A/N: Morning, everyone! Here we are with the new chapter of this story. A bit of a bridge before getting into the thicker of things and the future introduction of new characters - but what am I saying? That is for another time. Now, we have other fish to fry.
Thank you very much for reading and for your support! I hope you will enjoy your reading, and please let me know your thoughts about this chapter and the story as a whole. I very much appreciate your input and I'm thankful for it.
But for now, let's keep things simple and get into the steaming pot...
Chapter Eleven – The Conception of an Idea
Night time found Olivier Armstrong chewing absently on the round head of a fountain pen and skimming through her much-postponed and severely ignored correspondence. One leg dangling over the edge of the mattress, the Major General reclined on her unmade bed, the sheets styled into a rumpled mess tucked behind her back, and occasionally drummed a fingertip against the blank page of an opened sketchbook that occupied her lap.
One paper after another was discarded either into the dust bin or into another box, left there to be reviewed at a later point – whenever that would happen being something of a mystery. There was nothing notable so far, only uninteresting notices and some pamphlets that held no interest to her.
One after the other, she kept on discarding envelopes , wondering why she received so much mail. The military was producing too much unnecessary papers. Too many perfect strangers felt the need to communicate with her for reasons beyond her comprehension. It was all just a tedious affair, throwing paper after paper aside into the two aforementioned piles. She chanced a glanced at the ones that she would actually have to look into, and they were too many to her taste.
Curling her lips, she sighed.
More minutes passed by similarly, various scripts gracing her sight and holding none of her favours, until she eventually saw the familiar emblem of the Armstrong family. That caught her full attention.
Startled into sudden awareness, Olivier darted into a sitting position. After hastily closing the sketchbook on her lap and throwing it aside, she snatched the letter opening knife and swiftly slashed the envelope, preparing for the worst.
Between two very strained gulps of air, she recognised the loopy writing of her only brother, Alex, more beautiful than it was actually readable. Her breathing subsided to a normal cadence as she read the words that were being addressed to her.
By the end of the letter, lo and behold – Olivier was smiling.
Beloved Sister,
I am writing this letter in regards to certain news that make my entire being burst with unbridled joy. I hope these lines find you in good health and in the best of spirits, and remember that your well-fare is frequently the subject of my thoughts.
Having promised to deliver news, I am glad to let you know that the macabre war that had been ravishing the farther East for so long has finally ended. I know that you will eventually read about it through the official sources, but I wanted to be the first one to tell you about it.
Alas, I long that the words that follow would fill you with pride, my dear sister. However, with a very heavy heart, I am writing to you to present my most profound regrets for what I have done. I know that you will be disappointed by my conduct, but it is my duty to admit my dire faults as a soldier and my meagre gain as a human being. I did not follow all of my orders and refused to execute most of them, all in the vain hope that my actions would save some lives in such a grim conflagration. Unfortunately, I have not succeeded in all of my endeavours, but my soul is more at peace knowing that I have tried. Forgive me, my dearest Olivier, for not being exemplary in fulfilling my orders, as you would have wanted me to, but my heart feels just a little less heavy.
This letter also comes with a message from your old friends who have gotten in contact with me. I believe you know to whom I am referring to. They are both unharmed and asked me to assure you that they shall get in touch with you once everything settles down. That will have to wait, I am afraid, as matters seem rather uncertain at the moment, but there is much promise for the future.
I loathe taking up too much of your precious time, knowing how busy you are with your work, so I shall keep the rest of my letter short. I have the deepest and sincerest desire to thank you for your wishful thoughts regarding my well-being. I know that you had had them, even if you will not admit anything of such sort, and I do not have enough words of gratitude for them.
I regretfully realise that you will not reply to this letter, though I honestly hope that I shall stand corrected. Regardless of your decision, I will reassure our Mother and Father about your wellness once I see them, and give your warmest regards to our dear Sisters.
Please, do take care of yourself and stay safe.
We all miss you, and I the most,
Your loving Brother,
Alex Louis
P.S. I will undergo a short stage in the East, then I shall be off to Central to resume my previously occupied position. You might want to look into that, for I miss you terribly.
Olivier clicked her tongue behind her teeth. Bloody wanker of a brother that she had, always rubbing the family's worries into her face. He even had the audacity to suggest that she had thought of him in any way or form.
Not that she hadn't, but... well. He needn't know about it, not when he was already suspecting that she actually gave a damn about his existence.
"Good thing you're alive, Alex," she whispered to herself. "Huff, gotten me worried for nothing, you sod," she suspired and rubbed her forehead. Closing her eyes, she let her hand rest over them for a moment, the familiar weight easing her tension. After composing herself, she read the letter again.
She reached the short post scriptum and stared at it, bothered by its content. What had Alex discovered that he had felt the need to ask her to look into his temporary stage in the East? Had either he or those two idiots from the Academy that had befriended her, Mustang and Hughes, found anything interesting to look into? She would analyse it later, when the relief over the news truly subsided, but now was a time for something else.
Putting on her dark blue house robe, Olivier gripped the paper tightly into her fist and rushed out of her room. She ran down the corridor, the untied coat's flaps flowing behind her, and soon reached her destination, where she crashed into Miles' door rather unflatteringly. The man, in tune with his decorative spirit, had placed a welcoming mat in front of the entrance to his room, and she slid on it. Thankfully, the doorknob saved her from landing head first onto the flooring.
Miles must have heard the commotion, because his door soon opened. He had a hand on the doorknob and the other on his gun, but lowered them both after seeing her. "What in the world, Olivier! Are you alright? Did something happen?"
The woman nodded frantically, out of breath from traversing the hallway in record speed and coming close to breaking her neck on the small, heavily patched carpet.
"If you say so," he commented and gently pulled her inside the room. "Are you sure you are fine, though? You are awfully red in the cheeks."
"Yes, idiot, just- ahem-hem," she cleaned her dry throat. "Just read this, it's from my brother," she instructed and shoved the paper into his face. Miles took a step back to see what she was giving him, and took the offered letter with a raised eyebrow.
"Read it, Miles!" Olivier insisted in a raised voice.
"Yes, yes, I'm reading it, no need to shout," he retorted and began going through the contents of the letter.
The Major General watched him intently, practically counting the number of words rolling under his eyes.
"Now, really," he mumbled as he finished. "That is... um. How to put it..." He looked down at the short woman who was glancing up at him with her arms crossed over the chest.
"Just say it, Miles."
"Against the tide," he concluded after pondering his words. "Yes, that's what it is. Out of nowhere. I mean, don't get me wrong - it's amazing that this war is finally over." He shook his head. "Ah, for Ishbala's name, what am I saying? I'm actually the happiest for all this! It's tremendous news! But it just came so, well, I don't know. Abruptly?"
"Why, of course it did! That's why I've ran all the way here!" she exclaimed with exasperation. "Don't you see it, Miles?"
He frowned. "No?"
"I think we've caught a bigger fish!"
"We?"
"Yes, yes! You and me. And my stupid brother and friends," she added. "Don't you see it? It's all in there! Everything!" She waved a hand and put the other on her hip. "Though, none the matter now. Look, Miles. I think I have a good plan, and you are going to agree with it."
A very confused eyebrow lifted on Miles' forehead. "I'm trying, Olivier, believe me, but I am not sure I'm following what you mean. Like, none of it."
"Hush! You do what I say, no need to understand it at the moment," Armstrong cut him off. "I'm not really sure about it either, but- No, no, actually, I've got a good idea. We will wait for the official notice, yes, and then – and then, Miles! We make our move." She pointed both of her index fingers at his chest. "You will see!"
The Major looked at her like she had gone mad.
XXXXX
If there is one thing that life is notorious for, is its capability to find a way to continue, no matter what comes to pass. In the great chain of history, no event truly lasts forever, and so had been the case of the Amestrian-Ishbalan war that had ravaged the Eastern border for so many years.
Unfortunately, what the great conflagration left in its wake was a crippled population that refused to speak about the horrors that had happened at their front doorstep. The press was soon alerted by the new development in Ishbal, but few truly rejoiced in the news.
Those who lived in the East slowly picked up the pieces after having gone through hell for over a decade. Doctors, surgeons and automail mechanics were left to tend to the shaken civilians who had been caught in the midst of a war that no one had asked for and in which too many had paid too dearly for no evident gain. The people from the other regions of the state understood little of the pain that their fellow countrymen had experienced, and many lifted their shoulders at the front page's titles about the long-awaited amnesty.
Probably the ones who were the most grateful for the end of the war were the soldiers that were finally returning home to their families. They were being questioned by their concerned loved ones, quite innocently, why they were looking so grim even when they smiled.
No one was capable of answering to that question.
Just like in the rest of Amestris, life at the isolated Briggs Fort was taking its usual course. The only Ishbalan – just a quarter of it, really – had simply telephoned his parents to break in the news, and then returned to his daily work of what he fondly called 'making sure nothing blew up under his supervision'.
Not even his colleagues had made a big deal out of it, noticing the perfect platitude in Miles' reaction.
And so, nothing of importance happened for a long while - besides, perhaps, what follows.
One evening, after the business hours, Miles was cooed up in his room, polishing the soon-to-be chess table and smoothing the lacquered edges for the last time. Once that task was finished, the chess set that he had been working on for a few months would be finally completed and he, the diligent carver, would at last get to play the first game with Olivier, just as he had intended to do since the very inception of the project.
Not that it would happen anytime soon, for different reasons.
One of the aforementioned reasons was Buccaneer. The Captain was carelessly sprawled on top of Miles' bunk, idly throwing a leg up in the air from time to time.
"Hear me out, mate - your mattress sucks," the big man said abruptly and patted his thigh emphatically.
"Well, that's too bad," Miles commented idly, palpating the wood for imperfections.
"It's just too hard," Buccaneer continued, unbothered by his friend's linear tone. "Like, really. How can you even sleep on it?"
"Just like that."
"Yeah, sure, but it must be very uncomfortable. How come your back doesn't hurt? It must be a pain in the ass to roll out in the morning."
"For Ishbala's loving name," Miles exclaimed and turned around, "stop insisting with the bed! Unless you are very eager to get into it, then alright, it's another thing, but if you're not, shut up with it already!"
Buccaneer didn't look impressed. "Mate, you ain't seeing things right. I'm already in your bed. Literally," he said pensively and looked at his automail hand's fingers.
"Buccaneer!" Miles snapped. "What exactly don't you get from me asking you to stop with this? Don't you have anything better to do that grating my nerves?"
"Oops, Sir, I've been a naughty boy," the big Captain teased, and sent a mocking kiss on the Major's way. "You might have to punish me." Not being able to maintain his expression too long, Buccaneer burst into laughter at his own joke, his entire body shaking with it.
Miles snorted and shook his head. "Ta! You're one piece of work, Buc," he said amusedly. "You may be saying all that bravado, but I'm not so certain you'd enjoy any punishment that I had in mind for you."
"Now, now, Major, you're being an awful tease."
"I might just be, who knows." Facing the table once again, Miles blew air over the board and threw his arms in the air, stretching his stiff back. "Done," he announced triumphantly.
Buccaneer darted from the bed to look at the board. "No way... Done? Like, no joke?"
Miles moved the chessmen around, looking at each one of them to make sure they were positioned correctly on the board. Nodding self-pleased, he put the sandpaper in the tools box. "Mhm, no joke. It is finished," he said with a smile.
Buccaneer patted him on his back, hitting him like he was trying to crush his bones. "Thank Goodness! And good for you, mate, good! Only took you a thousand years!"
"You might not be aware of it, but I do have my job to do, you know."
"Yeah, I know," the Captain agreed. "But for now, you will stop sulking in your room and come down at the Doc's."
"Na-ah, my friend," Miles made sagely, "you are utterly mistaken. Now, I get to try the set I've been working on for, and I quote you, a thousand years."
"Seriously?" Buccaneer made scandalised. "Come on, Miles! Those hyenas are going to peel my skin off if I don't bring you along. Show some pity, man!"
"Well, good luck with wiping your blood from the floor, because I'm not doing it," the Major retorted most seriously.
"Have you changed positions with the queen? I swear, you are turning more ruthless than her and she's starting to grumble under her breath like you do. There's something weird going on, mate, I'm telling you – very weird. You should watch out."
Miles shook his head. "Nothing of the sort, don't worry." He chewed on his lower lip in thought. "You know something, Buc? You've convinced me. I'm coming over with you."
Buccaneer's face split into a wide grin. "You've saved me, my friend."
"And I deserve a statue for it. But first things first - we need to get the Major General out of her lair. We're getting her, and ourselves, utterly wasted."
XXXXX
Armstrong cursed loudly when she heard someone knocking at her room's door.
She had told Miles that he could enter without knocking if the door was unlocked – which it was usually until quite late in the night – or that he could simply use his own spare key that she had given him just in case. But no, her words had left him totally insensible. He had to knock and interrupt her reading every single time, because he called coming in uninvited 'impolite'.
She was going to show him what was actually impolite.
Thundering towards the door, the woman opened the door with a frown on her forehead. "What?" she demanded, noticing that her glare was, in fact, directed at Buccaneer's chest.
Lifting an eyebrow, she looked up at the Captain. Behind him, she distinguished the contour of the tips of Miles' ponytail, and that made her question what was going on. She put a hand on her hip. "Faster, Captain, I don't have all night."
"Pardon the intrusion, Sir, but Karley has this bottle of rum-"
"Crate," Miles interjected behind the big man's shoulder.
"Crate of bottles of rum," Buccaneer corrected himself, "and we were wondering if you'd like to join us."
The Major General looked him over. "Karley, you say?"
"Yes, Sir."
She looked over the Captain's bulky shoulder and glanced at Miles, who was standing on the tip of his toes to see anything from behind the man that was occupying the entirety of the door frame. "Now, that's a surprise. How come you've left your room, Major?"
Miles smiled easily. "I've just finished with the chess set."
"Ah, so miracles do happen sometimes. Alright, I suppose some celebrations are in order," she commented monotonously and inspected her nails. "At the Doc's storage room, I presume?" Both men nodded, even if Miles was barely visible. His ponytail nodded, at the very least. "Fine. Now get away from my door," she said and ushered them out.
Walking in the best of spirits, Miles and Buccaneer made their way to the storage room, where the team was arranging the many empty crates to resemble an assembly of chairs and tables. Redmyre was the first to observe them, and he let out a cry. "Oh, the Gods have been merciful!" he cried. "I love you so much, Major, I swear on me Mum's soul! This son of a bitch didn't want to open the bottles until you showed up, and when I thought nothing was to be done, there you are! You're such a sight for sore eyes," the ginger head exclaimed and pointed an accusatory finger at Karley.
Karley straightened up. "Watch it, Red, because I can very easily kick you out."
"Oho, you just try it, you cunt," Redmyre replied menacingly.
"No way, Major! You've finally left that fucking room!" the Doc exclaimed. "That's a wonder! What the hell were you doing in there, anyway?"
Like the sensible man that he sometimes was, Miles did not reply directly to that particular question – the gentleman never tells, or whatever expression was fashionable those days - but he opted to present the half of the truth that was bound to please everyone. "I've finished the chess set."
"Finally!" everyone echoed, like he had deprived them of air with his project. He didn't know what had gotten them so bitter about it. He had harmed no one, as far as he was aware.
"We've got the queen coming over, too," Buccaneer announced them.
The entire room looked at him in frozen shock, forgetting about Miles and his interminable wood carving.
Neil shot up to his feet from the floor where he was diligently wiping some glasses. He immediately gave them to the doctor, who barely caught them. "I must bring out the good cigars," he explained hurriedly and fled the storage room.
The others who remained started to fumble with their tasks. The doctor straightened the table cloth and placed the bowls of pretzels and nuts in a circle, lifting them from where they were forgotten on a random crate. Neil rushed back with a big box of cigars, the finest cut he had, especially bought for the times when the commander decided to join them at their little gatherings. Henschel grabbled with the light bulbs that hung from a garland, and Buccaneer busied himself with moving the makeshift chairs into something that imitated order. Redmyre unloaded the bottles that were secured in a nondescript chest, and Karley took every glass and wiped it properly until it shone brightly.
Miles, his pointy chin buried into the chequered fur of his colourful coat, smiled at how animated everyone became once they had heard that the Major General was going to join them. It was amusing how they all tried to make things as comfortable as possible when she was involved in the equation, very different from the disorganised mess they usually operated in. They all liked to do those little efforts for her and show how much they respected her.
He put his hands in his pockets, noticing he was the only one who was not doing anything. Buccaneer perked up and called him over. "Hey, princess, don't stand there pouting! Come give me a hand."
Just when they were finishing with the preparations, Armstrong appeared with a big package of almonds and another of biscuits. "Karley! I heard you had the bad idea to bring booze in," she announced herself and handed the bags to the doctor, who emptied them into separate bowls.
XXXXX
After night comes morning, and the one that followed the previous night had come way too soon.
Olivier was glaring at the rising sun, and that was nothing short of ordinary. However, she was doing it halfway out of the window, her hands gripping the radiator under the frame to steady herself, as her head was swimming splendidly and lights were exploding behind her eyes.
Miles, who opened his aching eyes after a deep slumber, saw Olivier's bottom dangling from the window sill. He smiled at the sight, then lamely buried his face back into the pillow.
It took him less than a second to realise where, and most importantly - how she was standing. "Olivier! What are you doing?" he asked her with concern.
"Looking outside," she grumbled and straightened her back. She was still glowering daggers at the sky, her hands holding onto the radiator for dear life. "Someone should shut the sun today. Maybe tomorrow, too."
"Stop looking directly into it," he advised and fit his nose into the pillow, asserting that the Major General was in no danger of slipping out of the window.
"Hm. Still, it's a good idea."
"Mhm."
They had drunk way too much. All of the team. Miles didn't know what devil had possessed Karley to bring that retched alcohol in the fort, nor what encouraged them to try to finish all of it – a near success, but a failure nonetheless – yet here they were, with splendid headaches and rheumy eyes.
He had returned to his room somewhere in the middle of the night, along with Olivier who had hung onto him like a life line. They had walked – or stumbled - with Buccaneer up to a point, given how their rooms were in the same part of the building, but after they had split, the other two officers chose the closest room to crash into, and that had happened to be Miles'.
They had fallen asleep as soon as their heads had touched the pillows, and woke up like they had been run down by cattle.
Thankfully, it was Sunday and they usually started the day much later. However, only a miracle could clear their minds from the fumes before the usual hours of opening the office.
Rubbing her sides, Olivier padded to the bed and sat down. She nudged Miles with her elbow. He groaned. "Wake up," she commanded.
The Major lifted a hand and shook his finger in a clear 'No'. Olivier didn't like the answer. "Yes, Miles, you are waking up." She elbowed him again. "Come on, Miles. Up you go."
Miles rumbled something incomprehensible and glared at her. "You are a horrible person, my dear," he told her.
"Don't be so sour, it's unbecoming. Besides, I'm making coffee."
"You're a sweetheart and I love you," he lifted on his elbows and grinned sweetly, but he looked like he was about to fall face first into the pillow. Olivier snorted, and the noise made her head throb.
Miles manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, the room shifting a bit too fast. He stretched, his joints popping, and yawned from the bottom of his heart. He looked at the crumpled bedding. "Olivier?"
"Mm?" she made from the bathroom, where she was filling up the kettle.
"Is there something wrong with the bed?"
She returned with the water for the coffee, regarding him quizzically. "Wrong? Hm, I don't know, never thought about it. Why are you asking?"
"Buccaneer has been exasperating me with it. It's too soft, then it's too hard, then it pokes him I don't know where-"
"So Buccaneer turned into a bed expert now? Why was he testing your bed, anyway?"
"He was breathing down my back to finish the chess set," he said.
An idea popped up in his head, ringing a little too loud as it did. "Actually, we could play chess until we sober up, what do you say? There's nothing like a working mind against a hangover!"
Olivier shifted her attention from the slowly brewing coffee to Miles, who appeared to be in marvellous spirits, ones that didn't match with his bleary eyes. She shrugged. "I guess we should break it in, as they say."
She started laughing caustically, remembering something he had said after one too many glasses. "Break it in," she chortled, "that's your speciality!"
Miles scowled at her. "From all the stupid things everyone has said last night, the only thing you recall is that. Seriously."
"Miles, honestly, you are the only one who said that his family bred with horses. After that, everything paled in comparison."
He groaned, exasperated from how many times he had heard about his words blunder in the course of the previous night. "That was a slip of tongue, and you know it. I meant that they raised horses, not that they bred with them! We're not horse fuckers, heavens!"
"Nu-uh, those are excuses. I think you knew what you were saying," she said suggestively and he frowned. The coffee began to boil and she turned the gas lamp off, but not before she traced the floor with a leg, like horses did when they were preparing to jump over a fence. She started cackling, sounding a bit like a hen making an egg.
Miles growled under his breath and took two mugs out of the cupboard with a grudge. In thanks, Olivier neighed loudly.
"I've changed my mind," he made petulantly as he filled the vessels with the dark concoction and left them on the middle table. "You're still horrible and I hate you, despite having made the coffee."
Olivier patted his shoulder. "Oh, no! Don't be so sad, baby boy," she assured him mockingly, "I'll take you to the stables later to play." She started laughing again.
"Gah! How long will I have to hear jokes about horses?"
"Forever, most likely. It's too good of an opportunity to make fun of you to just pass it up." She grinned. "And remember, Miles, you've said that you're going to help with the horses' training," she reminded him evilly. "Just wait until you mount one!" She raised her fist and shoved it upwards, like she was punching the air. "I'm calling everyone to see that! It's going to be a field day!"
Miles put a hand over his eyes and sat down on one of the table chairs. "Ugh, that's an image that's going to be hard to erase."
"Oho, you bet! And if you forget it, I'll make sure to remind you, don't worry," she promised and took a seat across from him. "So, the set?"
"Ah, yes," he made and walked to the desk to retrieve the carefully crafted board. They arranged the chess pieces on the board. "Do you want to open the game?"
Olivier nodded and moved a white pawn forward two squares, starting the match. From that, they took turns in advancing with their pieces, capturing them when the need arose and chasing after the opposing king to corner it.
The first game ended with a resounding win for Olivier. "What were you saying about beating me at chess, Miles?"
"I didn't say when, but I will," he replied and remade the board.
Sometime during the third match – the second having ended in a draw – Miles set another kettle of coffee over the burner. Olivier took her time to stretch on her chair, yawning as she snapped her fingers.
"I was thinking about what Alex wrote," she said idly, and bit into a biscuit.
"Which part?"
"The one where he wrote that he'd tried to spare those people." She looked at her pale hands. "I wonder whether I would have done the same."
"And? What conclusion have you reached?"
She studied her fingers for a bit, thinking about her reply. "Orders are orders. I would have followed them." She put her chin over her palm. "But I'm glad I didn't have to make such a call."
Miles brushed his hair back from his eyes. "Olivier, I don't think you would have followed them," he contradicted her. "I think you would have tried to find a way to let those people go unharmed, like your brother had."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, the fact that I can tell you this is one of the reasons, if you pardon my candour, of course."
"Hm," she hummed, thinking. "Anyway, he expects me to be mad at him. He knows how strict I am about these things... about orders, I mean."
"And are you?"
"What? Mad at him? Of course not."
"Then show him you're not," Miles suggested honestly. "Why don't you give him a call? Or write to him? I'm sure he'll be overjoyed."
"No," she cut him off. "I shall not. It's better to have Alex thinking I'm not pleased with him. It's better that no one knows I'm not upset that he didn't follow his orders. I have a certain reputation to maintain, and upfront approving insubordination doesn't match it." She inspected the rook she picked up. "But between you and me, I think he was brave. He could have been punished severely, but he thought of the others first. Pity that he didn't entirely succeed, but I'm sure he still managed to salvage many. That's the way he is. Decent." She shrugged. "Is the coffee ready?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Should be... oh, it is," Miles announced and left the table for a moment to retrieve the kettle and refill their mugs. Having done all that, they resumed the match.
Olivier moved her rook forward and captured a bishop, putting Miles' king into check. He moved the king and the game turned back to the eternal chase.
A pawn kicked another pawn. Silently, the Major studied the fallen white chessman. He was still playing with the blacks, allowing the commander to open the game. "Olivier," he told lightly. "I don't think I've thanked you properly for hiding me."
"Properly?" She chuckled and took another drink from her mug. "Your thanks must be very thorough if you still haven't thanked me enough."
"That's - not what I've meant," he replied, his cheeks heating up.
"Please, do take your mind out of the gutter, Miles. I'm joking."
He pouted at her. "Charming. But no, what I meant to say is that you can address me by my given name, if you'd so like. You've read my file, so you know it already."
Olivier was taken aback. "I've read it, obviously, but wouldn't it be proper if you've told me your name yourself?"
"Well, my given name is Farid," he introduced himself serenely, then chewed on a piece of biscuit.
"Farid, huh," she repeated, feeling herself warming up. She was aware that there was some tradition about names at Ishbalans, but she didn't know much about it. But it sounded important, since he had been so reluctant to give his name away to anyone so far.
He smiled and moved one of the pieces, as it was his turn. "You follow," he said and pointed to the board.
She made her move. "I'm not really familiar with the Ishbalan's naming custom, but I know that every name means something."
"Oh, yes, that's very true," he approved and pushed a pawn diagonally, capturing a rook. "I'm not really following the cult, but I like some of the traditions. Names at Ishbalans are considered sacred and are only told to those the owner considers closest to them. Everyone else calls them on nicknames or their surname. I prefer being called on my last name, anyway, so it's less fuss."
"I see. Who else knows your name?"
"My parents, obviously. My Godfather and my Mum's parents, but they're gone. Oh, and my cousin Rahel." He shrugged. "She doesn't respect the custom, since that's her real name. And anyway, she never calls me anything besides Miles or at most Farah as a nickname, and so do my folks. But Miles is the usual choice to go."
Olivier bit her cheek, pointedly ignoring how loudly her heart was beating inside her chest. Besides his parents, who evidently chose his name, and his favourite cousin, no one alive had been allowed to call him by his name. She had never been included so much into someone's universe like she was in his, and only now was she realising it.
She shifted, trying to look composed. Thankfully, he didn't comment and, instead, studied the board for his next move.
"Do you know what it means?" she asked, trying to sound uninterested.
He noticed that her cheeks were rosier than usual, and in his mind, even if it was still a bit hazy from the alcohol, he was doing a little dance. A very loud dance, but it couldn't be helped. She was amusing.
Olivier Mira Armstrong tackling emotions. Miles found that he could write a book about it and still not run out of material.
He nonchalantly moved a knight and looked up at her. "Unique."
"Hm?"
"My name," he explained. "It means 'unique'."
"Oho, that's very assuming."
"And fitting, I'd say," he boasted, feigning a demure facade. "I'm one of a kind."
"Rather! And modest to boot."
"Please, Olivier, why should I hide my many qualities when they are so very obvious? And plenty, to boot."
She snorted. "Your parents were not joking around when they've named you, alright."
"Actually, no, they weren't. My mother was very serious about it, she read books after books and did star charts, believe it or not. Dad only went along with her madness."
"A sensible man."
"Mhm. You don't stand in front of a running train and hope it won't hit you." He lifted another piece. "By the way, Olivier, do you know what your names mean?"
"Something concerned with peace or some other nonsense."
Miles shook his head disapprovingly. "Actually, no. The olive tree, from which your name is derived, can signify a peace offering, certainly, but the name in itself means 'affectionate' or 'dignified'. Some associate the name with 'beauty'."
She made a face, but he brushed her off. "No, hear me out. I am serious. And it's quite lovely, you know. Makes an interesting combination with your other name, Mira. That one means 'bitter'."
"I suppose it suits me better, hm?"
"They just work well on you. I think they're very compelling. Strong."
"My family's name is Armstrong, obviously our given names are supposed to sound 'strong'." She rolled her eyes. "Megalomaniacs, that's what my parents are. They've named me Olivier because they thought I was going to be a boy, I can bet my ass on that, but added Mira just to help save the appearances. They haven't told me anything up to this day, but I know that my mother had already embroidered my name all over the place before I was born and it would have been too complicated to change it."
"I'm certain that's not it, Olivier."
"Tch, you don't know my mother, trust me. She uses tons of wool and thread every year, and couldn't help herself once she found out she was pregnant and just messed up the gender. But she learnt her lesson with me, for the rest she waited to be born before she started her knitting frenzy for them."
"You are too antagonistic, really."
"I am not. Look, my family always gives two names to their children, and they've made do with me. My youngest sister and brother have two names, like my father and I, though now that I think of it, my twin sisters have only one each. I think they've ran out of inspiration with them, I don't know."
"I think it's nice, if they have divided a full name for two people. Like they are pieces of the same whole, since they're twins."
She batted her hand dismissively. "Miles, who the hell calls their daughter Strongine when their surname is Armstrong? And Amue Strongine Armstrong as a combination? Does it even sound pronounceable to you?"
"You might have a point," he admitted.
"Thank you. That's a check, by the way."
Miles moved his king. Olivier continued her attack, but he feinted her attempts. In the end, the game was won by her, but barely.
A match later, the Major General searched through her pockets and fished out a slightly crumpled cigarette that they shared over another win of hers. Just when she was crushing the bud in a saucer, as there was nothing that resembled an ashtray in sight, Miles raised his arms in the air. "Check mate!" he exclaimed at her. "Ha! I beat you."
"That was a shitty win."
"Might as well be, but have I won?" He snapped his fingers like a rascal. "Yes, I have!" he said and pouted sassily.
Olivier snorted in that judging way of hers and remade the board. "I'll take the blacks, you start."
They played in silence for a while. They were moving quite fast, since it was very hard for their tired minds to focus, and their games weren't of the best quality, but at least they were waking up with every capture they made. At some point, Miles became very chatty, telling Olivier about some article he had read about in a science magazine.
She listened to him babbling excitedly, smiling as he remembered different comments from editorials or from the prefaces of books. He told her about a novel that he had enjoyed tremendously and was pleasantly surprised to learn that she had read it, as well. After giving his opinion on the matter, he made no other comments, but smiled approvingly at her thoughts on the story and nudged her to keep on talking.
The Major General gave her piece of mind on the subject, but then her statement was followed by a short pause, as Miles was just finishing his coffee. It was strangely quiet when he wasn't speaking. That was how silence worked, but Olivier found herself wanting to hear more of his voice, levelled and deep, and not her own.
She moved a chessman and put her head on top of her hands. "So, Farid," she said and chuckled. "That's a funny name."
"Why, thank you," he made sarcastically, "you should tell my mother that. She'd pop a vein."
"You sure have a vendetta against her," Olivier blabbered.
Miles shook his head. "Not at all. She's a nice character, just overbearing."
Olivier considered that for a moment, before opening her mouth to say something. "I remember I've read this somewhere, in an abstract from a psychology treaty, I think, about men and how they view their mothers... it was kind of sketchy, if you ask me, but it was interesting."
Miles looked incredulously at her, measuring her with his eyes. What an abrupt change of topic. "I think I know what you mean, and when you say that, it's a scary thought." He shivered. "I'm starting to enjoy the images with the horse-humping better."
She scrunched up her nose. "Hm?"
"Since you've taken such a sudden interest on the matter," he told her merrily, "I've read something else about men's psychology, that they tend to pursue women that are similar in certain key aspects to their mothers, and women to their fathers. It's a matter of the human mind finding familiar patterns in the opposite gender."
Armstrong realised she might have made a mistake by breaching that subject, because it was not something that she wanted to discuss.
However, Miles went ahead with the analysis. "That gets me thinking, really. I'm saying that because you and my Mum really couldn't be less alike even if you tried. Physically? She's barely reaching my shoulder if she stays on her toes and she's the kind a more powerful wind would topple over. Grandma didn't let her go out during storms, she would have been blown away surely. She was actually swept by the wind once, if I'm not mistaken. Thankfully, that won't be the case with you."
Olivier made a face. "What's that supposed to mean? What, I'm like the furniture, you have to move around me to enter a room?"
Miles waved his hands apologetically. "No, no, I'm just saying that I'm really appreciative that I don't have to tie you to a tree when the wind blows, that's all. You seem more rooted on your feet. More steady, less clumsy. You know?"
The Major General wet her lips, not knowing how to take that statement.
"And in demeanour," Miles continued, "She's very sticky, she literally glues to people and doesn't let them go once they've had the misfortune of talking to her. She says she's only being affectionate, but what she does is more like stalking. Uh, I have some really strange memories about that."
"You make it sound like your father is actually a victim of harassment."
Miles chuckled. "I don't know about that, but they're amusing together. Dad is very reserved, you see, and my mother can fill ten rooms and would still need another to get all of her enthusiasm in."
"She sounds a lot like you."
"I'm not that expansive," he disagreed. "I have certain boundaries, and at least I know what personal space means. But enough about me. I was keeping things modest, remember."
"Oh, yes, that. So, you were saying about the human mind and familiar patterns," Olivier countered, returning to their topic. She shifted into a more comfortable position on the chair, curious about what he had to say. Though she would not admit it, evidently.
He could read the exact same thing in her behaviour, but he didn't rub more salt on her wounds. She was already quite giddy that morning and there were fewer things he liked better than hearing himself talk. He didn't have enough chances for that, as he had to act professional for most of the day, but the Major General offered him plenty of room to express himself in her presence.
Maybe he was a bit too much like his mother in this particular aspect.
"Yes. Let's see about similarities. You and my Mum are both are experts in holding grudges, I suppose. Oh, I actually have a story about that, I'm sure I haven't told you how my parents met." He didn't wait for a reply. "They met during their first year at the University, they attended at the same time. They weren't at the same specialisation, but they had a seminary together, something everyone in their year had to do. He said I don't know what to her, she replied rudely, and long story short, they've ended up despising each other to the point people had to split them when they ended up in the same room because they kept on feeling the urge to express their opinions very loudly."
"Ouch."
"Mhm. The funny thing is that, when they had been in primary school, there used to be a trend to find a pen pal and write to them, anonymously and all. My parents were actually writing to each other without knowing it, and they liked each other when they didn't know who they were. Dad once told me that he had fallen in love with Mum because of her writing, but mostly because of her cooking. He was sending her recipes that he didn't know how to do - he is a complete disaster in the kitchen - and she used to send him the final product though the mail. That, until he ran into her going to the post office with her usual box of treats and they both realised they were writing to each other. To apologise, he asked her to marry him that very moment."
"And then, you popped up. Pff, tooth-aching," Olivier lamented, wanting to hide the smile that formed on her lips.
"Not at all, I 'popped up' years later," he mimicked the commas with his fingers, "only after my mother decided that the planets were aligned right. You have no idea how many charts with stars she has back home, it's terrifying."
"Do you at least know the stars?"
Miles chuckled and rubbed his eyes, watery from smiling too much. "That summer when she sent me to an astronomy course was absolutely morbid," he said nostalgically. "It didn't interest me in the slightest because I had already read more than they were teaching, and the professor noticed that eventually. I drew up trajectories and made predictions for meteorites for him, which was most of the practical part in his dissertation. I loved physics, and still do."
"That's not that bad."
"Not at all, but I was mortified when the professor asked me why I've come to his class, when it was clear that I was too advanced for it. I couldn't have possibly told him that my mother got knocked up when the moon was in I don't know what phase and thought I was connected to the stars. Thankfully, it ended soon after."
Olivier was laughing at his story. "How come you don't have other siblings? Didn't the Polar Star shine bright enough?"
"Obviously. And Mercury was retrograde."
"Mad family."
"Told you! Actually, now that I think of it, I suppose that psychology article I read was right. You are a bit like my mother. You are very set on things," he commented and looked at the clock on the wall. "Oh, my, it's almost noon," he noticed with stupor, abruptly pointing it out. He didn't realise time had passed so quickly. "Time flies, doesn't it?"
Olivier looked at the two hands that were almost overlaying. "I think we've procrastinated enough," she decided and lifted to her feet. "I'll go change, meet you in the office," she told him and left the room.
XXXXX
It became clear to Miles that the commander was not focusing on the paper that she was holding when she started tapping her fingers on the desk. He ignored her, or tried his best to, but after a while, she began tapping faster.
He looked at her with a frown. The woman seemed lost in space and time, transfixed by a spot on the paper in her hand. She did not seem to be aware of the obnoxious sound that her fingers were producing when she drummed them on the table, otherwise she would have stopped already.
Just as abruptly as she had started, she stopped. The lack of tapping left a deafening silence in its wake.
"I have an idea," Armstrong announced brightly. She turned her head to Miles, who was pointedly staring at her. "I am thinking about organising a shared training with the Eastern Commandment. What do you think?"
Miles tilted his chin. "Are you considering what your brother had written to you?"
She nodded. "I think it would be a good idea to get them here. It shouldn't seem suspicious, I reckon. There had been a number of shared exercises over the years. We could have a competition, educational and all. No one would bat an eye at that."
"Indeed."
"Perfect. Arrange it." She stopped. "Actually, no, don't, I will. I need to phone Grumman about it," she announced and lifted from her chair.
Miles' eyebrows shot up. "Grumman?"
"Mhm. Does his name sound familiar?"
"Actually, yes, it does," he admitted. "He was the one who had requested me in his team, but you beat him to it. Right?"
"Oh, so you do know about that, don't you," she commented. "You see, it's a small world. The old man's a friend of my family."
Miles grimaced quizzically, but she waved her hand at him. "I'll handle the formalities, you make up some plausible competition so it wouldn't seem like we requested to meet for no reason."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good," she concluded and left him in peace.
Miles watched her leaving the office. He picked up a sheet of paper and looked at it, wondering what soldiers did in 'shared exercises', as the commander had called it. He doubted it was something different from bragging about their proverbial carrots, so he started designing some sort of contest of who would smack the other harder over the head.
Giving free reign to his imagination, the Major came up with a few very promising directions for the initial draft of the Briggs-Eastern Command competition. Pleased with himself, a smug smirk formed on his lips. Briggs was going to smash those Eastern warm-weathers if he had a saying in any of this.
And how very lucky for the great Fort Briggs – he did have more than just a say in it.
A/N: Ta-da! That's it for now. Thank you very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading, please let me know about your thoughts on this story so far. If you'd like, leave me a comment, I appreciate your support very much.
See you soon with a new instalment! Until then, bye-bye and take care!