I know I'm publishing earlier in the day than normal, but I couldn't get it up last night, so here it is. Have some more Roy and Riza :) I was originally hoping to have this be more Riza-centric, but Roy forced his way in there (typical Roy). I'm still hoping to have one soon that focuses mainly on Riza, because I really want to explore her character. But for now, enjoy some Ishval-era Royai!

The dusts of Ishval swirled in arid clouds around the boots of the Amestrian State Military. Soldiers milled aimlessly in the shadows of desolation; half-shells of ruined buildings were all that stood between them and the merciless rays of the sun. Somewhere, the half-hearted flapping of an empty canteen signaled that yet another man was out of water.

Roy Mustang squinted up at the white-blue sky, searching for the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming from above the ground, which would explain why it was carrying across the whole campsite. Finally, in between dust-strewn beams of burning sunlight, he made out a figure crouched on the low roof of one of the more intact buildings. Their head was thrown back, trying to coax any residual drops of water out of a water skin. And–Roy squinted harder–they weren't a man. He stood, shaking his own canteen to gauge how much was left in it, then strode to the foot of her perch.

"Hawkeye," was his only preface to tossing the canteen upwards.

She caught it one-handed with barely a glance, then shook it. They clearly had different ideas of what was an appropriate amount to share, because she scowled down at him and tossed the canteen back to the ground. He sighed heavily. It was no good trying again, so he just picked it up and entered the building, in search of roof access.

The first floor was utterly devoid of any sign of life, former or current, and Roy breathed a sigh of relief. The dust in the air caked his throat, but he preferred it to the stench of death that sometimes greeted the soldiers when they searched the bombed-out villages. Maybe this house had already been empty when the annihilation started. Maybe the family–there was still a tiny cloth doll sitting slouched in the corner–had fled when they first heard the tramp of boots echoing over the hills. Or maybe they had simply died elsewhere; bodies had littered the streets when the military first moved in, and now they lay, bones and ashes in a smoldering pile on the outskirts of town. Roy had burned them himself.

A sudden noise from the second floor put him suddenly on his guard; his hands felt hot and slick beneath the fabric of his gloves as he pressed himself against the wall behind a collapsing bookshelf. But the only thing to appear through the aperture in the ceiling–there must have been a ladder there at some point–was Riza, who jumped and landed catlike on the floor, her rifle strapped to her back and her own empty canteen clutched between her teeth.

"Major Mustang," she said after removing the leather bag from her mouth, "I can see your boots."

He came out from behind the bookcase with a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "How did you know it was me?"

She returned his smile. "I guessed, Sir."

"A dangerous thing to do in wartime, don't you think?"

She gestured to the weapon on her back.

"I'm a good guesser," she said grimly.

Roy said nothing, only leaned against a table that creaked in protest at his weight, then gestured for Riza to join him. She adjusted her gun and did so, and they stood there in silence for a long time. It would have been longer, but the dust in the air was thick and heavy, and Riza began to cough. Roy removed the canteen from his belt once more and offered it to her. She shook her head, even as her face turned pink with the effort of holding in her coughs. He sighed and waved the container insistently.

"Just take it, Hawkeye."

She finally accepted, but only took the smallest of sips before trying to return it. Roy frowned.

"More," he ordered.

Her expression remained neutral as she tipped her head back and allowed the water to slide down her throat, but he could feel her gratitude in the eager rise and fall of her chest and, simultaneously, her resentment in the furrow in her brow. For a moment, he thought she might finish it out of combination of extreme thirst and petty spite, but after a few long gulps, she handed the container back to him. He would have let her drain it if she needed, but he knew she wouldn't take any more, so he clipped the canteen to his belt again without a word.

Riza wiped her mouth, leaving a streak of dust on her chin and a matching strip of clean skin on the back of her hand. "Thank you, Sir."

He opened his mouth to reply, but it was lost in a chorus of shouts from outside, and the deadly rattle of machine guns. Roy was on the ground before he knew what was happening; Riza had thrown him down and was kneeling in front of him, rifle braced against her shoulder and pointed at the door.

"Stay down, Major," she whispered fiercely.

He pressed himself into the floor again, wondering briefly how she had noticed him looking up without ever shifting her gaze. He carefully dragged one hand from under him to shield his mouth and nose from the dust; the middle of an Ishvalan raid was not an opportune moment to have a coughing fit. Then he listened over the rasping sound of his own breathing. To the screams. The sound of bodies hitting the ground. Bodies of people who had no chance of living in the face of the Amestrian State Military. Suddenly, he didn't want to hear anymore, and shortly afterward, he didn't have to.

His body felt heavy as he pushed himself up onto his knees. The silence was thick with the violence that had bought it, and it weighed him down. Then Riza turned to look at him, and the ringing in his ears seemed to die down.

"Are you all right, Sir?"

She did not apologize for shoving him, nor should she have. She knew she had done the right thing, so she only looked him up and down, scanning for any possible injury. Roy waved his hand dismissively.

"Yes, yes," he replied. "You?"

She shouldered her rifle once more and stood. "Fine, Sir."

He followed suit, brushing dust off of his uniform. When he looked up, Riza was as immaculate as ever, the only beautiful thing in a landscape of desolation. The one blemish in her appearance was the spot of dirt on her chin where she had wiped her mouth earlier. Roy had a sudden urge to wipe it off with his thumb, to rest his palm against her cheek, to feel life beneath his fingers. To know that he didn't simply kill everything he touched.

But he was wearing his gloves, and Riza had already turned away.

"We ought to check up on the situation out there," she said. "Make sure no one is hurt."

The irony of her statement hung in the air, fouler than the stench of death, and she crossed her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from it. Roy put a hand on her shoulder.

"Courage, soldier," he said. "I'm sure everybody is fine."

She nodded, for although she knew full well that his reassurance was a lie, she knew even better that that lie was the only thing that stood between them and the madness born of a guilt they could not afford to feel. So they stepped out of the ruined building into daylight, to gather bodies–never look at their faces–and throw them one by one–never count them–onto the still-burning coals of the previous pyre. Then they would move on.

They would march ever onward, the unfeeling eye in the center of the most merciless storm ever seen.

The beginning of this one came more easily than the end, I hope it wrapped up satisfactorily! As always, thanks to my sister for beta-ing and generally being awesome.

Please leave a review if you have the time, and feel free to PM me with your suggestions and requests for future themes! The next prompt is "animal."

Much love, Vic