((A/N: This chapter is pretty violent, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! Bwahahaha . . . ))
"It's FREEZING!" Ed whined as he and Al trudged through the sand. The tourist couple had taken them past the border, but then had gotten nervous and refused to drive any further into Ishbal. Al didn't really blame them. The sun was setting quickly and being in the middle of a desert in a hostile country at night was more than a little scary.
"Just keep walking, brother. We've walked across deserts before. I'm sure we'll come to a town eventually."
"Al, that's not nearly as comforting as you think it is."
True, the thought of going into an Ishbalan town and asking, "Hey, have you seen this guy anywhere? Why, yes, he IS the man who slaughtered your people during the war, funny you should ask…" was pretty intimidating. They decided not to think that far ahead and just focused on finding a town first. When they got there they'd decide how to best broach the subject of the Colonel and his whereabouts.
"Hey, look." Ed said, pointing to a black spot on the horizon.
Al looked down at his brother, the nagging, uncomfortable feeling of anxiety that they'd been battling all day back with a vengeance. It was the car that Mustang had borrowed.
The brothers ran to the car, both of them fully expecting to see Mustang lying in the front seat, blood spattered on the windows and a bullet hole in his temple. Maybe he'd just wanted to be in Ishbal when he committed the act; maybe he'd wanted to spill his own blood on the same land that he'd spilled others' on.
Ed approached the car and cautiously looked in the window. Al hung back, too afraid of what he might see.
"Empty." Ed called, relief evident in his voice. Ed tested the door latch and, finding it unlocked, opened it. "He left the keys in here."
"Maybe he didn't expect to need them anymore." Al suggested, a little more morbidly than he'd meant to.
"Or maybe he was captured. Look." Ed pointed to the ground. There were several sets of footprints left in the soft sand and, although they were faint because of the winds, Al felt that they couldn't have been there for much more than an hour.
"Well, at least we know we're on the right track." Ed said as lightly as he could, but his face betrayed concern.
"He'll be okay, brother."
"Pfft. Like I even care. I'm just curious, that's all. And he's always meddling into our business, so all we're doing is a little meddling of our own."
"Right." Al said, not convinced at all. "Come on, let's follow the prints."
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It was bad. Worse than any pain he'd ever felt. He knew it was going to be bad, but . . . god . . .
The man who had claimed his hands was named Jukaat. He was the Elder's son, which is why he'd been given the privilege of choosing Mustang's fate and executing it.
They sat together at a table with Roy's hand splayed out in front of the Ishbalan. It was the ultimate test of will for the Colonel to sit still and allow himself to be sliced open. The Ishbalans offered him nothing for the pain, but neither did they restrain him. Mustang tried hard not to struggle, but there is only so much that the human body can take before the instinct to protect oneself becomes too great to ignore. His entire body cried out for him to RUN, to make the pain go away . . . but he gritted his teeth and bore it, his face buried in one hand while the other was being carved and flayed.
If Jukaat had just chopped off his hands, perhaps it would not have been so bad, but the man did not want the hands as a trophy. He wanted to destroy them.
He'd driven a pick-like knife through the center of Roy's left hand to keep it from moving as he worked. Though Jukaat's old injuries kept him from being the artist that he once was, he could still use a knife and was going to make this punishment as artfully painful as he could.
The tips of Mustang's fingers were the first to go, taken one by one in a slow and methodical manner. His fingernails had been torn back, revealing raw and bloody flesh underneath, and then Jukaat had wedged the knife in the joint of the small knuckle of Roy's middle finger, twisting and slicing until the bone popped out of its socket like a bloody cork. The Colonel had managed to keep from screaming only by turning away and biting his split lip so hard that blood ran down his chin.
"You aren't watching." Jukaat chided as he worked the knife into the joint of his thumb with a sharp, wrenching movement. Roy screamed then, unable to hold back as he felt his hand being torn apart little by little. Still, gasping and crying out in agony, he turned his head obediently and watched Jukaat work, the urge to vomit rising. Jukaat made it clear before they started that he wanted Roy to watch so that he could fully appreciate what was being done to him. He wanted him to be aware of all five of his senses recoiling in terror and pain. He wanted him to see the gore, to smell the blood, to taste his own fear, to hear the cracking, grinding, tearing, squishing of his ravaged limb, and above all to feel everything as he had never felt before.
The man was truly an artist.
Roy obeyed the command as well as he was able, but more than once he could not help but look away, especially as Jukaat began removing entire fingers, delicately tearing bones and flesh apart and setting the pieces in a neat pile in front of Roy. Whenever Jukaat noticed that the Colonel was not watching, he would either command him to look or describe everything that he was doing in detail, speaking loudly so as to be heard over the Colonel's screams, which quickly became constant and hysterical.
"Now I'm peeling back the skin from your knuckle. The red on white is really very breathtaking. I can see your veins pumping, your muscles twitching impulsively every time I make a cut. It's almost beautiful, fire-demon . . . taking you apart."
Roy didn't know which was worse: the actual, searing, intolerable gore or the way that Jukaat described it to him. Even more terrible was that while Jukaat tried very valiantly to seem as if the mutilation didn't bother him—even tried to sound as if he enjoyed it from an artistic view—Roy could clearly hear the horror and nausea in the man's voice. Even through his own screaming and retching he could hear Jukaat's voice tremble and could see his ravaged hands shake as they sliced and tore at the broken Colonel. It was as if Roy had found yet another way to torture and scar Ishbalans. He couldn't even repent for his sins without doing them harm.
Jukaat was finishing up on Roy's left hand, leaning his weight on the blade to splinter through the bones of his wrist. Roy turned his head and gagged from the intensity of the pain that shot up his arm, making the corners of his vision go dark. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. He was weeping openly, unable to hold it back and not really caring. As Jukaat broke his wrist and tore away the remaining flesh he fell into a swoon and his body went limp. His head slammed onto the table, inches away from the mangled heap of his bone and flesh. He could feel the cooling blood on his forehead, the liquid quickly coagulating into a sticky, gelatine-like puddle.
"Delgat." Jukaat said over his shoulder, to a man standing outside the partially curtained door. Another man entered—presumably Delgat—but the Colonel didn't raise his head to look at him. Jukaat moved aside and the man grabbed Roy's arm, lifting it off the table none-too-gently. The next thing that registered in his mind was the smell of burning flesh, but it took him a moment to feel it. He cried out and tried to pull away from this new kind of pain, but his arm was held fast and the red-hot blade of a saber pressed tightly against the ragged hole where his hand used to be. He turned his head and dry heaved as his wound was cauterized, the all too familiar smell of scorched human slamming his over-taxed mind with images of writhing bodies and pillars of smoke.
Then for a moment he felt nothing. The darkness lurking at the corners of his vision crept forward and dragged him down into blissful unconsciousness. It was only for a moment but, oh, he wished that moment of numb nothingness would last forever. It didn't. His body's natural will to survive tore his mind from the blessed blackness and spat him back out onto the bloody table, his eyes struggling to focus on Jukaat and the hand . . . the stump . . . that the Ishbalan was bandaging tightly. The other man was gone, probably to re-heat the blade to cauterize the next amputation.
"I'm sorry . . ." Mustang rasped suddenly, his lips brushing against the sticky redness that covered the table. His voice was small and choked, barely audible. "God, I'm so sorry."
There was a pause as Jukaat tied off the bandage a little more roughly than was necessary, but the Colonel was too far-gone to care. He was barely clinging to consciousness as blood loss and bodily stress told him to just give up and die.
"Are you apologizing because you want me to stop?" Jukaat asked, a sharp edge of cruel mockery tainting his words.
" . . . No." The Colonel fought to sit upright again, his head spinning as he raised it from the table. Blood dripped from his face as he sat back, running sluggishly from just under his hairline, over his left eye, and down over his mouth. The Colonel shifted with effort and splayed his unravaged hand in front of Jukaat. "I w-want you to continue . . . I just want you to know that I didn't want to kill your people."
"Then why did you?"
The question was posed softly; a sharp contrast to Jukaat's previous words, which had dripped with hatred. Now Jukaat sounded betrayed, anguished. The Colonel looked up at him, willing his eyes to focus through tears.
"I had to. I swear. I h-had to follow orders. I would never . . ."
"But you did. You should have said no. Any good person would have said no."
Roy faltered. He had thought of refusing orders more than once, of telling his superiors "No". He had thought it, but why hadn't he acted?
Cowardice? Probably.
Loyalty to his own country? Perhaps.
Because he thought they were right? Because he was stupid enough to believe in their lies? Yes. God, yes.
"I . . . h-had to follow my General. My . . . Elder. He gave me orders and I had to carry them out."
"Do not compare your war-mongering military leaders to our Elders." Jukaat warned, resting the blade on Mustang's knuckle but not yet cutting.
"I'm sorry . . . I'm just t-trying to explain."
Jukaat turned his eyes back to Roy's hand and Mustang steeled himself for the first slice, but it did not come. Mustang watched the man closely, wondering at the suddenly uncomfortable expression that marred his face. Gone was the stoicism, the false enjoyment of the foreigner's suffering. Jukaat met Roy's eyes, a sick confusion and resignation registering on his face.
"I am not a monster." Jukaat said suddenly with a surprising desperation. "I do not like this." He gestured to the remains of Roy's hand, waving the knife at it angrily.
"I know."
"But I would not disobey my Elder if he told me to kill innocent Amestrisians . . . I would do as you did if it was asked of me."
There was a conflict in his voice. Roy could see the sudden, gut-wrenching turmoil that had sprung from his attempted explanation of his sins. The admission was obviously painful for Jukaat and he was rattled by this abrupt epiphany that compromised the vengeful rage he'd been harboring for so long.
"Your military Elder . . . your General should be punished." Jukaat continued finally, looking away.
"He was killed by an Ishbalan not too long ago. And I'm glad."
Jukaat nodded slowly, darkly pleased. He looked back down at Roy's hand and moved the knife away from his knuckle, settling it on his wrist.
"I will take this one quickly." Jukaat said, an odd sort of twisted kindness—no, not kindness . . . but something empathetic, touched with an angry parody of respect—making his voice low and quavering.
Roy watched the Ishbalan's face and Jukaat watched his, their eyes locked as Jukaat raised the knife and brought it down with such flesh-rending, bone-cracking force that Mustang didn't even have time to gasp before unconsciousness found him again. This time the dark welcomed him and held him in it's gauzy arms. It would be almost an hour before he remembered anything else.
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They found a city just before the sun slipped itself completely behind the horizon so that the candlelight in the windows and doorways shone like a beacon in the middle of the quickly darkening desert. Good thing, too, because Ed had been swearing for the last twenty minutes that he was about to die from hypothermia.
"This is a desert. Deserts shouldn't be cold." He whined quietly as they trudged into the city. In spite of his discomfort, he thought better of being too loud. This was technically enemy territory, after all.
There were few people on the street, most of them mothers rounding up their playing children to take them inside for the night, so it was a while before the foreign pair was noticed. One woman though, with a young boy balanced on her hip spotted them as they approached. Ed cautiously displayed his empty hands in a mime of peaceful intentions and Al hung back a distance, as always painfully aware of the trepidation that his appearance caused strangers. The woman hefted her child a little higher onto her hip for a more solid hold, watching them silently, even assertively. If she was afraid, she did not show it.
"Please," Ed began, his widest, most unassuming smile seated a little forcedly on his face. "Can you help us?"
For a moment she looked as if she would not answer him, even looked as if she would turn away entirely, but then she gave a grudgingly courteous nod.
"What is your trouble, stranger?" Her voice was raspy and a little distorted, calling to attention the thick trail of scars that traveled up her neck and over her cheek. Burn scars. From far away Ed hadn't been able to see them, but now he could barely keep from staring. He knew as well as she did who had caused those scars. It was suddenly a lot harder for him to speak to her.
"I, uh . . . we're looking for someone. An . . . an Amestrisian, like us."
Her guarded expression darkened and she put her boy gently on the ground, telling him softly to go inside. He obeyed without argument, pausing only briefly to look curiously at each of the Elric brothers before he disappeared into a humble building.
"Are you speaking of the devil-man? The State Alchemist?"
Ed's mouth went dry. He heard Al shifting uncomfortably behind him.
"Y-yeah. Yes."
"He dared to show his face here again. The fool."
"So, he was here?"
"He is still here."
The small fears that had slowly been squeezing his heart all day intensified into a painful, vice-like pressure in his chest.
"Where is he?"
She turned and pointed, gesturing toward a smallish building with a curtain covering the entrance. When she turned back to them her face was defiant. "The last time I heard such screaming was when he slaughtered my people. It is good to hear the same pain coming from him."
Ed's eyes went wide. He felt as if the breath had been knocked from his lungs with a sledgehammer. Al gave a tiny moan of horror and bolted in the direction that the woman had indicated, Ed hot on his heels.
The Colonel would be okay. He had to be. God, why hadn't they just stopped him from leaving? Why hadn't they kept an eye on him, made him stay in Youswell?
They skidded to a halt in front of the curtained building, startling a group of men who had been crouched there, chatting. One of them was cleaning blood from a wicked-looking saber. The men stood quickly, ready to fight if that is what it came to. Ed stood his ground, fists clenched and more than ready to fight physically or employ alchemy if he saw the need.
"Where is he?" Ed demanded, trying to watch all of the men at once. The silence that followed his question was tense but brief, for a moment later the curtain parted and two men stepped out. One had his hand on the other's shoulder, guiding him outside. They looked up at Ed and Al, surprised. One of them was the Colonel.
"God, Colonel . . ."
Mustang's face was covered in blood. It streaked down in thick, half-dried lines and had soaked into the collar of the once-white shirt that Ed could see peeking out of his traveling cloak. His lip, too, was split and swollen. He was deathly pale looked ready to fall over at the slightest provocation, but the expression that he wore was of calm bemusement.
"Fullmetal . . . ?" He asked sounding dazed as if he'd just been awoken from a deep slumber, "What are you doing here . . . ?"
"Uh . . ." Ed faltered, "Rescuing you?"
The Colonel looked at Ed for a moment, turned to look at the man who had led him outside, and then looked back at Ed, apparently confused.
"Oh." He intoned in a strange, wondering voice as if to say Huh. Well, isn't that something? Imagine that.
"Take him, then. We are finished with him." The man standing beside Mustang said, giving him a push in Ed's direction. Mustang staggered slightly as he stepped forward, but he quickly regained his balance and moved to stand between Ed and Al. Al had his hands half-extended, ready to catch Mustang should he suddenly collapse, which looked liable to happen.
"Come on, sir." Al said to him gently, as if he were speaking to a child. The Colonel looked up at him unfocusedly, but obeyed without a word, following him as he stepped away. Ed was watching the group of men over his shoulder as he walked after them, still wary and high on unused adrenaline. This had not gone at all as planned.
"Wait."
The man who had lead the Colonel out approached them again and Ed's fists clenched spasmodically. The man stood close to Mustang, closer than social decorum would typically allow, and gently took the Colonel's face in his—Ed could now see—badly scarred hands. He pulled the slightly taller man's face down and pressed their foreheads together in a surprisingly intimate gesture.
"I cannot speak for all of Ishbal," The man whispered, his words obviously intended for the Colonel only, "But I forgive you. I understand."
Mustang's eyes widened for a moment, staring into the red-eyed Ishbalan's with apparent shock. Then he let his eyes close, looking both pained and sadly rapturous. He pressed his head more tightly against the other man's, gratitude seeming to radiate off of him in waves.
Ed had no idea what was going on. He looked up at Al, eyebrows raised, but his brother just shook his head. He looked over his shoulder at the group of men and they, too, looked confounded as they muttered to one another.
The men pulled away from each other and the Ishbalan turned and walked back to the group of men, not looking back. They had been dismissed.
Mustang turned slowly and headed in the direction that Ed and Al had just come from. The boys quickly followed him.
"Colonel, what happened? Are you okay?" Al asked in a small, frightened voice as they neared the edge of the city. The desert beyond was nearly pitch black with only a sliver of moon to light the tops of the sand dunes. The Colonel stopped walking and looked around before finally letting his eyes fall on Al.
"I don't remember where I left the car . . ." He sounded half-asleep, a disturbingly dreamlike quality softening the edges of his words.
"We know where it is, sir. That way." Ed said to him, pointing west and trying very hard to keep the apprehension out of his voice. Something was wrong. Really wrong. "Colonel, if you're injured you need to tell us. What happened?"
Mustang turned his attention to Ed and stared at him for a moment, then shook himself, visibly trying to compose his scattered thoughts. His eyes cleared a little, but it was easy to see that he was struggling to keep his mind collected and unfogged.
"No. No, I'm fine."
"You're lying. A woman said that she could hear you screaming. We thought that they'd killed you . . ."
Mustang looked uncomfortably away from Ed's concerned face and started walking in the direction that Ed had pointed, his gait uneven and stumbling. "I'm tired. Let's just go."
"But the blood on your face . . ."
"I murdered their families, Fullmetal. Did you really think that they wouldn't rough me up a little?" He sounded so tired. He sounded like he wanted to lie down and never get up again. Instead he pressed onward, walking ahead of the boys at a slightly increased speed. Ed and Al did not hurry to catch up. They hung back and watched him, unsure of what to do.
"Brother . . ."
"I know. I know, Al."
"What should we do?"
"Go back to Youswell, I guess."
"Do you think he's really hurt?"
Ed bit his thumbnail worriedly, his amber-colored eyes locked onto the man a few yards in front of them, his dark cloak billowing around him.
"I dunno. He's not acting right, almost like he's in shock. There has to be a doctor in Youswell. We'll play it by ear until we get into town."
Al nodded and the brothers trudged along in silence for a while, tensing each time the Colonel in front of them staggered or paused for breath. It was an uneventful trek for the most part, entirely without mishap outside of the one time that Mustang stumbled and hit his knees, panting for air as he knelt in the soft sand.
Seeing that he'd fallen, the boys ran to his side, Ed's heart in his throat. As they approached, Mustang looked up at them. He was exhausted, struggling to breathe in the cold, dry wind.
"Can I help you, sir? Do you need a hand?" Al asked tentatively, looking as if he wanted to carry the Colonel rather than let him walk the rest of the way.
The Colonel looked at him, an odd, implacable expression crossing his face. "What did you say?"
"I asked if you needed a hand . . ."
The Colonel continued to stare at Al with that unknown, disquieting expression, but then, suddenly, he grinned like a madman and gave in to a terrifying bout of hysterical laughter. He was doubled over, giggling helplessly into the sand as the boys watched him with rising anxiety. Maybe he'd finally snapped. Maybe the insanity that he feared—the madness that he'd been perched on the edge of for years—had finally grabbed him, pulled him down into a maniacal abyss, and was holding him there.
"We're almost to the car. Come on." Al said softly, recovering from Mustang's outburst more quickly than Ed. He gently took the Colonel by his shoulders and lifted him to his feet, making sure that he was stable before letting him go. The laughter was subsiding a bit, but he still chuckled a little as he started walking again.
"What was so funny?" Ed ventured to ask, trying to smile as if he weren't absolutely terrified. The Colonel looked down at him with a smile that seemed almost bitter. There were tears in his eyes. Ed chose to believe that they were from laughing.
"You wouldn't get it." Mustang answered with a snigger, shaking his head.
They reached the car not too long after. They almost missed it entirely because of the darkness of the night swallowing the black paint of the car.
"The keys are on the floorboard, Fullmetal." Mustang said as he moved around to the passenger's side. Ed paused for a moment, then:
"Wait, you want me to drive?"
"Unless you think Alphonse can fit in the driver's seat."
"I don't know how to drive!"
"Then it's time you learned."
Al opened the passenger-side door for Mustang and closed it after he got in. He looked over the car at Ed, who was still standing beside the driver-side door feeling a little overwhelmed.
"We're gonna die, aren't we?" Al asked, only half joking.
"YOU'RE NOT HELPING!"
Ed opened the door and got in, fumbling for the keys. He put them in the ignition and looked to Mustang for further instruction as Al got in the backseat. The Colonel's eyes were closed, his head lolling back on the seat.
"Hey! Stay awake, I need your help."
Mustang gave a sharp, annoyed sigh through his nose and—without opening his eyes—gave Ed a brief run-through of the gearshift, clutch, gas and break pedals, and steering wheel. Ed listened intently, repeating key points to himself under his breath. After running over everything again in his head, Ed took a deep breath and started the car. It stalled almost immediately and Ed gave a strangled curse.
"Relax, Edward. You're fine. Try again." Mustang's tranquility was almost calming in spite of how eerie it was. He sounded nonjudgmental, almost paternal.
Ed tried again and stalled the car twice more before he got more than a few yards. After that, though, he started to get the hang of it and established an erratic pace toward Youswell. He gripped the wheel tightly the whole way, every muscle in his body knotted with tension. Luckily, there were no other cars on the road, even as they neared Youswell, because it was hard enough for Ed to stay in the narrow lane without worrying about another car coming the opposite direction. Worse, anytime he went over twenty or so miles per hour, Al would start chanting "ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod . . ." in a low, panicked voice.
To put it briefly, every moment that Ed was driving the Elric brothers were on the border of a stress-induced heart attack. The Colonel, though, in stark juxtaposition to the boys, fell asleep almost as soon as they started driving. He stirred awake only a few times during the hours long drive and only for a few minutes at a time. He mumbled in his sleep like a feverish child, but Ed could never make out his words.
"I wonder what they did to him." Ed murmured during one of the long stretches of silence that filled the car. He looked over at the sleeping Colonel, whose brows were knit slightly. He made a small, pained sound and turned his face away. Dreaming, probably.
"Torture. They probably tortured him." Al replied, heartache and worry flavoring his words.
"Yeah . . . Why do you think they let him go?"
"Dunno. It's strange."
They hit Youswell a couple hours before dawn, which was a relief, because—in spite of his lingering fright at being the one behind the wheel—Ed was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He felt entirely drained. It had certainly been a long night and his shoulders ached from being hunched over the steering wheel for so many hours.
Ed slowed the car to a stop in front of the inn, managing a very poor parking job that he was, nonetheless, very proud of.
"Wow, brother." Al commented, sounding both relieved and impressed, "I can't believe you drove that whole way without hitting anything."
"You're just jealous of my superior driving skills! I am a master!"
"It's weird; I always thought that aunt Pinako would be the one to teach you how to drive." Al said, looking over the seat at the still-sleeping Colonel.
"Yeah. Me too . . . Hey, Colonel. We're here, wake up."
When the Colonel didn't move Ed took his shoulder and shook him, "Colonel?"
The dark-haired man grunted softly, but did not open his eyes. Ed shook him again without much more success and then sat back with a sigh.
"He's out like a light. Looks like you're gonna have to carry him inside."
The boys got out of the car, whispering to one another in the dark silence of the street. Al opened Mustang's door and collected him in his arms like a child. The Colonel didn't even stir. Ed fished out his pocket-watch as they walked into the inn. A little after five o' clock. Someone should be at the front desk by now.
And there was. Halling's wife sat behind the front desk/bar of the inn, demurely sipping a cup of coffee and speaking cheerfully with another woman whom Ed did not recognize. A tourist from the north by the look of her clothes. Halling's wife (whose name the boys had never really caught) greeted them warmly and told them that the room they'd rented the day before was still open if they wanted it. Then her eyes traveled to the burden in Al's arms and her smile faded.
"Is he alright?" She asked, coming out from behind the desk and putting her hand to his brow. "Is this blood?"
"Yeah. We think he's okay, though. Just tired. He'll probably be right as rain after he gets some rest." Ed said, trying to convince himself as well as the kind-hearted woman that Mustang was really fine.
She still looked worried, but she nodded and went to grab two keys from behind the desk. She led them upstairs and unlocked a room.
"Put him in here. He'll be just a few doors down from you." She said as she pulled back the sheets on the bed so that Al could lay him down. It was weird seeing the Colonel sleeping like that, weak and totally exhausted. Ed was so used to him standing erect and imposing in his always-immaculate uniform, tossing out commands and witty remarks with equal efficiency. It was easy to forget that he was human, just as prone to injury and fatigue as Ed himself was.
The woman covered him and turned out the light. She left the room key on the bedside table before ushering the boys out and closing the door, leaving it unlocked. She showed the boys to their own room and Ed immediately kicked off his boots and flung himself on the bed, loudly proclaiming his undying love for Halling's wife for giving them a room so quickly. She smirked at him and tossed the key to Al before leaving them in peace.
Ed sighed and curled himself around his pillow. He was asleep in less that two minutes and didn't even notice when Al tolerantly tossed a blanket over him, mumbling something about troublesome brothers who never cover up.