More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes
By flOofymikO
Original Publish Date: Nov 6, 2008
#27 – Dependency
She has to hide out, just for a moment. She has been trained for this, oh yes. Most definitely. But training on targets and studying hard and knowing what to say and who to please while subconsciously competing with hundreds of wide-eyed, bushy-tailed new recruits in the bright, white halls of the academy…where? What? What was all of that, even?
Burning…
Or rather, when? That, she can answer. Something plain and quantitative, an easy fact she can effortlessly conjure, strange as that seemed. It was only a month ago. Thirty days. A number. She can deal with numbers. Like her kill count.
Which, by the way, is fifty-one.
A hollow echo in the recesses of her mind…
She wants to rest, just for a moment. She is so tired. She turns and scrambles towards the crumbling building to her left, dragging her sniper's rifle awkwardly behind her. Musty darkness has never before looked like such a welcoming sanctuary. She only hopes no one has spotted her. There is no time, and she can't even conjure the strength to think about what she's doing, only that it's a terrible idea. There is never time for true slumber, for peaceful respite, for a single breath of fresh air. She slumps against the dusty, cracked wall and inhales deeply…regretting it as soon as her body is overcome with uncontrollable, hacking coughs. There is sand in her clothes, her hair, her weapons, her mouth. But she's choked by more than bits of this desert landscape, by this plain of war, this ground stained with the blood of its citizens…
Red…
She wants to cry, just for a moment. She can feel the unbidden tears sting her eyes and she wills them to dry up, to go away, because when was the last time she had ever let them fall? Reaching up to wipe them away only smears moisture across her dirt-caked cheeks, mingling with sweat. She can't believe she's still perspiring in such an arid climate, although she knows the real reason for it. She's afraid, yet she'd never admit it in a million years.
She hates herself for her weakness.
To be stoic, to extinguish life without feeling…
She needs to rest her eyes, just for a moment.
But even as she complains, berates herself for leaving her post…even as she scolds herself for her lack of discipline (not such the perfect soldier now, huh?)…and even as her heart rate begins to climb while she realizes with a jolt what could result from abandoning her position…
…she slumps over, unconscious, into the deep sleep of exhaustion.
The young militant wakes to an anguished, ear-splitting scream, and springs immediately to her feet. Her training kicks in as she quickly analyzes her surroundings and assesses her situation. Instinctively, she takes a quick physical inventory of her equipment with practiced hands, copper eyes by now occupied and straining through the sudden cloud of dust that has enveloped her perch above the barren streets. Brushing off her dirtied uniform, she peers around the corner, her senses heightened. Those precious minutes of sleep, however short they may have been, had rejuvenated both her body and spirit. She wouldn't allow herself to slip back into sleep, anyway, for it placed her in what she knew was a vulnerable position.
Vulnerable. That's what this country was. But it wasn't their fault. No, it had always simply been a quiet, barren land: vast, empty, not like home…ah, but what did she know, anyway. She only knows she has to follow orders. These people followed a god. Ishbala, they called her in utmost reverence. She'd entertained thoughts of a god before, of that there was no doubt. Some higher being who supposedly watched over everyone. Had Ishbala forsaken her people, then? Who was watching over this war-torn land, this ravaged nation? She knows that there is no god for Amestris, at the very least. No, people here were too busy seeking power, pursuing glory, chasing their selfish desires. Greedy. Warmongering. There was no room for any god within these black and tainted hearts, much good snuffed out by this militaristic regime. Gods were supposed to bring peace and prosperity to the people, but many of the higher-ups seemed to be delivering the opposite…along with prosperity solely for themselves.
She shakes her head furiously, willing her mind to clear. She needs to follow her orders.
Where are you…?
As her fiery amber eyes sweep over her musty surroundings, struggling to see one thing–just one thing, one sight, that one person to calm her near-painful pounding in her chest–she remembers why her orders hold such high importance. She recalls his face (not that she could ever forget, even try to erase it from her mind in the first place); in her mind's eye, those eyes–those clear, confident, boyish eyes–smile at her, proud and sure, playful and warm. These are the eyes of one still untouched by grief, pain, death…eyes belonging to a child of the long past. Her past. And yet the memories refuse to release themselves, and maybe a small part of her wants to cling onto the familiar and the innocent and the pure and the simple, those sweet memories; nothing could be like that now, she knows. Despite the unrelenting death-grip of memories saturated in contentment, nowadays practically unreal.
The dust begins to clear. She brings the scope of her rifle hastily up to her left eye and strains some more, her field of view coming in and out of focus. Finally, she notices a single figure, prone, motionless on the ground. Lying in a pool of blood.
A scream erupts from her parched lips and all her years of training mean nothing now in this moment.
She runs. No. The world is a blur, a suffocating haze; an invisible knife twists within her chest as she struggles to breathe, breathe, breathe, move… She doesn't know how she's moving. No, no. She skids to a stop. No, no…no. She can't breathe.
She falls to her knees.
A world painted in black…
She reaches out, tears aside the stiff collar. Her uncontrollably trembling fingers somehow manage to find their intended spot on his neck to confirm what she already knows, deep down, where it is eating her from the inside out. Where it hurts so much, so damn much, where she hadn't known that degree of agony existed…
He is dead. Roy Mustang is dead.
NO!
She screams again, a shriek ripping painfully from her burning throat, but she can no longer hear a thing. The moment wears on, with no end in sight…
"Riza. Riza!"
A voice…
She gasps and bolts straight up, her tear-filled eyes wide and unseeing. Reaching out blindly, she can choke out only a single syllable.
"…Roy?"
She hears a loud, relieved sigh; at the same time, strong, cool fingers wrap themselves around her blazing palms.
"Yes. I'm right here."
"Oh…that's right…" The tears begin to fall and she can feel those same fingers again, wiping the dampness from her cheeks. She can feel the rough calluses grazing her sodden skin, rubbing in small circles. The repetitive motion is calming, reassuring, beautifully tangible.
"Shh, it's okay. It's all over now. It was only a nightmare."
"A nightmare…ugh, how embarrassing!" she whispers, sniffling and hiccuping, her shaky voice taking on a horrified edge. "You don't…you don't even want to know what that was all about…"
A feather-like kiss on her forehead. "Only if you're willing to tell me." She closes her eyes, relishing in his comforting voice. It is so familiar, so here. Her very now.
(Her always forever…)
"I…I don't know."
She simultaneously hears and feels the murmur of understanding as his strong arms curl around her slowly relaxing frame. She sniffles again, noisily and without abandon, a notion of foolishness still lingering persistently. Why had I dreamt of such a thing…? She shrinks closer to her partner, burying her face in the crook of his neck. A peculiar mix of shame, disgust, and the final vestiges of fear bubbles within her core. Why? She feels strangely like a child, and, conclusively deciding to confide, stutters in hesitation. But it comes out like an explosion.
"Th-the war in Ishbal. I failed, Roy! I c-couldn't protect you, couldn't do my job, couldn't…just couldn't…you died! All because of me…because I–"
"Shh…" He silences her frantic cries. "Stop that, now. I won't have it. I'm here, we're both here, we're both fine, we're together. And I love you. This is reality."
Reality, life…
He is right, and she knows it. He has always been her truth.
…and love…
Because he might have depended on her to protect his life, but she depended on him for everything.
-Fin-