Title: atonement and other hard words

A/N: For the Equivalent Exchange Anthology, I'm just putting Scar in all my recent FMA pieces for some reason. XD Somewhat connected to an earlier piece I did, featuring Winry and Scar, but you don't need to read that to read this.

Summary: Riza's legacy was one of bullets and blood. Roy's would be a hero turned war criminal. Miles didn't have a legacy. Scar had never thought he'd live long enough to leave one. —or how, after the war, there was still work to be done.

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Riza's legacy was one of bullets and blood. Her guns were her children, every part of them as familiar as her own body. She picked guns the way other women picked makeup, situational weapons that could match any occasion. Even now, years after the war, her body count was unbeaten in the non-alchemists in the army.

It was not something she was proud of, but she didn't entirely regret it either. In war, there were choices, and the ones she'd made had ensured that she and those she loved had lived. Sometimes, there weren't neither good nor bad options—just the least shitty of the bunch.

Fortunately, today wasn't one of those days. Even as they cleaned up the coup's remnants, weeding out the last of the rats that had sold out humanity, Riza no longer had to kill to fulfill her orders. Lying on Central's church roof, she raised her rifle as her radio hissed to life.

"The guest's coming closer," Fuery stated softly. She could picture him, binoculars in hand as he monitored a dozen radio channels. "It'll just be a few minutes."

"That's good to know," she replied, pressing her eye to the scope as she trained her rifle on the street. Maybe she'd hit the ground before the target's feet, scaring him until the officers arrived. "I'll give him a warm welcome."

There was silence on the other end of the radio. She counted to three. They had been together on these missions long enough that she knew when Fuery was silent because he had nothing else to add, and when he was debating if he should say something.

He always ended up saying it anyway. If he'd just stop wasting time considering it, their conversations would go a lot quicker.

"Are you going to Ishval?" Fuery finally asked. "I…I saw the letter and…"

"You looked at my desk?" she replied, amused. Her finger remained loose on the trigger.

There was a pregnant pause before he admitted, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have looked. But you've been pensive since it came, and I…."

Pensive. Perhaps that was the word for it. The invitation to attend the new memorial had brought with it a wave of old memories. No doubt the newly-formed committees had meant well, sending that letter to every soldier who had survived Ishval. No doubt they had hoped for a beautiful reconciliation.

And no doubt none of them had fought in the war.

"It's fine. I should have just tossed it when I received it."

That letter was full of foolish, naïve nonsense—the same kind of innocence that Fuery displayed as he pressed, "So you won't go?"

"No." Riza closed her eyes. "Not now."

Maybe not ever.

Riza did not regret her actions, but the sand was still caked with her mistakes. She had made the choice to pull the trigger—despite hearing the screams as families were torn apart, with the taste of fat and grease in the air as the flames that licked buildings and people alike heated her own skin.

The choice had been hers: it had always been hers, no matter how hard it had been.

She had no right to return.

"Oh." Fuery sounded disappointed. The radio crackled as he shifted. "The guest's coming out now."

"I'll go greet him." Riza raised her rifle once more. She pursed her lips, before adding, "But maybe..."

"Maybe?"

When she pictured the desert, all she could see were tombstones and crying children. Her undefeated body count. A legacy she hoped that no one else would have. If she did her job well, others would see Ishval for its potential, for its future, and not only for its loss. It would change, become something new, something better.

Something unmarred by her hand. She'd like to see that Ishval.

"Maybe in ten years."

-x-

Roy had known what his legacy would be before the blood cooled after the coup. He was a hero—a saviour. Perhaps secretly hated by those who suspected that he had made a power grab; definitely publicly reviled by those who thought he was rising up through the ranks too fast.

If he became Fuhrer, he'd go down in the history books. If only he hadn't let Grumman take the position first—sure, there hadn't really been much of an option at the time, not with the part he had played and the price he had paid. It had been a smart idea, let the old man serve as the face while Roy worked in the shadows.

The problem was that it didn't look like Grumman would retire until he died, and it didn't look like he would die until he was a hundred. Roy was going to be stuck at his desk until his hair greyed.

To make matters worse, Grumman had found a new way to haze him: delegating all of the tedious paperwork to Roy. Which was why, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, instead of schmoozing it up with the ladies or even enjoying a quiet walk with Riza, he was stuck inside his office with more paperwork than he could shake his fist at.

Maybe he should burn it.

What was the point of being a Flame Alchemist if he couldn't burn what he wanted?

The door to his office swung open, and Havoc walked in, another box in his arms. He grunted as he stacked it precariously on another box. "I thought assisting you was supposed to be light duty."

"I thought I'd get a secretary with a miniskirt," Roy grumbled back, glaring at him.

"Me too," Havoc sighed, wiping his brow as he leaned against the door. Although he could walk again, he still needed more time before he was anywhere up to the standards his physical trainer expected, let alone the training he had had before. "When's that happening?"

"Ask Grumman." Roy pouted as he stretched his cramped hands above him. "He won't listen to any of my fun policy ideas."

"At least he's doing the serious ones." Havoc smiled half-heartedly. "Half of these are related to the reconstruction."

"And yet, somehow that's not enough." Roy flipped open a file idly. Immediately, he wished he hadn't—inside was a letter he had almost forgotten receiving. An invitation to a town he had personally helped destroy.

Leaning closer, Havoc peeked. "Oh, I got that too. What were they thinking, sending this to us?"

"They weren't," Roy replied flippantly, turning the letter in his hands. Even now, he could feel the desert heat, the sun burning his skin, his fingers snapping as he wiped out entire neighbourhoods. "It's like asking a fox into a hen house."

"So you're not going, then?" Havoc raised an eyebrow.

Roy scoffed, dropping the letter. "No, I'll go. It'd ruin my image otherwise. There's enough of these guys nipping at my heels as it is."

While he wanted to tar his name, this wasn't the way he needed to do it.

"Competition for Fuhrer?" Havoc guessed.

"They think they are," Roy replied dismissively. After all he'd traded to get this far, he wasn't going to give that position to anyone else. "They haven't played the game long or hard enough to come close."

Their sins were only skin deep, easily washed. They could see the faded stains and strive for something better. His own were far more permanent and insidious. The history books wanted to record how Roy was dismantling the State Alchemist system. The reporters wanted to snap a picture of him at the memorial, talking about all he'd done to rebuild Ishval.

Let them.

By the time that Roy was done as Fuhrer, his image would have changed from war hero to war criminal. Maybe the next time they held a memorial, he'd go there in chains.

-x-

Miles did not have a legacy. He was an ordinary man, filled with ordinary weaknesses. When the war broke out, he could only watch from Briggs, far away from the death and destruction. When his grandfather died, his blood spilling on the red, red soil, Miles had not been there to perform the last rites.

He didn't even know what rites to give.

In the grand scope of things, he would be forgotten in time—just another nameless man.

Coming to Ishval only confirmed it. Miles wasn't sure what he had expected to feel when he'd stepped into his ancestral homeland, but he had expected to feel something. The sun shone brightly above as he and Scar slowly made their way through what had once been a great city. Around him, ruined buildings painted the story of a bustling town—here was the center of commerce, here was a home, here the community well.

Now it was a ghost town. The war had left scars on the earth, craters and scorch marks where clay walls one stood. The fires had long gone, the bodies long disappeared into the sands, and yet the city still felt like it was burning, the rage from all that loss infused in the air. Amestris had wanted to hold a memorial here, but the entire city felt like an open grave, a festering wound.

It felt wrong for him to walk here, let alone them.

"Did you live here?" he asked, mostly just to break the oppressive silence.

Scar glanced over his shoulder. With his battle-worn and scarred appearance, he was like a physical representation of the city.

Miles lowered his eyes to the white robes adorning Scar. No, that wasn't right—he had been the embodiment of his people's—their people's—rage, a war god given form. With his second 'death', he had softened slightly.

"No. I doubt anything is left of my town." Scar knelt, scooping the red dust and watching it flow out from his fingers. "I visited a few times. The market used to be filled with people."

It was hard to imagine. Miles rubbed the sweat from his eyes as he looked around. There was a hole in the closest building. The next nearest had only the first floor standing. "It will be again."

He wasn't sure if he believed what he was saying. It was more of a wish than a statement.

"Perhaps." It didn't sound like Scar believed it either. Then again, considering all he'd seen and done, it would take more than a military policy and a flimsy memorial to convince him that things had changed. Scar stood up and guided them forward once more. "Our priests used to gather at the center of town."

"What for?" Miles's grandfather had been religious to a fault. Legs crossed, lips silently uttering a prayer, the man used to look like he had been carved from stone. Only when he opened his eyes, spotting Miles, did he soften. Only when he invited Miles over, did he smile.

"To discuss ideas. Exchange news. Deal with community issues." Scar stopped at a small tree stump. "There are very few trees here. It was considered a sacred place."

Reverentially, he touched the stump, a sense of longing in his expression.

It left Miles unsettled. Scar looked at this town and saw what it had been, what it could still be. Miles could only see it for what it was. It was a broken city, home to a broken people. He would never know the lost potential of this place. The buildings were just buildings, the stump only a stump.

The unsettled feeling grew heavier at the realization of all the things that he would never know, the connections he would never have.

"We'll do the same." Scar sat down and gestured for Miles to sit too.

For a moment, Miles was reminded of his grandfather's hand outstretched.

For a moment, Miles was reminded of the years he had spent hiding himself, unwilling to associate with his people.

Today, he accepted the invitation and sat down. "What else did they do here?" he asked.

Miles would be forgotten in time, but he wouldn't let this city disappear with him. If he didn't live the history, he could learn it. If he didn't know the culture, he could pick it up piece by broken piece. Even the memorial tomorrow could be turned into something useful, a stepping stone for the future. His legacy would be making sure that his children had a past. That they would be Ishval's future.

His grandfather would have liked that.

-x-

Scar had never thought about leaving a legacy. He had expected to die alone in an alley after he'd killed the last alchemist. His cause had been equal parts justice and vengeance, and his actions had been just as wrong as they had been right. He had always thought that restoring his people would be left to others: avenging it would be his task alone.

Yet here he was. Alive and in Ishval once more. Rebuilding Ishval, even.

Life always had other plans.

The desert was quiet at night. It was a welcome change from the memorial earlier; he had not attended, but the noise had been audible no matter where he hid. Scar sat at the outskirts of town—what his people had cobbled back together into one—with his hand on the ground, leaning back and listening to the gentle breeze running over the open expanse. He was not sure how much he believed in Ishvala anymore, but it was easier to feel Him here in the empty expanse. With the stars above and nature around him, it felt like there had to be a divine hand behind it all, guiding them just as the moon was guided around the earth.

"There you are."

The desert had been quiet. He looked over his shoulder as Mei approached. With all of her years of training, there was something inherently graceful yet deadly about the way she walked. She plopped down beside him and crossed her arms. "Why do you always go so far? It's hard to find you!"

"What are you doing here?" Scar asked, side-stepping the question. He could not say when he had gotten used to the small girl's presence, when she had slipped into his life and clung to him like burrs on a beast. For some reason, she insisted on visiting him every now and then.

For some reason, he couldn't ever say no.

"I was looking for you," Mei said. A growl sounded as her panda clambered from her back onto her shoulder. Quickly, she corrected, "We were looking for you."

Xiao Mei grunted in agreement before settling down.

"Why?" Scar asked again, looking up at the stars. They painted a path above him, from one side of the sky to another. If only the paths down here were so easy to see.

"Just wanted to check up on you." Bending her knees, Mei hugged them to her chest as she leaned against him. "There was that 'memorial' and…I thought you could use the company."

Scar's jaw tightened. Miles had found value in it, but he was glad that it was over and done with. The only use it had was the money that poured in after—and even that wasn't entirely worth the cries of the dead as their killers came and left. "I'm fine."

"You always say that." Mei peeked up at him. "Then you're here because Winry's here?"

Scar's eyes flicked to her, then back to the desert. "It is better this way."

"I guess, considering everything. But…I thought you talked it out before." Mei traced patterns in the dirt. "Winry said you'd reached an understanding."

"We did," Scar replied. Unbidden, memories of Winry's last visit surfaced. They'd met in the outskirts, colliding by accident, neither of them knowing how to handle the other.

Were your hands meant to heal too?

Winry's question had lingered long after she'd left. Once, he had known the answer to that question. Now, he wasn't sure.

"So?" Mei pressed, cocking her head.

"That doesn't change what happened." Scar looked up at the stars. "It is better this way."

"Stop saying that," Mei grumbled, leaning against him once more. "You know, I don't think you'll ever be friends, but…I don't think she minds if you're in the room. And that's good, because when I have kids, you'll both have to be there."

Scar blinked and looked down at her. It was strange to think of this slip of a girl as a mother—but then again, she had been growing. Before long, she'd be an adult, with a life of her own. "I will?"

She smiled up at him, toothy and honest. "Of course you will—you're going to be their uncle."

His breath hitched. "Uncle?"

"Yeah." Mei nudged him with her head. "Uncle."

He raised a hand. Even with all that had happened, he could still see the blood on it. "That isn't a good idea—"

"It's a great idea," Mei interrupted. "You know, Winry wanted me to tell you that your eyes don't look like a killer's anymore." She reached forward, clasping his hand in her own. "Your hands were a healer's once, right? They could be a healer's again."

He bit his cheek, falling silent. Mei didn't know the lengths he'd gone to.

"It won't be the same," Mei continued, squeezing his hand. "It's happening with my own people, too. Nothing will be the same, but something new—something better—will come out of it. Despite the bloodshed and loss."

Something new. Something different.

Scar could manage that much. Until now, he had never thought of a legacy, of what he'd leave behind, but it seemed he wasn't going to bleed out in a dark alley for some time now.

Despite his best efforts, he had a long future ahead. It was time he started acting like it.

Scar squeezed Mei's hand back. "I'll try."