Kimblee
It was almost dinnertime, and the alchemists were all exhausted from a long day's work. They had finished the previous area assigned to them, and were paintstakingly sweeping for mines in the next grid location.
Though Kimblee considered mines as an inferior art form and was not fond of them, he nevertheless admitted that they were devastating in their own way. During the war, the Amestrians dropped or buried hundreds of millions of mines in Ishval, and the Ishvalan resistance planted tens of millions of mines in retaliation. A large number of these mines were never triggered or detonated.
The threat of unexploded ordinance, UXO, was incredibly real. The alchemists could not take the risk of a mine exploding while they were working, or exploding years into the future while families lived in these houses.
To Kimblee, there was almost something very beautiful about that thought. A pale pink rosebud waiting to bloom, the unexploded mine waited for its victim like a forlorn lover… He found the danger of a minefield invigorating, and he felt alive from his fingers to his toes. Always in the alchemist's life there were flashes of light, like catching a familiar face in the reflection of a mirror. There was nothing quite like a job that put one's soul in jeopardy. There was no day fuller than one in which he walked with death at his heels. His alchemists, of course, didn't share his sentiments.
Mines were split into two general categories: anti-vehicular, and anti-personnel. The anti-vehicular mines tended to be large, and most possessed high metal content. However, the chances of finding one of these mines in the former city districts were close to none.
The direct danger to New Ishval was the smaller anti-personnel mines, grenades, and close-range mortars. They injured, maimed and killed in a variety of methods. Kimblee's favorite mine, if he had to choose, would be the T1-86 Bullfrog, made in Amestris. It was a mine the size of a bar of soap that, when triggered by seismic sensors, would jump up in the air to the height of a man's waist before exploding, spreading the effective radius of its deadly metal shrapnel.
Laying mines was easy, but to clean up after them was nightmarish. Here, Kimblee's alchemy was practically useless. There were huge differences between the composition and size of mines- some used TNT powder, some used liquids, and others were part of a huge system of other mines daisy-chained together. No method of transmutation or alchemic system known to current science would be able to detect these mines all at once without potentially triggering them.
Granted, the majority of these mines were more likely to be found on roads and along strategic areas outside of Kanda, but the Amestrians knew well that mines had an uncanny way of moving location on their own.
Technically, in theory, mines were supposed to be charted and mapped. But during the civil war, only the mines placed by Amestrians around their important compounds in the Ishvalan countryside were ever mapped. The tens of millions of other mines planted or dropped onto Ishval were never tracked. Unexploded mines could range from the size of a golf ball to the size of a small car, and the smaller ones tended to become dislocated as time went on. Rain, soil erosion, and bad weather could carry mines from the mountains into the valleys and villages below. Mines could also be carried by rivers and estruaries into the canals of cities, only to be picked up by a curious passer-by with disastrous results.
So they scoured the area with metal detectors, which honestly was the most tedius and time-consuming aspect of their job. Every minute piece of metal had to be ecscavated and examined. Spent casings, coins, bolts, nails, aluminum foil, batteries, wires, scraps of metal… everything that triggered their metal detectors had to be treated as a potential UXO, and the process was excruciating. The younger Ishvalan attachments weren't taking the job very seriously, and some were even picking up potential UXOs and examining them as if they were nothing more than toys. Kimblee made the decision to send the attachments home, annoyed by their lack of effort. Many Ishvalans were not aware of the dangers of UXOs, especially those who had little memory of the civil war.
In every area they'd cleared so far, the alchemists found between one to four mines, all in the ground. They were airdropped mines, unexploded grenades, and the odd mortar. In areas of war in the countryside, Kimblee had seen a wider variety of mines placed in ceilings or in the trunk of trees.
They took a brief break, some alchemists smoking and talking amongst themselves, others napping. The Ishvalans had left by now for the mess tent, having no more work to do for the day. The classroom finished in the afternoon, and children often spilled out into the streets to play. The alchemists' working area was always cordoned off with bright pylons and caution tape… but some children were more mischievous than others.
When the break was over, no one heard the children shushing each other to remain quiet, playing some sort of one-sided hide and seek among the overturned piles of dirt where the alchemists had dug for UXOs.
Kimblee turned his back and fumbled in his pants pocket for the packet of cigarettes Havoc gave him.
He hit the cigarette, and just a moment later there was a sound that Kimblee hadn't heard in a long time. A loud, deep ear-rendering thump, accompanied an angry crunch and the familiar musical buzz of shrapnel.
He dropped the cigarette he was holding. "Get down!"
His alchemists dropped to the floor, scattering and crouching. Dust and phosphorous plumes engulfed the air around them, and all time seemed to stop. The volume of the blast was incredible, and left a high pitched ringing in Kimblee's right ear. It'd been so long since he'd heard the explosion of a mine, and the sound was as ugly as he remembered.
Since the Crimson Lotus knew the sound of explosions by heart, so he was able to identify the mine as the rare and expensive T-8 Firefly. It was a small Aerugan mine the size of a fist composed of liquid ethylene glycol dinitrate in a plastic container, which would explain why it was not found by the metal detector. He also knew, very intimately, the sound of limbs being torn apart and the spray of blood against a surface.
Within five quick steps, Kimblee was making his way towards the ruined wall when one of the alchemists started to scream.
With the dust cleared, he could now easily make out two distinctly human shapes amidst the rubble. One was crouched over the other, who was partially buried by the debris of a nearby ruined wall that had collapsed during the blast.
"Medic, medic!" Some silly alchemist was yelling to no one in particular. There were only five medics in New Ishval. Three were studying under Marcoh and Knox. One was accompanying Veiras, and their medic was himself ill for the day. The alchemists were all alone.
"Bring the first aid kit," Kimblee turned his head and yelled, and his men fell over each other in their haste. The Crimson Lotus was never an avid student of medical alchemy, and he couldn't guarantee that his alchemy wouldn't accidentally make the situation worse.
He went down on one knee to look the first kid in the face. A girl, by the looks of it, and for a second Kimblee thought she must somehow be Amestrian- her hair was a dull yellow, like the endless wheat fields of the countryside. But, alas, her eyes were red as rubies and swollen now with tears. She was shaking, her petite frame collapsing in on itself as she stared with terror up at the Mad Bomber.
She couldn't have been more than ten years old.
Kimblee now shifted his gaze to the other child, a boy. He felt his knee get warm and wet, and realized that the boy had completely lost his left leg to the blast, and now the entire left side of his body was crushed under the fallen wreckage. His face was contorted by pain, a look that Kimblee knew so well.
An alchemist stumbled in with the first aid kit, took one look at the boy, and started to yell incoherently. None of them had ever seen anything like this before- they were young and green, unused to the grotesque sight that didn't even make Kimblee flinch any more. Crimson Lotus tuned him out completely, letting his voice become background white noise while he swiftly opened the kit with a practiced hand.
He was once a soldier, after all.
"Get on the radio right now," he commanded, feeling his body abuzz. "Let Zero know what's happened." Zero, the call sign for the Command Point, where Miles would be working. Once Zero acknowledged what had happened, it was up to them to contact Marcoh's team. "And give him our grid coordinates."
With the pair of scissors provided, he quickly cut away the rest of the boy's left pant leg that obstructed the blast wound. His hands were now sticky with blood, but Kimblee was too focused to notice. He took out the tourniquet kit and unraveled it, clasping and fastening it around the boy's gushing stump of a leg, now more or less gone from the knee. He could see the white jut of splintered bone beneath the mess of split nerves, sliced muscles, and broken tendons. The tourniquet slipped a little, then settled. Kimblee knew that now he had to control the hemorrhaging. He dug around for a pouch of tactical grade blood-clotter. He ripped the packet, careful to avoid getting it on his hands, and spilled its contents onto the writhing boy's wound. In a matter of moments, the smell of burning flesh could be detected as the chemical compound worked its purpose and cauterized the bleeding.
Kimblee wrapped a length of field dressing around the wound and wound it against the tourniquet. He really wasn't thinking anymore- he was overtaken by adrenaline. He didn't care much about saving the boy's life… the smell of blood excited him. He didn't bother much with trying to comfort the child- he didn't even care to look at his face. Everything was a haze, with Kimblee in the eye of the storm, calmly tying a perfect knot. His training took over and muscle memory guided his movements. He turned his attention now to the rubble, and starting pulling the debris away. Other alchemists who were too scared to help before now joined in.
"Wait," Kimblee raised a bloodied hand, just as one alchemist was lifting the largest slab of concrete that held the boy's arm crushed under its weight. It would be a miracle if the limb were still attached. "If we remove it, he might bleed to death. We don't know what damage there is under there. There isn't enough clotter to stop that bleeding. We have to wait for Marcoh." He spoke now to the alchemist who he'd put on the radio, "did you manage to contact Zero?"
"Zero acked it and passed it on to Bravo, Sir. They acked it just now." Bravo, which was the field hospital's call sign. Ack, a shortened radio lingo meaning 'acknowledged'.
"Good, then they should be on their way."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced at the little girl again. She had stopped crying by now, and was staring straight at Kimblee with such a look of resolution on her delicate features.
"Save him, Kimlee," she begged in a tiny whisper.
Oh.
Kimblee's photographic memory went wild before settling on the face of a young girl who stopped him from leaving the Ishvalans' day tent, asking him if he was 'Kimlee the elk a mist'.
"It's you," he realized. Now he looked down at the boy and really saw his features for the first time. An oval shaped face with a mousey nose, just like hers. "Is this your brother?"
"Yes," the girl said, "his name is Asir." Speaking her brother's name urged fresh tears down her ash-smeared face. "We- we were just playing hide and seek... We- we're s-sorry!" Kimblee wasn't really listening to her- his attention was caught by the radio crackling outside. He realized that he should probably try to comfort Asir and try to tell him dumb little things like 'you're going to be fine, just hold on' like they taught them during the combat first aid lessons.
Kimblee knew children weren't idiots. They knew they were going to die when they felt it, and to lie to someone before they died was a silly thing to do. There were great realizations one could make if one knew one was in the midst of dying, and fooling them would rob them of the opportunity. So Kimblee said nothing, just opened a bottle of water and started to pour tiny amounts into the boy's mouth to keep him hydrated. The kid was already going into shock, the whites of his eyes turning yellow and his lips blue and quivering. If Marcoh didn't come soon, the girl wouldn't have a brother any more.
But the part that bothered the alchemist most was the fact that the T-8 mine was distinctly Aerugan. Amestrians never employed the use of this mine in populated districts because it was too expensive and took too long to hook up properly to the charge. Few Amestrian sappers had any opportunity or reason to plant mines in Kanda district. All of the mines and UXOs found were from airdrops, mortars, and hand-grenades. Such an advanced form of anti-personnel mine as the Firefly had no place in the Amestrian fighting order.
With no other likely alternative, Kimblee came to the uneasy conclusion that the only person who could have planted this mine must have been an Ishvalan local or an Aerugan agent.
And, from the fact that it was so easily triggered, that it was planted very recently.
Dr. Marcoh
This was enormous.
The accidental injury of an Ishvalan child under Amestrians, especially under a team of alchemists, was the absolute worst thing that could happen at this point of their operation. The fact that it was a remnant from the war that had returned to haunt them only made the situation worse. Dr. Knox, busy with treating a soldier that came down with heat exhaustion, quietly watched the chaos unfold around him.
"Save the boy," he said to Marcoh as the doctor hastily assembled his tools. "Don't let him come to me."
Tim was a little surprised; Robert Knox wasn't known for being very talkative. But now was not a time to ponder. Marcoh only nodded. He and his chosen two medics kept hushed as they mobilized, but the Ishvalans waiting in front of the mess tent still noticed their fast, nervous steps as they hurried to their vehicle, a stretcher in tow and cases of medical supplies.
They jumped into the fastest vehicle they had and tore off towards Kimblee's coordinates. Meanwhile, Miles ordered an airlift to follow Marcoh's team in case the child had to be immediately evacuated to an Amestrian facility. As soon as Marcoh and his team settled into the vehicle, he grabbed the field radio from the driver's hand.
"Eight-Alpha, this is Eight-Bravo. Sound check, over." For a few excruciating moments, all he heard was static from the other side.
Beep.
Kimblee's voice filtered over the radio, grainy but readable. "This is Eight-Alpha. Loud and clear. Send, over."
"What is the state of the casualty, over." Everyone connected to the radio system was likely listening in to their radio conversation, and some signaler in the CP would no doubt be compiling a log of every word they said. It was imperative now that they abided by proper radio procedure. Marcoh knew from previous radio exchanges that the patient was in critical condition, but he didn't yet know the specifics.
"Male casualty, eight years old. Missing left leg, amputated beneath the knee," Kimblee replied, speaking slowly and articulating carefully. "Tourniquet has been applied, quick clot has cauterized most of the bleeding. Left arm is crushed under a large piece of rubble. Casualty going into shock, vitals diminishing. Over."
"Ack." Marcoh was wiping his brow with his sleeve now, thankful that Miles had ordered the airlift- already he heard the flutter and buzz of a helicopter trailing overhead. It would most definitely be necessary. "Do not move the rubble, over."
Static. Shuffling. "Say again?"
"Do not move whatever is crushing the arm!"
More static. Muffled speech from the other side, probably Kimblee talking to his section. "Ack, Doctor. ETA?"
"ETA two minutes!" The driver shouted back from his place behind the wheel, his foot fully depressing the gas pedal as far down as it could go. Marcoh repeated the driver's timing to Kimblee.
"Heard," the sound from the other side crackled; the words themselves calm as ever, "we'll continue to stabilize the casualty as much as we are able. Out."
Beep.
For the next minute and a half, Marcoh could do nothing but sweat and twitch. The tension inside the vehicle rose to an all-time high. He didn't want to think about the potential implications if they couldn't save this child. Though the Ishvalans so far had been cooperative, Marcoh wasn't a fool. Anyone with eyes and half a brain could tell that the mistrust and resentment still ran deep under the surface façade of amicability. It had only taken the death of a little girl to set off the Civil War. For an Ishvalan child to die in such a manner, even if by accident, under the watch of Zolf J. Kimblee would spell disaster.
Marcoh watched the Gunjans, knew how much they craved vengeance. Some of the Gunjans in the camp now were remnants of former resistance groups who'd killed their fair share of Amestrians in their day. As of now, there was no further cause for ill blood between them, but they were fighters at heart. Indeed, they had the spirits of warriors waiting for their opponents to make a mistake.
And this was a terrible, terrible mistake.
As soon as the driver hit the brakes, Marcoh was already stumbling out with his suitcase in his hand. The helicopter was now circling above them, awaiting direction. The two medics rushed out not long after, carrying the stretcher between them.
The casualty in question was easy to locate- Kimblee's men had given him their exact grid coordinates, and about five of them were gathered there now. There was a little girl there too, caked in dust and sitting on a hastily transmuted chair. Though covered with a fire blanket, she still shook like a leaf while one of the alchemists tried to offer her water.
"Out of my way!" Marcoh pushed them aside, not caring that he could be running on top of buried UXOs. He dropped to his knees beside Kimblee and immediately opened his suitcase.
Crimson had told the truth; the casualty was in terrible condition. The medics dropped off the stretcher, unhinged it, and began to quickly examine the casualty for vitals. Marcoh faced Kimblee, whose hands were smeared with blood. A bit of the stuff had found its way onto his cheek, too. "There's a helicopter outside," he told Kimblee, "prepare for casualty evacuation."
"Heard," the alchemist grunted, rising fluidly to his feet and rushing out of the building. The sun was setting now.
"Light!" Marcoh cried, and one of the alchemists ran in with a flashlight.
"His arm is completely crushed," one of his medics told him behind her surgical mask. "It's likely already amputated."
"The two of you remove the block, and I'll tie off his arm so he doesn't hemorrhage. We need to move him and evacuate him, now." He prepared himself with a section of high grade medical tubing, ready to tie another emergency tourniquet. Despite having lost his leg, Kimblee had done an excellent job staunching the bleeding and the boy was technically in a somewhat stabilized condition. However, once the pressure was lifted from his arm it would gush anew, and the boy could bleed to death in a matter of seconds if the wound wasn't properly tied. His medics moved into place. "On three," Marcoh readied himself, moving into a better position to reach the boy's crushed arm. "One, two, three!"
The huge block was lifted and pulled away, and as expected the boy's arm started to spew blood from the open wound where the arm had been crushed and ripped away. Working as fast as he could, he tied it tight around the boy's upper arm, the tubing slipping under his fingers. Still, he managed to tie it in only two seconds, without any more time to spare. Meanwhile, his medics had started to prepare the stretcher. Marcoh started fastening a non-rebreather mask over the casualty's face and attached an IV of Ringer's Solution to re-hydrate and replace lost electrolytes. Next, he reached for a needle and pulled out a 5ml bottle of morphine from a collection. He drew out all of its contents and injected it into the boy's other arm that was now almost completely limp from shock.
"Take him," he ordered, and the medics mobilized immediately. They stabilized the boy's neck and spine before strapping him into a series of long metal poles. They lifted him, fully stabilized, onto the stretcher and strapped him in a second time. Meanwhile, Marcoh grabbed the remains of the boy's torn-off arm and wrapped it in a long length of saline-soaked gauze before dropping it into a plastic bag.
"Where's his leg?" Marcoh shouted, and the alchemists withered from the sheer ferocity of his voice.
"H-here," one of them came forward, shaking, carrying something big wrapped in a towel. Marcoh took it from the alchemist and removed the towel, staring down at the boy's removed leg. The flesh was cold now, a bit discolored from the loss of blood and inevitable flesh degeneration. No matter how many times Marcoh confronted the sight before, it was always strange to see a limb not connected to its body. But Marcoh had no time to be disgusted. He wrapped the leg as best he could with the remaining saline soaked gauze and stuffed it into another plastic bag, reaching into one of his medical boxes and removing packets of instant ice packs, cracking them and packing them in alongside the amputated limbs. By the time he tied up the plastic bags, the casualty was on his way out towards the helicopter on the stretcher, IV tubes flailing about.
The entire thing had only taken maybe a minute and a half.
Marcoh ran after the stretcher, clutching the bags to his chest. Kimblee was helping to secure the stretcher onto the helicopter's airlift hooks, since there wasn't sufficient space for it to land. While the helicopter drew in the stretcher, the medics started scrambling up a dangling ladder. Marcoh passed the bags to one of his medics, and a bottle of morphine to another.
"We're all counting on you," he patted the young woman on the back, and she nodded, continuing the ascent into the rescue helicopter. In about another minute, the aircraft was on its way towards the closest Amestrian critical care facility.
Marcoh took two steps back, and almost collapsed. One of Kimblee's alchemists caught him before he could fall, handing him an opened bottle of water. The doctor had to lean against the wall of a nearby house, taking slow sips of the water and trying to still the shaking in his hand. A few drops of water spilled down onto his tunic, which was now soaked with sweat and stained with blood. He heard the familiar crackle of a field radio nearby, and turned to watch Kimblee methodically re-establishing communications with Miles.
"Casualty has been airlifted," he spoke calmly, slowly. "Casualty appears to have a sister- she is with us now, unharmed. Awaiting Sunray's command, over." Sunray, the radio lingo for the commanding officer- in this case, Lt. Col Miles. He was quiet for a little bit, making little nods to himself as he listened to the response. "Ack, out." He put the phone back onto the radio. "Bring me the girl." He motioned with his hand, and then seemed to reconsider. "Never mind," he formed a halt gesture, and his alchemists backed up. Kimblee slowly approached the girl in the fire blanket, bent down on one knee, and started to speak to her in a soft tone. Marcoh's mouth suddenly tasted bitter from pity, and he followed Kimblee until he stood in front of the little girl, who was clutching the fire blanket over her head.
"Her name is Rina," Kimblee informed the doctor in a low voice when he was close enough. "She was talking before, but now she's probably too scared."
"I wouldn't blame her," Marcoh replied, wondering if the girl wasn't looking at them because she was terrified of his face. No- no, of course not. The poor child just saw her brother come apart at the seams and swallowed by a flying beast. "I'll take her back with me to the field hospital, get her hydrated and taken care of."
Crimson Lotus nodded, absently picking at the scabs of dried blood between his fingernails.
"You… did well, Kimblee. If it weren't for your fast response, that boy would have died in about a minute." Marcoh truly admired a soldier who could keep his head screwed on tight during times of immense pressure. He'd never seen Kimblee ever truly flustered or taken apart by any challenge the State threw at him. Sometimes it was a disturbing thing, watching him go about his day like everything was sunshine and peaches while the bloodied bodies of thousands of Ishvalans lay strewn around him in pieces. But at times like this, Marcoh was genuinely thankful for Kimblee's calm, quick, and precise reaction.
"Mm. I did what I knew to do." For the first time since everything happened, Kimblee gave himself a look over. "Damn, I look terrible." He didn't know the worst of it. Marcoh could see that blood and dust was matted on his hair, and his shirt looked like some abstract artist used it for a canvas. Kimblee seemed to understand that he couldn't go back to the camp looking like this.
"I'll wait for you in the car," Marcoh said, gathering his things and reaching out a careful hand to the little girl. "Hello, Rina. I'm sorry you had to see all that. Your brother is going to be fine. Let's go get you cleaned up."
Kimblee scoffed at the blatant lie, but thankfully the girl nodded mutely and put her hand in Marcoh's, allowing herself to be led to the vehicle. At least she trusted him, the Doctor thought. The Crimson Lotus formed up his alchemists but didn't dismiss them, instead ordering them to report immediately to the CP and to not speak a word to anybody on the way. Marcoh was impressed yet again by how well Kimblee was handling the situation, keeping all possible issues in mind.
When Marcoh reached the vehicle, he offered to help the girl up. The fire blanket she was carrying slipped from her head, revealing hair that looked a burnished yellow in the fading light. "I want Kimlee," she whimpered, still looking at everything but the doctor.
"He'll be with us soon," Marcoh tried to reassure her, too drained to wonder why she wanted Kimblee of all people. "come on. Let's get you in."
But she wouldn't move- the car door stood open. She kept crying out Kimblee's name, progressively getting louder until the Crimson Lotus finally finished and walked up, irritation plastered all over his face. He grabbed her by her little arms, lifted her up, and dropped her down inside the car. Rina stopped crying.
Aris
By nightfall, all had become clear. Or, at least, every man and woman was convinced that his or her own interpretation of the story was the truth.
Lt. Colonel Miles, the one they called Commanding Officer, issued a formal announcement of the details of the accident. He told the crowd that Asir had ventured into the cordoned zone and had triggered a dormant mine in an area that the alchemists had not yet cleared. Scar stood beside Dr. Marcoh and Miles, exhausted from the long explanation and his numerous failed attempts to calm the people once they realized what had occurred.
For them, Asir's injury was a harsh reminder of the war, and of what Amestris had done. Worse still, they knew Kimblee was associated with explosions and immediately blamed him for the accident. They picked up rocks and threw them, demanding that the man responsible, the state alchemist, came forward to answer for his crime. Even Juriv, the High Priest, couldn't quell their hatred.
They wanted blood, and they wanted the blood of the state alchemist who'd walked their streets during the extermination, who tore their families apart, who Scar promised them would change but surely hadn't.
Aris had only seen the man one or two times, hurrying from the CP to where his team of alchemists worked next. Alchemy wasn't completely foreign to Aris. Unlike other Ishvalans who feared alchemy for its strangeness and immense power, Aris slowly came to understand it. He once knew a man in the Old Province who spent his days and nights studying Amestrian alchemy and Xing Alkahestry, even when his family begged him to put down his dark art. The famous Witch of Dasht, the woman he once hoped would become his mother-in-law, used her own variation of alkahestry to concoct miraculous elixirs that were said to do magnificent and terrible things. The root of alchemy was natural, like the cycles of life and death. He'd never attempted it, but he felt like he understood alchemy each time he kneaded dough under his hands, felt it heat up and loosen, saw it rise and expand in the giant stone ovens of his father's bakery.
To coax a bit of flour, water, yeast, and egg into a delicious loaf of bread was all the alchemy Aris needed. Each evening he'd leave the bread with the Witch, and he'd wait long into the night until the woman he loved returned from wherever she'd gone. He'd dally in the shadow of slums, wanting only to catch a sight of her face when she tasted his bread.
For those simple ingredients to produce a smile like that… Aris knew real magic when he saw it.
Yet when the extermination came, Aris saw alchemy rear its most macabre head. Still, he never blamed the alchemy- he'd seem alchemy heal and give life… His sister wouldn't be living otherwise. It was the Amestrian state that was at fault, and on this Aris held no illusions.
He'd seen the explosions, heard the screams, and watched the sky burst in ribbons of fire and black smoke. He never saw the man who was responsible, fleeing from his shop as fast as he could with all he could carry- two loaves of bread, a few jars of precious spices, a small sack of flour, a bit of yeast. His parents were with the witch, visiting his sister who was recovering from a bad fever. He had to push and fight against the sea of people fleeing in the opposite direction to reach where the Witch worked her magic.
But by the time he arrived, it was too late. He saw his sister's body sprawled across the ground, blood splattered under her head like the dry branches of a crawling thorn tree. And his parents… Aris didn't like to think back on that day, to remember what he saw. Now when he looked at people, he couldn't help but imagine how their entrails must look hanging from their bellies.
It was all the work of that state alchemist, his people were reminding him now in poisonous tones. An old woman urged him to throw a stone because she was too weak. "They said he would repent for his sins, but now look what he's done." Look, Aris, the man who killed your family has wounded another, and they're hiding him.
The mother of the wounded boy, a softspoken Dalihan woman, was in the CP tending to her daughter. She didn't say much, not even when she heard what had happened to her son. It was almost like she didn't know how to respond.
So, in her place, the other Ishvalans riled to action.
The crowd roared to life once more as a slight man in a uniform, with his black hair tied back in a neat ponytail, walked out from the CP to stand beside Lt. Colonel Miles. The Ishvalans hissed and shouted, pouring their anger onto him. "Kill him!" Someone shouted, "make him pay!"
By the light of the moon, the alchemist's face seemed to glow silver. He was expressionless, face tranquil like a lake on a still day, unlike the distraught and guilt-ridden faces of his subordinate alchemists. Aris saw Miles reach out to hold the man they called Kimblee back, whispering something in his ear.
"See how they protect him!" One Ishvalan shouted, the entire crowd pushing like an ocean wave against the ring of Amestrian soldiers that now linked arms to hold them back. "See how they don't bring him to justice! The Amestrians will never pay for their crimes! They are not to be trusted!"
It was a catastrophe. It was chaos. Children cried at the sidelines, trying to find their parents amidst the crowd that now seemed to move like an entirely different animal. Aris was being pushed back and forth, and he found he recognized the faces of the people around him but he no longer felt they were familiar.
He craned his neck, trying to find Isle amidst the sea of angry faces. He hoped she wasn't hurt.
"He killed my family!" A female voice shrilled, and a hundred other voices roared in response. "Scar, avum-Ishvala, how can you let him walk free?!" The crowd thundered their collective fury, pelting rocks through the human wall of Amestrian soldiers towards Kimblee. A few hit him- one was even large enough to knock his head to the side and leave a bloody gash on the side of his head. But the man didn't flinch, didn't apologize. By now, the Ishvalans seemed to find their voice. A steady chorus of kill him, kill him resounded through the crowd like a deafening heartbeat.
"It was an accident, please try to understand-" Scar was trying to explain, his red shamla fluttering in the night wind.
"There is nothing to understand!" Someone yelled, "if that murderer hadn't been using alchemy, there wouldn't have been an accident! We don't need alchemy to re-build our land!" More cries of agreement.
Miles was trying to speak, but it was futile. It wasn't even about the boy anymore. For all they knew, little Asir would probably live. The Ishvalans were caught up in their past nightmares, and the man they deemed responsible was right in front of them.
Aris had had enough.
He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, where Amestrian soldiers were trying to hold them back from pummeling Kimblee to death with their bare hands. "My friends!" He shouted, with the voice of a baker ready to sell the day's loaves. "My friends, please listen to me!" Aris hadn't really expected the Ishvalans to listen to him of all people, but his people quieted.
"What is the use of this violence? What will it accomplish? If you stone the state alchemist to death, these other alchemists will have no guidance! Our houses will collapse under our feet! How many of us are craftsmen? Only six. If we exile the alchemists from our land, do you truly believe that we can re-build our country sometime during our lifetime? Our children's lifetime? The true building hasn't even started yet- we cannot just let go of our only chance at reclaiming our promised land!" By the time Aris was done, the people had grown completely silent. All he could hear for a while was the sound of his own labored breathing.
The Amestrians let him through the human barricade. But instead of walking up to stand beside Miles, Scar, and Kimblee, Aris linked arms with the Amestrian soldiers at his sides. "I won't let you become murderers, my friends. It was an accident. Little Asir was playing where he shouldn't be. He wasn't noticed. He touched something he shouldn't have touched. Surely you all know that Ishvalan children are the most michevious children in the world. It was an accident. Let go of this talk of killing. Please, don't become the thing you all most despise."
A Gunjan man, a giant moving mountain, unsheathed a scimitar. "Stand aside, baker. Our promised land will be given to us by Ishvala, not by Amestrians."
The line of Amestrian soldiers shifted and parted, and Aris was shocked to see Kimblee walk forward towards the armed Gunjan. The crowd, despite itself, together took two steps back.
"W-what are you doing?" The Gunjan stammered, waving the scimitar around in a slashing motion as Kimblee neared him.
Scar's hand reached forward and plucked Aris back from the line of Amestrians, which was now starting to grow increasingly anxious. "You did well," Scar told Aris with a great sadness in his eyes, "but it's out of your hands now. Stay back."
"You've all heard what your avum-Ishvala told you," Kimblee spoke to the crowd, unfazed by their murderous intent. "It was an accident, I assure you." He looked to his subordinates, still prostrated on the ground and quaking from fear. Kimblee faced the Ishvalans again, resolution in the set of his jaw. "It was a dormant mine that injured the boy, but I will take responsibility for what happened today, if it pleases you." He started to unbutton and shrug off his tunic, until he was standing only in his white undershirt. Kimblee beckoned the Gunjan fighter closer. "You. You were a member of the resistance, weren't you? I admire a man who sticks to his resolve. But here, if you're going to kill me, you won't do it slashing your blade around like that. You'll just make a right mess and you won't get the job done."
"What the fuck is he doing?" Aris heard Miles mutter, panic rising on his breath. "The bastard's going to get himself killed."
The Crimson Lotus craned his head to one side and pointed at two areas at the side of his neck. "Carotid, jugular. Put your blade here and slice towards inwards and towards you, but duck your head or else you'll get squirted all over. I'll be dead in a matter of seconds. Or, maybe you're a man who likes it slow?" He grinned. "Tell me what your people want. A torture device? A pit of spikes? I'll make one for you, right here, right now- whatever you want. Or maybe you want me to poetically blow myself up?"
The Gunjan fighter was stunned, his scimitar shaking in his hand. "A-are you saying you're ready to die, alchemist?"
"Why not?" Kimblee shrugged, smiling. "Everyone has to die eventually. All that matters is a good death or a bad death. I don't want to die from old age, withered away in my sleep. So if you want me to die, give me an exciting death."
"B-but…"
"But what?" Crimson frowned, annoyed. "That boy Asir made a choice to play where he knew he shouldn't go. It's a shame he was injured. And now all of you," he gestured towards the crowd, which was now staring at him with a variable mix of fear and confusion. "Now all of you are calling out for my death. Kill him, kill him, I heard. You made your choice. So now I say- okay. Let's see what you've got, then!"
The fighter was silent. He lowered his sword, unable to face Kimblee.
"See," the alchemist shook his head, disappointed. "You speak of killing but you're not ready to get your hands dirty. So why waste your breath? What's your name?"
"Mansoor," the fighter told him, "and I have killed many Amestrians in the days of the rebellion. I was known as the Butcher that Rides, and I don't need to take advice from men like you. I hesitate to kill you not because I'm afraid to, but because there is someone else who wants your blood more than I."
"I see." Kimblee nodded politely. "Then please, pass your blade over to this more deserving warrior."
For a few moments, the crowd was still. Then, a woman in a shawl came winding through the sea of people. When she came to stand at the fighter's side, she lowered the cloth from her head. Gasps erupted from the Ishvalans.
She took the scimitar from Mansoor. Without hesitation, she struck the side of alchemist's left knee. In a split second, Kimblee lost his balance and fell over like a puppet with its strings cut, wincing as he went down. He collapsed in an unceremonious heap on the ground, twitching involuntarily while his leg gushed blood where its ligaments were cut. Some in the crowd screamed.
Miles lurched, hollering, "that's enough!"
Two Amestrian soldiers rushed forward to try to drag Kimblee back and away from the armed woman. She saw them coming and stabbed the scimitar down into the back of Kimblee's left hand, straight through the moon sigil, pinning it to the ground. Crimson Lotus howled.
"He said he wanted an exciting death," she snarled, pulling the bloodied blade back out and raising it to the sky. The moonlight made it glow black. "I won't give him the pleasure."
"Kaysi." Aris' lips formed the name before his brain could come around. The woman whirled around and stared at him, her eyes wide. By the darkness, her slightly darkened hair waved around her, framing her freckled face like a mane.
Recognition settled slowly on her face. "Aris?"
Another woman, cloaked in black, emerged from the crowd. "Kaysi," she cried out, and Aris recognized the familiar voice as that belonging to the Witch of Dasht, the woman he almost regarded as his own mother.
"Uma?" For her, the world seemed to finally fall back into three dimensions and she dropped the scimitar. Suddenly, the killer in her fled and was replaced by a young woman utterly unhinged by the sight of her long-lost mother. She ran into the arms of the witch, her strong voice cracking. "Uma, I thought you were dead. Oh, oh God."
The Ishvalans stirred, some who recognized her reeling back while others tried to understand what was going on. The unorthodox reunion was abruptly cut short by the shrill scream of a little girl, running out from the CP and pushing aside Miles and Dr. Marcoh.
"Kimlee!" She shrieked, utter terror ringing in her voice. Rina fell over on top of the alchemist, shaking him with her little hands. "Kimlee! Kimlee!" With her eyes shining, she screamed into the gathered Ishvalans, "he saved Asir's life! Why would you do this to Kimlee, you bad people!"
It was the death of a child that started the war. It was the injury of a child that started this riot, and it was the cries of a child that ended it.
All at once, the Ishvalans turned against their previous convictions. Rina was right, and they knew it. Watching the state alchemist actually bleeding out on the ground, doubled over in pain, they suddenly found that they hadn't wanted blood after all. Seeing a young woman being reunited with her mother, whom she thought was dead, even if many of them didn't know the two personally, humbled them. Their lost loved ones were already dead. They'd had years to make peace with what they'd lost. Hurting Kimblee wouldn't bring anything back. They'd really only wanted to hear that the Amestrians were willing to properly take their share of responsibility for what happened, accident or not.
"No, no, no," they were saying now, the hatred in their voices completely replaced by concern, "by Ishvala, someone please help him up."
Garrenburg, Amestris. 1890.
She arrived home from the market to find her husband hunched over their dinner table, the day's paper clutched in his hands. His knuckles had turned white from how hard he was holding the flimsy newspaper, and she set down her basket. Carrots, beets, a cut of stewing beef, and a bushel of rosemary; the aroma of roast beef had always been the smell of home. She drew back the chair next to her husband and sat down carefully, cradling her huge belly as she lowered herself.
"What is it?"
"There's… a lot of conflict in Ishval," said her husband, fingering the corner of the current page anxiously. She gave the page a cursory scan and read 'RESISTANCE IN DESERT SPURRED BY RELIGIOUS EXTREMISM'. "I absolutely despise how they're writing about this, Suzanne. Look at this…" he fingered a block of text and she had to squint to read it. "Look how they make such generalized sweeps of what's going on out there. The people of Amestris don't know anything about Ishval, because they're all getting force fed this bullshit!" He threw the paper down and stood up so quickly that his chair scraped across the floor.
"Conrad," Suzanne whispered, "this will all pass. Nothing will happen here." She meant to be reassuring, but her voice was wavering. Suddenly she was very afraid. "Conrad," she said again, "how was your day at the office?"
Her husband said nothing, and only closed his eyes- red, like those of his father before him. "They won't listen to me any more," he told her. "The Amestrians think of Ishvalans as dangerous and untrustworthy. Ever since the annexation, ever since they forced Ishvalans into bordered provinces, everything has gone down the shitter. They think we are 'religious extremists', whatever that means. The reason for conflict in Ishval isn't religion, nor is it driven by religion. It's driven by the people's thirst for freedom. Why can't they understand that?"
"Because that would make it too obvious that we're the bad people," Suzanne answered, and watched her husband whither in front of her. She felt her baby kick, and she blinked back tears. When she married Conrad and became Mrs. Miles, she never thought that life would become so difficult. She never thought that she'd have to go to the market alone because her husband would not be welcome. She never thought that she'd be the victim of vicious rumors at the doctor's office she worked at because she married an Ishvalan. Most of all, she never thought that all of this could happen in the span of three years. Just four years ago, Conrad was a bright young lawyer climbing up the corporate ladder, and now he was barely holding onto his job.
"Conrad, I'm scared." Suddenly she noticed that the table was chipped in some places, that their wooden floors were in desperate need of a good coat of wax, that their wall was peeling in some areas and that one of their windows didn't close properly.
Her husband bent down to his knees and pressed his forehead to her belly, and then rose to kiss her lips. "They can't touch us here," he promised her, despair wracking his voice. "Even if I lose my job, I'll find something else. I won't let this stop me from being the husband you deserve and the father Connor needs. I won't give up."
"Okay." She grasped his hands in hers, and noticed how chafed his fingers felt. It hurt her heart to think that he had to resort to manual labor to earn the money she'd just spent on that piece of beef. Conrad, who was educated in Amestris' best universities, was being forced to chop wood to feed his family. "Then I won't give up either. I'll stand by you until the very end."
"I don't deserve you," Conrad told her, his eyes gleaming and wet.
"We should fix the window," she said in return, smiling and tucking a strand of her long blonde hair behind her ear. "A storm is coming."
Hollfeld, Amestris. 1901.
The sound scratched her and left a wound. Outside, the sun was setting, red and bloody. The open window brought in the scent of July flowers, and the humid smell of soil so rich it almost seemed to be rotting. A small robin hopped onto the windowsill. At the sound of Van Ruijven's laughter, the bird was startled into taking flight. She put down her pen, staring in disbelief. "They shot a child in the street today, and you're laughing."
"Lighten up, Estelle," said her husband, sitting himself down on a couch and reclining. "Don't forget that it's the season for strawberries."
"Strawberries?" She frowned, exasperated. "It makes me sick to think about what's happening over there. And here we live our civilized lives as if we don't give a damn."
"I sold two paintings today," he said, like he hadn't heard her at all. "They were very good, and they went to good collectors. One promised me that…"
Estelle sighed and turned away, accustomed to the feeling of being unheard and ignored. It was why she was such a prolific writer; the paper couldn't say no to her words. The ink couldn't argue with her. The alphabet lived to express her ideas, and it couldn't judge her and tell her that her opinion was worthless.
They had beautiful polished marble floors, satin curtains, a crackling fireplace, and sheepskin rugs... but the house still didn't feel like home. Everything was so neatly arranged to tell a story that couldn't be further from the truth. From the outside, Ruijven and Estelle made the perfect couple: an art connoisseur and a poet- how quaint!
When her boy returned from school, she spread her arms and he dove into them. Always, he kissed her cheek before he kissed his father's. Zolf was her hope, the light that kept her from running screaming into the dark.
"Come here, son," Ruijven motioned to the space next to him on the couch, and Zolf reluctantly pulled away from his mother. Very carefully, he sat next to his father and said nothing. Estelle looked into her son's nervous blue eyes and felt a part of her die, little by little. "This is what happens when you resist change," the man told his son, "this is what faith gets you. Those barbarian Ishvalans say that God is on their side, and look! This 'God' is a fiction. Do you understand what I mean by that?"
Zolf nodded his little head, and Estelle knew that he didn't understand but he nodded just so his father could stop talking. On this day he was not so lucky.
Ruijven continued, "this fictional 'God' gives consolation, but what good is consolation? It's like a drug. It keeps you dreaming so you aren't aware of what is actually happening- you think the world is one way when it is another. You are hallucinating, delusional. We should have no sympathy for these madmen; they got what was coming to them."
"That's enough," Estelle cut in, "don't listen to him, Zolf."
"Shut your mouth," Ruijven snarled, "I'll say what I want and he will listen. He's my son."
"He's my son too," she countered, "and here is what I will say as a mother. Zolf," she sought her son's eyes and held his gaze. A part of her rejoiced that he looked at her differently, with the fondness that he never showed to his father. "Anyone who tells you what to believe is your enemy. Anyone who says that he knows the truth knows nothing. There is no belief, only the search for truth and the experience of the truth. That is the purpose of life, the joy."
"What the fuck are you on about-" Ruijven came to his feet.
"How can you hope to know the pain in another person's heart? Don't you see? What kind of human being are you if you have no compassion in your heart? And how dare you tell Zolf that-"
She was knocked back, stumbling and reeling from the force of his fist.
"No!" Zolf shouted, leaping off the couch and tackling his father from behind, trying to pull back his arm with all his might… But he was merely a child, and he wasn't strong enough. "Stop, papa! Why do you always do this?"
"Because she's making you soft! And if you're soft, you won't surive in this world. Let me make this clear- man has the right to shout," said his father, "and I am shouting. One day you too will know what it is like to shout."
"I will never be like you," Zolf, knowing that holding him back was useless, let go of Ruijven and instead clung to his mother. Estelle was bleeding from the mouth, and catching thin rivulets of blood in the palm of her hand. She never cried, not once.
It was the season for strawberries, yes, but in Ishval a little girl was shot in the head. Estelle chose this life; that child had no choice. What right did she have to feel sorry for herself? But when she looked at her son, still so wide-eyed and innocent, the urge to cry became so strong she could barely stand it.
Zolf had no choice, either.
Kanda, Ishval. 1907.
Elias was pacing back and forth while the madness raged on outside. "The world's gone to hell," he grumbled, wringing his hands helplessly. "Ishvalans are killing each other, and your brother won't even pray with us. He's holed up in his room doing Ishvala knows what… is he my son or is he a stranger?"
Buramos had to force himself to sit, wishing to respect his mother's wishes of keeping him safe but also desperately wanting to see what was happening. The civil war had reached a fevered pitch. From the North, the Gunjans were staving off the Amestrians, but at a massive cost. Earlier in the year, in spring, when the skies were clear and blue icecaps could be seen on the peaks of moiuntains, when the yellow tulips drew along white poppies, the Gunjans kidnapped and murdered two Amestrian officers.
In retaliation, the Amestrians flew endless air raids over Kanda. For weeks and months, children were born and died in the sheltered basements of buildings that acted as makeshift bomb bunkers. The moments of normal life and moments of sheer panic swung ceaselessly during the day like a pendulum, and the people were starting to break. In their devastation and grief at being unable to fight back against the Amestrians that rained fire on them from above, the Kandans blamed the Gunjans.
The roads destroyed by bombing meant that food and fuel were trickling into Kanda at a snail's pace. Both necessities had long soared beyond what was affordable by the average family, and winter was rapidly closing in on the provine.
By the time the first gunshot sounded, Buramos darted out of his home and left his parents' shouts behind. By the time he reached the town square, there had been fifteen shots in total.
Fifteen innocent Ishvalan citizens of Gunjan background were shot and killed by the Kandan civilians. When he arrived, he saw that they were men and women and children, and all of them were familiar faces. The anger and horror was incomparable, but Buramos had to hide it. As a priest, he had to fight to remain a source of comfort for people, a source of consolation.
"Don't come any closer," a bearded Ishvalan in a khaki uniform barred Buramos from approaching with his arm. But Buramos was a warrior monk, and it was his duty to offer last rites to those who died. "I am a priest," he told the man, who only scoffed and pointed a pistol to Buramos' forehead.
The priest swallowed hard and took a step back, all the lawlessness and the terrible inhumanity of the province crystallizing into one condensed moment of terror. It made him hurt to know that Kanda had fallen so far, that they community had deteriorated to such an extent that a priest was not even able to administer for the dead. He wondered what his use was anymore- it seemed that God had abandoned them, so why would his people look to him?
When he returned to his home, he deflected his parents' scolding and ducked into his brother's room. "Evram," he pleaded, "please, please stop."
Evram spun around in his chair; his silver hair dishreveled and the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. "Stop and do what? Mother and father want us to pick up everything and run to the countryside. Are you willing to leave these people? To leave this province to the dogs?"
"No, that's not what I'm saying! I just… we just need you with us, Evram!"
"I am with you," Evram countered, throwing his hands up. His fingers were stained with ink. "I am trying to save us, don't you understand?"
"Alchemy is destroying us!"
"Alchemy isn't evil!"
"It's destroying us!"
"Science is neutral! It simply gives power, Buramos. The Amestrians are using alchemy for destruction, but you can't forget that alchemy isn't to blame. What kind of logic is that? Are the Gunjans to blame for the Amestrian air raids?"
"Don't you dare make that comparison."
"It's a valid comparison."
"You didn't see their faces!"
"I- I'm tired, brother." All the fight diffused from Evram's body, and his shoulders slumped. He removed his glasses and wiped them with the edge of his shirt, but that only made the lens dirtier than before. "One day, you'll see. Soon." With that, he turned back towards the jumbled piles of papers scattered over his desk, and entered into his own world again.
Buramos could hear his mother in hysterics outside, and his father desperately trying to assure her that things were fine. He heard a familiar roaring sound from above, growing to a scream that made the ground shake. This was followed by a deep, rolling explosion somewhere in the north, and somehow he knew in his heart that more lives had just been extinguished, blown out all at once like a household turning off their lights at night. His mother was screaming on the other side of the door, and his father was praying so quickly that the words strung together into an incomprehensible slur. Even Evram was shaking, forcing himself to not cower or hide under a table but to keep working through the fear.
When he decided to become a priest, he hadn't thought that things would be like this. Now his concerns were no longer youth delinquents and social rights, but rather maimed orphans and mass starvation. It seemed like the world was coming to an end, and there wasn't anything he could do.
Buramos sat on the floor of his brother's study and sobbed, but no tears came because Kanda was also in the middle of a drought and they were all so, so thirsty.
End Chapter 7
The effects of war are not completed once the enemy withdraws; indeed, in the case of modern warfare, mines and UXOs remain to maim and kill for generations to come. Some strings are finally getting tied now; I hope you guys are as excited as I am! :)
I decided, on a whim, to write some of the scenes from the past... snapshots in the lives of Miles' parents, Kimblee's family, and Scar's family regarding how their lives were touched to various extents by the Ishvalan civil war.
Reviews are appreciated! I love hearing back from readers. Thank you for reading! C:
