The girl had been staring at him for five minutes.

Not a girl, he supposed. She was one of the Professor's university students. A young woman, then, almost of marrying age, if that was something she was inclined to do.

He found he had a difficult time determining the ages of the Ishvalans working under Stokes's supervision. They lacked the profound solemnity he had come to associate with the refugees clinging to the margins of Amestrian society, the proud tilt of the head and a resilient grace that spoke of a thousand endured hardships. The students' faces were youthful, unlined, a buoyancy in their eyes. The girl's expression was one he had seen before, many times, but never framed by locks of white hair or accented with red eyes. There existed a gulf between them –– of age, of experience. Of pain. She stood on the opposite side of a chasm he could never hope to cross himself.

In many ways, he supposed he retained a stronger kinship with the sand-blasted rocks and ruins of the Professor's fascination than the young woman with the wide eyes. He, too, was a relic of a bygone age. Already there were young ones running through the streets of Dairut and Kaava and Menleith with no memory of the blood that had once stained the sands under their feet. Generations to whom the Massacre was little more than a distant fever dream, a ghost story told by blind shamans and old washer women. All over vast tracts of the countryside, cut with sun and sandstorms, the monuments of ruin had begun to fade away, out of mind, out of memory. Daliha, situated on a tributary of the East River, had been levelled to accomodate crops and canals. Kanda –– a place he refused to revisit, even after so many years –– had been reclaimed by the desert.

The scars remained, but a subtle brush of foundation had resolved the agonies into abstractions.

His mind drifted away from the gawping girl and the communications station, looking towards the slopes of Mishaari. The sun bleached everything to white: at midday, there were no shadows to break the monotony. The ruins were like something obscured under smoke, its ancient streets and crumbling edifices pearled and pastelled; so much distance, so much time, bound by his limited line of sight, crashing up against the edges of the basin.

His leg felt stiff, the snarl of an old injury –– young Mei had healed it to the best of her ability, but there were days when the pain flared up again, as though it delighted in reminding him of his hubris. He shifted his weight, causing the girl to jump. He regarded her out of the corner of his eye, which didn't seem to put her any more at ease. He remembered abruptly that her name was Annika.

And was reminded, just as suddenly, that he could no longer remember his.

In freeing himself of his own name, he had gained a purpose. In casting off his hatred, he had found peace. But he wondered if perhaps his identity, too, like the ruins of Kanda, had been buried so deeply in the sand that all its defining edges had eroded away. Sometimes he felt like something half-realised, a dream of the soul of his world, all scars and silence, all faith, some drifting paper person breathing into the darkness. He had been reclaimed by the land of his ancestors, the tenebrous cities of old Ishval: cities without name, without time, stark in the moonless desert nights, under chipped-glass stars that glittered in the hallowed dark.

He thought back to his arrival in Dairut, so soon after the Promised Day, buttressed by a vicious Amestrian general and accompanied by a soldier his people called jazyiya. Back when the buildings were bony and cluttered with debris, hulled with stone at their different heights. Window, lintels, cornices and sills patterned with cracks and fractures. The desert wind sweeping all the dust the archeologists had overlooked, small squalls of sand rising from the pavement and erupting in tiny billows that always disappeared by the time he reached them. Like they only existed at a point fixed in some continuously retreating future.

Even then, the city had been beautiful, in a way only Ishval knew how to be. Stubborn, proud, hostile, but beautiful in its layered landscapes, red, brass, and white, even as its images grew distorted by the lenses that sought to correct for all the ugliness.

It was why his responsibility as Muhaddith was so important. He protected the past. He safeguarded the memory.

There were those who resented him for it. Even amongst Ishvalla's most trusted sons, some considered him a pariah, to be spat on and beaten, muzzled, until he could no longer speak the words that reminded his countrymen of their painful past. Some wanted to forget. Others, to never cast aside their ignorance. A few had begged him to simply stop reminding them.

But if there was one thing he had learned during his exile in Amestris, in his time spent amongst the alchemists, it was that Truth was sometimes unfair and often cruel, but never unnecessary. In time, he knew, the Massacre's last survivor would be summoned by Ishvalla, and if not for his own station, there would be no one left to remember. He had resigned himself to enduring any hardship so long as he was able to give testimony to the slaughter, and to work tirelessly to ensure such bloodshed never happened again.

Some hated him for it. But, then again, the hatred was nothing new. He would rather suffer their hatred than their pity. He would rather it come from Ishvalans than Amestrians.

He wondered, idly, if the young woman at his side hated him, too, this girl unencumbered by the weight of their people's suffering.

She was still staring at him, at any rate.

"How much longer is this going to take?" he asked gruffly. The girl's head snapped up, her braid smacking against her back.

"Oh, err..." she blinked two sherry eyes, "we––we don't have a direct line to the North, sayyidi, so the switchboard operator at the University in East City has to connect you through an outside line. I––I'm sorry, there's nothing––"

"I intended no criticism," he said. The girl fell silent. A short distance away, the radio hummed with static.

He sensed her muscles twitching and jumping under her tunic, as though her solemn, silent observation of him had consumed her entire being, diffusing from her head to the tips of her fingers.

The Muhaddith sighed. It was a rough, abrasive sound summoned from deep in his chest. It made him sound incredibly tired. After the events of the last few days, he supposed he must have been. "What is it?" he asked.

The girl, Annika, rather than deny her attentions –– which was just as well, as Scar could do without her dishonesty –– shuffled closer to him. She pitched her voice low, muttering:

"Hal'a haqiqi? Ant qatal de al," she hesitated, her Ishvalan faltering as she cast around for the right word, "Alqadimas?"

Alqadimas... alchemists. He regarded her stonily, stubborn in his silence. She hopped from foot to foot.

"They say," she went on, in heavily-accented Ishvalan, "they say you're that Alchemist Killer from five years ago... they say you are Ishvalla's knight, given holy orders to punish the wicked. You are the one the apostates call Scar."

He felt the heat simmer through his cowl. "They say a lot of things," he murmured.

"Hal'a haqiqi?" Is is true?

He saw little point in lying to a direct question. "Nem." Yes.

He didn't think the girl had been expecting his candour. Her mouth opened and closed for a few long moments as she collected her thoughts. He left her to her considerations without comment.

"Oh," she said quietly. She jerked her head away from him, peering intently at the radio as though willing the signal to improve. She seemed suddenly very uncomfortable in his presence. "I... I'm sorry, sayyidi."

"What for?"

"That was a personal question."

"Yes."

"It was not my intention to pry."

"No?"

"What you did in the past is your business. Those were your choices –– your mistakes –– if you even believe they were mistakes. You don't have to tell me, sayyid Muhaddith, it's just..." Annika rubbed the back of her neck. She winced, agitating the sunburn below her hairline. "Some of the faculty working here are alchemists."

"Do you worry for them?"

"A little, yes. You preyed on such men."

"Are they state-certified?"

"Pardon?"

"Do they carry titles and silver pocket watches?"

"Yes..."

"Then there was a time when they, too, would have been my enemies."

"But no more?"

Scar released his breath in one long, resigned murmur, "No."

She looked up at him again. "What changed?"

He didn't answer her right away. Instead, he looked towards the medical pavilion.

The Muhaddith thought about the man who hid his red eyes behind snow-blind glasses... the soldier whose unwavering faith in him –– in his capacity for redemption –– had suggested that the past need not necessarily predict the future, provided lost souls such as his could learn from their mistakes. Who had understood, as he didn't, that an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life, was how the wheel of blood was set in motion, and how it was ultimately destined to crack and splinter, if someone did not dare to bend it into the slightest adjacent curvature.

"A man," he said, after a moment's thought, "who believed I was worth more than my sins."

He arched an eyebrow as the radio crackled to life. Annika snapped to attention.

"The reception probably isn't very good," she warned him, passing him the headset. "Scouts report sandstorms in the area."

The Muhaddith grunted a circumspect acknowledgement. Annika retreated from the tent, leaving him to his call; she seemed relieved to be shut of him.

White noise hissed in his ear. He waited, and, finding nothing adequate to express his impatience, pursed his mouth into a tight frown.

"Speaking?"

Her voice hadn't changed in five years. Still as sharp as bladed steel. Still haughty. Still arrogant.

"General Armstrong," greeted Scar gruffly. He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the radio.

"Is this line secure?" she queried one of her men. The answer evidently being in the affirmative, Olivier Mira Armstrong addressed the Ishvalan directly:

"Sayyid Muhaddith... it's been too long."

Not long enough, Scar thought with no shortage of resentment. Though she may have commanded Major Miles's heart and soul, she held no such sway over him. He was indebted to the General on account of her willingness to forgive his crimes, but the Muhaddith was well aware of the fact that her motivations stemmed less from a desire to see a resurrected Ishval and more to put her rival, the Flame Alchemist, in an awkward position should word of Scar's survival ever become a matter of public record. Miles trusted Armstrong implicitly. To the Muhaddith, she was just another Amestrian politician: aggressive, ambitious, disingenuous. He had actively avoided her company for five years.

Unfortunately, circumstances had changed. He may not have cared for Armstrong herself, but he cared a great deal for her adjutant.

"I apologise for contacting you thusly, General," he said.

"No need. What can I do for you?"

"Miles."

He heard the frown, the tightening of her mouth as she paused to accomodate her internal musings. "What about Miles?" she asked, her words rough and clipped, almost impatient. She did not care for his circumnavigating around a direct point.

The Muhaddith steadied himself. In his usual brusque, undecorated manner, he explained the previous day's events: the temple pylons, the Door, the emptiness on the other side of the threshold. And, his words thickening slightly, he recalled the moment Miles had drawn too close, the black tendrils that had erupted from the darkness, the incredible strength they exerted, very nearly managing to drag the Major through the Gate.

How Miles had been forced to glimpse some small sliver of Truth, that vague idol fetishised by alchemists in hushed, forebidden whispers, shrouded in their darkest ponderings.

The Truth had taken Edward Elric. It had taken the boy's brother. It had taken their commanding officer, the Flame Alchemist. And it had very nearly taken Major Miles.

There had been danger in that temple, strange and intangible danger, and Scar had been afraid. But he had also been angry. The lurch of fear triggered by the sight of the Door had seemed a dull, dry-as-dust emotion, dogged and familiar enough to become almost unconscious. His anger –– rather, the sheer rage at having to face a monstrosity he had believed buried in the ashes of the Promised Day, at being forced to contend with what he suspected was something too huge for his understanding alone –– had simmered in the forefront of his mind.

"The Truth..." murmured Armstrong, sorting and turning the new information. She sounded unsettled, as she ought to.

He gave a quick nod, even though the woman could not see him. "I was able to pull him free of the Door. Just. He told me he had been confronted by Truth. Then he collapsed."

"I trust he's being properly looked after?"

"Professor Stokes directed the doctors in Dairut to our location. He suffered no external injuries, however... he has yet to regain consciousness."

A pause. "And what do you make of this, sayyidi?"

Scar confided in her what had haunted him from the moment they entered the temple: "The Door was familiar to me. I had experienced its vivid, scalding energy, similar to an alchemical transmutation, once before. On the Promised Day, when I watched Edward Elric and Roy Mustang taken from this world."

"And I Mrs. Curtis. Are you saying this phenomenon was similar? That the being, or beings, inside this Door attempted to snatch Major Miles?"

"Yes."

A humph. "Mrs. Curtis was one of those human sacrifices, as was Mustang and the Elric boy. Miles is no alchemist. What reason would it, whatever it is, have for taking him?"

The Muhaddith had his suspicions, none of them particularly pleasant. There was a verse from the Sunda Kita that sprang to mind; although, Scar doubted General Armstrong would appreciate its wisdom as he did, so he did not waste it on her:

Behold, I have put before you an open Door which no one can shut; Ask, and it shall be shown to you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall open to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened.

"I believe the Door resembles the Portals that opened above our comrades five years ago," intoned Scar solemnly. "However... this Door is not the result of alchemy."

"Explain."

He bristled at the implied imperative. He was tempted to remind her that he was not one of her toy soldiers, nor could she order him around as such. However, for Miles's sake, he held his tongue. "The Door is freestanding. No alkehestry arrays or transmutation circles. There was evidence of it having existed prior to the construction of the rest of the temple, suggesting the structure was built to accomodate the Door specifically."

Her tone was brooding: "Like rails erected around a natural landmark."

"Natural... yes. In the desert, we have silt hydrogels… layers of sediment saturated with too much water. The reduced friction means the surface can no longer support any weight. The pressure differential can cause one to sink. Miles came dangerously close to doing just that."

"You're talking about quicksand," finished Armstrong. "You're saying this Door of yours might be a frictionless barrier between that temple and the so-called Realm of Truth?"

"Perhaps."

"In that case, Miles was being negligent. He put his foot in it… quite literally, if your quicksand analogy holds." A snort. "He should know better. In the North, carelessness like that usually equates to falling through thin ice or triggering an avalanche. He's fortunate he didn't get himself and the rest of Mishaari killed."

She was astonishingly callous, the Muhaddith decided, even by his standards. "Miles acted in the interest of protecting myself and Professor Stokes. He sensed danger. His instincts were not in any way impaired."

"Then he ought to have followed them."

"Morover," Scar pressed on, "the Major did not persist in light of any physical obstruction. The Door was open for less than thirty seconds. In that time, Miles was utterly overwhelmed." A pause. "We do not know if he will wake up."

The General considered his words. "And what, exactly, do you want me to do about it?"

He frowned, but said nothing. He found he didn't know how to phrase his complicated thoughts with the politeness her station probably warranted.

Armstrong went on: "Briggs looses careless men every now and again, sayyidi. Any solider thick enough to get caught off guard or weak enough to lose the will to fight to save his own skin is one I don't need dragging down the rest of my battalion."

His words had a sharp edge: "That's well as may be, but Miles is not in the North anymore. He has made himself essential to us."

"Central Cemetery is full of indispensable soldiers. The doctrine of survival of the fittest is called 'universal' for a reason. It holds as much validity in Ishval as the North."

Scar elected to hold his own council. He suspected General Armstrong may not like what he had to say.

He heard a huff of impatience. "Why did you call me, Muhaddith? Did you expect me to drop everything here and hop on the next train East like some weeping war widow?"

She said it to cut him –– to make him angry, make him reckless. It may have worked on her underlings, but Armstrong should have known that he was far wiser to flashes of Amestrian viciousness than the common soldier. He decided he would not give her the satisfaction of his frustration.

He took a risk: "I called because Miles asked me to."

"I thought you said he was unconscious?"

"Unconscious, but not silent. He has been muttering about Fort Briggs for most of the night."

"If the experience was as traumatic as you suggest, then he's probably rambling. I remind you, Muhaddith, that there are more than a few Amestrian pencil pushers who would have your head, and mine, if they overheard this call. Perhaps the next time one of my men fails to exercise the proper caution––"

"'I am going to die,'" recited Scar stoically, not waiting for her to finish. He cast his mind back to the blackness of the medical tent, the miasma of abject misery radiating from its single, wretched occupant. "'Just like Lydia. I have to get her out of there. Olivier...'"

"'I have to save her.'"

The General went very quiet. The wind howled through the dig site. Detritus fell from the canvas flap of the tent. He heard pebbles and sand in the ruins complaining down rocks, and stuttering, and whispering –– all far louder than the woman's hushed breathing on the other end of the line.

He felt another twinge of apprehension waiting for her response. He searched himself for some physical sign that would render his disquiet corporeal: the quickening of his breath, a pounding heart. But nothing made itself known. His unease seemed as transient and insubstantial as General Armstrong's distant presence, as Major Miles's pained mutterings. A disjunction of the soul.

"Does anyone else know about this?" she asked finally, her voice hushed.

"Professor Stokes was a witness to the episode."

"How much does she know about the Gate of Truth?"

"Not enough."

"Good. If you value Miles's privacy, his pride, in any capacity, then it had best stay that way. Make sure the rest of Stokes's little snot-nosed chain gang stay well clear of that Door. The fewer people who are aware of its existence, the better. General Mustang is due to arrive at your location shortly. You're to disclose this information to no one save him. Flame has dealings with the Gate of Truth; he will know what to do. Let him help Miles."

Scar's brow furrowed. Perhaps the woman was not as intransigent as he thought.

"And I'll withhold demeriting the Major for the time being. At least until he's well enough to withstand the tongue lashing he has coming to him."

Or not.

"Look after him, sayyidi. Replacing good adjutants is a nuisance. Replacing Miles is impossible. Good afternoon."

She hung up, leaving the Ishvalan alone with the thrum of white noise and his questions. As the Muhaddith removed the headset, Annika scampered into the tent to retrieve them from him.

"Sayyidi," she exclaimed breathlessly, "the Professor tells me that the Amestrian soldier is stirring. She ordered me to fetch you."

He tilted his head in her direction. That was how they referred to Miles: the Amestrian soldier. The Amestrian major. The uniformed jazyiya. His rank. His station. His office. His allegiance. They did not see him as a man of two souls, two hearts, two unreconciled strivings: two worlds in one body. It was, decided the Muhaddith, one of the few things he could truly fault his people for: that they had welcomed him, a murderer, an embittered killer, into their midst without question, but had continually scorned their brother in Amestrian blue.

"Thank you," he said simply. Then, leaving Annika to watch after him, made his way to the medical pavilion.

Professor Stokes was there waiting for him, leaning against a tentpole as though it was the only thing propping her upright. Her face was shadowed under a floppy sun hat. Even from a distance, Scar could see the bruised crescents under her eyes. She, like him, had been unable to sleep since pulling the Major free of the Door. The experience haunted them both, but unlike the Muhaddith, Winnie didn't know why.

"What did she say?" asked Stokes, in flawless Ishvalan. The Professor didn't need to specify who she was talking about.

"She expressed her disappointment with the Major's conduct."

She frowned. "That's rather harsh. The man has been unconscious for more than a day, muttering in his sleep like a lunatic. It's not as though he's kicking back and napping..."

"I doubt General Armstrong feels the medical particulars fall within her sphere of concern."

"But he was muttering about her––"

"A consequence of the trauma, Professor." Scar kept his own hypotheses to himself. He doubted Miles would thank him for voicing such things aloud.

"And the Door?"

"Stays shut," said the Muhaddith coldly, in a tone that did not brook contradiction. He gave Stokes a look intended to close all avenues of conversation.

She did not, however, infer the conclusiveness in his words. Or, more likely, elected to ignore it. "Hold on one second, sayyidi," she said, switching back to her native tongue in a sudden fit of pique. "We can't seal off the entire dig site!"

Scar's expression hardened. "Why not?" he rumbled.

Stokes drew herself up to her full height, which was still barely higher than the Muhaddith's elbows. "My team has been working on this excavation for the better part of a year, on the preliminary research for even longer. This is archeology: we're no strangers to danger. Ishval has always furnished us with harsh environmental conditions. Intense heat during the day, freezing temperatures at night, high winds, the fury burns… trust me, at times, some of us yearn to work in a cube farm! Not to mention the wild animals… snakes, spiders, scorpions, all of whom I can't imagine are very fond of us poking around in their dirt! Every day we contend with the risks of spraining an ankle, Lyme disease, valley fever, malaria… packing it all in and shoving off home after one mishap –– a mishap on the part of a soldier, no less, not a member of my dig team –– risks undermining the bedrock of our profession and throwing away months, no, years worth of work!"

The Ishvalan found himself steadily losing patience with her. He sucked in a breath, trying to muster some sufferance where at the best of times, there wasn't much to be found. "This is not a sprained ankle, Professor. That Door is more dangerous than you can possibly imagine."

"Well, I just have to take your word for that, don't I?" she shot back, eyes narrowing shrewdly. Ah... Scar understood. She was not being stubborn. She was trying to leverage the information out of him... "Being as you won't actually tell me what the Door is… or why it turned the perfectly hale and hearty Major Miles into an invalid in the space of thirty seconds!"

He maintained a persistent silence. He could not tell this woman about the Gate of Truth. While he had no qualms about going behind General Armstrong's back, he found he could not bring himself to go behind Miles's.

Faced with his stubborn taciturnity, Professor Stoke's russet eyes flashed. She wore the anger awkwardly, her warm, careworn face crunching like starched cloth. He didn't think he had ever seen her upset to such a degree. She seemed brittle, jagged, like a krater riddled with cracks. It was possible the incident with Miles had affected her even more than it had Scar.

"Tell me what that Door really is, sayyid Muhaddith."

Red eyes bore into brown. "No."

"Then the dig stays open."

A part of him grudgingly admired her tenacity. Another part of him, the much larger, far saner part of him, suspected she was going to get herself and a great many other people seriously hurt. "I could invoke my station as divine Scholar, Professor. The people of Ishval could bar you from Mishaari."

"Are you threatening me, Mister?"

"That depends on your intentions."

"Well, don't waste your breath. Ishval is still an Amestrian protectorate territory and this basin falls outside Amestris's borders. You have no authority here, religious or otherwise. And I wouldn't bother ringing Miss Armstrong again, either… unless you intend for her to declare martial law and reinvade this land…"

The prospect was unfathomable. Scar was offended the Professor would even suggest it.

No. If the dig were two kilometres further West, within the Dairut city limits, then perhaps something could be done. As it was, Mishaari was the stomping ground of Stokes and the Anthropário Organisation. Scar's hands were tied.

Seeing the severity of his expression, his grave reluctance, the Professor's voice softened slightly. "Sayyidi, believe me... I'm not trying to be obstinate. I understand your reservations, and I care about Miles, too. Of course I will cordon off the Door, keep my team well away from the pylons until we have a few more answers. But we will continue to work here in Mishaari. Keep the big picture in mind. Al'Arshif... the restoration of Ishval. This is bigger than you and me, sayyidi. We can't turn our backs on it now."

He suspected pushing the issue further would be a waste of his breath. Even so, Stokes seemed surprised when he offered no rebuttal. She gave a small "oh" of disbelief when Scar merely turned away from her and entered the medical tent. After a beat, he heard her scamper off to make the necessary preparations. Scar knew she had every intention of keeping her word. She had been there when Miles was pulled through; she understood the danger the Door presented, and Scar doubted she was in any hurry to see her students suffer the same fate as the Major.

The stifled darkness of the tent absorbed the sound of his presence, absorbing the echoes. To the Muhaddith's surprise, Miles was sitting up in his cot, staring at something on the floor. He didn't seem to register Scar's presence. He looked pale with fatigue, stringy from insufficient nutrition, but otherwise unhurt. He had even managed to pull his hair into a tail, though patches of white still stood out in various untidy directions.

The Muhaddith followed Miles's line of sight. There were ventilation pores cut into the canvas of the tent. The high, hot sun streamed through the holes, soaking into the ground; Miles's gaze jumped between the dappled motes of light. He started when the sides of the tent breathed, rippling as the archeologists passed by outside. Each gust of wind emitted the desert's stagnant warmth and sound and stink, the whispers of a world both Miles and the Muhaddith were entirely too tired to face at the present.

Scar cleared his throat. Miles blinked, then peered in his general direction, squinting. The Muhaddith suddenly remembered Colonel Mustang losing his sight after his confrontation with Truth and panic flared across the Ishvalan's sternum like a branding iron.

"Sayyidi," greeted Miles, his voice hoarse from disuse. The alarm abated as quickly as it came.

Scar regarded his slighter counterpart. "How are you feeling?"

Miles considered, cocking his head. "One night on the mountain," he muttered thickly, "a bunch of us spent an evening with a platoon of the boys from out East. We got disgustingly drunk on the rotgut gin Buccaneer used to brew in a distillery under his bunk. I remember waking up the next morning with my mouth feeling like a scorpion's nest and a pounding in my skull like a turbine engine in a tank." The Major lent his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. "Right now, I miss that morning."

The Muhaddith grunted. "You are fortunate you feel that well."

"Oh, that's easy for you to say."

Scar's lips pulled back from his teeth and his face creased with something like consternation. Then he shook his head.

Miles furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Do you remember what happened?"

"... yes."

Neither man said anything. Miles bunched the bedsheets in his fists, but he had taken to staring at the islands of sunlight again. The Muhaddith crossed his arms, baring the twin set of arrays tattooed on his radial muscles. Due to his familiarity with both alchemy and alkehestry, Scar could sense the fretting of transmutational energy in the earth, the occasional trebling of the air, like an ever-present background hum.

But, in that tent, there was nothing for him to feel. He could imagine he was floating in salt water, his senses deadened, the sounds and smells and sights trapped in bubbles that spiralled lazily to the surface.

"And no," amended Miles quietly, jarring the Muhaddith from his thoughts. The Major blinked rapidly, as though trying to resurrect something in his mind's eye. "It's vague. There are edges against the darkness, like outlines, and every now and then a flash of colour streaks out of the gray. But I can never really grasp any of the slivers of memories that emerge. It's as though a part of me is trying to reject them."

"I think that is probably wise."

"Do you?"

"Just because the Truth exists within a certain reach does not mean all should seek to grasp it."

"In my defence, I didn't exactly have much of a choice." Miles tried to feign petulance. Scar was not fooled, but he humoured the Major anyway.

"According to your commander, you had every choice. You just made the wrong one."

Miles groaned. "Oh, sayyidi, you didn't tell her?"

"I did."

"Why?"

Because you were crying for her, he thought, but elected to keep the comment well to himself. He suspected that particular nugget of information would embarrass Miles at best. At worse, it would shame him.

Scar did not understand why. After all, it wasn't as though the Major and his superior presented a unique case...

"It seemed the correct protocol at the time," he decided.

A deep breath. Miles still didn't sound particularly happy about it, but he admitted resignedly, "I can't fault you that, I suppose. Did she say anything else?"

"She berated your performance."

Rather than defend himself, Miles nodded slowly. "That's to be expected."

"Is it?"

"She has high standards."

"Ishval does not fall under her jurisdiction. It is not her place to have standards of any kind."

"But I remain her adjutant," the soldier argued. "I am her representative in this country... and my every decision is a reflection of her authority."

A long, narrow trench erupted between the Muhaddith's eyebrows. "You are both very strange people."

"You're not wrong about that, my friend. Who knows... perhaps my own standards are a bit skewed." Miles scratched absently at one sideburn. He was steadily becoming more lucid; the Muhaddith imagined the rest must have done him a world of good. "Is Professor Stokes all right?" Scar's expression must have soured, because Miles straightened in bed, suddenly the picture of military poise. "What happened?"

"She has refused to seal the temple."

The Major's face swung towards the entrance to the tent, rupturing in disbelief. "What?"

"There is little you can do about it. I suggest you put it out of your mind."

Miles responded by completely ignoring him, swinging a leg out of bed. The Major took a few meaningful steps, teetered, then clutched his head. Scar, sighing in resignation, went to steady him, but Miles just smacked the proffered hand away. "Where is she?" he demanded.

"This is a waste of time, Major."

"Where?"

"She's––"

"Sayyid Muhaddith!" At that moment, seemingly oblivious to the urgency of the two Ishvalans, Annika burst through the tent, white braid trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. She carried the communications equipment in a pack on her back. Scar thought it made her look like a tortoise. A sweaty, overextended Ishvalan brat and the world's strangest tortoise. "The Youswell train has arrived in the station!"

Rather than acknowledge the news himself, the Muhaddith deferred to Miles. The Major took a few stuttering strides towards the girl. "General Mustang's party?"

Annika's eyes flicked between the two men. Scar tried not to look too annoyed by her insistence in addressing him rather than the man actually responsible for such administrative nonsense. Fortunately, she eventually settled on Miles, though decided to stare somewhere above his right collarbone. "Uh, yes." No honorific, noted the Muhaddith, irritated. "All six of them, including the General."

Miles's pasty pallor darkened considerably. "Six?"

"Y-yes, the Flame Alchemist and his ret––"

"There should be seven," the Major interrupted: "Mustang, four men, and two women."

Annika shook her head. "No... there's only one woman in their party."

Miles blew an errant strand of white hair out of his face. "If Grumman insists on altering the crew manifest at the last minute," he grumbled, "he could at least tell me that he elected to keep Ross behind..."

"Oh, I think you're mistaken jaz––sir. The Ross woman is present and accounted for. As are, uh..." she checked a small list attached to the headset, screwing her eyes together to decipher the shorthand, "Breda, Havoc, Fu-eery, Falman, and Mustang."

The Muhaddith glanced at Miles, who was at that moment glancing away, his expression creased in worry.

Something was wrong.

The Flame Alchemist's woman...

"Anything else to report?" asked Miles sternly, shelving his concern.

"Yes... the train was also carrying a secondary party in addition to the envoy from Central City."

The Muhaddith sucked his teeth in annoyance. It was just like the Amestrian military to conflate a seven-man envoy with an entire squadron. If half of Central Command had arrived on that train, Professor Stokes would be apoplectic; Scar doubted he'd be in a particularly cheery mood himself. With Miles's condition tenuous and the Door still a very real threat, a large military presence was the last thing Dairut needed.

"Just two of them," Annika clarified, sensing the trepidation in their expressions.

Miles frowned. "Who are they?"

"I saw them at a distance, but I didn't catch their names," she explained. "Two alchemists, going by the state of them. Eccentric. A bit of an odd pair: a golden-haired boy and a tall woman... although she may have been a man. It was difficult to tell."

Golden-haired boy... and alchemist. For a moment, the Muhaddith entertained the welcome possibility that their luck was about to change. A sidelong glance at Miles told him the Major was mulling over the prospect as well.

"Yes..." Annika went on, piecing her memory back together, more for her own benefit than for theirs. "A boy in a dark cloak, and a thin, pale figure with black hair, tied in a plait, wearing a hat. With transmutation circles on their hands."

The Muhaddith went rigid. Miles looked over at him in evident alarm. The Major began to mouth something, his lips forming the words, but Scar couldn't hear them. There was a ringing in his ears, a high-pitched, insect whine. He shut his eyes, and in an instant the memories rolled and crashed against the inside of his skull, eroding the bone...

"They never found his body."

"No one has seen him."

"Died in the attacks?"

"Just disappeared."

"Fled to Xing."

"Living."

"Dead."

The duality fought for dominance within him, the diametric threatening to pull his insides apart: terror experienced as rage and rage as an ugly, mutant anticipation. The Muhaddith's pain and fury manifested in the rolling of his gut and in a throb above his eye, a nerve spasm in his shin. Strong enough to dismantle both the sun and his heart.

He opened his eyes to the blinding desert light, the stench of burning.

Scar's voice was dangerously calm when he ordered Annika, "Take me to them.

"Take me to the two alchemists."