War is a scary thing, and this time, it's Edward's turn to experience it. When he saves Roy from capture, and is the only one there to help him heal, what will become of the two? The chapters may b...
Disclaimer: You love FMA, I do too, Me no own, so you no sue. (I do, however own the plot, so no stealing!)
Roy glared around the empty, dark, dank room. He couldn't remember how long he had been locked away, but somewhere in his mind it registered it had been a very long time. He couldn't even recall what a breeze felt like or the sensation of stepping out into sunlight.
Roy had accepted his fate of death, by the hands of his captors presumably. He's only regret would be for the men he had killed in the battle. By his own death, he was paying the price, or as much of it as he could. Really, he felt, in some sick and twisted way he had deserved what he had been given by fate, or God, or whatever ran the world. Still, Roy was not dead yet, and he did not find it necessary to dwell on such gloomy things, when he was surrounded by such a profound darkness in the first place. No work was truly necessary, on his account, to make the dismal place of his condiment a sad place to be.
Roy Mustang had been chained, by his bare, and now sore, wrist to the blood-splattered cement walls of his "cell". In truth, he only called it that for lack of a term for a cramped, dark, windowless room where he was starved and beaten daily, with no such thing as a bed or toilet.
The sticky crimson liquid slid down Roy's wrists, and ran slick down his arms, causing an extreme discomfort, tickling him in a disturbing way. The muscles in his arms strained from being chained above his head and he let out a low moan. Tugging very lightly, he wished he could bring his arms down to rest. But, he knew this wouldn't happen. It they let him bring his arms together, he could draw a transmutation circle and escape. It had never occurred to the enemy that he may be to tiered and weak to get more than ten steps from confident. He would be shot before he even got into the open ground.
Just as he breathed deep, prepared to sigh, his chest stung then burned, and he coughed deep, his lungs tearing to pieces inside of him. Bending his head, in a futile attempt to soothing his aching chest, he coughed out blood. It splattered to the floor, and onto his bare legs.
He supposed the broken ribs, which had been brought upon him in his last beating, had grazed his lungs, the wound, after becoming infected, was slowly destroying his respiratory system. Field training told him that the would was probably fatal, and would kill him off. Any quick or extreme movement could completely puncture his lung. Mentally, Roy gave himself about six days to live, assuming there wasn't another interrogation - beating - which would kill him first.
Roy's stomach chose that moment to remind him he was hungry with a sharp stab of pain. Usually, he would become numb to the sense of starvation, but every once in a while, his body would remember that it needed the life-sustaining material.
He remembered being warned, along with all the other state alchemists, that they were prone to capture, seeing as the other side may try and manipulate them to their advantage, but Roy took no heed to this warning. He never thought he would be captured, surely not the great Flame Alchemist, the war hero of the Ishbaland Revolt. Edward, Roy recalled, had instead of just ignoring the warning and gloated about how the day he was taken prisoner was the day he drank milk on his own accord.
Roy did sigh this time and managed it without nothing more than some slight pain. Why he had suddenly thought of the younger alchemist puzzled him. He would have liked to see him one more time before he died, to apologize for calling him short, and pestering him to the point of yelling. He had always been fond of Edward Elric, but had never truly had the chance to say so. Roy had always saw Ed as his something special. More than a subordinate, more than a friend...
"A son..." Roy whispered quietly. "I don't know... What is to me?" Roy sighed. He was talking to himself. He was pretty sure that wasn't healthy. If there was anyone guarding the door, Roy though, they probably think I've lost it...
Some part of Roy's conscious told him that was true, but Roy had taken to ignoring that particular part.
Roy was sure it Ed saw him now, he would laugh. Yes, it would be a grand thing indeed. The Colonel Bastard finally got what was coming to him, Ed would say. He would laugh down at his beaten form, he was sure. And when the young Elric was to find the man had been raped, he would take it upon himself to celebrated the fact.
Even after these thoughts ran through Roy's mind, he just couldn't feel any hate for the boy. He either cared to much or didn't care at all, but it was hard to tell when one is in so much pain. Roy felt tears sting at his eyes now, sure his fate would never allow him to be blessed away from his confinement or to ever apologize to Ed. Nor would he be able to visit Hughes grave one last time, and beg for his forgiveness for not being there when he was, in cold blood, killed. He would never see Riza again, and tell her how terribly sorry he was when he broke her heart, and thank her for sticking by his side. Or to see his friends, he once so lazily lay about the office with.
In desperation, Roy pulled his knees up against his chest, and yet again wished he had his arms to himself so he could pull his legs even tighter to him. In an act of sheer sorrow, he sobbed loudly into his knees, his chest burning, his eyes sore and tiered, he could only wish for his hellish life to end. Dizzy from the crying and his gnawing hunger and thirst, Roy slipped out of consciousness, still-bound to the cold gray walls. In the back of his mind he welcomed the darkness, and he beckoned death.
Edward sighed, holding back the thought of what he would see on his new mission. He had been assigned to break into a special prisoner containment, told to free the captured, and bring the men back to their home side. It was supposedly at some old abandoned warehouse.
Ed scoffed at this. It was all their side. It was a civil war, after all. There are groups, but no real sides when you live on the same land, and breath the same air. But, Ed was praying for one thing to go right on this next death mission of his. He had been told, by a higher-up, that Colonel Roy Mustang, one of Ed's best and foremost friend, commanding officer for years, had been captured. Ed hoped against odds that Roy had been taken to the place of his next mission, and he could only wish to find an alive Roy waiting for him.
While, the older man had never treated Ed with much respect, Edward still saw some strange friendship with the elder alchemist. They would always bicker and quarrel, but Edward knew deep down that they saw themselves as friends, even if they hardly ever showed it.
Ed hadn't even realized how important and special Roy was, until he had been told of his fate, and he himself had visualized the man, broken and beaten on a dirty cell floor, eyes open and glazed over from death. This brought the boy into a silent prayer, that, where ever the man was, he would wait for him to save him. First MIA, the a POW. Ed didn't like to think of what came next.
Ed turned in his seat. Someone had just entered his olive-drab tent, and he didn't appreciate the lack of permission asked. When Ed saw Havoc looking dismally down at him, and Ed's anger died away. Havoc was one of Roy's close friends, and had not taken well to the news of Roy's current state of capture. Then again, no one really seemed at all happy with the idea. Ed nodded a solemn greeting, and Havoc followed suite.
"We're loading up. Be sure you have everything, and meet out front. The transport will be here shortly."
Edward nodded, and Havoc turned heel and left the tent, the flaps of the pull-to door blowing gently, gracefully in the cold September wind. Slowly, Ed stood to his feet. He stooped down and grabbed his bag, and slung it roughly over his back, then, placing his gloved hand in his pocket, he pushed through the fluttering flaps, and entered out into the main camp.
Soldiers, dressed in the navy blue attire mulled about, many battle damaged. Snow drifted down from the sky, painting the distance to the rebellious lands a hazy pale color. Slowly, Edward lumbered over to the transport truck, and climbed into the covered back. He took a seat next to Havoc and looked around at the rest of the soldiers. Alex, Riza, and Havoc were the only ones he knew personally, but he was glad there were there, even if it was just the three of them. With a lurched, the truck moved forward, and they were on their way.
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