Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Levitas Fragosus ❯ . . . That which is Forsaken . . . ( Chapter 2 )

All right. People aren't hurling bricks at me, so I've decided that it's safe to continue. I thank you for not dismembering me. (smiles)

Disclaimer: I own the right to bear arms. Try to sue me for saying I own FMA and I will be forced to put a bullet between your eyes. (smiles sweetly)

 

“He who has conquered doubt and fear has conquered failure.”

-James Lane Allen

 

Chapter II: . . . That which is Forsaken . . .

 

Roy Mustang downed the last bit of his bourbon, clamping his onyx eyes shut as the liquid scorched a trail down his throat and into his stomach. Sliding his empty glass and tab across the bar, he stood and shrugged on his black trench, nodded a goodbye to the bartender, and then left the dusky tavern.

Turning up his collar to the summer night breeze, Roy surveyed the silent street around him, before squaring his shoulders and beginning his journey home.

The heels of his military-issued boots clicked ominously on the worn cobblestone of the old street, the sound echoing back off the sleeping buildings. The air was thick and turbulent and full of charge that signaled an approaching storm, and the dark-haired alchemist suddenly regretted sending his driver away. He didn't even have an umbrella handy.

Navigating the secluded backstreets of Central, Roy kept his eyes and ears sharp for anything that might be construed as an attack on him—despite being off-duty for the day, he had gone straight from work to his favourite dive and was still wearing his very distinctive attire.

Mimicking the colour of lapis lazuli, Roy Mustang's military uniform was, in essence, a double-edged sword. On one hand, it let everyone who looked at him know that he was a colonel of the Amestris militia and was not one to be trifled with; therefore, it undoubtedly also drew the eyes of the more unsavoury residents of Central. The colonel may have put back a drink or two that night, but he wasn't drunk.

And he wasn't stupid.

He knew better than to get caught off-guard in the isolated, seedy back-sections of the city and held his pyrotex-gloved fingers at the ready in his coat pocket. Just let some malefactor hyped up on booze, drugs, and God-knows-what-else try to take a swing at him because he was an officer—they would be flambé before they hit the dirt. Right now, Roy was not in the mood to play.

Right now, Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, was not a man with whom to fuck.

Because Alphonse Elric was dead.

Roy's frown deepened and his brow furrowed; he slowly let his gaze drop to the ground before him as he walked. The colonel wasn't sure in any certain terms if that was the word that one would use, but for all intents and purposes, it was an effective definition:

The boy's blood seal—the thing that had secured his soul to the hollow suit of armour—had been punctured from behind by an unseen perpetrator and his spirit had been wretched away from the cataphract that had housed it for over four years, cast carelessly into the cruel winds of Fate.

Killed.

No. The Flame had to remind himself that no, Alphonse Elric had not simply been killed. He had been murdered. His fragile life had been snuffed out before he could even hope to experience life in his renewed flesh and bone body—to once again feel the wind on his face or the grass beneath his feet or the sensation of another human's skin or a kitten's fur beneath his fingertips; to at last partake of the exquisite Central cuisine or experience the forgotten flavour of his favourite toothpaste or even the refreshing taste of pure water that would pass over his lips for the first time in years; to suffer through the acrid stench that Havoc left in his wake, even if he didn't have a lit cigarette with him, or smell the aroma of freshly-baked bread at open market or understand the subtle difference between Resembool and Central air. To be normal.

To live.

And, if Roy were to suppose that—with or without a body of blood, flesh, bone, skin, and hair—one could live . . . then, he had to simultaneously believe that one could die. There was not one without the other. Alpha and Omega; yin and yang; balance; duality . . .

Equivalency.

So yes . . . Dead was the word that one would use to describe the younger Elric's sudden and violent removal from the world. Though, it hardly seemed fair—hardly seemed equivalent—to those he had left behind. His friends, comrades, family . . .

Goddamit, Edward had been . . . wild. Distraught.

Edward.

God, his eyes . . .

Roy turned a corner, unexpectedly arriving at a wider and more brightly-lit street. Off to his left, there were cozy housing complexes, each built claustrophobically close the next, creating an unbroken, almost cyclopean wall of stone, wood, and tacky lawn ornaments.

The man relinquished a wispy breath into the dark night.

There are eyes that no man on earth should ever have to look upon—eyes that hide deep down in the darkened corners of the human soul and only come tearing out when you are least prepared to confront them . . .

That night, Roy Mustang was sitting at his desk, trying uselessly to fend off sleep at the late hour and complete the few documents that still littered his desk. His first lieutenant had just departed, heading home for the night, and Roy was considering simply setting the papers ablaze and making a break for it, when a sudden commotion out in the hall drew his attention.

. . . They rip nerve endings away, shred skin and meat from bones and liquefy marrow . . .

He didn't remember standing. Or crossing the room. All he knew was that he was at the door and Hawkeye was shoving a struggling Edward Elric into his arms, explaining over the shouts of protest and “Alphonse!” that the younger Elric was . . .

Dead.

. . . Bore into your spirit and send you screaming into the abyss . . .

She told him to hold fast to the teenager—that he didn't need to see his fallen baby brother—and that she would roust the others of the unit to help her bring the . . . body . . . into the building, out of sight. Despite the utter chaos of the situation—despite the heart-wrenching pleas and sobs from the boy in his arms—Hawkeye was calm. She was helping. Acting.

And she looked absolutely terrified.

. . . simply praying for an end to it all . . .

Ed screamed his brother's name over and over again as the woman fled; he tried to wretch himself away from his superior, who held him fast against his chest. The blonde cried and writhed and kicked and even attempted to bite the Flame on the arm . . . then, he whipped his head around to look at the older man . . . and Roy forgot how to breathe.

There are eyes that no man on earth should ever have to look upon—and the night that Alphonse died . . . Roy was forced to see them. He was forced to witness light, hope, dreams, love, faith, and humanity itself split down the middle and shatter in the golden depths of Edward Elric's eyes.

The colonel shook his head and reached up to grind the heel of his hand against one of his eyes, as if to wipe away the image that now seemed to coat the back of his eyelids—to rid himself of the memory of what he had seen reflected in those amber orbs.

A failure.

Roy halted in his progress, removing one hand from its pocket and leisurely setting resting it on the pyramidal top of the short, wrought-iron fencepost on his right.

He had failed them. Utterly and miserably and Ed's eyes had said it all. They had probed the depths of his own black pools, accusing and questioning and horrified and just plain pissed, and they asked why the hell he hadn't kept the promise he had been silently making to himself for the past four years:

Why didn't you protect us?

I . . . I didn't know . . . How could I have known?

But you're Colonel Roy Mustang. Flame Alchemist. You know everything . . .

No. N-no, that's not true. There was nothing that I could have done to protect you and Al, because . . .

Because what?

Because I didn't know!

No. You failed us.

No, Edward. No. No, that's . . . that's not true.

Yes, it is.

No . . . I just . . .

Failed. You failed. You completely failed us, you fuck!

That was what Edward's eyes had said to him that night. And they were right. He was a failure. He had made a promise to himself to keep the two of them safe—to help them achieve their goal while he worked on his own. To protect them. And, though he tried to convince himself that there was no way that he could have known that Alphonse was going to be attacked . . . he still blamed himself for being able to do nothing.

For putting that look in the Fullmetal's eyes.

Roy sighed wearily, his bourbon-tinged breath escaping his lungs in a warm rush, and he lifted his onyx orbs to gaze around at where his feet had unconsciously taken him. He was not nearly as surprised as he should have been to find himself standing just outside the ornate entrance gate of Central's cemetery.

Letting his eyes gently slip shut, Roy turned around the gatepost and entered the vast necropolis. “Maybe I'll pay Hughes a visit while I'm here . . .”

 

Good? Si? Non? It was short, but I hope y'all liked it.