"I don't really know Ishvalan. I mean, I just know a little bit. Scattered words. And I don't believe in God."

The other man sighs, leans out over the edge of the truck, stares out at the endless sands. To him, these deserts are familiar, unlike Miles, who has never set foot in them.

But to both of them, the land is haunted.

"I used to believe God was talking to me," Scar muses.

"You... don't think that anymore?"

"It's been a long time since I've heard a voice in my head. Even when I did hear it, the advice wasn't great."

Miles shakes his head, a little smile on his face. "Yeah. I'm glad you're not killing off Amestrian officers anymore."

"You were never in any danger from me."

"I know." Miles shifts position, resting his back against the cab of the truck and squinting against the light. It's so bright out here, just as blinding as the snowscapes of the North. He wishes he had his goggles, but he'd abandoned those, at least for now, here in this place where his blood-red eyes mark him as belonging rather than the opposite. He's still not quite sure how to approach that new reality. Old habits die so, so hard (unlike people. People die easy.)

"The people here don't trust me," he mutters.

Scar frowns. "They look at you and see an Amestrian. A man who wears the uniform we learned to hate and fear."

"I don't wear a uniform." He doesn't, not here, for the same reason he doesn't cover his eyes.

"You're telling me you're not an officer of the Amestrian Military?"

Miles sighs. "I understand your point. I just… I came here to help. I can't help if they don't trust me."

"If it's any consolation, they trust the Flame Alchemist even less."

Brigadier General Roy Mustang, who is supposedly in charge of this whole project. Who brought on Miles, and even Scar, because only an Ishvalan has any chance of being able to rebuild Ishval.

'They look at you and see an Amestrian.'

Are they wrong? Miles himself had always loudly proclaimed himself an Amestrian, at least until the day almost a decade ago, when Executive Order 3066 had declared him Ishvalan-enough. Ishvalan-enough to have to hide it. Ishvalan-enough to be fully aware of the weight of that responsibility, now that there are so few of them left. A few thousand, maybe, scattered throughout the wild desert and the slums of Amestris and the ruins of Xerxes.

What use will he be, trying to rebuild a culture he knows nothing about? He watches Scar, still hanging half out of the truck. "What are you looking for?"

"Not looking. Just… appreciating." Miles frowns. Scar sighs. " Look," he says, and Miles tries.

"All I see is sand."

"Look at the way the dunes form, the color differences. That'll teach you about wind, and water. You'll learn to pick out where the animals are, where the plants grow. And… if it looks like sand, that in itself means the land is healing. In many places, even still, you will find burn scars."

Miles nods his understanding, and lapses into a solemn quiet. Well, he never thought this would be easy.

"Teach me something," he says to Scar.

The other man frowns, turning away from the shifting sands to look at Miles. "What?"

"I just… I never listened, when my grandfather wanted to teach me, and I feel really shitty about that now. So teach me something."

"'Ishvala, you who created the world, spark in me the light of the rising sun, that I may do your works this day, so that your glory might shine among the people.' It sounds better in Ishvalan. But you should understand what you're saying."

But Miles surprises Scar by repeating the prayer in Ishvalan. Not perfectly, a lot of his pronunciation is off, he's doing it phonetically, there's no flow, he skips syllables and sometimes whole words. But he'd grown up hearing it, nearly every day. "I never knew what it meant," he admits. "I never asked."

Scar doesn't usually smile, but he smiles at Miles. "Ishvala forgives imperfect pronunciation. And the arrogance of youth. The fact that you listened enough to get that much… some part of you was trying, Miles."

"For all the good it did."

"Ishvala also understands guilt. And forgives much more than imperfect pronunciation."

"He died while I… hid. Inside the fucking military that killed him. I didn't even try to save him." Scar settles back against the side paneling of the truck and waits for Miles to keep talking. He understands this kind of confession; when a man just needs to get something off his chest, let it out into the air, so it can heal. Scar hasn't had anyone in his life that he would trust to hear such a thing from him, but Miles… for whatever reason, Miles looks to him for understanding. So Scar will try to understand. Miles closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. When he speaks again, his eyes are still closed. "I didn't understand what was happening, at first. I didn't let myself understand. By the time I realized what was happening in the camps…" he just shakes his head. "I thought they'd be safe. Safer, anyway. They weren't in the war zone. They were Amestrian citizens. At least they used to be."

"You were reluctant to think ill of your leaders."

"I guess."

"It is a blind spot not unique to Amestris." Miles frowns, and Scar continues. "There are those who believed that the bloodshed in Ishval could have been prevented. If our leadership had been stronger, if they had spoken up against the violence, if they had done more to appease the Amestrian occupiers…"

"But… shifting sands."

"Indeed. There's no undoing what's already been done." Scar rests his hand on his knee, and reaches up to massage at the tense muscles in his neck. "You told me once you wanted to change how Amestrians view Ishvalans. That's why you stayed in the military."

"Yeah."

"Do you think you might also be able to change the way Ishvalans view Amestrians?"

Miles whistles softly. "That's a tall order."

"A worthwhile one?"

"I changed your mind, didn't I?"

"You and many others. I am grateful, Miles. And the people here will be too, I think."

Miles nods. He leans over the side of the truck, looking for the patterns Scar insists are visible in the sand. Soon enough, he can see the first hint of the camp, familiar Amestrian military tents that should make him feel at home. He glances back at Scar.

"You ready for this?"

"I was once exiled from this land, and it's your home, if you want it. Even if you've never been here. Between us, we should be able to figure it out, don't you think?"

"Well, we can't possibly make things any worse, can we?"

"I suppose not." Scar takes a deep breath of desert air, and jumps off the back of the truck. "Might as well go make things better, then."