The sands of the desert stung their eyes, and no amount of rubbing seemed to clear them.
Blistering heat burnt the backs of their necks if they were not careful – all too often the glaring sun even penetrated the thin curtain of hair on their heads and scorched their scalps. Those unlucky enough to be bald lived in the scratchy, standard issue navy caps that never seemed to fit.
The food that they managed to force down their throats was foul, full of grit and the smoke from the fires feeding off burnt flesh that always seemed to follow the Amestrian military. It was often said that the columns of fire and smoke in Ishval could be seen from East City, though those rumors were as false as the claims that the war was just.
The Ishvalans had tried to fight at first – after all, one of their priests was worth ten Amestrian soldiers. Even as vastly outnumbered as they were unfortunate enough to be, they had had a chance.
There was no chance now.
One man of science was worth more than many hundreds of men who believed that somehow, God would save them from disaster.
Where was God now?
Maes Hughes didn't know, but he did know that he wasn't going to be attending church with his mother anymore. The blood on his hands never seemed to come off, mixing with the sand and sweat to create an ugly stain wherever he touched.
But he would be strong, strong for Gracia. No matter what happened, he would survive for her, no matter what Roy said about movies and novels.
This wasn't a movie.
It wasn't a novel.
A man had to have something to live for in the middle of hell.
So Maes would survive even if it meant dragging himself back to East City. Somehow, he would rid himself of his eyes – the eyes of a murderer – before he saw her again. He wouldn't make her worry, or cry, and she would be happy. He would do his damndest to make sure of that.
Maes Hughes was no state alchemist. He couldn't snap his fingers and make giant columns of flame, or clap and destroy half of Ishval with nothing but an array and his own hands. He could fire a gun and throw knives, and even the deaths he caused with that often haunted him at night.
They all had the same eyes now. They had all seen hell.
But Maes Hughes would fight his demons alone. Though Ishval was filled with people like him, and even his best friend had the same look in his eyes, Maes Hughes would fight his demons alone.
Perhaps someday the sweat, blood, and sand would finally wash off.
But until then, he would scrub them until the skin itself rubbed away, trying to rid himself of guilt and memories.
It was all right with him, really.
To save the people he loved, Maes Hughes would fight his demons alone.
"What the heck. You have my support. Let's see how your naïve idealism can change this country – this country created by King Bradley, the man who fears nothing – not even God."
Yes.
He would fight his demons alone.