Back again! What can I say? I love Royai. Kinda drabble-ish, but I hope you enjoy! :) Reviews, please?

Left, Right

She was the General. His General.

He was the Fuehrer. Her fuehrer.

Always three steps behind, one step to the right, she would always watch his back.

Three steps ahead, always to the center and her left, he would shield her from any dangers that faced them.

Inseparable. She cannot ever be found away from her post. Three behind, one to the right. He can never be found when he is not three ahead, and to her left.

She watches his back, he guards her front. They could be two eyes in one face. Two ears on one head. Two hands, of one body.

But, the eyes on a face do not touch. They do not move. The ears on the head never meet, separated always by flesh, blood and skull. The left hand never gets to feel the lasting contentment of forever when it grips it's own counterpart.

So closely bound, they cannot be together. For they are a pair of eyes, a set of ears, two hands moving in different directions. One hand turns the page, the other holds the book. Press the left palm to the right or stretch the arms out as far as they can go. They can only be so close, and can only go so far. They are connected, and cannot be separated by anything less than final severance.

How desperately one eye must love the other, for always seeing the other side. How much the left ear must love the right, for hearing so well on the side it can't. How dearly one hand love its counterpart, for always holding the book, for turning the page.

How can they hold the book and turn the page at the same time, with only one hand?

The eyes can never cross the bridge of the nose. The ears can never span the distance of marrowed cranium. The hands can hold onto each other for only so long.

She is the General. He is the Fuehrer.

She is the Colonel. He is the General.

She is the Lieutenant. He is the Colonel.

She is the Daughter. He is the Apprentice.

How dearly the right hand must love the left, for always turning the page. How dearly the left must love the right, for always holding the book. How dearly they must love each other. How much must they mourn when the book is set away.

What would the Left be without its Right? The Right without its Left?

How dearly they must love, to suffer so much. To suffer forever, knowing they are not meant to be anything more than two halves of a working whole.

The Left must always know that the Right will be taken from it, and given to another's to hold, fingers interlocking; how the Left must die, dangling and useless by itself as its precious Right is taken and given away.

The Right must dread the day when the Left will be bound and branded by the cool slip of gold that strangles the second neck of the Left's body. The metal noose that shows, once and for all and forever that the Left is gone from it. That the Left belongs, not to it, but to another.

Can anyone imagine the pain the Left and the Right must endure, when day in, day out, they must work to hold that same stupid book, the one that once brought them such heady joy, and turn the pages again and again? The same story is read again and again, and how can they derive the will to carry on?

But they soldier on, the Left and the Right. They cannot stop their dance, even if they wanted to. They are the Hands, that connect to the Arms, that join to the Body, which is under the dominion of the Head.

She is the Right. He is the Left.

The soldiers who follow them are their Arms, forcing them apart when they wish to hold tighter. The Body of their people cannot survive if the Hands do not work; how would they eat, or fight, or reach out to others? The Head is the country, which needs the Hands and the Arms to work together to feed the Body so it can live.

They are the Hands.

She is the Right, and holds many others that are not the Left. They are never quite right. She takes lovers, and she knows it hurts him when she turns up at formal dinners with a different man on her arm every time. Eventually she takes Alphonse Elric as a lover, and they live a quiet, demented existence together with several dogs. She is a General, and he uses alchemy to create toys for the village children. They drown in loss; she has lost her Left to another, he has lost his one true love to his brother. The solace they find in each other is shallow and dissolute. Some days she feels like a crepe paper doll in dirty water as they share a meal. When they make love, they do not look at each other. He is not the Left.

He is the Left, and takes only one. But that one is not the Right. Beautiful and smooth, this one binds him to her with a strangling noose of gold that wraps around his finger and she talks too much. She is beautiful, and the perfect example of one someone should want to hold forever. But everybody knows the greatest secret of all is that the Left does not want to hold anyone forever except its rightful Right. She is golden haired too, but with steely blue eyes. She loves the power he holds, the money and servants she can command, but little else. Living with her is akin to living in a bear trap. He is always afraid of the snap. To her, he does not make love. To her, he Fucks. And he thinks of another. Always, another. He tells himself as he holds the razor to his throat shaving, that marrying her is what's best. She is an alliance bride. She is not the Right.

They still work together, the Left and Right, forced by the Arms of a cruel Body, that is ruled by an even crueler Head. He often wonders if becoming Fuehrer was worth losing his Right. For in achieving the goals of his life, he realizes that he is just a Hand, always just a Hand. He serves the Arms of his armies, the Body of his people and the Head of his country. And he loses the love of his Right.

She never burdens anyone else with the agony of her loss, because that's how she is. The Right is almost always more active than the Left, with more independence and with a greater job to do. She knows she has done her job; he is Fuerher. But there is always more work to be done. And if she can work just a little bit harder, and hold onto more others who are not the Left, than maybe, just maybe, she can forget the fact that none of them are not right, because they are not Left.

She is his Right. He is her Left.

And if you ever see them, you will always see her, three steps behind, and to the right. He will be three steps ahead, and to her left.

Because nothing, short of final severance, will stop the Left and the Right from being together.

Hope you caught on to the Roy/Left, Riza/Right analogy. I would love and welcome any and all reviews. :)