As reader Malani suggested- I clearly haven't done justice to Roy's character. I was so focused around Ed and his cluster of issues that I completely forgot Roy, who, having dealt with Ishval, and having burnt Ed, clearly shouldn't be so well put together, considering his past.
This chapter aims to revise some of those issues by showing Roy in a different light- showing how he gets trapped in his own head, and how having Edward to care for prevents him from indulging his normal less-than savory coping methods (alcohol).
I'm going to be working more on weaving Al into the story. I feel like Alphonse is a bit of a mystery to me- while I love him all the same, it's a bit harder for me to characterize him, as I feel I don't know him as well as I do Ed and Roy, but I'll do my best for you all!
Without further ado, the chapter! :)
He stood among the wreckage, sullied, tattered white cloak hanging off him. Around him, the dessert sand swirled, stirring up the masses of sand and swirling the smoky wreckage.
That's all it was now. Wreckage.
Their orders were to destroy absolutely everything. They'd received word of insurgents in this neighborhood, and, with the order to attack at night, leave nothing standing.
He was the Flame Alchemist- the go-to bulldozer, the hammer they needed when they wanted to absolutely shatter Flames had a tendency to do that, really- to destroy everything.
He strode through the ashes and cinder, eyes looking half-dead upon the wreckage. No survivors. That'd been his order.
Looking at the demolished dwellings- only charred beans and bits of curtains and cloth remaining- he was sure he'd done it. The smell of burnt flesh was evidence enough.
He was tired. So, so tired. He could feel the sand in his mouth, in his hair- gritty, tasting like dirt. That was more than these people felt- these people didn't feel anything anymore.
He heard something scuffle and stopped, gloved hand immediately rising, ready to snap. Had something actually survived his flames?
More shifting in the wreckage- his heart started to beat faster. The military side of him screamed at him to snap now, finish the job, and carry out orders. The human side of him wanted to see if the survivor was an insurgent before deciding their fate.
A whimper- more scuffling...
"Mommy?" the hoarse voice sounded barely above a whisper.
But that single word took away any breath that'd been remaining in Mustang's lungs.
He watched as the horribly burned child clawed it's way from the wreckage- a good part of his face and lower body burnt black, hair still smoking...
Another whimper, as little hands dug through the soot and ashes.
"Mommy? Mommy, where are you!?"
He'd already seen the charred corpse laying in the other room, and something within him broke as his heart sank...
He stepped forward wordlessly.
The child froze, seeing him, before they were screaming hysterically. The shattered pieces of his heart, broken glass as they were, were grinded into dust at the noise.
"Mommy! Mommy!" he was walking closer to the child now, as they tried to crawl away from him.
"Soldiers are coming Mommy! Mommy, they're going to kill me!"
He bent down and picked the child up. The child- a boy, he thought, judging by the voice, froze in his hold, before struggling, kicking, for one moment, two...
He ignored the squirming, however, and after a few moments, the child succumbed to exhaustion and pain and went limp, becoming dead weight in his arms.
It was for the best, really- this was the child of insurgents, terrified of soldiers- of him, really. And it made it so no one was awake to notice his shaking shoulders, or the wetness on his cheeks.
He brought the kid back to camp, gave him to the medics, and went to his tent without a word.
He memorized every crease and stitch on the drab military green tarp of his tent and laid there for hours, thinking of nothing. his mind was dull static.
Hughes came to try to talk to him, tried to force him to eat- he said nothing, ignored the food, and wondered about the boy in the medic's tent.
It was two days later when Hughes finally managed to coax him out of his tent with the promise of a beer.
He stepped outside onto the scorched earth, feeling the hot dessert wind kiss him as the sand swirled around his boots.
He looked up, only to see a small form covered in a sheet being carried from the Medic's tent. He lost the ability to breathe.
Hughes stopped talking, frowning, before he recoiled, seeing what he saw- he'd seen him come into camp with the boy last night.
Somehow, Roy ended up on his knees, vomiting. Hughes laid a hand on his shoulder, concerned, and said something that faded into the background.
As he finished retching, he looked up, only to get a glimpse of the body of the child beneath the sheet- and of a lock of charred, blonde hair.
He gasped as though breaking the surface of water, surging forward to a sitting position- the bed sheets pooled at his waist, he was drenched in a cold sweat, and he paused, feeling heat and nausea overwhelm him for a moment.
He'd felt this before. This was a familiar hell.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he struggled to control himself. It took him three minutes to get himself to a reasonable state, and even then, panic still infringed on the corners of his mind. Still, it was manageable- he's only succumb to irrational fear if he let it overwhelm him. He could control himself, his feelings...
Ishval. He hadn't had a nightmare like that in a long, long time. He'd had that dream before- but something had been different this time, it'd been the blonde hair...
He whirled, eyes widening as they frantically searched through the darkness for the object of his nightmare, of the things that'd been different than whenever he'd dreamt it before.
Blonde hair.
His eyes frantically searched the darkness, roving wrinkled sheets and foraging through the darkness to land on a small lump in the blankets- a childish form huddled among the sheets, very well burrowed beneath the sheets, and, peering out from within the burrow of linen, a few strands of golden hair.
He sagged onto the mattress, feeling dizzy with relief.
Still, he couldn't quite believe it, and slowly, he edged over to the side of the bed, enveloping the boy in his arms and pulling the sleeping form close to his chest.
Every movement painfully slow, every action deliberate- as though the boy were paper mache, and, if handled too roughly, he'd fall apart in his arms.
He gathered the small body against his own, pressed the chest- so small- he'd never really contemplated how small Edward was when compared to his own broad chest- against his own. He could feel the hummingbird thrum of the boy's heartbeat against his own, feel the slight wind of the boy's breathing on his cheek, letting him know that Edward was, in fact, still with him.
He held onto the sleeping boy for longer than he cared to admit all the same, until his hands stopped shaking.
Finally, once he had dragged himself out of his own private hell, he realized, with some surprise, he hadn't drank. Normally after a nightmare like that, he drank scotch until he passed out.
Then again, as he looked down at the small form in his arms, he remembered he couldn't check out now. People were depending on him.
He sighed, gaze softening, and, in a rare moment of tenderness, tucked Ed's blond crown of hair beneath his chin and held the boy close, finally letting sleep pull him under.
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