Disclaimer: I don't own Full Metal Alchemist, either...Dammit.
Speechless
Shock.
It was the first expression to cross those icy blue eyes, swiftly followed by a rage so blazing that they seemed to glow...though were he close enough, he knew he would see the tiniest bit of fear, silvering her sapphire irises. Her face had not changed in expression, so impressive was her control...but as Major Anthony Miles well knew, Olivier Mira Armstrong, like all of her family, could not control her eyes. However...she could hide her weaker emotions behind words like duty, vows, loyalty; and anger, almost as terrible as this. And it hurt to watch her suffer like that, unable to do a damned thing to help him. He wanted to snatch at the bastard before him, catching the knife and tearing through his bonds, wanted to kick and punch and run back towards the Fort, to his men and his superior. He wanted to curse them for stripping him to pants and his tee, beat them for taunting his lineage, and introduce them to the tender mercies of Fort Briggs' welcome...But he knew better. He was freezing and weak, his body emaciated from the five weeks of starving, his reactions slowed badly by nerve damage and fresh scars.
And she knew it. Her eyes, sharp as any hawk's, were still on him, taking in each hurt, counting each blow. She would repay them, blow for blow, over and over, and over again until those Drachman bastards were red dust. And while he knew that she would do so for any of her men...he also knew that for once, the Drachma forces had hit a very, very sensitive point in the Ice Queen's armor. However...whether they knew that or not was entirely questionable. They weren't the most acknowledgable folk, truth be told. His head snapped up, though at the one sound he'd hoped he wouldn't hear. There were two fortified gates in Fort Briggs, on the Drachma side; the larger of the two was currently frozen shut, and no amount of power could budge it. The smaller, however, was well heated usually, and tended to be used for the tentative peace treaties and negotiations between Drachma and Amestris. That was the gate opening now, revealing Buccaneer and several of his own men, carrying the large crates of supplies and cash that the Drachmans had demanded for his release.
No...Major General... He strained against the bonds, fighting the sudden urge to pass out, trying to tell her with only his eyes that she was making a mistake. She couldn't do this! If she gave in to save his skin, they'd know...! Dearest Ishvala, make her see sense! Don't let her fall because of him...He finally gave in, and snarled out a warning to Buccaneer, an order so harsh that it almost seemed like a different man's voice, a different man's words.
"Take yourselves back, now! There will be NO negotiations with treaty breakers like these sons of maggots! Did you hear me, Buccaneer? Get your sorry asses back inside and seal up that damned gate! If you don't stop right now, I'll-"
"Die, Major. Quiet down; you're making a mockery of my citadel." He stopped, shocked beyond words. She...was that...no, it couldn't have been Ishvalan. He didn't even know that much of the language, though he had been learning from one of the refugees up north. She couldn't possibly...but that was undeniably the language of his people, flowing beautifully from the lips of the woman he honored...and loved. He gazed up at her, a longing deeper than any ache or hunger piercing his very soul. He wanted her, needed her...and as she continued speaking, he felt that need grow.
"Inside are explosives, packed into every crevice. Once we receive you, Buccaneer will detonate them, and the remote mines scattered through the area, and the Drachmans will be no more, at least until the next army they field. Now, settle down, love...we will have you soon." He sagged back, dropping his head, seemingly despondent...while inwardly, he was fighting a grin. That was why he so loved her; she was eternally clever, and an enjoyable con. The men around him certainly thought so, for while they didn't understand what she said, they certainly knew that tone. Only a pissed-off superior took that tone, and they all knew it well from personal experience. In either case...he felt suddenly safer, and closer to home, than he had in days. She was ready, Buccaneer was too; the men around him parted, and their leader signaled that he should be thrown in the snow before them. He landed awkwardly, and struggled to his knees; one had twisted under him badly. As Buccaneer leaned forward to help him, a smile tugging at his own lips, Miles couldn't help the faint grin-
The man moved so fast that the Major General had a hard time following his movement, though she would have been too late even if she had. The moment Miles' head had raised up to greet Buccaneer, the man who had been holding him down dashed forward, grabbed ahold of his dirty ponytail, and slashed his throat so deeply that even at the distance from atop the Fort, Olivier could see the faint glimmer of bone. As the Drachman army started laughing riotously, her men gathered up their major and ran his now lifeless body back into the gate, while above, their leader felt as though her heart had just been torn from her chest. She clutched her sword like a lifeline, and swayed, back and forth, body shaking not from cold...but from the deathly rage screaming, trying to claw it's way out of her eyes. A single gesture brought forth the detonations, another the guns blazing down on the once-white field...but not a word said she. She could not; her mouth would not work, her voice dying before it even held a whisper. So she gestured, with hand and sword, and that night, after all the blood had frozen down below, she wept, silent as the man she clung to.
...I'm horrid some days.