The Game of Three Generals
by Lady Norbert
A/N: And now we come to the chapter I've been warning you about.
I won't mince words. I cried the whole way through writing this. Chapter seventeen - which I hope will make up for this - will be up as soon as I can get it finished, probably in the next twelve hours. Meanwhile... all I can say is that I'm sorry.
Chapter Sixteen: Sitting King
Sitting King: A King that remains on its initial square. Shogi tradition teaches that this is generally a bad idea, since it leaves the King vulnerable to attack.
On the last day of his life, Roy Mustang opens his eyes and spends a few minutes contemplating the simple act of breathing.
Much like seeing, it's something that people take for granted. He realized that when he was blinded, and ever since then, he's rejoiced in his ability to see the world around him. Now he's fascinated by the simple reality of air moving in and out of his lungs. A miracle, in its way.
He's given breakfast. He eats slowly, taking his time, experiencing the taste and the smell of the food. Not that it's particularly good, mind; it's prison fare. Still, it's food. He wonders how many meals he's simply eaten without even enjoying them. He tries to remember the last time he ate something that he particularly relished, and to his slight amusement, the only thing that comes to mind is the soup Riza sometimes made with the winter potatoes in Ishval. He was so sick of those potatoes, but she did the best she could.
He had actually grown somewhat fond of the desert, during their time there. The Ishvalan people weren't wholly welcoming at first - for which he could never, ever blame them, all things considered - but in time they had warmed to them both. He thinks of the little house they shared with Hayate, with the vegetable garden where he raised so many of the starchy little tubers. It wasn't the home he'd wanted to give her, but it was home regardless, and they'd been happy. Completely happy.
It's not enough, it could never be enough, but at least they had that before it all fell apart.
They're going to take him to see her.
He will have three hours. The only three hours of genuine life he will have experienced in six weeks.
He's still a prisoner, still a condemned man, but he figures the least he can do is try to be presentable for his wife. He's escorted to the shower, the only place where he's ever unshackled, because they reason that the Flame Alchemist can't do much damage while he's soaking wet. (He could. Oh, he could. But he doesn't want to hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it, and when it comes to the lower-level soldiers, it's very difficult to know who's innocent and who isn't.) He scrubs his hair and his every inch of pale skin, hoping that he doesn't look too awful. He doesn't want to upset her any more than she's doubtless already upset.
How she's going to get through this, he can't begin to know. Not a single friendly face in the whole city but Ed, and he has a wife and child of his own who need him to come home. He wishes Riza would leave with him, or more accurately, wishes that they would let her leave. Maybe in the country - away from the military and all the reminders - she can find some kind of peace. As it is, with their other friends taken away and almost no family left on either side, she's not going to fare well in Central.
He combs his dripping hair, watching in vague curiosity as drops of water fall to the floor. They scatter over the hard tiles, and his mind tries to create patterns out of the random distribution. Tries to make sense out of something because right now, he can't make sense out of anything.
He finds her in the garden, alone with Black Hayate. Her belly is fuller than he remembers; then he remembers that he hasn't seen her in more than a month. "Riza..."
"Roy." He wonders who broke it to her - Ed, he hopes, who would at least have been as gentle as possible. She's not crying, at least not now, but her eyes are hollow and sad. He remembers that sadness from when they'd first met; she was such a lonely little creature, and even though it took two years before he realized she was everything he wanted, he'd been intrigued by those sad eyes from the first day. He wants now what he wanted then, to drive the sadness out of their expression. For a while, he had actually managed to do it.
He sits down beside her, and she curls herself into his arms. Three hours. They have three hours in which to say all that needs to be said, and they can't even be completely alone; the guards are too far away to listen, they give them that much, but they're still present. Not that their current situation lends itself very well to intimacy.
"I don't...don't have long," he says. Not long enough. A thousand years would not be long enough to be with her. "There's so much I never said...I always thought there'd be more time. I promised you my whole life and I didn't even give you two years."
"I would have taken two hours, if it was all you had to give me, sir." He smiles, briefly; she clings to that habit of calling him sir, an affectionate reminder of where they've been.
"You saved me so many times. Did I ever say thank you?"
"Often, although not usually with words. I never felt unappreciated, if that's what you're asking." She always knows what he isn't saying, and it's as much a comfort now as it ever has been.
For a time, they ignore the reality of what's happening and talk of other things. She promises to visit his mother frequently. They choose baby names and she tells him what the doctor said on her last visit. She takes his hand and places it on her stomach, and he feels his offspring moving; it's not big enough to kick, but there is definitely activity in there. It flutters and pulses and he's awestruck, completely spellbound. It's terrifying and heartbreaking and consoling all at once, to know that something of himself is going to live beyond this day.
"Promise me," he says finally, "that you won't do what you did when Lust told you... you know. Promise me you won't give in to despair. Our baby will need you to be strong."
"I know...I promise."
He slides down to his knees and addresses the child directly. "Hey there, little soldier," he says softly. "I'm... I'm so sorry we never got to meet. But I know you're going to be somebody amazing, like your mother. Take care of her for me, okay?"
Hayate ambles over and thrusts his nose into Roy's hand. "You too," he says, rubbing the little black ears. "Take care of your mistress. My last order, Second Lieutenant."
"Fifteen minutes, General Mustang," says the guard abruptly. Roy looks up. He's a young soldier, and looks a bit heartsick to be giving him the warning.
"Thank you."
He stands, Riza doing likewise, and he wraps his arms around her. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry. For everything."
"Don't be sorry. It's not your fault."
"You still believe in me?"
"Always."
He kisses her, and then again. "No matter what happens," he says, "I've always loved you, and I will love you until my last breath." This would sound grander, he thinks, if that last breath weren't less than an hour away from being drawn.
"I love you too." She presses her face into his shirtfront, and he can feel a bit of moisture soaking through the fabric, but when she pulls back her eyes are dry.
"Don't follow me," he says sternly. "You're still under orders not to die, you know."
"I know."
He kisses her, one more time. It's the last one ever, so he tries to make it as pure and as intense as everything he feels for her. He knows it doesn't begin to come close.
"It's time, General."
His last view of Riza is of her standing in the sunshine in a garden, with a dog in her arms. As final images go, it's pretty good.
The staccato beat of the drum is slow and measured, an audible countdown of the last minutes of his life. He's marched onto the parade grounds, his shackles removed. A pair of posts await him there; he is positioned between them, arms out at his sides and tied to the posts. Of course. They're taking no chances.
The firing squad lines up silently, watching him through the gaps in their black masks; there are seven, which seems a bit like overkill (no pun intended). He wonders if they care whether he forgives them or not. He does, all the same.
Piper - that bastard Piper - and a small crowd of MPs arrange themselves in the parade ground stands. "Major General Roy Mustang," he calls out, reading from a document, "you have been tried and convicted of high crimes and misdemeanors against Amestris, and have been sentenced to death by firing squad. Do you have any last words?"
Roy takes a breath, counts to three. "Not for you," he replies coldly. He knows what he wants his last words - rather, his last word - to be, but he's not sharing it with that traitor scum.
Piper shrugs, and nods to the firing squad. "Take your positions."
Roy feels the moisture on his face and wonders if it's raining or if he's just weeping. A distant rumble of thunder does nothing to clarify the issue. He tilts his head back to look at the sky, the clouds rolling in, his cheeks damp.
"Riza," he says, quietly. Let that be the last thing to ever cross his lips.
"Ready," calls Piper. "Aim."
He closes his eyes and waits for death.