Whumptober 2020 Day 3: My Way or the Highway—Manhandled/Forced to their knees/held at gunpoint.
Word Count: 887
Author: Katie/Ally (aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl)
Rating: T
Characters: Alex Louis Armstrong
Summary: Ishval leaves a lasting impact on Alex Armstrong.
Notes: Poor Alex :(
To His Knees
Alex Louis Armstrong was always taught that Armstrongs stand tall and strong—both physically, and metaphorically. They're a proud family, a family of good reputation, and a family that is tall and proud. For him and his siblings, it wasn't just the Armstrongs either. No, his mother's side, the Tallmounds, they, too, have always been a proud, tall family, with strength behind them. He was taught from a young age that to be an Armstrong and to honor your heritage is to do your duty and carry on the family legacy. His father taught him that. His mother taught him that. Olivier taught him that. Even Amue and Strongine taught him that.
Yet now he found himself brought to his knees. Physically, he was kneeling, on the ground, but it wasn't just in the physical sense that he was on his knees. It was in every sense of the word, every turn of the phrase, that he felt he was on his knees. Physically, mentally, emotionally, he was on his knees here, in this sand, the body of an Ishvalan child cradled in his arms. An Ishvalan child, who should have been playing, running around, or in school. An Ishvalan child that he should have protected. An Ishvalan child that he killed—maybe not with his own hands, but his alchemy put up walls, and those walls allowed soldiers to herd the people in and shoot them.
He shuddered.
He was a disgrace. How could he have allowed this? How could he have been part of this? He's killed children. Children. Children were to be protected, to be loved and cherished. Children were to always been looked after. There was no greater honor in life then to be entrusted with the smallest and most vulnerable in society, and to protect and care for them. His family deeply believed that.
And yet, here he was, his alchemy, the alchemy of his family, the alchemy he had thrown his heart and soul into, causing the means of death for this child. All he could do was hold the body of the boy, and weep over what he had wrought.
Get up! A voice screamed at him, in his head, and it sounded suspiciously like Olivier. Get up! You are an Armstrong! If you have something to say, then stand up tall and say it!
She—it?—was right. He should. But he couldn't. He had tried to say his piece, from his knees, holding this child's body, and he had been shut down before he could even start expressing his thoughts. They had dismissed him immediately, without listening to a word he said.
Make them listen! Stand up! At least have the personal dignity and honor of standing up for what you believe in! At least show your strength in that, if nothing else!
His heart clenched. He wanted to. He desperately wanted to. But it was like something was holding him in place, holding him down, and he couldn't move. How could he stand tall, when he had allowed this? When he had helped to cause this? It was a battle in his heart, and in his head.
"Major. Major!" It took him a moment to realize that there was a soldier talking him. "Major Armstrong, we have been ordered to escort you off the battlefield."
Alex looked over at him, and for a moment, rage filled him. Indignation flowed through his very bones. How could they do this? How could they just sit there and do this and not feel a thing about it? How could they look at all of the children, of the mothers and grandmothers and fathers and sister trying to protect their children, and no feel a thing? His hands tightened on the body of the boy, and he tensed up. The soldier must have noticed, because he suddenly backed up a few paces, removed his gun and aimed it at him.
For along moment, Alex and the soldier stared at each other, as the soldier held him at gun point. It was like he was balanced on the precipice of what to do. But he could still feel the weight of the boy's body in his arms, growing colder by the second. What good would more death do? What good would more destruction do? What good would it do to fight him? What good would it do, to try to stop this by himself? All he would do is walk to his death.
Alex drooped again.
The soldier seemed to take that as a sign, and motioned for the other soldiers to come in. Cautiously they did, and within moments they had taken the body of the boy from him, manhandling it first, without an ounce of compassion, and then manhandling Alex himself as they pushed him up off his knees and led him away. He couldn't even bear to look back and see what happened to the body of the Ishvalan boy.
Coward. The not-Olivier voice seemed to spit out, and Alex found that he couldn't disagree.
He might be technically walking now, albeit, at gun point, and being manhandled through the war-torn streets, but this place had still forced him to his knees, and he had the feeling that it wouldn't let him stand for a long time to come.