A/N: Too long to be a drabble, to short to be a one-shot. I didn't know it was possible to pack this much angst into so few words, but here it is.
One Thousand and One Nights
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Maybe if I fall asleep, I won't breathe right
Maybe if I leave tonight, I won't come back
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It begins on a plain of fire, scorching winds whipping grainy knives across his cheeks. They creep into his heavy uniform and bury themselves under his skin. It's all he can do to hear the bell toll (you're on, Flame). He slips on his gloves once more—what choice does he have anymore, really?—and they might look white but they're so, so red.
This time, they are cornered in an alleyway, wind muffled by the burnt ruined buildings. They cower away like frightened lambs, and he is no shepherd. White robes are silhouetted against wooden walls like bullseyes. The air is heavy with tension, the sort that comes from those who know they are going to die. It is all too familiar.
His gloved hand moves into his sights, and red eyes go wide with terror—red like blood, like death, like flame, like him. Ignition cloth presses together, ready to spark.
For half a second, he meets the eyes of a dark-skinned child. He is half-hidden behind his mother, shaking hand clenched in hers. In the other is a book. It's a collection of fairy tales; Roy remembers it from when he was young (far too long ago). Once-bright illustrations are pale and faded under a layer of desert dust. He imagines his own chubby fingers sweeping over the cover, carefully brushing away the dirt. A rough, feminine voice translates the unintelligible symbols into delightful stories of knights and sorcerers. He can almost feel his old, worn mattress beneath him. Fingers poised to snap pause, eyes gazing into a time long past. From behind him, he hears muttering from the ranks—what's taking him so long?—but he can't do it. He can't, he won't, they're human, this is genocide—
Roy lurches into the waking world, choking on the flames that engulf his vision. Cool silk, a stark contrast to desert sand, pools around his legs. He pants as he clutches at the sheets. Dark eyes flit around the neat bedroom that is so unfamiliar to his terror-clouded gaze. The weight of pain and regret settles around him like a coffin. He remembers those red eyes, their humanity, their life, that were so unlike his and yet undeniably the same. He can't swallow the sob as he wonders how he let himself become a murderer.
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Take them down
We're going to burn them at the stake
What have we done?
I think we made a mistake
Blood's on our hands now
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