some creative liberties have been taken in this chapter! it also features art by the talented rebbi-sonnenhell of tumblr (you can find this art integrated in the ao3 version of this fic, under the same pename)
When light returns to his vision, it is not as picturesque as one might imagine. He sits in a tent that is hastily constructed, on the edge of a stretcher cot that he remembers all too well from Ishval. The cotton even feels the same, if that's at all possible more than ten – has it really been that long? – years on; all scratchy and coarse. It's clean, at least.
The rest of the tent is not. He is well aware that they have placed him in one of the many makeshift morgues dotting the parade grounds – after all, the blind can't see the dead, so they won't be disgusted by what they don't know. The bodies are wrapped in muslin cloth, but there's the tang of iron in the air that makes him ill.
His hands are wrapped up in new bandages that are flimsy at best; shoddier than the quick job Rebecca had managed to do. The nurse who had been working on him had done a poor job but he could hardly fault her: her hands were shaking the entire time and from her voice he would wager she was young; not used to the harsh realities of a battle. General Armstrong was right about Central – it was so detached from whatever war it was fighting that they no longer felt the effects. Perhaps this fight would change the populace's opinion.
He blinks a few times, adjusting to the sudden influx of light and he feels tears pricking at his eyes – a natural response to sudden stimuli.
A natural response to a miracle he had already written off.
"Did it work?" Doctor Marcoh asks nervously.
Roy looks up and balks at the unfamiliar and mottled face before him. "I don't know Doctor. I don't remember your face getting run over by a truck."
Laughter explodes in the small tent and Marcoh shakes his head a little sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "At least we know now it will work on your subordinate too. When will he be able to make it to Central?"
"The main trunk line going East was caught up in that freak bombing incident," Breda pipes up, winking at Mustang slyly. "It'll be three weeks at least before we hear if the bridge can even be saved or if they'll have to reroute through the Cremil Ranges."
Doctor Marcoh hums, before carefully guiding the Philosopher's Stone back into a small glass vial. It is a strange substance up close – he remembered Fullmetal saying that it didn't act like a stone; certainly not in the traditional sense, at least. It was a lot like mercury – not entirely solid on its own, but not quite as viscous as regular liquid.
"May I?" he asks the doctor, and Marcoh starts a little, coughing into his hand.
"O-of course," he mumbles, holding out the vial. He is a little hesitant to let go at first – Roy doesn't begrudge him for that, he knows all too well the awful power that this little stone is capable of – but as Marcoh lets go his hand suddenly drops towards the ground.
"What the-"
Marcoh chuckles a little. "I have found that looks are always deceiving in the case of the Philosopher's Stone."
"No kidding…" he murmurs, lifting the vial back up. It is heavy – abnormally so. It feels like he is holding a large toddler or Black Hayate with one hand. The stone glints back at him as if to tease, the surface shifting in iridescent patterns as he tilts the vial a little. The faint light slipping though the tent highlights the ever-constant shift of red and something else that he can't quite put his finger on.
He can understand the madness that accompanies this alchemical miracle. Marcoh had explained that it was an imperfect make: he couldn't be sure when it would suddenly stop working. It didn't matter. So long as Jean regained the use of his legs Roy wouldn't care if they never used it again. It was probably for the best that they never did.
This kind of power had the ability to corrupt all too easily. It would be far too easy to use it to solve any and whatever problems came their way – but they would be left in the same position when it stopped working.
Perhaps that was the lesson to be taken from alchemy – from Edward's selfless sacrifice for his brother. It wasn't alchemy that solved peoples' problems; it was simply a means to do so. It was man that created the problem; therefore, it wouldn't be entirely out of the question to expect that man could also solve that problem.
Marcoh coughs and Mustang shakes out of his daze. "Quite right, Doctor. It takes an enormous amount of character to be guarding this stone. I certainly couldn't do it." He hands back the vial and dusts his trousers off as best he can, careful of his bandaged hands. "Is there anything we need to take care of here Breda?" He won't openly admit it to his men, but he's ready to leave this place. A headache is growing in the back of his head to accompany the pain in his eyesockets and he knows he's running on next to nothing – what little food he could manage for breakfast seems so long ago.
Breda makes a face, chewing on his lip. "I think we'll be okay to smuggle you out now," he says carefully, craning his head back over his shoulder to check the small gangway between the tent that they're in and the next one over. "So long as we're quiet and take the long way out, I don't think we'll get hit by the press."
Roy frowns. "They're regrouping already?"
Breda nods. "Nobody wants to be behind Radio Capital, of all channels – it's a fucking frenzy out there. The public, too. Everybody wants answers."
Roy sighs, and lets his shoulders drop. It feels wrong to admit weakness in front of his men, but there comes a point where he must acknowledge where he is useful and where he is not. They can easily run the logistics for him, in his stead – he trusts them to make the right choices moving forward. A beaten and bleeding leader is not what this country needs right now – not so soon after the apparent loss of a very beloved one.
The country needs times to mourn, to pick up the pieces, both literally and metaphorically. The people need time to heal, to grieve for the loss of a not-innocent not-child and their not-blameless president. Songs will be sung. Toasts will be made.
Life will go on.
Breda drives him to the main hospital in Seven Oak district, with a hastily written letter (containing a surprisingly well-forged signature of General Grumman) and the next thing he aware of, he's being shuttled off for surgery on his hands and Breda is asking a passing nurse about the best place for takeaways in this district.
The surgery is less impressive than he expected – he doesn't even get knocked out with anaesthesia, to which he'll admit he is disappointed by – he's now beyond the point of exhaustion and is merely running on whatever happens to be left in his bloodstream – stubbornness, the doctor hypothesises. The doctor is quick with his hands, and praises Rebecca's job of sterilising – "saved me a lot of bother trying to get through all this gunk," – and it's no less than thirty minutes later that he is escorted by a nurse into a room where he notes there are two beds. His hands are bandaged tightly, and the nurse quickly attaches him to a drip, before examining his eyes and writing notes down on a clipboard.
"What's that for?" he asks, already wanting to lie down on the bed. There's definitely strong pain medication in his drip – he is beginning to feel woozy and lightheaded, like he's been drinking bad whiskey too quickly.
"Your colleague said you had been temporarily blinded. We'll just need to make sure there's no lasting damage. Your pupils are responding well, and I can't see any damage or scarring on your retinas but a doctor will come by tomorrow to do a more formal check-up." She writes a few more notes on the clipboard before attaching it on a hook at the end of the bed.
"You need to rest now. We'll be checking you in a few hours to make sure your levels are steady, and whether we need to authorise a blood transfusion."
"Did I lose that much?" he asks blearily as he pulls the blankets on the bed back. Already he can feel his body giving up to the sleep that is so desperately clawing at him.
"We just have to be sure," she replies distractedly, closing the windows in the room. "We'll know more later on. Right now you just need to sleep."
"My adjutant -" he starts but she's left the room and as soon as his head hits the pillow he is gone.
He's woken later by another, different nurse shaking his shoulder carefully.
"Mr Mustang," she says. "I need to redress your hands."
He's groggy from the medication and it takes him a moment to realise that he's bled all over the bed. It's not a lot, but it's jarring to see his linen and arms streaked with drying blood, flaking in every direction as he shifts on the bed.
"I don't..."
"These stiches weren't meant to hold," she explains softly, escorting him to a wheelchair. "The doctor felt he needed to do further work on some of your tendons and muscles as well. We don't want you to be without working hands." She laughs softly and pushes him out of the room as another nurse enters with fresh linen.
He doesn't notice much as the doctor numbs his hands again, instead choosing to doze off in the chair he sits on. It's a weird sensation, feeling his skin being un-sewn and re-sewn, and the nurse and doctor talk in low tones as they inspect his wounds. They make short work of his hands, and soon enough the nurse is reapplying antiseptic, and taping soft gauze onto his injuries. Another doctor turns up and begins to ask him questions about his eyesight.
"Can you tell me exactly what happened?"
Roy sighs. "I lost my eyesight in an alchemical...attack." It feels strange to phrase it like this – but he doesn't have the energy to try and explain to this man the whole sordid affair that is human transmutation. He wouldn't understand. Roy doesn't either, if he's being completely honest. "An alchemist gifted in medicinal alchemy managed to cure it."
The doctor makes notes on a chart. "How would you describe it, when you were blind?"
"I was blind. I couldn't see." Roy says shortly.
"Were you able to discern anything like shapes or colours-"
"I was completely blind, Doctor," he repeats himself for what feels like the billionth time. "I could not see anything or anyone, let alone make out shapes or colours. It was like night - there was no light slipping through."
The doctor nods slowly. "And now? Are you noticing any difference in your eyesight to what it was previously?"
Roy shakes his head.
"Are you getting any headaches?"
He nods.
The doctor jots down some more notes. "So far as I can tell you're lucky. It seems like you won't have any lasting damage from this, but to be sure we'll be checking on you for a few days just to make sure no abnormalities arise. Neither your pupils nor your retinas seemed to have suffered any lasting damage beyond what we would expect in a war zone – though there is some minimal tearing on the surface of your eye that we will keep an eye on. You are a very lucky man."
At this, the nurse guides him back into the waiting wheelchair and pushes him out of the makeshift surgery. As she takes him back to his room, Roy notices the amount of soldiers loitering around the hallways of the hospital.
"How stretched are emergency services?" he asks as they turn the corner past the gift shop.
"Not terribly so. We're taking the more serious jobs because we have a much well-stocked blood bank compared to other hospitals but..." she trails off here as they pass a few soldiers who stand to attention as they pass. "Even our resources are being stretched currently. We're a bit low on some types of blood and general antiseptic but we'll make it work. We always manage to." Her tone is chipper, but it doesn't take much for him to translate 'a bit' into what it really means.
They were dangerously low.
She pushes him back into his room and Roy notes that the other bed in the room is still unused. "Have you heard anything about my adjutant?" he asks the nurse as she helps him out of the chair – even with the lingering morphine in his system, it still hurts to put pressure on his palms.
"What's his name?" the nurse asks absentmindedly.
"Riza Hawkeye. She had an injury to her throat."
The nurse shakes her head as she walks to where his bed is. "Doesn't sound familiar. I'll go have a look at our records and see if she's with us after my shift is done-"
"She will be, Lieutenant Catalina said that she was-"
The woman smiles in that kind, almost pitying way and Roy feels bile rising in his throat. "I'll go check when I have time. I have other patients to care for right now."
"But-"
"I'm sure she's being well-cared for." Her tone is firm and Roy sighs, and waits as she pulls back the sheets back for him. The hospital tuck is almost perfect in its make and the starch of the linen is comforting in its familiarity.
Roy sleeps.