Succubus
By Kurama-sweethart (Moe Shmoe)
Pairing: Mainly Lust x Roy with mentions of Lust x Marcoh
Rating: R for the general theme
Warnings: Alternate Animeverse, Spoilers for Ishval
Words: 1297
I.
The Rules were kept but never spoken of, known but not acknowledged; just simple barriers that dictated acceptable behavior from things that weren't even worthy of sin.
The nature of their existence was to break taboo; to attempt things condemned by those who thought themselves worthy of judgment. In their world, sin was accepted as long as it was controlled and regulated and smothered.
Greed. Envy. Wrath.
Yet, those things seem so petty and amateur: for those who only wish to poke and make fun at the face of morality, not to truly test its bounds.
At least, not how she wants to.
When she thinks of what Father might say, how He might preach on about His precious Rules, she laughs. If there is one thing to remember, He'd say, it is that you can never lust after those who can reach the deliverance their God can offer. Those who are human.
They wouldn't understand you, He'd say, only those who know you, who know your true nature, can ever take you.
What He really means is something much more sinister, and as much as she pretends to be ignorant, she knows it.
Who could ever love a sin?
But Lust applies more to those Rules than any of her brothers; how could even He, Pride, really understand her need any better than anyone else? Understand the pure, frothing desire that courses through her very veins?
He can't. Because no one can.
Which is why she's here, nestled amongst crates and filing cabinets, waiting for her chance at a passion that wasn't His, nor theirs but, instead, only hers.
II.
The morning was hazy with smoke, startlingly quiet and suspiciously calm. If Roy had been a more superstitious or even faithful man, he'd have taken it as an omen of the hostility to come. Three uneventful weeks had passed since the third battle and as far as the war was concerned, things were looking up.
"Major," A sergeant sputtered, racing up to Roy's tent and thrusting a sheet of paper in his face. "Sir, the Alchemists are going to be deployed."
Scowling, Roy glared at the inferior officer, eyes quickly scanning the small print. "And you're sure that we're leaving now?"
"Yes, sir." He replied meekly, "There's been another attack. Eastward."
"Fuck," Roy cursed, crumpling the paper in his fist and taking off towards the General, who was standing towards the North side of their camp. "General Robertson!" He saluted, shoving the paper into his hands. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Ah, Major Mustang," The General replied nonchalantly, gesturing a greeting. "At ease. What seems to be the problem?"
"Why are we being deployed? What's going on?" Roy demanded, as formally as possible. He couldn't afford to be charged with insubordination, now.
The lines in the General's face multiplied considerably. "So Sergeant Fuery did make it to you." Frowning, Robertson paused, studying the wear of maturity on the face of his subordinate; still a child in his eyes, yet a man in Roy's own. "The Ishvarites launched a surprise attack on a blockade, just a few miles East, outside the country lines. They have sent an urgent distress message, and I intend to answer."
"When do we deploy?" Roy asked, tensing. He knew he wouldn't like the answer.
"Listen, Mustang," The General replied softly, placing a reassuring hand on Roy's shoulder. "I know you were hoping that all this would all be over, and believe me, I do too. But it's not and you just have to live with that. –
We leave at noon."
Saluting, his only attempt to show he understood, Roy turned sharply on his heel and marched to his tent to gather his things. If this battle went on to be a repeat of their last, chances were that the military would loose much more than just a few men.
"Which is why I'm going, Maes," Roy said to his canteen, "Which is why I'm going to make sure we win this war."
III.
By the next evening, the small unit that had been sent to aid the blockade attack was still a mile away and devoid of half their original provisions. The General declared to his tired, worn army that they would arrive at dawn, and that supplies were to be used conservatively. Thankful of the chance to rest, Roy hastily set up his tent and turned in without eating.
His sleep was fitful and interrupted, plagued with nightmarish visions that left him sweaty and groping his mind for what exactly lived in his dreams.
"Leave her alone!" Screamed a man behind him, and Roy tried to look over his shoulder at the speaker. Instead, he saw nothing but a bloodied X and red eyes and familiarity.
Then another joined in; a strong, demanding voice that spoke in a tongue foreign to him. "A'yua, maich dei! Inta haon Ishvaru r'mast!"
"A'yuda!" Screamed a response from the void. A woman's voice, now, anxious and pitiful. "A'yuda, kan fo'la miente! A'yuda dii maich Ishvaru jas v'e!"
Roy wanted to respond to them, to understand the pain that these people were caused. But he couldn't, and the more he concentrated the more his dream seemed to trickle away like water cupped between his fingers.
"Have faith!" Once again, the first voice spoke so he could understand; whether it was intentional, Roy never knew. "Have faith in Ishvala!"
"Nein!" Seethed the second passionately, as if cursing the other two. "Nienka a'yua dii ja entalme!"
Another pained scream, the woman, Roy knew. Her voice was growing weaker. "A'alla! Xii mian'th jas v'e dii ja maich r'mast!"
"Major?"
Startled awake, Roy sat up quickly and pressed a palm to his forehead. "Sergeant Fuery." He replied breathily, peeling his sweat slicked bangs from his skin.
The subordinate swallowed and pushed his eyeglasses further up his nose. "General Robertson sent me to rally the alchemists. You're going into the blockade."
Remembering their last encounter, Roy tried to smile cheerfully. "Thankyou, Fuery. Dismissed."
Saluting, the young sergeant made his way to the next tent, leaving Roy to ponder his broken dreams of foreign specters and warfare.
IV.
"A'yuda and A'alla?" Marcoh asked quietly, running fingers over his scuffed facial hair. "The names don't belong to any troops, no. Why do you ask?"
Shaking his head, Roy smiled and raised his arms to shrug. "No reason. I heard them somewhere."
"Well, you might not have been hearing names at all," the doctor continued casting nervous glances to their troops. Their squadron had fallen behind the General, which gave the two ample room to talk. "'A'yuda' is from the eastern dialect of Ishvala, which means, literally, 'help'; and 'a'alln' is the word for 'sinful', so 'a'alla' would mean something like 'I have sinned'."
Groping his mind for the details of his dream, Roy was sure that those were the words said. "Would that dialect be spoken in the city of V'oire, from the third battle?"
"Well, yes," Marcoh answered, somewhat cautiously. "But I don't know how that connects to the words you heard."
When Roy didn't answer, only mulled over it more, the doctor continued, "Where exactly did you hear this language, anyway? V'oire was the last city to use that dialect, and no one here should be fluent."
"I know I heard it within the camp." Roy stated, leaving no room for question. "Someone here knows the language."
Frowning, causing the creases below his eyes to deepen, Marcoh shook his head. "Well, be careful. There is a lot of controversy where V'oire is involved, and I'd hate to see you be accused of racial slurs."
The doctor's words were calculated, said with care as to what exactly his message implied. Not bothering to thank him, Roy fell back amongst his own company of state alchemists.
TBC.
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