even once.
“The lieutenant colonel has ordered us to stay put. There is another wave of Ishvalans coming from the eastern side of the city. Hold the front. Chase the forces who try to escape.”
Rinse and repeat.
Sometimes he wonders if his administrative position was a curse.
He gets to stay behind, with his uniform relatively clean from fresh blood.
But he has more time to wonder. To worry.
After Ed had departed, he returned to his routine. Desk, calls, administrative tasks, counting the number of exterminated Ishvalan settlements, and sleep.
This was the rhythm he followed for a week.
He sent Ed’s letter and waited. He waited for him, or Roy to return.
He ate at the canteen. Saw Hawkeye once, when her troop returned to camp to restock and recover. They talked, and he talked and he listened. She didn’t smile much, only when he talked about Garcia or anything outside of the desert.
She talked. Of the feeling each time she pulled the trigger. Of the sight of bodies falling to the ground dead. Of other alchemist’s destruction of Ishvalan villages. She didn’t cry or shout, or drink. Just mulled it over and over with a vacant expression on her face.
She is competent. Frighteningly so. Hardworking with a side dish of talent. Disciplined but also resilient.
She is also reserved. Keeping the horrors she saw to herself. Not uttering more than a few sentences that escaped her. Brief snippets that painted the picture. She did talk, but briefly.
From what little she told, he understood. He understood the haunted look on her face as they sat in silence inside his tent. He understood and could do nothing but watch as she was deployed once more.
He waits for the response to come back from Resembool. For the war to end soon. For when he can return to a time where he does not worry all the time.
One shift after the other he dresses himself in his blue uniform and hears reports from military men.
If it wasn't for the calls consisting of listening to how many people they've killed, he could’ve deluded himself into thinking this isn’t war.
But it is. He is realistic
or cynical
enough to know.
The days pass as he rots on his desk in the middle of the desert.
He doesn't have to kill from this position.
He doesn’t taint his hands.
Or does he? Isn't he sending Ishvalans to their deaths by communicating, linking, and informing the men who would eventually extinguish their lives?
What does it matter, if he is the one to pull the trigger or hand over the gun.
He is still here, dressed in blue.
He waits.
A week later, Ed comes back.
He knows the very second at which the battalion is supposed to report to the general. But he is still in his shift, so he can’t see his return.
His mind wanders as he sorts through documents. Sure, looking at the resource routes between Amestrian camps is interesting but he wants to see how Ed is doing.
He wonders if he is like Roy. He hopes not.
Once the clock signals the end of his work period is over, he bolts out.
He wanders through the camp and he doesn’t even hesitate to go straight to Roy’s tent. He knows Ed won't be anywhere else.
“It feels comfortable. I don't know how to explain it, and it isn't equivalent. But for the first time I was able to sleep and breathe deeply. Fuck Maes enough with sappy conversations. I am becoming like you.”
Ed's face at the moment had a small smile with a relaxed slope to his shoulders.
He knew that was not the sight he would find today.
The tent is as untouched as before. State alchemists have this little benefit of having a defined tent to stay on the main camp.
Regular soldiers had, by default, to rotate. They weren’t expected to survive.
State alchemists were.
He enters expecting to see a freezing or crying or even drunk Ed.
Roy taught him what to expect. And even if Ed isn’t Roy, guilt is the same dirty feeling for all.
That is not what he finds.
Ed is standing there in the middle of the tent with his uniform off. Or more specifically, he stands in a simple white shirt and shorts. Blue all around him in ripped pieces. His breathing is labored, and he can see the trembling in his hands.
Maes is understandably worried. He enters slowly as if approaching a wild animal.
Painfully aware of the gun in his hostler.
Ed whips around with his hand already near the metal bracer and ozone fills the air.
He doesn’t reach for the gun because he sees the pained expression on Ed's face.
“Ed.”
The other drops his arms. “Maes.”
He doesn’t know what to say. He can handle a catatonic Roy. But this- this is new.
Turns out he doesn’t have to say much.
“I hate it.”
“What Ed?”
The other fiddles with the arm bracers as he talks. His voice raises in tone slightly as he goes. “Everything. This uniform. This place. I- everything Maes. everything!” He grabs his hair, which is flowing freely on his shoulders. “I killed Maes. Children. Mothers. Everyone who tried to hide, run, fight. How am I supposed to face Winry? Mom? I can still feel the the blood in my hands.”
“Ed-“
“NO. Dont. Listen. I- Winry will hate me. She probably already does- How not if I can’t even like myself? Fuck.”
He kicks the ground and while ozone does not fill the air, there is an aggressive feel to his body language that he hates.
Now he doesn’t have to wonder why the uniform is torn to pieces.
Ed is grabbing his hair, with white knuckles and a tight jaw.
“Ed.”
Nothing.
“Ed.”
Maes is afraid he'll rip his hair out.
“I have your letter.”
“No.”
“Yes. Sit down and I'll hand it to you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Don't be a child, Ed.”
He doesn’t. “Maes, I- killed them. All of them- I”
He goes closer, as Ed tightens his fist but does not move away. He hugs Ed and runs a hand on his back. He removes Ed’s hands from his hair, blond strands clinging to the fingers and falling to the ground.
“Maes I-“
He hugs him and brings them down to the floor, holding Ed all the way down.
“Cry, Ed.”
“I don’t-“
“You do.”
Nothing more is said because Ed is crying and Maes doesn’t need to say anything for now.
Ed cries silently, he realizes. His jacket is wet but the other is no longer crying so he doesn’t mind.
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Why? I killed the-
“Under orders. Coerced. Forced. However you want to put it.”
“I should’ve found another wa-“
“And die? Be executed for treason before you got to see Resembool again?”
“No-“
“That is what you are saying Ed.” He grabs his shoulders and makes him face him. “There is much more to live for Edward. Don't give up on that now. You have people waiting for you.”
“I am not going to kill myself.”
Yes, I know. You are not Roy. But
“but that doesn’t mean it is worth ruminating over
what-ifs
.”
“I know. Rationally I know but-“
“It's horrible. I am angry too, Ed. I hate this too. Roy does too. All of us do.” He shakes Ed’s shoulders. “Live, Ed. Resist. We’ll pay after we survive.”
Ed sighs. “I'm tired.”
“I know. And you never chose this, Ed. For that, I am sorry.”
“You couldn’t have done anything.”
“Still, let someone tell you this.
I am sorry, Ed.”
After collecting themselves, Hughes brings Ed to eat at the canteen. He notices the glances others send Ed.
Instead of commenting on it, he focuses on Ed.
He looks better than he did back in the tent. He had transmuted his uniform back into shape, but he'll have to ask for a new one just in case. His face is still grim, pulled into a pensive, angry, and distant space he did not like.
But he couldn’t go that far.
“Here it is.” He hands Ed the letter. “Read it, and when you have a response, tell me.”
Ed gives a weak smile. “Thanks.” For this. For everything.
“Now, don't worry about that. Instead, I heard you ate staying for a while.”
“I did not know that.”
Hughes nodded. He wasn’t going to tell Edward it was because of his excellent performance on the field, but staying longer is still a good conversation starter.
“Well yes. They'll assign you under another officer, in a different battalion. Let me tell you, you are one of the soldiers with the most changes between assigned units. It's getting ridiculous. Do you always break records anywhere you go?”
Ed groans and rolls his eyes. ”Shut up. It's not my fault your records are such a low-hanging bar.”
“Don't let Roy hear that. He was quite proud of his record. A record that you broke.”
“Technically, I did not break it. ”
Hughes shakes his head with a laugh. “That doesn’t make it any better. Technicalities don’t work for Roy.”
“Of course not. He's a major bastard.”
There is a tone in Ed’s voice as he says that is soft, teasing, and sure of itself.
Ed takes a final bite of the horrendous canned food they are privy to in the camp. “So, any idea of who I am being assigned to?”
He wishes he knew. “No clues till now. I guess they want to wait until the main forces return. Meaning until either Mustang or Armstrong return.”
Ed raises an eyebrow. “Why not both?”
“They can’t leave the front line empty, so they often have two main groups up-front. The other is also highly present but easily removable. They are interchangeable teams. Nowadays, they are composed of equally distributed state alchemists. The better the alchemist, the more probable it is for them to end there.”
“And you were told this?”
“No. Pattern recognition. It is fairly simple once you have to check and monitor the successful deployment of resources and manpower.”
Ed hums and sighs. “So you are an underdog with a slightly better view of the game.” There is a fiddling and Ed stands up, muttering a lucky asshole.
“Basically.” He shrugs. It could be put that way, but it also isn’t entirely right. “I don’t know about luck though. If I was lucky I'd be with Gracía back home.”
“You are alive. Isn’t that enough luck?”
“Same for you, in that case.”
Ed snorts. “Too much luck, I think. I barely even understand and care about the hierarchical structure of the military and its politics.”
He’s seen Edward's keen eyes while navigating the camp. When he examined the General, there was an edge that spoke of understanding and analysis.
He knows it has been everything but luck. As if the others' intellect couldn’t handle a little politics.
“Well, it's good that luck is on our side.”
They left the canteen behind, now standing in front of his tent. He looks up. It's a full moon tonight, with stars framing it in the darkness of the Ishvalan sky.
He wonders how many people are still alive to see this sight.
“See you tomorrow, Ed.” Resist.
Ed smiles, a mix of wary, tired, and content. Confidence and apprehension engraved on his back.
I will.
He is not the idealistic fool that Roy is. He sees the exhaustion in Edwards' expression. The guilt, the regret, and the pain.
This man is as much of a sinner as anyone else here.
Yet, he does have a spark. A determination for change that will keep a gun out of his mouth. Pain might fill his lath, but Hughes prays for that hope to never waver.
Hughes will try his hardest to make sure it doesn’t.
“Rest well, Maes.”
Both know neither will, but it is worth saying. It's worth trying.
Resist.
The ache for his girlfriend, making a family. Atoning with his actions for change. He had yet to do it.
So he, Roy and Ed and Riza and himself, must resist.
After all, it is a life worth living. And Ed understands it too.
No matter how despicable each new breath may feel.
They at least have to try.
Notes:
Well, here is the fifth chap. I am happy with how it turned out and I have a few ideas of what to do next. I have a long way to go, I think, before i finish it.
Also, i hope you all liked the chapter!!! Thanks for all the comments, they light up my day fr fr
Have a nice rest of your day or night!!!
Chapter 6: Edward
Summary:
TW: Very implied suicidal tendencies. Not in the pov but very implied. So please be careful.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
That night he doesn’t sleep in Roy’s tent. Maes wont let him and he isn’t in the mood to protest, so he sleeps on the floor of Maes’s tent.
The others' breathing is comforting. To an extent. But that night he didn't want small comforts. He knows it is selfish, rude and cruel. But he hates it so much he is going to burn himself with it. He needs to leave, just like a dog needs to be walked outside. He doesn’t want to know anything about sand and the sun and blood. The best he can do to not shout his lungs out is bite his tongue and stare at the ceiling.
He wakes up the next day, not nearly as rested as he should and still there. Trisha didn’t nurture a coward. So he will stay.
Besides, Roy, Maes, and Armstrong are still here. He can’t leave.
The sky that morning is beautiful. A sunrise made with tones that didn’t belong here. He takes in the sight and ignores the budding guilt and anger and raw desperation.
Showering is a chore he can do while letting his mind go blank. He tries to think of nothing while water runs down his back. When he fails, he simply lets his mind run over the alchemical transmutations, both simple and complex. This, even if it makes his hands tremble and the metal bracers weigh slightly more, it still brings comfort in the form of distraction.
He uses the time to transmute scissors and trim his hair. Dead locks fall to the ground and his hair doesn’t look as bad as before. If he ignores the bags under his eyes, the holes where his eyes should be, and the frown drawn into his face, he’d look just like when he first arrived.
He decides to not look into the mirror again.
Running a hand through his hair as he gathers it up into a tight position is soothing. Somehow, the simple motion is enough.
Not quite as his mother used to do it. Not quite like when Winry used to play with it. Not quite-
He gets a new uniform. This one is just as blue as the one before. All blue blue blue. The sky is painted blue as he exits fully dressed.
Blue coated with dried red
Maes is waiting for him outside, already dressed in his own blue uniform, where the only difference is the amount of stars on his shoulder.
“Before you go and disappear-”
“I don't disappear.”
“Yeah yeah. Would you come with me for a second?”
He shrugs, by this point the question is not necessary. They both know he’d follow Maes. He trusts the other after all. “Sure.”
They navigate the camp with ease. Here, no one dares to cross the path of a state alchemist. He can’t really guess why. Fear? Respect? Disgust? He guesses it is a mix of all three.
Maes takes him to his desk, which he had seen before, and picks an envelope with a postage stamp that Ed would always recognize.
Oh.
“Here.” Maes takes his hands from where they hang and places the letter in them. He had given one to Ed yesterday, agter what he refuses to call a breakdown, but he had given it back. He wouldn’t recieve it with his hands as bloody as they were. Even after all the water he wasted while trying to get the blood under his nails, he still feels the sand, the heat, the blood. He hates it himself. “Don’t give me that face, Ed.” It is said just above a whisper. Too informal for it to be loud, but it's enough. This… All Maes had done is already a lot. “Go. Find somewhere you can read it in peace.”
He nods jerkily.
“See you at lunch.” Maes pats him on the shoulder and sends Ed away.
He wanders back alone, clutching the letter hard enough to tear it because he doesn’t know how to be gentle. He forgot. That doesn’t mean he breaks it.. He can’t. How would he forgive himself? All he can do is walk around with his breath trapped in his chest and a piece of heaven clutched to his chest.
Roy’s tent greets him with silence. The air is stale, as if no one has come in for a long time. Probably, since Maes told him neither Roy nor Armstrong have been released from duty yet.
Doesn’t matter right now. Even if he wished he had Roy’s reassurance and Louis’s comfort. God he misses them, he even misses a man he just met. But they aren't here. Not yet, and not for this.
He opens the package, and a lump of everything trashes in his throat.
There is a photo. And oh god has he missed them.
Pinako, Winry , and his mother smile at him. There is a vast field of flowers behind them, with the automail shop in the background. Winry looks sharper, less like a baby and more like a child. Pinako has more wrinkles around her forehead. His mother is pregnant.
They smile at him through the paper and he hugs it. He kneels on the floor of the tent and hugs the picture.
He wants this back so bad. He needs Pinako’s honesty, Winry’s enthusiasm, and his mothers comfort. He hates that he needs it. Hasn’t he done enough harm?
But their smiles don’t lie.
“Come back, Ed.” They tell him.
He folds the photo slowly. One time, two times, three times. He folds it until he can fit it in his pocket watch. With alchemy he seals the clock before putting it back on himself. He doesn’t put it on his hip. Not at his side. Too far from him. He nearly loses his breath at the thought of losing this. He can’t.
And he won't now, as the watch is stashed in a pocket inside his military uniform. Close to his chest, lungs and heart.
He goes for the letter and discovers it isn’t just one. But three letters. All gathered into a thick bundle he wishes he could carry with him away from where they would get tainted with red.
He is choking, been choking since he entered this place. The letter reveals to be a life line. Pressure in his lungs faltered at the weight of paper.
He trembles as he opens the first letter. It's a short text from Wirny, written in her calligraphy. Simple yet clearly defined letters. Opposite to his own chicken scratch.
Ed,
I hope you are doing well. I don’t know how you got to send the letter, Aunty Pinako told me it’s hard but now I know you’re well! Mom and dad are also with you there remmeber! Take care of each other, okey?
I am still waiting for you to show you how good I’ve been getting at automail. Aunty Pinako lets me help more now. I will be the best automail mechanic, but I want you to be here for that.
I am no longer a pipsqueak, hah. I continued drinking my milk and you should look at me now. All tall. Aunty Trisha is very worried about you Ed, so please drink your milk when you can (Aunty Pinako told me there is not much milk there). Please come back so you can see this. And bring mom and dad back too. Tell them I miss them. And that you three are my heroes.
I'm waiting for you Ed. Aunty Trisha and Aunty Pinkao too,
Winry.
Oh. Wirny must have turned twelve. Or should be close to. He can imagine her writing the letter, perfecting her own writing.
His eyes water, hands trembling as he wobbles in the air. He doesn’t sit down, pulled taut by his own grief? Relief? Longing?
He doesn’t know what to feel. This is Winry. The Winry, his life, before everything. She wants him back. Oh god she wants him back.
He hates that he doesn't know how to feel or what to do.
But he loves and yearns for the tangible effort written in her handwriting. The love and care and affection he feels through the paper.
Winry must be taller now, he realizes. He had forgotten about the Rockbells. Where are they? He needs to tell them how much Winry has grown in seven years.
He doesn’t know what to feel but the notion of something out of the sand makes his chest lighten up. Like the first gust of wind reaching his heart.
There are more letters waiting.
Dear Ed,
His eyes fill with tears as he reads the letter. It has words from both Pinako and his mom. Stories of life in Resembool in the time he has been away. Emotions I printed on paper that had him smiling and crying.
He has the feeling stuck in his throat, sobs pulling from the bottom of his stomach. From inside his chest. His mouth is sealed shut, now words slipping out because he can’t even begin to describe the relief. The happiness. The sense of direction, purpose, safety a single piece of paper gives him.
The letter fades out of sight. Replaced by the embrace of his mother. Her comfort. Her will.
He doesn’t fall to the ground because he has a reason to keep standing now. Because he finally has air filling his lungs.
Remember, we love you.
Oh, mom.
We want you back. So please,
I will.
Come back to us.
A whole day later , he returns the letters to Maes, a puzzled look on his face as he takes them back.
“Store them for me.”
“Don’t you want to keep them?”
They are walking out of the canteen. The sunset is fading. He had spent the day searching for a safe place to keep them. In these sands there is nothing but blood and death, he knew that.
Then he remembered who gave him the chance of getting this breath of fresh air.
“Of course.”
“Then why?”
“Because I want them to be safe, Maes .”
The night arrives as he finally finds it.
“So, Maes. Any news on the others?”
It’s been a week since he came back. The battalion he was assigned to already left, but his deployment has been postponed at least five times.
Neither he nor Maes know why. The only theory they have is that: They must be waiting for something. Or someone.
“Hmm. I think Roy is coming back this week.”
That takes his attention. “Wait really?” He leans on the table. They are at the canteen, at a table far away from the rest.
“Yes. I’ve seen changes in the numbers of the sports from his battalion. Conflict seems to have died down. My best guess is that they’ll come back and recharge.”
“You sound sure.”
Maes waves his hand. “Well, it makes sense. Think about it, Ed. There are no more Ishvalans in that area. If there are, they are mostly thoroughly hidden. By leaving they are creating a sense of security so that the remaining survivors come out of hiding and they can finish them properly.” It’s cruel. It makes his stomach hurt. It’s war. “I'm guessing they also need to replenish. Both on numbers and on resources.”
He hums. What can he say to that? It makes sense.
“All this from a small change in statistics?”
“You learn a thing or two after a while. Don’t forget this has been my job for some time now.”
Maes shrugs and he sighs. Seriously, Ed doesn’t understand how Maes can confidently predict the military decision. Ed knows he could, but to think he can reduce his mindset to that of dirty politics and blue suits sickens him. He’d rather choke before learning to think like them. He would hate it.
It’d be just like cutting his hair off.
“So, what does that mean for me?”
There is a moment of silence where Ed can see Maes mull it over despite both knowing the answer.
“You’ll probably be deployed with them. The way battalions are being mobilized gives a feeling that high command wants this over fast.”
“They want to finish this with more firepower then?”
“Something like that. Ishvalans have been fleeing deeper into the northeastern region's desert. Any further and Amestris would be chasing them far outside our borders. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue but-“
“Aerugo.”
“That's right. Aerugo has their eyes set on Amestris. They’ve also been blatantly supportive of the Ishvalans. Sending our forces out is not advantageous for us. It’s practically inviting them to come over.”
Fucking hell. He closes his eyes, mouth pulled into a tight line. He hates this all so much.
He arrived in South city in mid January. Wandered the desert with Di Maria for what he thinks was a month. Then he arrived at the base, and it's been a month since then. April began two days ago.
Three months since he arrived at this war. Not much, considering it's been seven years since it started. Still, he feels drenched in so much military bullshit he is sick of it already.
“How long do you give it till its over?”
Maes looks tired. His face is old beyond his years and Ed understands. He no longer looks like the youngest state alchemist. Not that it matters. Because in the eyes of the military, weapons don’t have an age.
“I don’t know. Maybe a lot. Maybe nothing at all.” Saying either feels wrong. How can you measure the time it takes to extinguish a group of people? No answer is right.
If it's slow then that means their suffering is longer. If it's quick then that means he has managed to kill enough people to leave no one begind to mourn. In both he is drenched in blood. In both he is a killer.
“I take it you have a few days before you leave. Anything you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll replace my bracers. They’ve been getting chipped and I’ve lost material.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
Silence covers them. The hum of the canteen feels distant with the rest sitting a good distance away from them.
In the silence he knows he can’t do anything. Nothing to bridge the gap between him and others. To get them all home. To recover all the lives lost. To prevent any more blood from getting on his, or anyones, hands.
But he also feels less lost. He isn’t here to fix it all. He can’t. Not right now. But he’s here to survive so he can do something later. He has to survive until they can all go back.
He may have the hate, the disgust, the fear of most. But he isn’t alone.
“How about I tell you about an old hag who lost their remaining teeth to a cow.”
He has them.
In the form of a blond alchemist.
In the form of a friend supporting him from his desk.
In the form of a promise.
In the form of a letter.
He has those who understand.
Two days pass, and Ed uses them to prepare. Maes, performing miracles, getting him some high quality metal. Ed works on it and makes himself new metal bracers. He improves the design too, with them being lighter and fully functional, as he can fully transmute them. Now, instead of risking a rebound, he uses the remaining material from the old breakers to make a set of rings. In those rings are engraved different arrays which are now permanently at hand. With these arrays he can transmute anything he wants, as long as it is inside the requirements. Which is why he made several rings, so that each had their own purpose.
The rings will grow and dig into his skin, and he won't take the off. He does and the threat in the corner stops waiting and attacks. The moment he takes off his rings, his alchemy, his only defense mechanism, the growing list of pending retribution, is the moment he dies.
All the metal sits heavy on his arms, but it's not the amount of material. Nothing he can do removes their weight. But even then, it's bearable. He will make it bearable. He’ll pay.
He’ll pay it as long as it allows him to go home.
If he is not working on that, he spends time running around fixing equipment and weapons. Always under the watchful eye of another officer. They always stand a few steps behind him and watch, with varying degrees of amazement or fear.
He ignores them. Mostly.
As of now, he stands in front of a machine gun that he is trying to fix. Key word trying, as he is missing half of the material that made it whole.
Which means he has to transmute fucking sand, because they refuse to get him more metal, into properly shaped iron.
A lieutenant colonel had been called in by the colonel, who was annoyed at him for struggling to transmute with none of the adequate materials.
“What seems to be the issue here, Major?” A blue uniform stands behind him with a perfect posture and perfect language and perfect blue blood that he hates.
He wants to say a lot of things. Many that would have his corpse rotting with the rest of the decaying soldiers in the corners of the settlement. Half of which had died by their own hand, pressured by the whispers of those they shot, choked, cut-
He nearly says them.
But those comments would leave his mother, Pinako, Winry, Louis, Roy, Hughes alone.
So, he says instead. “A missing piece, sir. I am almost done.”
He puts his hands against the gun, one hand holding a handful of sand. A ring glows blue, the sand following a few seconds later.
The officer doesn’t gasp in awe or back away like most. He stands his ground, expression blank, hand near his gun. Oh and doesn't that feel like they are pulling the collar on his neck taut.
Once the light is gone, the machine gun stands there, perfectly new. The lieutenant’s hand remains on the gun. Now that he thinks, it might have always been there.
“It is done, sir.”
“You are dismissed, Major. Next time make it shorter. There is no need for a show.”
Ed bites his tongue and walks away.
He’s getting good at that.
Once he is far enough, his posture changes into a slouch. He places his hands on his pickets and sighs.
What can he do with this free time?
Maes is currently on shift. Louis isn’t back yet. And-
That’s practically everyone he talks to around here.
He sighs again, twisting the ring.
Maes had said Roy was coming back this week. Well, he expected it. But a prediction made by Maes is almost always right. Unless it is about what they are serving at the canteen. He never gets that right.
Soldiers open a path for him as he passes, the clock clanging with every step from inside his uniform. Reassuring, and heavy. There are whispers. He ignores it. It is always this way. Do all alchemists get this treatment? Is it his face? Is it his eyes?
As he gets to the canteen he notices the amount of people is abnormally high. So much so there are lines in the usually empty food section.
He looks around for a familiar uniform, familiar in which he only saw twice, but doesnt find it.
He looks at the soldiers, the new ones, and sees there are little to no injuries. All of them unscathed, perhaps burned by the sun, far eyed, and sleep deprived. But unscathed.
Ed knows that for it to be this way, there must be a hundred, a thousand corpses of children, of mothers and fathers, and families left in the sand.
He hates it. He hates that he knows his life has payed the same toll.
A battalion came back.
Good for them.
But what about the rest?
He waits in line, looking at his small notebook while waiting, when the conversation in front catches his attention.
“Did you hear? The flame alchemist is at it again.”
Wait. Isn’t Roy the flame alchemist? He knows. He knows because he saw the colonel burn to ashes and the smell is burned into his skin. He doesn’t know how Roy does it.
“What did he do this time? Really those alchemists are just another breed.”
“Lower your voice. Look they said he razed a whole fucking camp to the ground. A friend said he was there and that the fire just avoided them as if it were alive. Can you believe that?”
“Seriously, what are those alchemists made of? Where’s your friend? He came back right?”
He pauses his reading at that. If the friend is back that means Roy…
“Obviously you dumbass. How did he tell me if he didn’t? Seriously sometimes I think you are-“
He doesn’t care for the rest. Closing his notes, he leaves the line and leaves the canteen.
Roy is back.
“Hey Ed. If Roy comes back while I am on shift, would you check on him?”
He rushes through blue uniforms. There are more than usual.
An entire, unharmed, battalion came back.
“I’d do it without you telling me.”
“No, really Ed. Please check on him. He tends to get in over his head.”
The tent is there, unchanged except for the open entrance.
“Between me and him, he is the most human.”
He enters and Roy is there.
But saying that is entirely false. He has a bottle on his hand, half empty. Slumped on bed, his head rests between his hands. The air is thick with the smell of blood, and ashes.
Does it come from Roy or his gloves?
Ed doesn’t know what to do. Maes, did he feel like this? Confused? Lost? How many times has he dealt with this?
How does he deal with a dog who wants to bite itself?
He hovers on the entrance.
The sun isn’t gone yet, so the inside feels like hell came and sat down to torment Roy.
Roy seems to be frozen in place.
Even if Ed can’t see his face, he can tell. Even if there is no gun. No knife. No hoose. He can tell. His gloves are still on.
“Roy.”
His rings can not crinkle like his gloves. Maybe he should take them off. He can’t. Not if he needs to react. Not if he needs to stop the other. No because he needs to survive no-because there might be a threat waiting in the corner no because-
“Roy.”
He enters. Roy doesn’t look up.
Both are decked in the blue he is sure both of them hate, so he takes off his jacket and throws it somewhere in the tent. He forgot gentle a long time ago.
“Roy.”
It seems to register. His eyes are the same as his.
“Edward.”
The eyes of a murderer.
“You are back.” He sits by the bed. Close. The bed creaks, and he lets the weight reach out to Roy in place of his touch. How do you comfort someone? How is it that you pull them away from the edge?
Roy looks away. Shies away. As if to take away the dirt, the stench, the red, away from his white shirt. Even if he left, Ed would still smell the ash and whiskey under his breath and skin.
“Give me some.”
He takes the bottle when Roy doesn’t offer. Takes a swing from it and downs it.
Roy just watches.
“I’m glad you are back, bastard.”
He can hear the screams of the colonel.
He wonders if Roy ever get a break from the cries replaying in his dreams. His nightmares.
He wonders if Roy ever lets himself rest.
Roy watches.
Guilt, guilt. The look of the guilty.
The Roy that smiles, jokes, teases. The Roy that makes his heart beat a little bit faster is not here right now.
Ed hates to see Roy like this. Even if he has only known him for a short while, he knows he doesn’t like this.
“Maes and I’ve been waiting.”
Nothing.
He is beginning to hate this. The way it makes his insides twist.
He takes another swing, and when Roy attempts to take it back he moves it away.
“Nuh huh. This one is mine until we are out of here.” When we are out. Not if.
He doesn’t look at Roy. He doesn’t need to.
“So don’t make me hold onto it for longer than necessary. It's too cheap for my taste.”
This is the third promise he’ll do his best to keep.
There is no answer. Just the trembling of Roy's hands as Ed wraps his arm around him. It isn’t really a hug. He grips Roy’s shoulders and brings him closer, like how he did to Winry. To his mom, when she cried for her father. For like when she cried for him. It is barely an embrace.
But it is enough to have Roy burying his head on Ed’s white shirt. He leans over Roy and closes his eyes.
Is this gentle? Can he still be gentle?
It doesn’t matter, he thinks. What matters is that I am there for him.
He understands the feeling a little too well. The crushing weight. The desperation.
He just hopes that the promises, and his will are enough.
“You know-“
“Don’t say you are fucking sorry Mustang or I am kicking you out.”
“Of my own tent?”
Ed gives a pointed glare, while also shuffling down the relief of seeing him relatively back to himself.
After Roy’s arrival he had helped the others get back in shape. He didn’t give Roy any more alcohol, not even a sip. He straightened his jacket, brushed his hair and then pushed the man outside to eat. Meanwhile, he put a bit of life, relighted the fire and got him to quip, even if just a bit.
In their time inside, the sun had come down into another sunset. Maes shift must be over by now, so he bets they’ll find him in the canteen.
Roy was still distant, his tone dull. Yet he teases, and responds, so he calls it a win. Half of a win.
“Yes. It's my tent now.”
“Little sh-“
“Shut your trap or I'll take away your kneecaps.”
When they arrive at the canteen, the buzz of conversations dies down a peg.
The other pretends to not notice, taking long strides ahead of Ed. He himself, gives three fucks and glares at every single one of them until they mind their own buisness.
They’ll murmur, they’ll gossip, they’ll point fingers.
He’ll be there to meet their glares. To push them back when they bark too hard. Because they will never bite. Not with alchemy being a thing.
Maes is waiting for them at a table at the corner he has begun to call their corner.
As soon as he sees Roy he stands. “I knew you’d be back this week.”
“Elric told me as much.”
Maes sends him a look that speaks of gratitude, relief, and joy
“So? Sit down. You two look like very uncomfortable decorations.”
Roy sits down and he offers to bring them food.
“I already ate, but do bring something for yourself and Roy. It's quite delicious.” Read: it’s disgusting. Enjoy.
“Didn't even wait for us, Maes?” Roy quips from the side. He is using the tone Ed is beginning to identify as the one he uses to deliberately push the conversation sideways.
“I should’ve waited? I didn’t know when you were coming and my shift left me starving.” There is a knowing gaze to Maes’s eyes.
“Nah, I would’ve done the same.” He says before walking away towards the waiting line.
As he waits, he doesn’t take out his notes or look at the people around him. Instead, he looks at Roy and Maes.
He can’t hear from here. Not that he wants to. No way. This is their moment.
He needs to know how Maes does it. How does he comfort this man, who looks like someone he would bet his life on.
Maes' expression is grim. He can see worry, understanding and anger.
He doesn’t see Roy, as he has his back towards him. But he can tell. By the look on Maes’s face, by the way he is moving his hands and mouth, that he must be saying some fucking stupid shit.
Maes raises his hand, and interrupts Roy in the most serious manner.
Whatever he says shakes Roy from head to toe because his back isn’t so slack anymore.
From a distance, he watches Maes whip Roy back into shape.
In such a way, that when he returns, Roy doesn’t seem so gone anymore. There is a look of determination in Roy’s eyes as he hands him his food, that Ed stomach flutters, and his heart lights up.
Why should he deserve this? Why should he let himself feel this?
After everyone he has kille-
No. Not the time. Right now, he is glad to have Roy back.
With one look he thanks Maes.
In one look he is told to not worry.
He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.
Roy elbows him during a joke as they eat and he understands.
I’ll fulfill my promises to you.
It’s not long before each has to return to their own. This time he stays in Roy’s tent, so Maes goes alone.
Before he goes, and when Roy is not paying too much attention, he leans towards Maes and slips him a napkin.
In it he wrote.
“Thanks. I’m glad he has you.”
Before he left, he murmured towards Ed.
“He’s got you too.”
Once in the tent he lays on the ground, with his sleeping equipment of course, as Roy settles on his bed.
The other raises an eyebrow at him. “You seriously haven’t asked for a bed for yourself?”
He scowls. “You weren't here, so yours worked just fine. Finders keepers, bastard.”
“Technically-“
He throws his jacket at Roy.
“Alright fine. Ill shut up.”
“Finally, god, took you long enough.”
There is silence, shifting and then the creaking of the bed.
Roy, now laying on the bed looking at the ceiling, says. “Didn’t take you for a pious man.”
He plays with the rings, examining the arrays engraved on them. “That’s because I am not. The idea of a god… It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense inside the rules of alchemy. It breaks the idea of equivalent exchange.” He drops his hands and sighs. “I just don’t think there is any fucker up there.”
“I agree, but I have another issue with god.”
He, who has always been looking at Roy, hums. “Which is…?”
“If god is good and omnipotent, then why does all of this happen?”
“Then god is bad.”
Roy shifts in bed, turning to look at Ed with eyes that look right at his soul. “While logical… I don’t think that is the right conclusion. Or at least the final one.”
“So?”
“God… above good and evil god is an idea. There is the narrative of god.”
He nods. He can see it, he can follow the idea.
“Then, if we just stopped thinking of god, would god even exist? Would he still be the omnipresent, omnipotent idea, if there is no one?”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Yes. Or he would. Completely detached from us, therefore indifferent to us and us to him.” Roy ruffles his hair with one gloved hand. “Why should I care if god exists or not, if in the end ha existence is indifferent to us? He doesn’t care, therefore it doesn't matter if I care about him.”
“Very philosophical of you.”
“I am a man of culture.”
“And of alchemy.”
“That is why, my main point of contention with God is the problem you brought up. This also bothers me, though, in the case he does exist.” Roy turns back to the ceiling. He does the same.
He feels his rings, wants to take them off, but won't. He is tired, he is safe, but he can tell there might be an enemy. So he won't. Not yet.
They rest like that; the conversation dies and he is happy to let it die.
God doesn’t belong nor care for these abandoned lands.
Instead he says.
“Maes thinks I’ll go with you this time.”
“Maes?” There’s that tone again, accompanied by a creaky bed. He doesn’t turn.
“Yeah, problem?”
“No, not at all. But where is my Roy?”
“What?”
“You called me Roy before.”
“I swear to- you are just a little bastard, aren’t you? Right now it is different.”
“Please?”
“Beg.”
“Please?”
“Maybe if you don’t change the topic.”
The bed creaks again. ”I don’t kno-
“I know you tried to get me stationed here permanently. Or at least away from the frontline.”
“Wha-“
“Shut the fuck up and let me speak, bastard. Then you’ll complain.”
“…”
“You weren’t expecting the knews of my first deployment. You also thought it’d be delayed.” He can hear the complains from Roy, but he stays blessedly silent. “And i don’t know what image you have of me, but-“
bloody hands, bleeding children, crying moms, a defeated gaze, the sand under his boots, the cries of a colonel, Sergie, Matthew, Chris, Katie, blue, blue, blue lips, uniforms, fingers, rot, lies, tolling heads, pirced chests, blood, blood,
“I am not perfect. I am also to blame. I am a soldier too. I am not better. I have a toll to pay, and the price is just as expensive as yours. So, don’t try to shoulder me from something I don't need a shoulder from.”
“I never-
“If you are a sinner, I am too.”
He looks at Roy. He can tell he doesn’t believe it. It eases an itch, to know that he might never be a monster in this man’s eyes. Even if he is. But he also needs him to understand.
He needs to see that Ed isn’t going anywhere.
He needs Roy to see that Ed can carry this weight with him.
He needs Roy to see Ed.
“So don't try to push me away, didn’t I tell you. That I’d walk alongside you if that is what is needed. This is our promise.”
He just needs the man to see him before he crashes into reality when they are out there.
He’d hate to see disgust inside those eyes.
Notes:
So, sorry it took this long. I had to lock in for my exams and damn was it hard. Also, ill respond to comments, it just takes me time 🙇♀️
Happy December 🎉🎉🎉
I love these characters, but i was afraid i forgot how to write them. I hope it turns out well.
The other chap is in the making. I have returned . Maybe it will come the 24th as a gift (maybe maybee)
Remember to take care of yourselves, that there are people there for you and that there is always so much more to do in life! If you ever need tot alk anout something I am here, and if you have someone close to you who you trust, go to them!
Read yall next time!
Chapter Text
They spend a day in camp, where they talk and talk. Maes is there to watch them and add his own thoughts.
Louis doesn’t return.
Worry gnaws away at his gut. Why wasnt he come back? Why?
Still, Maes reassures him that they might find each other on the front lines. That he is fine. That Louis is with Hawkeye, and that they’re fine. Even Roy chimes in to say that Hawkeye is competent enough to keep them both alive.
Still he wants to bolt and find the other man. Is he still going? Is he? Or is he another life he got killed by Ed’s bad luck?
He writes a response back home. Its smaller, as there is nothing good to talk about other than Roy and Maes and Louis. Still he writes and rewrites until it is the best version of the letter he can possibly conceive.
Other than that, they just rest.
That's because the next day they are off.
They are lined up just like last time. Just like then, Maes is watching from the sidelines, waiting for them to leave with one hand holding a piece of paper over his heart. He’ll miss Maes and his talks about Garcia.
He is sure he’ll see Maes again.
Unlike last time, there is a speech for them. The blue clad General goes up the steps of a small platform to speak. He speaks of glory. Of enemies and death. Of the great Amestris they must protect. Of the world they are fighting for.
Of honor.
He hates it. He hates it so much he wants to punch the general unti his face caves in. Until he can make the general see that this war is nothing more that just a genocide supported by the government.
He wants to hurt the general because he is part of this.
He wants to hurl at the general because he is a disgusting piece of shit, just like him, who is participating and consining the erasure of lives.
He wants to make the general pay.
He struggles to not put his face in the general’s face.
Also, unlike last time, Roy is there with him. He stands by his side, with all the other alchemists. He sports a face that is pure disgust and hate that he cannot help but smile. Still he hides it well, under a thick visage of professionalism.
He is a good man. Even if the other doesn’t believe it.
As soon as they start to march, he notices it is all the same. The same heat, the same sand, same stench of death in the air.
He walks right besides Roy, playing with his rings and occasionally opening his jacket to slightly cool himself. Even if a few seconds later an annoying colonel comes and makes him close it once more.
He repeats this until he gets fed up with it.
“Hey.”
Roy doesn’t even turn. “And then I am the annoying one.”
“Shut your trap.”
“What a gentleman.”
He is about to elbow the man when the lieutenant colonel sends them a nasty side-eye that stops him.
A few more minutes of silence follow before Roy says in a murmur. “Don’t worry. They are like this the first few hours of marching, they’ll relax eventually.”
“Hope so.”
They walk in a straight formation. Each company walks coordinately at a specific distance from one another. They climb dunes, traverse newly made ruins and sand. The sun hits them non-stop, the sand hits their faces, but none of them trip.
Unlike his time with Rodolph, here few people talk. If they do, they do it silently under their breaths.
If he were to put a name to the reason, he’d name it self-awareness dread.
They know what is waiting for them.
“How far are we going to travel?”
“The exact distances are hazy, but we are expected to arrive in two days.”
Oh god.
Oh god indeed.
Those two days go in a haze filled by conversations with Roy about anything and anything. They range from alchemical theory to back home.
He learns about Madame Chris. Roy learns about Resembool.
On the second night, just before they arrive, he shows Roy the picture he stores in his watch.
It had been a slow night, where they stood guard together. They stood next to one another, the breathing of the rest background noise accompanied by the howls of the wind.
Roy’s face was covered in shadows cast by the night and grief.
Ed can’t help but try to imagine that same face outside of the desert and the crushing weight they are under.
He imagines Roy in the grassy fields of Resembool, where the sun and Asters make his face look younger and happier.
He wants to make that happen.
Ed can only imagine what he looks like.
He refuses to look in the mirror
He had been in the middle of telling a story about his mother, about her smiles, and her love when he paused.
Roy, who had been looking at him the whole time, says. “What is it?”
“I want to show you something.”
He took out his watch, and tapped it with his ring.
The blue glow shone on both of them.
He was too focused. Otherwise, he would have seen that Roy was looking at him, with an impossibly gentle feeling he’d be too afraid to name.
Once the light was gone, he took out the picture and unfolded it once, twice, and thrice.
He handed the picture back to Roy, placing it in his hands.
“On the right, that’s my mom. The girl is Winry. And this is Pinako.”
He points at each with a smile and Roy nods along, faintly holding the picture. Just like a filmmaker would hold their filmstrip.
He can’t help but think how may stories he is missing out on. Winry’s progress on automail. Pinako’s new cane. His mother’s
pregnancy.
Who was it? Was it Hoenheim? Why did the bastard come back? Is he going to have siblings? How is his mother doing? He wants to be there, he needs to be there. How many months of pregnancy have passed? From the picture he can guess maybe four. He is going to have siblings! He is going to have a sibling, that he should watch grow, and he should be there for them, for mother, for Winry, for Pinako. He
should be there.
He also shoves those thoughts in a tiny little box for later.
Later. Just like the memories of Sergei, Matthew, Chris and every single Ishvalan corpse.
Later. He’ll deal with it later, for when he can actually do something about it.
Later. For when the desperation and impotency doesn’t make him want to shout his lungs out .
He continues his old outdated stories and Roy doesn’t miss a single word.
If he is not speaking, he is creating arrays in his head. Maling calculations related to the sand, his rings, and the heat.
All in all, it makes up for a good distraction from the sand and the wind and the ruins.
There is a small camp with a small company waiting for them. There, they are divided into companies once more. One company stays, the rest leaves elsewhere.
Roy seems to have pulled some favors, as he ends up assigned to the same company as him.
Then the lieutenant dispatches them in different directions with a string of orders he barked in a sentence Ed didn’t bother to hear. The man stays behind.
Coward. You send us out here just to stay behind? Coward.
He hates this so much.
At least he isn’t alone anymore.
Being the underdog is much more bearable with another to spend the time with.
He marches with Roy as a hundred men follow them. They have a captain, who he thinks is called Carl, trailing behind them.
He does his best to ignore the echo of steps following them.
“So who takes the lead?”
Roy, who had been blankly staring ahead, tilts his head. “Me, of course.”
And while Ed isn’t eager to direct a hundred fucking soldiers again, that doesn’t mean he isn’t above annoying Roy.
“Fuck no. I am.”
Roy snorts. “I'll have you know, I have the seniority card to pull. Isn’t that right Carl?”
“Uhm- sir?”
“Don’t drag Carl into this, bastard.”
“But Carl is the captain here. He should be the one to choose. Shouldn’t you, Carl?”
“Sir-“
“Fuck that. Know what, you give one direction, I give another. That better?”
Calr pales.
“Sirs-“
“How about you just follow my lead, Sun.”
“Who the fuck are you calling sun?!”
Carl promptly excuses himself and leaves.
Roy spares him a glance and then turns back to Ed.
“As much as tormenting Carl was fun, is that all there is to it?”
He huffs but shakes his head. “First, I wanted to annoy you but figures. Second, what exactly are we supposed to do? Third is something I have to ask, just after you answer second.”
Roy sweetens his smile in that sticky honey he uses for the officers. “You could never annoy me.” Ed snorts and Roy continues, now with a solemn voice. “Seriously speaking, did you not pay attention to the Lieutenant Colonel? Or the General?”
“I stopped listening as soon as”
as soon as they glorified genocide
“as they opened their mouths.”
Roy sighs. “Well, I won’t comment on that. You are lucky to have me-“
“Get to the point.”
Roy sighs. “Our goal is to… remove the threats spotted in the southeastern area near Aerugan borders.”
“To stop them from fleeing towards our neighbors?”
“While true, there are additional reasons. Letting them go would make Amestris seem weak. Which would be unacceptable to our dear Führer. Then, Aerugo is just searching for reasons to start a war with Amestris. Giving asylum to the Ishvalans can be a way to further that, if they play their cards right.”
The idea of another war creates a pit in his stomach. “What can they even want with all this bloodshed?”
“I don't know. I wish I knew.”
Ed is happy not knowing what happens inside the mind of those disgusting pigs that call themselves their leaders.
“Why do you want to know?”
Roy doesn’t falter. Ed can begin to see he only does when the sins get too heavy to carry. Thankfully, he is here to lower the load. “It is not to understand them or godforbid, sympathize with them. I can’t bring myself to care about them . But rather to know how to proceed. If they plan something with this… then I can plan accordingly.”
Plan a better future. Plan a better Amestris.
Plan for justice.
Plan to fulfill a promise.
“Alright. I’ll follow your lead for this. I can help you share the orders further down the line. And that other thing I wanted to ask-“
Then, comes a scream.
He had his arm poised to snap before he could even begin to process what was happening.
Ed puts an arm on his shoulder before he can burn Carl, who is running towards them, alive.
He looks behind Carl and notices there seems to be a fight going on, with people circling it, as if it were a school hall or the streets back home near Madame’s bar.
“Sir-“ The captain is breathless as he reaches them.
“What is the commotion, Captain?”
“A fight broke out, Major sir.” You don’t say. Seriously, why are people this way?
“And care to tell me why?”
He starts walking in the direction of the group, Ed by his side and Carl trailing behind. Ed still has a hand on his arm, sporting a look that Roy had never seen on him.
A look just like his.
“I do not know the details, sir.”
Ah the world hates him. That must be it.
What he finds is the most stupid fight he has seen since entering the military.
Now, people underestimate the power of hormones, stress and pressure. It leads to fights that are most of the time stupid as fuck . He saw it all the time in the academy, before he was shipped off to the desert.
He had assumed, up until now, that those fights stopped here on the battlefield. He never interacted with others apart from Maes, Riza, and sometimes Ed so that belief still stood unchallenged.
Well, not anymore.
He sighs and motions Ed to come with him. “Help me stop them.” Then he turns to Carl and signals to the rest of the soldiers. “Keep them in place, Captain. We’ll have some words with them about this.”
“Yes, Major sir!”
Ed goes ahead, pushing everyone aside with a stern face that has them stumbling back.
I am a soldier too.
“Don’t be dense, Roy. Ed is everything but a child or a saint. Don’t ignore that.” Maes said. “Let him in,
see
him and you won’t be so lonely or in a rush to end it anymore.”
Two privates fight. Or at least they would have been fighting, if Ed hadn't already pushed one to the ground, holding him in place with a knee to the back. The other stands there, face dripping with blood from a broken nose.
He hears Carl push everyone away with a tone that left no room for discussion.
Ah, how revolting. This looks just like two dogs herding sheep.
It comes of no surprise that the two privates are sixteen years old. Two years younger than Ed.
He puts his hands behind his back, saying in a voice that makes the
children
privates flinch. “Names?!”
The one still standing replies. “Finn Bauer, Major sir.”
The one on the ground wheezes. “Dmitri Orlov, sir.”
Now, how should he handle the situation? He could punish both and let this go just to continue the march. But he can’t having risk having internal conflicts or god-forbid resentments on the front lines. He gives Ed a glance.
Ed responds. “They were already fighting, but Private Orlov was preparing to pummel Private Bauer to the ground.”
“What do you say to this, privates?”
Bauer, free from a knee crushing his back, answers first. “The Major is right, sir. This… barbarian thought he could simply insult the Führer inside the military that is providing him.”
Oh, one of these people.
Orlov sends a scathing glare from the ground. “Shut up, Блядь-“
He can see how Ed pushes the knee downwards, knocking the air out of the private before he can continue to do what Roy asumes is to formulate an insult.
He takes a breath, making sure his face doesn’t reflect a single speck of his annoyance and exhaustion. So he has a Bradley supporter who is also a racist soldier, and a temperamental Drachman who just insulted what is the most beloved figure inside the military.
Jolly.
He fiddled with the fabric of his gloves as he thinks, and sees by his periphery some soldiers move backwards.
Is it good? To be perceived as a rabid dog?
He could very well postpone the scolding till they have arrived to their designated location. Not that he is comfortable with just standing here in the open middle of the desert where anyone can attack. But he also can’t let these actions continue. It would make him seem as incompetent and weak. He is a state Alchemist. He can’t be seen as weak unless he wants these men doubting his decisions on the battlefield.
…Dealing with it in here it is
Now, there are two ways he could go about this. He could handle it publicly and let it create an image on what his supposed stance is, alongside creating a deeper divide inside the company. Or he could handle it privately, creating room for speculation and rumors, while also letting people assume he will be lenient because people will assume neither of them received a punishment unless they saw it.
What he needs is to resolve issues between these two, and show the rest of the company he is capable of leading and taking decisions in a brink.
“Major Elric, release private Orlov and take him away with you. Captain Conrad, take private Bauer with you. Wait for me ahead.”
Ed nods and helps Orlov rise. Then, the four men leave, going ahead to where he and Ed were marching earlier. Far enough so that they can have privacy when he deals with the rest, but close enough to keep an eye on the situation… not that he needs to do so with Ed there.
Ed can keep them in check.
He also needs to show Ed that he trusts him. This is the best way to do so. It isn’t a matter of faking trust. It is just showing the trust that is already there.
“So don't try to push me away, didn’t I tell you? That I’d walk alongside you if that is what is needed. This is our promise.”
He turns to the audience of curious, expectant soldiers. There is a level of cruelty to how they stare at him. As if they want to eat him alive but keep distance because they are afraid of the lick of fire, the sound of a snap, and the bite of a dog.
Everyone is looking at him, waiting for him to light a fire.
To either light the path or burn everything away, doesn’t matter to them. They want the show.
Even then, he sees children amongths and audience that should be composed of adults and he can’t help but want to make this better.
“Promise me, Roy.”
What can he even do? He is a soldier, and alchemist, a stupid and guillible dog. What can he even do?
What is the point?
”Promise me, Roy.”
He opens him mouth and he thinks back to the moment he said, I’ll try.
He will try his best.
”Do you think that we, as soldiers of Amestris, should be making these types of shows? Near enemy territory? We are soldiers, not children. We have been entrusted with the fate of this country and this is how you act? Admiring a fight? I will not be as lenient moving forward. I expect every single one of you to follow my orders without a peep. I will take us to victory and for that I need every single one of you . So get yourselves together, I’ll handle this situation and let that be all. We will march to our station and win this war. Understood?!”
”Sir, yes sir!” The salute, coordinated like a well oiled machine.
“We continue to march. You have one minute to prepare.”
”Yes sir!”
He will never admit it out loud, but he understands how leaders go power hungry. He understand the rush of adrenaline one gets from seeing hundreds of people respond to him. It is exhilarating and also dangerous.
It is because he understands that he will do his best to not end up the same way.
Sacrifices may be needed sometimes, but he will do his best to avoid them. He needs to work for the best of the most, and the damage of the least.
He walks ahead and meets up with Ed and Carl.
Both privates look ready to go back at it, the only thing stopping them is the Ed’s glare.
“Captain. Go organize everyone. We depart in a minute.”
Ed looks at him surprised.
“Understood, sir.” Carl leaves.
“Major Mustang-“
“It won’t take us more than a minute, I assure you, Major Elric.”
Ed sighs and crosses his arms but nods. ”Very well, Mustang.” He says, going to stand by his side. Good, because he is not his subordinate even if he agreed to follow his lead.
Besides, Ed is an
ally
not a tool.
Edward wouldn’t let himself be used as a tool.
The privates are both uncomfortable, yet Bauer is clearly self-assured of being in the right. Orlov is not cowering away either, waiting wary at his next words.
“It is a disappointment to see two citizens and soldiers of Amestris act this way.”
Bauer immediately perks up, with a face that screams offended and disgusted . “Sir-“
“Did I say you could speak, private?”
”But sir-“
“Silence. I will not tolerate more interruptions. Listen to me, privates. Having disagreements is by all accounts human, but fighting over it is unacceptable. As soldiers we have a responsibility to be the representatives of Amestris. We are fighting a war for goodness sake! I certainly have more to deal with than two children adults fighting. I will not have anymore fights between either of you. Fight again, and you’ll leave with more than just a scolding .”
Ed takes over, his voice severe and formal in a way that Roy had never heard before. It seems nothing like the Ed he has gotten to know, but still is still him. Snarky, angry but more muted and formal than normal.
“I will remind you, Private Orlov, that the moment you enter this army you are expected to respond and serve the Führer. While you might not agree with all policies”
like Roy and Ed
. “You are not in the position to insult the leader of Amestris publicly.”
Insult him, but privately.
“Similarly, you will not insult fellow soldiers. These are the people you fight alongside with. Therefore, do not try to insult them again.”
Ah he was right. It was an insult. He wonders how Ed knew though.
Ed looks at him for permission and he shrugs. Ed is practically saying everything he wanted to say. Besides, it also benefits him to have Ed prove his autonomy and capacity.
“Private Bauer, make sure this is the last time I have to remind you or else you will be demoted from your rank. Private Orlov is by all means an Amestrian citizen, and soldier of this country. Insulting him is insulting any other Amestrian, regardless of additional nationalities. Be this the last time you do this, understood?”
“Sir-“
“ Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
The two privates look… It is a mix of emotions ranging from ashamed to insulted.
He can’t help but wonder if they should do something more. Perhaps actually punish them. But then he remembers what is waiting for them in a few hours and abstains himself.
They’ll learn soon if they didn’t understand.
”Go back and report to the Captain.”
“By your leave, sir.”
”Yes sir.”
As soon as they are gone Ed sighs. “Fucking hell. You think they’ll try anything else?”
He shakes his head. “No. At least not in the hours we have remaining. Then they won’t have time to do much of anything.” He turns to see the group, who is moving and preparing. Soon Carl makes them a sign and they start to march once more.
They lead the march from a distance, where they can see the surroundings clearly. It is just dune after dune, stretching far out.
“How did you know Orlov was insulting? I guessed from the tone, but you seemed to understand.”
Ed fidles with a bracer. “In my time with the Colonel there was a… private called Sergei. He was also from Drachma, and taught me some words. Mostly slang, or insults. It- He did it because he said he wanted me to know what people said around me, and I was curious.”
He remembers the three privates that survived the day he first encountered Ed. None seemed Drachman. Then he remembers the corpse Ed holding, as if he tried to comfort either himself or the person who was the corpse. That one did.
Ed knows he understands. And it is because he understands that he doesn’t say sorry. But instead.
“I believe he would be proud that you still remember.”
They walk in silence the rest of the way. With Roy wishing the world wasn’t the way it is.
As they begin to approach their destination, Roy starts to feel restless. The soldiers march behind them, Ed right beside him. He can’t bring himself to speak, not as the silhouette of a ruined city comes to view.
It is currently the middle of the night. They have marched and marched. The sand swallowing their steps as if there were none to begin with. There are destroyed buildings, half-gone pathways, and craters on the ground. It is clear, even from a distance, that no one should be living here.
But he, his commanding officers , and their Führer know best. There are still people, slipping through the cracks, either by sheer will alone, or the support of Aerugan guerrilla group.
How they survive doesn’t matter.
It makes no difference in the end.
Oh how he hates this.
He wished he never learned alchemy. But then, that would be like losing the only tool he has to make a change.
Over anything else, he regrets.
It is the middle of the night, the silence that surrounds them is one of vigilance. The wind whistles around them like a warning. Or a plea to leave. Sadly, Roy can’t comply.
Like a dog, following the thug of their leash.
“Ed, stop here.”
Ed stops, and Roy can hear the shuffling of the soldiers stopping with them. He must make an order now, before they grow as restless as him.
His hands itch, both in anticipation and the desire vanish.
He has to give credit to Ed. He doesn’t look half as bad as Roy feels. But he knows best than to comment, or judge Ed for it.
They are alchemists. Dogs with teeth cut off the same cloth.
“Now what Roy? Do we charge right now? Or do we wait until later?”
“Now. The night gives us an advantage, though I doubt they are unaware of our arrival.”
Ed nods and he turns to the captain, who had just catched up to them.
“Are they ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then have them march as soon as I light the first fire. Similarity, leave a portion of men with their guns on the backburner. As soon as we have the first portion under our control, send a signal to the snipers to take control of the tallest remaining buildings. Always behind me, understood?”
Carl nods and leaves to carry the news.
Ed stays. “I assume I will go with you?”
“I would rather you-“
“Make me stay behind and I’ll cut your throat, bastard.”
“I have control of my fire but it-“
“No way. You are better as a ranged fighter. I am better at close quarters. Let me guard your back.”
He considers it, taking a close look of the passionate, determined, strong, confident, and so many more things displayed on Ed’s eyes, face, and body language.
Still.
“Alchemists work better alone.”
“Then it's a good thing I don’t give a fuck.”
Ah… alright.
“Alright. You’ll come with me.”
Ed gives a grin that borders being a smile. He wishes he could see that same smile outside of the grey, dull environment made by sand. Maybe on the green landscape Ed has painted from his retellings of Resembool. Or the warm yellow lights of Madam’s bar.
He wishes, needs to give much better reasons for Ed to smile.
Oh his hopeless romantic side is falling hard for these golden locks, mirthful smiles, and brilliant resilient (many many more things) mind.
The best he can do is keep this light safe.
From him. Because he burns everything he touches.
The best he can do right now is put a hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Stay safe, Ed.”
“Of course, Roy.” The amile Ed gives him is the most sincere and unabashedly human smile he’s seen. “We’ll be there for each other.”
Ten minutes later, they are marching towards the settlement. They are a good ten meters ahead from the rest, who are on standby as per Roy’s instructions.
He tugs his gloves downward, tensing the material as they go closer. Ed already has a metal sword in hand. It is a deadly mix of metal, transmuted edges and curvatures. He knows that some people were taught how to use this type of sword in the academy, if they requested as much.
He knows Ed is a genius, his moniker a nice word play about it created by their dear leader, so he is not surprised by the familiarity at which Ed grabs and moves with the weapon.
He also knows it is thanks to the experience he has acquired by killing and killing and killing.
Burn. Burn. Burn.
Remember that is your role.
Burn them away.
The wind howls, crying for the souls hiding behind these walls.
Fire eats everything away.
There is no movement. Maybe he overestimated their resilience. Maybe the Ishvalans are still sleeping.
Yet the signs of life he saw do not lie. Marks of campfires. Footsteps. The too perfectly placed rubbish.
They are here.
And he’s here too.
Hell follows him. He belongs there.
He raises his hand.
He creates it.
Snap.
Immediately, a column of fire swallows two buildings. Burning flesh.
The screams.
It's enough to make him move on automatic. It's enough light to get the army moving, charging half blindly, guided by his light.
Sounds, waking people from a building by his side, guide his next snap .
His mind goes blank. There is no space for more other than the adrenaline coursing through his body as a group of men exit the next building.
Ishvalans rise from the cracks on the ground. Running.
Soldiers walking towards them shooting.
He snaps again. Further away, corpses fall as piles of charred flesh.
Ed isn’t idle either. Rushes to meet the man that escapes his flames face to face. He cuts and cuts and moves fluidly around the battle. If it isn’t his sword, he kneels and spikes rise and impale the enemy.
The golden alchemist. A generalist. An expert, nearly an artist, with arrays.
He doesn’t need to see Ed’s face to see himself.
A
weapon.
Just like
him.
He walks, pushing Ishvalans backwards with each step.
Ed stands by him, covering him, his uniform matter with blood and grime, where Roy is covered in ashes.
A bullet whistles right past his ear, and he snaps again. A ball of fire falls from a building.
“Snipers.” Ed murmurs.
Another wave of Ishvalans. Injured, burned, desperate.
“I’ll take care of these ones. Find the snippers and take them out.” He shouts at Ed, snapping at the nearest group.
Ed nods and then pauses. “No. Go find them. You’ll do better with the higher ground.”
Ed’s eyes, the eyes of a murder, don’t leave the incoming wave, already reading himself to transmute the ground.
Weapons. Weapons. Weapons.
Be the most effective. Be the most deadly. Be the most dangerous.
He and Ed understand the task too well.
It makes sense so he doesn’t complain.
He wishes he could. He wants to.
But its not the moment.
He runs, hearing the shots and the shouts of Ishvalans and Amestrians. The army matches their pace getting closer and closer to them.
He snaps, and two other buildings go out in flames.
He sets his eyes on another structure. It's tall though narrow, and still standing. Perfect for a boy to hide with a rifle.
He enters the building.
A woman comes out, swinging a machete.
He ducks, taking a hold of her arm and throwing her against the wall furthest away.
Snap.
He goes to the second level before the fire dies out.
There is no one. The stairs are cut off, so he takes out an already drawn piece of paper and transmutes a way.
The paper was a little help he received from Ed.
“Just in case. Activate it like usual and let the array do the job.”
The third has more people. A group of teens huddled against the stairs. Guarding the rooftop.
Snap.
He lowers the level of oxygen to make the fire down unnaturally fast and pushes himself through the charred remains.
Don’t think. Don’t breathe.
Don’t.
The sniper is dead before he can even get a shot.
He takes his place.
From here the battlefield is clear. A good vantage point.
Don’t think. Don’t look at the body.
He sees Ed, now moving forward with efficiency, commanding the army. Beacoing them further. Their snipers should be positioned by now.
He sets his sights on the other buildings.
One breath in.
Snap.
One building gone.
One breath in.
He chokes on the smell.
Snap.
Another gone.
He is careful to do it further away from Ed. Away from his soldiers. Makes sure that if the fire is near their skin, it does nothing more than slightly lick their skin.
He repeats.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
His mind goes numb, under calculations and alchemical processes. He doesn’t think more than necessary.
Snapsnapsnapsnap-
When the sun comes out, half the city is gone in flames. The other half is covered in spikes, and blood.
The fighting has died down. Only them remain, marching to purge the remaining survivors. Dragging them out of hiding by their hair, or through kicking. Roy stands there ready to snap again if he sees the need.
Right now, no one has time to do much more than do as they are told.
He blinks
there are corpses dragging him down, taking him by his jacket and pushing him into the sand, or plunging him into the air from the edge of the building or maybe thats only him doing it in the name of those he has killed maybe-.
He blinks and sees Ed looking at him from the ground, waiting for his instructions.
His eyes are dead, and maybe Roy doesn’t know how to feel.
He wants to take that look away from Ed’s face but can’t.
He wants to let Ed go and let him turn back into a person but can’t.
He wants to do better but can’t.
He wants to die but can’t.
“That boy loves you Roy. You should see the way he looks at you. Don’t you dare do that to him. If not for Madame, not for me, not for Riza. Do it for that boy.”
He hates Maes, for putting a name to the look in Ed’s eyes. To the feeling in his chest.
But he’d be a corpse if it wasn’t for him.
“Make a wall! Surround the settlement. We’ll use this day to chase the last of them!” He wants to burn his throat. He wants to
jump, die,
sleep.
It disgusts him to know that he is treating them as a plague. These are people. Survivors.
They deserve more, and he deserves less for doing this to them.
Ed nods and leaves to report his instructions to Carl, a Captain who is just two years younger than Ed. If Roy hadn’t been a state alchemist he would be under the command of a kid like Carl. How did a kid achieve a position as high ranking as captain already? Is it maybe that they are so desperate to send children to die?
He takes a last look, not out of pleasure but repentance. There are charred buildings, corpses, limbs, spears, and rubble. The city is beginning to stink metallic with blood and rotten like them. The heat of the sun embraces them, letting them see clearly what they have done.
They need to do better. No matter that they can’t. He made the promise, to Ed, to himself and to the corpses.
They need to do better. No more ruins like this one.
But what can he do?
And if that means he has to continue living to amend, to make use of this tool the right way. Then he’ll live for this.
And for that, he needs to move.
He leaves the building, turning his back on the sight that will be imprinted on his mind for the rest of his life.
“There were seven dead, ten fatally injured and twenty with minor injuries, including myself, sir.” Carl reports standing near an improvised stretcher inside an improvised tent.
Alright, that’s not shabby. He could’ve done without the dead, and less fatal injuries, but that means that only thirty percent of his forces were incapacitated. Less than half.
“Alright. Also, drop the salute, I don’t want you making your injuries worse, Carl.”
Carl, sits down, dropping his hand with a wince. “Thank you, sir.”
“It's basic manners. Now, rest. Major Elric and I will handle the rest. Make sure to be ready as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaves the tent, which had been as an emergency shelter for now, and approaches Ed. There are privates loitering around, most doing rounds to prevent any ambushes. Most of them sit down in tight groups. The sun is unforgiving, burning them, so all of them are covered in white hoods. All of them are sweating. All of them are exhausted.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets as Ed says. “What now?”
“I don’t know. Depends. It is up to what the lieutenant colonel sees fit.”
“I already had a first lieutenant report the situation. But there has been no response till now.”
He shrugs. “That is normal. He will contact us when we are needed.” He adds. “Even then, we might need some medics. Thirty have been injured and need treatment. Some are more urgent than others.”
Ed nods. “I saw some of them. It- fuck it looked bad. Three of them might need surgery, while another is unconscious. I have not seen the rest, haven’t had the time.”
“Let's walk.” They start moving in a different direction, slightly away from the group. Not that they needed, as the rest was doing a pretty good job at avoiding them. “While it's bad that they got injured, I must say that the numbers themselves are not… they are good, overall.” He sees Ed frown. “Look, I am not saying it is bad that they got injured but it was as he expected. It is already exceptional, it was only them.”
“That’s reductionist and you know it. But you are right, it went relatively well.”
Neither of them want to examine that statement closely.
“Do you think they’ll make us reunite with the battalion.”
Roy shakes his head. “Unlikely, even if it would be the est option in our eyes, it is simply not in theirs. From their perspective, it isn’t only a waste of resources, time, and manpower, but it is also ridiculous. To have us come here to just go back for just one quarter of out forces injured.”
”Fuck bureocracy.”
He hums in agreement. “Still, they might make us move to find and take out another settlement.”
Ed widens his eyes. “So fast? I thought it was different from how it was with the colonel.”
He shakes his head. “The colonel had many flaws, but he did things just like any other colonel in that manner. That’s how it works. One day here, the other day there.”
”Fuck them. Fuck their little asses for sitting comfortable while we run ourselves ragged.”
“I understand your anger but please.” He puts a hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Keep it down until later. We scolded a pair of privates for doing less.”
“They were fighting.”
“But we are supposed to set an example.”
”Fuck examples.”
He chuckles.
They set in a new type of silence. It isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t offsetting. It is right in the middle, a point where he could lie down and rest and he knows he’ll be safe. Yet he also knows there is something not quite right. There is an underlying tension that both know where it comes from, but none are ready to acknowledge it.
So, he takes a look at Ed. Right now, sleep deprived, tired, chronically avoiding any thought about his
actions, or the
corpses ,
he can’t help but see how beautiful Ed looks under the sun. It shines on his hair, which is tied up so tightly that Roy can’t help but wonder if it hurts. His uniform, dirty and ragged, does nothing to placate the beauty of the man right in front of him. Despite the carnage, or thanks to it, Ed’s resilience, attitude and simply Ed being
Ed
makes it much more comforting.
Oh my, he is falling hard.
Fuck Maes for being right.
But the middle of a battlefield is not time to think about that, so he puts those thoughts away. He doesn’t bury them, but he does his best to avoid them for now.
Does he deserve anything like love after what all he has done, continues to do, and will do?
He should handle the situation first.
Ed speaks first. “Remember a few hours ago, before the fight? I have a question to ask you.” He beacons Ed further. “Well, Winry’s parents came here as doctors. To help in the war and that type of stuff. I- What I want to ask, is if you’ve heard of a pair of doctors with the last name Rockwell? ”
He nods. “They are from Resembool? Yes, I have heard of them. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them. Soldiers who have been treated by them have always praised them. Both in skill and kindness.”
Ed sighs, a pressure released from his shoulders. “That’s- that’s good to hear. They left when Winry was still young and… she misses them.”
Roy can imagine the young child from the picture, seven or six years younger, looking as her parents walk away. Maybe she understood. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she still doesn’t understand.
“They are fine, from what I have heard.”
They stay in silence. He feels the sleep deprivation catch up to him, making his eyelids heavy, his hand twitchy, and head fuzzy. The adrenaline rush is fully gone by now.
He feels a hand patting him on the back. Turning towards Ed, he can see the other is just as tired. “Go. I’ll get everyone settled and join you later.”
”Settled?” From what he knows, everything is done by now. The other alchemist just smiles.
“Food, tents, sleeping and patrolling schedules. Burying our dead. It is best to have that organized by now. I have done it before, let me handle it. Besides,” Ed looks him up and down. “You look like shit.”
“No sugarcoating?”
”Nah, you are a big kid.”
“What about you?”
“Let me do my stuff first.”
“That is simply unfair. You look bad.” He does, his hair is dirty though it is usually well taken care off. His eyes have deep eye bags under them, and he has this look that is so angry, so fucking exhausted, that Roy get worried. Just like Ed worries for him.
Ed just waves him away. “Go sleep. There is a tent over there. I’ll go there later.”
“How about-
“No.”
He ends up going there after nearly falling over when trying to walk a few steps.
There, inside the tent, the silence is suffocating. It smells of rotten flesh, warm blood, and violence. He feels restless and suddenly much more aware of his gloves. Of their itchy fabric, ideal to spark a flame. Of how loose and tight they feel on his hands. It doesn’t bother him, he is simply… Aware of them now. Normally by now he’d sulk, but he is tired, and he promised Ed he’d try so he settles in one of the sleeping mats.
It is hard. The floor is unforgiving, just like the shouting, and the smell of burning flesh.
Killer, killer, killer, killer, kille-
He closes his eyes, and doesn’t sleep but isn’t awake either. This is also consistent to how it always is. He slumbers, light enough to feel Ed enter and settle in his own sleeping mat.
The other must believe he is asleep, because he doesn’t say anything.
Roy wishes he could say he is unsettled by how wel Ed is handling it, but he knows the other isn’t.
Roy understands, because neither of them are in a position to grieve right now.
Once Ed’s breathing slows down, he lets himself fall asleep too.
The lieutenant wants them to assault another camp. “It is near your location, just a few hours off. The Crimson alchemist is there. Join him and his company, and eliminate the threat.”
Roy, of course, already dreads the following days.
“Who’s the guy?”
“A state-enabled psychopath. Maes words not mine.”
Ed whistles. “That bad?”
“Yes, I believe you’ll hate him. His specialization is explosives. I’ve met him before, it has never been a pleasant experience.”
“Explosives…” Ed frowns. “It’s a dangerous field.”
“That it is. Sadly, he has survived long enough to become an expert.”
“You sound like you want him to have an accident.”
“I won’t deny nor accept that fact in martial court”
“You are saying it's a fact.”
“Excuse me, I can’t hear you from this height. If you shout it mayb-“
“I’ll kill you!” Ed lounges at him, and he feels the stares from some of the rest but he ignores them.
“Try.”
Before Ed can actually try his luck, Carl arrives.
The captain salutes, looking so uncomfortable that Roy almost pities the guy. “-Majors, sirs.”
“At ease, Carl.” Ed says before he can react.
“Are we ready for departure?” Roy adds, looking behind Carl and at the rest. They look ready, at least.
“Yes sir. We march at your commands.”
“The ten that are fatally injured?” He had gotten the chance to check a few of them. The situation is… less than ideal.
Carl winces but straightens up rather quickly. “We are assigned some stretches for those who can’t walk, sir. Two people per stretcher. Besides that, the privates who gave the first aid say it’s up to luck now, sir.”
Roy suppressed a wince. He had mentioned the numbers and the injuries to the lieutenant colonel. He only got congratulations for keeping the numbers low. And a dismissal. “Move to the next settlement. You’re responsible for them, you decide, Major.”
He can do nothing about it. Not without defying orders.
“Proceed with the idea. As soon as there is a complication we stop. Make sure the injured stay behind with the backburner forces when we enter combat, captain.”
“Understood sir.”
Ed looks thoughtful and then says. “Are there any issues with the crutches I made yesterday?”
“No sir, they work perfectly fine.”
“Great. Please call me Elric though.”
“No, sir. Protocol.”
Ed sighs, seemingly resigned to his fate, waving away the other. “Fine. You are dismissed.”
“By your leave, sir.”
He laughs as soon as Carl is gone.
“Don’t like the sir, sir?”
“Fuck you.”
“Whatever you want, sir.”
“Seriously Roy.”
“Hah, you called me Roy.”
“I can’t believe you are four years older than me, bastard. ”
“Youth is a state of mind.”
“Says the old man, ex-youngest state alchemist.”
“That's a step too far. We share the title.”
“Aha.
The march begins and they are in front guiding the rest. Before leaving the ruins, he sees graves. Another many of them, but they are alchemically made. He can see the transmutation marks from here. He can’t tell how deep they are, but the lack of Ishvalan corpses speaks miles.
Sneaking a glance at Ed, he sees the other avoid looking at the piles of sand.
Oh. He suppresses a smile.
“Burying our dead.”
Ed may say he is a sinner too, but a sinner would not do this.
Ed may see a killer in the mirror, but Roy sees a good man right by his side.
He won’t deny Ed’s actions yesterday, but he also can’t ignore the evidence right in front of him. Maybe he is forced to be a weapon right now, but he has the potential to do so much good.
He’s just glad that Ed puts up with him.
Notes:
So i decided to post them today, bc ik most of you are busy tmr. Anyways, enjoy this double chapter.
This is just part 1 of my 2 gifts for Christmas!!
Ill tell you my thoughts in the next chap >:)
Chapter Text
Roy hates being right.
Normally he doesn’t. He takes great pride in the fact that he has proven many alchemists wrong in their own specialization or field before, but right now he really really hates being right.
Because knowing Ed was going to hate, no despise would be a better word, Kimbelee doesn’t mean he understands to the extent at which he actually does.
It starts with them arriving at the new location the lieutenant colonel had designated for them.
The sight that greeted them was grotesque to say the least.
There were craters where buildings once used to be. Splats of blood and ashy silhouettes of figures imprinted on the ruined walls. There was the stench of dynamite and maybe ozone in the air.
This is Kimbelee’s alchemy and exactly what Roy has been dreading since the lieutenant colonel’s orders.
“Come on, we have to reunite with them.”
The deeper they enter what once was a settlement, the worse it gets. The carters get deeper, the splats of blood bigger, it is a vomit inducing sight. Neither he nor ed vomited, but he knows some of the younger privates did.
He couldn’t blame them.
By then, he had already turned to face Ed, who only said. “Alchemy says a lot about a person.”
“What does this tell you?” He wants to ask what his alchemy says about him but restrains himself. It reminds him of Madame’s saying, which is an Aerugan saying she got from interacting with one too many Aerugan customers. Pregunta lo que no debes, oye lo que no quieres.
“This man is a fucking monster.”
He doesn’t deny it.
The company they find is all stationed in one camp, with most of them injured. And they are not injuries caused by normal firepower. These are alchemically induced injuries. Some lack their limbs because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Most, if not all of them have some sort of high degree burn somewhere across their bodies.
It is not in vain that some soldiers say that being assigned to Kimbelee’s company is equivalent to getting a death sentence.
It is also not in vain that they say alchemist’s get bigger leeway than the rest. If it were anyone else, they would have been discharged or executed.
Sadly, Kimbelee is also a dog. A bit more rabid though.
Until then, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t foreseen. They settled their own company, and assigned the most adept at emergency medical treatment to see if they can do anything for the others.
From there on, it was up to him and Ed to find Kimbelee himself.
They tracked him using the traces of ozone in the air, the very obvious and loud explosions, and the trail of craters left behind.
“Seriously, this man is-“
”I know.”
“How is he still allowed to-“
”To serve? Well, I think it is very obvious. He yields results.”
Ed kicks a piece of rubbish while scoffing. “ Fuck this.”
He nodded in understanding and was going to add something when in a flash of light, there was a building suddenly falling on top of them.
It was thanks to Ed’s fast reflexes that they survived. Ed pushes them both out of the way, making a hand of concrete to stop the remaining rubbish from falling on top of them. All in less of a second and in a flash of blue light.
“What the fuck?!” Roy agreed. They stood up and he cleaned the dust of his uniform while Ed deconstructed the hand.
From the top of the fallen building, Kimbelee stepped out.
“Flame? Well, that’s an unfortunate surprise”
He didn’t expect less from this man.
“Kimbelee-“
“The fuck was that?!”
Ah, yes. It was right about here that things went off the rails.
“Who’s the kid, Flame?” If he didn’t know better, he’d think Kimbelee is a mentally stable man, with how he is walking hands in his pockets and not a single worry. Or maybe that’s the greatest indicator?
“I’m not a fucking kid.”
“He’s the golden alchemist, Edward Elric. We were assigned to the same area, Kimbelee.”
The man cleans his hand, letting him get a glimpse of his two tattled arrays. It used to impress him, the simplicity of the array and the confidence an alchemist must have to tattoo them onto their skin. Nowadays, the blue ink and red lightning is simply unnerving.
“He’s the new prodigy?” They are on the same level now, with Kimbelee looking down on Ed with a smirk. “They really are lowering the standard.”
It's painfully obvious that Kimbelee is trying to get a rise out of Ed, which Ed chooses to ignore in favor of snarling. “What is it to you? You aren’t even capable of keeping your company protected.”
”Why should I care about them?” He makes a show of cleaning his nails. Roy had forgotten how disgusting and annoying this man was. “Though it is no wonder Flame has taken a liking to you.”
The face of disgust Ed has right now is one he has never seen. “You fucki-
Alright, that is none of his business and he should interrupt Ed before he tries to commit treason. “Mind your business Kimbelee. Have you taken care of everything here?”
“Clearly no. They are receiving the help of some Aerugan rats, which makes it a pain to track all of them. And really, I am just taking my time, they’ll have to come out eventually.”
He interrupts Ed before he can even say something.
“The lieutenant colonel sent us here to facilitate the process.”
“Well that is a shame. Though I do have to ask, how are you handling everything, Flame? Last I remember, that blonde private had to stop you from blowing your brains out for doing your job. ”
He doesn’t wince instead he stares at the man.
Politely disrespecting each other, is it now? Well two can play that game. And he’s good at playing it.
“All is well. Thanks for the concern, Kimbelee. Though it must be rough for you. Being forced to stall and being sent the help of not one but two of the youngest alchemists to do your job. Is everything alright? Last I remember you preferred a more proactive approach.”
“At the very least I am not a sad little soldier who is too delusional to see this was the life they themselves chose. Have you already replaced that blonde private with the golden alchemist? What would the Führer say?”
“At least he is not a sadistic fuck-
Interrupting Ed, he responds. “He’d say that your performance is truly disappointing, compared to ours. How about we go back to the shameful attempt at a camp you have, and organize ourselves to do the job you seem to be taking so long to do?”
The grin didn't leave Kimbelee’s face as he stepped aside to leave. “Very well. It’s a pleasure to see you, Mustang.”
He waves Kimbelee away, and watches his retreating back. Which is the point at which he hates being right.
Ed immediately hates Kimbelee. Good to know he was right. Still he hates that he was right.
“Ed, I understand if you find the man revolting but we need to work alongside him.”
”The fucker almost kills us!”
“All the more reason to cooperate. As you saw, the man has little to no remorse but that doesn’t mean he is stupid.”
“Never said he was stupid, but-‘
“But nothing Ed. I have plenty of issues with the man and if I could get rid of him I would but he is appreciated by our superiors. So we’ll make do.”
He could definitely work on that phrasing but it is the truth. It was easy with Rodolph because he had a bad reputation and a questionable background. Kimbelee is not the same. He is as cunning as he is mentally-ill. He is efficient, which is something they appreciate in their line of work.
Ed grumbles but concedes the point. For now.
“Let's go back.”
They walk all the way back, the silence of the place is suffocating, which is made worse by the heat of the desert.
Also, Ed is impossibly tense.
Oh lord he hates this.
“Look, we can plan something but not right now. The man is a danger, even to us.”
“You know that’s not the problem.”
“Then?”
“Don’t be dense. It’s the principle of the thing. How was this man accepted into the military? How is he still allowed to do shit?” Ed plays with the rings, and Roy catches sight of some of the arrays. They are impressively simple and vague, which means that Ed must have impressive control during transmutation. No wonder his moniker is the golden alchemist. “This place is so backwards it accepts literal psychopaths into their higher ranks.”
The flaws he had wanted to ignore so badly, or maybe the flaws he’s gotten used to, are pointed out easily by Ed and it is a wake-up call.
If the organization needs to change, it needs to change from the inside.
He doesn’t say anything but he knows Ed is right. This is wrong. From all angles and accounts. But he needs to have power, more than just one of creating flames, to change this.
He’d need to play politics. Play the long game.
He would need to plan and prepare and work and live-
But for that he first needs to leave this fucking desert.
“How good are you at chasing, Golden boy?”
In the midst of planning, Roy had left to take orders from the lieutenant colonel, which left him alone with Kimbelee. A bad idea, as he is desperately trying to not grab the man by his hair and punch his teeth out.
“Good enough, why?”
The man plays with a coin, which he twists in between his fingers. “Because our job is to chase around some rouges, and I cannot work with a weak man on this task.”
“I have the title of state alchemist and I have survived this far. Being weak is not an option.” Which is the truth. Trisha did not nurture a coward, no matter how much the idea of what he does disgusts him, he is not running away.
“State alchemists come in all shapes and sizes. Just look at Mustang.”
He narrows his eyes, at which Kimbelee snorts.
“Don’t be so surprised. You should have seen him in the first weeks. He truly believed his job as a State Alchemist was other than the one given to us.”
“Not everyone is you.” He does his best to not lash out. Never has he been the most patient one when those close to him are being insulted. Still, he promised to try.
The grin Kimbelee sends him is chilling. “No, I am well aware of that. No. What I meant is that, it is pitiful to see a grown man believe that a soldier was ever meant to do anything other than kill. That a state alchemist wasn’t an over glorified weapon. The flame alchemist is a pitiful man.”
Ed slams his hand down on the table they have been using. On it, a map of the desert shudders.
“Which is why I am surprised you stand him. That man is a hypocrite, but you, you seem to be realistic and down to earth. You are a better alchemist and soldier than Mustang can ever hope to be.”
Who the fuck does this man think he is? Does he really think he understands him? Eat a load full of shit. Roy told him a bit on who this man is, he’s seen the arrays. Everything he’s seen tells him the man is not only depraved but great at rhetoric and manipulation. He’s practical and probably resilient, especially if he succeeded inside a field like explosives. But that 's it. This man is nothing more than a psychopath with an ego bigger than his ass, and it makes his blood boil.
He despises this man.
He embodies the blood, the sand, the hatred, the corruption. He is the incarnation of everything he hates.
So he tells him as much.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you know me? Shut your trap. Know this, Kimbelee. Neither of us are stupid. That accident earlier . These attempts at creating a breach between us. Roy is too kind to call it out. I have no reservations. Try anything and I am showing you why I have survived this long.” His rings clinck against the table and he tightens his hand into a fist. “Your philosophy disgusts me. Your rhetoric is full of shit. Your alchemy is a barbaric display of power and alchemical prowess. You are just like the rest of us, so knock yourself down a peg. We’ll work together this time. Then, get the fuck away from us, power hungry piece of shit.”
Kimbelee doesn’t seem insulted, or even bothered. He just claps mockingly, clearly laughing at Ed’s defensive stance. “The golden boy’s got bark! Now this is what I meant. We’ll see how long you last.” It tastes like a threat and it is colored as such but-
Roy returns before he can say more shit.
“The lieutenant colonel wants this location whipped out in less than three days. He needs our strength elsewhere. Therefore, I am afraid that means less stalling for you, Kimbelee.”
“Perfect by me. Though that means more involvement for you, Flame. Can you handle it?”
His friend ignores the psycho. “Naturally, we will divide ourselves into sectors that way we’ll cover more ground.”
“I’ve purged the entire southern part.” Kimbelee informs, staring at Roy’s reaction. For his part, Roy simply nods.
“Great.”
“Then, I'll take the northeastern area.” He says, agreeing to Roy’s idea.
“In that case I’ll take the Northwestern section.” Kimbelee concedes. It is to no surprise that it is the biggest section. If it means he’ll see the man less then Ed can’t agree more.
“I’ve arranged with our companies to create a patrol around the settlement. I will accompany said patrols.” Roy puts his hands on the table leaning forward, and Ed sees a leader. A commander. Someone sure of himself, confident in his plan. Ed finds it so fucking Roy-like. So fucking natrual in the man. It is weirdly alluring, in the sense it makes him feel restless.
It also feels great to have the man trust him. It feels great to know that Roy trusts him enough to let him walk by his side.
He feels seen, even if Roy has always been one of the people who understands him the best.
“Lastly, the lieutenant colonel has ordered that any and all Aerugan guerrilla must be taken as prisoners of war under my company’s care. Alive. Is that clear, Kimbelee?”
“As water.”
Roy tilts his head, his face in that politely blank expression. “It is not optional.”
“Never said it was.”
Then, Roy smiles in the most plastic way imaginable. “Alright. We start right now.”
Ed walks alone in the middle of half-destroyed buildings, houses, and homes. He carries his bracer in the form of a knife, which is attached to a thin metal bracelet on his wrist.
He’s here to track and hunt, not fight. So the lighter weapon works best.
If his past self could see him, he’d be disgusted. Disappointed. He has noticed that there is a fill cavity on his chest were his hands would tremble, and bile rise.
Now, he is used to it.
He still hates it.
He probably hates that more.
The rubbish makes it hard to see a trail, but there are small signs of life. A shoe here. A cloth there. They are small but enough.
In the distance he hears an explosion. Kimbelee. What a disgusting specimen of a man.
He continues to walk, the blue uniform warm and constrictive. It is tight and uncomfortable but Ed is also getting used to it.
He hasn’t bathed in five days. Maybe more. He hasn’t worn anything different in over four months or so. His hair is dirty and knotted. His hands have the markings of his rings and bracers from where they touch his skin. His feet are aching with callouses.
He wants to tear off his uniform but he doesn’t. He can’t. He must endure.
His resilience is just evidence of how far the human being is willing to adapt.
He is even getting used to being called a dog.
That doesn’t mean the anger dissipates or vanishes.
He just doesn’t bristle at the thought. Doesn’t want to bite at everyone at the mention.
One day, he’ll destroy this uniform and tear this label.
For now he endures, guided by a promise, the weight of his clock and the picture inside.
He walks for a while, just observing and listening. He lists alchemical arrays on the back of his mind.
It is an hour later when he gets the first sign of life. Its in the form of light steps, running between buildings. Trailing him.
Five minutes later he hears a safety click being pulled off, and he dives behind a wall just in time to dodge a bullet.
He hears the steps again and waits. Then, he hears the rather bursque stop of the person as they prepare to fire the next shot.
They never get the chance.
Faster than the attacker, he slams his left hand on the ground. A flash of light later, the building hosting the attacker collapses. There is a choked cry of pain. Ed checks and is right. Red eyes stare at him blankly under a massive pile of debris. A brand new gun shines from underneath the dirt.
Ed wonders how much of the support from the Aerugan’s is made out of care and how much is made out of interest.
He doesn’t see much care for the life of this boy.
He digs the gun out, prying it from the still warm fingers of the corpse.
He hates the stability of his hands.
He hates this situation.
He hates this.
He stays there a few minutes. To mourn, even when another explosion goes off in the background.
Then he is back to walking, leaving behind an alchemized grave.
He manages to find five more Ishvalan. There is no sign of the Aerugans.
As he goes back, he sees Orlov who is apparently returning from his shift at patrolling. The private salutes him as soon as he sees Ed.
“Sir.”
Ed nods. “At ease. Orlov, have you had any more issues?”
The kid shakes his head, straight as a pole. Ed can almost see the anxious energy buzzing from him. Or maybe it’s the uniform. Ed certainly nods how uncomfortable it can be.
Especially for someone who is forced to use it. Forced by either government or their situation. Both are the same in the end.
“No sir.” Orlov pauses, his brow scrounge up. Involuntarily Sergei’s face comes to mind. Where Sergei had been serious because that was just him, he can see the same behavior doesn’t suit Orlov. He wonders, how badly do you need to hate a place, to fight to stay elsewhere?
How badly do you need to want to leave to risk leaving your brother without his family? How badly do you need it?
He thinks, if only momentarily because thinking about it makes him want to shout in anger and desperation, about the little sibling that is waiting for him. Is this buzzing from his bones what Sergei? He wants to go back, hug his mother, and ask her. Ask her about the baby, about who’s baby it is, about how she’s been, about when they’ll be born.
How did Sergei feel when he knew he wouldn’t see his little brother again? Did he feel the same crushing despair Ed feels each time he has to fight and the thought of his sibling comes to mind? Ed hopes he never understands how Sergei felt.
But here is not the time nor place to wonder and wish and hope
“Actually, sir… I wanted to thank you.”
That takes Ed out of his thoughts. He must be more tired than he thought, getting carried away so easily. He hadn’t done that since before arriving here.Getting distracted is not good.
Put those topics in a little box for later. Compartmentalize. You are good at that.
“What about? And between the two of us, stop with the sir. Please.” He offers a smile he’s seen Roy offer when he doesn’t know what else to do. “Just Edward, or Elric. Whatever.”
”Sir- Eric… It is about your defense from that- guy . I wanted to thank you for that.”
Oh this is
so fucking awkward.
It also doesn’t help that the kid,
he’s only two years older,
seems to look like he doesn’t want to be here.
“It’s fine. Simply basic human decency and the truth.” He quotes Roy on this because he is right. “Now, if Bauer does it again, or anyone else for that matter, just inform me or Roy. We’ll deal with it. It's certainly better than you getting into a fight.” He doubts for a second and then pats Dmitri on the back.
The guy seems unnerved at the familiarity but offers a smile.
Good enough.
“Go rest, it was a long day.”
“Yes sir.”
Dmitri marches off before Ed can chastise him for the sir.
“God that kid.” He says shaking his head. Man he feels old.
He raises his head towards the sky, looking at the tones of yellow, red and dark blue. It looks beautiful. Well, it always looks beautiful around here.
Staying like that for a few minutes, the exhaustion settles in. His uniform feels heavy. Same with the rings and bracers. He wants to close his eyes and rest for a bit. Ed wants to sleep and imagine that there is no genocide going on around him. That there is only this beautiful sunset happening.
Sadly, Trisha didn’t nurture a coward.
Pushing down his exhaustion, he opens his eyes and walks towards the camp.
There’s the smell of food. A mix of mutton stew and boiled potatoes. It doesn’t make his mouth water, nor is it specifically tasty, but it fills the stomach.
And really, Ed is just glad they have food. Those three days with the colonel, where the food was so scarce some soldiers were going hungry for days, are enough to be grateful for even these stews.
From the rear of his eye, he can see Kimbelee. The man is, and no this isn’t Ed exaggerating, slithering away from the soldiers, Bauer looking particularly uncomfortable, towards his own tent.
He ignores the guy. Not like he has any reason to interact with him.
Instead he searches for Roy, who is eating the stew from a can. He receives his portion from one of his company members and then sits down beside Roy.
“How did the patrol go?”
“Unbearably hot, and unreasonably eventful from Kimbelee’s section. I imagine many were spooked by his explosions so they tried to escape by leaving. Private Callaghan reported at least twenty.”
“I can relate to the heat. Not so much to the eventful. I spent most of the time just… walking around. I guess.”
“So those guns you very diligently collected are from?”
Roy’s fingers point at the four guns he carries on his back. Now that he thinks about it, he is probably exhausted from carrying this. When did he become so scatterbrained? He must be tired.
“These? They are from some Ishvalans. I noticed they were unreasonably high quality, so I decided I should pick them rather than leave it for someone else to claim.”
“Fair enough. I’ll add them to our report.”
“Our report? Since when do you make my report for me?”
“Since we are in the same company, and since I was your frankly terrifying chicken scratching of a handwriting.”
“Like you have anything better.”
“I do, in fact. Want to see?”
“Fuck you.”
Roy actually takes out a pocket notebook which he hands to Ed. “See for yourself, sun.”
It is very neat. Almost flowery, even if Ed can tell that it can get more flowery if Roy wanted and had the time. Then he examines what it says and notices these are alchemy notes. Codified of course, but the mathematical process and balancing equations are unmistakable. He takes his time to look and notices these are about physical transmutation.
Actually, this is good. The balancing is carried out perfectly. Which is nice. He doesn’t understand everything, as it is also codified nicely, but he can guess. So, what is Roy attempting here? Ed could see it being about transmuting gunpowder from sand. And well, taking into account that sand has sulfur, minimal amounts but still, it works. Irine works nicely too for getting the saltpeter. Lastly, the charcoal- easy. So the array would look like-
“Are you having fun decoding my notes?”
“Wha-” Ed has enough whiplash he shoves the notebook back into Roy’s hands who just laughs and hides it on his uniform again.
“Yes, I noticed. So, did you get most of it?” The other says while wearing a grin that in Ed’s opinion looks frankly stupid and endearing and oh fuck you Roy.
“This is for making gunpowder?”
”Actually yes.” There isn’t surprise but rather appreciation in Roy’s tone. Honestly, can this man stop making him feel like he wants to hide from his embarrassment. He rarely, if ever, gets embarrassed. The fucking gal of this man of making him learn what that feels like. “It is just something I have. Just in case.”
Smart. Ed never thought of it because he has never liked guns. He also doesn’t use them. So, he didn’t really think of it as a preoccupation. But it is a good thing to be prepared for. “Just in case we run out of bullets?”
“Again yes. Even if making the rest is easy as guns are readily available and so are the materials for the rest of the components, gunpowder and the primer are slightly harder to obtain through natural means. Therefore alchemy is a good method to bridge the gap.”
Both sit in silence for a second, finishing their forgotten stews. Ed speaks first.
“I have to give it to you. Your notes are really fucking organized. Most alchemist's aren’t.”
“Oh believe me, Ed. Most of my notes are not like these. These are the ones I have the most readily available in case of anything. Not everyone is a genious like you who can just make up an array out of thin air so-”
“No way. Handling flame alchemy is impressive. I don’t have the guts to try them. And even if I did no. No way.”
He doesn’t want the responsibility of having such a weapon in his hands. He could figure it out, especially with Roy’s arrays right on display. But he doesn’t want to. Not after seeing what the weight it puts on the person who employs it. He’ll always respect Roy for his control, mastery, and resilience.
Ed sneaks a hand inside his military jacket and fiddles with the clock. It is no longer smooth, with very fine transmutation marks at the edges from where he stores his heart. The warm metal against his skin is enough to remind him of the green fields outside this blue uniform and grainy hell.
Sometimes he wonders, especially now when he is sitting in silence next to Roy after one of their many small chats about anything really, if it makes him a monster to have moments of peace like these. It is stupid illogical and tiring to think this way, he knows. But is is baffling, that he gets moments like this when others are there waiting for their final moment.
He is here to take that moment from them. He is here to exterminate them.
He’ll never have enough lives to redeem himself. He’ll never have enough effort to give that can pay for the sins he has committed. For leaving his mother. For abandoning his sibling before he was even born. For making his mother cry just like his father did-
“So, what do you think is harder: Combustion alchemy or biological alchemy?” He pokes at Roy’s side, just around a ticklish spot, aiming for a laugh. Which he got.
He’s already a monster. He’s a dog of the military.
But thinking like that will get him into an early grave. He needs to resist. Survive. So he pushes those thoughts into a box. Compartmentalize.
Then, he’ll pay everything back.
Even if he has to live with the weight of a blue uniform for the rest of his life.
Roy laughs, and it is beautiful. The way it makes him look so young is simply mesmerizing.
He must be a monster, if his chest can feel this airy after killing so many people.
He listens to Roy’s answer, knowing he is not the only one with the same guilt and weight.
The next day is the same. More Ishvalans. No Aerugans but more shiny new guns.
Well, almost the same, if not for the fact that an Ishvalan, probably an ex-military, broke from the chokehold Ed had on him, and hit Ed’s head against a wall. It had been his last encounter of the day, and he was exhausted. Red splattered with blue. So much red.
The man is dead, as he couldn’t react to Ed slamming his hand on the very same wall, creating a spike that crushed his head.
Downside is that Ed now has a concussion, a worried Roy, and bits of blood
and other things he does not want to think about
mixed with his hair.
Roy walks around the tent, playing with his gloves while reorganizing his jacket every few minutes. They are not in their tent, rather Ed is being examined by one of the privates in the makeshift medical tent.
His head is buzzing. Like the edges of his vision are blurred and his eyes literally hurt. Noise is also a no, but that is not a surprise. It was a nasty hit.
-at the fuck happ- d Ed?”
His hearing zones in at his name and he does his best to not squint at Roy who is standing right in front of a light source he cannot identify for the life of him-
“Ed?”
Ah right-
“It was just a little missha-
“A little misshap?”
Roy sounds absoluteadly fucking pissed but he thankfully keeps his voice down.
“ Yes- “
”You are not going out to search tomorrow.”
Now that is an inconsiderate and unreasonable conclusion. “What?”
“What you heard.”
“No.”
”Yes.”
He stands up, making an effort to not move too hard or else he’ll just wobble. “No. I am going.”
He doesn’t want Roy to chase and kill more Ishvalans than he has to. He is better at compartmentalizing than Roy, he can handle it better. No offense. He goes because he doesn’t want to see roy even consider taking his fucking life again-
“Between me and him, he is the most human.”
“No you are not .”
Though that’d be easier if it wasn’t for the other’s stubbornness.
“I am going. I certainly don’t need your permission.”
“You are in no shape to go out. You’ll get yourself killed.” The look on Roy’s face pains him, but he knows he can handle this. He can.
He told me he'd walk with him through it. That he’d help Roy. He can.
He won't be like his father, who left his mother crying and alone and horribly sad.
What he doesn’t see is the way his back looks just like his father’s when he had to leave. How could he see, when he is so focused on the man in front of him?
“I am perfectly fine, the hits wasn’t even that fucking bad. Roy, you promised you wouldn’t do this again. Don’t try to push me away from something that is also my job.”
”This is different-“
“It isn’t.”
The tent opens and it isn’t the previous private who enters. It is Finn Bauer.
As he enters, the kid shuffles and moves with a small slip of paper. He looks so uncomfortable Ed’s concussed brain almost makes him laugh. Even more, he looks positively more uncomfortable by the sight of both of them. Maybe he even looks at Ed a bit strangely but he can’t think (literally) straight, or at Roy a bit afraid, but that is nothing new. Maybe the kid is just uncomfortable because of their unusually serious arguing.
“Major Mustang. Major Elric.” He salutes and Roy, annoyed at the interruption, waves it away with a mumbled
At ease.
“The previous private in charge of Major Elric had to leave to treat another patient who had received severe burns. In his place I have come to inform you sirs of his conclusion.” It seems awfully rehearsed but Ed wouldn’t place it below the kid,
only two years younger than him
, looking as nervous as he looks. The next is read out of the slip of paper. “The Major, Edward Elric does not present serious signs of any brain damage or any other damage. For this reason, I have discharged him and allowed him to continue with his duties.”
He gives Roy a meaningful look and waves at Bauer to leave. “Alright. Thanks Finn. If you could leave for a moment.”
The other seems whiplashed at the casual tone, but leaves quickly muttering a quiet Sir on his way out.
“See. Told you.” He says trying to ease Roy.
Roy does not look eased, nor content, but he doesn’t fight against the semi-doctor ’s notice.
He just goes up to Ed and puts a hand on his shoulder and says. “Be careful, Ed. Please. ”
“I always do.”
He’s just glad he doesn’t have to fight Roy any more on the issue.
Even if arguing and debating is a nice pastime of theirs, he doesn’t like fighting with the man. It leaves a sour taste on his mouth.
Or maybe that is just the very slight concussion talking.
On the way back to the tent, he manages to get Roy off his back when he is pulled away to give their report. As he is arriving he sees Bauer standing by the entrance, his hands playing with the same slip of paper and maybe a bit more of paper than before. Bauer’s feet are standing just too close to the entrance, as if he’d come from the inside but Ed doesn’t have much more energy or interest or the brain capacity to think about it.
He just wants to sleep, damn it.
“What is it kid? Any more news from the doctor?”
“No sir, just… Are you sure you are alright?”
“Another Roy? Yes I am fine. Is that all? Because I really want to get some sleep in.”
“Yes sir. Just… be careful. We-“ The kid suddenly pales and clutches the note as if his life depended on it. He is about to ask about it but the look is gone in a second. “Be careful, sir. We need you in our company.”
Weird but okay. The kid is a die hard patriot and all that. Besides his ears are ringing and his eyelids and hair hurt so yeah. He leaves it at that.
“Thanks, kid. Just go eat something. You are pale as shit.” He passes by the kid and ruffles his head. Maybe he is really concussed.
“Y- Yes sir.”
Bauer leaves and Ed can finally go to sleep on the hard floor.
As soon as he closes his eyes, he is knocked out. He doesn’t have the chance to notice the missing extra slips of paper with arrays he had left in the tent after a pretty heated discussion about what is the proper way to make arrays with Roy last night.
The day starts like shit. He feels like shit during the morning. But between putting on his uniform as careful to not show how dizzy he feels to Roy and ignoring the headache buzzing in his brain, he doesn’t notice the missing slips of paper.
Before he leaves Roy grabs his arm. “Be careful. Please Ed. I am not asking this to mess with you.”
“I will. Don’t worry. You take care too.” And because he likes to mess with Roy he adds. “Don’t do anything I wouldn't do.”
Maybe because he is concussed he gets the urge to plant a little kiss in the man’s frown to take away because he looks old with that expression. He resists the urge.
Other than the pain in his brain, the unfocused edges of his vision, and his faulty hearing, the day goes almost identically to the ones before.
That is until it doesn’t.
He was walking, barely, by a destroyed road. The building is making him sweat under all the blue. The clock feels unbearably warm and so do his rings. His bracer is already in the form of a knife so at least that doesn’t burn his skin.
His brain feels like goo . That’s the only way he can describe it, and he quite honestly is regretting fighting Roy so much on the matter when the world shifts with a pulling notion that has his scalp and brain screaming.
The three ishvalans come out of nowhere. One had grabbed Ed by his hair, which was tied into a very loose ponytail, and pulls.
Blindsighted stabs the man in the arm, making him drop his hair. Ed I has barely recovered his balance when the second man lands a hit in his stomach that pulls the air out of his lungs. If it wasn’t for the fact that his dagger is attached to his body by a band of transmuted metal, he would’ve dropped it.
He falls to the ground, tries to put a hand on the ground and almost manages to transmute, if it wasn’t for the third and first guy to kick him on the back, sending him against an old door. The door breaks, sending him inside a building. The three guys follow inside.
The world is spinning and the figures look like blurs. He grips the knife but the hold feels loose, at best.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Snarling from the ground, he pushes himself upwards. One kick is enough to send him backwards, bile rising up his throat.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck
He tries to take a piece of paper with his array, and finds nothing. Where is it? Who took it? Who fucking took it?
Finn.
Fuck.
He manages to dodge a few hits, a punch, a kick, another punch. Even with his mind dizzy, the bile on his throat, the black edges of his vision, he pushes through.
He needs to survive.
Desperate, he tackles one man to the ground, driving the knife down on their throat.
He feels like an animal caged. Like a dog who has been forced into a dog fight.
He feels like a human, fighting to see his little sibling. His mother. His town. Roy. Maes. Louis. Winry. Pinako.
He feels everything but human, as he slashes like an animal at that mans throat. As the blood splashes on his face.
He feels like a brother. He feels desperate, like Sergi must have. He feels like a son, angry for a future where his dearest people have to grieve.
He cries. Tears mixed with the bold on his face and hands.
The two men remaining shout angry and terrified as their brother dies.
At this moment, the Ishvalans don’t see a soldier. They see a monster. A golden devil dressed in blue.
But the devil is distracted and one, angry, kick it in the head. Sending it flying on the ground.
Ed struggles. Everything hurts. Everything hurts so much. He hates this.
He fucking hates this so much.
The same Ishvalan comes at him and punches him, sending shocks all through his skull.
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
He needs help. He fucking needs help.
He tries to push the man of him but he wont bulge. Another punch.
And another. He doesn’t dare cry out for help.
Does he even deserve-
Yes, he does. Yes he needs to see his little sibling, and his mother, and Winry and-
Fuck.
Roy.
And Ed is closing his eyes ready for the next hit when a gunshot rings.
There is the feeling of a death weight falling on top of him. Barely opening his eyes, he sees Kimbelee. He stands there with a gun. The two other men dead.
“It seems you didn’t survive long, Golden child.”
Finn Bauer.
That slip of paper.
The bastard.
This fucking bastard.
” You-“
The monster shushes him. He stands by the door, like he is ready to leave. “You should have killed me when you could. When you suspected of me. When we were alone that day. It is your mercy , your weakness and Mustang’s weakness what brings you here.”
”Why-
“Why? Why should you have killed me? Simple, the strong survive. And you knew I was a threat. That is why you threatened me. Why am I doing this? I simply acted by the rules of nature. You threatened me, I acted in response. You were weak. You can’t do your job properly. You are a liability, and a stone in my path. That is all.”
He can’t stand up.
“It helps that you are frankly way too stubborn. Flame was right. You are in no shape for this.” He takes out a piece of paper, Ed knows it is his because he made it with Roy , and waves it at Ed. “Frankly fascinating arrays. The only things you are good at, Elric. I respect that, and your resilience.
“Still no one will question it. In your state no one would doubt that you failed at using your own array and caused the building to fall on you and these ishvalans. What a shame. So resilient, to the very end.” The tone tastes like blue venom to Ed, like the condescending words of a general and the dismissive tone of a lieutenant colonel.
He hates this man.
Kimbelee leaves and Ed’s world swims in and out of focus.
Still, he has seconds.
He puts his hand on the ground. His rings shine blue just as a flash of red goes on outside. Just as the building crumbles, Ed transmutes the ground.
Fuck.
Then, he knows no more.
Notes:
Sooooooooooo…… hi.
Part 2 of my gift :)
That’s a rough ending lol. Kidding but i do hope you enjoy. I wanted to do something that is in line with Kimbelee and nearly (?) killing ed is right on brand with him. Guess from who’s perspective is the next chapter going to be??
Fun fact, between chap.7 and 8 there are 13.123 words. (It took me, no joking, three hours to edit this, like w h a t) I really love making you and myself suffer :)
I don’t know what else to say. This is not the end, be assured. I will continue. I PROMISE.
Also, if you hadn’t noticed, I find war!Ed (in my AU at least) so fucking tragic. LIKE be fr. I have so many thoughts on FMA and my AU and the characters i might just write and essay.
Anyways, MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR (if I don’t post by then , I don’t honk so as i have work to do, but i hope you enjoy.)
Remember, it is a promise. I will finish this and i will give it the ending it deserves (a happy ending >:))
What was your fav part of the chap? (Just a question, no pressure to answer.)
This fix comes from the debts of my soul after all.
Chapter Text
He was standing on top of a dune, staring at the settlement, when he saw a building collapse on the northeastern section.
In all terms and purposes, a building collapsing should not be this alarming nor surprising. Its war, Maes would say and Roy has gotten numb at the destruction they cause. He has seen Ed collapse the entire structure in order to avoid direct contact with the enemy. He knows because that is something many alchemists are tasked with doing. Killing them before they can leave their houses. Their homes. Destroying them and everything they could have left behind.
Leave nothing but ashes. Or rubble.
But he can’t risk it. And the tension. The worry. The fear. All that had curled in his chest, aided by the lack of Kimbelee exploding anything, the stumble in Ed’s steps this morning, the weird glances Finn Bauer sent in his direction.
That cloud of dust were a structure had just been screams wrong.
He immediately jumps into action, leaving the dune to stand besides Carl on the flat ground.
He wishes he was just Roy Mustang, and that he could just leave to check on Ed. But he isn’t. He is Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, a Major in command of a hundred soliders. It frustrates him, but it also grounding.
He needs to stay calm to do his job.
It helps him breathe easier.
“Captian! You are in command of the situation. If I am not back in at least fifteen minutes, send teo privates after me.”
Carl salutes, confused at his orders but still following them. Roy is sure he heard the building, but thought nothing of it. A reminder, that their alchemy puts them above them. To them, a explosion is just the sign if alchemist doing their work.
Some privates, think of them as invincibility. People like those ask the question: How can people with so much power, parapons attemting to be god, not be safe in the explosions caused by themselves?
Roy doesn’t expect them to understand.
“At twelve gather the privates and send one last team to survey the area. After that they are dismissed. I leave them to you, captain.”
“Understood sir.”
Unable to rush when Carl is still watching, he simply walks fast towards where he remembers the building falling apart. His steps echo through the settlement. It is silent, like a grave but he pays it no mind.
Ed. Ed had promised he’d be fine.
He doesn't know who to pray to, which narrative would fit him, so that this place doesn’t turn into Ed’s grave too.
He isn’t like Ed in the sense he isn’t so tempted to insult, but now the urgency makes a thin and simply desperate shit leave under his breath.
Thump thump thump thump
His heart threatens to leave his chest, because why can't he find Ed?
Unfamiliar streets become akin to a maze, and he is so tempted to just create the path himself. But he doesn’t know where Ed is, and he doesn’t want to be more at fault for what could happen.
He simply knows something happened. Because Kimbelee is not to be trusted, and he is not above killing another Major just for the sake of it. Or the threat the present. And he had gotten no signs of the man doing his job through the whole day.
He knows something happened, because his experience tells him betrayal is easy inside a company made up of drafted children and the sweet venom of an upranking officer.
His hands tremble as he rushes through alleys. He wants to throw up. He wants to fling himself from a building and he wants to burn something. Oh how he hates the impulse and his heart that feels the need to destroy. He’s gotten used to it. He hates it because he doesn’t want to destroy Ed like he wants to destroy himself. He wants to find Ed.
Above all, above the blood rushing to his face, his heart, his soul, his lungs, he needs to find Ed.
His stomach churns in anger at himself, for not foreseeing what could go wrong when Ed had been swaying with every step. He is angry at Ed, for being so good at making Roy trust him, for convincing Roy of letting him go into the battlefield with a fucking concussion. A concussion Roy knows he has because he has eyes. Even if the words of the people around him denied it, he could see and assess it himself.
He should’ve known how easy it is to tint lies the color of truths. He knows because he’s done it.
He should have known.
That's the crux of it.
He should have known better.
He should be better by now. Ed deserves better than him, than this. Kimbelee should not exist. This war shouldn’t exist.
He hates with burning passion. Because thats what he knows.
He knows how to burn.
Still, there’s still a chance this is nothing. Maybe he is overreacting. He hopes his gut, his rationale are wrong.
The sounds of rushing steps turns into running and the buildings become unfocused as he searches for Ed.
There’s a chance he is safe. Despite his concussion, Kimbelee, the actions of those around them. Despite everything, he can still find Ed safe. He hopes these cries from his heart are right.
If not, it is his fault.
He allowed Ed to go off. He permitted the collaboration with Kimbelee despites his reservations. He has permitted Ed’s involvement.
He’s failed and it is his fault.
And if it is his fault, how can he allow the festering feelings in his chest if he did?
How can he dare claim himself worthy of those human emotions?
He needs a drink. He needs to run faster. He needs to do better.
One turn, two, three. He is preparing to snap when he finds what shouldn’t be a pile of rubbish.
Ed is nowhere to be seen.
He has to force his mind to work as the Flame Alchemist and not Roy, because Roy is fallible.
He can’t afford that.
Maybe he already left. He thinks, looking at the rubbish. Considering. Calculating.
It would not be weird, as State Alchemists rarely need to stay in one place to check if their targets are dead. Near perfect weapons, Roy may not like it but it's a fact.
Roy himself rarely stays to check if he succeeded. He knows he did.
But Ed does stay. He’s seen the graves. Ed would dig out the bodies and bury them. He’d do it by hand if he had time. And Roy wasn’t so slow for Ed to be gone already. Alchemized grave or not.
By all accounts, Ed should be here.
It feels surreal as his body surges without his conscious consent to shift the rubble.
Get to work. Search, Flame. Search. Analize. Understand.
Be better.
He needs to shout, to cry, to drink, to find whoever did this because dread is creeping up his gut in a way that has his body itching.
His fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault
The Flame alchemist shifts the rubble, the sun burning his scalp, and neck. The blue of his uniform was too heavy and the clinking of his clock far too loud. The metal clinks and the silence of a grave greets back.
“Be careful.”
The first thing he finds is the hand of a corpse, Ishvalan by the look of it, that's too lukewarm for it to be anything else. As soon as he sees it he changes locations, digging elsewhere. It isn’t Ed.
Ed can’t be dead. He can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t
Because then Roy has failed to fulfill all his promises to Ed, and how can he promise anything better for his country if he can’t even do this?
If he can’t even protect the one person who seems to truly understand?
Dread and desperation is a dangerous mix. It drives Roy’s body ragged, his heart, lungs and bile rising to his throat, as he pushes off pieces of rubble.
“I will. Don’t worry.”
The second thing finds him. The wind, carrying a slip of paper and sand hits his leg when he is knees deep in rubble and just beside a second Ishvalan corpse. This time he sees a bullet wound.
Ed doesn’t use guns.
It’s an array. One of Ed’s. He clutches it to his chest.
What happened? Why isn’t this with Ed? Ed wouldn’t throw this away. This should be on his person. It isn’t.
Nothing adds up. It makes his skin, and the cuts the rubble made on his skin as he pushes it out of the way, itch. Yet he does the math.
At the third attempt, he finds another corpse. Another Ishvalan. He cares not for it so he pushes it aside.
It’s not Ed.
He needs to find Ed.
He needs Ed to be alive, so another corpse doesn’t weigh as much as it should.
A chant of voices shout, your fault your fault your fault your fault you fault
He is not sure he is breathing.
As soon as the corpse is out of the way, and Roy feels the exhaustion weighing on him, he sees something.
Right underneath, there’s an alchemitized surface, different from the alchemitized remains of the building. This one is likely made out of the floor, if the markings speak for themselves. The surface has been broken by a sharp rock that impales through.
There’s empty space. Enough for a person. Enough.
Is it?
He pushes down any trembling, any emotion, and breaks the remaining barrier.
And finally, he sees a peak of golden hair.
Matted with blood.
“Edward-“
The sound comes out, desperate, fragile and vulnerable. The flame alchemist pushes the rubble aside, just to reveal an unconscious Ed.
His fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault Now is not the time.
He kneels, ignoring how the dirt and grime taints the blue of his uniform. He puts a hand to Ed’s pulse and feels it.
Alive.
He can’t breathe relieved, not fully but his hand saggs alongside his shoulders.
Then he feels the wetness. Looking down, returning to his body, he smells and sees blood.
Looking up, he sees the obvious impaled shoulder, and the blood pooling around Ed. It reaches his pants, making them Red.
“Fuck.”
Jacket off, he wraps it around the spike of rubble and metal. The white of his basic shirt is now touched by Ed’s very human and warm red.
He pushes down, making sure the blood clogs on the jacket and stays inside Ed.
There’s a buzz of silence in his head.
He shuts it all down.
He can’t afford to fail.
“Edward.”
No answer.
He presses harder, and realizes the spike didn’t go all the way through.
He takes in the position and sees one hand pressed against the ground, transmutation marks all round it.
Ed didn’t destabilize the building.
He couldn’t have, as he didn’t have the paper with the array, and was inside trying to protect himself from the collapsing debris.
His mind unites the clues and arms the puzzle. Discarding theories, making new as he presses the jacket down in hopes of slowing the bloodloss.
He can’t move Ed. Too much risk and low rewards. The best he can do is wait for the privates to arrive. He hates it, loathes it, and knows it is not ideal, but nothing is ideal right now.
His heart stops, he can’t afford to fail.
The best he can do is break down the situation. It's the only thing he can do. It's the only thing he is useful for other than killing.
Ed wasn’t near the door, if the building has the same layout as all the other identical buildings around. There are three corpses, Ishvalan. All at different locations. The furthest died before the fall of the building. The body is too cold already for it to be so recent. At least, fifteen minutes before. Maximum ten.
That means- he turns around and measures distances, trying to imagine. He didn’t take a good look but the corpse hadn’t died of suffocation or a bullet, if the blood, already cold, had pooled around the body in a far too big amount for any of those. It was killed by a deep cut or a stab.
Ed killed that one.
The second body is halfway through, and Ed's position, the angle, the location of the entry wound, doesn't add up. Ed also doesn’t carry a gun.
There is a third person involved.
The paper in his uniform feels ten times heavier.
A person who can use alchemy.
A person with motives.
A mother fucking monster whose name starts with fucking Kimbelee.
He doesn’t need to keep thinking because he has an image of everything just before the privates arrive, huffing, out of breath.
And Roy is too fucking angry to be relieved. Or to care for the names of the privates.
Because he knows who did this. He knows what happened and it makes his blood boil. Or burn.
It makes his hands itch with the need to strangle and give that man what he deserved from the very beginning.
The privates stand there, gasping at the sight. So Roy snarls at them. “Treat him. Now.”
They no longer doubt from there on.
They carry Ed as Roy keeps making pressure on the wound. Unable to take him far, they put him on flat ground, while making sure there are no other injuries. For that they tear off his jacket, leaving Ed in only the plain white shirt of the military uniform. White painted with red so thoroughly it seems to be made of that color.
With the privates fuzzing over Ed, Roy can do nothing much other than pace. He stays close too. Close enough to bridge any gap between Ed and him in a second. His gloves are at the ready. Ready to snap at the slightest sign of betrayal.
He paces around, fists tight and face pulled into the expression Maes had been terrified of. Terrified for the target or Roy, he doesn’t know. The same expression that he had when he asked Riza to shoot him.
The expression of a murderer, a monster, and a sinner.
Expression of guilt, anger, and grief. A expression that screams of murder.
“Sir?”
He stares.
“We are going to need more people, sir.” It's commendable for the private to confront him.
“Then go for them.”
“We can’t leave him. He needs to be surveilled. The situation is… delicate, Major sir.”
He looks at Ed’s unconscious body. The blood, of which he has plenty in his uniform, the piece of concrete and metal impaled through the shoulder, the closed eyes, the fragile rise and fall of the chest. It's like Ed is being held by sheer unconscious will.
“I am not going to leave, private.”
“We can’t go, sir-“
No.
“There’s risk he’ll bleed out if we don’t get a way to close the wound-
And because Roy is a monster called the Flame alchemist, a monster who’d do anything for those close to him, to keep this little piece of heaven, to protect this undeniably good person, he gets an idea. Because Ed is not a sacrifice he is willing to make, even over the pain it implies, he says.
“Then I'll cauterize the wound.”
“Sir, it may be too risky-“
He barely resists to grab the front of the man’s shirt.
“I am the Flame Alchemist. I am perfectly capable of cauterizing a wound.”
His hands certainly don’t tremble. He doesn’t feel faint and angry and desperate-
He doesn’t want to feel like that-
He can’t afford to fail.
He can’t afford , won't survive, losing Ed. Not like this when he is responsible.
When he could’ve done something.
The private looks ready to refute but Roy won’t have it. Because the pool of blood is growing, despite the other private’s effort. Because Ed is a priority here. Because Roy won’t- can’t fuck this up.
“It was an order, Private. We’ll cauterize the wound.”
He goes up to Ed, and kneels besides his head and injured shoulder. “Grab him, make sure he doesn’t move.”
The private, who seems to have remembered who he is talking to, goes and restrains Ed's feet. The other presses Ed down from the healthy shoulder, ready to immobilize him if he were to move.
Roy has never needed to cauterize a wound, much less with his alchemy. He is even afraid that his level of control won't be enough. That he’ll ruin it.
That he’ll put Ed in danger one last time.
But that won't stop him.
“Brace yourselves.”
He prepares to remove the stone in one movement.
Ed takes a breath, he follows, and pulls.
It makes Ed flinch, as the stone leaves his shoulder, leaving a gaping hole that is filling with so much blood-
“Ill be safe.”
There’s too much blood for Roy to assess if anything else is wrong with the wound. So much blood it makes Roy’s breath catch in his lungs because Ed cannot bleed this much.
It 's plain wrong. His fault.
Roy feels too much, too little all at the same time. Grief, which numbs his limbs. Anger, which tightens his jaw. Desperation, which makes bile rise up his throat.
He doesn’t know what to feel, so the best he can do is order others on how to act.
“Hold him.” He instructs, keeping his voice level and his hands steady even if his heart bats with panic, and his eyes chest burns with rage. Everyone is at fault. Everyone and himself.
With a rub of his index and thumb he produces a spark and makes a flame.
Which he presses against Ed’s shoulder.
Ed screams.
Just like the people he kills. He’s burning Ed, just like he does everyone else.
He's hurt Ed. Just like he does with everyone else.
He definitely can’t do any-
No.
He is saving Ed.
It smells, and Ed is trashing. His eyes wide as he fights against the hold of both privates. It happens in a second. Ed is awake, fighting and Roy is burning him.
It smells like all burning bodies do.
He doesn’t want to add Ed to a catalogue of screaming guilt in his head.
He’s already hurt Ed enough.
From here on, he won't stand failure.
He kills the flame and puts one hand under Ed’s head to prevent him from hitting it. He uses his other hand to take out a piece of paper and a pen, doing his best to not fumble with the objects.
We’ll make sure this never happens again.
Not by his hand, or his negligence.
From here on, he’ll be better.
And for that, he needs to move.
“Privates, we’ll carry him back. I'll make a stretcher to facilitate the process. Any other injuries urgent at the moment?”
The other, who had spent the most time looking at Ed while the other had tried to convince Roy to leave, says. “No sir.”
It is said in between gritted teeth and a pale face. Sometimes Roy forgets not everyone is used to the screams and the smell of burning people.
He doesn’t respond, busy drawing the circle and transmuting the object out of the floor. Ed would be proud of his quick calculations just now. He’d comment on it, if he was more than semiconscious. But that 's enough. For now- Ed just needs to live.
Ed needs to live, so Roy can eventually love him once he is a better man.
With the help of the privates, Ed is placed on the stretcher. Ed’s protests are a mix of pained groans and hisses. He even curses at Roy, who only bushes hair strands away from Ed’s face.
If the privates see the gesture they don’t care. Maybe they are also acutely aware of just who they are watching. Of who they’d be questioning.
Halfway back, Roy hears. “Mustang.” Roy.
If he wasn’t determined to (to what? What can he even do? The military doesn’t value Roy that much in comparison to the other) the bastard before, he definitely is now. Especially with Ed looking so tired, and hurt.
This won’t happend again.
“Major Elric.” Edward.
Ed doesn’t reach out physically, but Roy feels it as if he did. “Thank you. I’m glad- it was you who found me.” He says it while wheezing with a look on his face that makes Roy want to beg Ed to find someone better.
“Save those for when you are standing. So survive.”
Ed snorts just before he winces and shivers. “How bad?”
Camp comes to view as he answers. “A mix of metal and rubble pierced your shoulder. Nothing else that we can see.”
Ed closes his eyes, wincing. “You cauterized it to stop the bleeding.” They enter the medical tent, all three soldiers lowering Ed into a gurney. The privates leave, and as soon as they do, Roy grips Ed’s healthy hand, collapsing into a chair right by his side.
“I needed to get you here. I couldn’t think of any better-“
“No. I agree. I have a high pain tolerance and anything else is just risking a mistake to happen.” Ed’s facial features are pulled into a constant grimace, so Roy holds his hand with both hands gently.
His screams will never leave Roy’s nightmares.
“Still, I am sorry. It should not have happened in the first place.” For Roy, apologizing is a hard task, most of the time. But right now, it feels like the only thing he is capable of. Since entering this desert, he has learned how to truly regret. And how to truly hate, anger curls inside his chest at the thought of corruption and senseless orders of killing and betrayal.
Maybe, it is just the idealistic fool inside of him screaming at the reality of his nation.
“But it did, and you found me anyway, Major bastard.”
He smiles, and how gone must he be to be able to smile while also wanting to spare this man from the fate that is handling Roy himself?
“Yeah. I guess I did, Shorty. Now go to sleep.”
Ed grips his hand, like a lifeline. “I’ll impale you and take away your height, you smug moth.” His shoulders shake and it drives a small gasph if pain through Ed.
Roy chickles but pressed Ed softly against the gurney, one hand against Ed’s chest, the other holding reverently Ed’s hand.
“Moth seriously?”
“Yes.”
“You are a child.”
“Who are you calling short, fucking lighter?”
He waves it away, and places the hand again on Ed's chest, keeping him down. The thump of Ed’s heart thrumming in the palm of Roy’s hand. “Alright alright. But do sleep, Ed.” Roy rests his back filly on the chair, though it is straight as a stick and tense as a pulled string.”I’ll stay.”
“Don’t you have reports to do? You know, informing the Lieutenant colonel?”
“It can wait.”
He does stay. Hearing Ed’s breath and heartbeat reassuring. It would lull Roy into his own sleep, if the events were not so clear in his mind. Ed had been tired, lost blood, and injured. He has been ambushed not only by an Ishvalan but an ally too.
He stays for an hour, where he lets those sweet feelings out for a small second. There he watched Ed’s sleeping face, who looked both at peace and slightly ill, something like love curling in his chest and tender hold.
An hour passes, and he pushes himself upright.
It speaks of Ed’s exhaustion and how he doesn’t wake, making it easy for Roy to let go of his hand, resigned and determined.
He has work to do.
As soon as he steps out, Carl rushes towards him, voice alarmed as he salutes. “Major Mustang, sir. I’ve done as you ordered. Privates told me about the major. How is his condition, sir?”
With one glance at Carl he can tell that if there was a conspiracy, it wasn’t from him. He’s just too strict to do something as such. He is starting to pick up some of Ed’s casual conversation, and that only serves to highlight his connection to Ed. So it’s not him.
“He was injured when a building collapsed on him, Captain. You can check on him, for as long as I am gone, you’ll be there to track his condition. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
Carl enters the tent, and the midday sun is harringly bright. He frowns at it, his white shirt making it hard to open his eyes at how it reflects the sun.
There must be an enabler. Someone who aided Kinbelee to obtain what he needed. Still, that little rat doesn’t matter too much. They would’ve had a bigger role if they wanted to do something like killing Ed. This leads to a conspirator like Kimbelee extorting a lower ranking officer(s) to aid him.
Fuck that bastard.
He stretches, rubbing his index finger with his thumb. His version of a trigger finger.
If the brat was extorted, it means that as long as he cuts down the big fish… nothing else will happen.
The problem is-
He starts walking towards the military radio to report. Shoving his hands on the pockets of his pants, he pulls his face into absolute neutrality. Neutrality that bleeds with tension, anger, worry and helplessness.
How do you get rid of a dog priced by their owners?
“Liutenant Colonel, Sir. Major Roy Mustang reporting.”
“Proceed, Flame Alchemist.”
“The threat has been exterminated, but Major Elric the Golden Alchemist has suffered from an injury.”
“How grave?”
“Very. He will need urgent treatment, sir.”
“…”
“Changing our position would endanger the Major’s life, sir.”
“I heard before, major. We’ll send a company to your location alongside some doctors. Tell the crimson Alchemist to report, and leave before dawn to the new location. You are to stay with your company to make sure the Golden Alchemist remains alive until the medics arrive, understood?”
“Yes sir.”
In the end, the report ends after a small lie and with two important pieces of news. No more marching. No more damned psychopath Kimbelee.
More time for Ed to recover properly.
Sure, Ed will need treatment, but not as urgent as he made it out to be. Maybe if he ends up having an infection, but until now. He hasn’t. But other than that, it is not that urgent. It’d be urgent if Ed hadn’t responded to his jabs at his height.
“When did you become such a good liar, Flame?”
The voice makes him whip around to face the state enabled psychopath.
Oh this fucker.
In a second he has a fistful of the monster’s shirt on his hand. He doesn’t bring the guy's face up close because his grin is quite frankly disgusting. Showing his gums in a mockingly unnatural attempt of a polite grin. He does, however, make sure his hand is visible and poised to snap.
It isn’t a snap. Not truly. It is the sound of elements burning and reacting in seconds. Of gasses shifting and his manipulation of them.
But calling it a snap makes it slightly more human.
A threat with no bite because he can’t snap. Not really. Not without risking his life for treason.
“You-“
“I what, Mustang? What can you even prove?” Kimbelee doesn’t shove him, instead he comes closer. “Quite a shame he survived. But I won’t have to see him for a while, won’t I? As I’ll be leaving for a new location.”
Roy is the one who ends up pushing the other away. His back is straight rod tense, hia hands by his sides, and his eyes narrowed. “You are dispensable, Kimbelee.”
“You think I don’t know Mustang?”
“Yes.” He side steps Kimbelee, hands now on his back. “Remember. The moment you step out of the line. The moment you forget to restrain yourself, I’ll be there to ruin everything for you. I’ll make sure you are either dead or somewhere you can’t be considered anything but that.”
If Riza saw she’d be pointing a gun at him again, with that sad and horrified look in her eyes.
Yet, this is necessary. Ed is only one of the manyvicitms from this man’s violence.
He can’t have a man like this in his Amestris.
He also hurt someone he cares about.
“Pleasure seeing you, Kimbelee.” He says the name like it’s vomit laying on the floor. Or an abhorrence spit out by a rebound.
As he leaves, the monster chuckles behind him. Roy may be a monster, but he’ll never be this kind of monster. One that draws pleasure from suffering. His hand is always poised ready. Roy knows he is faster than any explosion he can pull off, but having his back turned makes him uneasy. He wants to leave now.
“A pleasure indeed, Mustang.”
Sarah Rockbell has taken a certain type of dislike for the desert. It has harsh climates, inappropriate to tent to the ill or perform surgeries. It makes their job ten times harder.
She also is beginning to dread the sight of blue uniforms. Wherever those uniforme go, there’s a trail of bodies and injured which she and Yuriy have to try and attempt to save.
Not that the military makes that job easy.
As soon as they arrived, they paid close attention to them, observing from the distance at who they help. They make them move one place to another, helping but also doing nothing to truly help.
For example, right now.
She is standing right next to a sleeping private. Yuriy returns with a bottle of water just as she peels off her gloves.
“Here.” He hands over the bottle once her hands are clean from gloves and blood. It had been a nessy surgery. “Dear, are there any more patients we should worry about?”
Examining the tent, she shakes her head. “No, not really. It is up to them and how careful they are. Why? Are we moving again?”
Her husband brings closer a bin, where she throws the bloody gloves. She had to remove a bullet from the private leg. And while she did the best she could, there is always the risk of losing the leg. She knows the military doesn’t give proper recovery times, and in his case it could cost him a leg.
But there is not much she can do about that other than giving him the contact of Pinako’s automail workshop and some special medical advice.
It is hard. To know you are healing people, of any skin and color in their eyes, just to send then to die once more at the hands of the deser, biolence and genocide.
But she’s just a doctor.
“Sadly. I heard it from corporal Sach and was confirmed by Sergeant Major. We are moving.”
Her husband runs a hand through his hair, which is in a state of disarray he would have considered blasphemous before.
In the silent cacophony of the tent, Sarah feels overwhelmed and fulfilled. She’s saving so many people, making sure so many families stay whole. Yet she also feels like there’s too much harm done. Too much violence for her to balance out.
She is also missing out on her daughter’s life.
“Come here.” Yuriy extends his arms and wraps them around her. Tucking her head on his shoulder. “We get a few hours of rest before leaving. You should rest, honey.”
“I know.” She kisses him, resting her forehead against his. “You should too. We did a lot today.”
He drags her outside and she follows. Both keep an eye on the privates as they pass. Mindful of small injuries and limping.
When they finally make it to a tent some Major made for them they tumble into the floor and hold each other.
“Do you know why we are being moved?”
“Not really. You should ask Major Armstrong about it. It's his company we are departing with.”
“Who was that?”
He deadpans and rolls his eyes at her, youthful. It is a mannerism which reminds her of Pinako. “The one with the ridiculous blonde hair and the dislocated shoulder from last week.”
“Ah. He seemed decent.” For a state alchemist.
If there is one figure she is beginning to hate are the state alchemists. It breaks her heart because Ed, Trisha’s son, is an alchemist in the making. Even she, more so because she knows Ed, can see how wrong their actions are.
She knows that Trisha hid Ed. In a way, she would bever let her son become a state alchemist. (She doesn’t say dog. Because even them, soldiers playing god, don’t deserve that insult.)
“He is. I know you don’t like state alchemists but do be mindful. From what I understand we are going to treat a state alchemist.”
Singular. Moving all the way to treat only a state alchemist?
As always, state alchemists are the favorite weapons of the military.
She sighs; her muscles relaxing. “Fine. Are there any-“
“No. They are all dead or left already. It's best we move on. Maybe where we are going we’ll find some.”
Ishvalans. She knows it is dangerous, not the patients themselves but the soldiers chasing them, and risky and stupid. But she promised she’d do good.
And if she can’t help even those the military doesn’t want her to help, why is she missing out on her daughter's life?
“Wake me up when it's time then, honey.”
“Of course.” And with that, Yuriy closes his eyes, holding her close.
Oh, how does Sarah miss Resembool.
In the morning they do a last check in on the patients. Some of them are sweating with pain, or sleeping with an ever constant grimace in their faces.
As Yuriy gives instructions to the privates as to how to continue the treatment once they are gone, she wanders around.
If only they didn’t have to stick around the military to help. It's stifling and crushing to have to ignore the cries of pain from the Ishvalans. To see another child soldier come back without a leg or with a bullet wound through his stomach. It sickens her, and makes her ache for the freshness of Resembool.
She sits next to their equipment as she waits for the marching to begin. Some gauzes, alcohol, water, needles, thread, and such. They still have a lot of water, though it lasts less than other resources. It's baffling to think that water, abundant back home, became such a big issue for them here. As doctors they know the importance of it, but the eventual lack of water is unavoidable.
Yuriy returns, covered in the same grime and sand as her. As doctors, they make sure to keep themselves as clean as possible, yet inside the battlefront they find themselves just as dirty as the rest. Sweaty and bloody. But unlike the rest, the blood in their hands does not come at the price of a life.
Maybe, when they heal the Ishvalans hidden underneath the rubble, the blood in their hands comes at the risk of their own lives.
At the risk of a life with their daughter.
“Come on, the major is calling.”
With sigh, she heaves herself upwards, putting a hand around him.
They should not leave yet. They are leaving their patients behind. But the military is keeping a close eye on them at the cost of their lesser run-the-mill soldier.
She’s weary and tired even if she gives the brightest of smiles to her patients, because they are not at fault. They have been here since the war began, and she can’t imagine her daughter. Is she taller? How much? What is the sound of her voice now? How close is she to Edward? How is Pinako handling it? She knows Trisha helps, and so does Ed. What is her favorite food? Who are her best friends? She wants to hug her daughter, cover her in kisses, and hear her. Be with her. She wants but the sense of responsibility ties her to this desert and the sands.
On that topic, has Trisha’s husband returned? Ed should be a grown man by now. Did he have to go into hiding to not get drafted? Is he still an alchemist? Of all things she doesn’t wonder, is if he became a state alchemist. He wouldn’t. He would hate it down to his core.
Of all things she misses home like an ache in her heart. Yuriy does too.
Marching is a task she has learned to ignore. Watching hundreds of men walk coordinated is amazing the first few times. Later though, it becomes mind numbing.
She walks with a white coat over her face, preventing any sunburn. She has treated enough of that to avoid it like the plague.
Yuriy walks a bit ahead, occasionally joining her. As doctors they are simply too valuable to walk behind or at the front, so they are placed in the middle.
The farthest she can see is the back of the Major, Armstrong, and a private who is also blonde. She treated the major briefly and didn’t get a good gauge of his personality, but she can see he's not that bad.
At least he gives more frequent resting times in comparison to others
Yuriy falls back, and stands beside her. A hand covers his mouth.
“What is it?” She places a hand on his shoulder and he shakes his head.
“Just what happened here?”
Not even the soldier surrounding her can cover the carnage done to the settlement. She’s exhausted, as she had been on the move for a whole day by now, nearly non-stop. But the sight… she shares a gasp and feels dread climbs up her back.
There are deep craters on the ground, as if a bomb had exploded multiple times in multiple different places. Normally, the settlements are left destroyed, but at least there are a few unaffected buildings. She knows because she has secretly treated Ishvalans inside the very same remaining structures.
Here? Not even that.
They walk, and she sees the destruction change of shape. From craters and shadows of people no longer there, to spikes and the eerily intact settlement.
It’s weird and thoroughly empty.
She can already tell not a single Ishvalan soul remains. Even Yuriy knows, his face painted.
“This-“
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It feels like two different people worked here. Almost separately.”
She nods. One side is wrecked, and the other is abnormally preserved.
But she doesn’t pay too much mind.
She’s here to heal, not to analyze battlefields.
If her mind hadn’t learned to ignore the sign of corpses, she would’ve noticed the lack of those.
Eventually she lowers her head, not wanting to see the sight any more.
“We are here. I think.”
She raises her head and sees the soldiers dispersing around at the orders of the major. Even with his imposing size, Sarah can’t help but think that the serious and straightforward private is the one sending out the orders.
The major approaches, blonde private and someone else. She should by now be able to tell military ranks by their uniform alone.
She can’t. Not like she honestly cares.
“He’s a captain.” His voice is still a bit faint but Sarah can’t blame him. It was a desolating sight. “Must be one of the officers stationed here.”
It leaves a sour taste in her mouth. She looks around and sees nearly all of the privates, healthy. Making her best to not judge, she shoves her feelings to the back seat. Maybe the injured are tucked away elsewhere. They might actually be needed, not only for an over dramatic major. It has happened. Majors who have minor injuries, making them cross the entire desert to give minimal treatment. It has happened, and she is sure it won’t stop happening.
The only benefit is that where there are state alchemists, there are injured Ishvalans. So the trips are not lost entirely.
It doesn’t seem the case here, with how… devastated the place seems. But she has hope.
“Major sir. Captain Carl ” The captain salutes, and the Major waves him out with a kind smile and tense brow.
Major Armstrong is surprisingly quiet, but the Captain doesn’t seem to mind. He simply continues.
“Major Mustang sent me to guide you and your companions to him, sir. The injured are waiting in the medical tent.” He barely acknowledges her and Yuriy. But she didn’t expect more. It's the military way, she’s learned.
Also, Major Mustang might be the one they are treating. It's always good to know the name of the patient before they see them.
“Then guide us, Captain. We have no time to waste on any more matters.”
Carl, because Sarah refuses to think using military titles now that she has a name, turns around and guides the four of them.
The camp is makeshift but organized. It uses a layout kore suited for more tents, so she guesses a company just left. Or maybe something like that.
There is an energy to the camp she rarely finds. Normally when they arrive, companies are prepared to stay in place as they recieve treatment, so the ambience is filled with stillness, grief and stagnation . Here it is bustling. As if they are always prepared for departure.
She wonders why. They are supposed to treat their state alchemist after all. They can’t just up and leave.
A tent, not any bigger than any other sleeping tent greets them. She steels herself as treating State alchemists is always more demanding. More difficult.
Because one mistake can led them to a firing squad aiming at their heads.
Carl stays by the entrance with the blonde private as the Major enters first. Yuriy goes right after and she only gets his strangled gasp as a warning before she comes in.
The tent is warm. Feverishly so, as the Major, who is also Trisha’s kid, trashes around sweating and mumbling.
Edward?
What is he doing here?
He got found. Trisha must have been crushed, and Winey desolated, if they grew close.
And oh.
Those stars. The uniform.
Edward is the most competent alchemist she’ll ever know.
She also knows state alchemists.
The image of a child running through the fields with a smile as Trisha left him while she tended to business is irreconcilable with the job, the other state alchemist she has met.
Yet he’s here.
Dressed in blues.
She grabs her husband’s arm, and he nods. It is Ed. She’s not seeing wrong, or hallucinating out of exhaustion. This is Ed.
Yet, he also isn’t.
He is here, mumbling and sweating inside a military tent, using a military uniform. A blue uniform tainted with blood. She doesn’t know if it is the injury that has him like this, but the eyebags under his eyes, the frown etched on his face, the small scars on his face are new and so so so not fitting for the boy they left with their girl. He is thinner and more taunt, like made of muscle and blue rather than softness and green. His hair is an ashy yellow, mixed with grime and blood, nothing like the mesh of gold they saw last time.
Yuriy speaks for her, as she examins Ed closely. He has turned his eyes away from Ed, like trying to separate the two images of a young Ed and Ed. “This is our patient right?”
A man, who has been standing just by Ed’s side, right in front of the entrance glances at them.
She has no time to detail him beyond his gaze, worried about Ed but the same cannot be said about him. He gives them a one over that has her skin crawling. It’s the gaze of someone who is trying to understand how useful they can be, and a million other implications.
She can tell, would swear on it if given the chance, that this man is made to be a politician and a soldier. He is harsh and witty.
He wears a polite smile that reaches nowhere near his face. “Major Armstrong. Mr and Mrs Rockbell.” The lause is deliberate, and as she examines Ed from her position at the entrance, she sees the hand holding Ed’s. There is no glove there, unlike his other hand. It is held by the Major’s side. “You’d be right.”
“Mustang-“
“I'm getting to it, Armstrong. Major Elric presents fevers and strange coughing. The privates suspect it is a matter of an infection on his left shoulder.”
She takes this as the signal to go and get near Ed’s left side. The stretcher is placed so Mustang stands on the right, while leave her space to access his left. She puts a hand on his forehead before she pulls away. More than burning he is boiling.
Yuriy moves right behind her, not getting to work yet, asking. “What happened?”
The state alchemist’s voice doesn’t change. Neither does his expression. It's placid and neutral. She glances at his hand subtly. It seems to have tightened his hold. “We cauterized an impalement injury on his shoulder in the field.”
Yuriy looks pained and her chest constricts on itself. Cauterized.
She peels away the white shirt, to reveal, clearly rushed, bandages. She puts in her gloves, and takes away the bandages to reveal the blistering, angry red skin.
It looks like a burn, more than a cauterized injury.
It also looks more inflamed and swollen than it should. There is puss where there shouldn't be, and the angry red injury radiates heat, not unlike a burning wound but also abnormally higher.
They did this on the field? Maybe…
“Who performed this?”
Mustang, she heard the name from Armstrong just now, glanced at her. No less neutral but more… she doesn’t know. She can’t place the emotion, too covered. Too guarded. “I did. There was too much blood and if I did not stop the bleeding it would have been too late.”
She narrows her eyes at him. If anything it sounds like an excuse as she looks at the second degree nearing third degree burns on Trisha’s kid shoulder, de alongside the infection symptoms. “Was there time to make sure no residual material was inside the wound?”
The lack of an answer speaks for itself.
She looks back at the wound. The cauterization did its job, and the burnt skin will heal with time. But the symptoms scream of an infection, even when cauterization should partially remove that risk.
Mustang has removed his hand from Ed’s and she knows. The path to hell is paved with good intentions. The man cares. As painful and rash as it may seem, the decision was made with Ed in mind.
She can’t find it in herself to be wholeheartedly angry at the man.
After all, it's a good thing they are here to make things right.
To help where this man couldn’t.
“We are going to need you to step out.” Before the Major rejects, she adds. “My husband and I need space, and you will be occupying it. Major Elric-“ she doesn’t say that part near choking because this is and isn’t Ed, but the title screams wrong. But it is what it is. “Major Elric needs our attention, so please. We’ll give you an update shortly.”
She knows Trisha needs her son to return just like Winry needs them.
She’ll do her best. They will.
“Major Armstrong. I’ll have to ask the same.” Yuriy asks, also putting on his gloves.
The addressed man nods and, not nudging, more like inviting Mustang outside. Mustang himself just glances at them, and at Ed and then back at them. The way he looks at them, it is like he knows. Like he knows them, and their connection to Ed. Just like she can see, as if it is written on his face, the absolute affection he holds for Ed.
Neither mention it.
Mustang steps outside. Back tense and hands balled up at his sides. He brushed his hand against Ed’s on the way out, like asking for forgiveness.
She doesn’t pay much attention to that. More focused now on Ed.
Neither her nor Yuriy say anything. Just start working on Ed so they can hug the kid and then ask.
What happened?
Notes:
Its 3 am where i live, so i am not going to say much today other than enjoy, thank you for the wonderful comments (they keep me and this fic going) and have a good night 🙇♀️
If you have any comment, ideas, theories, or doubts, comment them. Ill read them over and over and over bc it what keeps me deciplines on writting the fic. (Also this is the first thing i have wirtten that is this long, so i am a bit exited 💃💃) dont be pressured tho. Only if you want
Chapter 10: Roy, Edward
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Mustang. What happened?”
He turns to Armstrong. The man has a sad expression on his face. Sadness enmarqued by the pull of his brows, and the bags of his eyes.
“Armstrong.” Right now, he doesn’t really want to acknowledge the man. So, he turns to the person he does want to acknowledge. “Hawkeye. Got an ascension I see.”
The stare Riza gives him is only rivaled by Madame’s or maybe Ed’s. “I did, sir.”
“To corporal even. Congrats.”
She doesn’t even acknowledge it, before she is pressing. “Sir, I am afraid the Major has news for you. And hopefully you have information for us too, sir.” Listen to him, Roy. Don’t try to talk your way out of this.
Knowing he is not getting out of this. This is Hawkeye after all.
“My tent is here. Come over. Captain.” He gives a nod to Carl, who saluted and left.
He walks ahead, letting pick the pace.
They don’t go far. He had always placed his tent closer to the medical tent. It also allows him to keep an eye on Ed. Close,yet also not where isn’t needed.
He needs to be useful, but he also needs Ed to be safe. He needs to make sure Ed is safe. He needs to see.
This is not faith.
He needs to be better, and the least he can do is make sure he can see.
Once they are inside the tent, Roy puts his hands behind his back, facing the entrance. Behind Riza, he can see the tent where Ed is being treated for his mistake.
His fault his fault his fault his fault his fault-
Kimbelee should be grateful that he isn’t here with one of those grimy smiles of his. Kimbelee should be grateful that Roy has more self control than most. Kimbelee should be grateful he was called away before Mustangran out of patience and outgrew his body in hatred-
Oh, it could be so easy. So easy to simply snap and then one of two monsters would be gone-
“Sir.”
Ah right.
“Mustang, what happened?”
Armstrong doesn’t even look upset at having to repeat a simple question. He looks… tired. Worried. Roy can relate to that, even if Armstrong is missing one key emotion to which Roy is currently drowning in.
“Kimbelee was stationed here the day after you were called upon.” And that must explain everything. It does to Riza, who suddenly seems much more uncomfortable and serious than before.
The same effect is missing from Armstrong. “I am afraid the name doesn’t ring a bell, friend.”
Armstrong hasn’t been assigned to the same space and time as Kimbelee, unlike him and Riza. It explains why he doesn’t place the name, but it also shows how good Kimbelee is at making people perceive him exactly like he wants them to.
In this case, the Armstrong family only knows of The Crimson Alchemist not of Solf J. Kimbelee.
That effect doesn’t last once you meet him. But most people don’t meet or even interact, like Roy or Ed has, with a state alchemist like him. And survive.
“The Crimson alchemist. Surely that name rings a bell.”
It does, but again, it doesn’t cause the impact he wants to see. “Ah, that fellow. A cunning alchemist, if a bit… too willing.”
Well, Roy is willing to respect the growing uncertainty in Armstrong’s voice. Even if, to Roy, the apparent lack of humanity in the man is obvious.
Maybe it is obvious because it takes one to know another.
“Willing is not the adjective I’d use.” If Roy was a lesser man, he’d say the many adjectives he has for that man. He doesn’t though. “The short version is that a building fell on Ed in very suspicious conditions.”
Because Riza is Riza and Armstrong is Ed’s friend, he adds. “I have my own theories about what happened, but it is best you confirm them with Ed.”
Silence surrounds them, and Roy isn’t really there.
Oh how he craves a drink.
Since Ed took it that day he hasn’t searched for one.
He has failed Ed enough, he won't fail him more.
“You said you had news for me?” He says, clasping his hands behind his back.
He feels both in and out of himself. Tied by the conversation and Ed’s condition to the present but disconnected otherwise. He hasn’t slept. His hands itch and he wants to both peel off his gloves and burn someone.
Armstrong wants to ask more but doesn’t. Better that way. Armstrong is too good of a man. More of an idealistic fool, in Maes’ words. It is not a compliment. “Maes Hughes, a friend of yours if I recall correctly, got an ascension recently. He is now a second lieutenant.”
“Oh, it seems I am the only one missing an ascension.” He jokes, rubbing his fingers together. That is good news, actually. Maes is already higher on the chain of command, and inside a departed that suits him. Good. It also keeps him away from the sand, the blood, the sun, the deaths. It pains Roy to leave Maes behind each time he leaves camp. But it also eases him.
Maes doesn’t deserve to die in these sands.
Maes deserves a life and a family with Garcia.
Good news in Ishval are few and in between. So even for what it is worth, it lets him breathe easier.
“I am glad. That is good news.” He concludes, closing his eyes for a few seconds. Breathe and open them again. Armstrong looks the same as he did before, but Riza has a twinkle in her eye. Oh, he’s going to be questioned once the major is gone.
Jolly.
“I talked with the lieutenant colonel before you arrived. The plan was for me to leave Ed with you, but now I stay here too with my company. All of us leave in a week.”
An indignant expression crosses Armstrong’s face at the unfair time assigned and Roy doesn’t add anything else. Like the fact Ed could have rested more time if Roy just left but he doesn’t want to. Can’t. Instead he prefers to have less time to rest, but be assured of Ed’s safety because he can be there to guarantee it himself.
He won’t let this happen again.
Silence surrounds them, and if he could, he would offer them to sit down. But there are no chairs and he doesn’t want to transmute ones. So they stand there.
His eyes itch, and the silence allows the guilt, the anger, to creep back in. So, just as Madame did when he got bored, he details the two people in front of him.
Armstrong is angled towards the door, glancing at the ground, the wall, the ceiling. His hair is a dull blonde that looks grey. His face looks abandoned, facial hair in disarray. The uniform, while spotless, seems too big for the man now, as it hangs too low, too loose in some places. The face that has always been pleasant is grim and grieving. The gauntlets seem too heavy, as the weight creates a slouch, which never existed before, not in these shoulders.
Roy gets the feeling Armstrong is holding onto a thin thread.
No wonder. Armstrong is too good, too naive, of a man to truly desensitize himself from the horrors. This is why Ed got along with him. Both are good, even if Ed is more realistic, more in touch, more resistant than Armstrong.
If Armstrong breaks, it’ll be because of his naivete. And part of Roy feels bad for considering that as a fault.
Riza instead looks… organized. Pulled together tightly, just like her posture. Her uniform is flawless, perfectly fitting. Her expression is stony, even if the circles around her eyes make them heavier. Her hand twitches and he realizes it is the hand with which she fires. The rifle behind her back, the way her stance is made to accommodate to the additional weight screams of familiarity and dread won through fighting more than practice. He can spot one pistol, the rifle and a knife. He knows she has more.
If Riza didn’t scold him for it, he would think the blue doesn’t fit her. That she shouldn’t be here. That the grief, and regret accumulating on her soul is his fault. That it is evidence of how he fuck up everything he touches.
Riza won’t blame him, not in the ways that matter. But it doesn’t matter whether it's his fault or not. Riza deserves better.
Much better than what this current country can offer.
He notices the knowing gaze in her eyes and he lets out a sigh. Did he stare for too long? Madamme would laugh at him, loosing track of time so badly. His legs ache. Have they been standing for this long? Neither of them seem to notice. How long has it been anyways? Time passes weird lately. It slips through his hands, like the sand he has tainting with blood.
The desert turns hours into jumbled thoughts.
Days into corpses.
Months into slogs of blood.
Not like it maks much of a difference. Everyday is more of the same.
Carl arrives just in time, before he can go down that one, very peculiar rabbit hole. “Major sirs.”
“At ease, Captain.”
“The doctors tell me Major Elric is awake. That one at a time may go back and check on his condition, sir. I have taken the freedom to redirect them to the few injured we have.”
“Nicely thought.” He releases his hands and waves at the general direction of the exit. “I am sure Major Armstrong here wishes to chat with Elric. Armstrong, why don’t you go ahead? He has been asking about you for a while now. He would appreciate seeing you.”
It is true. He isn’t lying. Yet why does it feel like he is?
“If you’d wish to go first-
“Go. Don’t worry about me. I am sure he appreciates the change of pace.”
Armstrong nods, like a weight pulled off his back, and leaves with Carl.
Now, there is Riza. If it weren't for the epaulets, an outsider would say Riza is the superior officer here.
“Sir.”
“Seriously? I understood before, with Armstrong-“
“Roy.”
Ah there it is.
“Yes?”
The roll of her eyes is familiar and it lets some tension bleed off his shoulders.
“When was the last time you slep?”
“Just before-“
“Properly.”
“That is not a fair question.”
The gaze she sends him is enough to have him resisting the urge of raising his arms apologetically.
“The last time you ate?”
“Not too long.”
She clicks her tongue, and jolly. That’s a new tick, isn’t it?
“Am I going to have to request a change of company to babysit-“
“Wha-
“-babysit you?”
Now, that is simply offensive.
“I am still of a higher rank than you.”
She rolls her eyes again but doesn’t refute.
Suddenly he gets the urge if just crumbling down and let it out and just stop- stop thinking, stop being the state Alchemist, the flame alchemist. Because Riza is competent, and hard working, and safe.
But no.
Riza deserves better. Better, becasue she doesn’t deserve having to both point a gun, and snatch a gun away from her friend’s hands.
“I am fine.” She doesn’t believe, and doesn’t blame her. “I have work pending. I couldn’t just leave it unfinished.”
Ed, Maes, Riza, everyone in this damn country deserves better.
He will be better.
He will.
“Then I won’t leave either. Not until you are done, sir.”
Maybe once they are out, Roy will tell her she doesn’t have to wait for him. That she can go on and live a life for herself. Without the pressure of being useful, or sharp, or on guard.
“Now, tell me. How is it working under the Strong Arm alchemist?”
For now, this is enough.
Ed wakes up, still sweating feverishly. There’s a numb sensation where the irriation of the cauterized wound should be, and feeling much more exhausted than when he went to sleep.
His first thought, which hardly comes thanks to the now evident concusion he ignored before, is about how insufferably warm it is. And who the fuck put a blanket over him? In the desert?
With his limbs feeling like lead, he doesn’t attemt to take it off. Instead, he looks down on his shoulder, noticing the new, better, bandages on his shoulder. So he got treated. Properly. He must also be on painkillers, as he doesn’t feel much of anything, not even an itch.
Roy isn’t here either. When did he leave?
No. For how long did he sleep? Last he remembers is Roy telling him to sleep, and-
As sleep vanishes, he feels more of his body. Rather slowly, he comes to the realization that his throath aches, his head is pulsing with pain, and his jacket is gone.
The jacket with the state alchemist clock.
“Fuck-“
The insult slips out as he rises. Or he would’ve, if two hands hadn’t stopped him.
“Edward, please don’t.”
Familiar voice. His brain helpfully supplies, as if he couldn’t tell before. Damn, he misses the adrenaline induced clarity.
He also closes his eyes in a wince as his shoulder hits the gurney. “Shit-“
He hears a sigh and a hand goes to his cheek. The touch screams of the touch of a mother but that can’t be true because he is not back home.
“Can you open your eyes?”
He opens one.
And is reqarded even a light being shoved up his fucking face.
“Fuc- Was that necessary?”
The light it put away and Ed blinks both his eyes open.
“Yes.” The voice says, kindly and familiar, but his brain can’t place it yet. “Sit still. I’ll bring water.”
Before he can complain, the voice leaves with the sound of even steps and a flash of yellow hair.
Yellow hair? Armstrong comes to mind befote he discards the idea. Hawkeye? Roy did mention she has blonde hair. But wasn’t she an sniper? When did she become a doctor? No, that can’t be right.
If anything it looks like Winry’s hair from the photo that is in his missing state alchemist clock.
He does comply and wait, even if he itches to stand and search for the clock. Roy must have it. Roy must have it. I am sure of it. He’d take care of them.
Wait- Motherly touch, blonde hair, bandaged shoulder, name calling, the gut feeling of familiarity-
He never talked to them much. But his mother talked about them, and he remembers-
“Sarah Rockbell?”
The question is more vulnerable than what he would’ve preferred but she understands.
Rushed steps later, a familiar face comes into view.
Ed almost cries. He has seen this face. When they visited with his mother the Rockbells. Or when he visited Winry since they were gone. Kind blue eyes. Unlike the haunted blue of his uniform. A blue as free as the sky.
She seems olders, stressed, and exhausted. But she is alive.
“Your husband?”
Urey? Or maybe- Yurey? No…. Yuriy. Yuriy Rockbell. Pinako’s son. He needs to know. Where is he? Is he alive? Will he have to tell Pinako her son died?
“I’ll call him over. Just stay here.” What does she see? A man? A child?
He can’t nod before she is gone.
He takes time to breathe. Fix his vision. Breathe again.
He won’t be a carrier of bad news. He won’t be a bringer of misfortune. He will return Winry’s family in its entirety.
She returns, this time, with another familiar face.
“Yuriy.” He wishes he could stand upright. Greet them in a hug, and smell his home in their embrace. But he can’t, stuck to the gurney thanks to the burned, and previously infected shoulder. So, he can only smile at them.
“Oh Edward.” Sarah helps him rise, now sitting with his back supported on the blanket that had covered him. He feels worse for wear. Tired. Stretched thin. It doesn’t help that his hair feels dirty and his uniform is tainted with, metaphorical, shit. He feels like the man he knows he has become.
But, what do they see? In contrast to the boy eho saw them depart all the way back in Resembool?
Yuriy extends a cup of water and he drinks.
Silence stretches thin and Ed feels out of his depth. Like a word of his will be too harsh. Like a touch if he will harm them.
How do you greet friends when they aren’t soldiers? Like his hands aren’t tinted with blood?
“Thanks.” He gulps down the last drops and takes a deep breath. “For everything. The water and my shoulder.”
He doesn't know how to feel. Elated, certainly. Comforted too. Confused doesn’t work either.
Unfit, that is how he feels. He feels unfit for talking with them. Like a monster trying to peel of its skin to seem more human.
Unfit of that life he left behind, forced or not, like a soldier with too much power and blood on their hands.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to initiate the conversation again.
“No, Ed. No need to thank us. It's the least we could do.” Yuriy says, taking the glass from his hand. And if Ed notices how he glances at the rings he doesn’t say. Likewise, if Yuriy notices the trembling in Ed’s hands, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
Yuriy seems content to leave it at that. Much like Pinako, in the sense that he doesn’t care for details other than the general well being and health. He cares, regardless of the fine print.
Sarah, much like Winry, worries to the point it reflects on her face and her voice as she asks. “State alchemist?” The question carries a weight that Ed loathes. It sounds too much like the privates muttering dogs at them.
“I was drafted.” If it sounds defensive, he can’t help it. He hates the blue uniform more than anything at the moment. “Everyone did everything they could to stop it.” But it happened.
She sighs and nods. “I know. No one is blaming you, Ed. I always knew you wouldn’t- What matters is that you are safe.” He can guess what she didn’t say. He can hear it, even if it was cut.
“You wouldn’t sell yourself as a dog.”
It hurts to know he has.
He did sell himself. The price set for returning home.
He regrets. But most importantly.
He hates it.
He doesn’t reply. Verbally at least. He smiles and extends his arms. He hugs Sarah, Yuiry patting his back. They smell like medicine, sweat and grass. They feel like home . Even if they’ve been gone for longer than Ed. No wonder. Because they didn’t eave to fuck over people’s lives. They left to help.
Nothing can smell more like home than that.
The hug passes and he decides to ask. “When did you arrive?”
“An hour and a half ago. We had to remove a piece of the rock that impaled you.” Yury says, taking out something and handing it to Ed. “Here.”
It isn’t bigger than a bullet. Just the right size to stay lodged in Ed’s shoulder and for Roy to not notice. Which makes it all the more accomplishing. “You took this out in only an hour? Working around burnt tissue?”
Yuriy smiles, proud. Just like Winry when she’s right. “It was challenging. But we’ve seen all sorts of things.”
Figures.
“How did this happen Ed?”
And he should have expected this question.
“Sarah-“
“No. I am serious about this one. How?”
Fuck his life. While he is glad to have reunited with them, it’s not like he can tell them a building fell on him. They’d fuzz and worry. And Ed doesn’t need that. He needs them focused on themselves and being alive, not stressing over something that already happened.
Knowing he is a state alchemist is one thing. Seeing its consequences. Forbid, seeing them or him working in person would fracture any image they might have of him.
And he is selfish. If he wasn’t he would've laid down his life for the Ishavlans to survive. Or the colonel. He’s selfish, and he wants them to continue to look at him as a person and not a dog.
“I was marching and trying to push me away from a bullet, a private pushed me towards the floor. It wasn’t pretty.”
Yuriy glares at Sarah one last time and she stops asking.
“Alright. Unfortunate, but with the amount of debris lying around, it is not surprising.” She says, looking at the bandages. “The cauterization did its job. It is just a shame there was a piece lodged in too.”
“I know. It was quite the fast thinking from Roy. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here. It also helps that I wouldn't trust anyone else with fire around me or a wound.” He smiles and then shakes his head. It hurt like a bitch, but he knew there was no other way. He needs Roy to know this. He needs Roy. To tell him, and stop that haunted look that enters his face each time he looks at Ed’s shoulder.
He also needs Roy to return to look at him, and not his injury. For Roy to smile again, in that unashamedly beautiful way of his that makes his stomach flip.
Ed never said he wasn’t a selfish man.
“Still it was risky-“
“But it worked.”
Sarah doesn’t say more. She doesn’t understand.
Ed doesn’t blame her.
“Now, normally we would recommend resting but, the major asked for immediate news about your condition so-“
“It's fine. I've slept enough.”
Yuriy nods and takes Sarah’s shoulder. “Ill tell the captain. If anything happens, or you feel ill. Tell us.”
“Of course. Its good to see both of you.”
They smile at each other. Yuriy looking, recognizing but not understanding. Sarah looks but doesn’t see Edward. And Ed simply lets it pass.
As long as he keeps being Ed to them. He’ll live.
He expected Roy to come barging, with those controlled strides of his, and a worried expression that made Ed’s heart hurt.
It’s not Roy who enters.
Armstrong, with his ridiculous hair, massive size, enters through the door and Ed can’t believe it. When did he arrive?
Relief flows through him. He wheezes both a laugh and a sigh. “Alex?”
“Edward?”
Oh for fucks sake. They look like idiots. Gaping at each other. Ed wishes his shoulder wasn’t this fucked. Normally they’d hug, Ed would jab the man with his elbow, and Armstrong would ruffle his hair.
Instead, Armstrong walked towards him, unsure of what to do.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
Sadly, Edward is also unsure of what to do.
“It’s good to see you again.” Alex ends up sitting by the chair on his side. “At least, it is good to see you awake.”
“You watched me sleep? Fucking creepy dude.”
“That is no-“
“You made your bed. Lie on it.”
Armstrong sighs and shakes his head, but Ed can see the peace, the happiness all painted on the man's face. Ed knows he has a similar expression, but with a grin instead of a smile.
Even if they hadn’t seen each other in nearly two months. Or maybe more.
Seriously, here, he loses track of time as it bleeds into a repetitive mess of violence and grief and military bullshit. He fucking hates it. It feels as if he is losing himself, losing his time, his life to the war.
He hates it because the only measure of time comes from the small comforts of treasured company.
“How long has it been since we last saw each other?”
“I would be inclined to say since March, but I cannot be sure.”
“If so, its been three fucking months.” Of worrying or praying for anything. Praying for luck, or to any god if they exist, that his friend doesn’t die. That he remains safe from the misfortune Ed seems to bring to the people he cares for. That he doesn’t end up like Sergei, Matthew, Katie, and Chris. “And you haven’t grown a single additional hair.”
The other rolls his eyes but smiles. Armstrong is a bit of a drag to banter with, but that is fine. For now, the fact the other is alive is enough.
“Are you here to stay or?”
“To stay, I’d say. From here on we march alongside you and Mustang.”
“How generous of them. What did we sell in exchange? Our souls?”
Armstrong sends him an unamused glare. “Mustang managed to strike a deal with the lieutenant colonel. You have a week to recover then we leave.”
“Only a week?” He can already feel the pain in his shoulder during the rest of the month. He can also predict the motherhening of not only Roy but also Armstrong and the Rockbells. For fucks sake. It’s going to be a long recovery. “Those fuckers-“
“Mind your language-“
“Mind my language my ass. A fuking building fell on me and the best they can give is a single week?”
“If it serves for any consolation, I can carry you easily.”
“It doesn't but thanks for the attempt.”
Silence fills the room and Ed deflates, even if he remains a bit tense around the shoulders.
The silence that follows is just that. Silence. Armstrong looks comfortable and Ed feels comforted so all is fine. No. Not really. They are fading at the edges. Crumbling. Armstrong looks ready to cry and give up and leave. Ed feels like shouting his lungs out. It is not fine, but at least they are together again.
“Well. Now that you are here, you can’t leave alright. We have to get through this.”
They can continue resisting together.
“Of course. I couldn’t ask for a better friendship.”
“That’s so fucking sappy. Stop.”
“I am afraid yours was not any better.”
They talk of eveything and nothing. Touching certain topics and avoiding others. Then Armstrong leaves, promising to return once everyone in his company is settled and accounted for, and Ed is reminded why being confined to a bed sucks.
Roy hasn’t appeared but Ed can wait. The other is probably organizing their company for which he is grateful and won't complain. Or maybe he is just talking with Hawkeye. Which is also valid. He also trusts the man to return. He has this hunch in his chest that trusts Roy. It also feels like warmth spreading through his heart.
The Rockbells are off treating other patients. Or searching for them. It was obvious. Ed could see it in the way they snuck off while he was talking with Alex.
He needs to talk to them about that. But he also doesn’t want to ruin this shit.
In fact, he’s so fucking bored he can even make a list out of why being confined to a bed is absolutely disgusting and horrible.
1.It gives him enough time to think about his pain.
Sure the shoulder aches but if he could do stuff, he would probably focus on it less.
2.The heat inside is absolutely awful.
Its basic greenhouse effect. Heat and hollow surface under a cover equals trapped heat. Which results in an awful resting condition.
He can’t even sleep with how fucking suffocating it is.
3.No widely available resources.
Meaning: No alchemical circles, calculations and such others than the ones he can run in his head. And even then, it only keeps him entertained to do it mentally for so long. It works when he is doing something, not wasting away.
He won't use the rings. They are made to kill.
He’s already hurt enough people.
4.Time to think.
By far, the worst part.
He can’t compartmentalize and keep everything locked away with nothing to entertain him.
He can feel everything start to haunt him. The guilt eating away. His limbs buzz with energy and the pure power given by guilt.
He hates it, because he had time to think about home. About his fallen comrades. About his victims. About the corpses. About the children.
He hates it because he has time to think about Kimbelee, the anger and the disgust.
He hates he hates he hates he hates he hates he hate he hates
He hates the cycle he is trapped inside off. Kill and repeat, kill and repeat. No time to grieve.
Just hate and hate and hate
With nothing to do, the thoughts he always keeps far away from his mind, slip in slowly. Like the venom dripping from the words of a colonel he send off to be executed at the hands of someone he now consider a friend and maybe would want to consider as more
He hates that he can feel more than hate. That he feels relief when surviving another day, that he feels driven to go home. He hates that he can feel what he thinks is love while killing and killing and killing
He is going to scream and trash and he wants to go home but he hates so much and he is trapped in the desert in a tent and in his head and he needs out-
5. His missing clock.
Could Roy Mustang please return? He needs his clock. Thank you.
…
Fucking hell. He is getting bored. This is his biggest problem. He has energy and needs to expend it.
His face contorts into a grimace and he fiddles with his rings.
It has always been like this. Of the few times he got sick back home, he always had trouble sitting still. He always got scolded for sneaking out, but at least he could do shit.
Right now though? A building fell on him, his shoulder is fucked, he can’t move and he has energy to spend.
Activities make everything better. Makes it harder to focus on the people that are not here because of him reasons. Makes it harder to focus on the undercurrent of anger curled deep in his lungs.
Oh wait. He has something else to add.
6. He has no fucking clock.
So he doesn’t know how much time has passed and that makes it worse. Because he doesn’t know jackshit. He has literally no frame of reference for shit.
He ends up in this dilemma for an unknown amount of time, until Roy and someone he assumes is Hawkeye, arrive. Why does he assume the… corporal is Hawkeye? Well, it's because of the expression and no nonsense attitude he senses from her. It gives off the same vibes that Roy and Maes described. Read: terrifying, reassuring, and capable.
He is about to sigh with relief when Roy says. “What is with the short expression?”
“If you don’t shu-“
“Calm down, Ed. Why the short fuse today, is it to mirror your height?”
“I can and will strangle you.”
“Strangle my ankles maybe.”
“Piece of shit.”
He compartmentalizes and closes the dam.
Later.
He’ll think about it later.
Roy’s grin as he teases Ed and small dimples, his black hair, his kind but also strong, determined, human heart, and his gentle hands as he reaches for the gurney, just a few instances away from his-
Later. Later.
As of now, he needs something else. Not now.
Later.
“Well, leaving that small issue aside, I want to introduce you to Corporal Riza Hawkeye. I believe both Maes and I have mentioned her to you.”
“Pleased to meet you. Edward Elric. It is good to know that Roy befriended one capable person.”
“It's a pleasure too, sir.”
He scowls. “No. Just Ed or Edward. Elric even. But not sir. It makes me feel old. Like him.”
“I would like to remind you that I am twenty two.”
He ignores Roy.
“Then Riza is just fine, Edward.”
She smiles at him and he nods. “Great.”
Riza says nothing else, and Ed turns to Roy.
“Give me my jacket back, bastard.”
“I don't have it here-“
“Then my clock. Please.”
Roy takes out the silver clock and places it on Ed’s hand. He does so with such a delicate touch, and warm gaze that Ed’s eyes and heart ache.
“Thank you.”
“It's the least I could do.”
Silence stretches thin. And he would be content to sit in it, as he is no longer alone and can keep his attention honed in on Roy. But of course the other sees fit to break it.
“How is your shoulder?”
“Fine. I have painkillers and it just aches. But overall, neither Sarah nor Yuriy have anything bad to say about it.”
“So those were the Rockbells?”
“Yeah, you figured it?”
“The family resemblance is uncanny.”
Ed chuckle. It rattles his shoulder and he winces. “One way of saying it.” Roy pulled a closer chair for Riza but she seems content standing, even as he sits. Ed can relate, with the feeling of being in constant guard. Roy relates too. As he has his gloves on, and Ed his rings. If standing guard is what lets her have peace of mind, Ed won’t judge. He can’t. Focusing on Roy’s features, he can feel the question coming. “Just ask already.”
“Who did it?” It is a tone Ed doesn’t like to hear from Roy. Makes the other sound more haunted, and exhausted. Angry. Rabid.
He lets out a sigh, Kimbelee’s face coming to mind.
“Don’t you know already?”
“Humor me.”
“Kimbelee.” He considers saying that Finn was likely involved. But then he remembers the face of guilt, his fear, and most importantly the fact that he is a kid. A sixteen year old who was drafted. No matter how many bigoted ideas he may have, he doesn’t know any better.
Ed doubts Kimbelee was compassionate when coercing Finn.
“What happened? Exactly?”
“Is this an interrogation or something?”
He expected Roy to just add another tease or maybe joke. He didn’t expect for the other to grab his hand and squeeze as gently as Ed can possibly imagine.
“Please.”
And here, he can tell, Roy continues to blame himself. Even when he has repeatedly told him otherwise.
Roy is still searching for ways he could have done better.
As he focuses on Roy, he can’t see the gaze in Riza's eyes. It is not like he could have placed the feeling lying there. Of all things, she is beginning to understand what Maes told her last time she saw him.
Ed squeezes Roy’s hand back. “Alright. Fine. Truth is, I was distracted.” Distracted is an understatement. He was dizzy, exhausted; Distracted doesn’t cover it, but if it can ease Roy, then fine. It is not Roy’s fault that Ed decided to go into the field with a concussion. That is wholly on Ed. He needs Roy to understand that. “Three, I think it was three, Ishvalans ambushed me. In the fight, we got pushed into the building. I got rid of one, and then Kimbelee shot the rest. Before I could do anything, he transmuted the whole building.”
And isn’t that the most vague and comprehensive summary Ed could have crafted.
Roy leans back, thinking. Probably comparing his version to what he found. He adds. “Nothing else happened? Did you see how he transmuted the building?”
“I was inside. He transmuted it from the outside.”
With that, Roy sighs and nods. He is so deep in thought, Ed notices he rubs his heart finger with the thumb. A habit Ed sees when the other is going far too deep inside his own mind.
And inside that space, there is hatred, and Ed hates it. He feels that hatred himself, and he wants nothing like that for Roy. Still, he also knows Roy is stubborn like Ed. They are too similar for Ed to attempt anything other than. “Be careful. Please. Don’t be fucking stupid.”
This shakes Roy out, making him grin, while putting one hand on his chest. “Me? Stupid? Please-“
“You never know with old people like you.”
“Little shit.”
Ed laughs and he can see the exasperated expression in Riza’s face, and the gentleness in Roy’s eyes. He can get used to it.
He will
Notes:
Soooo New Chap!!! I hope ypu like it and that it was worth the wait. Many things happened, but i am finally finishing IB (fuck that) so hopefully I’ll write more.
I have two endings planned, both very very interesting but I am plotting, and I am close to narrowing it down.
Believe me, i will finish this.
I love this fic with my soul too much to not finish it.
And that leads me to: THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE COMMENTS. They made me push through a lot of extra hard stuff (not only academic). You give me part of the confidence that allows me to trust in what write so thank you so much.
(Also, is it obvious this chapter was larger and I cut it in half so that the next one flowed better?)
Have a nice night, a good day, or whatever, and in good spirits the next one shall be done by friday!
Chapter 11: Edward, Sarah
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A week passes in between changing bandages, watching the Rockbells come and go, chatting with Armstrong, resting in silence alongside Roy, and getting to know Hawkeye.
He rests on the gurney most of the time. When there are others, he isn’t even allowed to move. With maybe the exception of Roy, who just gives his best to offer an arm as he tries to move.
The burn mark is reduced to, not scarring, not yet, but a mess of aching sores and red red flesh. It hurts like a bitch to even think about his shoulder, but overall, it is better.
At least it is not infected anymore.
In any case, he feels a bit better now.
He needs to, as today they are marching again.
Do people truly believe high ranking politicians passing as soldiers care for them? How ridiculous.
They can’t even manage to truly care for some of their best weapons.
He hates it. Despises it increasingly more with each ache of his shoulder.
Most of the time, it is either the Rockbells or Roy changing his bandages. The first time the latter had tried, he sent him an amused gaze.
“Really?”
“Yes really.” Roy had brushed off his reservations with a wave at the gloves he had tucked into the front pocket of his jacket.
Ed did not have his rings on either; Roy took them off the moment he saw the rashes they were starting to leave on his skin. He had lost his dagger, and his bracers in the incident. He will need to find a replacement soon.
“As hard as it is to believe, I was not always great at flame alchemy.”
He had extended one arm towards Roy, taking his hand and feeling their rough, calloused grip. If he looked closer, he could see small scars from burns. “They healed nicely. Did anyone teach you?”
Roy pulled his hand away to put the bandages. The way Roy placed the bandages, the ointments procured by the Rockbells were tight, reassuring, but also gentle and a bit loose so as to not hurt. “Madame did. Eventually, I picked up the trick.”
When he was done wrapping them, he set his hand over Ed’s. His eyes smiled and grieved. Ed’s heart trembled,
“Thanks Roy.”
Ed ended up preferring it when Roy did it.
Not that he’ll tell anyone that.
Once that week is over, it's time for them to leave, as per the Lieutenant Colonel’s orders.
During that whole week, Ed was stuck in a gurney. Trapped in the gurney, he worried a lot, for a lack of better things to do. .
This is not to say he has never been worried. He’s been more worried lately than he can ever remember, or wishing, being. He has always been worried for Roy, for Hawkeye, for Louis.
No, what had him uneasy are the Rockbells.
Because each time the Rockbells leave in search of
Ishvalans, trouble, death
patients, he worries twice as bad.
He can care for Roy when he comes back, and tend to his wounds. He can be the helpful ear who listens to Louis’ worries and nightmares. He can sit in silence as Riza stares at her hands, trying to get familiar in the ways one can comfort her. But he can’t stop them. He can’t do anything, because he is one of the many obstacles between them and their goal.
If he were to say anything about where they go, what they do, he’d be ordered to do something he’d hate himself for forever.
More than he already does.
So he hates it.
So he worries.
This is why, when Yuriy comes to help him out of the tent, he asks. “Where have you been when you were not treating me? Are that many in our company injured?”
Yuriy pauses, looking slightly alarmed for barely a second. “Not really. When we weren’t here we decided to take the remaining time to rest. We rarely do lately.” Which would be an amazing lie, if it wasn’t for his eye bags. He even spots sores in Yuriy’s hands when he placed Ed’s healthy arm around his shoulders.
Ed doesn’t answer, content to just give a nod.
Slowly, Yuriy guides him out of the tent.
“We can go faster, you know? It doesn’t hurt that much.”
“You were impaled last week, Ed. it is a miracle we are letting you walk. ”
“I’ll have to march in like, ten fucking minutes, Yuriy.”
“Language.” Yuriy changes his hold, to accommodate better. “And it doesn’t matter. The less you strain it the better.”
Figures.
He spots Roy, who looks decently rested, is dishing out orders left and right. For this he has to thank Hawkeye, who for her part, whipped Roy back into shape. Ed even teased the other about it, and the only response he got was: Just wait till she starts doing it to you too.
Looking around, Ed can barely tell this was a military camp. The tent has been taken down, the only one missing is the medical tent he just came out of. All the privates are moving around, either taking apart the camp or already standing in formation to march.
He spots a Finn Bauer by the corner of his eye. The kid had been looking at him, but he quickly walked away, panic and guilt written on his face. Ed can’t help but sigh.
He can’t blame the kid, not really, because he knows was coerced by Kimbelee of all monsters.
That doesn’t take away the feeling of claustrophobia that comes to him in the middle of the night. That doesn’t prevent the fear and paranoia that has him gasping for air, and crying in phantom pain.
He decided to not reprimand the kid, but he can’t help but feel apprehension towards him.
He has a feeling guilt will pay his dues.
Roy, who just turned around to find him sigh, immediately worries. “Ed what is it? Is it hurting too much?”
“Good morning to you too, Mustang.”
“Ed-”
“It is manageable. Now stop worrying old man, and let's get this shit done.”
He gets two responses.
“I am twenty two, shrimp.”
“Language.”
Glaring at both, he shrugs off Yuriy to finally stand straight.
In truth, his shoulder does hurt in a sharp and constant ache. The sun quickly burns him, making him sweat, even if he only has the basic white shirt on. His bracers, that Roy somehow found, are heating up too, his rings weigh awkwardly on his injured arm, and the clock is reassuring and a curse in his chest. Sarah had been apprehensive of him using them, but he had insisted.
He feels safer with them, for as much as he hates what he’s done with them.
With them, he knows he won’t die if someone tries to press a gun against his back, or collapses a building over him.
Roy tries to reach out and replace Yuriy. Ed doesn’t turn him away, instead, he grabs his hand, and holds him. Roy may look well rested but the worry and the guilt hasn’t vanished as Ed had wanted.
He needs Roy to trust him, again.
He won’t push him away again. He will try to stand on the same ground.
He won’t leave Roy.
Ed fails to see the look that Yuriy sends them. He does see the change in Roy’s expression. It is sweet, light and gentle. Like his hope and world stands in front of him, and he wants nothing more than to hold his hand, cradle it close to his face, and
love
keep it there.
Oh his heart trembles under that gaze. He loves Roy, he is painfully aware of how in his heart there is a new cavity for Roy to fill.
Maybe, no, when they are out, he will find Roy and take him to a field of flowers to examine and prod at this feeling until it is not only a fantasy but a fact.
“Don’t get sappy on me, Roy.” He lets go of his hand, and steps closer to Roy just to nudge him where he knows the other is ticklish. “Didn’t we have to get going like an hour ago?”
“You-” he watches as Roy diverts his hand, glaring at it with vengeance. Behind that look, Ed can still feel the gentle caress of his gaze. “We did,
but
it is not my fault a certain
gnome
decided to wake up late.”
Not to mention that Roy let him sleep a bit more.
“Who’s the gnome, you overgrown lighter?”
“You, you pipsqu-”
Before Roy can answer, Yuriy has a hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Don’t jostle your shoulder, Ed. You are still injured.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He brushes him off, but does stop moving so much.
Roy shakes his head and points at the formation. “Mr Rockbell, do you think he is in shape to march in front?”
“Hey-”
“No. It would be preferable that he stays behind.”
He glares at both. “Excuse yo-”
“Then, Ed, please stay withs”
“Wait. Come on. Are you serious? I am marching with you. I am not leaving you alone.”
“Technically I am not alone, Armstrong will be there. You will stay with Corporal Hawkeye while you finish your recovery.”
“Roy-”
“No. You heard the Rockbells.” He looks behind Ed. “It seems we are finally ready to depart.” He then leans over to Ed’s ear and says. “Please, Ed. Just this time, for my peace of mind.”
Ah fuck Roy for being so convincing.
He is so soft for this man.
Besides, he already learnt his lesson with going overboard.
“Fine, you manipulative bastard.” He pushes the man away, with a scowl that is seconds away from turning into a smile. “Leave before I kick your ass, overprotective buffoon.”
Don’t worry, I will be fine.
Sorry for worrying you last time. Sorry for lying.
Roy gives him a last look, one filled with pleas for carefulness and, deep down, needless forgiveness, before tilting his head and leaving. Each step deliberate, orchestrated to look confident and poised.
He turns to Yuriy just to see the understanding and maybe even reminiscence in his eyes.
He wonders what he sees. He also doesn't want to know.
Nudging Yuriry, he starts walking towards the formation. “Come on, the sooner we get going the faster we will leave this place.”
He doesn’t look back. Neither does Roy, as each stands in their designated positions.
This time, he won’t betray the others' trust.
They march for hours.
Of course, both Roy and Louis give them frequent stops. Using one excuse after the other, they march for six whole hours, with frequent breaks in-between.
Sometimes he feels Roy’s gaze in him, but he doesn’t leave the front. He stays at the front, keeping the formation in place.
Ed doesn’t miss the responsibility of standing there. But he aches standing by Roy’s side and easing the pressure.
Despite the breaks, Ed’s shoulder pulses with pain that has him stumbling occasionally, his jaw clenched impossibly tight. His head buzzes and burns, overwhelmed by both pain and heat. He trips on more than one occasion.
The sun doesn’t give them any respite even if he has the military jacket draped over his head, but at the very least they don’t have to face any sandstorms.
Riza doesn’t leave his side, always close to him in case of anything. She doesn’t watch him nearly as much, seemingly trusting his ability to walk.
Something Roy doesn’t, not lately.
He doesn’t blame Roy. Will never blame Roy, because sometimes he wakes with the crushing closeness of transmuted earth all over him, and a sharp piercing pain in his sides. Sometimes, less frequently, he forgets to breathe and he feels panic all at once, even if he is actually inside a way too warm tent.
No, he will never resent Roy.
Riza is different from Roy. They may be very similar, the way only friends like Maes described could be. But even then, they are so different.
Roy has that smile, that hair, those remarks, that quick mind. He is soft, determined and very very
him.
Roy turns against himself, guilty and angry and horrified at his hands, his gloves his fire his alchemy.
Riza has that bun, hair always neat, her perfect posture, and understanding eyes. She is consistent, a steady figure that persists.
Riza who silently endures, even as panic wrecks through her chest and guilt crushes her lungs.
So yes. Riza is different from Roy, different because while she appreciates him, she doesn’t feel the crushing attachment Roy feels for Ed. And Ed would be stupid to not see it. Sure, Yuriy, Sarah, and Louis coodle him, but not nearly as much as Roy does, in his own very unique way.
Ed is the very same. He and Roy are very alike. In their own ways.
Ed is not stupid. He knows there is a name for what he, and probably Roy, have in their chest.
Love. Does he get this privilege? To name something so gentle and place it in his hands, made of blood and already used to holding weapons of transmuted metal?
Regardless of any of that.
He is glad Hawkeye does not hover around him with worry and
love
attachment. And he is working to get Roy to trust him, both his word and his capabilities, again. It's a slow process.
The Rockbells also stand close to him, in case he seems to make his injuries worse. They are awfully out of place among the military, their white coats dirty with use, stand out like a sore.
They look like angels among devils.
No one talks. Riza doesn’t because she is incredibly disciplined and military, something he sees even in their casual conversations. He wonders if she is always like this. She is incredibly similar to what Maes described, but he feels he is missing something. Maybe he is missing the pieces of Riza that the desert buried. She matches the version of her that Roy described, but not really, because her edges are much harsher than he had described. Her smilles nearly nonexistent. Her voice is unused and rough. He wonders how deep in the sand that soft Riza is buried under. Sarah and Yuriy seem uncomfortable with speaking right now, keeping their head low as they pass through the barren land. Ed wonders when he got so desensitized from the sight. He wonders when the bile and guilt he pushed down will finally make him collapse. He wants to apologize for his seeming apathy, for causing this pain. He wonders if they will forgive him.
They end up walking in silence.
By the time day turns to night, Ed is sweating with exhaustion and pain. His shoulder hurts, just like it did before and it's not like he reopened the injury, but his exhaustment makes it feel worse. His head hurts, pounding as he tramples in the sand. Eventually it gets to be too much, and he tells them. Riza, who always had an eye over him, leaves to inform Roy as the Rockbells make him sit and drink water.
“You didn’t tell us-” Sarah hovers somewhere around his shoulder, looking at his shoulder.
She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t look at his face. He wonders if she can reconcile this sight to who he was.
“It wasn’t this bad. ” Yuriy extends a wand with a flask. He downs the water in one gulp, and feels slightly better. Still, he wishes to fucking tear off his shoulder. “And I just told you.”
There is movement around him, and someone puts a hand on his forehead. It isn’t calloused, not like his or Roy’s or Armstrong’s or Riza’s. It isn’t smooth either. These are the hands of a hardworking person,
who has their hands clean of innocent blood.
He looks up to find Sarah. Off to the side, he sees Yuriy talk to Roy, probably reporting the situation.
“Ed look at me.” He looks back at her, yet she keeps missing him. “You are too warm, Ed.”
“That tends to happen when you stand in the sun for too long.”
“You should’ve told-”
“We are in the desert, Sarah. What could you or Yuriy have done? I already had my jacket over my head like you told me. And I drank water. Frequently.” Which also led to several bathroom detours, to his annoyance.
“Ed-”
“I did everything right, I am just tired. We’ll camp for the night and march tomorrow again.” He knows this rhythm intimately, he has repeated it several times. This is just military life.
He hates that he knows it so well.
Sarah looks horrified at his practicality. It makes Ed all the more aware of the cognitive dissonance she has yet to fix. He doesn’t know what she sees.
“You shouldn’t be marching.”
You shouldn’t be here.
“But I am.”
Roy comes back, and damn he looks worried.
“Ed-”
“ Don’t. I am tired, and the wound reminded me of it. I’ll sleep it off.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Realistically speaking, n-”
Sarah interrupts him. “ Yes. Keep him off the march. Ask for more time, Major. He needs to rest and recover.”
The look Roy sends Sarah is a mix of many emotions, and Ed can see a bit of pity and resignation. “I know that but neither of those is an option, Mrs Rockbell. The Lieutenant Colonel made it clear that any more delays will be considered as us disobeying orders, which will end up doing more harm than good, if you know what I mean. And the major here has refused, repeatedly, the use of a stretcher.” Ed intervenes in that last part.
“ Because I am perfectly capable of walking. My shoulder does not prevent me from walking.”
“You were impaled.”
“ But it did not go all the way through. The entry wound is already closed and disinfected, and the burnt tissue is already being treated.”
Giving up on him, as if he is a child who does not see reason, she turns to Roy. “You can’t possibly let him continue. If you cared for him, you’d force him to rest and delay the march. If you had cared for him you wouldn't have burnt him the way you did.”
Roy looks as if he was struck. The movement of the soldiers around them dies down. “Mrs Rockbell, as much as I respect your opinion as a doctor, delay is not an option. I will ask that you, as a civilian, to stop telling me how to do my or Edward’s job. Besides, Major Elric is an adult capable of critical thinking. I will not force the Major to do anything. If you fail to understand, then that is not on me.” Ed can see the guilt climbing up Roy’s back despite the bite in his words. Guilt from allowing the injury to happen, from being powerless at the orders of his high ranking officials.
Maybe, he is one of the few who sees this guilt. It wouldn’t be hard for Ed to imagine the rest don’t see beyond the reprimand.
He knows Roy agrees with Sarah. He knows Roy wants him to rest on a gurney. He knows that Roy would like him to live a better life outside of the military, away from the desert and Roy himself. He knows Roy, like Sarah, wants him to live free of the soldier’s life.
But unlike Sarah, who just knows Ed the child, Roy knows Ed as a soldier. He knows what Ed is capable of as a soldier and a state alchemist. Roy can accept the reality that Ed has to be a soldier, including the woes of the job. He has learnt to accept this, even if he wishes he didn’t. He knows Ed is a sinner too, and is learning to trust in him to rely on and trust.
Sarah does not understand this. She sees Ed the child, where Roy sees a state alchemist equal to himself. She sees Trisha’s child, not the state alchemist.
He stands to put a hand on Roy’s shoulder. Sarah moves to stop him, while Roy helps him stand steady.
In its core, the difference is that Sarah doesn’t see Ed.
He can’t blame nor indulge her.
“I will be fine. This is just while it heals. I’ll make sure to rest tonight and recover.” He says this to both of them. He needs to reassure them. Both were out of line, Ed has to admit, but that is a problem he can address with Roy in a second. “Tomorrow I will march with the rest. It is not ideal, but it is what it is.”
Before Sarah can add anything, Yuriy places a hand on her shoulder. “Alright. We’ll give you some painkillers to ease the pain. Go sleep.”
He thanks Yuriy, and leaves with Roy to prepare his sleeping bag.
Sarah is left behind, to stare at his uniformed back.
“Roy.”
Roy hums, steadily guiding Ed away. They have already distanced themselves from Sarah, but even now, he can still feel her gaze on him. And Roy, for that matter.
“Roy, look at me for a second.”
He does, though his gaze is trained on Ed’s shoulder rather than his face. His face is perfectly neutral, but even then Ed can tell he is just thoughts away from blaming himself. It’s in the slope of his shoulder, the line he pressed his lips into, and the way he holds his hands.
“What you did, you did because you care . You did the best you could have done in that situation.” He lets his hand rest on Roy’s shoulder, applying enough pressure to be reassuring. “I don’t want to see you blame yourself for long. I’ve already told you I agree. What else do you need to get that guilt out of your fucking head?”
Maybe it’s a bit harsh, but he sees it’s what Roy needs, his reaction between anger and relief. “Perhaps, it’s because she is right. I shouldn’t let you march as you are.”
“And? I took the decision, and you just respect it.” He jams a finger into Roy’s chest. “She is babying me because she doesn't know me as I am right now. Do you want to make the same claim?”
“Of course not-”
“Then why do you still blame yourself? It’s my decision, end of discussion.”
Roy seems to want to argue, probably making claims that are not his to make, or by placing even more responsibility on his shoulders, yet he stops. His face turns heavy as he rubs a hand over his eyes.
Ed sees the apology before it ever comes close to being said. “Don’t apologize to me. You two need to have a conversation.”
As they reunite with Riza and Armstrong, Roy lets out a scoff, though it sounds more apprehensive than offended. “With Mrs. Rockbell?”
“Don’t get your ego in a knot. She was the one who crossed the line first, sure, but you also lashed out.”
Roy doesn’t deny it, and Riza, who was just looking at them from the sides tunes into the conversation. “Edward is not asking for anything unreasonable, sir.”
Oh thanks, Riza. You are great. He decides he’ll get her a gift once they are out.
Also, Ed knows she is using the sir to both mess with Roy and scold him. What a woman.
She continues. “You are the commanding officer here, and as such, you would take the first step.”
Ed smiles at riza and she nods back.
“Gang up on me. Great. For the record, I never said I wasn't going to apologize or anything of the matter.”
“Maybe, but sir, you’d postpone it.” Ah Riza, you took the words out of Ed’s mouth.
“That, and the fact I am sure she will not apologize first.” Ed shakes his head. “Why do I know?, Well, I know her daughter, and they are very fucking similar. It's eerie considering Winry is still a child . You even notice how similar they are to you. Second, she has a strong distaste for the military. Many people back home do. So, do yourself a favor and go first.” Besides, we need someone who isn’t afraid of owning up to their mistakes.
That would be someone worth following.
Roy sighs, and while arranging his and Ed’s sleeping equipment, he responds. “Alright.”
“Great, one less dick measuring contest.” He can physically hear Yuriry’s language, and he can’t help but laugh. Eventually, when it dies down, he tries to go over to help Roy. Riza stops him with a glare. “Oh come on, I am not an invalid. If I can march I can do this.”
“Edward.”
He gathers his breath, but at her continuous glare he lets it out in a huf. “Alright.”
Roy gets it done fast, and Ed finally lies down. A breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding comes out of him. Roy, but smug and concerned, looks at him from where he is standing.
“Shut up, Roy.”
The other smiles and leans down as well. As he does so, he can see the silent conversation he has with Riza, who then moves to say something to Armstrong. He gets the gist of it, but Roy still clarifies. “Riza will be taking first watch. Then Armstrong, then me.”
He doesn’t complain, because he does know his limits, and he won’t say no to a few more hours of sleep. “Fine.”
He closes his eyes, and prepares to go to sleep.
In ten minutes he manages to lul himself into something resembling deep sleep.
Sadly, someone sees the need to say.
“If you need to rest-”
“That’s what I am trying to do.”
A sigh comes from his side. He is inside his sleeping bag, with Roy, Armstrong and Riza nearby. Riza sits a few meters away, gun in her hand, as she stands guard. Armstrong is already asleep, not deeply, but his breathing is stable and constant. Roy clearly hasn’t fallen asleep, if he can continue to ask that question,
“You know what I mean, Ed.” There is rustling and he just knows Roy turned around to look at him. “She is right.”
“But you are not wrong either. You will not force me into a gurney, and you can’t ask for more time. Besides, I cannot afford to grow stiff while I wait, and walking is not the worst way to prevent that.” Done with having the same conversation, he turns around, away from Ed. “We are already talking about this.”
“Don’t overexert yourself.” Resignation fills his voice and Ed feels slightly guilty. “If only I was your commanding officer. Then I would make it an order.”
“Shut up you ass. You know I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Are you sur-” Ed sees Riza rise from the corner of his vision. She glares at Mustang, who falls silent. She is about to turn towards Ed when he closes his eyes.
“Yeah yeah got it. I’ll sleep now.”
As soon as Ed and that Major walked away, she turned to ask Yuriry why he interrupted her. What she found was that he was still looking at their retreating backs with something in his eyes.
“Why did you stop me?”
“Because you were opposing the two Majors in charge of the company we are accompanying is not good for anyone.” He said this while looking at them. Once he was done, he looked at her, and there was understanding in his eyes.
“That is Edward, Yuriy. I cannot let him walk around with his shoulder like that.”
“I know .” He brushes a stand of hair away from her face and she is having none of that. “But this is also out of our hands now.”
Despite the fact she wholeheartedly disagrees, despite the fact she wants to insist and push, she also knows a lost cause when she sees one. It crushes her to know she cannot do much for Trisha’s kid, especially because the kid has already grown into
a soldier a state alchemist a killer
an adult.
Yuriy takes her away to prepare their own sleeping equipment. While they do so, the desert winds come brushing by their faces, carrying sand and dirt. The night, cold as ever, leaves a chill in her bones.
She thinks of Resembool and she can still feel the slight feeling of grass brushing against her toes. If she closes her eyes hard enough, she can sense the ghost of a far gentler sun, the fields of lilies expanding right before her nose.
The illusion breaks when the cold desert wind slaps her arms.
Oh how she misses home. She misses it even more now, with a ghost of what was waiting for them walking right besides them.
“Yuriy.” She opens her eyes and sees him standing there. He’s always been there, even when they decided to leave and try and help.
Even when his mother, Pinako, berated them for leaving their daughter alone.
“What if it was Winry? What if she was in Edward’s position?”
His expression turns sour. “She wouldn’t be.”
“But what if she was ?”
Because each time he looks at Ed she can't help but imagine it is her daughter who stands there. She imagines that it is Winry, her beautiful and hopeful daughter
who she doesn’t remember half as well as she should
, who stands in that uniform with withering eyes, stress lines, and haunted smile.
Each time she looks at Ed, she remembers the boy who accompanied Winry as they left. That boy had bright golden hair, bright eyes, and a bright mind. Everything about that boy shone with the promise of a good new future. She can’t help but hate the way that brightness dampened into the man she now has to treat.
“He barely looks alive , Yuriy. What if it was our little girl there? What if she-“
What if she had to take a gun and fire, while looking in the eyes of an Ishvalan child?
Alchemy, how horrible. Sarah can’t begin to imagine the power an alchemist like Ed has.
She doesn’t want to imagine the destruction he has caused.
What would Trisha say?
“She won’t come here. She won’t be enlisted. She is barely of age.” He hugs her, dragging her down into their sleeping bag, while burying her in his arms. “Edward isn’t Wirny. It doesn’t seem like he was alone and we are here for him now.”
He caresses his arm in an attempt at comfort.
“The best we can do is help him where we can.”
It horrifies her to know Edward, Trisha’s son, is a state alchemist.
It terrifies her that a child so bright would be forced to follow orders so easily.
“Rest, dear. I’ll go give him the painkillers. And tomorrow we’ll do what we can.”
What she fears, is that what they can do may not be enough to give Ed that light back. Eventually, she falls asleep, eased into it by the desert’s silence.
She wakes up before Yuriy. He sleeps soundly beside her, it's always been that way, even when they came to the desert. She untangles herself from him and stands. The rest of the soldiers are already packing up, most of them eating that disgustingly nutritional and tasteless food they have in the military.
One of them, a kid with idyllic Amestrian features comes to her. He has a sunken expression on his face, his uniform just the right size for the child.
She smiles when he stops in front of her, because while she may not have the patience to deal with the Majors and high-ranking officers, she will always have some time for
child soldiers
. He gives an attempt at a smile, which looks more like a grimace in his exhausted expression.
“Miss- Miss Sarah.” He salutes and she hastily waves it away.
“No need for it, kid. What is your name?”
“Its Finn. Finn Bauer, ma’am.”
She wonders if he ever had issues with his attention spawn, as he fiddles the whole time. Sometimes it amazes her that the people of the military are so desperate for war they draft children like
Edward
Bauer here.
“Well Finn, what can I do for you? Is anything hurting?” With a quick glance she determines it is not an external injury. Not that it could be, as she and Yuriy had donde several sounds during the week they were stationed to check for other possible injuries.
And any Ishvalan hidden under rubble.
Never had they found a more desolate sight than the one they left behind the day before.
“No thank you ma’am. I am fine. It is not that. It’s- Uh-” He stumbles over his words just like his hands shuffle with a thorn piece of paper. The hands are long and thin, perfect for fiddling with crafts or playing a piano. His whole body shape seems to be more suited for the arts than war. When she says thorn, she means it. It’s stained and ripped apart so badly she can’t even tell what it originally said. “I wanted to ask how Major Elric is doing. He’s- he’s very important for this company.”
“Oh.”
Major Elric.
“His condition is-” She doesn’t know what to say. Because he is not
fine
in the way she, or Trisha, would want him to be. But he is still able to march, he is awake and alive, which is more than what she can say for other soldiers she has seen before.
Edward, Trisha’s kid, is a soldier?
“He's stable. He’ll need a few weeks to recover properly, but he’s recovering.”
This phrase seems to be sobering both for her and the kid.
His shoulders drop, in what she can tell is a mix of relief and regret. His face, already gaunt by conflict and death, seems to get a new light. His hands clutch the paper tighter, as if he is ready to spit on it, cry over it, and bury it in the sand.
He seems ready to kneel down and beg for forgiveness. He seems ready to cry out in gratitude and regret.
He looks like a man who just got freed from a wall of guilt.
This is not a sight that any kid should be part of.
“He’ll be fine. So don’t lose any sleep over it, you look exhausted.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, and the kid seems ready to fall over. Looking closer, there seems to be a series of bruises near his neck. A mix of brutal strength she can not begin to wonder where it came from. A kid like this usually stayed behind with the artillery, not on the front lines and the trenches.
Before she can ask where it came from, he slips away. His walking is that of a military man, even if his body, built as all soldiers, could have been better fit for a life in a theater.
She sighs before looking up at the sky. Any grogginess she might have felt before is gone after the short interaction.
The sky is a very light blue that comes from a gradient of a darker and deeper night sky. Soldiers move around her, busy packing or eating dull breakfast. Looking around she sees Edward from a distance, already standing and moving with the rest. Not far from him, she sees the other Major, Mustang if she remembers correctly. They seem to be talking.
Behind them, that tall and built Major calls them over, with something reminiscent of a smile on his face. Someone throws a joke around and the three of them reunite to eat, that blonde corporal walks towards them, her rifle slung behind her back.
The sight is sour. It tastes like gunpowder and blood. She looks away.
Deciding she would let Yuriy sleep for a while longer, she walks around. Soldiers salute her or greet her with an amicable, even friendly expression. She returns the courtesy and walks away.
It is not that she doesn’t like the soldiers. She knows they are people that have families and interests and dislikes, but their job is one she cannot ignore. They are nothing more than cannon fodder compared to State Alchemists, but they are still complicit.
It is hard to reconcile a person’s humanity and a soldier’s brutality. Which is why she avoids growing close to them. They are patients, just like the Ishavalans.
Eventually she finds herself with nowhere else to walk towards and busies herself with finding some food. Before she could ask around, the blonde corporal and Edward come towards her. The corporal carries food, and water.
The corporal nods to her and Ed throws her a scatterbrained, or maybe uncomfortable smile. “Hello Sarah. Have you eaten anything yet?”
“Edward. No. I just woke up and decided to walk around.” The corporal extends her arms and hands her a portion of the food silently. She nods in acknowledgment and tries to grab the second portion for Yuriy but she pulls away, shaking her head. “Thank you Ed. Did- Did you rest well?”
“Oh I did. Despite someone’s snoring, I did.” He laughed and it tasted awkward. Now that she thinks about it, Edward wasn’t a particularly social kid, more focused with alchemy than anything else, and he was a twelve year old at the time. “We don’t have anything better around here, but do eat.”
He doesn’t leave and she scrambles for things to say.
What can she talk about with the child who became a soldier?
Conversations with military men are usually carried by Yuriy, not her. And now, she is placed in this uncomfortable position of dealing with a terrifying mix of what was familiar and what no longer is.
Offhandedly she notices the soldiers seem more apprehensive. They avoid their location, and she is once again forced to realize that Ed is a state alchemist, the solitary kind.
She’s much more upset
with herself? with the world?
at the fact she knows she wants to pull away from this interaction just like the others do. Because she doesn’t know who Ed is, at least, the unknown of his alchemy makes it feel as though there is a shoe waiting to drop.
She forces herself to look at Ed’s face, the soldiers and not the child in her memories, and respond. “It's fine. We've gotten used to it.”
“Yeah, it tends to happen.” Ed shuffles, and shoves his hands into his pockets, a gesture so juvenile and awkward it stands like a sore in the standoffish environment of the military.
It reminds her of Finn Bauer, who is also just a child but a soldier too at the same time.
“My shoulder doesn’t hurt too much but I think some painkillers wouldn’t hurt.”
The sun starts to go up just like the refusal in her tongue but she eats it back down. It wouldn’t, not really, if it is a small dosis.
“Alright. Come with me then.” She walks back to where Yuriy was sleeping. Was, because he is already awake, writing down something in a journal of his. He rarely lets her read it, something private he said, and she doesn’t judge. Everyone copes differently.
Ed is faster than she is to greet him. “Hey Yuriy.”
Her husband looks up and waves at them, closing his diary and storing it inside his bag. “Hello Edward. How’s the shoulder doing?”
“Its fine. I actually came here to give you both your breakfast and see if you still have some painkillers left.”
The corporal hands over the remaining portions of food to Yuiry. He nods and she realizes it was always meant for Yuriy.
“Oh thank you.” He takes a bite of the food, and grimaces. Still, he doesn’t stop smiling. “So, painkillers you said?”
“Yeah, it isn’t hurting right now. It's like a distant ache right now. But I just want to avoid it all together, you know?” His stance is confident, one hand on his hip. His jacket is wrapped around his waist, and Sarah can spot the alchemist clock hanging under his basic white shirt.
“What the Major really means to say is that his shoulder is bothering him, and that he requires painkillers.” The corporal says in a matter of fact tone, which clashes instantly with the offended expression in Ed’s face.
“Riza wait- what are you talking about? I meant every word I said.”
“Sir, you look as if you swallowed a lemon. Earlier, you wouldn’t stop whining at Major Mustang. You have refused to put on your jacket-”
He glares at Riza, the corporal. “That last one is because I don’t want to overheat and I will be using it to cover from the sun, Riza.”
The corporal raises one very amused eyebrow, but doesn’t add anything else.
He looks much more comfortable with her, another soldier, than he ever did while talking with her.
Ed continues as if nothing had happened, though his expression is a bit lighter. “So, the painkillers. I know you are supposed to save them for others, but I don’t want to deal with this fucking shoulder all day.”
“Language Ed. And no, painkillers are not an issue. Here.”
Yuriy gives Ed the painkillers, which he downs in a second with a flask he was handed by the corporal. “Thanks both of you. Now, get ready before Roy tells you so, we have to get going.”
He hands them a smile that is sincere, framed by the lines of stress around his face. He leaves, with the corporal in tow.
Yuriy turns to her. “Where were you?”
“Around. A kid came searching for me this morning.” She thinks back to the bruises he had. “He had some bruising around his neck. I’ll take a look at him later.”
Yuriy eats and she is reminded to do the same. “How are you doing, dear?”
She looks up and nods. “I am fine. It’s just- It’s too cruel.”
She says this just as she remembers the face of a twelve year old Edward, who stood near his mother’s skirt. It doesn’t mix well with the look of the hardened and awkward soldier he turned into.
She remembers, still feels, the child soldier who died under her care, as the gunshot wound bleed out too fast for her to safe. She remembers the hundreds of Ishavalans she has saved, and the thousand that died before she could get to them.
“I know.”
She looks down at her meal, pushing aside her memories. The food looks even less appetizing than before, but then the image of a starving Ishvalan girl comes to her memory. She had pleaded for food, and she had nothing to give that the soldiers wouldn’t notice went missing.
She eats half of it and stores the rest. With a single glance, Yuriy does the same. The food stays hidden in their bags, mostly untouched, even as they return to marching for a second day.
Today, they take less frequent stops. Ed remains close to them, by the corporal's side. He marches confidently, keeping up with the others pace, even if it isn’t remarkably fast. His posture is just as straight as hers, and she starts to see more of the soldier the uniform indicates.
She tears her gaze away.
Instead she looks at the rest of the soldiers. Ahead she spots that one Major Mustang, walking alongside the well-built Major.
He seems to be marching silently, though he occasionally turns around, and gazes in their direction, he seems to do it more out of habit than actual need. His hands are held near his body, which is something she doesn't tend to see. Normally, you’d see soldiers holding their guns, or their weapons. He holds nothing. In a second, she remembers that he is also a state alchemist, and any doubts leave her mind.
He is the weapon.
Then what is Ed holding close?
She refuses to look back at Ed.
Her slight dislike for State alchemists bleeds into her perception of the Major, and maybe she owes him an apology for her brash words last night. Still, she isn’t moved enough to actually go through it. She only has to take a look at him when he is looking at Ed to know he cares for him, even likes him, but seeing it doesn’t mean she must like it. This man is as much as a sinner as they come. It is unfair, when she barely knows the man, but she can’t help but judge him the same as all state alchemists.
What about Ed?
She looks away from him and turns to face the desert.
There is nothing but sand around him. The sand dunes, huge, stretch beyond what she can’t see.
Once again, she is reminded of how resilient the Ishvalans are. She is reminded of how much they have fought to even survive these last seven, nearly eight, years. It is mid of June of 1908, and she knows there are still Ishvalans who fight for survival.
She can’t even begin to phantom how many lives were lost. Because despite her’s and Yuriy’s efforts, the military is much faster, and much more deadly that they even wanted them to be.
Looking around, she remembers the sight they left behind. The memories of the hauntingly empty ruins they saw still makes her faint. She remembers the lack of bodies everywhere, just slight signs of blood, and she still wonders, to date, where the corpses went.
She didn’t notice the graves, nor did she think that the craters around the ruins was where Ishvalans used to stand.
She turns to Yuriy and asks in a low voice. “Do you know where we are marching to?”
He leans over to her. “To the last inhabited settlement in the desert. We have to be prepared, we will probably have much more work once we arrive.”
During the day, they treat the soldiers that get injured. During the night, they will treat the Ishvalans that hide under rubble or inside the desolate buildings.
“Do we have enough to treat them all?”
“I don’t know.”
She can’t help but get worried.
For a while when they first arrived, they brought what they thought was a lot of medicine and food.
They underestimated the war. They found too many injured, both military and Ishalavan. Many of their resources got consumed in the first few days. From then on, they decided to follow the military. This, even if they did keep a very close eye on their activities, helped them get in contact with more medical resources than they could ever hope to get otherwise.
With time, both her and Yuriy got used to taking a bit more than they needed from them. If they only need one gauze to treat a soldier, she takes an extra one for a dying Ishvalan child. They always took a bit more and saved it for their late night patients.
Luckily, and thanks to skill too, they have not been caught. It also helps that until now, they have kept away from high-ranking officers. If they are treating one, they come and do so quickly, so they may return to their other patients in the ruins.
Even now, she knows she will have to steal, or maybe take as compensation, more from them. She is already prepared mentally for it. Yuriy too.
It is only fair.
They tread slowly, and dune after dune, the sun goes down. Eventually, they get to another set of ruins. This one is already vacated, empty, just like the last ones. The buildings have collapsed in over themselves and the smell of rot is very much present in the air.
She wonders, in the back of her mind, why she did not smell the same rotting from the settlement where they reunited with Ed. Yes, it smelled like blood and destruction and ozone, but nothing like this, where the smell of rotting corpses is especially strong under the collapsed buildings.
She watches as the soldiers settle down, and the Majors, the three of them, bark out orders. Some privates leave to stand guard, accompanied by either a sergeant major or a corporal. The rest, make a makeshift camp, or make a routine scanning of the ruins.
Searching for more victims.
As she looks at the buildings, she recognizes the tell tale marks of alchemy. Those small marks that most don’t notice. She has learnt enough of alchemy to know that these marks should not be too invisible when done by a talented alchemist. These are big, as if done carelessly.
The rotting smell keeps her from thinking more of it.
They must have died when a building collapsed over them. probably when they were sleeping.
Monsters.
Yuriy sits by her side, and they are far enough that they don’t need to murmur.
“You want to go look around?”
“Yes. Maybe there is someone trapped under the rubble or- I don’t know. It’s worth a shot.”
Yuriy nods and he looks at the desolate sight. It is a small settlement, in one night they could search all of it, if they sacrifice some sleep. “Rest, I have a feeling we will be searching all night.”
She nods, looking at him with a bit of hope. Deep down, she really wishes they can find someone here. He undoes his sleeping bag, takes some food he is offered by passing private and goes to sleep.
She knows he sleeps soundly, but it takes him a while to fall asleep. It is hard doing this. It haunts both of them when they fail, or when they get there too late.
Sarah watches Yuriy, aches going to sleep with him. If she hasn’t gone mad with anger or sadness it is because he is there to support her. She knows it is the same for him too. She can fall asleep and wake up the next morning because she knows he will be next to her.
Suddenly, she feels someone approaching. Nearby, the corporal, Riza she remembers, and Major Mustang, comes walking towards her. He hands her a ration of food. “All is well I hope?”
“Yes. We were settling to go to sleep early, the march is a bit exhausting and well, we need to keep our energy for when we reunite at the other camp.”
He hums. The stance is that of a soldier, just like the one of Riza besides him. Still his face is neutral, pleasant in a way a politician's face always is, even if it is a bit obvious. Very fake. Purposeful. With time, he could grow into a very capable politician. “That’s good. I came here to-” He pauses at the gesture the corporal makes besides him, something like a silent prompting and scolding. “To give you your food. And to both thank you and apologize.”
This has her eyes widening. On reflex, she stands, ready to say it isn’t necessary, confused to her core. When has a major, or any high-ranking officer, come to her to apologize?
“No, don’t stand. Please sit down.” He waves her, and she sits down. Surprised, she sees Mustang sit down too. The corporal remains standing, but her face is surprisingly agreeable, and amicable. Her hands are near her weapon, like all soldiers, but she seems slightly at ease. Her gaze is centered on the man before her, and Sarah realizes that it seems proud.
Not in the way a lover would, but in the way of a friend who is watching their closed one grow.
“I want to apologize, for I have been brash toward you without a warrant. There is no excuse for the way I have been treating you.”
There is a pause, most likely for him to gather his thoughts, but she can’t help but intervene. “In that case, I also apologize. I have been out of place several times and- well, as you have said, there is no excuse for being rude. I also understand these are stressful conditions.”
The major smiles, and for the first time she sees a glimmer of the man that looks at Ed with so much kindness. “Thank you, Mrs. Rockbell. In truth, Major Elric”-under that title she hears a gentle
Edward
- “has given me tales of your expertise and hometown. You have all my respect and admiration. You and your husband, of course.” There is another pause and she is again surprised. She had an inkling the man knew who they were, but here he is, confirming her suspicions.
In a way it makes her apprehensive, because he knows who they are, not only vaguely but actually knows. It also makes a part of her, most of her, happy and puts her at ease, because he knows them through Ed, and it makes them more than expendable strangers. It also shows that Ed is still Ed, even if it is cruel for her to think for a moment he wasn’t.
“And I believe I owe you a thank you.”
“We don’t need you to.”
“But I want to, Mrs Rockbell. Your task is an exhaustive and thankless one. You helped me keep Edward safe when I failed. For that, I could never be more grateful.”
She is rendered speechless. As far as his tone and expression goes, this is the most heartfelt he has ever been in the conversation.
His eyes become less like soldiers and more like- like a lover who watched his loved one nearly die. She sees herself in those eyes, full of love for another.
She wonders if Ed feels the same. Then, she thinks back to what she has seen, and realizes he probably does.
In her eyes, he never stops being a soldier, who has blood in his hand, yet she also knows he wouldn’t hesitate to give his life for Ed. He is both softer for him, and stronger. All this from a single feeling in his eyes.
It reminds her of Yuriy and herself.
His figure changes in her eyes, and she remembers an old Xingese saying: True love was both the armor and the soft cartilage it protected.
It definitely fits them both.
It saddens her that this story was born in a place where the smell of rot and decay is expected every day.
Suddenly, her heart grows softer. With a smile, she stands and the Major does too. She extends her hand, and he shakes it. “Thank you. I am glad Edward has someone like you with him.”
His expression softens. “Of course, Mrs Rockbell. Anything you need, and I will do my best to give it to both of you. As long as it is within my reach, of course.” There is a tentative smile, which stills feels like that of a politician yet she can not mind. Not after a display of honesty like the one she just got.
She nods, and he nods back. Now, when he steps away with the corporal in tow, who leans over to say something to him, she still sees a soldier, but she feels a sense of gratitude. She has a feeling, he is one of the reasons Ed has not gone crazy while trapped in this desert.
She fell asleep not soon after.
It is a kind of restless sleep, where she is plenty aware of her surroundings despite the fact she is asleep. Through her closed eyelids, she can feel the rustling of Yuriy as he wakes up and moves to wake her up.
Rising, they take a look around. The soldier’s settled a while ago. From their position, she can see most of them are sound asleep, with a few keeping guard and moving around.
Luckily, they had settled away from them, taking their implicit request for distance.
Making sure no one saw them, they started to gather their things. They did so silently, already experts at sneaking from the gazes of the military, right under its noses.
The ruins do not let out a single breath.
She wants to utter an apology for all those who they did not get to save. She stops herself.
Words could hold no candle to what should be done to repair this mess.
She is not the one who is most to blame.
She is not the one who has to pay the biggest price.
They tiptoe around, and the rotting smell under the rubble is nauseating in her almost empty stomach.
She doesn’t forget to grab the very little food she had been able to save.
After making sure they had everything, they arranged their sleeping bags to make it seem as if they were inside, still asleep. For now, this should be enough, as there is no active conflict that causes the need for the military to need them and actually come searching for them.
This is enough of a trick for now.
With that done, they slip away.
No matter where or how they turn, there is always silence. The streets are devastatingly empty, not a single soul or cry for help.
Sarah has the horrible feeling this place
that once was a town
is now a grave made of concrete.
Yuriy lifts pieces of rubble as they go, as silently as he can, to make sure there isn’t anyone alive underneath . She keeps her ears and eyes peeled, in case she spots a sign of life.
She has learned that there are many of those, many created to be almost indistinguishable. It could be a worn shoe by the side of a crumbled wall. Small scratches in the ground or rubbed where there is no corpse,
she has learnt to ignore those.
A sign of firewood, or any type of cloth. An open door, or otherwise, a door,
normally soldiers tear those off when they come in and accomplish their orders.
A rug, a stone, or anything that's not too heavy that covers the ground in any significant way.
When the Ishavalans heard this war started, some marched to war (extermination) while others hid away, underground, or inside the walls.
Sometimes when the building crumbled, those in hiding wouldn’t be able to get out. Sometimes, the soldiers spotted the hidden spot and hunted them out, like they would an animal.
Never had she felt this type of anger before. She had seen more corpses of children than living breathing ones. She has seen ages of knowledge die as an elder let his last breath out.
She is angry. Pissed.
Her breath catches up to her and she drives it down. Her heart beats away for all those she knows are dead.
She keeps herself calm, because maybe she is the saving grace of someone waiting.
She wants to shout.
If she had any more power, she’d put a stop to every single one of these horrible events, every killing would be reversed, and all the lives lost would come back.
If she had any more power, she would stop this extermination.
This is why she can’t look Edward in the eye.
She has had to hide children from the military, under so many excuses she can barely remember them any more.
She feels so much sadness, she can only push herself forward with the promise, she might save another life if she doesn’t spot.
She hates hates hates hates knowing this is all because one person decided it should happen, because the rest of the soldiers can do nothing but obey the orders, or because they really believe in the lies that plant hate in all their hearts.
She cannot look Edward in the eye because, yes he is a child who takes orders, who has also killed, and it is so complicated because in the military there is everything, those who follow orders, and those who enjoy them.
She doesn’t want to recognize Edward among them, even if he already is one of them.
They search for an hour. They find nothing.
Despite the freezing temperatures of the desert at night, she is sweating. Her breathing does not dare get loud because she fears she might miss a silent cry from help from under bigger and bigger pieces of rubble.
With trembling hands, she moves rubble. With tired feet, she forces a door open just to find nothing.
They find many things. A ball. Clothing. Praying beads. Hair. Blood. A book. A hand. A stuffed bear. A scarf. Blood.
They find many, too old, signs of life. The shoe, but the little girl it belonged to, lay dead just a few feet away. Dead after the impact of more rubble falling over her head.
She wants to cry. She wants to cry in their place. Because she strayed away a bit and found the mother there, dead by gunshot as her hand tried to reach her child.
She finds so many stories. So many corpses, she and Yuiry wish she could just find a single person alive. Just one.
There is no food for them to survive. The conditions are so bad they would’ve died even if the military did not finish them off.
She wants to shout, she wants to cry, she wants to punch and kick and fight and she ants to fix something, something small because all the corpses she has found were people who had a life worth living.
Who is the military to dictate who should live and should die?
Another hour, they find nothing.
They don’t stop.
They grow slowly. They haven’t slept, not properly since they arrived.
She feels they have grown slower, like their efforts amount to nothing.
Keep pushing. As they find another rotting body
corpses corpses corpses.
She doesn’t vomit, out of respect for all those who lay dead in the same land she is now walking in.
The moon comes and goes, and there is nothing.
Nothing they can save.
As they return to the camp, she wishes she could just break down or retaliate. But violence brings more violence.
She doesn’t know what to do.
Winry said they left to be heroes.
She doesn’t know what to do.
The Major had thanked her for saving Edward but she can’t save those who are suffering the most in their hands.
She doesn’t know what to do.
She walks on automatic, her feet dragging her. Yuriyr doesn’t stop searching, even as they trace back their steps into the camp.
He finds nothing.
She doesn’t know what to do. She wishes it could be as easy as following an order.
But it doesn’t work that way.
Yuriy stops.
She raises her head and finds golden eyes looking at them.
They are nowhere close to camp. Still a few blocks,
what used to be blocks,
away.
She is tired. Yuriy is too. Ed stands there, a look in his eyes she doesn’t want to read.
The silence is so heavy and
she doesn’t know what to do. She never knows. She doesn’t know-
“Sarah-”
Violence is not the response one should give, but it is as natural as self defense.
“Edward.” She silences him.
There is a kind of horror in his eyes. His body is drawn up towards himself. His hands, covered in metal in the form of rings, and bracers, are close to his body. He is bracing himself, like soldiers do.
Like children do, when they are terrified.
There is little to no difference between the two lately.
He is holding the only thing that has kept him alive, like a soldier holds his gun.
But at the cost of what. At the cost of other’s lives?
He opens his mouth, but whatever he wants to say or ask proves worthless as he closes it with a snap that resonates in the ruins.
There is so much conflict inside him, she doesn’t know what to do.
Yuiry spots something she doesn’t see and stands in front of her.
Edward recoils as if he had been slapped. He looks nothing like Trisha, more like Hohenheim. Stuck and reeling. Trapped between the choice of something horrible and helplessness.
It’s like watching a trainwreck happen. He undoes himself, crashes and rebuilds himself. She braces as if for a hit, and wishes Ed could come in for a hug.
It's sad and small and desperate.
He steps aside, his mouth closed firmly. Yuriy walks ahead, and he lets him. His gaze is miles away, trapped in something she knows too well.
Before she can leave too, he grabs her arm. Yuriry stops and turns back. Now Ed is at the back, and he seems to struggle with words. When he looks at her, she is made aware that Ed is not looking at her fully. He also sees someone who is miles away, safe.
“I know I can’t stop you. I am not stupid enough to think that.” He says. It's both small and huge and so desperate and so sad, and it draws a thought out of her brain. He wishes we would stop. “But you have to be more careful-”
Yuriy walks back to her.
She wishes Ed reached out to him, but he never loved his father.
He always loved Trisha.
“We are.”
“You aren’t. ” His voice breaks and it is young. So young and so haunted. “I have been following you since you left last night. I have been tracing your every step and you did not notice. Please please, be more careful.”
He wants them to stop.
“Any more careful and we won't move at all. We wouldn’t do anything”
The thought crossed his mind. Maybe it is better if you didn’t. She sees it brew and cement and then rot.
She is angry and tired, and it all comes back to the people wearing the same uniform as him.
“We won’t stop.”
Anger and desperation are what moves them both.
“I don’t want you to
die.” At my hands
.
“Then turn your head away. It's not that hard.” You do that everyday. You turn your head away from all that is happening with your orders.
“I do. But if the order comes-”
“The order?!”
“They’d make me kill you.” He doesn’t release her wrist. Skittish he looks around, and it is as if he is trapped in a nightmare and very awake right now. Like he fears there will be someone, a ghost, holding a gun to his back. “You
need
to live.”
Yuriy puts a hand on her shoulder and she stands firm.
They are both stressed, tense and trapped. It's so bad they can’t help but recoil at one another.
One wants to survive. The other wants to do more.
“I don’t want to live at the cost of others. You may have adapted into the military, Edward, but I won’t go that low.” She is angry and caged and normally she would never say something like this.
She is tired, Yuriy is too. She can see a kid, but now only a soldier stands in front of her.
“I can’t let you leave Winry alone , Sarah. She was so sad when you left, when Yuriy and you left. I can’t make her go through that kind of grief.” Please, she asked me to protect you. Help me here.
“There are children out there dying at your hands, the military's hands every day.” She says, and the uniform that Ed wears is suddenly the only thing she sees. “I am not going to stop. And if you can’t look away for this, then you are-” She knows she will regret her words as soon as they leave her mouth. She says them still, fueled by exhaustion and anger. How dare a state alchemist ask them to stop doing something good? “You're no longer Trisha’s son. He’d never ask that of us. You've forgotten, because if you didn't, you wouldn't tell us to stop.”
His grip slackens and she leaves. Yuriy seems to falter, but he doesn’t stay for long. Both of them came for a reason and they are not stopping.
They left home to do something good. They won’t stop now. Not for a state alchemist.
When they leave, they don’t see nor hear Ed let out something as vulnerable as a sob.
I am sorry Edward.
You made your choice. I made mine.
To each, their own type of madness.
When morning comes and the soldiers prepare to leave, she sees Ed in the distance. His face is somber, and sunken. He doesn’t march in the back with them, returning to the front. The corporal breaks formation to march with him up front. They are left among unknown soldiers, and killers.
The Major, Mustang, looks in their direction once, but he doesn’t come to talk to them.
Ed turned his head away, and walked forward.
She knows they are lucky. If it were anyone else, they’d be dead.
Still, it doesn’t take away from the knowledge that Ed won’t be able to do anything if the order comes.
He is a state alchemist.
He is here to follow orders.
That's all.
Yuriy hugs her, and she doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know what she could ever do.
As they march, they leave behind the graveyard, filled with promises they can’t make and people they couldn’t save.
Notes:
So hi, how is everyone doing?
Many things happened in my life and it left me in a bit of a tight spot. If you don't mind me, I am going to talk bout it for a short sec. I graduated and relapsed into a very old issue of mine. That being said, this does help me as a form of outlet. It is also hard to write about this, considering all that is happening.
I do not support war, and will never support it. I don't aim to glorify it, i aim to tell a RoyEd story while also showcasing the horrrors of war. I hope I achive it.
If anything, I was reminded how much it helped to write when going through stuff. Also, I AM happy I graduated, so it is not all bad :))
Now about the chapter. i have mixed feelings about this one, so I am going to let y'all decide how it is. The conflict between Sarah and ed bloomed in my mind and I just let it happen. Give me your thoughts. Always remember, that Sarah Rockbell is not the most reliable narrator to trust in when looking at Ed, because she is biased, not tthat it is unfair. She just hasn't seen what we have, or know what we do. For example, Ed's own internal struggle with all the situation. She just kind off, you know, assumes.
Shit is going to kick the fan in the next chapter. We'll see how it goes.
Anyways, how did you see the characters? was it in character? i know we dont have much on the rockbells but i wanted to work with what i have. So, yeah, any thoughts, comments, advice, and or anything of the sort, leave it, it is always a mood booster!!!!
I hope you enjoyed, and I'll be reading you next time!
(The Xingese saying is translated from the phrase: “都說深愛的人是鎧甲又是軟肋).” Which is an excerpt from: Kaleidoscope of Death by
Xī Zǐxù. Fully recomended (It is one of my current favorite novels))