The Forked Road- Marked
Title: Marked
Arc: The Forked Road
Rating: PG?
Characters: Roy and Kimbley
Note: Yes, this turned into an arc after all. Hopefully it’s satisfactory, mind watch for not so happy visuals.
Choices
It was intensity. Fires, explosions, screams, smoke, everything that was war. There was also laughter, it was not really sane laughter, but Roy had little choice than to follow that voice, having already averted more than one disaster by getting between the crazed man and their troops. So many of their underlings almost killed because the man seemed to honestly see no difference between them and the enemy wherever his mind had gone.
It wasn’t much of a consolation when the man backed off from killing someone he shouldn’t only to stoke the other alchemist’s cheek, array hot in a way ink shouldn’t be against his skin, leaving ashes on him, blood. The Flame alchemist felt marked, following a crazed man, listening to lewd words outlining things that the longhaired figure wanted to do, things he wouldn’t do because he didn’t want to damage the smaller man who kept getting in the way. Not that he used those words, the phrase ‘little darling’ taking on whole other connotations when crooned in the same breath as his wish to see a small child melt into the desert landscape.
It was a long, horrible night, and he knew he’d never get that purring tenor out of his mind again, that he would always hear those too sweet words when he smelled smoke. Only physically snatching the other alchemist close had saved some, and even then, only when the military was involved. The officials could overlook dead women and children, was more than willing to say they had never been there when the morning came. Soldiers would not have been something to be written off in the same manner. Because he was there that was not at all an issue, never had fuel to become one.
It was hard to tell when day came. He was exhausted in every way, strained to the limits with the effort of saving as many lives as he’d taken in the night, and he could have cried when he realized it was sunbeams he was seeing, and not flames at all, that were lighting the sky. His companion was just as bad off by the time the light started to show. Worse even, shaking under some strain the Flame Alchemist didn’t understand. The dark eyed alchemist started to pull them back to camp, ever wary of the crazed gleam in the other man’s eyes.
“No… I’m not done. Can’t you see there’s more? There’s so much more and I’m not finished.” The words were low, fevered.
“I can’t see it Kimbley. I don’t want to see it.” He looked down, realized for the first time that the blood Crimson had on his hands was his own, fresh from his palms. “You need to rest, you’ve overextended yourself, and you’ll be no good to anyone if you pass out.”
“Damn it Flame, no! Not yet.” His voice dropped into a whisper, gold eyes watching the sun peek through the clouds of ash. “Not yet.”
Turning his head to follow the bomber’s gaze, he locked his jaw, pushing the taller alchemist to sit on a large stone that once might have been part of some building. “Fine, have your display.”
Nothing more was said as Kimbley watched the sunrise through flames and smoke; the smaller alchemist crouched at his feet as he wrapped hastily torn cloth around bleeding arrays.
Arc: The Forked Road
Rating: PG?
Characters: Roy and Kimbley
Note: Yes, this turned into an arc after all. Hopefully it’s satisfactory, mind watch for not so happy visuals.
Choices
It was intensity. Fires, explosions, screams, smoke, everything that was war. There was also laughter, it was not really sane laughter, but Roy had little choice than to follow that voice, having already averted more than one disaster by getting between the crazed man and their troops. So many of their underlings almost killed because the man seemed to honestly see no difference between them and the enemy wherever his mind had gone.
It wasn’t much of a consolation when the man backed off from killing someone he shouldn’t only to stoke the other alchemist’s cheek, array hot in a way ink shouldn’t be against his skin, leaving ashes on him, blood. The Flame alchemist felt marked, following a crazed man, listening to lewd words outlining things that the longhaired figure wanted to do, things he wouldn’t do because he didn’t want to damage the smaller man who kept getting in the way. Not that he used those words, the phrase ‘little darling’ taking on whole other connotations when crooned in the same breath as his wish to see a small child melt into the desert landscape.
It was a long, horrible night, and he knew he’d never get that purring tenor out of his mind again, that he would always hear those too sweet words when he smelled smoke. Only physically snatching the other alchemist close had saved some, and even then, only when the military was involved. The officials could overlook dead women and children, was more than willing to say they had never been there when the morning came. Soldiers would not have been something to be written off in the same manner. Because he was there that was not at all an issue, never had fuel to become one.
It was hard to tell when day came. He was exhausted in every way, strained to the limits with the effort of saving as many lives as he’d taken in the night, and he could have cried when he realized it was sunbeams he was seeing, and not flames at all, that were lighting the sky. His companion was just as bad off by the time the light started to show. Worse even, shaking under some strain the Flame Alchemist didn’t understand. The dark eyed alchemist started to pull them back to camp, ever wary of the crazed gleam in the other man’s eyes.
“No… I’m not done. Can’t you see there’s more? There’s so much more and I’m not finished.” The words were low, fevered.
“I can’t see it Kimbley. I don’t want to see it.” He looked down, realized for the first time that the blood Crimson had on his hands was his own, fresh from his palms. “You need to rest, you’ve overextended yourself, and you’ll be no good to anyone if you pass out.”
“Damn it Flame, no! Not yet.” His voice dropped into a whisper, gold eyes watching the sun peek through the clouds of ash. “Not yet.”
Turning his head to follow the bomber’s gaze, he locked his jaw, pushing the taller alchemist to sit on a large stone that once might have been part of some building. “Fine, have your display.”
Nothing more was said as Kimbley watched the sunrise through flames and smoke; the smaller alchemist crouched at his feet as he wrapped hastily torn cloth around bleeding arrays.