026. Cureless (FMA/Royai)
Title: 026. Cureless
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is (c) Arakawa, Emily Dickinson's poetry is (c) Emily Dickinson.
A/N: My third oneshot for the Royai 100 themes. This one is a little darker (I secretly love good angst stuff. So weird, I know). Concrit is welcomed and greatly appreciated; I know I've still got plenty to improve in my writing. Thank-you.
xxXXxxXXxx
026. Cureless
The office is dark and quiet when she finally closes and locks the door behind her. Everyone else had long ago left, eager to be gone after a long day of uneventful paper-shuffling. Riza cannot help but think how nice it is, to sit in a cool air-conditioned building with comfy chairs and coffee and nowhere to go, no people to fight fight fight...
It has been a awhile since she's seen actual combat, but the feel of it has been driven into her very bones. She knows what the desert will look like this time of year, many miles away in what was once the great nation of Ishbal. She knows every notch and pockmark in every one of her guns, every smooth twist and slide of every mechanism that will make every bullet fly true. She knows, she knows...
Quietly, Riza closes and locks the door behind her.
Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir, -
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.
Outside his window, the sky is dark and speckled with only a few particularly bright stars. The rest are all drowned out by the city lights, creating a murky haze of half-darkness around every corner.
There is a bottle (of... something... there's a label on it but Roy can't quite get his eyes to focus enough to read) sitting on the table before him, amber liquid sparkling in the dim light from two solitary candles. He can see his own distorted reflection in the glass - one minute there, the next gone as his head spins slightly and he closes his eyes.
He does not let himself fall asleep; he does not dare risk dreams of the horrors that dance in his head, behind his eyelids...
Its past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed dispatch.
There are nights like these, every so often, where Riza will absently search for reasons to stay later and later at work and Roy will do his best to escape as quickly as possible. They do not need words; it is written plainly on their faces what is on both their minds and that is all the explanation they need. It is the silent blessing of their shared memories in the desert - and its curse.
Remorse is cureless, - the disease
Not even God can heal;
For 't is His institution, -
The complement of hell.
- Emily Dickinson
Thank-you for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is (c) Arakawa, Emily Dickinson's poetry is (c) Emily Dickinson.
A/N: My third oneshot for the Royai 100 themes. This one is a little darker (I secretly love good angst stuff. So weird, I know). Concrit is welcomed and greatly appreciated; I know I've still got plenty to improve in my writing. Thank-you.
xxXXxxXXxx
026. Cureless
The office is dark and quiet when she finally closes and locks the door behind her. Everyone else had long ago left, eager to be gone after a long day of uneventful paper-shuffling. Riza cannot help but think how nice it is, to sit in a cool air-conditioned building with comfy chairs and coffee and nowhere to go, no people to fight fight fight...
It has been a awhile since she's seen actual combat, but the feel of it has been driven into her very bones. She knows what the desert will look like this time of year, many miles away in what was once the great nation of Ishbal. She knows every notch and pockmark in every one of her guns, every smooth twist and slide of every mechanism that will make every bullet fly true. She knows, she knows...
Quietly, Riza closes and locks the door behind her.
Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir, -
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.
Outside his window, the sky is dark and speckled with only a few particularly bright stars. The rest are all drowned out by the city lights, creating a murky haze of half-darkness around every corner.
There is a bottle (of... something... there's a label on it but Roy can't quite get his eyes to focus enough to read) sitting on the table before him, amber liquid sparkling in the dim light from two solitary candles. He can see his own distorted reflection in the glass - one minute there, the next gone as his head spins slightly and he closes his eyes.
He does not let himself fall asleep; he does not dare risk dreams of the horrors that dance in his head, behind his eyelids...
Its past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed dispatch.
There are nights like these, every so often, where Riza will absently search for reasons to stay later and later at work and Roy will do his best to escape as quickly as possible. They do not need words; it is written plainly on their faces what is on both their minds and that is all the explanation they need. It is the silent blessing of their shared memories in the desert - and its curse.
Remorse is cureless, - the disease
Not even God can heal;
For 't is His institution, -
The complement of hell.
- Emily Dickinson
Thank-you for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it.