On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me
Twelve Drummers Drumming
Roy Mustang pulled his thick coat tighter across his chest and adjusted his wool hat on his head, oddly grateful to the eye patch for keeping at least half of his face protected from the bitter chill.
He could hear sounds in the distance, like drumbeats or gunfire, and every so often the clouds above the mountains flickered with an odd yellow green light. Lightening? Bombs? Alchemy?
He was waiting for orders.
He could be waiting for death.
Had he been in battle so many times that he was numb to the sensation of his life hanging precariously in the balance, or was he merely freezing?
He had had enough of this post. He had had enough of waiting, of guarding, up north in the bitter cold. He had had enough of accepting his fate, accepting his demotion, of not going after his goals. He wanted to return to Central, to return to Riza and collect his unit, but now the attack that intelligence had been predicting was truly playing out.
If he made it out of this, he would return.
The real Roy Mustang would return.
eleven pipers piping
ten lords aleaping
nine ladies dancing
eight maids amilking
seven swans aswimming
six geese alaying
five golden rings
four calling birds
three french hens
two turtledoves
and a partridge in a pear tree