Content Warnings: mentioned violence and death, mild medical gore, injured child
Fort Briggs, Amestris – November 25th, 1921
From atop an icy parapet, Olivier Mira Armstrong surveyed the snowy slopes below. On clear days, the sky up here was crystal blue, and when the sun shined down on that glistening white expanse, the heavens seemed to meet the earth. Yesterday was like that: cold and beautiful, the world laying at her feet in stark black and white. She loved the north for its austerity, wishing not for the first time that its people were as clear-cut as its land.
Now that sky was gray, full of gathering clouds and cool moist air. The wind carried droplets of freezing rain with promises of more to follow. Olivier crossed her arms, hunching as a strong gust whipped the flag behind her. Her nose wrinkled. Two days ago, she would have never imagined – let alone tolerated – the red and white stripes emblazoned with a snarling black bear flying over Fort Briggs.
She'd captured many such flags over the years, pried from the frozen hands of slaughtered soldiers. Under her orders, the men and women of Fort Briggs had defaced them with crude paintings, hanging them over the walls and setting them ablaze in full view of their enemies.
Yet Olivier now found herself cloaked beneath the shadow of that enemy flag worrying whether a cargo van full of Drachman soldiers would safely return before nightfall. These people whose blood enriched the soil at her northern door, whose powder-blackened hands had sent countless Amestrian soldiers to their deaths, and whose fate was now inextricably tied to her own.
Had it really been less than forty-eight hours since her world turned upside down?
"They're in here, ma'am. Found them wandering around the old mine tunnels towards Baschool."
Still dressed in his snowsuit and goggles, the mountain guard adjusted his rifle as he led Olivier to the holding cells. Their synchronized footsteps echoed through the hall, bouncing off the metal ductwork pumping heat throughout the fortress.
"You confiscated their weapons?" she asked by habit, pleased when she received the expected answer.
"Of course, ma'am." The guard raised his goggles to reveal dark and tired eyes. "Frankly, I don't know what to make of them. Seems only a few understand Amestrian and none of them put up a fight. Except that redhead with the bundle. She fought like a hellcat when we tried to take it."
Olivier curiously surveyed the prisoners. There had to be nearly twenty of them crammed into the tiny cells. Though dirty and torn from days of hard travel, their clothing bore hallmarks from a style not common in Amestris for the past half century. The prisoners smelled of sweat, soot, and rot. Most were middle-aged or older, their mistrustful eyes reddened and weary. A handful of young faces were scattered across the crowd, but only one head of carrot-red hair.
It belonged to a woman in her thirties. Her freckled face blanched as Olivier approached. Warily, she hugged a drab green blanket to her chest, fingers protectively clenched around the threadbare fabric.
Olivier bent to meet her at eye level. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
The prisoner nodded, carefully searching her interrogator's face. Pleased at the progress, Olivier pressed further. "What's in the blanket?"
"First, promise you won't send us back," the woman countered, fumbling a little over the foreign words.
The demand startled Olivier, though her face retained its impassive façade. As the commander of Fort Briggs, she'd made a careful study of her northern enemies. Even so, the Drachmans were fiercely secretive and news from St. Ivansburg often arrived weeks or even months late. She'd heard only of a great famine sweeping the country and of a few civil demonstrations.
Were it not for the distinctive weapons carried by this ragtag group, she could almost believe they were refugees forced from their homes by hunger or infighting. But Olivier had fought enough Drachman soldiers to recognize their arms. The confiscated rifles all bore the pear-shaped bolt handle and wooden stock of the Imperial Army's standard issue. These were no simple peasants and this was no simple request.
"Give me one good reason not to shoot you on the spot," Olivier warned.
If Drachma had wanted to send spies, they would never have sent such a conspicuous group. For this many soldiers to cross enemy lines and surrender without a fight, something had to be very wrong.
Slowly, the redhead seemed to reach a conclusion. She looked her captor in the eyes and took a deep breath, gently unwrapping the top of her bundle. Within the blanket's folds lay an unconscious girl, her chubby face unnaturally pale. Her chest barely rose with each shallow breath. With a worried frown, the woman smoothed a lock of sweaty hair away from the child's face, kissed her forehead, and rocked her softly.
"Because we need your help," she said, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. When her pale eyes turned back to Olivier, she spoke with renewed determination. "Because our princess needs your help."
Olivier watched the red-orange rays of sunset diffuse across the horizon. Overhead, the nimbus clouds grew heavy and dark with precipitation. Already, she could smell the snow. The damp cold filled her lungs with every breath, but she remained stubbornly committed to her post. Absentmindedly, she filled her cupped hands with a hot breath and pressed them to her chapped cheeks.
Her thoughts turned to the girl now resting in the infirmary. At first, she hadn't believed the claim. Why would anyone take the tsar's oldest child to Amestris – to Fort Briggs – for help? Olivier easily could have held her for ransom, demanding exorbitant concessions from the Drachman government in exchange for their princess's safety. Any warlord would leap at such an opportunity, so why seek refuge among sworn enemies?
The longer Olivier locked eyes with that prisoner, the more she understood. She'd seen eyes like that years before, set in the face of a conflicted boy gritting his teeth as she demanded answers. The little brat had swallowed hard, refused to talk, and told her point-blank to guess the reason why. In the Drachman woman's glare, she recognized the familiar blaze of resolve. She didn't trust Olivier, nor did she have any reason to. Circumstance had reduced her to a hereto unthinkable decision: place faith in her enemies or die.
Olivier studied the road winding up to her fortress. As dusk settled over the frozen landscape, her men laid rock salt and lit beacons along the treacherous path. Still there was no sign of the cargo van. Her ears pricked at the sound of crunching snow, and she turned to see a gray-haired man approaching with a thermos in each hand.
"Coffee for your thoughts?" he asked, offering a steaming cup as he sat beside her. She humphed and took a sip. "That'll be 200 cens."
Olivier slurped in defiance, narrowing her eyes to an icy death glare. With a growl, she dug around her pocket for coins. No one, not even the boss, got special treatment at Fort Briggs; an edict her men enforced with sadistic glee. Finally, she flung a coin at her subordinate's feet.
He picked it up with a snort, the wry grin quickly disappearing from his blunt-featured face. "Where's the other half?"
"Put it on my tab, Henschel."
Olivier rolled her eyes. The drink hardly qualified as coffee – more like hot mud – but she took another sip regardless. At least it was warm. Henschel crossed his arms and tucked his hands into the folds. For someone who claimed to want her thoughts, the second lieutenant seemed more inclined to share his own.
"You think they'll really come back?" he asked, glancing at the foreign flag flying overhead. He frowned with distaste.
Olivier could empathize. Like their unexpected guests, her men had taken a huge risk. When they cut the phone lines, silenced the radios, and hoisted the Drachman flag over Fort Briggs, the rest of Amestris saw an invasion. To her own soldiers, it looked like the start of a new coup d'etat. Many of them had fought alongside her in taking down the Bradley regime, knowingly branding themselves traitors in the eyes of the public. Though later deemed heroic, they'd made their decisions with no guarantees of honor or recognition.
Olivier now knew beyond a doubt that her men would follow her to the grave. But by the grace of whatever powers presided over this messed up world, she vowed never to lead them there. All of them had taken oaths to serve the best interests of their country and its people – and unlike that brood of vipers nestled around their horseshoe table, perfectly safe in the bomb-proofed bowels of Central HQ, the soldiers of Fort Briggs had meant every word.
Just as she began to respond, a pair of headlights flickered over the crest of a hill. Flurries dusted the recently plowed road as a cargo van skillfully zigzagged its way up the mountain. Within minutes, it reached the fort and disappeared from her line of sight. Olivier turned to her second lieutenant with a triumphant smirk, standing with hands on her hips.
"You were saying?"
Henschel grinned and saluted her with his thermos. "Right as usual, Boss."
Olivier stepped inside with Henschel following behind. The familiar warmth prickled her skin and stuffy air filled her lungs. They descended the stairs, joined by curious personnel as the intercom crackled with the long-awaited news. Everyone from the most decorated soldier to the newest mechanic's apprentice held their breath, wondering if the Drachman squad had really succeeded in their mission.
As the van pulled into the fort, the retractable door lowered back to the ground. The men and women of Fort Briggs formed a semi-circle around the vehicle, craning their necks to look over the crowd. Olivier took her place at the front. Assuming a wide stance, she instinctively traced the hilt of her sword. When the front doors opened, she sighed with relief.
"Well Galina," she asked. "Did you find him?"
A huge smile broke across the woman's face, her loose braid bouncing as she jogged to the back of the van. She gripped the handle and pulled, frowning when the door remained stuck. After a brief exchange in Drachman, one of her companions grudgingly hobbled over. He jiggled the handle, swearing under his breath and scratching his greasy head.
"Try this!" a mechanic called from the crowd.
He tossed a crowbar to another Drachman dressed in a too-small uniform pilfered from the laundry room. The man winced at the airborne tool, protecting his bandaged head with an alarmed squeak. When the crowbar clattered to the floor, he reluctantly grunted his thanks and set to work.
As the steel door warped, Olivier mentally compiled a to-do list for their guest. First, she needed him to fix the damn door on this cargo van. That brute seemed intent on destroying the stupid thing. Next, maybe he could repair those old uniforms and get out the blood stains. It wasn't her fault some of the idiot transfers thought she was kidding about every soldier having to fight a grizzly bear. At least now she knew who deserved their ranks. Of course, the Drachmans had the most pressing need. They – and now she – had staked not only their lives, but the fates of their countries on it.
With the crowbar finally lodged in the jamb, the Drachman pulled with his full weight. The door creaked open, clattering to the floor with a resounding thud.
Suddenly, Olivier found herself staring at the very boy who had occupied her thoughts for the past two days. Now a young man, he met her gaze with the same fiery gold eyes she remembered, and yet she had trouble reconciling her memories to the image before her. Years ago, she'd thought the red coat, leather pants, and elevator shoes were tacky enough, but things had clearly gone downhill from there.
She looked from the mussed up ponytail to the fuzzy pink scarf, the pitiful remains of a long overcoat, and eventually to an unsettling bulge in his pants. Olivier's eye twitched as she palmed her face, trying to ignore the raucous laughter erupting through the room.
"Hello Fullmetal," she groaned, stifling her own snicker. "We're happy to see you too."
And this time, she meant it. She really, truly did.
Doc adjusted her glasses and examined the IV bag. Judging from the patient's absorption rate, she'd need to swap out another half liter of saline before midnight. The little girl still lay unconscious in the infirmary bed, but her appearance had greatly improved. The scaly skin had turned soft, supple, and pink as her dehydrated body eagerly soaked up the fluids. The sunken cheeks had returned to their natural roundness and the bags under her eyes had mostly faded.
Since the Drachmans arrived two days before, everyone at Fort Briggs had taken a keen interest in the princess, stopping by on breaks and during meals to ask about her recovery. When they looked upon her sleeping form, most smiled and commented on how much better she appeared. In the logical part of her mind, Doc knew it was true. The girl did look much better, but her patient's many well-wishers didn't see the true cause for concern. The real mystery lay cleverly tucked beneath a thick quilt. This kid needed a miracle and Doc's ministrations had yet to produce one.
Suddenly, the intercom crackled. "Crrrrr! Attention ground level personnel. Van approaching south entrance from five o'clock. Estimated arrival in ten minutes. Crrrr…over."
On cue, doors slammed and hurried steps echoed just outside the infirmary. Doc rolled her eyes. Normally, she'd have given them a good thrashing for disturbing her patient's rest, but she'd just replenished the kid's morphine drip. She doubted even an earthquake or cannon fire would wake her.
The same could not be said of the old man awkwardly curled into a creaky chair at the girl's bedside. His arms lay folded over the scratchy blanket with his head propped on top. Loud jarring snores ruffled his mustache with each exhale, drool puddling on his sleeve. At the thundering footsteps, he choked mid-snore and sat up disoriented. His hair stuck up as he fumbled for his glasses, forgetting for a second he'd lost them days ago. But finally, with a quick shake of his head, he seemed to get his bearings.
"Valyusha?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with a deep yawn.
"Still resting."
Doc peeled back the blanket. Somehow 'Valentina Grigorievna Zolotova' seemed far too big a name for such a young kid. Then again, this whole situation was too much for a child to bear, princess or not. She'd have to remember the nickname.
Gently, Doc pressed along the princess's arm. The bandage showed no signs of moisture or discoloration and the surrounding skin was still taut, shiny, and nearly black, gradually fading to light purplish-green at her wrist. Even as the sole medical officer of Amestris's northernmost outpost, Doc had never seen such a strange case of frostbite.
When Valentina first passed into her care, Doc had given her some morphine and submerged the arm in a circulating water bath. Within half an hour, the discolored skin had felt warm to the touch. She'd dried the arm and wrapped the child's body in a thermal blanket. After thawing the frostbitten tissue, keeping it warm was key.
Yet when Doc now pressed the bruised skin, it once again felt cool. None of this made sense. Frostbite started with the epidermis, progressing into the fat, blood vessels, and connective tissue with prolonged exposure to the cold. Most of Valentina's arm resembled an ugly bruise with hints of almost-healthy white and pink poking through – undoubtedly painful, but living tissue regardless.
So why did the discoloration continue to spread? Why didn't the arm retain any warmth? Doc read the questions on the old man's face and grieved that she had no answers. With resignation, she again wrapped the arm as tightly as she could.
"Why don't you go back to sleep, Commander Orlev?" she suggested. "We have a long day tomorrow."
Galina carefully balanced the blankets as she walked through the dormitory halls. The stack came up to her chin, radiating warmth and the scent of clean laundry. After so many hours crammed shoulder to shoulder in that shoddy cargo van, she longed for a hot shower and a comfortable bed. The vehicle's suspension was completely shot, and every curve or dip in the road had jostled her mercilessly. Her muscles were sore and she already knew the bruises would follow.
But right now, she didn't care. For the first time since she'd arrived in this godforsaken country, Galina's heart swelled with hope.
She nuzzled the warm blankets, enjoying the scratchy sensation on her cheek. The fort dispensary had given her plenty in preparation for the incoming cold front. One good whiff of the outside air had sufficed to confirm the blizzard already on its way. Even so, the Amestrians had been unnecessarily generous. Galina could easily envision herself burrowing under that mountain of blankets, wrapping them all around herself in a cozy cocoon.
She paused outside Commander Orlev's room and stared out the window. Freezing rain pelted the glass, small crystals gathering around the frame. By morning, it would be covered in ice and the sunlight passing through would refract into myriad colors against the whitewashed walls. The forced heat would rattle through the ductwork as the boiler room workers strived to conserve coal, and the chill would seep into old and young bones alike.
Galina looked to the blankets in her arms. In St. Ivansburg, she'd spent even the coldest winters with less, accustomed from childhood to require little in the way of creature comforts. With a soft smile, she left an extra blanket in front of the old man's door.
Despite the gloomy weather, she felt a wave of relief. They'd gotten him, really gotten him. The Fullmetal Alchemist was here inside this fort; and with him on their side they could do the impossible. The road ahead would be long and rough – even an alchemist couldn't turn back time – but maybe with this one lonely wrong undone, the scales of justice would begin to tilt in the right direction.
Once Fullmetal understood the situation, Galina had no doubt he'd agree to help. If even the infamous Ice Queen of Briggs had lent her support, how could the People's Alchemist say 'no'?
Alchemist. The word still tasted bitter on her tongue. The Amestrians claimed it was science, so who was she to argue? Galina's own schooling had been cut painfully short and she was acutely aware of the gaps in her knowledge. If the educated men said it was science, then science it was. No matter how much it smacked of black magic.
Galina would quash her own painful memories: a tattooed palm clamping her mouth, a man's body swelling until his skin could no longer contain his bloated organs, that subdermal prickle stinging every inch of her inflamed nervous system. If alchemy was not the dark art she initially thought, but instead just a powerful weapon, then Galina would bite back her fear. She would place her faith in that weapon because, in the right hands, it might just be enough to protect what little good remained.
"Tsst!"
The sudden hiss drew her attention. Galina rapped her knuckles against the door and poked her head inside. She winced in sympathy for the aging soldier within.
With a firm grimace, he carefully unwound a bandage from his head. Dried blood crusted his temple, the weaker scabs pulling away as he slowly removed the gauze. He coughed into his elbow, straining the too-tight jacket of his borrowed uniform until it gaped at the seams. Galina stepped inside, setting the blankets on the dresser beside a ceramic pitcher.
"Need some help?" she asked.
The man looked at her with dark weary eyes, but smiled regardless. "You're too good to me."
"Maybe," she mused, cutting a piece of gauze and swirling it in the pitcher. She sat beside him on the creaky bed.
"You should've left us at the train," he chided as she pressed the wet gauze to his wound. He sighed at the pleasantly cool sensation. "It was dangerous to wait. What if someone saw you?"
Galina pouted, unwinding a fresh bandage. "They didn't."
"You hope."
"Yes," she said. He leaned his head back for her to wrap the new bandage. "This time, Nikita, I really do hope."
Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading, everyone! I've been excited to get to this plot twist, as it's the first of many twists and turns coming up soon.
Of course, huge thanks to ProfessorPalmarosa for beta-reading!