Miles crawls up from the ground - the ground? When had he laid his head to rest? Sunlight licks his face and the world seems abnormally bright for a landscape that is dirt ground and not snow.
Immediately his fingers fly to his face, feeling for the metal frame that keeps his eyes hidden from the world. He finds the thin metal, releases the breath he had not realized he had been holding. One of us, Ishvalan echoes in his head, how could you, how do you live with yourself.
His hands are shaking. The last time anyone spoke to him in Ishvalan was at his Grandfather's dinner table. That is not for people like us, Miles. That is what we give to Ishvala who has given us all. His Grandfather who is now dead but whose eyes and skin he now wears.
A grunt from behind him. "Lieutenant General Grumman," he hears someone, then sees the uniform of the Eastern Army streak past him. Miles shakes the film of confusion from his mind.
"I'm fine," Grumman says, staggering back to his chair, furious but alive.
One of Miles' lieutenants helps up a Briggs private to his feet. Around them men are struggling back to their posts as the sun beats down upon them. The whisperings begin. Terrorists? Revenge? The Eastern Army is understandably nervous - the Ishvalan genocide was primarily theirs. Though soldiers follow orders but it is easier, so much easier to target them and look it is not Major General Armstrong but an Ishvalan that leads the Northern soldiers.
"Just because he has dark skin doesn't mean that Major Miles is one of them," he hears one of his men hiss, "he's not a terrorist. He didn't have anything to do with Fuhrer Bradley and he doesn't have anything to do with this."
Miles can feel Grumman's eyes on his back because he is, he did, and he does.
Traitor, the voices in his head that speak Ishvalan, the voices that surrounded him in pain and suffering, his undead blood brethren that live on in Philosopher's Stones whisper.
Traitor.
The moment Miles steps into the hospital as the sun sets on the Promised Day the Briggs men turn to him like the first sprouts of spring, tentatively poking their heads out from the snow, desperately searching for their first glimpses of sunlight. These soldiers can survive without their leaders, know what is expected of them when given orders but the dust is settling, the battle is over and all they are are strangers in a strange land and it discomfits them to be so leaderless.
A day of rest, he tells them, watches as faces crack in relief, as shaking fists slowly unclench, as his subordinates scatter in search of familiar faces. The wounded, the injured, the incapacitated, the dead. So many dead - they have not lost so many in so long. Red on white coats, he sees smears and splatters and tiny droplets that are only now beginning to congeal.
He hears whispers but there is more he needs. He can hear his footsteps down the corridor of the hospital but no one ventures any other useful information.
"Major Miles," he hears as he rounds a corner.
"Major Armstrong," he snaps into a salute, bites the question he wants most to ask off of his tongue, "how may I be of assistance?"
"My sister requests you report to her at your earliest convenience."
Major Armstrong looks him up and down, finds nothing worthy of rebuke, no reason why Miles should not go running to her immediately, "I suggest you attend to her presently."
Miles does.
He slides the door closed behind him, salutes before he even has the chance to take in the entirety of the room.
"Major Miles."
"Major General Armstrong, sir."
He reads it in the tension of her jaw, sees it in the corners of her eyes, breathes it in the air now still around them.
Buccaneer is dead.
"I am told," she says, turning away from him, "that Captain Buccaneer died inflicting a fatal wound on King Bradley."
Miles is holding his gaze to the space behind Major General Armstrong's head but the mention of Buccaneer pulls him back. He watches her eyes close, sees her chest fall in an exhalation before she snaps back to this world that Buccaneer no longer occupies, "He fulfilled his duties and passed away with a smile."
He says nothing, lets silence fill the space between them. Buccaneer would have chuckled.
"Miles," she says as the streetlamps slowly flicker to life.
"Yes General."
Her eyes flick to his, she clenches her teeth, her eyes close, her chest falls in an exhalation before she snaps back to this world, "There is still work to be done. Mustang wishes to speak with you. Go to him."
Miles does.
Each of Miles' heartbeats echoes in his chest.
"I intend to see Ishval rebuilt."
He can hear his blood thrumming through his veins.
"I cannot do that alone."
His mind is blank.
"Follow me, Miles. Rebuild the land of your forefathers."
His fists tremble from inside their gloves, pressed firmly into his sides so no one can see.
He says nothing. It was easy, so easy to feel that he could change the world under Major General Armstrong - so easy to tell himself that by existing he could change it all, that simply by existing, by being dark-skinned, red-eyed, by demanding attention and promising results that he could show them that he was just like them and it would be enough. But it would never be enough and he has always known that it would never be enough, that he alone could never be enough, that he has never done enough, never put himself out there, never tried to right this wrong except in petty arguments in icy corridors in a fortress so far away it never mattered.
Until now.
Now that he can, now that it is dangled right in front of him Miles knows that he has no right. How can he have a right, he who suffered not as they suffered, bled not as they bled, he who is Ishvalan when it is convenient when he can when it helps.
Uncles he has not seen. Cousins he has never met. Brothers, sisters under the sky whose blood has painted the sands red and who he will never know. They will not live to see this - only he, he in skin and eyes who is Ishvalan but was not Ishvalan enough for them, had not been Ishvalan enough to die.
"I understand that you may wish to have more time to think this through. Lord knows it took me a long time to get to this," Mustang says, looks through his glasses to his eyes.
In them Miles sees determination, sees a land of sand and wind, of culture and prosperity, of a quiet calm of things that will never be the same again but that can one day be alright. He sees nothing of Mustang's own insecurities, of the wars that all soldiers fight in their heads, of the fires and the flames and the smell of burnt human flesh, of oil in the air that clings to lips and slips down throats and if Mustang will not let this stop him then how can he? Miles' treacherous heart leaps and falls - will Amestrians never cease to guide him back to his path, will he always be reliant on an other to point the way?
Miles swallows the dry knot of sand in his mouth, feels it pour past his tongue down into his stomach. He is unworthy, he will always be unworthy but this is not about his petty worries, not about his fears and his regrets. This is and has always been bigger than a single man, bigger than the quarter-Ishvalan Major running away from his fears, covering his eyes and ears and wishing it would all go away.
"With all due respect sir, I have had enough time."
Mustang smiles, thin, wan, takes a step back. Then the self-assured cocky glint returns to his eyes.
"Now that that's settled, Major, I'll leave it to you to inform Major General Armstrong of this development. I rather prefer my limbs intact."
Miles does.