More Than Loyal – A Collection of Drabbles and One-shots from the Royai 100 Themes

By flOofymikO

Author’s Note: This is dedicated to my readers/reviewers!! I am SO sorry, again, for my inactivity…and so an EXTRA big THANK YOU to those who have stuck with this for so long!

And finally, I attempt this theme one more time. Hopefully it’s not too similar to all the other ones…if it is, I’m very sorry, but promise it wasn’t on purpose. I don’t really read other people’s Royai 100 Themes for that very reason; I’m that paranoid of stealing by accident XD;

Disclaimer: Arakawa-sensei created Roy, Riza, and Co. And for that, I am SO FREAKIN’ HAPPY!

#4 - Grave

Tiny speckled golden stars cling firmly, proudly onto narrow bars of matching hue cut through by lines of noble navy. There they perch, often along with a single, round, and similarly dyed button upon each and every shoulder; save, of course, the sandy-haired widow and her little daughter. Two dozen of these stars, distributed among six men, sit and feel the discreet strain of twelve strong shoulders as they solemnly hoist up the grand wooden coffin draped in the flag of their state. The stars can sense the full force of the beating sun, its lazy warmth, its glaring brightness obstructed not even by a single cloud because it is the clearest, bluest day you could ever imagine. But an unspeakable darkness hangs low; the light is gone.

“Why are you here?”

“You know why, sir.”

The gentle, carefree breeze that usually carries everyone’s worries away feels a particularly heavy, peculiarly unmovable burden upon every somber being this late summer afternoon. The trees in the distance sway their emerald-covered branches, like a crisp whisper; lush, pale grass rustles in collective waves of rippling green across the softly sloping hills; birds soar easily overhead, the perfect current under their wings. Such simple beauty, and its source a single breath of wind. Today, however, this light breeze conveys a foreign sound. A most heart wrenching sound; a sound that should never have to be made or heard.

The sound of a little girl’s cries:

“Daddy! Daddy! Why are they burying Daddy? Daddy has a lot of work to do, he told me! Daddy!”

And the sound of the grief-stricken mother, with anguished sobs she is trying desperately to subdue; she embraces her daughter with shuddering arms.

“It’s something ridiculous, isn’t it. He died trying to push me to the top. You don’t need to do the same.”

“He believed in what you were pursuing and in what you are still trying to do. I do too, sir. You know it’s my choice.”

Pristine white gloves are now covered in multiple layers of dirt and grime and soot and ash. They see no color, they feel no heat as sparks catch in the filthy air, a towering pinnacle of smoke and flames sickeningly beautiful and destructive at the same time. They exist to obey the young, ebony-eyed alchemist who wears them, who turns harmless cloth into armaments, bringers of ruin. Ruined buildings, ruined streets, ruined cities. Ruined lives, extinguished with a single snap. The crisp, yet soft fabric obeys every twist of his fingers, friction turned deadly, like an extension of his own flesh. The red symbol on the back of his hand looks almost like a branding. It marks him. He is a human weapon.

“I’m selfish, Riza…I won’t let you do to me what Hughes did to his family…”

She can’t fire. It shakes and rattles, a useless toy in her hands. It doesn’t understand why her grip is unsteady, her palms sweaty, her hold alien. The leather-bound handle, worn down over the years, is usually perfectly fitted to the curvature of her confident hand; this clumsy, childlike clinging renders its wielder near unrecognizable. Her forefinger slides haltingly over the trigger, metal cold to the touch, but she’s quivering, shaking like she’s lost all control, like all her years of training have vanished in that single instant…

If she had any hope, however, any shred of hope in his life or her own…it would have been conveyed in one tiny detail: Even as her legs buckled and her knees hit the ground and her tears flowed freely, she held on to that gun.

She held on and he returned, inches from death; she held on to him, wrapping her arms around his heaving body, his palpable consciousness slipping through her fingers like shredded silk.

“Like a sick joke…every major milestone in our lives is marked by death…”

“No it isn’t, sir…please, just hang in there, stay with me…please…Roy!”

Please…

Such a long, long way down. There is nothing but empty, white oblivion; he wonders if he will ever reach the end. He squints his eyes, straining to make out any signs of life, any hazy forms, anything that he can justify his presence by. This can’t be death, he thinks. There’s no way I could die so peacefully after everything I’ve done in life…

He can see nothing, not even an outline of his own apparently formless body. He can hear nothing, not even the pounding of his surely racing heart. He can smell nothing, nothing fragrant, nothing fetid. And he can taste nothing; in his desperation he bites down hard on his lower lip and rakes his tongue across the wound, hoping for the bitter, metallic flavor of his own life-carrying blood. Nothing.

Feeling is what binds his mind to the lingering belief of his existence…if one could even call this state existing. But he can feel his lip throbbing. He can feel himself falling. He can feel resistance of air against his cheek, like harsh, frozen fingers scraping across his face. He can feel the biting, the nipping on the sensitive skin of his ears. He can feel the burning on the tip of his nose. He is even aware of his hair whipping about behind him. He knows he is plunging headfirst…and, he realizes with a start, he is picking up speed.

The first twinge of panic grips his heart.

Yet at that exact moment, a new sensation makes itself known. Curiously, suddenly aware of his limbs, he brings his hands to his cheeks and presses his palms against the raw skin.

It burns him.

It shocks him, this sense of touch.

His breathing quickens, every greedy gulp of air stinging as it races into his lungs. Suddenly, he can hear himself wheezing, each breath searing down his raw, parched throat. As soon as he becomes aware of his breath, he realizes, with a jolt, that his chest is on fire; he is burning, burning from the inside out.

If he had a voice, he would have screamed.

The tendrils of flame are relentless, hot, angry. So, this is it, he thinks, struggling to calm the erratic pounding in his head. He is all too sure of its cause; his blood must be boiling, smoldering in his veins. Death was only delayed so that I might experience it in its fullest, justice served for one who dealt in deaths of fire during his lifetime. For one so accustomed to flame, for one having even borne the name of the Flame Alchemist all these years, he would never have claimed true mastery over this tenebrous, destructive form of alchemy. He had merely borrowed it, injecting his own brand of brash and showy style into the consumptive art that had bought him his state alchemist pocket watch, the doctored nature of his alchemy akin to his personal façade of the womanizing and cocky militant. The one who originally owned the alchemy is dead, overcome by sickness; the one who originally knew the militant is dead, murdered by a monster. He wonders offhandedly if it is finally time to reunite with both men. Only one living soul now knows the truth, the whole truth of both his alchemy and the searching, vulnerable, ambitious man known as Roy Mustang.

In the midst of the pain, his eyes widen.

Riza…!

And with that single name, the red flame within him flares sharply, infinitesimally subduing its deathly dance within his lungs in favor of a new target: his heart.

The torment increases tenfold. This time he actually does scream. He screams her name; it erupts from his broken lips like a final petition to whatever god is out there. His hearing returns suddenly, as if it were the granting of a final wish– he can hear her name echoing into the void, two syllables filled with agony, need, and heartache. His sole lifeline. His sole truth. His sole love.

Devotion mingled with desire flickers within his chest, a newly awoken contender against the hungry flames.

Riza.

Riza had always been his constant. Riza had always been the one who reassured him that he was not just another mindless weapon or military dog. Riza had always been his light and his pillar. Riza was always, always the one who reminded him of his humanity, his inner goodness, and his living, beating, selfishly loving heart. She downright insisted on it.

And just as he begins to believe the unbearable pain will overtake him, he wants to laugh.

He is too damn selfish. This pain is nothing compared to the pain of being apart from her. And he wants her back in his arms, to take back the charred pieces of his soul and to mend them in the way that only she can.

He laughs and laughs. His lungs protest, and every inch of him wants to give in, but he’s made up his mind.

And so he fights away his grave once more.

Days, or months, or years later…

It is a small, quiet ceremony, outwardly unbefitting of their military ranks.

They stand at the grassy crossroads, right where the paths leading from the Rockbell residence and the remains of the Elric home meet. They are surrounded by a tight group of their closest friends and colleagues. It is spring.

Al has constructed for them a wooden wedding arch, stunning with the intricate detail he excels at creating via alchemy. Winry has further accented this piece with a winding arrangement of multihued blossoms, their intoxicating scent enveloping the tiny gathering; their beauty dims, however, next to the bride in her simple white dress. She and her groom, who stands in full military dress uniform, have eyes only for each other.

Riza clings to her bouquet of white lilies. Roy reaches out to take her hand in his. Everyone waits with bated breath. Their vows are said; the veil is lifted.

A moment of reverent silence, and in that heartbeat, a prayer for those they have lost.

And then a kiss to seal it all, deep and passionate as he breathes her into himself. When they finally part, her lips are swollen and red, her eyes wide in surprise. But he detects an intense gleam within their amber depths. She is pleased.

“I’m glad you’re here with me, Riza…”

“You know there’s no where else I’d ever been.”

Yes, he does know. He also knows, especially now, there’s nowhere else they would ever be but together. He can see it now, in the faintest wisps of a dream: a future where they tread out on the open waters of a blue-green sea, stepping confidently over the roaring waves crested in white and the darkness below, gazing into a scarlet sky.

They know that theirs is a love, a life that will last beyond the grave.

-Fin-

Well…I don’t know where I pulled that out of ahaha x.x; I know, it made no sense. I tried. I hope it was enjoyed, at any rate. Feedback in the form of reviews is much appreciated and loved!