A/N: I wrote this a while ago, and the idea stemmed from me ranting about random stupid things, mostly revolving biotech and lack of sleep. And, guess what, this was another...I don't want to work on homework and it's 1 so let's write this. I guess it's bit of a RoyEd hint...Enjoy!

Dedication: Natasha, since I wouldn't be writing RoyEd without you

Disclaimer: Let's not forget that I don't own FMA, mmkay? I also don't own whatever is at the end...someone else wrote it...bleargh

Tired…he felt so tired. The fatigue blanketed over his mind, a hazy veil that diluted his thoughts. He wanted nothing more right now than to give in to his own wishes and shut his eyes and drift off to sweet, sweet sleep. A few blissful moments of rest would be wonderful. So why wouldn't that one little voice in his head telling him it was a bad idea go away?

One hand clutching a gash on his side, Roy Mustang staggered over and leaned heavily against the wall, surveying the scene in front of him from half-lidded eyes, his hair and brow clotted with blood, and sweat trickling down his forehead, stinging his eyes. A fine mess he had gotten himself into. It was a small room, one small barred window, dungeon-like, a single locked door, probably what was once a wine cellar. Except, the slick red liquid coating the floors and walls wasn't sweet, succulent red wine, but blood. Mostly his blood, all things considered, as he was the one who was rather injured. Every step he took was labored, every movement sent lightning bolts of pain shooting through his nervous system. His chest felt constricted, a weight pushing down upon it, intent on squeezing out the last few drops of life, and each breath that he took cost a visible amount of effort, his breathing rasping and ragged. The other hand clutched the wall next to him, also streaked with blood, and as he staggered, he left a trail of bloody prints along the wall, forever marking his passing.

- - -

Standing on the opposite side of the room, a dark skinned man grinned maniacally, his eyes glinting from the hunt, clearly enjoying himself. He had no reason not to be. After half a decade of plotting and the feeling of vengeance haunting his dreams, he had finally cornered a man who was responsible for slaughtering thousands of his brethren. Justice, he supposed, should, and would be dealt. It had been an enjoyable moment to find him, alone, and an easy matter to lure him into their present location. It had been a pleasant surprise to discover that the Flame Alchemist, however talented he was, had quite a few problems when dispatched of gloves, as well as guns. Really, he was hopeless at close combat. It had been an easy matter to be fast enough, and close enough so that he never got a chance to draw a transmutation circle, and then even easier to get in a few good swipes. Needless to say, the man had, like a cat with a cornered rat, quickly found it boring to play with such a useless toy, and had given him enough time to transmute something. Interestingly, Mustang had armed himself with twin swords. Well, a decent choice, although it was /such/ a pity that he hadn't taken the opportunity to try and finish him off. Not that it would have succeeded.

Oh, and had he had fun from then. Dancing lightly around the dark-haired man who's shallow breath and pale face spoke clearly of his predicament, he would slip in around his guard and add yet another little slit to the Colonel's growing number of injuries. The poor man would try and retaliate, but it was evident that the damage was taking its toll. His movements were slowed, attacks weak, defences futile, and focus fuzzy. The blood and sweat trickling down his forehead and blinding his eyes might have had something to do with it, he supposed, but that wasn't his problem.

After each clash, the man would retreat, allowing time for Mustang to recover slightly, before engaging him yet again. A good toy was hard to find, even a semi-decent one. No need to lose them any faster than necessary.

He regarded the injured man through delighted eyes, gleeful in a childlike way. This may have not been a fun trinket to begin with, but with his few modifications, it was definitely entertaining.

Pausing for a moment, he barely caught the sound of voices drifting through the solid door. They sounded like they were here to help his plaything. Well, no choice around it, it was time for him to dispose of this scum and scram, fulfilling his wish to take out at least one who had been responsible for the murder of his family.

Roy never saw what was coming. In a flash, the red-eyed man had darted forward, not the least encumbered by injuries, and ran his blade through Mustang's stomach. The renowned Flame Alchemist, hero of the Ishbalan war, decorated war hero and Colonel of the famous Fullmetal Alchemist, lurched forward, shock and pain etched on his features, his eyes bulging, hands automatically moving to grasp the protruding object. The man could see the alchemist's hands grappling at his sword blade, and couldn't help but let out a small giggle, as those blood-covered hands twitched and struggled with the blade, to no avail. And then, there was a gurgling sound, and he yanked it out, and watched, satisfied, as Roy wobbled in his current position, doubled over in pain, blood spewing from his mortal wound and his entrails sticking out from between grappling fingers, before crumpling to a bloody heap on the ground, and with one final twitch, was still. And he didn't feel remorse. The man smirked down upon the body with a mocking smirk, the very same the Colonel used to have plastered to his face, before turning and preparing to leave.

He started as a sudden flash of blue alchemic light lit up the room, the light source emitting from the door, and abruptly, the door crumpled into dust, revealing a petite blonde woman and a shorter golden-haired, golden-eyed boy. The two were followed by a sudden flooding of light from that opening, the light laying bare all of the details of the fight that had occurred before their arrival, the bloody prints on the wall and floor, the ripped ignition gloves on the floor, soaked in blood, and the bloody puddles on the ground that had dried up, leaving a putrid smell of iron and other unworldly smells. And the crumpled body of the flame colonel, mutilated, his face to the side, his expression of pain and shock etched over the pale canvas. The boy let out a cry upon seeing the body, his fists clenching and his hair up on end, and the woman was visibly shaken, her auburn eyes widening in shock and her gun laid limp in her nerveless fingers, as she struggled to grapple with the sight before her.

- - -

Edward's hands were shaking, but he was only subconscious of it. He could feel his nails digging into the palms of his gloved hands, though he did not register it. All he could see was the crumpled and mutilated body of his colonel, and all he could smell was the iron smell of blood. All he could taste were ashes and the taste of death, which hung in the room like a hazy blanket. He couldn't comprehend the sight before him. All he could do, was to stand there, his golden hair covering his eyes, hiding them from view, and his hands twitching at his sides.

And then, he looked over. The man was taken aback by the anger and hatred emanating from those molten-gold eyes. He could feel the heat of the anger, the pain of the sorrow, which the younger boy felt, and he could feel himself falter. Edward stood there, glaring, his shoulders rising as he felt his temper. A single tear slipped from his eye and onto his cheek, and he brushed it away angrily. The tear went flying, and dropped onto the ground.

As soon as the tear hit the ground, Edward flew into action.

"Why you…" Those words were laced with anger and fury, of sorrow and of pain. Those words were all Edward could choke out before fifty more drops of tears gathered in his eyes. In an act more of frustration than of vengeance, he brought his hands together and slammed them onto the ground.

- - -

Hawkeye was in a state of shock. Her hands twitched, as the cool façade of hers dropped from her face, and shattered into a million pieces, just as how her gun fell from her nerveless fingers, the thump which followed it seemed to echo through the room, as though to replay the sound and to haunt Riza. There was no way that her Colonel could be lying there right now. There was no way Roy Mustang would by lying there, blood coating his body. There wasn't a way. There couldn't have been a way. And then, she froze. She picked up her mask, calmly, and her gun as well, feeling reassured by the cool metal of her weapon, though she could feel nothing else, and under the cool military façade of composure, she emptied a full two cartridges of bullets into the despicable man's body before she even wondered why he hadn't fallen. How could he have, when he was impaled on numerous stone spikes?

All she could hear was her own harsh breathing, and the silent sobs of Edward, kneeling on the ground, his hands still in his alchemic position, his hair covering his eyes, and tears staining the ground. She herself wanted to kneel as well, to cry for all she's worth, and when she's run out of tears, to stand up again, and cry some more. But Hawkeye, rationality sneaking back to the corners of her conscience, instead, started her way towards her fallen officer, each step unsteady and rushed, though she fought to keep herself under control. She just wouldn't… She couldn't break down now. No, maybe, just maybe, he was still alive. Turning him over gently, she felt for a pulse and was delighted when she found one, faintly, but there. And hope flooded her. Her heart leapt when his eyes fluttered open, and her hands gently brushed back the blood that was still flowing towards his eyes, blinding them from sight. And Roy opened his mouth, a single syllable making its way out of his lips before his eyes slid close again and his head lolled back.

The sound of shattering glass could be heard, as Riza's world fell apart.

Somehow, she just felt that this couldn't be true, despite the evidence in front of her. She felt the numbness of sorrow flood her soul, preventing her from moving, from breathing, from doing anything. Her breath was taken away from her, her chest suddenly heavy, her eyes blurry. She could feel tears gathering at her eyes, but unlike so many times before, she could stop them, and they trickled down her cheek, and without anything to hide them, they flowed down and dribbled down her chin, before landing on the colonel's face, each tear washing away a little blood from his pallid cheeks. She probably would have just sat there, the Colonel's head in her lap, her tears expressing her sorrow, if not for a small sound coming from behind her.

- - -

Edward felt numb, not noticing the tears that streamed down his face, nor the hiccups that came from his throat, and barely noticing the soft touch of the hand on his shoulder, lost in his own tumultuous thoughts. His tears rolled down his face, as he stood up, staggering and dazed, as though he had just been clubbed in the head, and made his unsteady way over to where he knew Mustang's body was. He knew where it was, despite his tears blinding his eyes, for the memory was engraved in his mind. He found he could still see the bloody handprints on the wall, and could trace them out with his mind, despite his eyes were blinded and closed. He could see the impaled body of the killer, though he hadn't looked where he had fired those impaling spikes. He could see it all, and he hated it. He simply hated it. Kneeling down next to Mustang's body was hard to do. His knees just didn't seem to want to obey, but he forced them to anyhow, and they dumped him there, collapsing before Mustang's body unceremonially, tears falling down onto the ground and mixing with a puddle of blood.

Another look at the body, and Edward burst into tears.

'It's not fair. It's just not fair. It never was fair, and now, it never will be. Fair.'

He had just barely recovered over the loss of his brother, finding himself living as happily as he could without half of his soul. When he had lost his brother, it felt as though a limb, an arm, and half a soul had been torn away from him, and he had been lost in a daze for months, unable to comprehend it. But the pain that be felt know… Why did it feel… Worse? What right did this person have to take yet another piece of the puzzle in his heart from him?

He remembered the day of the funeral. It had been a clear day, few clouds in sight, a warm spring morning. To him though, it was the darkest day of his life, as though a shadow had been casted over the Earth, as he felt a part of himself be lowered into the earth as the casket containing a small, fragile body was covered with dirt. The two had given their all for their goal, but in the end, it had rebounded upon them. They had succeeded with the aid of an incomplete Stone, but it had resulted in Al's stunted growth, which neither minded, as well as the loss of many of his internal organs, much like their teacher. He had held out well for the better part of three months, before finally succumbing to a losing battle, and dying.

Edward had been devastated. That day, he had stood in front of the grave long after the others had left. He shed no tears, but instead stood stony faced, like a good dog should. He felt the thorns of a bunch of white roses dig into the palm of his right hand, feeling the blood that it drew trickling down his fingers to fall onto the newly disturbed soil. He didn't notice as a shadow fell over him, and started when he felt a hand placed on his shoulder. He looked up into the sympathetic face of his commanding officer, who gently released his hold on the flowers and placed them on the grave, before steering him out of the cemetery. Edward obliged, brain still too numb to object. He didn't cry until that night, when he woke screaming from a nightmare, and consequently brought Roy running down the hall in his pajamas to the room that he had put Ed in. Softly, gently, he had held the crying boy against his chest, comforting him in the way a good friend would. From that night on, Edward would find Roy ever there to help him, to guide him. It had been a relationship beyond that of a commanding officer and a subordinate, and it wasn't quite that of one between a father and son. Edward craved human contact at the moment, and Roy was there to give it. Slowly, Roy brought Edward back to life, back to at least a shadow of the spirited, determined young boy that had once existed. Edward had been reasonably happy—until tonight.

Now, everything was changed, everything was different. Now, there was no one to guide him from his place in hell, no one to lead him back. Another piece of the intricate jigsaw puzzle that existed in everyone's heart had gone missing, and would never be found again. No matter what new pieces were added, nothing could replace those that were not there. Each time yet another piece was lost, another friend, another comrade, another family, the hole in his heart grew wider, darker, deeper, and each time, much harder to repair. Now, he felt lonely, walled off, as if the other pieces of the puzzle were no longer there, only the large hole left by the departing portion. It was a dismal feeling.

Desperately, he cried out; an incoherent sound like that of a wounded trapped wild animal, a plea to the cruel world around him to help in some way.

Hawkeye, who had been kneeling next to him, pulled the boy into an embrace and let him cry into her shoulder. Her heart went out to this young child who had experienced so much, and had had so much taken from him. She struggled not to let her eyes wander to the stiffening body behind her; what was gone was gone. It was more important to focus on the living. Despite that she felt just as badly as Edward did, maternal instincts, and military training told her that it was he that needed her support right now. She knew that soon, the others would find her, Edward, and Mustang, and things would be arranged from there.

For now, all she could do was wait.

- - -

It was three days since then now, the pain of death still fresh in his heart as he stood by yet another grave, yet another funeral. He could do nothing but stand there, as he watched yet another loved one be lowered slowly out of sight. And he turned away, couldn't bear to watch anymore. His heart cried out to be attended to, wanting to join they who were already gone, to rest and to sleep, and to forget it all, as though it were all a dream. Logic dictated otherwise, telling him he still had many good friends who would be willing to help, as well as many good friends who were no doubt as affected as he was. Then, there was always his brother. If anything, he would go on living for him, and then, go on living for those around him.

It was the only thing he could do.

After the others had left, and just as the sun was setting, casting a baleful glow upon him, he knelt down, and once again felt the warm blood trickle down his fingers, drawn from a single uncut thorn, this time savouring the salty taste of tears as he let fall a single white rose.

A single white rose,
A single green thorn,
A single drop of blood.
A single tear,
A single word,
Farewell.

So. There was a bit of RoyEd in there? Right? I'm not very good at romance stuff...I'm much more violent. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and do ask that you take the time to review, please? Get me through this month of hell...Oh, and symbolism. In asian cultures, white is generally associated with death. In general, roses seem to be associated with love. So, yeah. Anyways (I should stop using that word), once again, I hope that you review...I'm so redundant. Oh, and, of course. Shameless self-promoting time! Teachings of Pain is my ongoing story...go read!