Summary: When the Civil War tears Amestris into despair, two childhood friends choose their destiny. The alchemical apprentice vows to serve his country, while his master's daughter resists the call and joins an underground intelligence network that aids Ishvalans' crossing into Aerugo.
The story spans the eight years of their meeting and reunion: how the conflict shapes their lives, and how the dream they once shared now separates them as each fight for the opposing side. Will the end of the war reunite them under the same stars? Or will it drive them further apart?
A/N: Happy Royai Day! It's been about a year now, and I'm still stuck in this Royai spiral of doom. To celebrate this wonderful ship, I present to you a new multi-chapter fic set in FMA canon world. I'm going back to where it all started.
The first half of each chapter is solely from Riza's POV and will take us through her life from years 1901-1909, including her meeting with Roy. The second half is from Roy's POV and will detail his experience in Ishval in 1908 after Order #3066 was issued.
Chapter 1: Summer 1908
The sea of grass beneath her fingers was dry, thorny as barbed wires, and Riza Hawkeye cursed under her breath when they pricked her skin. She rose to her knees. Crawling under the shadowy bough of the oak tree where Edward and Alphonse were slumbering away, she squeezed in between the two boys, allowing relief to finally settle.
Her morning assignment wore her down to the bones. Even after a cold shower, she felt as if she still had no claim to her body nor to her movements. All she had was clashing thoughts that persist, justifying her actions, and a beating heart that convinced her it was all for a good cause. It was a constant war with neither side coming out the victor. And when the bodies had dropped to the ground, she realized that remorse was as permanent as the tremors in her legs.
Exhaustion creeped in, and her spine slackened against the outspread cotton thread. When Riza closed her eyes, the cool breeze of early autumn climbed and crooned over, lulling her mind into the passage of yesteryear. In it, she saw a familiar mussed hair, as dark as the hour of dusk.
January 1906 was the last time they were together.
Three years ago, the moments in-between pilfered by the sands and ashes to the east.
But everything from before came to her as clear as day.
His melancholy gaze had roamed beneath her skin as they stepped onto the platform at Yuflam Station. Roy Mustang stood motionless. Staring or admiring her, she wasn't sure. His mouth opened with a reluctance, the word on the tip of his tongue latching on as firmly as her own. They were both terrible at goodbyes, she knew, and age made them none the wiser.
Roy had been twenty, and she had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday. The difference in their age was hardly three years. Or as Riza liked to remind him, they were only twenty-seven months and nineteen days apart, with the end of each winter shortening their gap to two years. But in the winter of 1906, the numbers had meant everything. Legally of age, Amestris unbound her, and she was emancipated to live her own life.
"I'm sorry that you're unhappy," Riza had said, "but I respected your decision to join the military, and you should respect mine."
The Alliance was revolutionary. The Alliance was selective.
The Alliance also operated in secret.
It was an underground intelligence network of spies, and Riza Hawkeye was a part of it. Its main objective was to preserve what was left of Ishvalan culture and religion, protect the civilian men, women, and children as they crossed into the border of Aerugo, an adjoining country in constant turmoil with Amestris, where people with mahogany skin and amber eyes were welcomed without questions.
As they stood in the clashing dins of the station, Riza had set aside pride and offered him her hand. Roy didn't reach for it. Instead, from within the depth of his jacket pocket, he plucked a small red box and placed it considerately against her palm.
"I transmuted it a few days ago... before everything happened," he had scoffed, more to himself than her. "They're simple white pearls similar to the ones your mother wore in the photos. I don't know if you'll be wearing them now, but-"
Roy had continued to speak, but the bellow of the steam engine drowned and stole his words.
"I can't hear you!" Riza had shouted. "It's too loud!"
He had paused then, his mouth barely parting. And when he spoke again, the same raucous hiss penetrated the air. She could have sworn, regardless, that his was a word of apology, or affection, underneath all the noise.
A well-intentioned whistle had come and gone, a booming voice calling to all passengers.
The train was ready to depart...
"Excuse me. Miss Hawkeye?"
Abruptly, Riza flung her eyes wide open, the present returning brusquely.
Her head was heavy and throat parched, as though she had been screaming the very words she had spoken in her memory. As soon as sunlight hit her face, the scene at the train station scattered into dust. Bringing herself upright, she touched a moist palm against her forehead. She blinked twice, three times, until her vision gave way to a clearer view and perceived a man clad in a sickening deep-blue she so often peered through her sniper scope.
His appearance was a wasteland of sun-tanned complexion, a lifeless gaze and sunken cheeks that tempered a sharp chin under the cloudless sky. He looked about twenty-three or twenty-four - a similar age to Roy. But under a different light, Riza thought he could have passed as a man twice his age. There was an air of detachment about him, a testimony to the fact that he had been sent to her by command rather than by choice.
She quickly sprang up and smoothed the wrinkles off her blouse and trousers. Approaching him, she remarked the crinkled letter bearing the country's insignia secured in his stiff grip. When she was close enough, she noticed an age-old, leather trunk perching on the ground behind the soldier.
"Yes? How can I help you?" Riza asked.
"Miss Hawkeye, I'm here to deliver this to you," he extended to her the letter. "It's regarding Major Mustang. I didn't get a chance to speak to him, but I heard many great things about the man."
Her brows furrowed. She ripped the letter from his hand and examined the neat slants of her name. In haste, she asked, "What are you talking about?"
The soldier - a sergeant, as she noted from the rank on his shoulder - tensed in position. She had had to memorize the stripes and stars and their corresponding military rankings. She cast her wary gaze back at him, distinguishing his grim countenance when he spoke.
"Major Mustang was killed in action. We were unable to locate his body since July. No one knew what happened to him, not even his friend, Captain Hughes."
Riza could no more mimic the rigidity of the large rock that sat over her garden even if she tried. Her respiration paused just as well, and the broad back that held so many secrets suddenly felt taut, pulling against her skin.
She argued, "I'm sorry, but I don't understand. If you couldn't locate the body, wouldn't that be classified as missing in action? How would you even know he was killed?"
The grey overcast in his eyes suddenly cleared. It was as though her staunch disputation had lifted the spell he was put under. Lazily, the soldier removed his cap and raked unsteady fingers through his hair.
His tone was apologetic when he clarified, "I apologize, Miss. I meant to say that Major Mustang was presumed killed in action. But if the Ishvalans didn't get him, the heat and the desert probably did. I'm sure you've heard how it was out there."
Behind the restriction of her ribcage, she could feel her heart pumping with panic, obstructing her hearing and clouding her judgment. The once agreeable temperature now felt too hot, and the breeze suffocating.
"No. I don't believe it," she said, fighting for composure, her tone flawlessly measured. But when she looked down for a fleeting second, her fingers had already balled into fists, trembling, and she lost what she gained immediately. "He is not that reckless. He's well trained and a perfectly capable soldier. And he has- he has-" Flame Alchemy.
"Perhaps," the soldier conceded. Then he began to speak in earnest, as though dictated by a recent recollection, "But once you've witnessed the horror of Ishval, you're no longer the same person. The next thing you know, you're presented with a second objective. And that objective is to prevent yourself from falling apart."
It didn't come easily for her to dismiss the veracity of his statement; she hadn't been there to experience it herself.
"Well, isn't there something you can do to verify? Should I march up to your superior and pry information out of him?" she snapped. "Where was he last seen?"
"We surveyed every site thoroughly. Multiple times. We would never leave our soldiers behind. There was absolutely no signs of him anywhere." He added, with emphasis for good measure, as though he could see the scheming behind her glower, "And please do not be reckless. There is absolutely nothing you and I can do. Not at this moment."
Wordlessly, she scowled her distrust and suspended it against him, only for the corner of her eyes to sting with mist.
"Everything is explained in the letter, Miss Hawkeye. I know this must be difficult to process, and I will leave you to grieve as soon as you relieve me of-" he pointed to the luggage behind him, "his personal effects."
"Miss Riza…?" Alphonse, the younger of the brothers, murmured and tugged at her hand.
Below a pelt of flaxen hair much like her own stared a gentle-set of golden eyes that shone with concern. She looked past the boy to find his brother, Edward, lying face down, a drip of drool trailing down the arms propping his sleep-heavy head. He was as sound as a mountain.
Their encounter was pure happenstance. It hadn't always been her intent to assert the role of their guardian. Not at first. But she had discovered that she was not without a heart. Alphonse had been the only sensible human being in a swarm of frantic adults. He had remained faithfully by his brother's side, who was wounded and incapable of walking, when the others had fled the scene without a second thought.
Meeting Alphonse's curious gaze, she croaked, "Yes...?"
The eight-year old gripped her hand, clamping down on it as though a vise. "Are you okay, Miss Riza?"
She could only nod her deceit. Slowly but surely, submission reined in, keeping a tough leash around her. Her breaths came in shallow pants and her breasts ached, but in his presence she chose to lace a smile in her voice, "I'm alright, Al."
Turning around for Roy's trunk, the soldier hoisted it up with strong, capable arms that belied his lanky figure. He tilted his chin towards the front door. "I can carry this for you inside. Everything is to go to you as he listed you as the next of kin."
And she remembered. Roy's aunt and foster mother, Christine Mustang, was not mentioned anywhere on his enrollment paper. It was only recently she had learned of the reason.
"Alright," Riza nodded in acknowledgment. Hurriedly, she raced to the front door and opened it, wide and inviting, as if it were Roy herself she was welcoming home.
"Please put it there against the wall."
"Of course, Miss Hawkeye."
The man gently nestled Roy's belonging as instructed. Then he took careful strides down the porch steps and back out onto the cobblestoned pavement once again.
"My deepest condolences, Miss. I wish you and your boys the best."
When the man was a mere dot bobbing in the distance, the tuft of his chocolate hair invisible against the wave of lush trees, her knees wobbled so powerfully it began to tingle. Riza collided against the soil underfoot. The sun hammered down on her until the rest of her body toppled over and was prone beneath its glare, listless and immovable.
What happened to Roy? Did he really-
Beside her, Alphonse swiftly clasped her cheeks tightly in his little hands. He screamed her name at the top of his lungs as though someone had died. Well, someone did, she supposed, even if his body wasn't recovered and left to rot under the harsh sun of Ishval.
But the little boy's scream was tinged with fear and desperation, and Riza was tempted to raise her voice and heed his call. Instead, her spirit gave in, more exhausted than her mind, and she shut her eyes to block out the world.
How long would she have to remain here, in this way?
Enveloped in darkness, she imagined herself roosting on a shimmering shore. She pushed a raft and sat on the grooves of the damp timbers, rowing, and rowing. Her destination was the past, to a time when the dark-haired boy was perpetually by her side, with an effortless tilt along his lips and a dream-maker gaze that was subtle to everyone else but her.
Edward woke sometime after and screamed her name just the same, if not louder than his brother. She knew it had been Edward, because the endearing title that never failed to trip out of Alphonse's lips was missing in his shriek. She released a gasp and fluttered her eyelids in this instance, finding the older brother's elongated face hovering above hers, frightened expression bellowing and beckoning for her to come upright.
Riza didn't move; all she could feel was a dull cramp in her hands. When she raised and flipped her trembling palms heavenward, she found her lifelines glistening, exposing her heart, rivulets of hellos and goodbyes congregating as they came alive once more.
Their childhood moment by Sweetwater River resurfaced, buoying up to the forefront of her mind.
Her short hair had fluttered in the wind, and Riza looked at the rushing stream down below. The height between the crag and the water suddenly felt too much, too overwhelming, and she squeaked to the boy beside her.
"I'm scared."
"Don't be," Mister Mustang had said behind a smile, long fingers stretched over hers in an unrelenting grip, "because I'm jumping in with you."
February 2, 1908
"Boy, let me give you a little advice: you should write home. It will keep you sane. It will give you hope, especially in the coming days."
This was what Doctor Knox, a military physician with a permanent scowl on his face and a pair of glasses that couldn't hide the remorse over his weary eyes, said to me as I set my luggage down and took the bunk right next to him.
I didn't know what to make of it. Was it supposed to scare me? Was it well meant? Seeing that we are both stuck in the same place, fighting the same war, I'd like to think he had nothing but good intentions.
Per Aunt Chris' request, I have no desire to reveal our relationship and have ceased all correspondences with the girls. "It will be bad for business," she had said, "and I am certain they read every letter that goes out."
Her justification didn't upset me; I understood completely. I was raised to be mindful of her lifestyle and bore no ill-will when she decided to mingle her business with our family affairs. She went as far as throwing me into covert operation as early as the age of ten. I hadn't known about it, of course, not until I was old enough to realize it myself. But she convinced me that she would never put my life in danger, and I was inclined to believe her.
With Aunt Chris and the girls out of the picture, I have no one else to pour my thoughts and feelings to. I don't know if Riza would want to hear from me. Not after what happened between us. Heeding Doctor Knox's advice, I have taken up to writing in this journal, encrusted in codes that can only be deciphered by Riza and Riza alone. To others, it will read like broken stanzas of a poem or random verses of lyrics we all once heard as children. To others, it is simply something that distracts Roy Mustang through his time in the Eastern Desert.
Ishval is cold at the end of winter. Colder than I expected. Immediately, I understood the long robes and the thick layers of coat the soldiers huddled into at camp.
I had separated from the group of soldiers that disembarked from the vehicle that took us to the Kanda District, traipsing into the largest market where a row of fruit and vegetable stalls that once graced the unpaved road is now carcasses, its grandeur a distant memory.
The doctor's advice had pinged an alarm in my head. I didn't want to wait until tomorrow to see the destruction we've created for ourselves. I needed to find out what he meant about hanging onto sanity and hope.
The afternoon air was dry and biting, and my teeth gritted the dust while my tongue tasted the coarseness with each impending footfall. I glided through the barren street, free of souls and any other form of life, noticing the way the wind twirled and taking notes of its impulses.
No one had asked why I was there. The men in uniform ignored me or pretended they didn't see me, choosing to worry about the last drop of water in their metal flasks rather than looking up and saluting a State Alchemist. It is best this way, and I hope they would keep up this charade. This means I can venture into the depth of Ishval all on my own.
I explored further until a realization hit, and my eyes were suddenly trained on the vast collection of rubbles that had been keeping me company during this visit. Splashes of brown ran down the pale stones, catching my eyes then, and I could feel my skin shivering in its wake when I thought of the people those colors had belonged to.
Seven years of incessant fighting is visible on her earth, and the commune was not spared from its severity. It scares me to think about it, and how my role will play a part. Soon, I will have to follow, splatter my paint and create my own ashen picture with these hands.
How will I sleep at night knowing what awaits each morning?
As I lumbered through the destroyed buildings and the vacant markets, there was a strange atmosphere that trailed. I felt it from the moment I stepped foot at the nearest outpost and marched the far miles to where I was.
I don't believe in ghosts. And there is no such a thing as an evil spirit. But the sensation was otherworldly, eerily supernatural, as though your twelve o'clock shadow would suddenly jump out and swallow you into its obscurity.
I have nothing in my trunk except for my spare uniform, an extra pair of boots with deep lugs that could traverse the most sandy dunes, and plenty of white undergarments. I thought I was prepared when I stuffed all of my necessities into my luggage. But I had forgotten to pack salves for my despairing heart, and I hadn't bundled a roll of linen gauze for the sight I will not be able to unsee.
In my pocket is a pair of gloves stitched in red, the most important item in the entire collection. Without these, I wouldn't be here. Without these, I would still be in the East command, serving my country with unadulterated visions of a peaceful, unified Amestris that will transcend many generations.
There are many instances where I wish I could board the train home, return to whence I came before I get a chance to see the true horror of the Civil War.
When I reached the skeleton of a building, its windows a gaping hole and its charred roofs collapsing into its own body, I retired against whatever was left of a parlor or a living room wall. Taking a deep breath, I let silence fill me up as I contemplated the days ahead. I knew I would have to acclimate myself to my crumbling surroundings.
Among the remains of an upturned vehicle nearby, I heard a chirp. Though it wasn't a happy chirp by any means, but rather a call for help, persistent and heartbreaking. I saw a pretty bird with a golden head, flecks of silver brushing her nape and shooting over her back. The tip of her tail was up and playful, but it dawned on me as I scanned her rump that it was smeared with blood, parts of her feathers torn and cut up.
I must have been out of my mind. Or maybe the desert and the desolation affected me more than I'd cared to admit. I talked to the bird as if I were talking to a friend, full of meaning and intention to grasp the pain she was suffering through. "What happened? Did you get caught in the crossfire?"
She looked so helpless, and something within compelled me to take her back to camp and tend to her injury. But as I cupped my hands, she eluded me and flew away, unstable and faltering, flapping beside her wound without much success.
Then I heard a voice behind me, a menacing cackle that I knew would be constant in my ears, haunting me even as I tried to forget. I turned around to find a ropey man in a long ponytail. The threatening slant of his eyes and the sharp corners of his mouth allowed me to envisage a man who belonged here, in the battlefield.
I've never been particularly religious, and I learned from an early age that gods and demons were simply mythical figures. But I couldn't face this man. It felt as if I was facing the Devil himself. Apprehension continued to stir within me even as I forced myself to cast my gaze down and evade his ferocious stare.
"There's no point rescuing the bird; she's already half dead. I'll grant her mercy and lessen her pain," the man said, "just as I had done for many others in my short time here."
He then clapped his hands, crashing two intricately etched transmutation circles on his palms. The next thing I saw was a haze of explosion sparked in the close distance, loud and booming as small as it might have been.
I was too shocked to move, too startled to say anything.
When I looked again, I saw the fragile little bird ablaze, and she tumbled down, down, down.
R.M.
A/N: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think :)
