FMA BBC: Estvarya, Chapter 3
Title: Estvarya
Author: mfelizandy
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 22,000+
Pairing/Characters: Roy Mustang, Scar. No pairings.
There's art for this story! Have a look at Rewire's sketches and the WIP of an collaborative painting she and Rufina are doing for an upcoming scene. Art Post!
Warnings: Probably some non-explicit nudity at some point or another--Ishbalan mores on nudity don't line up perfectly with western ideas. Likely to be some supporting-OC death. Culture-building. Mild language and some violence.
Summary: Post-manga AU. One of the pieces left behind by the Promised Day is a shard of the legendary Philosopher's Stone. Everyone who knows what it is agrees that it can't be left to cause grief to future generations.
That's about all they agree on.
Against a backdrop of looming war, a blind Roy Mustang rides across the border with the Scar of Ishbal at his side and a Philosopher's Stone in his pocket, on a mission to negotiate an end to the fighting and deliver the Stone to the Ishbalan Elders. Somehow, two of the least likely messengers Ishvarra could have picked must find a way to not only work together but also to save both their people and themselves.
“Is this really necessary?” Roy, dressed in a light Ishbalan tunic and trousers, worked his fingers over the nest of loose leather loops and straps that was supposed to be an Ishbalan-style riding sandal.
“Amestrian clothing traps sand, holds the heat in during the day, and lets it out during the night,” Scar answered.
“If you say so.” Roy set the sandal aside. “But I think my feet will be safer in good thick shoes.”
“We'll be riding for at least ten days. Perhaps longer. Your shoes will be full of sand within two.” Scar paused, then said quietly, “Fitting sandals can be difficult even with eyes to see.”
“I suppose so,” Roy answered stiffly as he bent to take his shoe from beside the nightstand.
Scar took a step and caught Roy's hand before it touched the shoe. “I'll thread the straps to fit you.”
Roy hesitated for a long moment, then gritted his teeth. “All right. Thank you.” He sat down on the bed.
Scar picked up the offending sandal. “Pick up your right foot.”
Roy obeyed. “Will we have to do this every time I put my shoes on?”
“No. Once they're threaded to fit your feet, you can leave them as they are and simply tie and untie them.” Scar put the sole of the sandal to the sole of Roy's foot. “Hold this.”
Roy took hold of the thick leather uppers around his ankle and flexed his toes as Scar's hands worked the leather through the numerous loops and eyelets.
“Here.” Scar put the ends of the lace into Roy's fingers. “Tie them how you like.”
“I'll do the other one,” Roy said as he looped the laces around his ankle and tied them in a tidy knot.
Scar waited without comment for the half-hour it took Roy to work out the loops of the sandal.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
They rode on a soft forest trail, the horses' hooves turning up the scent of deep black soil and green leaves. Scar rode a rangy gelding who chewed his bit, and led Roy on a mare named Ghost because, as the old farmhand had said, “she's soft-footed and grey as a meadow spirit.” A second lead rope tied to Roy's saddle led a phlegmatic pack pony. Roy's attempts to strike up a conversation got him only noncommittal grunts and some muttered Ishbalan phrases. Eventually he gave up and let Ghost's motion lull him into a near-doze.
“This is good enough.” Scar stopped his horse, and his saddle creaked as he dismounted.
“We're stopping for the night?” Roy flexed his stiff fingers.
“Yes.”
Roy gingerly got off his horse, and let himself grimace as his feet hit the ground. “Well, I'm going to be sore tomorrow. How about you?”
“...The anar dkan will be harder in the morning.” Scar took Roy's elbow and steered him away from his horse. “Sit here under the tree while I see to the horses.”
“Give me the packs and I'll get dinner started,” Roy answered amiably.
“I'll see to that after I've finished with the horses.”
Roy frowned. “I'm not helpless, Scar.”
“You're blind.”
“Believe me, I've noticed that,” Roy answered with asperity. “But I can peel carrots and cut up potatoes without hurting myself.” He arched a brow in the Ishbalan's direction. “I'm also pretty good at getting a fire started.”
There were some rattles and softer rustles, then Scar put a sizable fry pan into Roy's hands. “The paring knife is in the largest potato. I'll gather firewood after I'm done with the horses.”
Roy nodded, and settled to his knees in the damp leaf litter to start preparing their dinner.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
They broke camp early the next morning and rode east along the trail until it ended at a set of packed-earth ruts.
“Put up your hood.”
“Why? It's not that cold.” Roy frowned and shifted in his saddle. “Or do I need to hide my race?”
“Neither. We've been riding under the trees, but now that we're in the open the sun will bake you, and sun sickness is nothing to trifle with.” Scar paused, then nudged his horse to the left. When he spoke again there was a tinge of curiosity in his tone. “If we were riding from the east you could pass for an Easterner, so long as you didn't speak.”
“I can pass for Xingese to almost everybody except the Xingese,” Roy answered, settling the hood of his Ishbalan-style cloak over his head. “I'm fluent in one of the northern dialects.”
“Were you born in the east, then?”
“Only if by 'east' you mean the Eastern District of Amestris.” Roy shrugged. “What part of Ishbal did you come from?”
There was a moment's silence, then Scar answered, “Kanda.”
“Is that where we're going?”
“No. There's very little left to go to.”
Roy paused. “I suppose not. Where are you taking me, then? To the-what was the word you used the other day? You were trying to buy time for people to get there.”
“Tani Yumtepi. That's not where we're going, either.”
“Is this another guessing game?”
“We're going to Xerxes.”
“Xerxes? I thought we were going to Ishbal.”
“You wouldn’t live more than a day, if we went into Ishbal. Their Elders would give me the choice of killing you myself, or watching another slit your throat as the sword came down to behead me.”
“That’s...” Roy fell silent and lowered his head.
“Those who live in Xerxes haven't been facing the soldiers daily. They're more likely to accept the stone you carry, and spare your life.” Scar paused for a few of his horse’s strides. “If there is any chance for a future between our peoples, it lies with the Elders of Xerxes.”
“I thought Xerxes was just a ruin with a few bandits preying on the eastern caravans.”
Scar whuffed in his chest. “There was a time when that was true.”
“What's true about it now?”
“Now there are Elders living amid the ruins.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Mmf.” Roy set his dinner pan aside and stretched his back. “Scar, which way is Central?”
The big Ishbalan grunted a bit, then reached and gave the radio box under Roy's left elbow a push, turning it. “If you followed the line of the right edge of the box you would walk straight to Central City.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Roy pulled his watch from the belt pouch on his right hip, and used the key on the other end of the watch chain to open the radio box.
“Do you want help?”
“I won't say no if you offer to handle the aerial,” Roy answered. He laid out the headset and microphone, then found the heavy steel crank handle and fitted it into place.
Scar allowed Roy to demonstrate fitting the radio mast together, then stringing the antenna to it. He worked in soft rustles of fabric and whiffs of horse and dust. “This radio is smaller than the ones I saw during the invasion.”
“It's a newer model,” Roy answered amiably as he turned the crank. “I haven't looked into how they did it, but the engineers of the Communications Division have been making field radio and phone sets smaller and lighter every year. This one is only one box with a fifteen-foot aerial, but it can put out a signal that will reach from Xerxes to Central at night, and I could keep talking all night on one winding, if I had that much to talk about.”
“What do you plan to talk about tonight?” The antenna clips clicked softly.
“Not much.” Roy shrugged as he cranked. “To be honest, this is a 'don't panic' call. My people tracked us until we crossed the border, but now that we're outside Amestris we can't be so easily watched.”
“I saw them.” A dangerous tone crept into Scar's voice. “You ordered them to watch me?”
“No.” Roy's eyebrows lifted. “I just know my people. They probably had a car and hotel room booked in every town we passed through, in the hopes that I'd change my mind.”
“Mm.” Scar lifted the aerial and set it into its socket. “I'll see to the dishes while you tell them I haven't killed you.”
“Thanks.” Roy grinned a bit. “For the dishes and not killing me.”
“You've spared my life.” Scar picked up Roy's dinner pan. “Had someone said to me last year that I would travel with the Flame Alchemist, not as a prisoner but as a guide, and that I would choose to defend your life rather than end it...”
“I would have laughed in that guy's face, too.” Roy paused and shook out his hand and arm before resuming his cranking. “War makes for strange bedfellows. Trying to end a war makes for even stranger ones.” He stopped at a loud click from within the radio, and disconnected the crank handle. After some probing of the touchscript labels glued around and on the switches and dials, he put on the headset and set his fingers on the telegraphy key. His first few attempts netted him nothing, but on the fifth try, a lengthy, rapid series of clicks and beeps rattled in his ears. Kain Fury's mastery of telegraph code made him hard to keep up with, but Roy eventually verified his identity, and Fury shifted to voice transmission.
“This is De Salars Worldwide, how can I be of service?” The code phrases translated to Are you all right? and I have news for you.
“I'm one of your customers from New Optain, and I've heard of some potential opportunities I'd like to look into.” I'm fine, what's going on?
The rest of their conversation was couched as a discussion of investments in everything from wheat crops in southern Amestris and sapphire mines in Bharat to the shipping lines of Caledonia and the fisheries of Mundo. Scar moved around throughout, scouring the dishes clean with handfuls of sand, checking on the hobbled horses and drawing more water from the desert well for them, and feeding the tiny campfire. When Roy took off the headset, Scar asked, “What did your people say?”
“So far, things are under control, but there are some people and situations they're monitoring.”
“Such as?” Scar approached, and lifted the antenna mast free of its mount.
“Such as Drachmani spies suddenly converging on Central.” Roy frowned. “Their agents generally aren't anywhere near as good as ours, but they're acting like they've got a large scale plan and timetable this time.”
“No doubt there are others who can find out what that plan is.”
“There are. I just wish...” Roy sighed. “I don't like not being there to handle it personally.”
“You made your choice, Roy. Now you must follow it through and allow others to deal with the Drachmans.”
“I know, I know, I can't run everything.” Roy put the microphone into its padded nest, then paused and turned toward Scar. “You called me Roy.”
“It's your name.”
“Yes, but you haven't been using it. You've called me 'alchemist' or used my full name.”
“Are you offended?”
“No. Pleasantly surprised. Or am I reading too much into it?”
“You call your friends by their personal names only, and use the tribe name to strangers.”
Scar pried the last few antenna wire clips open with loud metallic pings. “My people use the personal name for everyone who lives among us. To you it may seem too familiar.”
“Believe me, I'll consider it a victory if they use any part of my name rather than calling me a demon or something.” Roy coiled the antenna wire. “But what should I call you?”
“Hm?”
“You must have a name, or something I could call you that's not just a reference to a mark on your face.”
Scar laid the sections of the mast beside Roy's knee. “Call me what you like.”
“Is it offensive to ask for your name?”
“No. I just don't have one to give you.”
Roy turned toward his guide. “What are you talking about? I'm sure your mother didn't look at you the day you were born and say, 'I'm going to name him Scar.' If it's none of my business say so, but I'd like to have something more appropriate than a military intelligence tag to call you.”
Scar didn't answer immediately. When he did speak his words rippled low, like a stream flowing in rills and eddies of pain and grief. “The child my mother held died with all the rest of his family at the hands of a State Alchemist. I'm going to take a traveler's bath. Keep watch.” He moved away from the fire and their bedrolls and refused any further conversation.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The horses' hooves crunched a little in the sand of the desert. Roy swayed lazily in his saddle. “Scar?”
“Mm.” The grunt was of someone distracted by something else.
“Have you been to Xerxes before?”
Scar's answer came back snappish. “Why do you insist on questioning me every step of the way?”
Roy straightened up and frowned. “I'm not questioning you. I'm trying to make conversation. It's not like I can read a book or admire the scenery.”
There was a long pause, then Scar said, “I've never been to Xerxes myself, but I know the way there.”
“I didn't mean to imply that you don't,” Roy replied placatingly. “Frankly, I'm bored and I'd be willing to talk about just about anything to pass the time.”
“Talking overmuch makes a man thirsty,” Scar said gruffly. “But we aren't far from a well.” He paused. “Perhaps you will answer a personal question.” The intonation rose and fell strangely, making the words neither a statement nor a question.
Roy lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps I will, once I know what the question is.”
“There were many stories about you, when I walked the roads in your country. Some of them were clearly false. Others seem plausible.”
“That was intentional.” Roy grinned at the memory. “We had a lot of fun, concocting those stories. Which ones are you wondering about?”
Scar hesitated. “Many people believe that you have children. That you keep seven wives and all of the children you fathered on them in some hidden place.”
Roy's eyebrows rose. “I'd forgotten about that one. That was one of Falman's-he was really good at the conspiracy rumors. We set it up to see who would start following pregnant young women who happened to congregate in out of the way places.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.” Roy paused. “Do you?”
“No.” Scar let his horse take a few strides before he went on. “So long as I am exiled, I cannot marry.”
“I see.” Roy turned toward his guide again. “Is there any way to get your exile revoked?”
“It could be done,” Scar answered. He changed the subject. “I once saw several drawings and paintings in a market stall. The dealer claimed that they were of you-several years younger...and without your uniform.”
“Or anything else.” Roy's cheeks heated a little. “I knew I'd missed a few of those.”
“So those drawings were truly of you?”
“I can't say for sure whether what you saw was actually me, but I did work as an artist's model during my apprenticeship.”
Silence, then, “Why?”
“Money,” Roy answered with a shrug. “My parents' savings paid most of the first year, and my foster mother helped as much as she could, but-well, I decided I'd find a way to pay my apprenticeship fees myself.”
“But why-posing?” Scar sounded a little revolted.
Roy's face darkened a little. “I was sixteen and didn't have too many marketable skills-all the bars in town already had all the bartenders they needed. I was either working for my master or studying with him from a little after dawn until suppertime.” His attention turned inward. “He didn't really want an apprentice, so he tripled the fee to try and get rid of me. The artist couple in town always needed models-there aren't too many people willing to be naked in front of strangers, much less naked and holding a pose for a few hours. They liked my 'exotic' face and skin tone...and the fact that I'd let them dress and pose me in ways most models wouldn't tolerate.” Roy whuffed to himself. “At the time, I figured that if they'd pay me more for it, I could stand a backache or a few weeks letting a coat of Bharati skin paint wear off.”
“But now those pictures are sold in the streets.”
“And only those who know me well-or know a few things about me that pancake makeup couldn't hide-can be sure that those sketches and paintings are really me, and not just some kid who sort of resembles me, or leftover propaganda arranged to bring me down by a military rival.” Roy grinned. “The face really isn't what most people look at in those pictures anyway.” He went on before Scar could reply. “Maybe I can ask you a personal question?”
There was a moment's pause, then, “Ask.”
“How does an Ishbalan-what was that word you used?--a warrior-priest end up studying alchemy?”
The silence was longer this time. Scar finally answered, “The word you asked for is 'yevarshedaht'. It means 'a priest with a sword.' Your other question...it's likely you'll hear many versions of the story from the people of the tribes.” He took a breath, let it out slowly. “I had an older brother, once. He chose the path of the jhastovar, the...scholar and keeper of records.”
Roy settled his hands on the pommel of his saddle and kept his face attentive and his mouth shut.
“I chose the path of the yevarshedaht. My brother believed he could defend our people by learning the ancient powers our ancestors used to defend themselves.” Scar paused, then said quietly, “It would further disgrace the memory of my family among the tribes, if they knew the full extent of what he did.”
“There are a lot of secrets that will die with me,” Roy answered, matching the Ishbalan's pitch.
“Mm.” Scar rode a few more strides, then went on. “My brother studied the Xingese art of alkahestry, as well as Amestrian war alchemy, and he combined them with the alchemy of our people. He designed two arrays, then had them tattooed on his arms.” He faltered a little. “We were taking our family to the Tani Yumtepi when Zolf J. Kimbley came.”
“Kimbley,” Roy sucked in a breath. “Oh gods, no wonder.”
“He was only one of the monsters unleashed on us,” Scar said gruffly. “Kimbley caused a house to explode. That was the last I knew. When I woke, my face was bandaged and...my right arm had been replaced by my brother's.”
“What?”
“I found his body later, as well as the remains of the right hand I was born with. I would have bled to death. My brother...preferred to let me live. So he used the power he held to give me his right arm...and the destruction within it.” He fell silent.
Roy didn't prod him for anything more.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Roy woke to a rough, horse-scented hand covering his mouth and Scar's voice hissing in his ear. “We have to move. Now. Put on your sandals and cloak, the rest can wait. Don't say a word until I tell you it's safe. Pack the camp while I catch the horses.”
Roy nodded, then sat up and hurriedly tied his sandals. He stuffed their canteens of precious water into the first bag that his questing fingers touched, then wrapped up the clinking forks and dinner pans in his bedroll and buckled it into an awkward bundle. Scar returned with their horses, saddled them without giving them so much as a mouthful of water, all but threw Roy up into the saddle, then mounted and kicked his horse into a ground-eating canter, with Roy's mare and the pack horse pounding along behind to keep up. Roy grabbed Ghost's mane and clung for dear life.
Not until his horse began to falter and stumble did Scar allow the animals to drop back to a walk. He said nothing until the horses' hard breathing subsided, then sidled his horse up beside Roy's mare until his knee brushed Roy's. “Keep your head down. We are being watched.” His left hand closed on the back of Roy's neck. “Stay quiet a little longer.” He left his hand on Roy for several strides, then let out a held breath. “They've withdrawn. We'll stop at the next well for the horses' sake, but we need to get past the Pillars by sunset. Ask your questions now-and tell me where you put the water.”
“I'm not sure which bag I put the canteens in-it's one of the pack horse's bags. Who were they?”
“Men of the Zabir tribe. They've claimed this land since the last time I came this far north.”
“You mean you talked to them?”
“No. I saw the yevarshedaht's sash. It was the Zabir pattern.”
Roy looked baffled. “I think I'm missing some things here. How do you get from seeing someone's sash to running like hell across the desert?”
Scar paused for a moment. “Zabir is one of the tribes that once lived on the plains of Daliha.”
Roy sucked in a short breath. “Oh.” He dropped his head almost to his chest. “And now they know I'm here.”
“They know who I am, and they saw me command a blind man with black hair who obeyed me without question. When I put my hand on your neck, it was a message that you ride under my hand-my protection.”
“So you were trying to convince them that I'm not the man who butchered their families.” Roy nodded. “They'll wonder why we ran, though. If we were innocent we could have stayed.”
“If God is with us they'll think you're either an innocent traveler or my servant, and we ran because I fear being caught and tried by their Elders.” Scar kneed his horse into a faster walk. “That would make more sense to them than my putting myself between a State Alchemist and the rifle of a yevarshedaht.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The sun sank, and a light breeze swept the cool scent of a desert evening through Roy Mustang's hair. Ghost plodded, barely picking up her feet, and Scar's horse had all but stopped chewing his bit.
“How much further are we going tonight?”
“To the next well,” Scar answered in a strangely flattened tone that didn't disrupt the peace of the night. “Another two or three miles.”
“You said you've never been this way before. How do you know where the wells are?”
“There are signs.”
“You mean arrows drawn on rocks or something?”
“Nothing so obvious. I know what to look for.” Scar's tone indicated he'd said all he had to say on the subject.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The horses' hooves clopped on stone, and the sound rang off of stone walls. Roy straightened in his saddle. “Scar? Is this Xerxes?”
“Yes. These are the ruins of ancient Xerxes.”
“Xerxes.” Roy turned this way and that. “I wish I could...will you tell me what it's like?”
Scar gathered his thoughts a moment, then answered, “It must have been beautiful, before the city died.” He hesitated, then went on in something that would have been named a sheepish air coming from a less formidable voice. “Some of the houses are still standing-I see one that's three stories high and has part of its roof. There were gardens in the walls, once--there are weeds and some flowers growing in them even now.” He stopped his horse. “My people called it "Golden Xerxes", because in the light of dawn the stones of the city seemed to be made of gleaming gold.”
An almost-dreamy smile settled on Roy's face as he listened. “That sounds beautiful. I'd give almost anything to see it.” His face shifted to a more pensive expression. “I used to think that if I hadn't become an alchemist I might have been an archeologist or a historian.”
Scar let a moment pass before he answered. “There is much to learn here. The people of Golden Xerxes loved beautiful things. In some sheltered places the paint on their walls survives. This street must have been named the Street of Lions--there are lions carved into the garden walls and onto the lantern-posts.” He nudged his horse back into motion.
“Are there still lions in this area?”
“Perhaps. There is water here, and where the water is, the game will be--and the lions will hunt.”
Roy smiled. “I don't know about you, but the thought that they could be out there, watching us, feels right. There should be lions in a place like this.”
Scar hesitated, then answered, “It is...right, to see wild things doing as wild things are meant to do.” Some of the gravel in his voice softened as he said, “I once tracked a herd of wild horses, meaning to capture one for myself. I followed them for five days--then missed my throw, and they ran. I walked the rest of the way without regret for their freedom.”
Roy nodded. “My friend Maes and I went camping in the mountains when we were on leave one spring. We saw a mother bear with two cubs across a creek. She reared up and glared at us. We both had ways of defending ourselves if she had decided to attack, but we got out of there pretty quickly. She gave us a bad scare, but I've never held it against her. She was keeping her cubs safe.” He smiled at the memory. “I think it was after that weekend that Maes proposed to Gracia, actually.”
“Was he your friend from childhood?”
“Maes? No, but he might as well have been. We were roommates at the Academy.”
Scar rode in silence for a long moment. “Would he also have come here to see the ancient beauty and ask about lions?”
Roy chuckled. “He'd have been all over this place. And he wouldn't come just to see it himself. He'd take so many pictures nobody would ever forget what it looked like.”
Scar answered with just a tinge of humor. “He would have to pass his camera to his children, and they to their children. This city is larger than your Central City.”
Roy smiled in fond reminiscence. “He'd have tried. I think he must have had about five hundred pictures of his little girl by the time he...died.” His smile faltered and faded.
The horses' hooves and the soft whisper of the wind through the scoured ruins were the only sound for several seconds before Scar asked, “Was it his death that you meant to avenge in destroying the demon Envy?”
Roy sucked in a sharp breath, then swallowed. “Yes. He was the one I...” His hands clenched into fists atop the pommel of his saddle.
Scar let a moment pass before he answered. “My brother's killer is also dead, but...my grief remains.” He kneed his horse into a faster walk. “Pray that our peoples learn to look past their pain more quickly than we did.”
“Yes.” Roy took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. “We've got to make sure they aren't as...as blind as we were.” He hesitated. “And I'm sorry about your brother. I'm...I'm glad at least that it wasn't me.”
Scar sighed a little and went on with the ache clear in his voice. “My brother told me that we must be the ones to break the chain of hatred.” He paused to persuade his horse to climb up a set of low, wide steps. “He was a stronger man than I. He believed until Kimbley came that our people could be reconciled.” His words went soft. “He gave his life to save mine, and there are times when I wish he hadn't.”
Roy's eyes widened, and he took a moment to form a reply. “For what it's worth...you're a strong man, to have pulled back from the brink. And I...I'm grateful to you for pulling me back too. Whatever you actually intended, I think you saved my life and my sanity.”
A bit of Scar's usual gruffness returned. “I saw you turning toward the same path I walked.” He paused. “In that moment, alchemist, you heard two voices. The one you heeded spoke God's words.”
“You certainly threw a thunderbolt at me, whoever gave it to you.”
“As I spoke, I heard my brother's voice, not mine.” He sighed. “It took me far too long to hear his voice in my soul and listen to his wisdom.”
“But you did, and I'm just one of millions of people who are alive today because you did. So-thank you.”
Scar made a soft sound of surprise, then answered, “You are welcome, Roy Mustang.” After a beat he continued, “You honor me with your trust.”
Roy smiled with just a tinge of irony. “Trust is the first step.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
They rode through the ruins in companionable silence, getting off here and there to lead the horses through narrow passages between the walls that still stood. Scar commented on the occasional interesting feature; a long-dry fountain full of fanciful animals, some graffiti scratched on a sheltered wall in characters only scholars would recognize, the remains of a wide, gracefully curved staircase reaching up to nothing but air...
Scar stopped his horse. “Ready your arguments. They've just revealed themselves.”
“All right.” Roy straightened in his saddle. “Are they coming out to talk?”
“You're still breathing.”
“I suppose that's a good start. How many of them?”
“Maybe fifteen--” Scar stopped. “And there is an Elder with them. He carries a shotgun at his back. He speaks for one the northern tribes. Get down-do you want me to offer the greeting?”
“I'll do it.” Roy swung down from Ghost's back, then offered his hands, palms up, toward the sound of approaching steps. “Kektan duarte eskuak warajtoj nayiz, Admi.”
Tough, broad hands closed around Roy's for a moment. “Kekat juajin nuen, dutzu.” He let go and went on in a scoured baritone.
“His name is Nikai,” Scar translated, “and he speaks for the tribe of Ganeha. He asks for our names and our business here.”
“Does he really not know who you are?”
“I am who you name me to be. Don't assume he doesn't understand your language. What is your answer to his question?”
Roy's brows furrowed. “My name is Roy Mustang, and I've come to return something to the Ishbalan people, as well as to ask for peace terms.”
There was a murmur even before Scar finished translating, and some restless shifting of feet as the Elder spoke again.
“The Elder says there was a war alchemist with that name. One who killed with fire.”
Roy lifted his chin. “I am that man.”
The sounds that followed that statement needed no translation. Roy's spine stiffened as the hiss-zing of swords leaving their sheaths meshed with the click-clack of shells locking into rifle barrels.
“Baju.” the Elder's voice said softly. There was a reluctant shuffling of sandals on stone.
“The Elder is coming closer-he may touch. Don't resist.” Scar's tone was heavy with warning, and perhaps-it may have been fear.
“Wouldn't dream of it,” Roy answered through gritted teeth. Something brushed his forehead and he startled, then schooled his face to impassivity as a dry, somewhat gnarled hand pushed his bangs aside, then took hold of his chin and turned it this way and that. The Elder spoke into the choking silence, and let go of Roy.
“The Elder asks when you lost your eyes.” Scar's tension all but vibrated in his words. “Sazamuz, alchemist.”
Roy frowned. “On the day of the eclipse. Around three months ago.”
There were some comments in response to the translation, then another question from the Elder. “Why did your people choose you to come to us?” Scar translated.
“Tell him there's more than one valid answer to that question,” Roy answered. “Perhaps we could sit down someplace and talk about it over a cup of tea.”
Scar hissed softly. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No. It's been established that we could kill each other-they have swords and guns and you and I have dangerous alchemy. But no one's seen fit to draw blood yet. Let's just say the sabers are rattled enough. Tell him.”
Scar reluctantly translated, and silence fell again. Then the Elder said something that brought some argument from younger voices.
“Scar-what are they saying?”
“The Elder says your words should be heard in the temple courtyard before the tribes make any decisions.” Scar's voice all but vibrated under the tension. “The younger men argue that you should be put in chains and on trial for your life.”
Roy's face tightened. “I thought the Elders held command authority here.”
“It's not as simple as your military rankings. The Elders lead because they are the wisest and they hear God most clearly.” Scar took a short breath as the argument ended under a clipped phrase from the Elder. That roughened voice spoke at some length, then Scar said something in reply. The Elder gave a curt response, and Scar shifted into Amestrian with a noticeable Ishbalan accent coloring his pronunciation. “Elder Nikai puts a choice into your hands. If you choose to remain among the ruins, you and I will be bound only by your good word, and Nikai will carry your words to the other Elders. If you want to talk to the other Elders, your hands will be tied and I will be bound and blindfolded.”
“I can understand why they don't trust me around their leaders, but why hobble you?”
“A man who's broken an oath before God will easily break one given to men. What should I tell them?”
“I don't like this, and I hope you'll forgive me, Scar, but...” Roy held out his wrists, crossed one over the other. “I'd rather talk to your people directly.”
Go to Chapter 4.
Go back to Chapter 2.
Go back to Chapter 1.
Author's Notes: A lot of this story grew out of discussions with kashicat about what would have happened if Roy hadn't used Marcoh's Stone to buy back his sight. However, I have added, rewritten, and rearranged so much that whatever faults you may find in this are mine, not hers.
For definitions of and commentary on the Ishvaran words and phrases used in this story, please visit the Ishvaran Glossary. I'm using it for this story, and my co-conspirator fractured_chaos and I are also using it and much of the same cultural worldbuilding in a joint BBC fic named Arcanum Familias.
Ishvaran Glossary: Introduction and Orthography
Ishvaran Glossary: A - M
Ishvaran Glossary: N - Z
Speaking of fractured_chaos, she did the banner! Isn't that cool?
Author: mfelizandy
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 22,000+
Pairing/Characters: Roy Mustang, Scar. No pairings.
There's art for this story! Have a look at Rewire's sketches and the WIP of an collaborative painting she and Rufina are doing for an upcoming scene. Art Post!
Warnings: Probably some non-explicit nudity at some point or another--Ishbalan mores on nudity don't line up perfectly with western ideas. Likely to be some supporting-OC death. Culture-building. Mild language and some violence.
Summary: Post-manga AU. One of the pieces left behind by the Promised Day is a shard of the legendary Philosopher's Stone. Everyone who knows what it is agrees that it can't be left to cause grief to future generations.
That's about all they agree on.
Against a backdrop of looming war, a blind Roy Mustang rides across the border with the Scar of Ishbal at his side and a Philosopher's Stone in his pocket, on a mission to negotiate an end to the fighting and deliver the Stone to the Ishbalan Elders. Somehow, two of the least likely messengers Ishvarra could have picked must find a way to not only work together but also to save both their people and themselves.
“Is this really necessary?” Roy, dressed in a light Ishbalan tunic and trousers, worked his fingers over the nest of loose leather loops and straps that was supposed to be an Ishbalan-style riding sandal.
“Amestrian clothing traps sand, holds the heat in during the day, and lets it out during the night,” Scar answered.
“If you say so.” Roy set the sandal aside. “But I think my feet will be safer in good thick shoes.”
“We'll be riding for at least ten days. Perhaps longer. Your shoes will be full of sand within two.” Scar paused, then said quietly, “Fitting sandals can be difficult even with eyes to see.”
“I suppose so,” Roy answered stiffly as he bent to take his shoe from beside the nightstand.
Scar took a step and caught Roy's hand before it touched the shoe. “I'll thread the straps to fit you.”
Roy hesitated for a long moment, then gritted his teeth. “All right. Thank you.” He sat down on the bed.
Scar picked up the offending sandal. “Pick up your right foot.”
Roy obeyed. “Will we have to do this every time I put my shoes on?”
“No. Once they're threaded to fit your feet, you can leave them as they are and simply tie and untie them.” Scar put the sole of the sandal to the sole of Roy's foot. “Hold this.”
Roy took hold of the thick leather uppers around his ankle and flexed his toes as Scar's hands worked the leather through the numerous loops and eyelets.
“Here.” Scar put the ends of the lace into Roy's fingers. “Tie them how you like.”
“I'll do the other one,” Roy said as he looped the laces around his ankle and tied them in a tidy knot.
Scar waited without comment for the half-hour it took Roy to work out the loops of the sandal.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
They rode on a soft forest trail, the horses' hooves turning up the scent of deep black soil and green leaves. Scar rode a rangy gelding who chewed his bit, and led Roy on a mare named Ghost because, as the old farmhand had said, “she's soft-footed and grey as a meadow spirit.” A second lead rope tied to Roy's saddle led a phlegmatic pack pony. Roy's attempts to strike up a conversation got him only noncommittal grunts and some muttered Ishbalan phrases. Eventually he gave up and let Ghost's motion lull him into a near-doze.
“This is good enough.” Scar stopped his horse, and his saddle creaked as he dismounted.
“We're stopping for the night?” Roy flexed his stiff fingers.
“Yes.”
Roy gingerly got off his horse, and let himself grimace as his feet hit the ground. “Well, I'm going to be sore tomorrow. How about you?”
“...The anar dkan will be harder in the morning.” Scar took Roy's elbow and steered him away from his horse. “Sit here under the tree while I see to the horses.”
“Give me the packs and I'll get dinner started,” Roy answered amiably.
“I'll see to that after I've finished with the horses.”
Roy frowned. “I'm not helpless, Scar.”
“You're blind.”
“Believe me, I've noticed that,” Roy answered with asperity. “But I can peel carrots and cut up potatoes without hurting myself.” He arched a brow in the Ishbalan's direction. “I'm also pretty good at getting a fire started.”
There were some rattles and softer rustles, then Scar put a sizable fry pan into Roy's hands. “The paring knife is in the largest potato. I'll gather firewood after I'm done with the horses.”
Roy nodded, and settled to his knees in the damp leaf litter to start preparing their dinner.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
They broke camp early the next morning and rode east along the trail until it ended at a set of packed-earth ruts.
“Put up your hood.”
“Why? It's not that cold.” Roy frowned and shifted in his saddle. “Or do I need to hide my race?”
“Neither. We've been riding under the trees, but now that we're in the open the sun will bake you, and sun sickness is nothing to trifle with.” Scar paused, then nudged his horse to the left. When he spoke again there was a tinge of curiosity in his tone. “If we were riding from the east you could pass for an Easterner, so long as you didn't speak.”
“I can pass for Xingese to almost everybody except the Xingese,” Roy answered, settling the hood of his Ishbalan-style cloak over his head. “I'm fluent in one of the northern dialects.”
“Were you born in the east, then?”
“Only if by 'east' you mean the Eastern District of Amestris.” Roy shrugged. “What part of Ishbal did you come from?”
There was a moment's silence, then Scar answered, “Kanda.”
“Is that where we're going?”
“No. There's very little left to go to.”
Roy paused. “I suppose not. Where are you taking me, then? To the-what was the word you used the other day? You were trying to buy time for people to get there.”
“Tani Yumtepi. That's not where we're going, either.”
“Is this another guessing game?”
“We're going to Xerxes.”
“Xerxes? I thought we were going to Ishbal.”
“You wouldn’t live more than a day, if we went into Ishbal. Their Elders would give me the choice of killing you myself, or watching another slit your throat as the sword came down to behead me.”
“That’s...” Roy fell silent and lowered his head.
“Those who live in Xerxes haven't been facing the soldiers daily. They're more likely to accept the stone you carry, and spare your life.” Scar paused for a few of his horse’s strides. “If there is any chance for a future between our peoples, it lies with the Elders of Xerxes.”
“I thought Xerxes was just a ruin with a few bandits preying on the eastern caravans.”
Scar whuffed in his chest. “There was a time when that was true.”
“What's true about it now?”
“Now there are Elders living amid the ruins.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Mmf.” Roy set his dinner pan aside and stretched his back. “Scar, which way is Central?”
The big Ishbalan grunted a bit, then reached and gave the radio box under Roy's left elbow a push, turning it. “If you followed the line of the right edge of the box you would walk straight to Central City.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Roy pulled his watch from the belt pouch on his right hip, and used the key on the other end of the watch chain to open the radio box.
“Do you want help?”
“I won't say no if you offer to handle the aerial,” Roy answered. He laid out the headset and microphone, then found the heavy steel crank handle and fitted it into place.
Scar allowed Roy to demonstrate fitting the radio mast together, then stringing the antenna to it. He worked in soft rustles of fabric and whiffs of horse and dust. “This radio is smaller than the ones I saw during the invasion.”
“It's a newer model,” Roy answered amiably as he turned the crank. “I haven't looked into how they did it, but the engineers of the Communications Division have been making field radio and phone sets smaller and lighter every year. This one is only one box with a fifteen-foot aerial, but it can put out a signal that will reach from Xerxes to Central at night, and I could keep talking all night on one winding, if I had that much to talk about.”
“What do you plan to talk about tonight?” The antenna clips clicked softly.
“Not much.” Roy shrugged as he cranked. “To be honest, this is a 'don't panic' call. My people tracked us until we crossed the border, but now that we're outside Amestris we can't be so easily watched.”
“I saw them.” A dangerous tone crept into Scar's voice. “You ordered them to watch me?”
“No.” Roy's eyebrows lifted. “I just know my people. They probably had a car and hotel room booked in every town we passed through, in the hopes that I'd change my mind.”
“Mm.” Scar lifted the aerial and set it into its socket. “I'll see to the dishes while you tell them I haven't killed you.”
“Thanks.” Roy grinned a bit. “For the dishes and not killing me.”
“You've spared my life.” Scar picked up Roy's dinner pan. “Had someone said to me last year that I would travel with the Flame Alchemist, not as a prisoner but as a guide, and that I would choose to defend your life rather than end it...”
“I would have laughed in that guy's face, too.” Roy paused and shook out his hand and arm before resuming his cranking. “War makes for strange bedfellows. Trying to end a war makes for even stranger ones.” He stopped at a loud click from within the radio, and disconnected the crank handle. After some probing of the touchscript labels glued around and on the switches and dials, he put on the headset and set his fingers on the telegraphy key. His first few attempts netted him nothing, but on the fifth try, a lengthy, rapid series of clicks and beeps rattled in his ears. Kain Fury's mastery of telegraph code made him hard to keep up with, but Roy eventually verified his identity, and Fury shifted to voice transmission.
“This is De Salars Worldwide, how can I be of service?” The code phrases translated to Are you all right? and I have news for you.
“I'm one of your customers from New Optain, and I've heard of some potential opportunities I'd like to look into.” I'm fine, what's going on?
The rest of their conversation was couched as a discussion of investments in everything from wheat crops in southern Amestris and sapphire mines in Bharat to the shipping lines of Caledonia and the fisheries of Mundo. Scar moved around throughout, scouring the dishes clean with handfuls of sand, checking on the hobbled horses and drawing more water from the desert well for them, and feeding the tiny campfire. When Roy took off the headset, Scar asked, “What did your people say?”
“So far, things are under control, but there are some people and situations they're monitoring.”
“Such as?” Scar approached, and lifted the antenna mast free of its mount.
“Such as Drachmani spies suddenly converging on Central.” Roy frowned. “Their agents generally aren't anywhere near as good as ours, but they're acting like they've got a large scale plan and timetable this time.”
“No doubt there are others who can find out what that plan is.”
“There are. I just wish...” Roy sighed. “I don't like not being there to handle it personally.”
“You made your choice, Roy. Now you must follow it through and allow others to deal with the Drachmans.”
“I know, I know, I can't run everything.” Roy put the microphone into its padded nest, then paused and turned toward Scar. “You called me Roy.”
“It's your name.”
“Yes, but you haven't been using it. You've called me 'alchemist' or used my full name.”
“Are you offended?”
“No. Pleasantly surprised. Or am I reading too much into it?”
“You call your friends by their personal names only, and use the tribe name to strangers.”
Scar pried the last few antenna wire clips open with loud metallic pings. “My people use the personal name for everyone who lives among us. To you it may seem too familiar.”
“Believe me, I'll consider it a victory if they use any part of my name rather than calling me a demon or something.” Roy coiled the antenna wire. “But what should I call you?”
“Hm?”
“You must have a name, or something I could call you that's not just a reference to a mark on your face.”
Scar laid the sections of the mast beside Roy's knee. “Call me what you like.”
“Is it offensive to ask for your name?”
“No. I just don't have one to give you.”
Roy turned toward his guide. “What are you talking about? I'm sure your mother didn't look at you the day you were born and say, 'I'm going to name him Scar.' If it's none of my business say so, but I'd like to have something more appropriate than a military intelligence tag to call you.”
Scar didn't answer immediately. When he did speak his words rippled low, like a stream flowing in rills and eddies of pain and grief. “The child my mother held died with all the rest of his family at the hands of a State Alchemist. I'm going to take a traveler's bath. Keep watch.” He moved away from the fire and their bedrolls and refused any further conversation.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The horses' hooves crunched a little in the sand of the desert. Roy swayed lazily in his saddle. “Scar?”
“Mm.” The grunt was of someone distracted by something else.
“Have you been to Xerxes before?”
Scar's answer came back snappish. “Why do you insist on questioning me every step of the way?”
Roy straightened up and frowned. “I'm not questioning you. I'm trying to make conversation. It's not like I can read a book or admire the scenery.”
There was a long pause, then Scar said, “I've never been to Xerxes myself, but I know the way there.”
“I didn't mean to imply that you don't,” Roy replied placatingly. “Frankly, I'm bored and I'd be willing to talk about just about anything to pass the time.”
“Talking overmuch makes a man thirsty,” Scar said gruffly. “But we aren't far from a well.” He paused. “Perhaps you will answer a personal question.” The intonation rose and fell strangely, making the words neither a statement nor a question.
Roy lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps I will, once I know what the question is.”
“There were many stories about you, when I walked the roads in your country. Some of them were clearly false. Others seem plausible.”
“That was intentional.” Roy grinned at the memory. “We had a lot of fun, concocting those stories. Which ones are you wondering about?”
Scar hesitated. “Many people believe that you have children. That you keep seven wives and all of the children you fathered on them in some hidden place.”
Roy's eyebrows rose. “I'd forgotten about that one. That was one of Falman's-he was really good at the conspiracy rumors. We set it up to see who would start following pregnant young women who happened to congregate in out of the way places.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.” Roy paused. “Do you?”
“No.” Scar let his horse take a few strides before he went on. “So long as I am exiled, I cannot marry.”
“I see.” Roy turned toward his guide again. “Is there any way to get your exile revoked?”
“It could be done,” Scar answered. He changed the subject. “I once saw several drawings and paintings in a market stall. The dealer claimed that they were of you-several years younger...and without your uniform.”
“Or anything else.” Roy's cheeks heated a little. “I knew I'd missed a few of those.”
“So those drawings were truly of you?”
“I can't say for sure whether what you saw was actually me, but I did work as an artist's model during my apprenticeship.”
Silence, then, “Why?”
“Money,” Roy answered with a shrug. “My parents' savings paid most of the first year, and my foster mother helped as much as she could, but-well, I decided I'd find a way to pay my apprenticeship fees myself.”
“But why-posing?” Scar sounded a little revolted.
Roy's face darkened a little. “I was sixteen and didn't have too many marketable skills-all the bars in town already had all the bartenders they needed. I was either working for my master or studying with him from a little after dawn until suppertime.” His attention turned inward. “He didn't really want an apprentice, so he tripled the fee to try and get rid of me. The artist couple in town always needed models-there aren't too many people willing to be naked in front of strangers, much less naked and holding a pose for a few hours. They liked my 'exotic' face and skin tone...and the fact that I'd let them dress and pose me in ways most models wouldn't tolerate.” Roy whuffed to himself. “At the time, I figured that if they'd pay me more for it, I could stand a backache or a few weeks letting a coat of Bharati skin paint wear off.”
“But now those pictures are sold in the streets.”
“And only those who know me well-or know a few things about me that pancake makeup couldn't hide-can be sure that those sketches and paintings are really me, and not just some kid who sort of resembles me, or leftover propaganda arranged to bring me down by a military rival.” Roy grinned. “The face really isn't what most people look at in those pictures anyway.” He went on before Scar could reply. “Maybe I can ask you a personal question?”
There was a moment's pause, then, “Ask.”
“How does an Ishbalan-what was that word you used?--a warrior-priest end up studying alchemy?”
The silence was longer this time. Scar finally answered, “The word you asked for is 'yevarshedaht'. It means 'a priest with a sword.' Your other question...it's likely you'll hear many versions of the story from the people of the tribes.” He took a breath, let it out slowly. “I had an older brother, once. He chose the path of the jhastovar, the...scholar and keeper of records.”
Roy settled his hands on the pommel of his saddle and kept his face attentive and his mouth shut.
“I chose the path of the yevarshedaht. My brother believed he could defend our people by learning the ancient powers our ancestors used to defend themselves.” Scar paused, then said quietly, “It would further disgrace the memory of my family among the tribes, if they knew the full extent of what he did.”
“There are a lot of secrets that will die with me,” Roy answered, matching the Ishbalan's pitch.
“Mm.” Scar rode a few more strides, then went on. “My brother studied the Xingese art of alkahestry, as well as Amestrian war alchemy, and he combined them with the alchemy of our people. He designed two arrays, then had them tattooed on his arms.” He faltered a little. “We were taking our family to the Tani Yumtepi when Zolf J. Kimbley came.”
“Kimbley,” Roy sucked in a breath. “Oh gods, no wonder.”
“He was only one of the monsters unleashed on us,” Scar said gruffly. “Kimbley caused a house to explode. That was the last I knew. When I woke, my face was bandaged and...my right arm had been replaced by my brother's.”
“What?”
“I found his body later, as well as the remains of the right hand I was born with. I would have bled to death. My brother...preferred to let me live. So he used the power he held to give me his right arm...and the destruction within it.” He fell silent.
Roy didn't prod him for anything more.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Roy woke to a rough, horse-scented hand covering his mouth and Scar's voice hissing in his ear. “We have to move. Now. Put on your sandals and cloak, the rest can wait. Don't say a word until I tell you it's safe. Pack the camp while I catch the horses.”
Roy nodded, then sat up and hurriedly tied his sandals. He stuffed their canteens of precious water into the first bag that his questing fingers touched, then wrapped up the clinking forks and dinner pans in his bedroll and buckled it into an awkward bundle. Scar returned with their horses, saddled them without giving them so much as a mouthful of water, all but threw Roy up into the saddle, then mounted and kicked his horse into a ground-eating canter, with Roy's mare and the pack horse pounding along behind to keep up. Roy grabbed Ghost's mane and clung for dear life.
Not until his horse began to falter and stumble did Scar allow the animals to drop back to a walk. He said nothing until the horses' hard breathing subsided, then sidled his horse up beside Roy's mare until his knee brushed Roy's. “Keep your head down. We are being watched.” His left hand closed on the back of Roy's neck. “Stay quiet a little longer.” He left his hand on Roy for several strides, then let out a held breath. “They've withdrawn. We'll stop at the next well for the horses' sake, but we need to get past the Pillars by sunset. Ask your questions now-and tell me where you put the water.”
“I'm not sure which bag I put the canteens in-it's one of the pack horse's bags. Who were they?”
“Men of the Zabir tribe. They've claimed this land since the last time I came this far north.”
“You mean you talked to them?”
“No. I saw the yevarshedaht's sash. It was the Zabir pattern.”
Roy looked baffled. “I think I'm missing some things here. How do you get from seeing someone's sash to running like hell across the desert?”
Scar paused for a moment. “Zabir is one of the tribes that once lived on the plains of Daliha.”
Roy sucked in a short breath. “Oh.” He dropped his head almost to his chest. “And now they know I'm here.”
“They know who I am, and they saw me command a blind man with black hair who obeyed me without question. When I put my hand on your neck, it was a message that you ride under my hand-my protection.”
“So you were trying to convince them that I'm not the man who butchered their families.” Roy nodded. “They'll wonder why we ran, though. If we were innocent we could have stayed.”
“If God is with us they'll think you're either an innocent traveler or my servant, and we ran because I fear being caught and tried by their Elders.” Scar kneed his horse into a faster walk. “That would make more sense to them than my putting myself between a State Alchemist and the rifle of a yevarshedaht.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The sun sank, and a light breeze swept the cool scent of a desert evening through Roy Mustang's hair. Ghost plodded, barely picking up her feet, and Scar's horse had all but stopped chewing his bit.
“How much further are we going tonight?”
“To the next well,” Scar answered in a strangely flattened tone that didn't disrupt the peace of the night. “Another two or three miles.”
“You said you've never been this way before. How do you know where the wells are?”
“There are signs.”
“You mean arrows drawn on rocks or something?”
“Nothing so obvious. I know what to look for.” Scar's tone indicated he'd said all he had to say on the subject.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The horses' hooves clopped on stone, and the sound rang off of stone walls. Roy straightened in his saddle. “Scar? Is this Xerxes?”
“Yes. These are the ruins of ancient Xerxes.”
“Xerxes.” Roy turned this way and that. “I wish I could...will you tell me what it's like?”
Scar gathered his thoughts a moment, then answered, “It must have been beautiful, before the city died.” He hesitated, then went on in something that would have been named a sheepish air coming from a less formidable voice. “Some of the houses are still standing-I see one that's three stories high and has part of its roof. There were gardens in the walls, once--there are weeds and some flowers growing in them even now.” He stopped his horse. “My people called it "Golden Xerxes", because in the light of dawn the stones of the city seemed to be made of gleaming gold.”
An almost-dreamy smile settled on Roy's face as he listened. “That sounds beautiful. I'd give almost anything to see it.” His face shifted to a more pensive expression. “I used to think that if I hadn't become an alchemist I might have been an archeologist or a historian.”
Scar let a moment pass before he answered. “There is much to learn here. The people of Golden Xerxes loved beautiful things. In some sheltered places the paint on their walls survives. This street must have been named the Street of Lions--there are lions carved into the garden walls and onto the lantern-posts.” He nudged his horse back into motion.
“Are there still lions in this area?”
“Perhaps. There is water here, and where the water is, the game will be--and the lions will hunt.”
Roy smiled. “I don't know about you, but the thought that they could be out there, watching us, feels right. There should be lions in a place like this.”
Scar hesitated, then answered, “It is...right, to see wild things doing as wild things are meant to do.” Some of the gravel in his voice softened as he said, “I once tracked a herd of wild horses, meaning to capture one for myself. I followed them for five days--then missed my throw, and they ran. I walked the rest of the way without regret for their freedom.”
Roy nodded. “My friend Maes and I went camping in the mountains when we were on leave one spring. We saw a mother bear with two cubs across a creek. She reared up and glared at us. We both had ways of defending ourselves if she had decided to attack, but we got out of there pretty quickly. She gave us a bad scare, but I've never held it against her. She was keeping her cubs safe.” He smiled at the memory. “I think it was after that weekend that Maes proposed to Gracia, actually.”
“Was he your friend from childhood?”
“Maes? No, but he might as well have been. We were roommates at the Academy.”
Scar rode in silence for a long moment. “Would he also have come here to see the ancient beauty and ask about lions?”
Roy chuckled. “He'd have been all over this place. And he wouldn't come just to see it himself. He'd take so many pictures nobody would ever forget what it looked like.”
Scar answered with just a tinge of humor. “He would have to pass his camera to his children, and they to their children. This city is larger than your Central City.”
Roy smiled in fond reminiscence. “He'd have tried. I think he must have had about five hundred pictures of his little girl by the time he...died.” His smile faltered and faded.
The horses' hooves and the soft whisper of the wind through the scoured ruins were the only sound for several seconds before Scar asked, “Was it his death that you meant to avenge in destroying the demon Envy?”
Roy sucked in a sharp breath, then swallowed. “Yes. He was the one I...” His hands clenched into fists atop the pommel of his saddle.
Scar let a moment pass before he answered. “My brother's killer is also dead, but...my grief remains.” He kneed his horse into a faster walk. “Pray that our peoples learn to look past their pain more quickly than we did.”
“Yes.” Roy took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. “We've got to make sure they aren't as...as blind as we were.” He hesitated. “And I'm sorry about your brother. I'm...I'm glad at least that it wasn't me.”
Scar sighed a little and went on with the ache clear in his voice. “My brother told me that we must be the ones to break the chain of hatred.” He paused to persuade his horse to climb up a set of low, wide steps. “He was a stronger man than I. He believed until Kimbley came that our people could be reconciled.” His words went soft. “He gave his life to save mine, and there are times when I wish he hadn't.”
Roy's eyes widened, and he took a moment to form a reply. “For what it's worth...you're a strong man, to have pulled back from the brink. And I...I'm grateful to you for pulling me back too. Whatever you actually intended, I think you saved my life and my sanity.”
A bit of Scar's usual gruffness returned. “I saw you turning toward the same path I walked.” He paused. “In that moment, alchemist, you heard two voices. The one you heeded spoke God's words.”
“You certainly threw a thunderbolt at me, whoever gave it to you.”
“As I spoke, I heard my brother's voice, not mine.” He sighed. “It took me far too long to hear his voice in my soul and listen to his wisdom.”
“But you did, and I'm just one of millions of people who are alive today because you did. So-thank you.”
Scar made a soft sound of surprise, then answered, “You are welcome, Roy Mustang.” After a beat he continued, “You honor me with your trust.”
Roy smiled with just a tinge of irony. “Trust is the first step.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
They rode through the ruins in companionable silence, getting off here and there to lead the horses through narrow passages between the walls that still stood. Scar commented on the occasional interesting feature; a long-dry fountain full of fanciful animals, some graffiti scratched on a sheltered wall in characters only scholars would recognize, the remains of a wide, gracefully curved staircase reaching up to nothing but air...
Scar stopped his horse. “Ready your arguments. They've just revealed themselves.”
“All right.” Roy straightened in his saddle. “Are they coming out to talk?”
“You're still breathing.”
“I suppose that's a good start. How many of them?”
“Maybe fifteen--” Scar stopped. “And there is an Elder with them. He carries a shotgun at his back. He speaks for one the northern tribes. Get down-do you want me to offer the greeting?”
“I'll do it.” Roy swung down from Ghost's back, then offered his hands, palms up, toward the sound of approaching steps. “Kektan duarte eskuak warajtoj nayiz, Admi.”
Tough, broad hands closed around Roy's for a moment. “Kekat juajin nuen, dutzu.” He let go and went on in a scoured baritone.
“His name is Nikai,” Scar translated, “and he speaks for the tribe of Ganeha. He asks for our names and our business here.”
“Does he really not know who you are?”
“I am who you name me to be. Don't assume he doesn't understand your language. What is your answer to his question?”
Roy's brows furrowed. “My name is Roy Mustang, and I've come to return something to the Ishbalan people, as well as to ask for peace terms.”
There was a murmur even before Scar finished translating, and some restless shifting of feet as the Elder spoke again.
“The Elder says there was a war alchemist with that name. One who killed with fire.”
Roy lifted his chin. “I am that man.”
The sounds that followed that statement needed no translation. Roy's spine stiffened as the hiss-zing of swords leaving their sheaths meshed with the click-clack of shells locking into rifle barrels.
“Baju.” the Elder's voice said softly. There was a reluctant shuffling of sandals on stone.
“The Elder is coming closer-he may touch. Don't resist.” Scar's tone was heavy with warning, and perhaps-it may have been fear.
“Wouldn't dream of it,” Roy answered through gritted teeth. Something brushed his forehead and he startled, then schooled his face to impassivity as a dry, somewhat gnarled hand pushed his bangs aside, then took hold of his chin and turned it this way and that. The Elder spoke into the choking silence, and let go of Roy.
“The Elder asks when you lost your eyes.” Scar's tension all but vibrated in his words. “Sazamuz, alchemist.”
Roy frowned. “On the day of the eclipse. Around three months ago.”
There were some comments in response to the translation, then another question from the Elder. “Why did your people choose you to come to us?” Scar translated.
“Tell him there's more than one valid answer to that question,” Roy answered. “Perhaps we could sit down someplace and talk about it over a cup of tea.”
Scar hissed softly. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No. It's been established that we could kill each other-they have swords and guns and you and I have dangerous alchemy. But no one's seen fit to draw blood yet. Let's just say the sabers are rattled enough. Tell him.”
Scar reluctantly translated, and silence fell again. Then the Elder said something that brought some argument from younger voices.
“Scar-what are they saying?”
“The Elder says your words should be heard in the temple courtyard before the tribes make any decisions.” Scar's voice all but vibrated under the tension. “The younger men argue that you should be put in chains and on trial for your life.”
Roy's face tightened. “I thought the Elders held command authority here.”
“It's not as simple as your military rankings. The Elders lead because they are the wisest and they hear God most clearly.” Scar took a short breath as the argument ended under a clipped phrase from the Elder. That roughened voice spoke at some length, then Scar said something in reply. The Elder gave a curt response, and Scar shifted into Amestrian with a noticeable Ishbalan accent coloring his pronunciation. “Elder Nikai puts a choice into your hands. If you choose to remain among the ruins, you and I will be bound only by your good word, and Nikai will carry your words to the other Elders. If you want to talk to the other Elders, your hands will be tied and I will be bound and blindfolded.”
“I can understand why they don't trust me around their leaders, but why hobble you?”
“A man who's broken an oath before God will easily break one given to men. What should I tell them?”
“I don't like this, and I hope you'll forgive me, Scar, but...” Roy held out his wrists, crossed one over the other. “I'd rather talk to your people directly.”
Go to Chapter 4.
Go back to Chapter 2.
Go back to Chapter 1.
Author's Notes: A lot of this story grew out of discussions with kashicat about what would have happened if Roy hadn't used Marcoh's Stone to buy back his sight. However, I have added, rewritten, and rearranged so much that whatever faults you may find in this are mine, not hers.
For definitions of and commentary on the Ishvaran words and phrases used in this story, please visit the Ishvaran Glossary. I'm using it for this story, and my co-conspirator fractured_chaos and I are also using it and much of the same cultural worldbuilding in a joint BBC fic named Arcanum Familias.
Ishvaran Glossary: Introduction and Orthography
Ishvaran Glossary: A - M
Ishvaran Glossary: N - Z
Speaking of fractured_chaos, she did the banner! Isn't that cool?