FMA BBC: Estvarya, Chapter 2
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.
Roy laid his forearm along the compartment wall and stretched his fingers, then lined up his other hand. His traveling companion hadn't yet said a word.
“I suppose this looks ridiculous to you.”
“Does it help?”
“Some,” Roy answered. “I'd rather not walk into the wall in the middle of the night while looking for the bathroom.” He found the light switch beside the compartment door and ran his fingers over it. “Do you want the lights off? I won't be much longer at this.”
“Turn them off.” Scar's bunk, converted from the forward-facing seat of the compartment, creaked a little.
Roy pushed the switch and turned toward the soft click that came from the lamps he knew were mounted in the ceiling. He measured the distance to his own bunk, the backward-facing one, heel-to-toe. Scar was silent. Roy reached up to the luggage rack above his bunk and dragged down his suitcase. His pajamas lay on top of the neatly packed trousers, on the left side. Shirts and his touchscript practice books on the right side. Underwear and socks tucked in along the front edge. Roy fingered the tag sewn in the collar of a shirt. Single large triangle. White. He paused and turned to “look” over his shoulder at Scar, then frowned and turned back to his suitcase. He changed into his pajamas without ceremony, folded his clothes and lay them in the suitcase-single large square, black, narrow rectangle, light blue-then wrestled the suitcase back onto the luggage rack and lay down on his bunk. The clicking of the wheels combined with the gentle swaying of the train and rocked Roy Mustang to sleep.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
He woke with a jerk and reflexively grabbed for something instinct screamed was too close, too close! A hand caught his wrist in a steel-strong grip.
“Roy Mustang. Do you know me?” The unruffled basso tones combined with the power in the hand holding Roy's wrist gave a warning that overrode half-dreamed panic.
“Scar.” Roy licked his lips, and pulled a little against the Ishbalan's hold.
“Yes.” Scar didn't let go. “Do you remember where we are, and your mission?”
“We're going to Ishbal. To talk to the Elders.”
Scar let go and moved back in a rustle of fabric. “It's a good thing you didn't sleep gloved.”
“I set my bedroom on fire once. That was enough.” Roy rubbed his wrist and flexed his fingers. “What time is it?”
“The sun came up perhaps an hour ago. The steward brought a tray with food.” There was a soft rustle of fabric, then Scar added, “The tray is on the floor near the door.”
“Thanks-I'll try not to step in our breakfast.” Roy got to his feet, and swayed a little with the rocking of the train for a moment. He reached up to the luggage rack above his bunk, and pulled his wash kit down.
“I've already eaten.” Scar paused, then asked warily, “Do you need help?”
“No, thank you. I know how sleeping cars are laid out, and we're the second compartment from the front of the car.” Roy traced the edge of his bunk with one knee, and stretched his other leg until his bare toes bumped the edge of the meal tray. “Did you fold out the table?” He bent to pick up the tray.
“No.” Scar took the tray from Roy's hands. “But I will. Go wash.”
Roy opened his mouth, then shut it and took his kit to the washroom.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Scar?”
“Mm.” The Ishbalan's grunt didn't encourage further conversation. Roy persisted anyway.
“What is it you're doing?”
“Anar dkan.” Scar's clothing rustled. “Stretching exercises.”
“In a sleeping compartment for an hour?”
“Nearer two hours-I started soon after I ate.” The words came slowly, enunciated with strange care, as though the man wasn't entirely sure of them.
“So that's what woke me up.” Roy pushed aside the touchscript practice book he'd been studying. “How long will it be before you're finished?”
“Some patterns are as long as a day in midsummer.” There was another series of soft rustles, then a hand swept just over Roy's hair and he jerked back as fingertips brushed his eyebrows. Scar went on in that unnervingly level voice. “I'm modifying this one to make best use of the limited space.” He pulled away in a swift rush.
Roy lifted his eyebrows. “Sounds interesting. I wish I could watch.”
“If you could I wouldn't do this.”
“Why not?”
“Would you allow a Cretan to study the ways soldiers of your country are taught?”
Roy frowned. “Point taken.” He settled back into the seat and let out a sigh, then folded his arms. “But that brings up some important questions. I'd like to know more details of what I'm heading into. How many Elders are there? Do you know any of their names, or who's allied with whom? Who's most likely to at least hear me out, and who's going to shoot first and ask questions later?”
For several long moments, the only sound was the soft creaking and clicking of the wheels and springs under the car. Then Scar moved, and the seat opposite Roy squeaked a little. “Rhas otsotoj tschafarixi. I'm not sure how many Elders will be there, nor do I know their names.” The preternaturally calm tone and Ishbalan accent disappeared in a rattatatat of clipped Amestrian. “What I can say is that the Elders of the northern tribes are more likely to let you live long enough to deliver your message than those of the south.”
“Well, that's reassuring.” Roy ran a hand over his face, then propped his elbow on the folding table fastened to the wall between the seats. “I'm open to suggestions.”
“We're still within your country.”
Roy frowned. “I'm not giving up and going home.”
“Why not?”
Roy growled. “Do you really want to go through all this again? Everyone who knows about the plan has already told me I'm crazy and tried to talk me out of it.”
“I remember. But tell me, Flame Alchemist-when the Elders ask, how will you convince them that you aren't on a suicide mission?”
“I've got that worked out.” Roy ticked his arguments off on his fingers. “One, if I wanted to kill myself there are a lot of easier ways to do it. Two, I'm carrying something the military wouldn't let go if this wasn't a legitimate attempt to end the fighting. Three, blind or not, I'm still a weapons'-grade alchemist and I was a high-ranking officer until recently.” Roy's face tightened. “In a way I'm being offered as a hostage. Olivia and General Grumman are taking a risk, letting me out of the country without anyone to watch and silence me if necessary.” Roy paused and raised an eyebrow at Scar. “Four-I'm traveling with you. That has to count for something.”
“That could be interpreted in more than one way,” Scar told him.
“What do you mean?”
“To some you were a war hero. To my people you were a bloodthirsty demon. Some called you a traitor before the eclipse. So-which are you, Roy Mustang?”
Roy was slow to answer. “I don't know. I suppose I'm just a man trying to figure out and do what's right.”
“Mm.” Scar's seat creaked again. “And which am I?”
Roy blinked. “Why would any of your people think you're a traitor or a demon?”
“Because I crossed the border to kill alchemists rather than staying to defend my home and my people,” Scar answered quietly. “Because I used the power of God alone and without the guidance of the Elders.” He paused, then went on reluctantly. “Some of the tribes trapped within your country consider me a hero. To many others I am dyehboj-a priest who broke his oaths.” He shifted, then reached to pull the touchscript book toward himself. “Is this a teaching text?”
Roy closed his mouth on a question and answered, “Yes. I'm still getting the hang of reading with my fingers rather than my eyes.”
Scar flipped one of the thick pages, then another. “Why do the lines grow smaller and closer together?”
“It's easier to distinguish bigger type set further apart, but that takes up a lot more space, and books in touchscript are oversized enough already. So the idea is to practice on smaller and smaller type until it's not much larger than ordinary book print.” Roy waved in the general direction of the book. “I want to be reading at that size by the time we get where we're going, so I can type up my notes without wasting any more paper than I have to.”
“What does this say?”
“Which page are you looking at?
“This one.” Scar pushed the book into Roy's elbow and tapped the left-hand page. “Are these numbers?”
Roy found the top of the page, and slowly guided the first two fingers of each hand along the embossed lines, dots, and arcs. Lowering his head and peering wouldn't help, but he did it anyway.
Scar, to his credit, didn't interrupt or withdraw his question. Nor was there any impatience in the air. He simply waited.
Roy cursed softly, and started a line over twice before finally lifting his head. “There are some numbers, yes. It's an essay about the development of the locomotive.”
“Some of it looks like the numbering used by our ancient...scholars who study the stars.”
“Astronomers?” Roy ran his fingers over the book pages. “That's strange.” He stopped to carefully examine the characters on the page. “It's a logical way to render numbers, though, if you don't mind learning a few extra symbols. 'Four million, one hundred and eighty-two thousand, three hundred and fifty' in four characters makes complicated math easier.”
“Only easier to write. No easier to understand.”
“So this is like the Ishbalan writing system?” Roy rested his hand on the book and turned his attention to his companion.
“Only in the...I don't know the word in this language. In our language they are the numbers of the jhastovar.”
“What does that word mean?”
“A...'priest of the books'.” Scar hesitated. “One who writes the records of the tribes and studies what there is to know.”
“You've just told me more about your people in two minutes than I learned in all the time I spent in Ishbal.” Roy leaned forward. “I'd like to learn at least enough of the language to greet the Elders politely when we get there.”
Scar didn't answer, and the silence stretched.
Roy's expression of intense interest faded. “Is it taboo to teach an outsider?”
“Not many of your people have ever asked,” Scar said slowly. He shifted. “Give me your hands.”
“My hands?” Roy held out his hands.
“If you mean to greet an Elder of the tribes courteously you need to offer your hands.” Scar flipped Roy's hands palms up. “Now-if you are greeting a man who is an Elder, you say, 'Kektan duarte eskuak warajtoj nayiz, Admi.'”
“Say that again...slowly?”
By lunchtime Roy had learned to greet an Elder without insulting anyone's parentage.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Dammit, I know I put it right here.” Roy swept his hand under his bunk. "Scar, would you hand me my shoe?"
"I'm your guide, not your nursemaid."
"Fine. Guide me to my shoe."
"Eyohnu ukakuin zyo kase aprexi iztarlohz setri enzahd.”
"Let me guess--that was 'payback's a bitch.'"
"No--'that which appears on the plate tastes not as sweet as that which one hunted and caught.'"
Roy sighed and shifted his knees to sweep more of the floor with his hands. “So, which do you enjoy more, dropping those little maxims or watching me crawl around on my hands and knees?”
Scar offered another comment in fluid Ishbalan.
Roy made an irritated noise in his throat, shifted, and exploded into frustrated cursing as his shoulder banged the table support and his startle thwacked his head into the tabletop.
Scar reached under the table and fished Roy out from under it. “Hush.” It was a command, and both of the Ishbalan's hands took hold of Roy's head. Roy hissed as fingers found the bruised spot under his hair.
“Let go of me.”
“There's no blood.” Scar let go. “Would you like a wet cloth for it?”
“I'd like my shoe.” Roy shouldered Scar's knees aside and patted under his seat for his lost footwear.
“Then slow down and keep track of where you are-and remember that the train ran through a rough freight yard at a speed that almost threw us both out of bed last night.”
“I'm not likely to forget my wash kit falling onto my chest in the middle of the night,” Roy said grimly. “Have you had enough blind man slapstick yet? Or is this practice for a performance for the Elders?”
“I was only letting you learn from the oldest teacher,” Scar answered mildly. “The children of the tribes might enjoy playing with a seeker who can't peek beneath the blindfold, though.”
Roy stopped, and turned toward Scar, his expression mixed. “Am I dreaming, or did you just make something that could be a joke?”
Scar shifted on his seat, then tapped Roy's bruised shoulder with two fingers. “Is this a dream?”
Roy winced, then rubbed the offended shoulder a little. “So you do have a sense of humor. Huh-Jean Havoc just lost a bet.”
“If there are bets on me I'd like to know what they are-and how to collect my fees for settling them.” The raised eyebrow was there beneath the words.
Roy let out a sharp bark of laughter, turned to put his back to the wall beside the compartment door-then made a startled noise and fished a shoe out from under his rump. He ran his hands over it, confirming it was his and not one of Scar's, then dropped it into his lap and started laughing in earnest. It was the kind of helpless laughter that threatened to turn to sobs of despair, and after a few moments Scar moved again. Water sloshed from the glass sitting on the table, then a cold and wet handful of cloth pressed against the bump on Roy's head. Roy grimaced and sobered, lifting a hand to hold the cold compress. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.” Scar took hold of Roy's elbow and levered him to his feet, retrieving the precious shoe and laying it beside its mate on the floor as he settled Roy onto his seat. “I'm not trying to torture you.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“I'm trying to talk to you the way the Elders will, if you're lucky.”
Roy took a short breath of surprise, his eyes widening. “You mean they're going to tease me and talk in Ishbalan riddles? When I'm trying to negotiate a cease-fire?”
Scar sighed. “I suppose I shouldn't have tried. There is a saying among the tribes, Roy Mustang. We say, 'The wiser the soul, the deeper the water.' What the Elders say or do rarely has only one meaning.”
Roy frowned. “So how am I supposed to know which one is the right meaning?”
Scar whuffed a bit. “I am a poor teacher. Let me try again-one sazamuz action has at least two meanings, both of them equally true. Like-a house can have three floors. The cellar is a place to store things, the ground floor is for cooking and to do the work of the day, and the second floor is the rooms for the children to sleep, but they are all part of one house.”
Roy blinked. “That's going to complicate things.”
“It's not impolite to ask for a little time to consider and to pray before you act. If you do, though, you'll be expected to go and think quietly for at least the rest of the day and the night.”
“Believe me, I'm not planning to try and rush anything in this.” Roy adjusted the cloth on his head. “So-how does crawling around on the floor connect to that?”
“I had more than one reason for letting you search rather than telling you where your shoe was.”
“You were testing me?”
“Yes.”
Roy's eyes narrowed. “I can think of quite a few possible motives for making me hunt. One, you might have meant to remind me...not to take your help for granted. Or to force me to fall back on my training to find my way around and locate things by myself. If that's the case I'm betting either Jean or Riza or both put you up to it.”
“You would lose that bet.” Scar sounded unruffled. “Is that all you can think of?”
Roy lifted an eyebrow, then said thoughtfully, “My shoe and wash kit weren't the only things that the freight yard rattled out of place, were they?”
“No.”
“So you picked up everything else, and you put my shoe in a place I wouldn't trip over it on my way to the washroom this morning.” Roy flashed his teeth in a wolf's grin. “Not fair-but that was part of the point, wasn't it?”
“Part of it.” Scar's voice held a note of satisfaction in it.
Roy chuckled. “I'm also pretty sure that whether or not you admit it, you enjoy seeing a former enemy fumbling on his knees.” He refolded the wet rag and put it in the other hand. “You were goading me, to see what I'd do when I got frustrated. On top of all of that, you wanted to know whether I'd catch on to the game and figure out why you were playing it on me.” Roy smiled a little. “Something that seems simple might be anything but.”
“And the more you think about it, the more meanings it has.” Scar hesitated, then offered, “My teacher once gave me a piece of stone the size of my hand, and told me to carry it with me everywhere I went.”
“Without telling you why?”
“He told me that when I could tell him why he gave it to me, I would be free to do what I wanted with it.”
“How long did you carry it?”
“Most of my fifteenth year.”
Roy leaned forward, curiosity clear in his expression. “What was it he was trying to teach you?” He flashed a grin. “Or do I have to figure that out for myself?”
“How many uses can you think of for a piece of stone?” There was a trace of humor in Scar's tone.
“Quite a few, depending on what I'm working on.” Roy lolled back into his seat. “Including driving a fifteen-year-old boy crazy.”
“Or teaching him several lessons at once.”
“Patience being one of them,” Roy responded. “I'd like to hear more about your teacher and your family. As long as we're stuck together in this train car, we may as well get to know each other."
“Very well.” Scar folded his thick-muscled arms with an audible rustling of fabric. “Did you plan to be a war alchemist, when you were a boy?”
Roy hesitated for a long moment. “No.” He paused, then went on. “I had dreams of being a hero, and I thought the military would give me plenty of opportunities to use my skills to improve peoples' lives.”
“Why did you continue, then, when you learned of the rot of the Amestrian military?”
Roy lowered his head. “It...wasn't until we were well into the Ishbal Rebell -- the attack on Ishbal -- that I recognized the truth. And after that...eventually, anyway...I decided I wanted to try to get rid of the rot.”
“You sought power for yourself.” There was a flicker of challenge underneath the words.
“That was the only way to change things, and make the changes permanent.”
Scar's voice was soft. “Do you truly believe you can build anything that will stand forever?”
Roy growled a little. “Do you really think killing the alchemists one by one would have made any lasting difference?”
“I sought to buy my people time, nothing more.”
“Time for what?”
Scar's voice dropped half an octave. “To find their way to the Tani Yumtepi, and prepare for the battles ahead.”
“So your solution was just to keep the killing going. Mine was to try to end it. And...what was that word you used? It sounded familiar, but I don't know it.”
“Tani Yumtepi. The places the prophets take our people when varisti plague us.”
“So...you're talking about real places? Not a paradise in the afterlife?” One side of Roy's mouth quirked up. “And I suppose I'm one of the fa-feristi. Was that the word?”
“Varisti. It means one who is blind and deaf to God.”
“I'll try not to take that as an insult,” Roy muttered.
“It's fact, not an insult. God speaks to every soul. You hear, but you do not listen. Therefore you are varisti-willfully ignorant.”
Roy pursed his lips. “Does that mean your people have written off everyone who doesn't believe in your god?”
Scar's tone sounded just a bit irked. “Why do you think so many of us learned your language, alchemist?”
“I've...always assumed that was because you were...forced,” Roy answered reluctantly.
“We are commanded by God to teach those who ask. Even you, with your hands covered in the blood of my people, would be taught the way of God if you asked with sincere contrition.” Scar sighed irritably. “Some of us learned your language because we had to--but the priests and Elders are charged to speak to varisti in their own tongues, the better to show them the true path.”
“But that makes me ask again: if the conflicts had never happened, would you have had nothing to say to someone like me? If I only asked about you and your people, and not this...path...you talk about?
A hint of exasperation crept into Scar's tone. “Had your people never made war on mine, you would be welcome as traders, and we would speak to you in your tongue, and ask that you respect our ways while you are guests in our country.”
“You'd have no interest in the culture and customs of other people, except to try and evangelize them?” Roy's eyebrows climbed in disbelief. “Are you really that insular?”
“Are you that unfamiliar with the concept of traders?” Scar shot back gruffly. “Those who go to other nations carry back wisdom as well as silk and jade.” His voice fell into a chanting rhythm as he went on. “My people have long been visitors to Xing, and their old men have sat with ours and spoken of the flow of water while our old women sat with theirs to speak of the wisdom of the loom and the garden.”
Roy fell silent, and for a moment he strained to see his companion's dark face. “I...see. So I suppose we forfeited our own chance for that sort of interaction.”
There was a long pause, then Scar replied with a hint of resentment. “No. Time and lives have been wasted, but while we live as God's people, we must obey God's will.”
“I can understand why you're so grudging about it.” Roy turned toward the window and spread his hand against it. “I suppose it's up to us to try to make you want to talk to us.”
Scar growled low in his throat. “You assume a power you do not hold, alchemist.”
Roy shook his head, still talking to the window. “I don't mean by forcing you. I mean...maybe I mean by trying to make ourselves the type of people you'd want to trade with. Maybe I'm...asking what it will take.”
There was a long moment of silence, then the Ishbalan asked, “What is it you expect, Roy Mustang?”
Roy shrugged. “I don't really know. But don't you think you and I are in a unique position here?”
“We are men of war attempting to sheathe our swords while still on the battlefield.”
“That's one way to describe it.” Roy turned back toward his companion. “I suppose the big question is how genuinely each side wants to sheathe those swords.”
“My people never wished for anything but to live in our lands and according to God's will. We are not conquerors.”
“Believe me, I know that. All the conquering came on our side, and I regret that more than you're ever likely to believe. But I'm trying to understand how to make peace now.”
Scar paused again. “The Elders will test your sincerity. They will ask for things you will find difficult to give.”
“I suppose it's too much to ask, after everything that's happened, for any of you to make a gesture that will help us -- me -- do this.”
Scar sounded warily puzzled. “What is there we could do to aid you?”
Roy smiled a little self-deprecatingly. “Well, the usual response to that sort of question is 'Meet me halfway.' But I don't think that's anything we can really hope for.”
Scar sighed softly. “If you survive to meet the Elders, it's likely they will at least listen to what you say.” He paused for a few clicks of the wheels on the tracks. “If the choice were mine, I'd ask you to prove that you speak for those in power in your country-and that they sincerely want to make amends-by sending your soldiers home.”
“Making sure I'm not just a distraction or a lunatic.” Roy leaned forward and put his hands flat to the table. “I think I can talk the Major General and General Grumman into that.”
“Olivia Armstrong is a hard woman,” Scar said, “but she applies the same discipline to her own mind that she demands of those who serve her. You might tell her the soldiers in Ishbal might be put to better use elsewhere.”
“The only question is where to put them to use.” Roy lowered his head, his sightless eyes tracking something between his hands.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The rail line ended at the village of Wild Creek, which was in fact little more than a logging camp. There were only two passengers remaining in the single passenger car when the train pulled in well after dark.
“The car is this way, sir.” The voice was reedy with age and accented with the rounded vowels of the northeastern territories.
“Lead on.” Roy Mustang shouldered his knapsack and lifted his suitcase.
A gnarled hand touched Roy's fingers. “Let me take that for you, sir.”
Roy hesitated. “The radio set is lighter.”
“And more fragile, I'm sure,” the man replied. “I'm a clumsy old farmhand-I don't mind a heavy load, but my hands shake like leaves holding a baby or a fine wineglass.”
“I trip over carpets and walk into walls regularly,” Roy answered ruefully as he surrendered the suitcase. “These days I do it even when I'm not drunk.”
“I tidied up the barn and cleared the house special. Picked out the best sensible horses for you. You'll ride safe tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Scar, will you give me the radio and your elbow?”
The Ishbalan wordlessly shoved the hefty box containing the radio into Roy's calf, then nudged Roy's bicep with his left elbow. Roy bent to pick up the radio in his left hand, and took Scar's arm with his right.
Scar held his elbow stiffly away from his body as he followed their host toward the car parked at the far end of the train platform.
“You're going to get a cramp if you keep this up,” Roy murmured. “I know it's strange, but please relax a little. How far are we from the steps?”
The thick muscle of Scar's arm relaxed a fraction. “A dozen times my height. Maybe a little more.”
“Seventy-five to eighty feet. All right.” Roy lifted his head and cast about. “I don't hear too many people.”
“I count seven, three of them small children.” Scar kept his voice pitched for Roy's ears only. “No one has given us more than a moment's attention.”
“I've always marveled at how easy it is to go unnoticed if you act like you belong wherever you are.” Roy's lips twisted into a hint of a sardonic smile.
“Or if you are someone others would rather not see,” Scar answered. “Here are the steps.”
“So an Ishbalan with a large and distinctive scar on his face and a blind Amestrian get off a train and drive off into the countryside, and no one's the wiser.” Roy chuckled and carefully felt his way down the steps to the car. “It makes me wonder what I've missed in the past.”
“Me.” Scar answered. “More than once.”
Roy started to ask, then thought better of it.
Go on to Chapter 3.
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.
Roy laid his forearm along the compartment wall and stretched his fingers, then lined up his other hand. His traveling companion hadn't yet said a word.
“I suppose this looks ridiculous to you.”
“Does it help?”
“Some,” Roy answered. “I'd rather not walk into the wall in the middle of the night while looking for the bathroom.” He found the light switch beside the compartment door and ran his fingers over it. “Do you want the lights off? I won't be much longer at this.”
“Turn them off.” Scar's bunk, converted from the forward-facing seat of the compartment, creaked a little.
Roy pushed the switch and turned toward the soft click that came from the lamps he knew were mounted in the ceiling. He measured the distance to his own bunk, the backward-facing one, heel-to-toe. Scar was silent. Roy reached up to the luggage rack above his bunk and dragged down his suitcase. His pajamas lay on top of the neatly packed trousers, on the left side. Shirts and his touchscript practice books on the right side. Underwear and socks tucked in along the front edge. Roy fingered the tag sewn in the collar of a shirt. Single large triangle. White. He paused and turned to “look” over his shoulder at Scar, then frowned and turned back to his suitcase. He changed into his pajamas without ceremony, folded his clothes and lay them in the suitcase-single large square, black, narrow rectangle, light blue-then wrestled the suitcase back onto the luggage rack and lay down on his bunk. The clicking of the wheels combined with the gentle swaying of the train and rocked Roy Mustang to sleep.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
He woke with a jerk and reflexively grabbed for something instinct screamed was too close, too close! A hand caught his wrist in a steel-strong grip.
“Roy Mustang. Do you know me?” The unruffled basso tones combined with the power in the hand holding Roy's wrist gave a warning that overrode half-dreamed panic.
“Scar.” Roy licked his lips, and pulled a little against the Ishbalan's hold.
“Yes.” Scar didn't let go. “Do you remember where we are, and your mission?”
“We're going to Ishbal. To talk to the Elders.”
Scar let go and moved back in a rustle of fabric. “It's a good thing you didn't sleep gloved.”
“I set my bedroom on fire once. That was enough.” Roy rubbed his wrist and flexed his fingers. “What time is it?”
“The sun came up perhaps an hour ago. The steward brought a tray with food.” There was a soft rustle of fabric, then Scar added, “The tray is on the floor near the door.”
“Thanks-I'll try not to step in our breakfast.” Roy got to his feet, and swayed a little with the rocking of the train for a moment. He reached up to the luggage rack above his bunk, and pulled his wash kit down.
“I've already eaten.” Scar paused, then asked warily, “Do you need help?”
“No, thank you. I know how sleeping cars are laid out, and we're the second compartment from the front of the car.” Roy traced the edge of his bunk with one knee, and stretched his other leg until his bare toes bumped the edge of the meal tray. “Did you fold out the table?” He bent to pick up the tray.
“No.” Scar took the tray from Roy's hands. “But I will. Go wash.”
Roy opened his mouth, then shut it and took his kit to the washroom.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Scar?”
“Mm.” The Ishbalan's grunt didn't encourage further conversation. Roy persisted anyway.
“What is it you're doing?”
“Anar dkan.” Scar's clothing rustled. “Stretching exercises.”
“In a sleeping compartment for an hour?”
“Nearer two hours-I started soon after I ate.” The words came slowly, enunciated with strange care, as though the man wasn't entirely sure of them.
“So that's what woke me up.” Roy pushed aside the touchscript practice book he'd been studying. “How long will it be before you're finished?”
“Some patterns are as long as a day in midsummer.” There was another series of soft rustles, then a hand swept just over Roy's hair and he jerked back as fingertips brushed his eyebrows. Scar went on in that unnervingly level voice. “I'm modifying this one to make best use of the limited space.” He pulled away in a swift rush.
Roy lifted his eyebrows. “Sounds interesting. I wish I could watch.”
“If you could I wouldn't do this.”
“Why not?”
“Would you allow a Cretan to study the ways soldiers of your country are taught?”
Roy frowned. “Point taken.” He settled back into the seat and let out a sigh, then folded his arms. “But that brings up some important questions. I'd like to know more details of what I'm heading into. How many Elders are there? Do you know any of their names, or who's allied with whom? Who's most likely to at least hear me out, and who's going to shoot first and ask questions later?”
For several long moments, the only sound was the soft creaking and clicking of the wheels and springs under the car. Then Scar moved, and the seat opposite Roy squeaked a little. “Rhas otsotoj tschafarixi. I'm not sure how many Elders will be there, nor do I know their names.” The preternaturally calm tone and Ishbalan accent disappeared in a rattatatat of clipped Amestrian. “What I can say is that the Elders of the northern tribes are more likely to let you live long enough to deliver your message than those of the south.”
“Well, that's reassuring.” Roy ran a hand over his face, then propped his elbow on the folding table fastened to the wall between the seats. “I'm open to suggestions.”
“We're still within your country.”
Roy frowned. “I'm not giving up and going home.”
“Why not?”
Roy growled. “Do you really want to go through all this again? Everyone who knows about the plan has already told me I'm crazy and tried to talk me out of it.”
“I remember. But tell me, Flame Alchemist-when the Elders ask, how will you convince them that you aren't on a suicide mission?”
“I've got that worked out.” Roy ticked his arguments off on his fingers. “One, if I wanted to kill myself there are a lot of easier ways to do it. Two, I'm carrying something the military wouldn't let go if this wasn't a legitimate attempt to end the fighting. Three, blind or not, I'm still a weapons'-grade alchemist and I was a high-ranking officer until recently.” Roy's face tightened. “In a way I'm being offered as a hostage. Olivia and General Grumman are taking a risk, letting me out of the country without anyone to watch and silence me if necessary.” Roy paused and raised an eyebrow at Scar. “Four-I'm traveling with you. That has to count for something.”
“That could be interpreted in more than one way,” Scar told him.
“What do you mean?”
“To some you were a war hero. To my people you were a bloodthirsty demon. Some called you a traitor before the eclipse. So-which are you, Roy Mustang?”
Roy was slow to answer. “I don't know. I suppose I'm just a man trying to figure out and do what's right.”
“Mm.” Scar's seat creaked again. “And which am I?”
Roy blinked. “Why would any of your people think you're a traitor or a demon?”
“Because I crossed the border to kill alchemists rather than staying to defend my home and my people,” Scar answered quietly. “Because I used the power of God alone and without the guidance of the Elders.” He paused, then went on reluctantly. “Some of the tribes trapped within your country consider me a hero. To many others I am dyehboj-a priest who broke his oaths.” He shifted, then reached to pull the touchscript book toward himself. “Is this a teaching text?”
Roy closed his mouth on a question and answered, “Yes. I'm still getting the hang of reading with my fingers rather than my eyes.”
Scar flipped one of the thick pages, then another. “Why do the lines grow smaller and closer together?”
“It's easier to distinguish bigger type set further apart, but that takes up a lot more space, and books in touchscript are oversized enough already. So the idea is to practice on smaller and smaller type until it's not much larger than ordinary book print.” Roy waved in the general direction of the book. “I want to be reading at that size by the time we get where we're going, so I can type up my notes without wasting any more paper than I have to.”
“What does this say?”
“Which page are you looking at?
“This one.” Scar pushed the book into Roy's elbow and tapped the left-hand page. “Are these numbers?”
Roy found the top of the page, and slowly guided the first two fingers of each hand along the embossed lines, dots, and arcs. Lowering his head and peering wouldn't help, but he did it anyway.
Scar, to his credit, didn't interrupt or withdraw his question. Nor was there any impatience in the air. He simply waited.
Roy cursed softly, and started a line over twice before finally lifting his head. “There are some numbers, yes. It's an essay about the development of the locomotive.”
“Some of it looks like the numbering used by our ancient...scholars who study the stars.”
“Astronomers?” Roy ran his fingers over the book pages. “That's strange.” He stopped to carefully examine the characters on the page. “It's a logical way to render numbers, though, if you don't mind learning a few extra symbols. 'Four million, one hundred and eighty-two thousand, three hundred and fifty' in four characters makes complicated math easier.”
“Only easier to write. No easier to understand.”
“So this is like the Ishbalan writing system?” Roy rested his hand on the book and turned his attention to his companion.
“Only in the...I don't know the word in this language. In our language they are the numbers of the jhastovar.”
“What does that word mean?”
“A...'priest of the books'.” Scar hesitated. “One who writes the records of the tribes and studies what there is to know.”
“You've just told me more about your people in two minutes than I learned in all the time I spent in Ishbal.” Roy leaned forward. “I'd like to learn at least enough of the language to greet the Elders politely when we get there.”
Scar didn't answer, and the silence stretched.
Roy's expression of intense interest faded. “Is it taboo to teach an outsider?”
“Not many of your people have ever asked,” Scar said slowly. He shifted. “Give me your hands.”
“My hands?” Roy held out his hands.
“If you mean to greet an Elder of the tribes courteously you need to offer your hands.” Scar flipped Roy's hands palms up. “Now-if you are greeting a man who is an Elder, you say, 'Kektan duarte eskuak warajtoj nayiz, Admi.'”
“Say that again...slowly?”
By lunchtime Roy had learned to greet an Elder without insulting anyone's parentage.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Dammit, I know I put it right here.” Roy swept his hand under his bunk. "Scar, would you hand me my shoe?"
"I'm your guide, not your nursemaid."
"Fine. Guide me to my shoe."
"Eyohnu ukakuin zyo kase aprexi iztarlohz setri enzahd.”
"Let me guess--that was 'payback's a bitch.'"
"No--'that which appears on the plate tastes not as sweet as that which one hunted and caught.'"
Roy sighed and shifted his knees to sweep more of the floor with his hands. “So, which do you enjoy more, dropping those little maxims or watching me crawl around on my hands and knees?”
Scar offered another comment in fluid Ishbalan.
Roy made an irritated noise in his throat, shifted, and exploded into frustrated cursing as his shoulder banged the table support and his startle thwacked his head into the tabletop.
Scar reached under the table and fished Roy out from under it. “Hush.” It was a command, and both of the Ishbalan's hands took hold of Roy's head. Roy hissed as fingers found the bruised spot under his hair.
“Let go of me.”
“There's no blood.” Scar let go. “Would you like a wet cloth for it?”
“I'd like my shoe.” Roy shouldered Scar's knees aside and patted under his seat for his lost footwear.
“Then slow down and keep track of where you are-and remember that the train ran through a rough freight yard at a speed that almost threw us both out of bed last night.”
“I'm not likely to forget my wash kit falling onto my chest in the middle of the night,” Roy said grimly. “Have you had enough blind man slapstick yet? Or is this practice for a performance for the Elders?”
“I was only letting you learn from the oldest teacher,” Scar answered mildly. “The children of the tribes might enjoy playing with a seeker who can't peek beneath the blindfold, though.”
Roy stopped, and turned toward Scar, his expression mixed. “Am I dreaming, or did you just make something that could be a joke?”
Scar shifted on his seat, then tapped Roy's bruised shoulder with two fingers. “Is this a dream?”
Roy winced, then rubbed the offended shoulder a little. “So you do have a sense of humor. Huh-Jean Havoc just lost a bet.”
“If there are bets on me I'd like to know what they are-and how to collect my fees for settling them.” The raised eyebrow was there beneath the words.
Roy let out a sharp bark of laughter, turned to put his back to the wall beside the compartment door-then made a startled noise and fished a shoe out from under his rump. He ran his hands over it, confirming it was his and not one of Scar's, then dropped it into his lap and started laughing in earnest. It was the kind of helpless laughter that threatened to turn to sobs of despair, and after a few moments Scar moved again. Water sloshed from the glass sitting on the table, then a cold and wet handful of cloth pressed against the bump on Roy's head. Roy grimaced and sobered, lifting a hand to hold the cold compress. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.” Scar took hold of Roy's elbow and levered him to his feet, retrieving the precious shoe and laying it beside its mate on the floor as he settled Roy onto his seat. “I'm not trying to torture you.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“I'm trying to talk to you the way the Elders will, if you're lucky.”
Roy took a short breath of surprise, his eyes widening. “You mean they're going to tease me and talk in Ishbalan riddles? When I'm trying to negotiate a cease-fire?”
Scar sighed. “I suppose I shouldn't have tried. There is a saying among the tribes, Roy Mustang. We say, 'The wiser the soul, the deeper the water.' What the Elders say or do rarely has only one meaning.”
Roy frowned. “So how am I supposed to know which one is the right meaning?”
Scar whuffed a bit. “I am a poor teacher. Let me try again-one sazamuz action has at least two meanings, both of them equally true. Like-a house can have three floors. The cellar is a place to store things, the ground floor is for cooking and to do the work of the day, and the second floor is the rooms for the children to sleep, but they are all part of one house.”
Roy blinked. “That's going to complicate things.”
“It's not impolite to ask for a little time to consider and to pray before you act. If you do, though, you'll be expected to go and think quietly for at least the rest of the day and the night.”
“Believe me, I'm not planning to try and rush anything in this.” Roy adjusted the cloth on his head. “So-how does crawling around on the floor connect to that?”
“I had more than one reason for letting you search rather than telling you where your shoe was.”
“You were testing me?”
“Yes.”
Roy's eyes narrowed. “I can think of quite a few possible motives for making me hunt. One, you might have meant to remind me...not to take your help for granted. Or to force me to fall back on my training to find my way around and locate things by myself. If that's the case I'm betting either Jean or Riza or both put you up to it.”
“You would lose that bet.” Scar sounded unruffled. “Is that all you can think of?”
Roy lifted an eyebrow, then said thoughtfully, “My shoe and wash kit weren't the only things that the freight yard rattled out of place, were they?”
“No.”
“So you picked up everything else, and you put my shoe in a place I wouldn't trip over it on my way to the washroom this morning.” Roy flashed his teeth in a wolf's grin. “Not fair-but that was part of the point, wasn't it?”
“Part of it.” Scar's voice held a note of satisfaction in it.
Roy chuckled. “I'm also pretty sure that whether or not you admit it, you enjoy seeing a former enemy fumbling on his knees.” He refolded the wet rag and put it in the other hand. “You were goading me, to see what I'd do when I got frustrated. On top of all of that, you wanted to know whether I'd catch on to the game and figure out why you were playing it on me.” Roy smiled a little. “Something that seems simple might be anything but.”
“And the more you think about it, the more meanings it has.” Scar hesitated, then offered, “My teacher once gave me a piece of stone the size of my hand, and told me to carry it with me everywhere I went.”
“Without telling you why?”
“He told me that when I could tell him why he gave it to me, I would be free to do what I wanted with it.”
“How long did you carry it?”
“Most of my fifteenth year.”
Roy leaned forward, curiosity clear in his expression. “What was it he was trying to teach you?” He flashed a grin. “Or do I have to figure that out for myself?”
“How many uses can you think of for a piece of stone?” There was a trace of humor in Scar's tone.
“Quite a few, depending on what I'm working on.” Roy lolled back into his seat. “Including driving a fifteen-year-old boy crazy.”
“Or teaching him several lessons at once.”
“Patience being one of them,” Roy responded. “I'd like to hear more about your teacher and your family. As long as we're stuck together in this train car, we may as well get to know each other."
“Very well.” Scar folded his thick-muscled arms with an audible rustling of fabric. “Did you plan to be a war alchemist, when you were a boy?”
Roy hesitated for a long moment. “No.” He paused, then went on. “I had dreams of being a hero, and I thought the military would give me plenty of opportunities to use my skills to improve peoples' lives.”
“Why did you continue, then, when you learned of the rot of the Amestrian military?”
Roy lowered his head. “It...wasn't until we were well into the Ishbal Rebell -- the attack on Ishbal -- that I recognized the truth. And after that...eventually, anyway...I decided I wanted to try to get rid of the rot.”
“You sought power for yourself.” There was a flicker of challenge underneath the words.
“That was the only way to change things, and make the changes permanent.”
Scar's voice was soft. “Do you truly believe you can build anything that will stand forever?”
Roy growled a little. “Do you really think killing the alchemists one by one would have made any lasting difference?”
“I sought to buy my people time, nothing more.”
“Time for what?”
Scar's voice dropped half an octave. “To find their way to the Tani Yumtepi, and prepare for the battles ahead.”
“So your solution was just to keep the killing going. Mine was to try to end it. And...what was that word you used? It sounded familiar, but I don't know it.”
“Tani Yumtepi. The places the prophets take our people when varisti plague us.”
“So...you're talking about real places? Not a paradise in the afterlife?” One side of Roy's mouth quirked up. “And I suppose I'm one of the fa-feristi. Was that the word?”
“Varisti. It means one who is blind and deaf to God.”
“I'll try not to take that as an insult,” Roy muttered.
“It's fact, not an insult. God speaks to every soul. You hear, but you do not listen. Therefore you are varisti-willfully ignorant.”
Roy pursed his lips. “Does that mean your people have written off everyone who doesn't believe in your god?”
Scar's tone sounded just a bit irked. “Why do you think so many of us learned your language, alchemist?”
“I've...always assumed that was because you were...forced,” Roy answered reluctantly.
“We are commanded by God to teach those who ask. Even you, with your hands covered in the blood of my people, would be taught the way of God if you asked with sincere contrition.” Scar sighed irritably. “Some of us learned your language because we had to--but the priests and Elders are charged to speak to varisti in their own tongues, the better to show them the true path.”
“But that makes me ask again: if the conflicts had never happened, would you have had nothing to say to someone like me? If I only asked about you and your people, and not this...path...you talk about?
A hint of exasperation crept into Scar's tone. “Had your people never made war on mine, you would be welcome as traders, and we would speak to you in your tongue, and ask that you respect our ways while you are guests in our country.”
“You'd have no interest in the culture and customs of other people, except to try and evangelize them?” Roy's eyebrows climbed in disbelief. “Are you really that insular?”
“Are you that unfamiliar with the concept of traders?” Scar shot back gruffly. “Those who go to other nations carry back wisdom as well as silk and jade.” His voice fell into a chanting rhythm as he went on. “My people have long been visitors to Xing, and their old men have sat with ours and spoken of the flow of water while our old women sat with theirs to speak of the wisdom of the loom and the garden.”
Roy fell silent, and for a moment he strained to see his companion's dark face. “I...see. So I suppose we forfeited our own chance for that sort of interaction.”
There was a long pause, then Scar replied with a hint of resentment. “No. Time and lives have been wasted, but while we live as God's people, we must obey God's will.”
“I can understand why you're so grudging about it.” Roy turned toward the window and spread his hand against it. “I suppose it's up to us to try to make you want to talk to us.”
Scar growled low in his throat. “You assume a power you do not hold, alchemist.”
Roy shook his head, still talking to the window. “I don't mean by forcing you. I mean...maybe I mean by trying to make ourselves the type of people you'd want to trade with. Maybe I'm...asking what it will take.”
There was a long moment of silence, then the Ishbalan asked, “What is it you expect, Roy Mustang?”
Roy shrugged. “I don't really know. But don't you think you and I are in a unique position here?”
“We are men of war attempting to sheathe our swords while still on the battlefield.”
“That's one way to describe it.” Roy turned back toward his companion. “I suppose the big question is how genuinely each side wants to sheathe those swords.”
“My people never wished for anything but to live in our lands and according to God's will. We are not conquerors.”
“Believe me, I know that. All the conquering came on our side, and I regret that more than you're ever likely to believe. But I'm trying to understand how to make peace now.”
Scar paused again. “The Elders will test your sincerity. They will ask for things you will find difficult to give.”
“I suppose it's too much to ask, after everything that's happened, for any of you to make a gesture that will help us -- me -- do this.”
Scar sounded warily puzzled. “What is there we could do to aid you?”
Roy smiled a little self-deprecatingly. “Well, the usual response to that sort of question is 'Meet me halfway.' But I don't think that's anything we can really hope for.”
Scar sighed softly. “If you survive to meet the Elders, it's likely they will at least listen to what you say.” He paused for a few clicks of the wheels on the tracks. “If the choice were mine, I'd ask you to prove that you speak for those in power in your country-and that they sincerely want to make amends-by sending your soldiers home.”
“Making sure I'm not just a distraction or a lunatic.” Roy leaned forward and put his hands flat to the table. “I think I can talk the Major General and General Grumman into that.”
“Olivia Armstrong is a hard woman,” Scar said, “but she applies the same discipline to her own mind that she demands of those who serve her. You might tell her the soldiers in Ishbal might be put to better use elsewhere.”
“The only question is where to put them to use.” Roy lowered his head, his sightless eyes tracking something between his hands.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The rail line ended at the village of Wild Creek, which was in fact little more than a logging camp. There were only two passengers remaining in the single passenger car when the train pulled in well after dark.
“The car is this way, sir.” The voice was reedy with age and accented with the rounded vowels of the northeastern territories.
“Lead on.” Roy Mustang shouldered his knapsack and lifted his suitcase.
A gnarled hand touched Roy's fingers. “Let me take that for you, sir.”
Roy hesitated. “The radio set is lighter.”
“And more fragile, I'm sure,” the man replied. “I'm a clumsy old farmhand-I don't mind a heavy load, but my hands shake like leaves holding a baby or a fine wineglass.”
“I trip over carpets and walk into walls regularly,” Roy answered ruefully as he surrendered the suitcase. “These days I do it even when I'm not drunk.”
“I tidied up the barn and cleared the house special. Picked out the best sensible horses for you. You'll ride safe tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Scar, will you give me the radio and your elbow?”
The Ishbalan wordlessly shoved the hefty box containing the radio into Roy's calf, then nudged Roy's bicep with his left elbow. Roy bent to pick up the radio in his left hand, and took Scar's arm with his right.
Scar held his elbow stiffly away from his body as he followed their host toward the car parked at the far end of the train platform.
“You're going to get a cramp if you keep this up,” Roy murmured. “I know it's strange, but please relax a little. How far are we from the steps?”
The thick muscle of Scar's arm relaxed a fraction. “A dozen times my height. Maybe a little more.”
“Seventy-five to eighty feet. All right.” Roy lifted his head and cast about. “I don't hear too many people.”
“I count seven, three of them small children.” Scar kept his voice pitched for Roy's ears only. “No one has given us more than a moment's attention.”
“I've always marveled at how easy it is to go unnoticed if you act like you belong wherever you are.” Roy's lips twisted into a hint of a sardonic smile.
“Or if you are someone others would rather not see,” Scar answered. “Here are the steps.”
“So an Ishbalan with a large and distinctive scar on his face and a blind Amestrian get off a train and drive off into the countryside, and no one's the wiser.” Roy chuckled and carefully felt his way down the steps to the car. “It makes me wonder what I've missed in the past.”
“Me.” Scar answered. “More than once.”
Roy started to ask, then thought better of it.
Go on to Chapter 3.
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?