Hello friends. I realize it's been a very long time. I'm sorry for the very, very long delay. A lot of things have happened, and I've had to make a lot of changes. Some of you may recall that I work in military logistics. My country opened her arms to the Syrian refugees, and mounted operations to identify them and bring them in to the country. I didn't have much time to write in the beginning, but now things are calming down somewhat.
The refugee crisis has changed the direction of this fic. I'd originally planned for a plot surrounding an unfound philosopher's stone, making alchemy a key point of the story. But now I realize that the people are more important, more interesting, and more deserving of attention. The once proud people of Ishval have been cheated, betrayed, and almost destroyed by a terrible act of genocide. They all have different goals and dreams, and the notion of 'rebuilding Ishval' means something different to different groups of Ishvalans. They should be the focus. I think the shift of increased political focus is not completely out of place, considering Asir' injury was the catalyst that brought the reality of Amestrian administration to the forefront of new Ishvalan consciousness.
I always wanted to focus on the logistics of the restoration, but now I realize that I'd missed something important: the implications, the memories of past betrayal, and the ripple effects on Amestrian society and neighbouring states. People's ability to congregate and effect change are incredible, and conflicts in how different groups approach this have been the basis of history. How these events affected ordinary people are just as important.
Aris
Aris was the baker's son, yes, but he wasn't simpleminded.
It was why he could often be found with Black, sitting and chatting or eating in companionable silence. Most Ishvalans assumed that Aris, being the kind man that he was, simply felt pity for the old veteran who had only rants and faded memories to keep him company.
On this afternoon of uneasy peace as the Ishvalans recovered from the events of last night, he finally came across Black at the edge of an old wadi, a long walk from camp. The area here was once farmland and hadn't yet been cleared of UXOs, but Aris had lived through the war and walked without hesitation. Like Black, Thu, and Kaysi, those who lived through the war walked like the dead, and they were unafraid to venture outside the camp's perimeter. Black was sitting on a felled tree, surrounded by scraps of garbage and shrapne. There was a fire burning in an old oil drum, and as Aris neared he could see that Black was spooning cupfuls of diesel into it from a rusted bucket. Beside him, Thu drew her scarf closer around her neck.
"What about Scar?" Aris heard Thu ask Black when he came into earshot.
"We can't trust him," Black retorted, banging his metal cup onto the edge of the oil drum to shake out the last drops of diesel. "Didn't you hear how he reacted when I told him about all that we'd lost? He is one of them, he is with the Amestrians."
"He'd just arrived," Thu argued, "he didn't want a riot. The Lieutenant Colonel is a good man. He is not the enemy."
"He is not the enemy," the old bearded man agreed, "but neither is he a friend." Here he waved to Aris, his grin revealing all his remaining teeth. "Kobhur chasti, Aris! Ishvala's peace to you."
"Kobhur chasti," Aris replied, handing over a freshly baked loaf of crusty bread, still warm from the oven. Aris had managed to convince Juniper to allow him access to her kitchens. Black was delighted.
During the war, their supplies dwindled and the baker began to turn inwards to his own family. With their supplies from Daliha cut off by the Amestrians and their own farmland exhausted by the demand, Kanda was suffocating. His father could only afford to bake six loaves of coarse black bread a day, wanting to keep his son and daughter alive first and foremost. Women and sometimes men formed bread lines stretching a mile or longer, and once his father sold out of bread the women fought themselves, resorting to thievery and assault all for a single piece of black bread that was really more charcoal than sustenance. Women, men, and children dropped in the streets from hunger. They closed down their shop- how could they afford to sell bread when their children were starving? Once, Aris noticed a gaunt looking woman leaning against the wall of the Kanda War Office, nursing a baby. He ran back to his home and snuck out a slice of black bread, but when he reached them again he saw that only the child was alive.
"What did you tell him?" Black ripped apart the loaf of bread and passed a generous portion to Thu. "And where is little Rina?"
"I left her with the witch. These are not talks that children should overhear... " Aris accepted a thin blanket from Thu and laid it out on the floor where he sat. Thu's voice fell to a whisper. "When he wears that uniform... I don't know if he is with us or against us. He has been kind enough, but... but I have my fears."
Black looked to Thu, and then to Aris. "What, Aris, do you think Amestris plans to do with us once they rebuild Ishval? That Commander, that Lt. Colonel that calls himself Ishvalan, is planning to go to the provinces and re-establish administration there. Who is he taking with him? That Crimson Bomber. Think about this, Aris."
"That alchemist is very knowledgeable," Aris countered, unsettled by the way Black looked at him. "We need Scar with us here in Kanda, and there isn't any other Ishvalan that can go. This is their mission, you know. We can't just demand-"
Black interrupted, "but that's exactly what we should do! Where is Ishval in all of this? Kanda is being ruled by an Amestrian military force, Aris. Don't you see? How is this any better than the Annexation? We are still not free. We are still not independent. We are still slaves of Amestris."
"We cannot be independent," Aris ground out, frustrated that Black wasn't seeing things as they were. He was like this during the war, and Aris was disappointed that he hadn't changed. The old man had always been a dreamer, raised in an aristocratic military family in Old Ishval and having never tasted real poverty. Aris wished he could understand what a blessing it was now for many families to have food three times a day and a safe place to sleep. Could they not enjoy this a little longer? "Maybe one day we will, but right now we need Amestris' protection."
"Protection!" Black guffawed, "you have been so long a slave that when your master whips you three times instead of five, you count it as a blessing! Ishval is being rebuilt by Amestrians, we are ruled by Amestrian soldiers, we have no real government of our own... Scar is a puppet, and the Amestrians are smart to use him. A priest is socially influential but lacks political power, and that priest will keep us all meek like sheep. Remember what he said- that he was to be our liaison to the Amestrians, that he was here to offer spiritual support. You honestly believe that we will one day have our own government? Bah!" He spat on the ground. "We are still annexed to Amestris. Don't you see why Amestris is pouring all her funds on us?"
Aris was silent, and Black's words hung jagged in the evening air. Finally the baker spoke. "I would like to believe it is because they want to rectify their past wrongs."
Thu pulled back her scarf and tossed it on the ground. "What kind of government would do that without expectation of something in return? They rebuilt us like a tribute state, and this is what we are."
Aris blinked, gathering himself for a moment. Each time Thu asserted herself, she always took him aback eloquence- the woman had been very active politically in Daliha, but since her escape to Xerxes she concealed the fact that she was educated. The image she gave off to others was one of a modest and unassuming Dalihan mother, and Aris had no doubt that even Lt Col. Miles was tricked.
She was once a beekeeper's daughter. Dalihan honey was prized above all. Aris knew what Thu saw in the Amestrian government. Like how the beekeeper kept his bees in white and blue boxes and harvested the honey they produced, Thu saw that the Ishvalans had become the bees.
"There is a reason for this arrangement," Thu continued. "Yes, the water is sweet now, but what happens after? They plan to establish industry in Ishval but only for raw materials. They will force Kanda to produce textiles, force Gunja to produce ores, force Daliha to become their bread-basket. And then they will use us as their slaves. We will become a crippled country with an economy bound to exports to Amestris- for what option do we have? We will become a trading state with no sustainable industry of our own. The Amestrians will control our economy, our military, our government. I am sick of playing their game, Aris. Look what's happened to my son! My poor sweet boy!" She was overwhelmed with anger, with that scathing fury that suddenly made her a stranger to the baker, who'd only seen her as the quiet and demure woman she pretended to be. "We had the people at our back last night, Aris. We could have overwhelmed them. We could have."
Aris threw his hands up in exasperation. "And then what, Thu? What do we do then? This was always the problem with you radical reformers, even during the war. You just wanted to destroy everything, push Amestris out. But what would we have then? Nothing!" He caught his breath, challenging Black and Thu's stunned and furious glares with his own. "We still have no government, nothing that the people can support. If Amestris goes, then we only have anarchy. Is that what you wanted, Thu? For Rina and Aris?"
The woman only sneered; she did not look away. "We are not radicals," she said instead in a low voice, "how is it radical to want freedom? It is you who is wrong, you who believe that anything good could come of this-"
Black was spooning another cup of diesel into the oil drum. Aris could no longer contain himself. With one swift movement, he knocked the can out of Black's hand. The diesel splashed on the ground. Aris picked up the empty cup and thrust it at Thu's face. "Who gave us this diesel to have the fire, Thu? Answer me!" When the woman refused to utter a word, Aris continued. "Don't you see that it's better to compromise and cooperate with them? Let us build ourselves up, let us develop an identity again. It's the only way we can survive as a people, as a culture, as a nation."
"Enough!" Black cried, taking the can from Aris. "I'll tell you what we need to do. We get our promises from them while we can, while they are in our debt, we must have a written treaty. A declaration. Ishval cannot be governed from the outside. They will come to know this."
"That already exists," Aris argued, "the Restoration Order."
"That's an operational mission statement," Thu bit back bitterly, "it means nothing to us. They can amend it or discard it at their will. We must not let them lead us like sheep. We are the lions, not they!"
Black's face lit up. "Lion!" He gasped. "The Lion!"
Thu was as against this idea as Aris was. She echoed his words before they even left his mouth. "You will not bring her into this!"
"But she is the Lion of Hajra," Black went on, and it was clear to both Thu and Aris that the old man was already taken with the idea and could not be convinced otherwise. "She has the will to stand up to the Amestrians. She struck down their head alchemist, that bastard Kimblee, and she has not been punished. See how they fear her! See how our people are roused by her!"
"You cannot cage a lion and force it to do your will," the baker ground out between teeth clenched in a snarl. "A lion is not a slave." He could feel the rift, as wide as a chasm. Thu and Black's vision of Ishval was that of the old aristocratic traditionalists, who only wanted Ishval to return to its days of independence and glory. People like Aris and his father were modern reformers, who wanted to forge a new Ishvallan identity and thrust the nation into the modern age. Thu and Black would not stand with him, and he could not afford to lose Kaysi in the battle for Ishval.
"No," Black agreed, "but the people talk between one another. They are feeling the stirrings of apprehension. And when they rallied together last night to protest against the Amestrians, I think they felt alive for the first time in a long time. I know I did. They had something to fight for. If it weren't for your daughter," here he looked to Thu, "I wonder what could have happened. We have power, and we must not hesitate to use it. I will speak to the lioness tomorrow at dawn. We will have our answers."
Aris made a move to argue against Black, but the old man waved him off. Thu set a delicate hand on his shoulder, and shook her head only slightly. Aris fumed, knowing that he could not change Black's mind. "I must go, then," he lied, hurriedly getting up and brushing the dust off his pants. "I have more bread to distribute." It was a blatant untruth, but only Thu saw through it. Black was too occupied in the grandeur of his own thoughts to consider anything else.
The baker stalked away towards the camp. He had to find Kaysi and warn her before sunrise.
Scar
Before the annexation, Ishval was a land of disparate polities. They were no more family to each other than Aeruguo and Amestris, or Xing and Xerxes during the old times of Armuun the Conquerer.
It was Amestris that first brought the great warring states of the desert under one polity, and it was not done without bloodshed. Throughout the centuries of war, the priests of Ishvala persevered, preached the Old Truth, held the people together when all they wanted to do was to tear each other apart.
He remembered how it felt when he first heard of the world outside of his province. His brother used to tell him outlandish stories when he returned from his "trips". Evram told him about black and white animals in Xing that moved very slowly and ate long green sticks. Scar heard of mechanical beasts made out of metal that Amestrians sat in and rode around like horses. Scar had known of these things before, he knew of their existence, but it was still strange to visualize it all.
"Do they have Ishvala?" He'd asked Evram about the Amestrians, "do they have a God?"
"No," Evram replied solemnly, "they don't."
Scar frowned. "Then how...?" he asked, "how do they win their wars? How do they keep their people from doing terrible things? How do they find purpose in their lives?"
"They're different," Evram told him, "they don't need priests, or churches, or a God. They're a different people, a different society."
The obvious question hung unspoken in the air. That was before the war. Then it became even less possible to ask the question. Was the Amestrian way better?
When Miles first approached Scar and asked him to become the Amestrian liaison in New Ishval, Scar was apprehensive. Ishvala's priests were not political figures. He did not want any role in political rule. But that wasn't the issue.
The issue was that Miles and the Amestrians were well aware of this limitation.
He held a sort of 'town hall' in the morning every week in front of the Amestrian CP. Any person could attend and voice their thoughts, regardless of background, age, or gender.
The morning was misty- spring rains were on their way, and a brilliant strip of red spilled across the sky as the sun peaked over the distant mountains. A huge crowd of Ishvalans had gathered around the CP- numbers that Scar had never seen before at a town hall meeting. He swallowed nervously, having expected a greater turnout as a result of the events last night, but not having expected this amount of people. When they saw him approach, they were silent, morose.
In the crowd he saw Ishvalans bearing the broad, flat faces of the Dalihans, others with the high and prominent cheekbones of the Gunjans. He saw a man whose eyes resembled black olives, framed by long silver tresses and a gangly beard, and a very tall Kandan woman of remarkable beauty. It was a mix of people that made no sense, which jarred the priest on this hazy morning.
"Good morning, friends," he addressed the crowd, willing his voice to remain warm and smiling at those he recognized. "There are many of you this morning, thank you all for coming. I assume you are wanting news about Asir. Unfortunately, we have no news right now but will update you all as soon as we are informed."
The crowd only stared back at him, completely still until a hunched old man pushed his way through to stand before Scar. He leaned heavily on a cane, and the effort of walking seemed to exhaust him. The priest recognized him immediately, and bowed in respect.
"We didn't come to hear about the child," Black said, gasping for breath. "We came for the Amestrian officer."
"The lieutenant colonel does not participate in these town halls," Scar explained, remembering Black's outburst several months ago. He wasn't certain what Black wanted, but Scar did sense the change in the crowd. People began to shift from side to side, like a bolt of lightning had just revived them from a stupor. Between heads of silver hair and cloth, he saw the red shawl of the lioness. "This town hall is for us Ishvalans, it is so you can speak your mind. Now, honored Black, what is on your mind?"
"Oh," Black grinned toothily, "there are many questions that torture my mind." There was no kindness in his eyes, and Scar felt his confidence faltering. What was going on? The crowd began to murmur, and Scar felt like an entire exchange had just passed right over his head. He was never good at picking up on the nuances of a conversation, the subtleties of politics. He was good at listening to what was said, but not good at understanding what wasn't said.
"Yes...?" He prompted, at a loss. The red shawl moved, a head turned. Scar's periphery was set afire by the tension. Black, on the other hand, only leaned on his cane.
When he spoke, his words hit like bullets. "Where is our Ishvalan government? What is the use of a 'town hall' meeting that is led by a priest?"
"Black is right," the tall woman's voice emerged, "a priest is the head of culture, not politics. You should not be here."
Never had any Ishvalan ever said anything like this to Scar since the establishment of New Ishval. But the words rang in his memory. Abruptly, he was brought back to that time when he was running, running so desperately towards the sound of gunshots while others were fleeing. He remembered the smell of blood on the ground, the muscular arm that held him back. Don't come any closer, the words were growled in his ear. I am a preist, his memory-voice responded, delirious with fear and frustration. Let me through.
Then he recalled with bone-chilling accuracy the feeling of cold steel against his forehead, the sight of looking up into the barrel of a loaded pistol.
"Move aside," Black ordered, standing as tall as he could. His voice brought Scar back into the present, dragged him from the memory of Buramos, the memory of war.
Scar realized he had been backed against the entrance of the CP. Inside, Miles and his men were working. "No," the priest maintained, "no, I will not." His feet felt like huge blocks of clay- he wasn't even sure if he could move them if he wanted to.
"Then bring us the officer," Aris spoke up, and Scar's attention snapped to locate the baker in the crowd. This wasn't right... Aris was his friend, and he supported Scar as the Amestrian liaison. He always had. "Let us speak to him."
"Yes," said the crowd, "yes."
Scar had never, ever brought Ishvalans into the CP as part of his weekly conference, but this week was not like any other. How was he to handle this situation? Such a scenario was never discussed before. What if he continued to resist? These Ishvalans seemed to stand in unison. Like last night, they seemed to move like one body. The priest was only one man, and Scar knew they were right.
He stared at Black, recalled that he was merely a priest against a former Gunjan army commander, against a crowd which seemed to have no sympathy for him. The crowd did not speak out to support him. It was like last night's events took their souls away.
"Why are you doing this?" The priest stammered, "what have we not given to you? What have I not done for you? Every morning I negotiate with the Amestrians to give you all the supplies you need. Every day I help with the building, and all day I lead your prayers. What are you not satisfied with? Please, tell me, this is what I am here for."
Some of the crowd cast their eyes down, humiliated. But they did not speak. It was only two men who spoke for them all. "We are glad for what you do," Black responded, "we just want to know what we're building towards is all."
"But you are fed, you are cared for, you are-"
Black snarled, slamming his cane against the ground. "We are not dogs, Buramos!"
Scar was confused, disappointed, distraught... more Ishvalans had arrived, roused by the noise of their exchange, and stood along the sidelines, watching. Old Man Juriv arrived as well, and there was such sadness in his gaze for both priests knew that the time was coming when men would declare themselves above their priests, above Ishvala.
Ishvala, please protect us.
For a brief moment, he remembered the feeling of flesh cracking and exploding under his hands, the wet splatter of blood against his face. The death of so many, all his doing. For Ishvala. He remembered that he was still capable. He hadn't lost his alchemy. He could fight. For Ishvala, for Ishval.
He raised his hand, formed a fist, then lowered it. Black watched his movements with a steady and piercing gaze, and Scar turned away.
At last he relented. He had no choice.
"Not all of you," he told Black, praying that Miles was prepared. "Only two."
Black and Aris looked at each other, and Aris turned towards the crowd. "Go," the woman called Thu spoke, urging the two men on with a shake of her hands.
"Wait," Black tapped Aris' calf with the tip of his cane. "Not you," he said.
"No," Aris retorted, sneaking glances at Scar, who was becoming increasingly more confused. "Let me go with you."
"Not you," Black maintained, "let the lion come."
Now it was the witch's turn to speak. "Not my daughter! Are you insane? You would bring her to the butcher's block to be slaughtered!"
"She is a lion, not a lamb." Black was resolute, waving away the distraught mother like he was merely swatting a fly. "Let her choose." He raised a hand towards Kaysi's direction, smiling with all his remaining teeth.
Scar found the lion within the crowd, met her startled expression with his own.
Kimblee
The journey to nowhere was dense as a bog, and Kimblee was somewhere in the middle, in the gap, looking down onto the universe. Emotionless, objectless, neutral. He was tired. What was the point of thinking any more? Kimblee felt so a part of this mortal world that thinking felt like another form of breathing- conditioned, choiceless. What was the point?
He heard his mother's voice.
Someone is dying, Zolf.
So what? He pushed her voice aside, muffling it into the void like crushing the bones of a small bird. Someone must be dying somewhere. Just as someone else was being born, someone else was waking. At this moment someone was walking into a bathroom, someone was committing a murder, someone was falling in love.
He was defeated. For what was the point? He always remained on the outside of the world he built. He didn't feed his mistakes, but his mistakes fed him. He used to convince himself that everything he did followed the path of inspiration, of rapture, of art, but at the moment of creation the inspiration was transformed into such a profound loneliness that Kimblee could never face. He'd trusted that he could imagine in one life and live in the other, but this pain united both worlds and roused him to consciousness.
His neck itched. He shifted a little, and the sudden pain that shot up his arm was a lightning bolt, jolting him up in the bed. A bead of sweat dropped from the rim of his nose, and Kimblee shivered; cold, alone, and with a head full of cotton.
He looked down at his body, felt disillusioned, disappointed- and couldn't move his left leg. His left arm, too, was paralyzed. He stared, and saw a thick wrap of bandages and dressing squeezing his left hand and knee in like a cocoon. The feeling of steel touched his heart.
He glanced at his other hand, the one that worked. The sun sigil formed an eye that seemed to blink at Kimblee. Crimson Alchemist gasped, and a vision intruded into his mind of a huge, singular eye opening out of a gate... Countless small hands came twisting to embrace him, delicate like the hands of children but long, black, and excruciating. No, he said, shouted no into the abyss, for his heart was split open by steel and inside was the worst desire to live. No, no, he was not defeated.
He blinked, and the hallucination fled. "No!" Kimblee cried out, jerking up. "Come back!" His working hand flailed in front of him, trying to reach something- anything.
A woman suddenly appeared from behind the curtain. Kimblee was surprised, for he did not hear her enter. His hand dropped, dismayed.
"You're the one who plays the oud," he said, remembering the arch of her brows against the deep set of her eyes. She had the bones of a northern woman, a woman from the Dead Sea beyond the desert. He had passed by there once on his way to Gunja. Dasht was a land of monotonous regularity, but if one looked closely, tough scrub grasses and tiny flowering shrubs could be seen to burgeon out of the endless flat sands. He saw no settlements, no sign of human life- it made him wonder if the Dasht people were really human. Maybe they were the Ishvalan kiyyah of legend, living in glass houses invisible to the human eye, only leaving their mirage-home to perform their sorcery and lead the true believers astray.
"Yes." She set down a metal basin of hot water in which a clean cloth was submerged. She did not even look at Kimblee, nor did she ask for his permission before she gently grasped his left hand at the wrist and began unraveling the bandages.
He asked her how long he'd been sleeping, to which she responded with "about a day". She was trying to give off the air of detachment, this Kimblee could see, but the witch's movements were distracted. Though her hands were calm and sure, her fingertips lightly trembled. The Crimson Lotus felt those minute vibrations on his inflamed skin as the heartbeat of a small bird.
The scars were not bad. Kimblee found himself looking at the wound in the palm of his left hand with complete detachment. The excitement was over. His wounds were not grave enough to risk his life, but they were also not trivial enough to be easily brushed off. He remembered how it felt to fight Scar on that moonlit train. Freshly discharged from prison, his limbs were clumsy from lack of regular exercise. He knew from the start that he was no match for Scar, when it came down to it, but he fought anyway. Why? And why did he dare the Gunjan fighter to kill him?
It was to test his limits; it was to remind him of the urgency of living, because Kimblee was becoming bored. Still he was the Mad Bomber, and he chased the drug that he'd become addicted to during the war. He'd gotten a taste of it finally when the mine exploded, but he wasn't close enough, damn it. He was restored to himself after the excitement wore off, back into a monotonous, regimented life where he barely existed. Even the motions he went through to save the boy were nothing but muscle memory- unexciting, meaningless. Outside of the shade and calm of his existence was a swarming, sweaty heat that pricked at him, tempting him. He hadn't yet reached his limits, damn it! And it was the cry of reality that kept pulling him back, this tasteless reality that was too hot and too scheduled and altogether too obvious. He was chasing himself to his loneliness, and then retreat and begin the cycle again.
Yet there were greater things at hand.
He slowly recalled the events leading up to his loss of conscious, which only piqued his curiosity further. The woman who'd come out of the crowd was shrouded in red. She wielded the Gunjan warrior's scimitar with expert precision, her hand neither wavering nor hesitating. He caught her eyes at the moment of disaster. Her eyes were as red as another Ishvalan's, but they were flecked with gold. Her air, too, had a burnished yellow look to it that reminded Kimblee of the half-Amestrian children born as a result of the Amestrian occupation of Ishval. Rina was one such child. He remembered he cried out, but he did not feel the pain until much later when she plunged her blade into his hand.
But there was something odd about that pain. Kimblee recalled that his whole body felt electrified- he howled and contorted himself... ah, yes! Kimblee understood now. The thought of the oyster returned- but why was she the lemon?
Ah, here was a foul mystery in New Ishval.
First was the mine. Kimblee almost felt that it was not purely accidental. He had not yet told Miles about his thoughts. The mine could not have been left over from the war. It was almost impossible. Someone must have planted it. He hadn't told Miles about it yet.
Second was the young woman, the one who'd condemned him to his present situation. He did not resent her for what she did- after all, he welcomed it onto himself. But what was it about her that so unsettled him? There was something very familiar about her, something that reminded of a memory he couldn't place.
Before he lost consciousness, he watched the Witch of Dasht emerge from the crowd. The shrouded woman dropped her scimitar. She uttered 'uma', and then all was black.
"I hear you are a witch, is that true?"
Isle's lips pressed together in distaste, but she did not reject the claim. "That's what they call me. I'm merely a healer."
"You're not just a healer. I know what you are." He smiled, delighting in the conflicted expression on her face. Outside, he heard Dr. Marcoh and Dr. Knox moving around, speaking with their patients, blissfully unaware of the intense exchange that was taking place behind the curtains of their field tent. "Have you ever heard of the Ouroboros?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." She made a show of closing herself off, but she did not move to leave. Kimblee realized, victoriously, that this surely meant that she did not know.
"The image of a snake or serpent eating its own tail, in a perpetual cycle. Yes, you have seen it. I can tell." He leaned forward to whisper at the witch's ear. He was so close that he smelled the perfume of pomegranate that lingered in her hair. "Tell me, have you seen it on your daughter's body?"
The witch stood up, and she was so still- not a single strand of hair moved out of place. Time seemed to drag to a slow crawl. Even the sounds outside stopped- the voices of the doctors working in the other room, the sounds of construction, the shouts of soldiers, the rumbling of truck engines. The air was rank with the stench of something burnt. There was nothing in existence except the strained vibration between them as they tried to determine whether the other was friend or foe.
The tent flap abruptly opened. The world condensed, contorted, shrank into the familiar face of Lt Colonel Miles emerging into the tent. "Oh," he said, and smiled warmly at Isle. "I did not know you would be here." Scar's frame appeared behind him, comically trying to refuse a cup of coffee being pushed at him from Dr. Knox.
Kimblee looked between the two of them, bewildered. He slowly started to register again the sounds from outside- the laughter of soldiers forming up for dinner, the clatter of dishes and pans from the mess tent.
He did not dare look at the Witch of Dasht, not even as she gathered her things and gave him instructions on how to treat his injuries. She spoke to him like they did not know each other, like the conversation they'd just had did not occur. It was so strange, so odd. Kimblee couldn't help but wonder himself if he'd imagined it all in his delirium.
After she left, Miles inquired about his injuries and Kimblee answered something or another- he couldn't remember what he said.
"There is much we need to talk about," Miles told him, looking at Scar as he did so.
Miles
"A few things," Miles said, sitting himself down and retrieving a scrunched up note from his breast pocket and studying it for a second before making a dissatisfied sound and tucking it away. "It's a shame we have to talk here, but there are too many eyes and ears in the CP. I trust Marcoh and Knox completely."
"There is the witch," Kimblee mentioned, but Miles only guffawed and went on so dismissively like he hadn't heard. Only Scar met Kimblee's eyes and a sentiment seemed to pass between the two.
"First of all, it seems your little performance a few nights ago has been quite sensational." Miles spoke in a light, mocking tone but his words had a condescending bite. "The Gunjans, it seems, have been much inspired by this young woman, the witch's daughter."
"So?"
Kimblee's disinterest, when he obviously knew better, pissed the Lt. Colonel off. Scar, it seemed, was equally unimpressed.
"The last thing we want is the beginnings of anything resembling a rebellion here, Kimblee. Don't do anything like that again."
Here Scar, clad in his traditional shamla, added, "Miles and I have decided not to punish Kaysi. After all, you were quite literally asking for it. However, it seems that a group of Gunjans and some Kandans have begun to associate with her. We don't want any trouble here. To punish her would be to give fuel to these people."
"What?" Kimblee laughed, finding the thought ridiculous. "You really think the Ishvalans want to revolt? At this point in time? They're still learning to crawl, how can they run?"
"Don't speak of my people like that," Scar scowled, "we are not as crippled as you imagine. I still hold these town hall meetings once a week, you realize. This morning consisted of one such meeting. I have never seen these people so agitated. It... it got a little out of hand."
Kimblee searched Scar's face and Miles knew that the alchemist understood that they were holding something back. "But if they revolt," Kimblee challenged, "how will they build their houses? How will they establish large scale agriculture without our advisors and technicians?"
"There are many Ishvalans among us who believe in freedom above all. Surely you remember the first Ishvalan nationalist movement... in 1906?" Perhaps Kimblee was still under the weight of sleep, and needed his memory jolted. There were other pressing things on Miles' mind, but he needed to ensure that Kimblee understood what was unfolding outside of the tent walls.
"Ah," the other lit up, "that was the year of Order 3047."
"Right." Scar seamlessly took over the conversation from Miles, "and because of the book burning and executions that year, there was a massive rebellion in Kanda that resulted in two Amestrian officials being kidnapped in 1907. Do you remember this?"
Seeing that Kimblee was starting to connect the thoughts in his head, Scar leaned forward and spoke softly. "The rebellion was aided by guerilla groups, the most prominent of which was the Hajra group. It was the only guerilla group that recruited from all the provinces of Ishval, and it was the Hajra leader Orhan that first introduced the concept of Ishvalan nationalism during this time."
Miles had begun to pace, looking more anxious by the second. The sight of such a big man making his rounds around the tiny tent must have been ridiculous. "Now, this was crushed by the Amestrians. The official government of Kanda, the Chieftan-"
"An Amestrian puppet," Scar snapped, his distaste evident.
"-the Chieftan did not endorse this rebellion. It was formed by an underground group, which allied with the Hajra. Many of them were killed or otherwise deemed as traitors. Now, you will remember, the witch's daughter is associated with the Hajra. And many of the civilians of New Ishval remember the Hajra and what it stood for. During a time that Ishval had no proper native military force, the Hajra geurillas were the closest thing."
Seeing that Kimblee was starting to doze off in the middle of this desperately serious discussion, Scar reached out and shook his shoulder. "Wake up, you bastard! This is serious! Did you see the crowd that gathered outside of the CP that night when Aris was injured?" His voice rose and then abruptly lowered, the priest remembering to be quiet. Still, his words were hoarse and bitter. "Did you feel the energy of that crowd? I have only seen something like that once- in 1907 when the Kandans turned against the Gunjans and murdered fifteen of them in the bazaar. I was there, Kimblee."
"So what the fuck has happened?" Kimblee threw his hands up in exasperation. His left hand, swathed in bandages up to the forearm, only lifted halfway. Did they kidnap our officers again? Are they killing each other? Has the next prophet of Ishvala been found? Is it the end of times?"
"No," Miles conceded with all seriousness, not wanting to play Kimblee's game. "It has not come to that. But we have to be careful. Listen, Kimblee. This morning the Ishvalans entered the CP. They demanded a treaty, a written declaration of Amestrian intentions. They threatened us with an uprising."
"Who?" He saw Kimblee's face abruptly grow dim, as though a candle was extinguished. "Who did?"
"It doesn't matter," Scar cut Miles off when the man was about to answer. "Something needs to be done. I can't..." He struggled to admit it. "We can't allow a nationalist movement." Scar was visibly conflicted as he said this. "The people have little understanding of how much help we need. Historically, Ishvalans have always seen themselves as self-sustaining. That's... that's not how the world works in the present day. The religious institution... we don't have much control over government policy. I just don't want to see my people suffer, and suffering is what we'll have if there is a revolt here."
"They'll think you're a traitor," the alchemist breathed, astonished.
"It has not come to that," Scar insisted in a tone that suggested the conversation was over. "And if we are careful, it will not come to that." Here he lowered his eyes and shook his head very lightly in resignation. "I do wish for Ishval to be free one day. I know it is possible. But that day is not today. Today we need to heal our wounds, that is all."
"Well, isn't this a happy situation?" Kimblee chuckled, and Scar only gaped, incredulous. "You're like Ishval's obstinate parent; your child wants to study the liberal arts, but you won't have any of it. It must be medicine or law, because that's the traditional way."
Miles cut in calmly, laying a hand on the priest's shoulder. He sensed now that Kimblee was just pressing Scar's buttons now out of his own amusement. It was always Miles who understood Kimblee's humor better, perhaps as a result of being raised in the same culture. Amestrian humor did tend to be sharper and more confrontational than the self-deprecating flavor of Ishvalan humor. "Scar, don't you have a class to teach at the school?"
With one last cautionary look at Kimblee, Scar caved. "Yes. I will speak to the two of you at some other time. Ishvala's peace be with you both."
After he left, Miles got up from the wooden chair and sat himself instead on Kimblee's cot. The cot lurched up from the added weight, and Miles laughed at the alchemist's venomous glare. "What, this feels familiar?"
"Fuck off."
Miles brushed off the halfhearted threat. "How do you feel?"
"I haven't felt like this in ages," Kimblee told him sadly, "for such a long time whenever I was injured I had the knowledge that I would soon be healed. There was always the stone... During the extermination, I did not fear death. During those days after I was released from prison, I did not fear either. I had the stone. And now I don't." He looked at his bandaged hand, and then flicked the edge of his thin blanket up to reveal his bandaged knee. "What did the doctor say?"
"Marcoh says you will recover." Miles carefully watched Kimblee's expression, watched the tensing of his jaw, the subtle flickering in his brow. Kimblee was afraid, he realized. The Crimson Alchemist was afraid that his body would not recover, that he was human, that he perhaps would not walk again. Kimblee was not a person that showed his thoughts on his face, so Miles was slightly surprised that Kimblee had relaxed his demeanor around him- even if only by a little.
"I see." Kimblee prodded at the bandages on his knee, and then remembered, "there is something I must tell you."
"Yes?"
"The UXO that maimed Asir... It had to have been planted. Did our troops manage to retrieve the shrapnel?"
Miles shook his head. "There was nothing to be recovered."
"It was a T-8 Firefly," the alchemist asserted without missing a beat, "I am absolutely positive. That explains why it was not picked up by our metal detectors, and why it left no shrapnel."
"That's an Aerugan mine," Miles whispered, "this is a serious accusation you are making." Aeruguo had been involved in conflict with Amestris for centuries; indeed, during the Ishvalan civil war Aeruguo supplied Ishval with weapons and ammunitions in order to weaken Amestris' defenses.
"Think about it," Kimblee prompted, "Aeruguo doesn't want Ishval to become properly annexed to Amestris. Amestris would be made too strong by Ishval's raw materials and resources. It would rather see Ishval destroyed than be an ally to Amestris, and isn't that what they accomplished when they forced Ishval to fight back against us during the war?"
It clicked. Miles leaned back, trying to process the implications of what Kimblee was suggesting. Faced with the mounting evidence that did in fact make sense, he couldn't push aside the possibility. "Amestris borders Aeruguo to the north, and Ishval is to the east. If Amestris went to war with Aeruguo with Ishval as an annexed state, then Aeruguo would have war on two fronts."
"Yes, and that is Aeruguo's worst nightmare. It would fall, without question." Kimblee sat up tall in his cot, lit up by the intrigue. Miles imagined that Kimblee was a man who deeply enjoyed unraveling mysteries and contemplating political dilemmas. He took in the alchemist's analysis with a deepening frown.
"Remember also the Ishvalans' hatred of Aeruguo. It betrayed Ishval completely during the civil war- it supplied Ishval with weapons, yes, but that was to their advantage. They did nothing to help the Ishvalans otherwise, and used them as fodder to weaken the Amestrian south. With Ishval destroyed, the Aerugans accomplished what they failed to do in 1721. The destruction of Ishval as a polity and the weakening of Amestrian military forces played perfectly in the favor of Aeruguo."
Miles made an unsettled noise in his throat. "Of course... With Ishval being rebuilt by Amestris, the Ishvalans would be expected to have allied relations with Amestrians while counting Aeruguo as the common enemy. Amestris intends to restore Ishval as a trading point, and likely the Fuhrer will impose harsher tariffs against Aeruguo. All of this is terrible news for Aerugan foreign affairs and economy. If Ishval sides with Amestris and becomes a part of its polity, then Aeruguo would be a sitting duck to be shot."
Kimblee nodded, sinking back down onto his cot. "And so they planted a bomb here where they knew I would be working, in the hopes of turning public opinion against us. If we consider what you and Scar told me just now, it appears to have worked. There was no talk of these 'groups' before the UXO, and now suddenly they have appeared."
Miles cursed. "This is fucked up."
A sigh, followed by a resigned shrug from the alchemist.
He had no choice, then. Since Mira's phone call, the situation had grown more tenuous and complicated. Now with Kimblee's assertion that Aeruguo was becoming involved, Miles couldn't afford to leave. "I have to stay here," he murmured, more to himself than to Kimblee. But the other man caught his words.
"You wanted to leave?"
So Miles told Kimblee of what transpired during his phone call with Mira. He'd discussed it already with Scar, who responded with anger. "You can't leave us," Scar had said, "you promised! Is Ishval no more important to you than a woman? Think of all the people here, Miles. This is bigger than your romance. Don't you understand?" And Miles could not respond, for the thought of leaving Mira behind -for what? For a land that didn't feel like home?- was too much. When he finished, he waited for Kimblee's response, praying that the other would not mock him for his sentimentality. He only had a few more days to decide.
"You can't leave," Kimblee asserted, "if you left, if these 'groups' are not controlled, do you think Scar will have any power here? There will be uprisings."
"What do you mean, Scar won't have power?" Miles was genuinely confused by this. The Ishvalans loved Scar! They listened to him! Why wouldn't they obey him?
"Weren't you listening to his words? Watching his face?" Kimblee leaned in until Miles could feel Kimblee's breath on his skin. "The man is scared, Miles. Ishvalan society is run by two separate hierarchies of power," Kimblee explained, "do you remember? The first hierarchy consists of the king or chieftan and his advisors, which would mostly be drawn from the military elite. The second represents the clerical institution, held by priests and religious scholars. Theoretically speaking, priests did have good social influence- but only in some areas of life and society. I didn't want to bring it up to Scar while he was here, but certainly he remembers how powerless he felt during the civil war. The priests could do nothing. Intellectual groups began to see the religious institution as superfluous and a hindrance to reform. It conflicts him now, don't you see? That's why he is so reluctant to act independently, or take political control. "
"I see," said Miles, "they saw that Amestris was not run by two power ladders but only one- the secular military bureaucracy. Then they saw how Aeruguo was flourishing also as a secular state... Well, any educated person would draw certain conclusions from that."
"Precisely. You are more important than you know, Miles. If you are here, you represent the military elite that the majority of Ishvalans can trust for the moment. Yes, there will be a few who oppose you, but your presence keeps the peace."
Miles rubbed his temples, willing the incoming headache to fuck off. Scar didn't want to be a political figure in any way- he wanted to preserve the old institutions of Ishval, and refused to dabble in politics. Miles could administer to Ishval, as was his job, but he could only do it as an Amestrian commander. He was starting to understand why the Ishvalans would begin to doubt and become frustrated or anxious. He had to play his cards very carefully from now on- but for what? Now that the first stages of the Operation were complete and new issues had came up, what direction was he to take?
Certainly Mira loved him and wanted to spend her life with him. But why did Miles have to choose between himself and Ishval?
Was he going to be happy, retired and living in a mansion in Amestris, reading reports of the worsening situation in Ishval and not being able to do anything?
The answer had been so clear, all along.
"I'm going to go some calls," he said resolutely, rising from the cot.
"To the Major General?"
"Yes, but also to Colonel Mustang and to the Fuhrer. I'm... going to need some guidance on how to approach this situation."
"Fine," the alchemist muttered, and then yelled after him as he left the tent- "but first go find me something to walk with!"
The Armstrong Household
Her mother had always been happy to be an ornament in her father's home, sitting proudly at his side during the long dinner parties. But now as her husband lay ailing, she saw herself for the first time as the defenseless, ignorant woman she was. Unable to face the world without her crutch, she became a completely different woman. Gone was her warmth and eloquence- now she wandered the mansion like a ghost, ablaze with jewels but empty of spirit.
Olivier had taken leave from Briggs to set her family affairs in order. She did not want to be here. Running the mansion stressed her more than leading a platoon attack, even when there wasn't much to do. The Armstrong mansion had a roster of financial advisors, investment officers, supply clerks, public affairs managers, cooks, and over fifty maids and servants to keep the household running. But without her father's direction, the Armstrong house fell to a vegetative state- existing, but not living.
Alexander accompanied her to several events in their father's name, and both siblings were left struggling to comprehend and find their places in the aristocratic world. Her brother could not stand it, and it showed on his face. Olivier was always better at guarding her expressions, and so she fared better as she navigated the meaningless polite conversations, the hollow compliments, the pointless speculations on trivial events and trends, and the "non-profit fundraisers" that must have spent at least half of what they received on the lavish dinner party.
There were countless aristocrats who came to express their sympathy, but there was no kindness in their faces- only the same painted lips, the same trimmed brows, the same practiced smiles. She was disgusted. Many of these men and women only thought about money, had no depth to their ambitions, and filled their heads with trivial matters. Worst of all, there were the young heirs who sought her hand. They did not see her for who she was, did not respect her for the Major General that she was. Rather, they knew her for her last name: Armstrong, the wealthiest and most influential family in Amestris.
She wanted nothing more than for Connor to be at her side, to be her anchor when she felt the rest of the world had gone flipping mad. She knew she was being selfish, but she felt she was drowning and all her experience as a Major General failed to help her. Her father, ill with tuberculosis, could barely speak on his good days. It was all he could do to write his will, making Olivier his primary heir, leaving a lesser portion for his wife and other children but stipulating that it was Olivier's responsibility to care for them.
It was clear that he expected her to retire completely from her post in Briggs. Olivier knew that she would eventually adapt and overcome, that she would learn to manage the house like her father did. An unmarried heiress would be harassed and never taken seriously, but even worse to Olivier was the thought of marrying a man who only loved her for her money.
Her mother was completely against the thought of her marrying Miles. "Why would you taint our family's bloodline?" She demanded, terrified that her daughter was throwing common sense to the wind. She hadn't supported Olivier joining the military, and she swore to never agree to a marriage with a lowborn Ishvalan. "He only wants you for your money! That is what all poor men desire."
"Not him," Olivier argued back, and her mother shook with anger. "He's a man of duty, a man that has greater dreams than to become rich."
Lady Armstrong clenched her fragile fists, her huge ruby rings gleaming on her thin fingers. "If you marry him, he will run this house into the ground."
"No," she corrected her, smiling. "I will run this house. My father made me the heir, not my husband."
Her mother only continued her barrage, "you say he is a man of duty? What man doesn't want this life? What child of poverty wouldn't jump at the chance to leap to the top of Amestrian society overnight?"
That argument was two weeks ago.
Her last call to Connor was four days ago.
She'd just picked up the phone a few seconds ago, and she wasn't expecting it to be Connor.
"Mira," came the voice, shaken by static.
"Connor," Olivier was so happy to hear his voice. It had been a difficult day. When she gave him his test four days ago, she'd expected that he would either call her immediately after, or he would wait until the very last day to mutter some sort of unclear and confused apology. But the voice that met her on the other side of the line was tender and sure.
"I would love nothing more than to dedicate my life to you, to marry you and be your husband," said Connor, "but I cannot leave my post here. Ishval needs me, and though my heart is in Amestris with you, I cannot sacrifice the needs of all these people." He took a shaky breath. "I love you, Mira, and I only want you to be happy. But you would not be happy with me if I left Ishval to come to you. I'm sorry."
She closed her eyes, holding back the choking sobs that took her voice away. Connor wouldn't be here with her, but he'd passed the test. Even if it meant she would be alone in Amestris, it meant she would have no regrets or fears. It meant that he didn't love her money, it meant that he was still the dedicated man that she fell in love with.
"You're right," she laughed in between her gasping sobs. She couldn't tell if she was overjoyed or terrified. She couldn't stop smiling. She couldn't feel the rest of her body, couldn't see anything around her- nothing else mattered but the voice in her ear. "I would not be happy with you if you left Ishval to come to me. I wouldn't want to be the wife of a man who didn't have his own dreams. But because now I am sure you are the man that I love, the man whose wife I want to be, you'd better prepare a suit because I'm coming to you."
The Fuhrer's Office
Roy Mustang dropped a memo onto the Fuhrer's desk.
The Fuhrer slowly set down his cup of tea. "What's this?" Grumman put on his reading glasses and squinted at the document.
"An after action report from Ishval," Roy replied, seating himself opposite of the Fuhrer at his desk. "I think you'll find the contents... interesting."
While the Fuhrer reviewed the report, Roy took in the remodeled office. Gone were Bradley's frescos and the marble sculptures of the busts of past generals. Gone was the obnoxious red velvet throne that dwarfed visitors to the Fuhrer's office. The bookshelves that spanned wall-to-wall were now filled with a variety of dog eared books and manuals that actually looked like they'd been read, and the imposing Amestrian flags hanging on the walls were replaced by tasteful tapestries commissioned from famous Amestrian artists. The fireplace shelf was decorated with a number of odd souvenirs from Grumman's deployments, boasting a fine bottle of brandy from Aeruguo, a steel dagger from Ishval, a child's stuffed bear from Drachma, a straw hat from Xing, and many more that Roy couldn't recognize.
Grumman set down the report, his face showing no evidence of the distressed events he'd just read. "Well, it seems there was some excitement this week in Ishval."
Roy and Grumman had known about little Asir, but the news regarding the civilian riot and attack on Kimblee, as well as the supposed Aerugan source of the bomb, was completely new. "I got a call this morning from Lt. Colonel Miles. He thinks we need to be aware of certain anti-Amestrian currents in Ishval, which frankly is not surprising given our history."
"I'd hoped that the two of them would be able to control it," Grumman grunted, pouring a cup of tea and offering it to Roy. Mustang refused it politely, a little surprised that Grumman was making his own tea. "But I suppose I was wrong." He took a sip of the tea. "Ishval is still annexed to us. I suppose the more educated Ishvalans have realized what this entails." His words were a clear warning, a veiled threat. Roy frowned, sitting up straighter in his seat. He didn't like thinking of the Ishvalans as distinctively 'educated' or 'uneducated'.
"This wasn't what I wanted," he murmured, "I didn't just want to rebuild the country, I wanted to rebuild the people."
"You can't have both," Grumman replied with an exaggerated smile, like he was trying to talk sense to some child who just didn't understand. "If you rebuild the people and give them their own identity, they will use it to rise up against us." He rose, still holding onto his cup of tea and saucer, and came to stand before the huge window that overlooked the gardens below. "And the only way to rebuild the country to withstand the demands of the modern world is to do it through non-Ishvalan institutions and government."
"I don't agree with that," Roy shook his head with resolution. "Ishval's own institutions are capable of reform without losing its integrity. The Amestrian administration is built on a secular society, and it will not work to govern Ishval. The Ishvalans are fiercely proud of their history and their religion. You are asking for bloodshed if you tell the Ishvalans to leave that all behind. Fuhrer, you were on my side when I first proposed this operation to you," Roy maintained, "and I know you are a man of your word."
The Fuhrer gave a chuckle. "You came to me and proposed to rebuild Ishval, and asked that the Ishvalans should be allowed to return and live there in peace. I agreed to this. They will have peace, as long as they obey. The Restoration is an investment, not a gift. Remember that." Grumman dropped the saucer and cup onto his desk so hard that tea splattered out onto the wooden surface. "You were an idealistic young man, and you still are. I didn't support your team's decision to rebuild Ishval from the center. I wanted to establish Amestrian institutions in Kanda while the Ishvalans developed the provinces, so we can begin to establish basic industries under Amestrian monopoly. Gunja is the home of the miner, Daliha is the farmer's land, and Kanda is the seat of power. Why would you start there? It is far too easy for the Ishvalans to take control from us, and they are starting to realize it."
"It makes sense, it is what is best," Roy countered, furious that Grumman was no longer the man Roy used to idolize. "You cannot expect Ishvalans to work for a fully Amestrian government. What use is it if the Ishvalans start feeling like our slaves, laboring in the fields and mines while our Amestrian forces build their capital? These people are extremely intelligent, capable people, and they deserve better. You've forgotten what is right, what is moral."
Grumman laughed. "What is moral? Says the man who sent the Mad Bomber to Ishval!"
Roy was red in the face. "I had no choice!"
"Neither do I. Look at the Amestrian currency right now- we haven't recovered from the coup, we haven't recovered from the costs of instituting the domestic reforms to replace what Bradley has done. The wealthiest slices of Amestrian society, from whom we derive our funding for these projects, don't consider their investments in Ishval to be a gift."
In the silence that followed as the two men collected themselves, Grumman poured more tea, steadily sipped at it, watched Roy flinch in his seat. "We can't afford to lose control in Ishval," the Fuhrer continued, "especially if Aeruguo is coming into the picture. We will make no accusations. After all, there is no evidence except the Crimson Alchemist's testimony, which I am not entirely swayed by. There is not enough structure in Ishval. That is why the people are restless. They must come to know that the Amestrian government will keep the peace and protect them. The Amestrian government is all they need. There is no space for an independent Ishvalan government. Let the people come to know this. Without mass support, troublesome groups won't get off the ground. Without their own military, without Aeruguo's support, they cannot reject our authority."
"And what if they do?" Roy had seen the Ishvalans rise up once. He knew they could do it again. "Will you send our military in to suppress it again? Will we have another bloody war? Fuhrer?"
The Colonel's point hit home, and Grumman slacked his shoulders, recalling the Bradley days. Oh, what tortured seat this was- the chair of Fuhrer. "We can't afford that," he relented, "economically and socially, we can't afford another conflict in Ishval. We will lose much if Ishval revolts." He gazed sadly at Roy, knowing full well that the Colonel had a different vision of Ishval in mind. For Grumman, Ishval was a simply a slice of the large state that he had to administer over. He'd been to Ishval during the war, yes, but he was never on the battlefield. For Roy, Ishval was a wound, a regret, a deep guilt that yearned to be released regardless of the cost and consequences for Amestris.
"Yes, Sir," Roy closed his notebook and tucked his pen away. "I will make a visit to Ishval and examine the situation."
"Don't do anything silly," Grumman warned, "we can't afford any mistakes in Ishval."
"I won't do anything," Roy assured him, a tone of deference veiling the venom beneath.
He would do it. He would light the fire.
End ch. 9
I imagine the situation in Ishval right now is very reminiscent of the mandate system under Britain and France during the inter-war period.
Some Ishvalans, like Black and Thu, want complete independence from Amestris at all costs, and will deal with the consequences only after freedom is achieved.
Others, like Aris, believe that cooperation with Amestris is the only way to modernize Ishval along a secular state structure, and believe that freedom will come some day in the future along with a transformed Ishvalan identity. They believe that it is possible to modernize Ishval while retaining the core elements of Ishvalan culture.
Some, like Scar, are conflicted between the desire to modernize and the obligation to protect key aspects of traditional Ishvalan identity such as religion and social structure. Their livelihood relies on the traditional way, and secularizing and modernizing changes threaten their positions.
On the other side, Amestrians such as Grumman see Ishval as an investment and a part of the Amestris state complex. They are in a tenuous situation whereby they will not tolerate resistance or revolt, and yet they cannot afford to suppress one should it occur. To benefit from Ishval, they must find a way to satisfy and placate the Ishvalan peoples while maintaining a tight grip on the state's administration, domestic, and foreign affairs.
Other Amestrians such as Mustang believe it is possible to modernize Ishval and win its loyalty even after giving it independence. They believe in a mutual relationship between Amestris and Ishval as equals, and are motivated to pursue the most moral path by the memory of the Ishvalan civil war.
Where do Kimblee, Miles, and Kaysi stand? What will Roy do? What about the Ouroboros? I recognize this chapter was very exposition and plot heavy. Next chapter will see more character development and interaction.
See you in the next chapter. ;)
