Disclaimer: Yeah, I own FMA. That and the Taj Mahal.
Okay guys, this is Nana, butting Lina out of the spotlight for awhile to give y'all my own multi-chaptered fic. I, personally, love Roy to death and think the world needs a few more Roy fics. So, here we go. I hope y'all like it! Chapter I: Into the Depths
Roy considered his options carefully. He could feel his opponent's eyes on him, watching him, trying to predict what his next move might be—knowing this, the boy quickly shuttered his expression, attempting to throw his adversary off his trail. After a long deliberation, he stretched out his arm and reached for the black marble bishop sitting on the board.
"Hmm, I wouldn't do that," his father gently instructed. Roy halted and retracted his hand, taking a moment to examine the board once again. Though each side's forces were dwindling, the pieces remaining made an even match. This, of course, was not based on the skill of the seven-year-old student, but instead, on the kindness of his mentor.
"Of course," Roy replied in a hushed voice, realizing his mistake. "I'll leave my king vulnerable."
The elder said nothing, but the small smirk on his father's face confirmed the boy's theory. He carefully reevaluated his strategy and, after a moment of concentration, formulated a new plan; reaching out, he snagged his remaining knight and moved it forward in an L pattern, expertly placing his father's white king in check.
"Aha!" crowed his father. "The best defense is a good offense. Well done." His father's pride was now obviously beaming on his face. Roy bowed his head humbly as a means to hide the smug smile in response to his father's praise.
The major general rubbed his hand along his chin, contemplating a response to the attack; however, before he could counter the move, a butler approached the two and bowed.
"Excuse me Master, but you have a visitor," the older man softly spoke.
"Alright then," his father nodded at the butler, then turned back to Roy. "Son, shall we finish this game later?"
Roy nodded his consent and stood from his chair, bowing deeply to his father in a goodbye. As he left the room, a tall man in a navy blue military uniform walked in. The boy could hear the men greeting each other warmly, before the butler closed the door on them.
"Will you be starting on you arithmetic studies, Master Royce?" the butler asked curtly, staring down his crooked nose at him. Roy rolled his eyes at the use of his formal name and then groaned inwardly at the thought of his studies. Being a Mustang meant being well-educated . . . and being well-educated meant that Roy spent many afternoons cramped up in the library, surround by books and tutors.
After all, his father didn't believe in public education.
Roy's gaze suddenly fell to a nearby window—the bright mid-afternoon sky was free of clouds and the swaying grass alluded to a breeze that would cool the summer's heat. It seemed too pleasant of a day to ignore.
"No," Roy answered, his gaze still on the window. "I think I'm going to go for a ride instead."
The butler bowed and replied, "Then I shall alert the stables to prepare your horse."
Roy said nothing, proceeding to his room to change. He knew that his father would prefer it if he stayed home and studied, but would understand nonetheless. Roy was, after all, still a child and needed to get out once in a while.
Once dressed in some old clothes and his riding boots, Roy rushed downstairs and out to the stables. He didn't particularly like horseback riding—jouncing up and down painfully in a hard saddle wasn't exactly his definition of fun—but he did enjoy the freedom it provided. Often he would ride out into the Mustangs' private fields and bathe in the warm sun for an hour or so, before his parents sent someone to find him.
Finally arriving at the stables, Roy found that his horse, Sylvan, was ready and waiting. It always amazed him how fast the servants could be; no matter how swiftly he would run out to the stables, his horse would always be ready. Deacon, the stable boy, was waiting to hand Roy the reigns.
"Everything is just the way you like it, young master," Deacon said with a small wink and a smile.
Roy eagerly returned the smile, understanding its hidden message easily. "Thanks," he told the young man, taking the reins from him.
Deacon nodded once, giving the old Palomino a pat behind its jaw, and stepped away to allow Roy to climb up on his own. It was this independence the dirty-blond teenager offered him—this freedom to do things on his own—that made Roy consider Deacon a good friend.
The boy stepped into the stirrup and expertly swung up onto the saddle, quickly settling there. Sylvan snorted irritably when Roy lightly kicked him in the ribs, encouraging the old stallion forward and out of the stables. "Have a good ride, sir," Deacon called to him from the stables' entrance and tossed a playful salute at him. Roy laughed slightly and waved at the teen over his shoulder, before giving Sylvan another kick and they both surged away.
Both horse and rider trotted merrily down a well-worn dirt trail, Roy deeply inhaling the fresh country air. He didn't care what his father said—the air in Central and the air out here, in the East, was so incredibly different. Roy didn't ever want to move to a big city, lest he lose this . . . this intoxicating freedom.
The boy kept a sharp eye out, minding his father's words about coyotes, wildcats, and poisonous snakes that lurked in the tallgrass, counting on Sylvan to give him an advanced warning. He slowed his pace once he caught sight of a particular tree—the old live oak was hunched over nearly double, its gnarled limbs folding and twisting inwards, as if to shelter something much smaller than itself. Upon reaching the tree, Roy halted the horse and dismounted.
He had long-ago discovered that the oak was a prefect place to relax: it provided him shade on hot days and sheltered him from the wind on cooler ones. He could let Sylvan graze peacefully, while he stretched out under its branches and doze.
Before heading over to the tree to settle in, Roy reached into his saddle bag and removed an old leather-bound book that Deacon had placed there earlier. Absentmindedly stroking the intricate silver array on the cover of the book with his thumb, Roy thought back to the day he had discovered the book in the library. It was utterly fascinating to read the formulas, view the strange circles and runes, and decipher the handmade notations along the margins. He quickly determined that the thick book had belonged to his grandmother, who had left it behind on her last visit—whether by accident or intent, Roy didn't know . . .
Either way, the young boy had put the book and its arrays to good use. Roy had always been fascinated by his grandmother's ability to use alchemy and was eager to partake in that ability, as well.
He made himself comfortable leaning up against the tree, checked to be sure Sylvan was still in view, and then opened the book to a page marked in an earlier outing; removing a few loose pages of scribbled notes he had tucked in the back of the book and withdrawing a pencil and sharpening razor from his satchel, Roy got to work.
This was truly the only study he enjoyed.
His father had long ago made it quite clear that he didn't approve of his son studying alchemy, even if it was through the man's own mother. He much preferred Roy to study more suitable subjects—ones that would be more useful to him once he grew up and went out into the world, became an enlisted man.
Roy, on the other hand, was absolutely enthralled with it. Alchemy to him was the ultimate form of power, the ultimate way to serve the people. He took full advantage of being left alone—even if it was just for a scant few hours every couple of days—to teach himself the science . . . and the art.
The dark-haired boy smirked and placed the book on the ground next to him, trying to imitate an array from the book in the dirt. His grandmother had written notes warning against using arrays that one knew little about, but Roy wasn't too concerned. Even though he had figured out what a few of the runes and points of the circle meant (it looked to be some sort of fire array), he wasn't planning on activating it. He wasn't that stupid. Besides, his artistic skills were a bit lax and he knew that, even if he tried to activate the array, in all likelihood, it wouldn't work.
A small breeze suddenly kicked up, tousling the boy's inky hair and stirring the leaves of the cradling branches around him. Roy was concentrating so hard on drawing his array, that it was a few moments before he realized that one of his notes had been taken by the wind and was cartwheeling away. It had blown several feet and Roy feared that the wind might actually carry it into the old well that was sitting nearby—he could loose almost two days of studies.
Roy hurriedly tucked the rest of his notes safely away and got up to chase the errant page down; fortunately, the wind seemed to have died down and Roy caught up with the notes as they tangled in the weeds at the base of the stone well.
He straightened and dusted his shirtfront off, casting an askance glance down into the old well, before turning away and heading back to the shelter of his oak—the ancient well had been a draw back when he was a kid, but curiosity's grip had quickly slackened once he'd actually gotten to peer into it and found it dismally dark and uninteresting. Roy sighed and picked up his pace, eager to return to his alchemy studies . . . but immediately halted when he heard a loud, roaring whiney.
The boy turned to see Sylvan rear up to his full height, ears folded back against his skull, his dark eyes wild and filled with fear; the old Palomino kicked wildly at something hidden in the tallgrass, then turned and began to charge straight towards him. Roy had only a split second to react, barely avoiding getting trampled as he stumbled back out of the panicked horse's way and fell against the well.
As he watched Sylvan's tail disappear out of his peripheral vision, Roy exhaled a slow sigh of relief . . . and then felt the old stone wall begin to shift and crumble under his weight. His breath hitched in his throat and his eyes widened in horror; the boy flailed his arms and desperately tried to regain his balance, but it only caused the well to crumble more.
Roy was falling.
Down . . . down into the shadows of the well . . . watching the sky drift farther and farther away. Everything around him seemed to be slowing down . . . and he reached his arm out, as if to try and grab ahold of the departing sky . . . but it simply slipped through his fingers.
And then the sky vanished, leaving only darkness.
(peeks through fingers) Was it okay?