Author's Note: Hello. I'm sorry that I've been gone for, probably at least a year. It's been a while. I'm still writing, just not much in the way of fanfiction anymore, I guess. But I would be willing to publish some other works on here, if readers would be approving.
This was just something that I dug up from a while ago, written a very long while back, although I can't remember when…Just wanted to dust it off.
It's an Alternate Universe story, but just a bit, I suppose. If Roy and Riza got married, what it might have been like.
Still, I hope that you all enjoy it, and maybe even leave a review?
Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood; if I did, Roy and Riza would most certainly be a couple.
Something Done Right
They got married in the desert – amidst the war and the blood and the heavy stench of death and decay that stuck to them like a fog after a rainstorm.
She plucked cacti flowers from dying plants – Ishval had taught her to cherish life, be it human or animal, insect or plant – pink and purple and alive, for the brides' bouquet, stepping forward with her head held high. With the bloody setting sun and the sole loyal friend sitting solemnly to bear witness.
She was thankful, and she was content.
The flowers seemed to wither under the blasting desert heat, as their petals go limp and frail and dry in her heavily calloused hands, even as the glowing stars snuck in by clusters, the cooling tranquility that was the moon following after her large procession. But she doesn't care – why would she? – as she cradles them as if they were the rarest and most treasured things in the world.
And perhaps they are, for, in such a narrowed existence built on blood and sweat and bodies and tears, who is she to turn her nose up at life?
She laid them aside gently as she walked forward on her carpet of worn desert sand, kneeling at their withered appearance and thinly covered them with the sand found in abundance around them all. Standing up with a last wistful glance at the fuchsia splotches of dying life in the sands, the woman arranges a cold countenance once more and walks on.
As she walks, dust billows and clouds against her heavy military boots, a miniature sandstorm that she can quell with the rise of her feet. Even she does not notice that her cool façade wears away with every step she takes, like the ocean wearing away a stone.
Off to the chapel that they shall create using damaged memories and torn up dreams.
No dress, no suit – just the staunch formality of their navy blue military uniforms fast becoming dirtied by the blowing grains of timeless sands.
No veil, no corsage – it would have been useless now, with the desert sand blowing every which way, and besides, they are in the military – and those who live to serve the military must never care for such frivolities.
They both stifle a grin, allowing themselves a quirk of their lips in this moment. He knows it, she knows it, and it has never seemed so clear than in this unofficial act.
For the state, for the country, for the people. Their lives have always been for the country, to serve the state, to protect the people, and their crisp military uniforms remain worn and used as undeniable proof.
And right now, in this small era that never seems to pass, both of their lives are for war.
But this, this time, this moment, this act – this is entirely for themselves.
It is this blatant selfishness that they display in this broken and pillaged land, that makes them want to laugh and cry all at the same time, in each other's arms.
Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.
Left. Right. Left.
One foot in front of the other.
And so she walks.
Steady and firm and unwavering as the thoughts that run through her mind, as her feet lift onto the ruins of a marble arch, heavy and chipped and crumbling, but still there. The minor monument has lasted through the wars and the abandonment, and for a moment, she is stupidly happy for the slabs of dilapidated stone.
Then she stops, and removes her rough hand from the cool marble.
The man standing on it, with hard eyes the color of flint and jet-black hair, matters more.
I love him, I love him, I love him.
The two meet at the end of their imaginary aisle, and they clasp hands and share a secretive smile in the nothingness that seems to encase them in this moment.
Their eyes – hers, a deep carmine that seems to search his soul, and his a hard onyx that only softens when he sees her – say it all.
They have no official vows – there is no priest here in the acrid desert, and neither of them know the words. So they create their own under the fresh moonlight and the glittering stars, as they stand under their crumbling arch of everlasting stone – and the words mean the most because they are from the heart and the words are entirely theirs.
No rings are exchanged – just a kiss to seal the promise and the pledge they have made on their makeshift chapel, with the stars and the crescent moon to listen in close.
To love and to cherish…
And then their lips meet and a cannon fires somewhere off in the too-far distance, and if everything they've worked so hard for falls to shambles afterwards…
At least they've done one thing right.
…'Till death do us part.
Author's Note: I'm hoping that I didn't mess up Riza's character, make her too weak or unbelievable in any way. But I think even if she was getting married, she'd probably get a little bit emotional. Maybe. It's all very idealistic, I know…
*sighs*
Any thoughts on improvement, or any tips on how to make this piece better?
Please leave a comment if it's deemed worthy - and I do hope that you enjoyed reading!