It was an extremely hot day, in fact, unnatural for a mid-winter day. The heat was making everyone flustered and anxious, irritated and confused. The revolting smell of rotting corpses and pools of blood were further accentuated by the stifling temperature.

To Roy, nothing was worse than burning corpses on an extremely hot day. Not only was the nauseating smell of burnt corpses heightened, but he himself was becoming quite disillusioned due to the heat. His body burned underneath his heavy military attire, his throat craved for water, and his eyes, heavy with fatigue and sweat.

No, not yet… The day was still not over… Forty-seven, forty-eight… Fifty? No, forty-nine. Roy paused briefly in his footsteps as he tried to keep his count, before slowly continuing down the war-ridden field. As he covered more distance, Roy's body felt heavier and his mind muddled. His vision was starting to blur and he knew that he was beginning to lose sense of his surroundings. When Roy had finally come to his senses, he had noticed that he had stumbled upon an unmarked area, where no support snipers were assigned. Cursing to himself and his carelessness, Roy quickly looked around for fallen debris to conceal his body from enemy view. As fate would have it, Roy was standing in an open field which must have been a farmland before the war. Shit—if anyone was to attack him in his state now—

Before Roy could complete his thought, at the corner of his eyes, he spotted a moving shadow. Though Roy had turned towards the shadow upon instinct, he was too late. The blurred shadow had a gun pointed at him.

Die! You filthy murderer! He had heard the shadow screamed out at him before the sound of gunfire went off. One, two—Roy counted the shots. He had closed his eyes, waiting for the bullets to pierce his heart and the pain to shoot throughout his body.

Thud. A sudden weight fell against his chest.

There was no pain. There was no blood. There was her scent. No. No, it couldn't be.

Roy Mustang's eyes widen with horror at the sight laid out before his very gaze. The ever-familiar scent of hers fused with those of gunpowder, and of blood― the muddled stench burrowing through his nose, numbing his sense of smell. Her helmet had fallen upon impact onto the war-ridden terrain, revealing her beautiful, long, fair-coloured hair that had somehow found its way out of the hairclip that had always kept them in captivity. Roy could not see her face, he could not move. His gaze remained staring toward the direction from which she had fallen. He could see soldiers scattered throughout the field, and his attacker, lying only a few feet away, drowning in a pool of blood.

No. No! It couldn't be. Why was she here? She should be assigned in one of the buildings further east. No, this couldn't be her. It couldn't be.

"Colonel!" a voice called from afar. Roy did not respond as he remained frozen in place. "Colonel Mustang! Are you all right? Is Lieutenant Hawkeye…" the voice paused as he approached his motionless superior.

No. He did not just call her name. No. What are you talking about, damnit? This isn't her. She isn't here! You bastard! Don't you dare call her name!

But no matter how many times Roy had told himself that the woman lying in his arms was not the woman he loves, he knew that he was only lying to himself. He knew exactly what had happened, and he knew exactly that it was her the moment her body collided with his. He simply could not bring himself to acknowledge the truth. He could feel her in his arms, and her soft hair, dampened by blood, spread out on his chest. Her scent― one that had always put him at ease, one that he could recognize from a fair distance away― was now spoiled by the heavy stench of blood. Even through the tough war-zone attire, he could feel the warmth of her body, and of her blood, which continued to ooze out with every heave of her bosom and had by now completely soaked his own uniform, staining it deep crimson.

The sound of cannon balls firing in the background and the cries of machine guns as they spat out the bullets were muted in his ears as the only sound he could now hear was of her soft breaths which carried traces of pain, and were growing fainter with every passing second.

"…Colonel…"

He heard her called out to him. She had struggled to lift her hands to his face.

"…I am sorry," she whispered softly as she gently caressed his cheeks before her strength gave way and her arm came crashing downwards, onto the ground, coloured crimson by her own blood.