She didn't fret as the bed sank and fabric shifted behind her. She knew precisely who it was.
"Major," she whispered.
Elbows knocked gently against her back as he slid out of his trousers and shirt. Her skin leapt when his dog tags pressed against her flesh. He must have been walking for quite some time tonight. They were so cold they burned. The desert was like that, of course.
"You're freezing," she said.
He paused. She closed her eyes as two firm hands came to rest on her, one to the forehead, one to the crown. He squeezed, just enough so as not to be painful.
"Please," he said, or perhaps not. He was so close, she could feel his lips move against the small hairs curling behind her ears.
"What if I say 'no?'"
Her eyes were closed, but she could tell his were open, watching her.
"What if I take it anyway?"
That was new. Her eyes drifted open. "Then you would live with it, as you live with everything else."
He pressed his nose against her and breathed hard. "This isn't living."
"No..."
He wept as they rocked together in the dark, the stitches in his abdomen pulling, the wounds in his heart yawning. She wept too, and remembered the two youths who used to be; those two young people poised on the edge of a cliff, neither conceiving that they were about to fall off.
The woman - Ita - wasn't as old as they expected. She was solid, dark and swift, with a mass of white, wiry hair that floated about her head. She was beautiful in her own way; a fascinating way that compelled the eye and ignited curiosity. Her voice seemed to come from somewhere in the sands below them, an ancient voice; the voice of many. There was something of that Izumi woman about her; a warrior, mother, teacher, healer, and invariably – as they all were – a loser, a victim...
Fuery was timid, feeling himself to be somewhere he didn't understand and shouldn't have been. He was still so young, afterall, and had never before seen Mustang gripped by his grief. Well, he'd had quite the debut.
Havoc was kind; a country boy, well accustomed to rubbing shoulders with anyone he happened upon, and the woman took to him instantly. She called him 'son' and had him help wherever he could. The child, also Ita, with the charming moniker Little attached, followed him like a baby lamb. He grazed her on apples and sweets, and let her look through the scope of his rifle to see buzzards circling in the distance.
Breda measured everything, keeping a sensible distance from Mother Ita. He'd made the call to Grumman after consulting with Madame Christmas, explaining everything – almost. That Mustang had had a severe mental collapse, and would be out of commission until his condition was suitably taken care of. Grumman deputised him on the spot, asking for daily reports on the General's wellbeing. He would be in Ishbal in less than a month, and if Mustang was still in a delicate condition by then, they would 'cross that bridge when they came to it.' He was a good man, Grumman, but Breda still found it shocking – that after all these years of fighting and perservering, someone treated his commander with such compassion and patience. No subterfuge, no one-upmanship nor lie-weaving here. Not from Grumman at least.
They kept the secrets this time. They didn't tell him everything about Hawkeye. They didn't tell Christmas about Hawkeye at all. They didn't tell the medics about Hawkeye. They let the Ishabllan operatives make up their own conclusions and be damned with it. No one would dare write up Mustang on his own turf anyway.
So Mother Ita, together with a trail of seven other women – all of them from the exhumation and reinternment project – eased into the darkened medical tent. A short time after, they admitted Havoc for the sake of assurance to watch over their mysterious proceedings.
Just under an hour later, such screaming started as Breda had never heard before. Whatever was happening, clearly their dear Riza had been pulled into the vortex also. The man and his shadow, tormented together. Her distressed cries chilled Breda to the bone, so unnatural and alien.
He studied Little Ita trembling in the sand, empty rifle perched between her bony legs. Her eyes had left the gun sight to glance back at him.
"The buzzards are coming."
Mustang stood, willing his breath to steady and teeth to stop chattering. He could feel her eyes on him. There were literally thousands of eyes staring at him, but hers weighed on him like no others. Her love, her fear was crushing him.
'It could be worse, it could be worse, it could be worse,' he repeated like a mantra, even as the Chief of the Tribunal rose to the stand to deliver his sentence. The first trial damned him as a war criminal. The second spared him from the firing squad, and now this – his final sentence; his state given penance, delivered by a regime in the throes of death. He had cut off the head of the beast, and these men were not going to be kind. They were out after this, and had nothing to lose.
"Colonel Roy Oscar Mustang, PSC, DSC, VC, CGC, Combat R, White Dragon, Silver Star, Flame Alchemist you have been charged and sentenced with crimes against humanity..."
This was it. Hadn't he been waiting for this moment? Why now, when it was finally here, was he quaking so terribly? Was it Ed's eyes, fixed on him as though he might at any moment vanish from the world forever? Was it the crowd of people who – he hoped – would one day welcome him in their hearts as trusted captain of this great yet troubled vessel? Was it Riza – loyal always, aching for him – his pain, her pain? Or was it the glint in that cool man's eyes that spoke of vengence, chastisement – the death rattle of a leadership he himself overthrew?
"...though you have been registered for immediate promotion following trial, your stipend will be reduced to a sum equalling and never exceeding an enlisted man, lower tier. This will be fixed in real terms and continue – unchanging – through subsequent administrations. You will be, as it were, indentured to the state and her devoted citizens."
Ed was shaking his head, Mustang glared at him to stop but halted a moment later, fearing his scolding would be mistaken for petulance.
"...you will remain in staff quarters and be accordingly bound from purchasing any lands or properties within Amestris or her common states."
The lone, mocking sound of one person clapping their accordance rang through the auditorium. The Chief halted until the person was removed. Then he actually smiled.
"... in the interest of the future safety of Amestris, you will be prevented from furthering your name or kinship in this great nation..."
There was confusion... a muted detonation of murmurs and wide eyes...
"Following the conclusion of this trial, you will be escorted to Central Military Infirmary where you will be..."
"No!" Ed. Always Ed. He was on his feet. "Colonel, no!"
"Quiet, boy!" Knox spat. "Look at him! Look at your damn commander! Let him -"
"Damn that Grumman – he could have done something! He could have-!"
Everyone was shouting now. Outrage filled the space from feet to rafters. Mustang was lost in a daze, the room conracting and blackening, and he couldn't tell if the masses were cheering or horrified by the primitive retribution of their new, hopeful state. The Chief shouted over them, starting his sentence again with more enthusiasm.
"... escorted to Central Military Infirmary where you will be castrated by the state and rendered sterile. The lineage of The Flame Alchemist, Roy Mustang ends here."
The guard behind Mustang leaned closer and smiled into his ear. "Well, what do you know, we're gelding you, Mustang..."
Flashbulbs flared as the press surged forward. Many voices were calling his name. Somebody's glasses crunched underfoot and Breda called for calm and order.
Head swirling, humiliation rushing him, Mustang stumbled once against the guard and his belly tugged – an old pain. It must have shown on his face.
"Something to say, Colonel?"
It was his voice, but puppeteered somehow, for he was miles away by now. "My... my medical record... I-"
"The council are well aware of your full medical history, Colonel, but if you please – haven't you always been a man fond of symbolism?"
As Mustang was led - dragged from the stand, the crowd still in uproar – chairs smashing and papers being set alight, he couldn't help but agree. Here he was at last, the loyal dog, neutered by the state that sired him.
All night, the screams filled the desert void. Spooky against the navy sky, the buzzards still hovered from time to time and Breda wondered, pulling on one of Havoc's cigarettes if all deserts were as darkly magical as Ishbal.
Every now and then, a woman would emerge with a bucket and cast black water onto the sand behind the tent. Breda and Fuery waited, watching all, with Little Ita sleeping between them, huddled under a small mountain of military issue coats and empty meal sacks.
Havoc exited the tent only once, making his way to the trio silently. He tried to light a cigarette but his hands shook so violently, he couldn't even open his lighter. Breda lit one for all of them, forcing the third into Fuery's hands who snatched for it hungrily. Nobody asked Havoc anything. They'd just reached that point in their relationship, Breda guessed. That, or the answers were so obvious.
Awful.
Excutiating.
Unforgettable.
Irreparable.
They sky was flashing green in the East when Little Ita woke up, her huge eyes blinking at the dimming stars.
"The buzzards have gone," she said.
Fuery and Breda both stared upward, aware for the first time that the screaming had stopped. Maybe it had stopped hours ago, who knew.
Everything was changing. The sands, once black, had turned to blue and on the horizon – like a miracle – a burnished crown was swelling, gold and nearly impossible to look at. It drifted as it rose, ligthing the six eyes that watched it as though it were the coming of a god. Fuery's hands rose to his heart, and Breda without thinking, pulled the small sergeant against him, patting his shoulder. It never occurred to him that it was the first time he'd ever touched the man in companionship.
At first they thought they were hallucinating, when those first spikes of black appeared against the swollen belly of the sun. Some ten minutes later, those spikes were made human, and less than twenty minutes after that, a caravan could clearly be discerned.
The chanting reached them shortly after, and still the three sat entranced by the this strange barren land.
"They've come to forgive him," a voice behind them spoke. Mother Ita.
Breda shook his head, and soon found he was laughing. Crying and laughing, and utterly exhausted. "Goddamn you, Mustang. A pilgrimage. A pilgramage."
The woman stooped and placed a kiss to the crown of his head. "Remember this day, Lieutenant. And marvel."
He didn't need to be told twice.
Okay... I PROMISE one more chapter after this. Trying to keep the balance between chapters, and wanted to be mature rather than desperate about finishing. Sorry!