"The life of the dead is placed on the memories of the living. The love you gave in life keeps people alive beyond their time. Anyone who was given love will always live on in another's heart." ― Marcus Tullius Cicero
~x~
The world tends to work in disturbingly organised patterns, discernible to those who look hard enough through the motley of paradoxes and emotions around them. Peace often precedes turmoil, the same way undulating country lanes are made up of valleys and mountains. Ups and downs that correspond to the good and bad; to the best and worst of times. In some ways, therefore, life operates in an almost cyclical manner. Maybe it's to ensure that peace doesn't go undervalued or unappreciated when it comes.
Before it goes.
"Hello?" Mustang said, cradling the receiver in between his shoulder and neck while he rubbed his hands dry with the hem of his shirt. As he waited for a response, he mouthed a quick apology to Riza, who simply feigned ignorance and returned to doing the dishes with her usual brand of quiet efficiency.
"Good evening, sir. Uh…" Fuery trailed off, hesitating.
"Speak. What's the matter?"
"We've received reports of suspicious activity at Regent Street, down by the river… There seems to be some correlation to alchemy, but I can't be too sure. Major Armstrong is out of town at the moment, so I thought we'd inform you instead, sir," Fuery explained.
Mustang frowned, glancing at Riza's back discreetly before consulting the clock. It was almost ten in the evening; her usual designated time for retreating back into her room. Still, the thought of leaving her alone unnerved him. Never mind that he'd already installed a burglar-proof lock, but suppose this was a trap, and there was an intruder of some sort-?
You're being paranoid, sir.
"Alright. I'll be there in a bit," and Mustang hung up, calculating. Regent Street… It was near where Tucker used to live. He could get there in about half an hour. (Or fifteen minutes, if he turned a blind eye to the overly-restrictive speed limits.)
Hayate knelt beside him, whimpering and pawing at the hem of his pants.
Mustang sighed. Sometimes he wished the canine wasn't so perceptive all the time. But it was a natural consequence of living with and being trained by a master of perception herself, he supposed.
"Is everything alright?"
Case in point.
"Yeah," he reassured.
Having already cleared the sink of any unclean crockery, Riza turned to give him an inquiring look. "Are you sure? You sounded a little… distressed."
"Just a little," he said, smiling crookedly. Riza remained unconvinced. "It's just… well, duty calls."
"Oh. You should go, then," she said, a questioning lilt to her voice.
Roy hesitated, not knowing what to say.
Something seemed to click in her mind then, as she leaned against the table and sighed. "Roy," Riza began, oddly calm. "I don't need to be kept under constant supervision, you know."
Despite her composure, the irritation and confusion brewing underneath were apparent from the way she held his gaze directly, almost challengingly. Roy grimaced. She had a point. Hawkeye was known for her spectacular marksmanship, after all.
Was, being the operative word.
Oh, she wasn't a damsel in distress who needed rescuing, by any means (as a matter of fact, she'd done most of the saving in the past). But did sheeven remember how to hold a gun, much less shoot? Fire at an incoming enemy with lethal precision like she always did - no, like she used to? Or was all that talk about muscle memory simply an old wives' tale?
"I know. It's just…"
"Just what?" Riza prompted, arching an eyebrow.
Roy swallowed thickly. Nothing plausible came to mind. He scratched at his tousled hair, struggling to think of an explanation until his doorbell rang.
"Hang on, I'll get it," he said, grateful for the timely interruption. And there stood a somewhat frazzled-looking Catalina, a smarmy grin stuck on her delicate features despite her exhausted heaving. Sweat trickled down her face in thick, restless rivulets, and her usually immaculate ponytail had mostly come unravelled by this point. A bit like overcooked spaghetti, he thought.
"Did you just run a marathon or something?" Mustang asked, equally awed and startled by her sudden appearance.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Rebecca panted. In a hushed tone that was quite unlike her rackety self, she continued, "Stuff blew up, apparently. And your elevator wasn't working, so I ran all the way up here, because I'm not leaving my best friend alone while you go do what you have to do. Don't think you can shirk your responsibilities out there… sir."
Though he was hardly religious in any sense of the word, Mustang was suddenly inclined to believe she was a godsend of sorts. An answered prayer, maybe. For never had Catalina resembled an angel more than she did at that moment.
"Thanks. I owe you one."
"Feel free to give me unrestricted access to your bank account as a token of appreciation," she harrumphed, before flouncing over to Riza's side like an excited puppy.
"What are you doing here?" Riza asked, evidently confused by the sudden turn of events.
"I happened to be around the area, but my date's busy," Rebecca pouted, giving Riza a beseeching look that rivalled Hayate's when he was starved for affection and a massive treat (that wasn't necessarily deserved). "So I decided to come by with ice-cream and wallow in self-pity. Misery loves company, you know?"
"With me, no less," Riza commented drily, finding the entire arrangement wholly suspect.
Mustang shot her an apologetic glance, but she simply brushed it off with a dismissive wave.
Rebecca had the decency to at least look somewhat embarrassed, though not really. "Of course. I mean, Ihope I'm not bothering," she said disingenuously. "I know it's late, but you know what they say. The night is still young."
"Alright," she sighed, gesturing towards the couch. Rebecca cheered gracelessly as she made herself comfortable. Finally at ease, Mustang got ready to leave.
Exasperation and concern wrought against each other for dominance, but it seemed the latter eventually won over as Riza followed him towards the doorstep.
"You're very... paranoid," she stated candidly.
"I'm sorry," he grimaced, smoothening away the creases in his uniform, crumpled from disuse and a habitual lack of ironing. "I wasn't expecting her to come, honestly. None of this was planned or premeditated -"
"It's alright. She's not bad company, but… you don't have to take the doctor's ordersliterally, you know," she interjected, though not brusquely. Whatever sourness that had presented itself earlier seemed to have dissipated somewhat, and he was grateful at least that his concern hadn't rubbed her the wrong way. Maybe some part of her subconscious understood; she'd always been the designated worrier, after all. The stalwart bodyguard. His protector.
But the roles were reciprocal, too. And Roy was not going to even risk a chance of her getting harmed in any way this time.
Not after he'd failed her so miserably months ago underground.
"I know. I just… well, I received some bad news over the phone, and I guess I just got worried."
Riza nodded quietly, understanding. "Well, you should go, then. It seems urgent. We'll be fine," she reassured. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "As a matter of fact, you should be worrying about yourselfinstead. Be careful out there."
His heart warmed, touched by her concern. Or maybe it was more out of courtesy than anything else, but he was grateful all the same.
"I will. Thank you," and then he left. But it still felt wrong, leaving without her. Working without her. Roy couldn't help feeling strangely amiss, empty; as if he'd left something important behind. (This was the first time he had to delve into investigations without his most trusted aide by his side, after all.)
And without her usual chivvying to abide by traffic regulations, Roy ended up going over twice the speed limit.
~x~
The first thing Mustang noticed were the ten soldiers resting by a pile of rubble, bleeding and in obvious agony even as the medics diligently tended to their injuries. They weren't too severe, from what he could tell. Still, he couldn't help but feel guilty. Frustrated. They'd barely finished reconstructing Central after the Promised Day, but already their plans were being thwarted. It made him wonder how much more the country had to endure before things could get better and go uphill.
As it presently stood, however, the only thing that seemed to be going uphill was the task of rebuilding itself.
The civilians weren't faring well, either. Their morale was low, their faith in the government dimming like the faulty street lamps overhead. Though the affected area had been cordoned off, with soldiers reassuring them that everything was fine and under control (a blatant lie, Mustang thought), their questions and attempts at interference were relentless. Driven by paranoia, people surrounded the smattering of glass and bricks and blood, hands clasped as their eyes brimmed with terror. Children wailed into their mother's skirts and adults gossiped, thrusting accusatory fingers around freely — all instinctive impulses to being afraid of the unknown.
And truthfully, for all of his deceptive calm, he could empathise.
Because Mustang was worried, too. Fearful. He was fearful of another imminent calamity, of another widespread disaster that would dismantle and destroy whatever little serenity the citizens now enjoyed.
One could only hope that this wasn't the inception of another nationwide transmutation circle, or something similar. Maybe something worse.
Hopefully not.
"Sir," the military police flanking the alleyways saluted, arms like weary rags. Mustang felt something like sympathy swell within his chest. (Sudden night shifts were the worst.)
"At ease," he said, waving dismissively before he bent under the flimsy tape carefully. Regaining his balance was a bit of a challenge as the ground beneath him was mostly debris and uneven concrete, but he managed.
"Sir," called the rest of the unit gathered around what was presumably an alchemical array.
The dim, nondescript back alley (or what remained of it, anyway) was rioting with weeds. Thorns and thistles sprouted out from every nook and cranny in a steady continuum beside a fuzz of miserly grass despite the spring air, deterring ordinary folk from exploring the path.
A great location for insidious activity.
Breda stifled a yawn and gestured to the ground. "All yours, boss."
"Status report."
"There was a small explosion in the vicinity, but none of the witnesses have reported any potential culprits," Fuery reported.
Mustang nodded. Bending down on one knee carefully so as to avoid the debris, he began to scrutinise the array while Falman shone a torch above his head.
The array was scribbled out in a white, powdery-like substance. Chalk? Cocaine? He couldn't be too sure. Regrettably, some of the key inscriptions had been destroyed by the indented surface, although he could still make out the emblems of life and death. A faded, hook-like symbol cut across the triangles; like a thin thread holding the missing pieces of a puzzle together.
Mustang grimaced, thinking long and hard.
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he was sure he'd seen a part of this before. Hadn't he? Either way, it wasn't really helpful. Bio-alchemy wasn't his province. It was rarely specialised in as an area of alchemy to begin with; the only expert he'd known in Central turned out to be a deranged, morally reprehensible lunatic who was nowhere as impressive as his falsified reports made him out to be.
But there was one person he knew who'd gleaned enough from his personal collection.
Fullmetal.
Sorely disinclined as he was to recruit his help again, the kid was at least a reliable aide. (Not that he'd ever admit that aloud, of course.)
Even if he made him age prematurely from all the havoc he wreaked around town.
"I need to make a call," Mustang said lowly.
Dusting his hands, he rose and slipped on his gloves once he'd committed whatever remained of the array into his memory.
Then he snapped.
Flintstone and marble blackened, melding into the darkness as the paltry patches of thorny grass and white powder were consumed by fire. The torch that Falman had been shining earlier went off at last.
"Let me know if anything else crops up. In the meantime, stay safe. All of you," Mustang ordered sternly.
He really couldn't afford to lose any more of his subordinates.
"We will. Be safe too, sir," Falman answered, saluting.
Satisfied, Mustang nodded and crossed the sea of busybodies to return to his car. Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he began to mull over his next course of action. Though Grumman had begun the process of weeding out potential renegades, one could never be too cautious where politics and the military were involved. The incident with General Raven had taught him that full well.
So no, he wasn't going to return to the office to make a call. And Riza might not have been an eavesdropper in any sense of the word, but it was better if she didn't have to concern herself with these affairs for the time being.
Which left him with one option. One that wasn't particularly pleasant (he'd developed an immense dislike of public phone booths after a certain incident), but probably necessary.
With that in mind, Mustang drove off to the nearest phone booth. Once he'd established that there was no one, nothing, lurking around, he quickly keyed in the numbers to an automail repair shop far away in the countryside.
"Hello?" came a high-pitched, unmistakably feminine voice from the other end. Probably Fullmetal's rumoured girlfriend. Childhood friend, whatever. Despite the untimeliness of his call, however, her tone was strangely energetic.
And suddenly Mustang was reminded of Hughes, whose cheery mood was never dampened even by the ungodliest of hours.
But he brushed that thought away as quickly as it came, swallowing the lump in his throat to put on his most charming tone. "Hello, Miss Rockbell. It's me, Brigadier General Mustang. Could I trouble you to put Edward on the line, please?"
"Oh, sure! Of course!" she chimed, before proceeding to yell for him. Mustang cringed at the sudden change in tone, but was otherwise stricken by how polite she'd sounded over the phone.
Pity. Fullmetal hadn't picked up on her good manners despite their obvious closeness to each other.
"Hello?" he grunted drowsily. "What the hell are you calling me for at this ungodly hour, bastard -"
"Fullmetal," Mustang interjected.
"What?"
"Get on the first train to Central tomorrow morning."
"What? Why?" Ed screeched, evidently roused from his slumber by rage.
"I'll explain when you arrive. Consider it an order."
"You can't just order me around like that, jerk! Who do you think you are, I'm not even military anymore -"
"See you soon," Mustang said, hanging up before Edward could launch into another one of his unnecessarily verbose ramblings on why the military sucked.
Mustang simply smirked.
He'd come. Ed's natural curiosity made the outcome inevitable.
All he had to do now was wait for his arrival.
~x~
True to his predictions, the golden-haired runt bludgeoned his way into the office a few days later with a heavy scowl, a string of profanities and a blatant disregard for formalities.
Then again, Mustang supposed this ought not to have been surprising in the least. Decorum had never quite been his thing, after all. Even at military events where it was supposedly a requirement.
"Hello to you too, Fullmetal," Mustang greeted. Technically he wasn't military anymore, but it was still fun to boss him around all the same.
The others rose and greeted him with a half-salute - even Havoc, despite his exhaustion from trudging up the stairs of Central Command. The only exception was Major Armstrong, who looked like he was about to either break into tears of joy or smother him to death.
He ended up doing both.
"Stop that," Ed squawked, wrenching himself out of his suffocating grip. Despite his vehement protests against any form of tactile affection, though, his ear-splitting grin made it clear that he was just as excited at the reunion as the rest of the team was.
But delight evaporated into displeasure as soon as he whirled back to face Mustang.
The inexorable object of his wrath.
"Don't tell me you asked me to come here just for tea, Colonel Bastard."
"Of course not. Would I do such a thing?"
"Yes."
"You think too lowly of me, Edward." It still felt strange addressing him by his actual name, rather than his State-given title. (Maybe it was because doing the former would solidify the strange sense of concern that they had for each other.) "I can assure you I have no business asking you for tea. As a matter of fact, you would be the last person on my list." Mustang smirked, gesturing to the seat in front of him. "Take a seat. Is the door locked?"
"Yes, boss," Breda affirmed.
"Good," he said, silencing another one of Edward's incoming protests with an outstretched hand. "The doors might be soundproof, but I'm not going to take any chances. I know you're not quite used to speaking softly -"
"I can be quiet when I need to be, jerk," huffed Ed, in a considerably softer volume this time as he settled into his seat. Mustang's smirk widened. Reverse psychology always seemed to work wonders where Ed was concerned. "So, what's it this time? Homunculi? Enemies lurking in the military, again?"
"No. Or at least, hopefully not. But we happened to come across this a few days earlier," Mustang scribbled what was left of the array onto a piece of rough paper, and shoved it towards Ed. "Quite unfortunately, we need your help in deciphering what this means. It's incomplete, though."
"Unfortunately," Ed snorted, though he'd already begun scrutinising the array laid out in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration. "Isn't this… bio-alchemy?" he asked, tracing a finger - callused from manual labour, Mustang noted - across the insignias of life and death.
"Exactly." Mustang grimaced. There really was no tactful way of going about it. Edward wasn't one for beating around the bush, anyway. "And the only person in Central specialising in bio-alchemy is now dead…"
"And was the same alchemist I'd lived with for weeks," finished Ed, expression darkening considerably.
"... Yes."
Guilt, despair, then anger flashed successively in Ed's molten-gold eyes. Signs of a soul still aching, tormented by a past tragedy that remained fresh like an untreated wound. And immediately Mustang felt something akin to remorse clutching at his chest.
In the course of focusing on making amends towards a global community, he hadn't bothered pausing to mourn for the death of a girl he barely knew. Such was the nature of politics: its players tend to forget that individuals exist separately within the world they seek to improve. The outlines of each single person generally blurs after some time; silhouettes merging into a world larger than oneself. (It was the same for alchemy. One is all, all is one.) And Roy thought he'd become desensitised to tragedy, then. That his aspirations had bred a callousness in the name of efficiency.
Because if he paused in his tracks to grieve for every single death he encountered, he'd never get anything done. The only thing he could do was to keep moving forward. Keep his eyes ahead and focus on atoning for his sins.
But when Hughes died (and when Riza herself nearly did), Roy learnt that he hadn't been entirely desensitised, after all. Death still stung raw. No massacre; no prior loss could have prepared him for the grief he experienced at losing someone he wouldn't have hesitated to die for.
Although... now that he was actually thinking about it, maybe the real reason why he had refused to dwell on it back then was because it reminded him of himself. Wasn't he being a bit of a hypocrite, considering he'd immolated children during the war as well? Helpless, defenseless children, who couldn't even lift a finger to save themselves -
"Are you listening?"
Mustang blinked, eyes focusing on Ed once more. "Sorry. Go on."
Ed looked mildly taken aback, as if he'd been expecting some sort of immediate diatribe instead of a quiet, resigned apology. Softening a little, he continued, "As I was saying earlier, the hook here operates like a merger of sorts. It's the same thing I drew in the centre of Al's old blood rune, to bind his soul to armor."
Strange. If it was supposed to serve a soul-binding function, why was it engraved on the floor then? There hadn't been any suits of armor lying around the scene.
Maybe they'd all walked off.
"What do the other symbols mean, then? Have you come across anything similar in Tucker's library?"
"... Not that I can remember," Ed said, face contorting in disgust. "As it currently stands, the closest thing it resembles is a blood rune. A poorly constructed one, if you ask me."
Not of much help, then. But… "Blood?"
"Yeah. The iron in the blood will interact with the metal it is on. Or whatever surface it's on, so that the object and blood rune can form a symbiosis."
Mustang nodded contemplatively, then asked, "But the array wasn't drawn in blood. So wouldn't that render the symbiosis inoperable?"
"Probably."
A rune that wasn't meant for its intended purpose, then. And an explosion that was equally arbitrary as it was deliberate - set off in an unfrequented alley, but still in a location capable of garnering a sizeable crowd -
Damn it.
"A decoy," Mustang muttered under his breath.
"What?"
"It's a decoy," he repeated, louder this time so that the rest could hear. "Clearly an alchemist wouldn't have any reason to be drawing inoperable runes around Central for fun."
Ed's face brightened considerably, notwithstanding the severity of the situation and the multiple grimaces around him. "Seems like we're in for some fun, then."
Mustang rolled his eyes skyward. Ed made it sound as if they were gathered for a treasure hunt. It was almost as if the sweet monotony of the country had ripped whatever little sense of sanity and self-preservation he had to shreds.
"Fun, sure. I never said you could join us for investigations, though -"
"Why not?"
"You aren't military anymore, like you said. And if I'm being brutally honest here, you're kind of useless without your alchemy, no?"
Ed's response was a petulant scowl, though Mustang could already see the expletives written all across his features.
As if on cue, though, a knock resounded. Immediately Mustang burnt the array that he'd sketched earlier before pretending to be engrossed in his paperwork, maintaining the facade that this was but one of those sad, typical nights of working overtime.
Ed, on the other hand, reclined on his seat and rested his legs leisurely on Mustang's table with an unapologetic grin.
"Come in," Mustang called, doing his best impression of a bored, tired worker. This wasn't a challenge in itself, considering it was pretty much how he felt on a daily basis.
"Sir," panted the shrimpy, dark-haired intruder in oversized glasses, stubbly face as white as a sheet. Mustang made sure to stretch languidly as he yawned for added effect. "So-sorry to bother, sir."
"What's the matter?"
"We have a lead, sir," he huffed, still struggling to catch his breath.
Ed straightened, enthusiasm sparked by the prospect of fun.
Trouble, more like.
"Report."
"A few of the military police on patrol came across s-something," he stuttered. His discomfort and inexperience were evident from his hands, knitting and twisting together like gnarled roots. Almost as if he'd just encountered a living corpse in the flesh.
Or something, like he'd said.
So Mustang decided to spare him the horrors of having to articulate the nitty-gritties. Really, it was obvious he was fresh blood. Probably a newly recruited soldier after the events of the Promised Day when they were lacking in numbers.
"It's fine. Just tell me where," he emphasised, nudging Ed with an eraser to the arm.
Ed bristled, but otherwise got the hint. He hid his grin behind an open palm to keep up his pathetic attempt at disinterest.
"It's… uh, it's near where Central Prison used to be, sir."
Mustang groaned inwardly. "Alright. And is anyone else still on patrol around that area?"
"A few, sir."
"Well, luck's on your side. My team and I can handle this ourselves," Mustang drawled, waving indolently to dismiss him.
Mortification dissolved into immense gratitude, as if someone had just told him the answers to all of life's problems. "T-thank you, sir."
"Sure," and he'd scurried out even before Mustang could say anything else.
Once the door was tightly bolted, all eyes returned to him, intent and focused. Waiting for orders.
All except Ed. His cat-like grin just screamed outright defiance.
Mustang sighed, for what must have been the umpteenth time that day since his dramatic entrance. Maybe asking Ed for assistance wasn't the best course of action. Or maybe he was just prone to making poor life choices, especially when Hawkeye was no longer around to keep him in check. "Listen, Edward. You'll just be deadweight —"
"Who are you calling deadweight, you bastard -"
"You can't even use alchemy anymore," Mustang pointed out. Not to mention the fact that he was no longer covered by military insurance.
Definitely not a good thing for someone so prone to injury.
"I'm not useless without it, you know. I'm still pretty darn good at hand-to-hand combat."
Around him, the expressions ranged from worry (Fuery and Armstrong, the self-appointed brotherly and paternal figures of the incorrigible nitwit), to resignation (Falman, who had dealt enough with him up North to know that dissuasion was an impossible task), and near-approval (Breda and Havoc, who were typically the resident enablers of terrible ideas).
"Really?" Mustang said, thoroughly unconvinced himself.
"Really," Edward repeated, eyebrows twitching in tandem with his antenna. "Wanna try? Bet I can still pummel you into a pulp -"
"We don't have time for another one of those matches. And as I recalled, the last time we had such a duel,I won."
Ed's face instantly twisted into a sullen glower, like a child denied candy. "We haven't got all day, either. Stop holding us back with your arrogance and need to show off, Colonel Bastard."
Mustang put his hands to his face in a gesture of irritated resignation. There really was no way of dissuading an immovable rock, was there? Quite unfortunately for him, the kid's stubbornness rivaled Riza's. And Mustang couldn't help but question the company he kept. Was it really necessary for all of his subordinates to be so unyieldingly pig-headed? And what did that say of his leadership? Maybe General Armstrong's approach was preferable to his. He'd heard rumours of how she had managed to keep Edward tightly wound around her pinky, even if it meant resorting to rather… gruelling methods that sounded awfully intimidating. Even to him.
"Fine. Don't be a liability," he grumbled at last.
Ed only beamed, disgustingly smug and triumphant.
~x~
The entourage was split into two cars: Mustang drove Edward while the rest, save for Havoc, rode with Major Armstrong.
"Why am I stuck with you alone, anyway?" Ed complained, with a frigid contempt that masked the strange sort of respect rivals had for one another.
"Because I know you haven't asked the things that you're really dying to ask," Mustang said, pretending to keep his eyes on the road, when really he was gauging Ed's reactions. A sharp exhale, followed by a clenched jaw. Fists curled around his pants, almost forceful enough to break through the tacky, leathery material. "You can ask, if you want."
A pause.
"... What happened to the Lieutenant?"
Mustang's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "She's been discharged."
Ed looked like he was about to throw a punch at his rearview mirror.
"Why?" he barked.
"Truth took her memory away," Mustang said through gritted teeth, hands shaking just the slightest.
It'd been weeks. Months, maybe. Mustang thought he would've grown accustomed to the fact by now. But articulating it still shook him to his core every time, like the aftermath of a devastating earthquake. Maybe it was because vocalising it reinforced the reality of it all. That this, thiswas the new norm. Leaving without her, driving without her, working without her.
Forgotten by her.
Ed went uncharacteristically silent. And for a moment, Mustang regretted his decision. Should he have relayed the message in a more tactful manner? Maybe. But there was no other way of going about it, was there? Ed would probably misconstrue it as an attempt at coddling or patronising. The last time he'd tried to be judicious about tragedy... well, it hadn't turned out well.
Tact was a rather unhelpful thing whenever Ed was involved.
"... Well?" Mustang said, discomfited by his passenger's unusual lack of swearing.
"Truth is an asshole." And there it was. Crude as it was, Mustang was mildly relieved to hear that instead of silence. "I should've maimed him when I had the chance."
"At least we're in agreement about something."
A bunch of swear words - some incomprehensible, others so creative he'd only heard Havoc and his aunt use while they were hopelessly drunk - continued to erupt from Ed's mouth; his known method of processing anger and grief.
Mustang waited for him to finish, driving at a relatively acceptable speed in the meantime.
"How… how is she, then?" he asked, once he was finally done curbing a fraction of his rage.
"She's… better." Mustang hesitated. How much did he need to know? As immature as Ed could be, he could be the complete opposite, too. When he wanted to be. Which was rare, but worth a shot. "She's staying with me for now."
"With you?" Ed screeched disbelievingly.
Mustang braked just in time, avoiding a red light and a collision all at once. A car horn blared. Someone behind cursed his good name, calling for his early demise to make the roads a safer place.
How nice.
"Problem, Fullmetal?"
"Yeah, you're driving, for one," he muttered. "I'm just surprised that the Lieutenant's alright with living with a conceited jerk like you, is all."
Ed's jibe was strangely half-hearted this time, as if the gravity of the situation had siphoned out whatever compassion he'd kept so desperately hidden whenever they were around each other.
Mustang scoffed. "Speak for yourself. I'm surprised your girlfriend's managed to put up with your crap for so long."
"She's not my girlfriend!" Ed sputtered wildly, bemused. Color rose to his cheeks, explicitly proclaiming the torch he held for the blonde.
"You're a terrible liar."
"Whatever," Ed mumbled, looking away fixedly as he scrambled for a diversion to salvage whatever remained of his dignity.
Mustang decided to give him a hand.
"You can visit her, if you want." Ed looked at him as if he'd just sprouted a pair of wings. Mustang rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm inviting you to my place." It would be a more convenient place to discuss more sensitive matters, too.
Like how to get Riza's memory back.
"... Sure, I guess. Where?"
The car slowed down before coming to an eventual halt.
"Wait, eyes on the road," Ed yelled, alarmed.
"It's a red light, idiot."
Whipping out a piece of scrap paper from his coat pocket, Mustang quickly scribbled down his address and personal line before shoving the paper into Ed's open palm.
"I didn't know you stopped at red lights."
"I do. Sometimes," Mustang smirked, then stepped on the pedal to whizz past the traffic light.
It was still red.
~x~
"Sir," greeted the two military policemen who had the misfortune of having to stand guard at their destination.
The clouds of the evening sky were the gray of rats, and the air was not damp, but dank. And while the young men — one a sandy blonde who reminded him of a younger (and uglier) version of Havoc; the other a gangly brunette who sported a buzzcut and a badly-shaped mustache that reminded Mustang of a wriggly worm — were standing rigidly at attention, their breathing was laboured, as if the clammy air had strangled them, draining them of their valor and colour.
"Dismissed."
At his behest, the duo scampered off with their tails between their legs.
Ed, on the other hand, looked ready to barge in with all the subtlety of an elephant.
"What are you waiting for? Let's go."
Mustang sighed, wishing he'd dumped Ed by the roadside earlier. That would've solved his current dilemma rather effectively, no?
"Sure you don't want to just wait outside, Fullmetal?"
"Don't be dumb. You need my help to decipher whatever's going on in there," Ed retorted, arms stubbornly folded across his chest. "Besides, like I said - I'm still pretty proficient in combat. Teacher trained us to not be over-reliant on alchemy, so I'm not entirely useless. Unlike you in the rain."
Forget trying to be considerate, he thought. Ed could die for all he cared.
"Fine. But save your own ass," Mustang grumbled, irked by the jab. Though a part of him wanted to remind Ed to stay close to him, he knew that this would only have the opposite effect.
So he didn't.
Ed only grinned fearlessly, shrugging with all the confidence of an alleged nationwide hero who'd punched a self-proclaimed god in the face.
"Major Armstrong, stand guard outside with the rest outside," Mustang ordered. Half a dozen people sounded like it'd be too much for such a cramped, crummy room, and attracting unwanted attention was the last thing on his wishlist. "And if anything happens, run."
No answer.
"That's an order," Mustang added.
"We'll be alright, sir. Stay safe in there," Fuery reassured.
Mustang sighed, knowing that arguing with them was pointless. Better to just get it over and done with.
"Alright. Let's go," and Ed had already stormed in through the frail door before he could say anything else, the uneven weight of his legs jostling the creaky floor.
The sharp stench of decay hit him as soon as they entered: the smell of rotting flesh - a smell burnt in his memory - and the signs of a horrible experiment gone wrong. His stomach churned. Now he had a vague understanding of why the guards earlier looked as if their oxygen supply had been cut short.
It was almost as if someone had mistaken this for a lavatory instead of a laboratory.
Ignoring the bile in his own throat, Mustang trudged deeper into the shadowed room, his disgust almost as strong as curiosity.
Whatever little light source there was came from the tiny, half-filled tubes of sinister red on the destroyed workbench. It looked like it'd been a rather shoddy workspace, but everything else around him was relatively mundane - or so he tried to convince himself. A cage of dead rats. Pieces of ripped parchment strewn around on the table like confetti. One partially dissected monkey that was no longer breathing. Its rotten, shriveled paw, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a human hand, had slipped off its tray to point at the floor. It reminded him of another place, out in the desert, where it had been human corpses lining the tables and walls -
Mustang shoved that thought down forcibly before the image could fully manifest itself. Searching for a distraction, he turned to check on Ed instead, who looked rather sickly.
Very much like he'd just had a severe case of food poisoning.
"Are you alright?"
"Of course," Ed grunted defensively, even as his nose wrinkled and twisted like Hayate's whenever he caught a whiff of spoiled leftovers.
"You look kind of green."
"... How green?"
"Greener than a salad bar," he confirmed.
"So do you. It's just… gross. Smells like shit in here."
Mustang nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly. But talking meant they'd lose more oxygen in the process, and neither of them were quite keen on inhaling anything at the moment, except what was necessary for survival. And so they continued their exploration in silence, making a concerted effort to not stare at the rotting carcasses.
(On the bright side, at least none of the animals were talking. Yet, anyway.)
"Keep close," Mustang whispered, inching closer towards the glowing tubes. "What's that?"
"Dunno. This reminds me a little of Tucker's study," Ed muttered, his voice taking on a considerably darker edge.
Biting back an apology, Mustang reached out to pick up the tube with his free hand for closer inspection. It would've been pretty under any other circumstance, what with the way it glowed like neon lights in the dark. A Philosopher's Stone? It couldn't be. They would've sensed its unmistakable energy if it was indeed one. Maybe it was a poorly crafted fake. Or blood, perhaps. That would certainly explain all the corpses and carcasses, but he'd never known blood to be phosphorescent in nature.
Mustang frowned and left it back where it belonged.
"Wait," Ed called.
Mustang turned his head to see Ed picking through the pile of torn paper on the table, arranging them together like a child's puzzle. Slowly, as they came together one by one, Mustang began to see the similarities to the one that he'd seen a few days ago. But there was an inscription below that hadn't previously been there. A series of numbers, accompanied by a poem of sorts which reminded him of the ones inked across Riza's back.
It read, in bright red:
H.S.E
...
Multās per gentēs et multa per aequora vectus 23
adveniō hās miserās, uxorem, ad īnferiās, 16
ut tē postrēmō dōnārem mūnere mortis 35
et mūtam nequīquam alloquerer cinerem 31
quandōquidem fortūna mihi tētē abstulit ipsum 12
heu miser indignē uxorem adempte mihi 23
nunc tamen intereā haec, 20
prīscō quae mōre parentum 26
trādita sunt tristī mūnere ad īnferiās, 25
accipe uxorem multum mānantia flētū. 20
Atque in perpetuum, uxorem, avē atque valē. 30
...
memento mori
"What's all this stuff mean? Aerugean or something?" Ed frowned, reciting the words to himself unintelligibly.
"I'm not... entirely sure." Mustang himself only knew for sure what the last two words meant. Remember you must die. Riza had said this to him before, shortly after the war. It was her curt, morbid way of motivating them towards their goal, detracting him from supposed distractions. A mantra for the cultivation of detachment from their earthly desires, perhaps. But under these circumstances it was probably intended to incite fear and provoke confusion more than anything else.
(Suddenly he found himself wishing that Riza was here. She'd always had a natural affinity for languages, after all.)
Clearing his throat softly, he brought himself back to the present task at hand and ignored the wistfulness creeping into his heart.
"Anything else?"
"Nope, that's about it. It's like playing bloody tangram or something," Ed grunted, having already pieced all the withered scraps together. With their bad luck, the array was as incomplete as it'd initially been.
Still indecipherable.
"Damn it," Mustang cursed, mussing his hair up vexedly.
What was the point of this, then? An abandoned experiment? It couldn't be. Alchemists weren't typically so careless, so stupid as to leave alchemical arrays lying around for nosy strangers to magically stumble upon.
Or maybe it had all been a deliberate set-up. And was it just him, or was the red fluid a little bit brighter than it was?
"Ed…"
"I see it."
They watched for a moment more, until Mustang was certain he wasn't just seeing things.
Then it flared, like a star about to burst.
"Watch out," Mustang barked, pulling Ed out of harm's way just in time.
The tube exploded with a sickening crack. Mustang raised an arm in defence, shards and splinters shredding the air like bullets and slicing through cloth and flesh alike.
Mustang winced, warm blood trickling down his arm. He looked to Ed, relieved that the boy was unscathed, but a loud rumble sapped any momentary relief he might've felt.
Without warning, the shoddy latticework of wood above them began to tremble violently. An eldritch screech cleaved the air, like a predator about to pounce.
They'd waltzed right into the lion's den.
"Shit," Ed cursed, plucking the thought right out of Mustang's head as the ceiling began to give way, crumbling like broken biscuits.
Mustang snapped.
Flames curled and licked at the fallen pieces, turning them into dust and smoke, saving them from death by pulverization. Ash coated the room and rained down on their heads like sooty snow.
"Shit," Ed choked again, gasping for breath.
Heaving slightly, Mustang pressed himself and Ed against the wall, blinking the dust out of his eyes as he ceased the burning. Once the fire's roaring ebbed away, the chorus of worried voices and fretful footsteps gradually caught up to him.
"Stay away," he bellowed. The unit paused in their tracks, but he could feel the hesitation, the verge of defiance lingering in the air. "Don'tcome in."
Then something hit the periphery of his senses as his vision cleared. The vague outlines of a person, a silhouette greeted him through the smog, but it'd melded into the darkness before he could even blink. Before he could even snap.
Still, it was worth a shot.
Flames rushed forth once more to circle around them, but the only indication that he'd stricken anything was the charred, tiny scrap of cloth that descended to the earth. From it an overgrown spider emerged and scurried towards them, crawling over Mustang's boots to make itself comfortable.
Then it started to spin its web in a pool of crimson.
In his blood.
Gossamer clung to red. The spider's eyes gleamed menacingly, like bright rubies in the dark. The screeching intensified. Suddenly even the rats that had been left to decompose in their respective cages no longer seemed entirely dead; its shadows expanding and flickering threateningly against the peeling walls.
Mustang's fists trembled with anger.
Forget stepping into a lion's den, he thought. This was an ensnarement strapped with explosives.
A land mine.
But his main priority was Ed. Sparing him a cursory glance, he found that Ed had paled considerably by this point. His eyes were glazed, like he'd been pulled back to the past. Reliving a horrific memory that Mustang himself had once brushed away with undeserved nonchalance.
And in that split second, he made his decision.
The enemy could wait. For now, it was more pressing that they both got out alive.
Ignoring Ed's protests, Mustang dragged him by the arm like a sack of potatoes and ran. The earth rumbled beneath them, quaking and disintegrating into dust with every step that they took.
Thankfully, Ed was a fast runner despite his short stature.
"What on earth's going on?" Breda shouted as they emerged from the collapsing hideout.
"Run," Mustang commanded, not pausing to even catch his breath. He couldn't be sure if they were out of the woods yet. Though the pavement outside appeared to retain its structural integrity, he wasn't about to take any chances and risk having his subordinates buried under rubble.
This time, no one questioned his orders or bothered retaliating. (Mustang very rarely invoked a flight order, so he knew that they knew something extraordinarily disastrous must have happened.) Like a herd of animals freed from an oppressive farm, they ran back to their respective cars, driving off into the night.
Mustang tossed Ed into the car and remained standing outside alone. The wind howled against his bare skin, uncaring against the wounds that he'd sustained inside.
"What are you doing?"
"Quiet, Fullmetal. I'm concentrating."
"That sounds like a bad idea already."
Mustang watched, but the only hint of movement was a stray spider skittering away.
Good for him.
Because he was about to make things explode.
A trail of fire blazed towards the lab in a small, straight line.
Then it erupted.
A bright conflagration engulfed the lab, licking at it from every edge, every corner hungrily. Smoke billowed upwards in steady columns of grey. Fuelled by the disintegrating planks of wood, the fire only grew, rising and expanding like a devouring beast until it finally ingested the lab whole.
"What the hell are you doing?" Ed exclaimed, nails raking against his plush, leathery upholstery. Mustang chose to ignore it, though he could feel a part of his heart shattering at the thought of Ed ruining his car.
"Relax. You did keep the pieces of parchment, right?" he asked, equal parts hopeful and anxious.
This, in his opinion, was the litmus test of whether Ed was truly a genius or an absolute idiot.
"Course I did. Shoved them in my pocket before everything turned to dust."
Mustang smirked, relieved.
Gradually, the flames flickered and faded into embers, crumbling in on itself before it could cause further damage to the piteous trees around it. And before long, there was nothing left except rising dust and roiling discomfort.
"Glad to know you're not entirely useless, then," and he drove off, drowning out Ed's tirade about how he would've been completely screwed if not for his stroke of ingenuity back in the lab.
Behind them, the spider scurried back into the smothering mix of dust and ash as gray clouds rolled over the dispersing smoke.
~x~
"Worried for your man?"
"He's not my man," Riza deadpanned, consulting the clock every now as she paced around the leftovers on the dining table. "Whatever that means."
"But you are worried."
"I just don't want the food to get cold, that's all."
"Riza," she began, in a voice that was sickeningly sweet. One that Riza had heard her use on unsuspecting men frequently for bargaining purposes. "Come on. You mean to tell me that you don't feel anything for him at all? Even after the few months you've livedtogether?"
"Like what?"
"Oh, you know what I'm talking about," Rebecca drawled, grinning.
"I really don't," Riza sighed, thumbing the ends of her hair which fell just below her shoulders. (They'd gotten their hair and nails done earlier that afternoon at Rebecca's pleaful insistence after a visit to the bank, but she wasn't complaining. It was a refreshing change from the tangled, frizzy bundle of split ends that greeted her every morning.) "Besides, shouldn't you get going? Don't you have to… well, go to work or something tomorrow?"
Not that she necessarily abhorred having her around; Riza had gradually come to find her presence tolerable over the past few months. Enjoyable, even. When she wasn't being subjected to one of her infamous questionings, anyway. Rebecca's lively and gregarious nature had a way of casting a charmed, theatrical light around the room, and she was so open, so painfully honest that it made it difficult to dislike her. (Although, her honesty was sometimes a double-edged sword as well - she wasn't the most adept at hiding her disappointment whenever she raised an inside joke that Riza ought to have been privy to, but wasn't.)
Still, the idea of being a further inconvenience didn't sit quite well with her.
"Nah, I usually work at night."
"... Well, it is night-time, now."
"It doesn't matter. My schedule's pretty flexible." Rebecca stifled a yawn, stretching around like a lazy kitten before pouring herself a short drink. It was the good rum that Roy kept stored in his ebony cabinets; one that he sought solace in whenever his work overwhelmed him. Just a brief respite, he'd say. True enough, he always stopped at one. It was often enough to send his cheeks flushing red, but not his mind. "Want a drink?"
"No, thanks. Where do you work?" Riza asked, genuinely curious (and grateful for the change in topic).
"I work at a hostess bar," she stated, sipping at her drink idly.
"A hostess bar?" Riza echoed, surprised.
"Oh, no, it's not what you think," Rebecca added hastily. "We don't let the salacious ones get away, or get their way with us, for that matter. We're just there to play pretend, extract juicy gossip and important information with our charm. It helps that alcohol tends to lower a man's inhibitions, too."
"So… like, what, an espionage ring?"
"Something like that," Rebecca grinned. And suddenly she perked up, winking conspiratorially. "Actually, you'd make a perfect fit for the bar."
"Me?" Riza said, incredulous.
"Yes, you, Riza Hawkeye," she declared, sounding as if she were ordaining a priest. "No pressure, of course, but I know you've been unemployed for a while now. And just think of how much fun it'll be, working with the great Rebecca Catalina."
"How tactful. And I doubt it'll be much fun working with you, of all people," Riza answered drily. Rebecca's grin only brightened, spirits undamped. "But sure. I'll think about it, I guess." It certainly sounded like an interesting enough vocation. And the salary seemed relatively decent, if Rebecca's lifestyle was any indication to go by.
At the same time, though, Riza didn't think she was all that well-versed in the art of... seduction, or whatever it was Rebecca often did to send ogling men into a stammering, sweating mass of lust and nerves.
"Excellent! And don't think you're off the hook just yet," Rebecca continued, jabbing her index finger at her. "You know what I was trying to get at, unless you're just really that dense."
"Suppose I'm just that dense, then."
"What do you think of him? Your, well, 'housemate'?" Rebecca huffed, drawing air quotes with her almond-shaped nails.
"He's alright," Riza said curtly, stroking Hayate's fur before rising to tend to the flowers in the vase resting by the windowsill. (Mostly to make sure the flowers were well and alive, but also to escape the impending interrogation.) A vibrant assortment of sunflowers and gerberas stood within — which, true to Roy's word, did have the effect of livening up the atmosphere. And the simple task of watering and rearranging them kept her hands busy.
Regrettably, it wasn't enough to occupy her mind.
Her eyes drifted back towards the clock once more, then to the outside world. It was already midnight. The cars had long ceased their impatient honking, creating an eerie, almost oppressive silence. Across the street, windows were clad with velvet and silk to ensure the inmates of the apartments privacy. A waning crescent peeked out candidly from the corner of a building, smiling upon the drunkards wandering the unpaved sidewalks.
And Roy still wasn't home.
"He buys you flowers every other day, and you say he's alright," Rebecca muttered darkly to herself.
"Beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. I mean, what do you think of him? Looks-wise, like his face, body, personality, habits -"
"You sound like you're haggling at a meat market or something," Riza sighed tiredly. All the hustling and bustling earlier in the afternoon had worn her out, as had the talking. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed with her beloved pet. "He's alright, like I said. He's been very… nice. About the whole arrangement, I mean."
Rebecca's face brightened. Perking up a little, she nodded encouragement and opened her mouth to speak once more.
But the words never left. The subject of their discussion entered then, bedraggled and exhausted.
Bloodied.
"Hi," Roy greeted, smiling wryly.
"Are you... okay?" Riza felt her stomach writhe at the sight of the blood-stained, shoddy excuse of a makeshift tourniquet coiling around his arm. The loose dressings were unravelling like a roll of toilet paper on its last legs, and his shirt was mostly mangled and torn up, though thankfully not to the point where he was indecent.
Roused by the scent of blood, Hayate bounded over and tugged at the hem of his pants worriedly.
"I'm fine," he smiled, but was quick to disappear into the bathroom once he'd gotten his shoes off and Hayate away, presumably to clean up.
"He'll be fine," Rebecca reassured, reaching over to give Hayate a patronising pat. The pup whimpered pitifully. "Don't worry."
"I'm not worried. Just... shocked, that's all."
What exactly did those godforsaken 'duty calls' of his entail, anyway? Had he gotten into a fight? Or worse still, had he been attacked?
"It's not a crime to worry over someone," Rebecca stated. (This Riza knew, of course. She just didn't want to plant the wrong idea in Rebecca's excitable mind with a careless admission.) "I mean, I worry about you all the time. It's what friends do for each other. So does he."
"He does that a little too much, if you ask me."
"That he does. Go check on him, you know you want to," she goaded, perhaps a bit too gleefully for the bloody situation.
"You're leaving now, I'm guessing?"
"Of course. Three's a crowd. Besides, it's not life or death. He'll manage," Rebecca shrugged flippantly, as if this was a regular occurrence.
"... Right."
And with one last jaunty wave, Rebecca was gone.
Once she'd made sure the door was securely locked and tucked Hayate underneath her canine-smelling coverlet to sleep with his favourite squeaky toy, Riza prodded over to the bathroom and knocked apprehensively.
"One moment," Roy called over the sound of running water.
Riza complied. She waited outside, feet tapping impatiently as the clock ticked. Goosebumps pricked at her skin, from the spring chill and the growing concern that festered in her mind like a poison. At some point she'd been inclined to knock once more, but eventually he emerged from the bathroom with a strained, sheepish smile.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you like that -"
"It's fine," Riza insisted, though she couldn't suppress the queasiness wriggling its way to her throat at the stickly, purplish stains on his uniform. The words wouldn't come, so she settled for an inquiring look instead.
Roy understood.
"I'm fine, really. It's much worse than it looks," he placated, already beginning to rummage through his bathroom cabinet for medical supplies. Fishing out his first aid kit, he then lugged it to the couch and rolled his sleeves up once he was seated.
Riza followed suit, settling down beside him.
"I can help," she offered.
Maybe it was rather crass, to think of it as an equivalent exchange. To be kind because of indebtedness. Or, if not that, because of guilt. He hadgone out of his way to help her a great deal, after all, notwithstanding the inconvenience that she must've brought upon him. And she hadn't forgotten the way he'd assisted her either, when she was still recovering from the nasty wounds around her throat and hands. On her mind.
But as she reflected upon Rebecca's earlier words, Riza realised it wasn't entirely that, either. Part of her worry and concern were genuinely borne out of viewing him as something more than a mere acquaintance. A friend, perhaps, like Rebecca mentioned earlier. Like Rebecca herself. And though she still had her suspicions about the entirety of their history, he'd certainly proved himself a dependable companion. Kind, even when she hadn't always reciprocated with the same sort of friendliness and hospitality he so readily offered.
So wasn't this the least she could do for him, after all he'd done for her?
Roy smiled. "It's alright. It's just a minor scratch."
Minor as it was, though, his struggle was painfully obvious. And Riza sighed. The man was impossible. Impossibly stubborn, that was.
"I'll do it," she said, removing the bottle of antiseptics from his hand. Roy looked like he was about to argue further, but she unscrewed the cap and silenced him with a glare.
So much for efficiency.
Gingerly, Riza ran a finger across his arm to check if there were any shards or splinters remaining, but it appeared he'd already done a decent job of tweezing them out in the bathroom. With a soaked cotton ball, she dabbed at his wounds, working with quiet, intense focus to avoid aggravating the pain he must've been feeling.
"You cut your hair," Roy pointed out, breaking the hush that had fallen over them.
"I did," she agreed, focused on the task at hand. "I thought men usually don't notice such things, or so I've heard," Riza said, recalling the words of the plaintive women lamenting over their husbands' frustrating inattentiveness at the beauty parlour.
"Well, it's hard to not notice these things," Roy said. "I mean, it looks nice," he supplied, smiling in a tentative manner that made her wonder if she'd perhaps been too standoffish, too guarded around him to make him constantly second-guess his own behaviour.
"... Thank you."
His smile only widened, eyes brightening with earnest sincerity.
A little self-conscious now, Riza tucked a stray strand behind her ear before tying the dressings around his arm into a neat little tourniquet. Once she deemed it satisfactory, she moved to address the wounds around his wrists and palm next.
"What's that?" Riza asked, having noticed the old, faded scar on the back of his palm. Precedents of an old scuffle, perhaps? There was the jagged line near his elbow, too, but it was the one on his hand that intrigued her the most. If she looked close enough, she could make out the bare traces of a familiar circle, cut by a few triangles - an alchemical array - though it was too faint for her to understand its intended usage.
"It's just… an old wound. A battle scar, I guess."
"I see." Indisposed as she was to prodding, she couldn't help the concern - the worry - that crept up her skin and crawled into her bones. Injuries didn't seem uncommon where he was involved, and if he'd carved that into his own skin… "Is it dangerous, working in the military?" Riza ventured to ask, even as she knew the answer was probably in the affirmative.
In the short time she'd lived with him, she'd come to learn that his best friend had tragically died in the line of duty. And though he'd spared her the full details, it was clear that he was still deeply affected by the incident. Scarred. (Riza herself couldn't really empathise, as the everlasting grief that came with losing someone dear no longer lived in the ruins of her memory.)
"Yes and no, I suppose. It depends, really. Most of the time I'm just doing paperwork. Or trying to," he joked.
Riza pursed her lips, thinking of an appropriate response.
"Well... Don't die, I guess."
Roy gave her a half-smile, like he was smiling at a memory. Not quite the response she wanted or expected, so Riza made sure to tug at the bandages with a bit more force than necessary. It wasn't enough to hurt him, but apparently enough to get her message across.
"Alright," said Roy, wincing.
author's note
I am so, so sorry for the delay. I uploaded this on AO3, then forgot all about it as I went on to do the bar exam, which was some of the most exhausting and dreary two weeks of my life LOL. On the bright side, I'm officially done, and I have a break before commencing work in January, so yay to that!
Huge shoutout to RainFlame - this chapter was a considerable challenge to write (especially the action scenes), and she was a tremendous help! :)
Please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought! They never fail to make my day and definitely motivate me to write faster :) come say hi on Tumblr if you're there - I'm firewoodfigs!
A few notes about this chapter:
(1) I was aiming for a macabre vibe, hence the quote and all the allusions to death. There are some important plot points and some bits of foreshadowing and symbolism, which I promise will make more sense as the story progresses - feel free to chime in with your theories! 😆br /
(2) The poem is adapted from Catullus 101. A few modifications have been made, but I have to confess that my knowledge of Latin is de minimis at best, LOL. But see, this is the problem. I went with a Latin title, and now I'm trying to pay homage to it and commit to the theme xD I also thought it interesting, since the inscription on Riza's back is in Latin (or Aerugean?)... :) Apologies in advance if there are any mistranslations - feel free to correct me if you spot any errors!
(3) The numbers are there for a reason 😆
I'm currently working on the next chapter, and I'm hoping to get it up sooner, rather than later. xD In the meantime, I hope you're all keeping safe and healthy! Stay safe, and blessed holidays to all of you