OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 19: BLOOD AND FIRE AND ALCHEMY

By The Binary Alchemist 2013

"Doves, you said?" Mustang glanced up at Colonel Hawkeye as if he hadn't quite heard her….or if he had, he didn't believe her.

"Yes, sir. Doves." She glanced at her notebook. "Five hundred and fifty-five for good luck, to be precise. They arrived early this morning in what appear to be modified chicken coops. Major Havoc has them stored in stable so they won't become chilled."

"Doves, huh?" Dark eyes did not blink. "And….what…precisely…are they doing in the stable?"

"Making a mess, sir."

"I see." He slid off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm guessing that Princess Elena of Aerugo would be deeply offended if the doves were not released at my wedding?"

"That is the custom, sir."

Ed glanced up from his coffee. "I know exactly what Havoc will say about this." He hoisted an imaginary rifle to his shoulder. "Click-click…BOOM!"

Roy scowled. So it was going to be that kind of morning, was it? "Not funny, Ed. These are a wedding gift from the Princess.
"And they cook up really nice with red wine in pastry-which her brother served us last time we visited ol' Claudio. Guess he's just sending us his leftovers, huh?"

"Well, get them out of my stable. Get someone to rig up a dovecote or whatever. Oh, and get Bacalla on the phone and tell him that we've decided on the rack of lamb with fresh mint sauce for the wedding supper. Make sure he orders the meat straight from Resembool. No cutting corners with cheap mutton from Creta."

Ed tossed Roy the morning paper. "That would help out the farmers back home. The bad weather at harvest really hurt them. Getting their lamb on the menu at a presidential wedding could help 'em out. Maybe Peehole could export it outside the East for them."

A dismissive gesture from the Commander in Chief. "Take care of it, Hawkeye. And make sure the wedding plans remain on schedule. I have enough headaches as it is."

After decades of taking his right hand woman for granted, Roy Mustang didn't even notice the moment of silence that followed as he stirred his coffee, nor did he notice the distinctly frosty look she gave him before answering. ""Yes, sir."

Roy bit into a slice of dry toast, ignoring Ed's quips and concentrating on his breakfast…what little there was of it. He frowned. He really wanted a plate of ham and eggs but his image team had advised Roy to drop a couple of pounds to look better for the newsreel cameras that followed him on every stop of the campaign trail. His stomach growled in protest—a stomach that was still washboard taut. Roy still ran the army obstacle course a couple of times a week—could outrun many twenty-somethings. Why all this sudden alarm about his good looks? Was a goddamn spoonful of jam on his toast going to make that big a difference during the Election? "Next on the agenda?" he growled.

"We have the latest election poll results, sir." Hawkeye didn't look amused. "You're still ahead of Samuelson, but he's gaining in popularity with the 16-to-35 year olds." Before the President could answer, she added tersely, "Males, that is. The female voters from all ages—"

"—think I'm devastating—"

"—I didn't say that, sir."

"You didn't have to." A smirk crept over the rim of his coffee cup. "I think it has more to do with my position on equal pay, women's rights, education and job opportunities…but being better looking than my opponent doesn't hurt, does it? Next item?" He flipped open the paper to the sports section. He was halfway through an article on the spring steeplechase racing season before it occurred to him that the Colonel had not spoken. "Next item, Hawkeye! Let's go!"

He glanced up. Her face was impassive as ever. "Well?"

She dropped her note pad right in the middle of his dry toast and grapefruit. "Read it yourself, Sir." Before his jaw could drop in astonishment, she saluted, spun on her boot heels and marched briskly out of the Presidential office, closing it behind her with a bang. There was a loud 'ooof!' in the hall, followed by a curt "sorry, Alphonse' as the footsteps died away.

The door to Roy's office opened just a crack. A hand poked cautiously in, waving a handkerchief. "Very amusing, Alphonse," Mustang snapped. "Come on in."

"As if this morning wasn't bad enough," Alphonse sighed, closing the door behind him.

"Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?" The sour look on his brother's face made Edward instantly suspicious. "Those movie people still hanging around?" Neither Elric brother was overjoyed that the popular stage musical "The Fullmetal Alchemist" was being made into a motion picture right here in Central in the middle of the Election campaign. Donal Samuelson had been, for decades, a fixture in the radio, news and film circles in the capital. He had suggested—oh, he was only joking, he insisted—that the film's release had been timed as a public relations stunt by the Mustang team. Even more embarrassing was the incident on Solstice Eve when Colonel Riza Hawkeye had publicly smashed a dessert into the face of one of the film's stars, the legendary Gladys Turlough, after an argument in the café at Il Gattina. There were no charges pressed, but the 'Battle of the Hawkeyes" only made the Mustang team look ridiculous. Al had stepped in to try and assist with the damage control and it was beginning to strain even Al's good nature.

"Let me guess," Roy sighed. "Sherman Lehrer has taken over the role of Colonel Roy Mustang in the musical and intends to play the role in a dress, right?"

Ed scowled. "One of these days I'm gonna get the truth out of him about sabotaging your gala for a payoff from that cocksucker Samuelson—and trying to make it look like Gladys Turlough was behind it." He cracked his knuckles for emphasis. "I'd love to beat the truth out of that son of a bitch."

"Easy, Ed," his brother cautioned. "We've got bigger problems to worry about. That's what I came to tell you."

"Bigger than Samuelson being a dirty, underhanded pissrag who needs an automail ass-kicking?"

Alphonse laid a paper-wrapped parcel on Roy's desk. The return address was "Odyssey Press, 1003 Fleet Street, Central" and had been sent second class library rate. "Roy…I'm sorry…I'm so damn sorry. I wish…." His voice trailed off and he bowed his head.

Roy made no move to open the package. He stared at it coolly, his fine features giving no clue as to his thoughts of the moment.

Edward, on the other hand, shot off the couch like a rocket. "That….that's not-"

"I'm sorry," Alphonse repeated. "If there was anything…anything…I could have done to stop it—"

Roy looked up from his reverie. "Freedom of speech. Freedom of expression. Freedom of the press. That's what I've been fighting for all these years, Al. Those are the privileges of a democratic society." One corner of his mouth turned up in an ironic smile. "For better or for worse." One gloved finger brushed a corner of the package. "For worse, this time, I'm guessing. For me, anyway." The smile deepened. "Perhaps if our children hadn't meddled in the publishing career of Kelley Winchell this might not have happened…well…waiting is not going to make this go away, is it?"

Rising to his feet, Roy gathered up the parcel and headed for the door.

"Hey…what…where are you going?" Ed looked genuinely alarmed.

Roy paused but did not turn around. "To hell, I suspect."

###

"He's not coming this morning, Ma'am."

"He?"

"President Mustang, Ma'am." A pillow slid under Mrs. Bradley's feet and Collins tucked the afghan warmly around her shoulders. "He sends his regrets. He said that he will contact you later during the week about stopping by for tea."

Mrs. Bradley smiled gently up into the young man's face. Such a good boy, she thought to herself. So kind to me, and he manages Selim so well. "Please, David, there's no need to fuss over me. I'm doing fine."

"And it's my intention to see that you stay that way—you and Master Selim as well."

The thin winter sunshine filled the room and as he turned his face to adjust the draperies Anna Bradley noted yet again that David Collins was a fine looking young man. His light brown hair tumbled in waves to his shoulders—young men nowadays were often cropping it off short—and his eyes were a lovely grey-blue, set into a fine-featured face, carefully schooled in the proper attitude and expression of the majordomo of her household. It must be hard, she suspected, to be so young and have to be so serious and responsible all the time. She practically had to force him to take an afternoon off and it worried her that young Maes Elric had not stopped by since the dreadful day that Selim had had what was politely referred to as 'an episode'.

That was why Mustang would come, if not today, eventually, she fretted. Selim had been strapped down in a hospital bed under sedation for the better part of a week and had been strangely subdued ever since. Quite a few doctors, nurses and researchers had come to examine and observe him, but the only conclusion they had reached was that he had experienced an unknown trauma and that al that could be done was stabilize him, sedate him if necessary and send him home. If he did not improve, they warned, he would have to be institutionalized.

Mustang had delayed this meeting every week for the past month. He wasn't fooling her. He was, she believed, a kind man at heart. It would not be easy for him to say to her that her son must be put away…or worse, put to rest for good. It was a relief that he had not come to tea and witnessed one of his strange screaming fits, curling into a ball and shrieking so loud the windows rattled, poor Collins down on his knees on the carpet beside him, trying to calmly soothe her poor damaged boy until Selim would finally go limp with exhaustion, sobbing on the young butler's shoulder.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Collins at her elbow "Ma'am? There is home care nurse here to see Master Selim. A routine visit. Do you wish to see her?"

Nurses were always stopping by, sometimes three times a day. They measured Selim's vitals, ran some simple baseline neurological tests and kept notes in the log for Dr. Knox. "No, dear. Just show her upstairs and see to Selim's lunch, if you please."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Hello, Selim." The nurse's dark brown hair was pulled back in a severe knot under her starched white cap. "Don't be afraid. No needles this time. I just want to ask you some questions…oh, very, very simple ones. It will be a little like playing a game. " She reached into her pocket and pulled out a red lollipop, which she unwrapped and handed to the simple-minded young man. "Now, let's begin."

She showed him a series of pictures—a bird, a cat, a picture of Central Park. "Very, very good, Selim." She stepped to the door, glanced around, the closed and locked it. "Now, let's see if you know some of these faces."

A pale man in a crisp military uniform, his black hair neatly combed back under a uniform cap with a silver badge. "That's the General. He comes to tea. He brings me picture books sometimes," Selim confided proudly.

A strange, ugly man in a white coat with a gold tooth. A dark-haired woman with long, long fingers. A youngish man with a sharp, toothy grin and sunglasses. Another of a bald-headed man, childishly sucking on one finger. Selim stared and stared over these last three, frowning deeply. "No?" she asked gently. "Do you know him, then? Do you know this man?"

Selim's eyes grew wide. He touched the picture, tracing the image with his fingers. The image of a broad-shouldered man of middling years, his long pale hair pulled back into a neat pony tail and his squarish chin fringed with whiskers.

"F…Fa…ther?"

Kelley Winchell beamed. From her large nurse's bag she drew out a small 8mm movie camera. Selim did not even notice. "Selim, is that man the father? Is he?"

"Fa….ther….Fath…er…" His face began to crumple. "Father…hurt!"

She handed him another lollipop and the young man jammed it into his mouth, sucking violently on it. "It's all right, Selim…you're safe…it's just a picture. He is long, long gone…he can't hurt you ever, ever again. Is that man your father, Selim?"

"Father…hurt!"

'That man…Hohenheim Elric….did he hurt you, Selim? Did he clap his hands and make lights and scare you? Did….The…Father….hurt you like that?"

She had to quickly jam the camera in her bag, still running, while she dove for the door, unlocking it just as that annoying young butler ran upstairs as Selim began to curl himself into a knot, his screams rising and rising as he began to rock violently, back and forth.

"I don't have any sedatives," she gasped. "I'm just a visiting nurse. You watch him and I'll go call for help…."

In the chaos that followed she was able to slip out the kitchen door, duck down the alley and dive into the car she had borrowed from a friend of Frank Archer. She tore off the dark wig and nurse's cap, tugged a knitted winter cap and drove around the corner to the nearest phone box. Dropping a coin in the slot, she dialed the emergency operator. "I was walking my dog outside the Bradley's big house," she told the operator frantically. "Somebody is just screaming and screaming in there…it sounds like somebody's getting hurt. Can someone please hurry?"

"This is going to cost you."

Frank Archer smiled at his accomplice, and if she had not been shaking so badly she would have caught the contempt in his voice. "Cash or royalty percentages on the book?"

"Fuck you." She swallowed a burning mouthful of top shelf whiskey, shuddering at it hit her stomach. Her hands trembled so much he had to light her cigarette for her. "That's the last time I'm setting foot near that kid."

"You got the film."

"In the bag."

Archer examined the camera. "You shot the whole reel?" He frowned. "That's—what, four and a half minutes? What speed were you shooting? If it's too slow it'll look like hell in a newsreel. Okay—looks like 15 frames per second. That'll be okay. That's a lot of wasted frames if it was running in your handbag. What did you get?"

"What you wanted. Corroborating evidence. Except," she took a deep drag and blew it towards the ceiling, "you can't convict a dead man, and you can't convict his sons for what he did."

"That's not what we have in mind, Kel." Archer clipped the end off his cigar and splashed another measure of brandy in his glass. "You're thinking too small. "

"Don't insult me, you cretin!"

Archer chuckled and reached inside his jacket. He tossed a heavily stuffed envelope towards Kelley. She tore it open eagerly. "There's more where that came from. Our campaign has deep pockets—and something tells me donations to the Samuelson election fund are going to skyrocket once our little bombshell hits the bookshelves. You know, in Aerugo there was a revolt against the monarchy in the 1700's because some idiot with patriotic dreams wrote a book about a peasant who stole bread to feed his dying sister, went to jail and when he came out started a revolution. It was a work of fiction that turned Aerugo upside down. Never, never, underestimate the power of the written word, my dear. Especially," he added with a wink, "when you have lots and lots of pretty pictures to illustrate the story…"

###

"Roy? What the hell-? What the fuck are you doing, drinking at this hour? Shit—"

Mustang was sitting in his office. The blinds were closed. By the dim light of the winter sunlight creeping through the cracks, the President of Amestris was reading the book Alphonse had brought him. It was an illustrated galley proof—the final pre-publication draft of a book, sent to authors prior to release. The photographs were not the same high resolution that would appear in the hardcover release but the images were clear enough and the damage had been done.

Roy lifted his glass and toasted his lover. "The world is on fire, Edward. It's burning down over our heads. There's nothing I can do to put out the flames. Nothing."

"Gimme that!" Ed stared at the cover, read the title and felt sick to his stomach:

Blood and Fire: Alchemy, Genocide And The Ishvallan War of Extermination. Text by F. Archer and K. Winchell, illustrated with never-before seen photographs from the Bradley Archives.

###

"Major Mustang…Major Mustang?"

The man was very weary, very dusty and reeked of smoke and the stink of charred corpses. He had that thousand-yard-stare the soldiers talk about but his back was straight, his expression resolute. "I'm sorry. I can't talk right now. I'm trying to locate Captain Hughes—"

The young junior officer with the camera was not easily put off. "Sir, if you'd care to comment about the operation in the Dahlia Sector—"

"I'm sorry. Move along, Corporal."

"Sir…please!" The junior officer lowered his camera. "Those…those were people in there…women and children….you didn't evacuate them?"

"Corporal…I am not at liberty to discuss the details of this mission. We are here to follow orders."

"Major, I was right outside the gate…right outside the gate. There was a mother and her baby…they couldn't get away from the flames. They…" he began blinking rapidly against the smoke and the tears rising in his eyes. "You just…snapped your fingers and…she didn't even have time to scream."

"Corporal, if you have any questions, address them to your commanding officer. Now if you will excuse me-"

A hand clutched at Mustang's sleeve. "This—this is murder, sir!"

"This is war." The baby-faced young State Alchemist stared down at Corporal Donal Samuelson, field photographer and telegraph operator from the First Signal Corps. The major's face was a mask of ivory, streaked with blood and soot. He seemed so cold, so remote and detached from the nightmare of blood and fire he had left in his wake. He was the pale face of mythic death incarnate. Pulling his arm free without a word, Major Roy Mustang walked away from Donal Samuelson, too numb to give him a second thought…

Until now…

…TO BE CONTINUED…