Roots of Violence
Shades of Grey series: Shade - Smoke
D M Evans
Disclaimer - not mine, all characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa et al and funimition, Square Enix and probably other people I'm leaving out.
Rating - FRM (for violence and sexual suggestion)
Pairing - None
Time Line - Oh this would be way before the events of the anime and/or manga and really this whole Shades of Grey series is my own little alternative reality and all the background details for Roy Mustang here are totally made up (give me a mysterious background and I can't help but fill it up). We know next to nothing about his life before the military and unlike Armstrong, he never talks about his family so I had to wonder why. And just how did he become friends with Hohenheim?
Summary - As one young boy tries to escape the ugly home life he faces, violence follows him as does a mysterious man with a peculiar name.
Author's Note - This is the first story in the series for the shades of grey challenge at colorific. All the stories in this series will be in the same alternative reality. Thanks to SJ for the beta.
Author's Note - Warning, there are intent-to-rape scenes, but nothing too horribly graphic (or over the R rating) but the intent is perfectly clear. For those who like to know, this story is complete in three chapters
CHAPTER ONE
This couldn't last forever, he told himself, gingerly sitting down on the window box seat. His backside hurt but not as bad as his shoulders. At least they had finally stopped bleeding. He wasn't crying in spite of the pain. No, that wouldn't happen. If he saw tears, Dad would beat him worse, teach him to be a real man.
He looked out the window at the run down industrial town he called home. There had to be better life outside of Satie where half the factories were out of business. Even if he lived long enough, Roy had no plans of ever staying in this place, working in a paper mill with the reek of it in his nose until the mill broke him like it had his father.
Of course, it was possible his father started out broken, in soul if not body. Roy knew his dad had been hurt at the mill years ago but he wasn't sure the hulking monster of his nightmares had been hurt anywhere near as bad as he pretended. He simply took the money the mill had offered him. When he started squandering it, Roy's mother - whom he resembled so closely that he had to endure his father's daily teasing about his girlie face - had complained a bit too much about her husband's spendthrift ways.
Roy remembered that beating like it was yesterday. Mom had stopped moving when her head hit the hearth. Father had left him there to scrub the blood from the stone while he took Roy's mother to the doctors. He never saw his mother again. Roy didn't need to be told what had happened and fear kept his mouth well and truly shut.
Usually Roy made a point of not being around in the afternoon. Dad worked at The Pit now, a scary little bar near the mill, pouring drinks and tossing out rowdies, taking his pay half in beer most nights, so in the evening the house was silent, almost safe. Mornings were sleeping time but afternoons were dangerous. His father lurked around the house like some boogeyman from the old stories his mother used to tell him.
This afternoon, he had made the mistake of losing himself in his reading. Mother had wanted him to have an education, to get him out of this place. That ended when she did. That didn't mean that his desire for learning had disappeared. It grew like fire fed with old wood, consuming all. The easiest way to feed the blaze was to go to Old Man Ravensdale. As much as Roy liked the blind alchemist, his father hated him, called him a freak, forbade Roy to go to the man's house. Roy went anyway, always coming away with another book from Mr. Ravensdale's library. The alchemist was thrilled to have someone who cared about the books around and now Roy would have to tell him that the latest book had ended up in the fireplace. He shook just thinking about it.
"Boy, get down here!"
Roy bit his lip against the pain as he got up but he didn't dally. Just a few more hours and his father would go to work and he'd have peace. He tried not to limp as he went down the creaking stairs. The boards felt mushy under his feet, as if the old house would just give up at any moment even under his slight weight. That was probably why his father had made a downstairs room his bedroom, no stairs and he could hear every move his son made. Whenever his father was home, Roy couldn't escape the feeling the man knew everything he did, like a spider knows when something touches its web. "Yes, Father?" he asked, not surprised to find his father collapsed in a chair, still stinking of last night's alcohol and days of no washing. His thinning, reddish blond hair lay lank over his head, giving him a greasy look that sickened Roy.
Jarrad Mustang barely looked up from the radio he was fiddling with, trying in vain to get something more than static. He took a drag on the cigarette he held between thick fingers. "Any reason dinner isn't started yet?"
Roy knew better than to say 'because you hit me so hard this afternoon it took until now for me to get up off the floor.' "There's stew left. I'll put it on. It always tastes better when it's sat a few days anyhow."
Jarrad snorted, smoke bubbling past his hammy lips. "You don't just look like a girl, you talk like one. Get my dinner on the table soon."
Roy ignored the insult, like he always did, and dragged into the kitchen. Lifting the heavy cast iron skillet onto the stove was hard with the way his welted shoulders burned but he managed it. He opened the door to the stove and added more lumps of coal to the cinders left over from earlier in the day then put in some dry kindling to make sure the stove would catch. It was slow, filling the kitchen with smoke. Peering into the living room, he could see his father was in no mood to get up and see what was wrong. Roy started to draw the array he had seen in one of Ravensdale's books, one he had practiced with before but he heard his father finally stirring so he dropped the lump of coal, wiped off the half-done array before his father saw it and wondered what it was, and went to wash his hands.
Water trickled out of the spigot, like ice licking up his hands. It would freeze up again tonight and in the morning he'd have to crawl under the house to unfreeze the pipes. He drew a preventive bucket of water now so he'd have something to heat come morning. Roy managed to get the stew on the table without his father coming in to hurry him along with a boot to his back side.
"You going to find something more useful to do with yourself than read tonight, boy?" Jarrad asked, in one of his infrequent pauses in ladling stew into his mouth.
Roy just nodded, even though he had no such plans. "Is there something you want me to do, Father?"
Jarrad's watery blue eyes flicked up and Roy wasn't sure what he had done to irritate the man but he had obviously done it. "Try not to be so mealy mouthed when you ask for chores for one, you little pantywaist."
Roy dropped his gaze, wondering for just a moment what he might be able to do to his father if he could get those arrays from Ravensdale's books to work right. They weren't hard to understand. He just didn't have any time or place to practice.
"Go get us some food. Everything should be marked down by now." Jarrad swung his bulk away from the table.
"But I don't have any money." That came out more like a whine than Roy meant it to and he paid for it. He caught the blow across his mouth squarely. Ducking only made his father angrier. Besides, he knew the blow wouldn't be really hard, not if his father meant for him to go into town. He rarely marked up Roy's face
"Gonna cry, milksop?" His father leered at him, waiting, hoping. He grunted when his son disappointed him then tossed some money on the table. "Look for some pastries while you're at it. You can't bake worth shit and my sweet tooth's acting up."
"Yes, sir." Roy gathered the money up then started putting the dishes in the sink.
"Do that later." Jarrad cuffed him lazily on the back of the head. "Get to market before everything closes up. I'll be at work by the time you get home."
Roy nodded but still paused long enough to put some water at the bottom of the stew pan to loosen it up for easier cleaning later. He lit out of the house as quickly as he could. He'd get to market then stop by Ravensdale's home to confess to losing the book he had borrowed. He hated going to the market so late in the day but his father refused to pay full price for anything. Maybe they really couldn't afford to. Looking at their ramshackle house, that was believable. Day old bread, some wilted vegetables and the less choice cuts of meat made up the haul he stuffed into the basket of his rusty bicycle. He remembered to stop for some pastries. He got his father some pecan sticky buns and spent a little time eyeing the leftover sour cherry strudel that he didn't have money for but really wanted. Mrs. Silverton let him have it for free.
Driving one handed while stuffing himself with slightly stale strudel, Roy headed for Ravensdale's home on the opposite end of town. The house was neatly kept and brightly painted. His daughter, Jenna, an herbalist, lived with him and the fragrant gardens that surrounded the place in the summer were surely her work. At the moment there wasn't much left to them, thanks to the frost.
Roy hoped she wasn't home. He liked Jenna a lot. She was very kind but she always wanted to know how he hurt himself. He would lie. She wouldn't believe him but what was there to do about it? She'd tell him it wasn't okay for his father to hit him or anyone and he'd remind her that the man running the sheriff's office in Satie drank every night at the bar his father worked at. There was no help for him here. He just needed to keep his head down and leave town when he was older. Like many boys from this place, he saw escape in the blue uniform of the military. They would take him in even if he didn't have much of an education or any skills beyond what he taught himself from Ravensdale's books. But he was only twelve and escape would have to wait.
He took the groceries to the deep blue door of Ravensdale's home and knocked. After all, leaving them in the basket would only invite theft by people or dogs. Of the two, he liked dogs better. He tried not to frown when Jenna opened the door. She had her long red hair pulled back and her hands were stained purple. "Hi, Miss Ravensdale, been working in the garden again?" He nodded at her hands. Maybe she had something that liked to grow in the winter, like pine trees or holly.
She laughed. "Been extracting dyes for Mrs. Payne. She's promised me a nice sweater. With as cold as its getting, I hope she hurries." Jenna eyed his ill-fitting clothing critically. "I should probably have her knit something for you, too."
"I couldn't afford it," he mumbled uncomfortably. He did the best he could with cutting down his much larger father's old clothing but it wasn't very good.
"Don't argue with a gift, Roy." She smiled warmly and he knew she meant well. She didn't understand that his father would see the new garment, wonder where it came from and take her generosity as a slight. "Come along, let's put the groceries in the ice chest."
He followed her meekly, his shoulders throbbing now from carrying a load. He couldn't help limping a little. Sh e gave him a sharp look then took the bag from him and put it away. She picked up a cup. "Father's taking tea in the library. You could use some. You look cold."
He grinned at her. Cookies usually went with tea in this house. "Thank you, Miss Ravensdale."
"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jenna?" She smiled as she steered him towards the library. She walked behind him and he knew she was testing to see how much he might be hurt.
"Sorry, ma'am."
"That's worse. It makes me sound old."
Roy looked at her. She was old, almost thirty, even if the pony tail made her look younger. He hesitated in the library doorway. Old man Ravensdale wasn't alone. Ravensdale was probably five years older than Roy's dad, which meant he was nearly ancient and he had the same red hair as his daughter. His face bore deep scars. He had told Roy that part of his alembic distillation array had blown up in his face, costing him his sight. Roy hadn't wanted to ask about those scars and was never sure if Ravensdale had told him because he was used to people staring and asking or because Roy had started reading the basic alchemic journals and felt the boy needed a warning about the dangers in alchemy.
The man with Ravensdale was a total stranger. At least several years older than Roy, the man had his dark blond hair pulled into a tail and round glasses perched on his nose. He looked owlishly at Roy through them. His face was open and friendly.
"Roy's here, Father," Jenna said.
"And not moving very well, so my ears tell me. Come in, son." Ravensdale waved Roy in. "Have a seat. We were about to have tea."
"Thanks, sir. Jenna brought me a cup." Roy shuffled over to a chair and winced as he eased himself into it. His back side was really hurting now from all the bike peddling.
"It's one of her special blends, something new."
"I just added some dried peaches and ginger. I hope it's good," she said, pouring for everyone. "And I saw that, Roy. You can hardly move."
Roy grimaced, ashamed he didn't hide it better. "I'm fine, really."
"I find that doubtful, boy," Ravensdale said, gently. "But you probably don't want to talk about this in front of guests. This is Hohenheim Elric from Rezembool. He's another alchemist, here about my old research." He waved a hand at the stranger.
Roy wrinkled his name. What kind of name was Hohenheim? "Hello, sir."
"This fine young man is Roy Mustang. I can barely keep him in books." Ravensdale laughed.
"Nice to meet you, Roy." Hohenheim smiled and the smile went all the way to his bright eyes. Roy wasn't used to friendly people and it made him uncomfortable. Father's friends weren't nice but at least it was familiar.
"And let's have a look at the damage this time, Roy. I'll go get my kit," Jenna said.
"I really am fine and Mr. Ravensdale, sir, I'm sorry. I lost your book. I didn't mean to," Roy said, his lower lip trembling.
"You mean your father took it," Ravensdale said, sadly.
"I lost it," Roy repeated stubbornly, not about to talk about this in front of a stranger.
Ravensdale sighed, sipping his tea. "Is it retrievable at all?"
Roy shook his head then remembered the man couldn't see that. "No, sir. I'm sorry."
"Well, I know it's not your fault, boy." Ravensdale held up a hand. "You take excellent care of my books. He particularly likes the alchemy ones, Hohenheim."
"Really?" Hohenheim's eyes glittered, interest apparent in them.
Ravensdale rubbed his chin. "He devours them."
"Have a cookie, Roy," Jenna interrupted, indicating the plate of them as she dumped cubes of sugar into the tea cups. "They're the clotted cream butter cookies you like. I put some lilac I dried this spring into them as a special treat."
Roy reached for a cookie and she whipped around, catching the hem of his shirt. She had it up over his head before he could even pull away. She hissed, seeing the bruised and abraded flesh of his back. "I fell off my bike!"
"I know the difference between that and belt marks, Roy. Come along, go to my workshop. Here you go, Father." She put the tea cup and saucer in his hands. "Hohenheim, you can help yourself."
Roy shambled off to her workshop. There was no arguing with Jenna. She was the most headstrong woman he had ever known but he liked that she didn't let him get away with things while not being mean about it. It was like having an older sister. He held his shirt as he sat on a stool. Wordlessly, Jenna got down one of her salves and some cloth bandages.
"This is really bad this time, Roy. It might take more than marigold and comfrey to fix you up," she said, smearing his sore back with said mixture. The herbs both stung and cooled his flesh. Goose pimples popped up all over him. "You come back here every day so I can check for infection. You probably should go to the hospital."
"No, I'm fine," he said hurriedly. "I'll come back and you can take care of me."
"Lift your arms." As he did, she started winding the dressing around him. "Do I need to remind you what you need to do?"
"Sheriff Williams doesn't care and you know it. He's as bad as Father," Roy replied, bitterly. His eyes stung with unwanted tears he refused to shed. "No one cares."
"I do." She dropped a kiss on his crown. "You're a good kid, Roy, never forget that."
He smiled at her and pulled his shirt on. "Thanks."
"Go on, go get your tea and cookies. I'll be in as soon as I wash up." She handed him a small jar of salve. "For other places, you can do it yourself." She knew from experience that Roy wouldn't take down his pants and let the herbalist treat him.
Roy pocketed it and headed back to the library. He paused outside the door, hearing his name mentioned. He knew eavesdropping was bad but he couldn't help himself.
"Does he really understand the alchemy books, Forrest?" Hohenheim was asking.
"All too well. He's got a sharp mind when his father isn't busy wasting it, too sharp for this town. We talk about the books but there's only so much I can do. I can't see what Roy's up to but I suspect he's experimenting on his own."
"That could get him in trouble." Hohenheim sounded disapproving.
Ravensdale knew about that? Roy was shocked. He thought no one knew he tried what he saw in the books.
"I know. I've been thinking about finding a real teacher for him. I don't think his father would put much into finding him if Roy just ran off. I have more than enough money to pay for his education," Ravensdale said.
Roy's mouth dropped. The old man had never told him this before. Who was this stranger that the alchemist would confide so much in him? Did he really mean so much to Ravensdale that the man would be willing to spend money on him and help him escape? Maybe he had fallen asleep over his tea and this was all a dream.
"I can help you with that, Forrest. I know several teachers who might be willing to take on someone new," Hohenheim replied.
"Thank you. I'm just glad I'm here and the boy trusts me. I'm pretty sure Jenna and I are the only ones looking out for him and to think we almost left. I dread to think what would have happened to such a promising young man otherwise."
"I didn't know you thought about leaving Satie, Forrest."
Neither had Roy. Ravensdale was right; he was the only one who gave a damn about him. Roy's heart thundered, terrified the only people in his life that made it bearable might move.
"Satie was dying and the only reason I stayed was that it was my home. But we have a new alderman and she's sharp. She realized that Satie's factories weren't its only resource. We've gotten a real reputation as an artist town with the dyes, weaving and pottery and now she's trying to lure an automobile manufacturer into town to take advantage of those old mills. Satie is starting to come alive again, so I guess we're staying. I'd hate to move all these books anyhow." Ravensdale laughed.
Roy started breathing again. He heard the angry tap of a foot behind him and he looked over his shoulder. Jenna was there, arms crossed over her chest. He flushed and flashed her a smile. "Sorry."
"Listening at keyholes is bad for you," she said and shooed him inside.
Roy took his tea - which was delicious - and his cookies - even more delicious - and sat quietly listening to the adults talking. He was acutely aware that Hohenheim kept staring at him like he was a cool, new bug the way Roy used to with his friends back when he was still in school when his mom was alive.
"Roy, it's getting late and the temperature is dropping. I can feel it," Ravensdale said. "You should be getting home and Hohenheim and I have to talk about some parts of my research that will probably just bore you."
Roy nodded. "Thanks for the tea and cookies. I'm sorry about the book."
"It's all right. Find yourself another one and I trust you'll find yourself a better place to study it," Ravensdale said.
Roy's eyes widened. "You'll let me have another?"
"Of course. I know it wasn't your fault, Roy. Help yourself." Ravensdale waved at the book cases that lined the walls. "I worry about you being all alone in that house at night. At least you should have something to keep you company, even if it is a book."
"I don't mind being alone, sir. It's peaceful," Roy said honestly, popping up to peruse the shelves.
Hohenheim got up and scanned the books as well. He plucked down a fat volume by someone called the Stormcalled Alchemist. "Here. I found this one very helpful when I was first studying alchemy. Have you read it?"
Roy shook his head and took the heavy book. "Thanks. I'll be back tomorrow, sir, unless you're busy," he added to Ravensdale.
"By all means, stop by. I'm sure Jenna will be much happier that way. She'll fret otherwise." Ravensdale's scarred face broke into a smile.
"Come on, Roy, I'll help you get the groceries back to your bike." Jenna put a hand on his shoulder.
"Thanks. It was nice meeting you, sir," Roy said, glancing back at Hohenheim.
"I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow," the man replied.
Once Roy got home and got the groceries into the ice chest, he checked to be sure there was ice. He filled some of the forms with water and put them outside to freeze overnight. He whipped through the dishes and hurried upstairs to his room. He put wood in the jagged opening of his fireplace. He hadn't even known there was one in the room, not for years. The former owners of the house had wattle and daubed over the opening for some reason and Roy had depended on the little vent that led into the kitchen over the stove for his heat. Two years ago his father had slammed him so hard into the wattle and daub that Roy had gone through the sticks and mud, revealing the old fireplace.
In the ashes of the previous fire, Roy sketched an array. He flicked on a lighter he had purloined from his father as he put his hand in the array. He grinned as he concentrated and the wood burst into flames. He was getting good with making fire. Dusting off his hands, he got into his threadbare nightclothes, keeping on his socks, and crawled under the thin covers with the book Hohenheim had found for him. He lost himself in the pages of alchemic theory.