Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist


"There is a simple explanation. I did not take the Princess."

Edward summoned enough of his natural scorn to raise an eyebrow at Roy, who chuckled. "In all seriousness, I am not the villain of this particular story, though I freely admit that I took advantage of the situation that presented itself. From the scraps of information I could glean from the Princess's captors, and from my scant knowledge of the current state of affairs, this is the story I have constructed.

"The world beyond this castle is troubled. Nature's magic fades, forged anew in the fires of human artifice, and the creatures of the old world retreat with every day, sinking into the mire of legend with nary a sound. The earth's pulse has changed, echoing the urgency of the new order, the new ruling race that walks on two legs instead of four. The kingdom of Amestris, seated over the thumping heart of the world, marks the boundary between myth and fact. You know of what I speak, Fullmetal."

Edward raised his steel arm. "Machinery and magic," he said, watching the Dragon's eyes catch on shining metal. "Nature and technology, wrought by our intellect."

Roy nodded. The Mage eyed him. "But what does that have to do with-"

"Peace, Mageling. Stars, have I not taught you a Dragon's patience?" Roy interrupted, in a fondly exasperated tone. Edward settled, scowling. "Better. Now, I am given to understand that humanity dwells in many different corners of the world, each settlement made up of individual races, much as the Dragons divided themselves between species." The Dragon paused, raising an eyebrow in question.

"You are…basically correct," Edward confirmed, after a moment's hesitation. "Of course, the divisions are not along lines of species, rather history and culture."

"And skin colour," the Dragon interrupted, knowingly. "Your assessment of Draconic elements revealed much of your attitude towards your darker-skinned relations, whether conscious of not. You do not feel kinship with those others."

The Mage bristled. "If you are suggesting that I have a closed mind-"

"Nothing of that sort," Roy assured him, soothing his ruffled temper with a nudge of his nose. "I have never encountered a mind more open; your mind, Fullmetal, is a great yawning chasm that demands every second to be filled, which is, no doubt, the reason for your incessant questioning."

The tease settled Edward's dignity, soothing the sudden fear that Roy thought ill of him; somehow, the Dragon's opinion of his character had become terribly important, over the weeks of his captivity. "Then what do you mean, Sir Dragon, by your words?"

"Fear of the stranger resides deep in the consciousness of all beings, not just humans. Perhaps your civilisations, built along the lines of the familiar, encourage rather than suppress this fear. I have ruminated long upon the qualities and limitations of humanity; if you are truly to inherit the world from we Dragons, it is only natural that we examine our successors, do not you agree? And my examination reveals a spirit of conquest in your species, a pioneering urge that may explain, in part, your success. This instinct to conquer, to overthrow an enemy and take his land, was the instinct that I first sensed drove those who kidnapped your country's heir."

Edward blinked. The abrupt return to the original subject of their conversation startled him, and he considered the Dragon's words carefully. "Couldn't you just have said that, rather than muddling my mind with all this talk of philosophy?" he remarked, a little plaintively.

Roy laughed. "What is a story without philosophy?" he jested. "I should not like the almighty Fullmetal Mage to be bored by a simple tale of mundane events. Some grandiose scene-setting lends more drama to a narrative."

The Mage glared at his captor. "Shut up," he said, "and get on with it, if you please."

"I believe you ask the impossible of me," the Dragon responded, lazily, but he was astute enough not to further incite Edward's irritation. "Nevertheless, I shall continue. It is my belief that the Princess was taken captive by the order of a rival settlement of humans, for those that brought her here did not speak in your tongue; rather, theirs was the language of the desert, arid and harsh, but melodic with the rhythmic music of desert winds and moonlit nights."

"Deserts? You mean…Ishbal?"

"Yes."

"You speak Ishballan?"

Roy smirked. "Credit me with some intelligence, Edward. I speak the language of every bird, beast, rock and tree that has ever existed. Surely you did not think your gutter-tongue the only human language I knew?"

"It is not a gutter-tongue!" Edward snapped. "It's better than snarling to communicate!"

"And you claim to be open-minded."

Edward proceeded to contradict his statement by growling at the Dragon. "Roy," he hissed, angrily, and the Dragon raised a placating claw.

"My apologies. You are not in the mood for jesting, and I should delay my tale no longer."

"That would be nice; impossible, but nice."

Draconic laughter lit the air once more, causing even the fractious Mage to smile, and Roy continued his tale, weaving strands of intrigue and deception into coherence for the astounded wizard.


It is the unfortunate lot of the night to act as accomplice and aid to any number of despicable deeds. Through no fault of its own, the shadows of nightfall have concealed immoralities and crimes since first creatures plotted ill against each other. On this night, it was a small band of men sheltering beneath the night's moonlit cloak, men travelling a foreign land with an unusual burden…

"The slumberweed's taking effect," on of the men whispered, into the rustling, organic quiet of the woodland.

"Ishballa be praised," another grumbled. He was seated with his back against a treetrunk, skilfully carving the tough skin from one of its fruits with a hooked dagger. "I thought she was going to rant all night."

The first man grinned, white teeth shaded greyish-blue by the darkness. "You should be used to it, Mikras. She has wearied our ears all the way from Amestris, every hour of waking, through any gag we choose to apply. Amestris breeds its Princesses with fire in their hearts."

"There was going to be a knife through hers, had that caterwauling continued," Mikras retorted, sharply. Tall, long-limbed and heavily-built, he was not the obvious choice for a spy, assassin, and court-infiltrator, but he had built himself a reputation of efficiency and success, a reputation that had granted him this most delicate of assignments. "You should have revealed your cache of slumberweed earlier, and saved my poor ears," he chided his companion, good-naturedly.

The second man, a shorter and slighter individual who went by the name of Kareesh, shrugged. "I did not know if we would find any in this land," he answered, his earlier jocularity giving way to seriousness. "Our knowledge of this country's plant life is far from complete. Besides, I had hoped the toil of the road might wear down his tongue."

"From your lips to Ishballa's ears," Mikras said, fervently, and with that, he hauled himself to his feet. "You have secured her on the pony?"

Kareesh nodded, lifting his pack from the ground. "She will not come to any harm, and she will not wriggle free when she wakes."

"Excellent. I should hate to present the emperor with damaged goods."

"You liar," the shorter man teased. "You have no more wish to hurt that girl than any of us. If we did require such a strong bargaining tool with so desperate a need, I fancy you could not have been reconciled to this task at all."

Mikras frowned, heavy brows drawing low over red eyes. He and Kareesh had undergone their training together, many years ago, and he was perhaps the only man who would dare to challenge the merciless reputation Mikras had created. "I do as my lord bids," he said, slowly, inviting a snort from his friend.

"You do as your lord bids when it suits your conscience," came the retort.

The lead spy growled, silencing his companion. The night had been long; light was beginning to permeate the shroud of darkness, and they needed to find a sheltered place to rest out the day before continuing their long journey home. They made their swift preparations to depart and, laden with packs and with their sturdy pony in tow, they set off.

Good sense dictated that the wood was a safe resting place, away from prying eyes and open ground, but the trail markers carved into many of the trees gave Mikras pause; there was at least one village or town nearby that frequently entered the forest, frequently enough that the trail markers had been worn down and re-cut several times over. It could be that the hunting was particularly good, or that trees were regularly felled; even, Ishballa forbid, that there was some sort of settlement contained within the heart of the wood. All in all, Mikras' well-honed instincts turned him away from the tempting possibility of resting where they stood, driving him instead to lead his companion and their drugged captive out of the dense trees.

They walked, in silence, shadows dissipating around them as the first, tentative fingers of dawn's light began to stroke their tendrils across the lightening sky, walking until they reached…ah, yes, this would do nicely.

Mikras eyed the castle walls, just visible from the foot of the fire mountain, and turned to his friend with a smile of triumph.

"It is a little…conspicuous," Kareesh said, dubiously. "How do you propose enticing the pony up there?"

Mikras smiled, grimly. "By giving it no other option."


The stone was so deliciously cool. Mikras sighed with tired satisfaction, settling down on the floor with a long, agonised movement. The pony had taken a great deal of convincing and a considerable amount of cursing before it completed the precarious journey across the rope bridge; common sense told him that such a feat was impossible, but for the fact that the sturdy beast was munching gratefully from a nosebag, tethered to a ring in the wall a couple of feet away.

Their resting place had revealed itself to be empty of human occupation by its state of disrepair. Crumbling stone littered the huge fortification, doors hung askew if they hung at all and there was no evidence of homely touches, like wall hangings, rugs, general human debris. Kareesh, who was absorbed in the task of trussing the sleeping Princess and covering her with a blanket, had voiced concerns that human occupants were not the thing to be worried about, but Mikras had overruled his objections. If some demon inhabited the deserted castle, it would have challenged their entry from the first step across the threshold.

The spy found himself fingering the protection charm that hung on a leather thong from his neck, and he busied himself searching his pack for provisions.

Kareesh, finishing his task with a grunt, made his way over to collapse next to his captain. "Princess secured, sir," he said, with joking deference. "Might we risk a hot dinner tonight, since we have walls to shield us from unfriendly eyes?"

"And how exactly were you planning to build a fire?"

The shorter man grinned. "I took the liberty of stowing a little dry wood alongside the Princess whilst we made our way, just in case."

Mikras shook his head. "Anyone would think you were on your first mission," he remarked to the hardened veteran, his tone jocular. "One of His Lordship's elite must be able to survive upon the most basic rations, in the toughest terrain, for however long his task demands it."

"Oh, absolutely. I completely agree. But I also know that one of those packs over there contains a certain spice that we brought with us from home, and that my captain is very easily won over by the thought of a particular meal prepared as his mother made it."

Mikras laughed at his irrepressible friend's antics. "Truly, you are a sage amongst men," he teased. "Very well, you may have your fire. I shall cook the last of the rice. We will feast, in honour of our luck in finding this place."

Flame flickered to life; in the darkness, many rooms away, a reptilian eye snapped open.


Mikras sighed happily as he set his bowl aside; Kareesh had outdone himself. "A most hearty meal," he congratulated his second, magnanimously. "Now you may put the fire out."

His friend made a face. "You will not allow me even a moment's rest," he complained, good-naturedly, though he rose to do his captain's bidding. "Ishballa forbid I sit down for longer than five heartbeats together."

"Ishballa forbid you go about your work in silence," Mikras retorted, amused. "Have you no concept of silence?"

"You have long since beaten it out of me," came the response, but Mikras was far too full and relaxed to take offence.

"I have not beaten you since we were children."

Kareesh snorted. "One suspects that is not through a lack of trying, old friend."

Mikras made to reply, but paused. The hairs on the back of his neck were tingling, all of a sudden; the air tasted different, wrong, a wrongness that previously had not been there. He halted Kareesh's actions with a glance and sprang from his repose into a wary crouch, one hand going to the hilt of his curved sword. The Ishballan concentrated.

There was something in the darkness beyond, something…alive. Perhaps he had been rash to dismiss the castle's demons. Signalling to Kareesh with a single gesture, Mikras backed slowly towards the defenceless Princess, careful that even his clothes should make no noise as they shifted against each other. Kareesh followed suit, releasing his own sword from its sheathe with a barely-audible schnick. They waited, both stood over the unconscious girl, who was their captive and responsibility.

A minute passed, two, three…When some time had elapsed without incident, without even the faintest breath of another creature, Mikras allowed himself to relax; he sensed Kareesh doing the same. All of these months on the road, under constant fear of attack- he had grown paranoid indeed. He released his sword hilt.

The same moment, the same instant, the far wall exploded inwards. Throwing himself into a protective crouch over the Princess, Mikras closed his eyes tight against the dust, coughing, wincing as bits of rubble struck him. Heat followed, searing, unbearable heat, the smoke of burning flesh; his own, he realised, just before the pain sent him, screaming, into unconsciousness.


Light.

Light, reddened beyond his closed eyelids, and pain. Mikras groaned, various part of his body whimpering pained signals to him; what had happened? He did not remember a fight, there was no pressure of a sword hilt in his had…Oh, his head was spinning, whirling relentlessly, if only he could move a hand to lay against-

He could not move.

Realisation, he knew sudden horror, and Mikras opened his eyes to see something huge and black pinning him to the floor, ferociously-hot against his skin, smooth as leather, and beyond…A massive, pearlescent eye, set in an impossibly-large reptilian face. It was watching him, with interest.

"My last intruder was cooked within his own iron shell," the creature remarked, when it was sure of Mikras' attention. "But then, he did attempt to murder me whilst I slept. Your complete ignorance of my presence has granted you your life, little thief, is that not marvellous?"

"Lord-" Mikras began, then broke away to cough; his throat was raw with smoke.

"No, no, I should not speak if I were you. A Dragon's fire is not so easily shrugged off as a head wound, and you have a prodigious one of those." The Dragon lowered his head, close enough to inspect his captive. "A human of your years should no better than to interrupt my sleep. For what purpose have you come here? Wherefore do you bring this girl? I hope you did not intend her as sacrifice, Princesses give me the most appalling wind."

The Dragon's tone was flippant, amused, but it did not make any move to release him. Mikras' mind raced, countless useless plans flying through his mind. "Mighty lord," he said, eventually, once the fierce burn in his throat abated. "My friend and I, we offer you no insult. We are merely travellers, seeking refuge against unfriendly eyes."

"With some nation's Princess bound and gagged in your custody, I am not surprised that those eyes are unfriendly," the Dragon snorted, but it relented its grip, lifting the taloned paw to allow Mikras to sit slowly up. Glancing around, the Ishballan noted that Kareesh was being similarly held under the other great foreclaw, blood trickling down the side of his face, which was slack with unconsciousness.

The sight recalled him, suddenly, to his own wounds, and he lifted a hand to investigate- yes, he did indeed have a head wound, but it felt shallow. His arms were covered with tiny scratches, his ribs felt bruised when he tried to draw in a deep breath, but that seemed to be the limit of the damage. He looked up at the Dragon. "I must thank you for sparing my life," he said, cautiously. "And that of my companion."

The Dragon snorted again. "I have no use for a corpse or two more," he said. "Pray answer my question truthfully. Why are you here?"

With a second glance to assure himself that Kareesh did indeed live, Mikras resigned himself to relating the tale. "We are assassins," he began, "In the employ of the High Chief of Ishbal. It is His Highness' wish that we might barter peace with the ancestral enemy of our fair land, the kingdom of Amestris-"

"So you stole their Princess?"

Mikras shook his head. "Merely as a bargaining tool; we do not wish harm upon her, save when her cursing threatens to draw unwanted attention to us. We have been travelling for several weeks now, seeking to return to our homeland, that we might declare to the Amestrians our wish to have peace. They a warlike people, closed of mind and heart, and without some form of leverage, our diplomacy will surely fail."

The Dragon's gaze had turned thoughtful. "Then you are men of honour," he mused, aloud. "Mayhap I have been too hasty in my judgement…Tell me, assassin, what is the history of your two nations?"


Edward's fists clenched. "Those damned Ishaballans!" he snarled, interrupting the Dragon's story. "Dark-skinned devils, how dare they commit so heinous an act!"

Roy eyed him. "They sought peace," he said, mildly, but Edward would not hear it.

"Peace, hah! What manner of leader seeks peace through such means? To kidnap an innocent girl and drag her into such danger-"

"Fullmetal." The Dragon's voice was pure steel, and the Mage halted despite himself. "The sincerity of humans is difficult to judge, but that human was sincere. He sought only to bring harmony to his homeland; recall, if you will, his instinct to defend the Princess from all harm."

"But-"

"No, Fullmetal."

Edward subsided. "And what became of them? Since you so obviously did not allow them to leave with the Princess?"

Roy examined one of his claws for dirt, nonchalantly. "Oh, I sent them on their way. They no doubt made their way home many weeks ago, with empty hands and tales of fearsome Dragons to tell their Chief. I could not return the Princess to her home, nor could I release her, for she might have fallen prey to some evil force more villainous than I. Besides," here the Dragon cocked an eye at Edward, "what do you think would have happened, if she had made it all the way home with the story of a nefarious band of Ishballans stealing her away?"

The Mage considered this, for a moment, and his eyes grew wide. "It would have been war," he whispered, horrified, and the Dragon nodded.

"She believes that it was I who plotted her capture, and somehow conspired to hire mercenaries to bring her here; we Dragons are renowned for keeping noblewomen as our captives, are we not? Though where that legend came from I shall never know."

Edward stared at his captor. "You would paint yourself the villain, to avert a human war?"

Roy met his gaze. "Anything for a little publicity," he said, then grinned. "Have I satisfied your curiosity, Fullmetal? Or is that too foolish a notion?"