AN: Set some years before the start of Brotherhood. Established Olivier/Buccaneer, but it's mainly Olivier-centric, and written because it's about damn time the lady was sent to rescue the man. Rated T for language, fisticuffs and mentions (and possible cases) of adult shenanigans.

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing.

For the Life of One Man

by Miss Mungoe

Part 1

She'd known something had gone wrong the minute the patrol made it back to Briggs.

It slithered along her skin, drumming a dark knowledge into her marrow and her mind as she watched the lone figures shed their winter camouflage, and realized she couldn't spot the familiar bulk amongst them, nor could she hear the booming sound of his laughter that signalled a mission gone well. They'd been gone longer than planned, but the weather had done a turn for the worse and the general assumption had been that they'd found refuge somewhere from the storm. But going by the vivid red smears against the white camouflage coats, and the visibly smaller number that returned than what had set out, that had not been the case.

An ache like a lingering frostbite rested heavy like a stone beneath her ribcage, but she'd never been one for grieving openly, and so when she approached them it was with the same professionalism she'd have extended if they'd come back in full numbers.

"What happened?"

Looks were exchanged, and her brows furrowed sharply at the sight. Death was simple for Briggs soldiers – it was part of their lives as surely as the snow beneath their feet and the frost in their veins. With death you knew what you signed up for – an eternity in Heaven or Hell, all depending on the life you'd led. A cold corpse had no laments in life, and the general consensus in Briggs was to not shed tears for the fallen. If there'd been death to report, there'd have been no look. Death was clean and final and the news was delivered in much the same manner.

But capture, now that was infinitely worse. Capture warranted an exchanging of worried glances.

"They surprised us, ma'am," one spoke up, a particularly battle-worn young man with a field-dressed wound peeking out from under his thick wool shirt. "The Captain–" he hesitated. "The Captain made us go ahead, sir, and we waited for him, but he didn't catch up. We don't know– Drachma–" he stumbled over his words, and she saw his hands shake where he clenched them tight against his sides.

She let the words settle on her shoulders, and any hope she'd harboured that he'd met his end in battle drained away with the knowledge of his fate. "If the Drachmans have him, he's not dead," she said, voice falling heavy like a conviction, and the soldier flinched at the blunt words. "His face is as known as mine across the border. If they've got him, they won't be letting him die any time soon." But they'll make him wish they would.

Now something akin to grief passed over the gathered soldiers' faces, because everyone knew the fates that met those unfortunate enough to find themselves locked up behind enemy lines. Amestris might not have the cleanest track record as far as military states went, but Drachma – Drachma was notorious for its treatment of enemy prisoners. If Drachma had him, they might have a chance at finding him alive, but the state he'd be in was another matter entirely. The thought crawled across her skin like something dark, but she refused to let herself succumb to helplessness. Ineptitude was a crutch, and one she wasn't willing to grab onto for all the comfort in the world.

"Major General Armstrong Ma'am!"

Raising her gaze, she nodded at the approaching soldier. Buccaneer's second-in-command, she noted. "Soldier."

He saluted with a grim press of his lips. "I'm sad to relay the news, sir. We would not have left him, but the Captain was...persistent."

She pursed her lips. You don't need to tell me. "I've no time for laments, soldier. There'll be time enough for that if we find the corpse, but not before." She put deliberate emphasis on the if, and surprise flickered in his hard gaze. She smirked, and made to turn away.

"Ma'am?" She cast a glance over her shoulder, and noted that the remains of Buccaneer's patrol squad had gathered. Grim resolution lingered on the faces of some, grief on others. And in one face, the Briggs determination that was at once her living pride and her legacy glittered bright like ice under the Northern sun. "Might we ask what you intend to do, Major General sir?" he asked, and she noticed it was the one with the wound. The one who'd looked ready to give up, but who now looked a second away from going back over the border at her behest if she so commanded.

She smirked, but for all her confidence, it felt distinctly grim. "All in due time, soldier," she said. His zeal notwithstanding, there were matters that needed to be taken care of first. Turning back around, she started in the direction of the command centre, muttering under her breath as she went, heavy thoughts lingering on Drachman torture techniques and how long a man could rightly survive without sufficient nutrition and medical attention.

"All in due time."

"You're what?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, Olivier watched the faces across the table. Two incredulous expressions and one carefully resigned, but then Major Miles had no doubt to some extent expected her decision. The other two looked torn between incredulity and outright impatience. They were a pair of nondescript Majors who'd been sent up from Central two weeks ago to make sure her running of the Fort was 'up to par', as the Führer's letter had so politely stated. She'd refrained from pointing out how much it smacked of Central's general inability to make her conform to their way of doing things, and had managed a whole fortnight of controlled civility in their presence.

Now, though, her patience was about to be put to the test.

"I'm going across the border," she said calmly, as she might have said 'I'm going to go patrol the wall, gents, see you all in a bit'.

Major Flop-Sweat as she'd personally dubbed him, paled visibly. "B-but General Armstrong–"

"He's one of my best men," she cut him off, impatience thrumming along her veins as she glared across the table. For all the authority she held in Briggs, there were those still clinging to the notion that she needed a leash. "And I won't let Drachma have him if I can help it."

The other one, Major Doesn't-Know-His-Place-From-His-Arse as she'd learned within five minutes of meeting him, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "General Armstrong," he began, in a tone that made her bristle. "Olivier."

Her brows furrowed at the blatant breach of protocol, and she watched him flinch at his faux pas. "Ah– I mean sir, of course. My apologies," he said, although she doubted very much he was even the least bit sorry. "Do you not think this is exactly what Drachma wants? For you to go on some harebrained rescue mission – is it not playing right into their hands?" And by the downright condescending look he gave her, he might as well have been talking to an errant girl-child, and not the Major General of Briggs. Olivier strongly contemplated throwing him off the Drachman side of the Wall.

Instead she raised a carefully controlled brow. "If I may ask, how long have you been actively fighting Drachma, Major Stuart?"

The Major opened his mouth, then closed it. "Not...very long, ma'am," he admitted.

"Hmm. And have you been part of any of our operations since you arrived here, or assisted in fending off an attempted invasion?"

He kept his mouth firmly shut at that, and something dark lingered in his eyes. "No, sir." The title was uttered with enough vitriol to be a curse, and she smirked.

"Well then, how about leaving the decision-making to those who know what they're talking about?" She placed her hand on the table with enough force to make the nervous Major jump, and she could swear she saw a smirk flicker along Major Miles' mouth. "I've been fighting Drachma since before you joined the military, Major Stuart. I know Drachma. I know what they do with prisoners, those they deem valuable and those they don't. Captain Buccaneer is valuable to them, and that is dangerous to us."

She drew her hand back, and recrossed her arms. "Which is why a retrieval mission is of utmost importance. If I'm correct they'll be holding him at the nearest patrol post a few leagues beyond the Wall. It's well out of our line of fire, but we've got it on a map as sure as you've got your home address in Central."

Major Flop-Sweat spoke up then. "B-but I don't understand. Why do you have to be the one to do this, General Armstrong? Why can't you leave it to one of your men? S-surely an officer of your rank is better suited at your post here in Briggs?"

She allowed her gaze to linger on him – this man-boy who shouldn't by rights have reached the rank of Major yet, but State Alchemists had that privilege, the spoiled brats. It was such a Central thing to say, too – to assume that if you wore the right embellishments on your uniform, you were entitled to making others do your dirty work for you. As though fighting your way to the top of the ladder meant you could sit back, throw your feet up and watch your men fight in your stead. And these are the men the Führer surrounds himself with, she scoffed inwardly. Pathetic.

"I have nothing but the utmost trust in my men," she said, schooling her ire with a patience derived from years at the receiving end of subtle-to-blatant sexist remarks from patronizing old men. "But this is not a routine mission. It needs someone who's been across the border before, who knows the climate and the enemy. I am the most logical choice."

Major Wouldn't-Know-His-Place-If-He-Had-A-Goddamn-Map made a noise of discontent. "But General, surely–"

"Major Stuart, I was under the impression that I held the highest rank here in Briggs," she cut him off, voice hard and cold like ice. "What is it they say...'my word is law'?" She glared at him, her forced pleasantries like bile in her throat when she wanted nothing more than to shove his tongue down his windpipe. "Or would you disagree?"

He returned the glare, but didn't correct her. "You are correct, ma'am, but I am afraid I cannot condone this rash and, if I may be so bold, emotional choice of action when it will leave your men defenceless and Briggs in danger of invasion."

She marvelled silently at the amount of insults the man could cram into a single sentence, and how much more she could take before she really did throw him off the side of the Wall. She was used to remarks from Central goons on the archaic notion of her gender's sensibilities, and she'd take a hundred insults in a row without batting an eye.

But to presume that her own men were incapable of managing the Fort without her – to insinuate that she had not taught and trained the best goddamn garrison in Amestris–

A meaningful look from Miles had her forcing her next breath out through her nose, and she tightened her fingers against her arms, drawing at all her years of hard-earned patience and control to keep from drawing her sword instead.

Major Stuart squared his shoulders a little, as though it made him feel larger, and smiled a smile that told her he believed full and well he'd talked her into submission. "I am going to have to send word to Central about this before a decision is made," he declared, then with a look towards Major Flop-Sweat, made to rise. For his part, the stuttering State Alchemist seemed visibly uncomfortable with the decision, and sent her an apologetic look that made her urge to kill him recede by a smidgen.

Major One-Wrong-Word-Away-From-Meeting-His-Bloody-End smiled amicably. "I will phone Central tomorrow morning, and we will make a decision shortly after. My sincerest apologies for the loss of your man, Major General. I do hope we can resolve this somehow without risking too many lives."

She didn't bother with a reply, nor did she rise or extend a hand for him to shake, and he pulled his back awkwardly, before moving to leave the room, Flop-Sweat at his heels like a pup. When the door had closed behind them, she counted to ten in her head – the steps it would take them to get out of definite earshot. Miles stood by the door, and when she'd reached the number nine, nodded his head. "You can breathe now, General."

The table rattled with the force of her blow, and she clenched her fist tight against the top. "I'm fine."

He raised a brow. "Sir, I'm not a violent man, but even I wanted to kick him off the edge of the Fort."

She smirked, but it felt like a grimace. "Those Central asshats," she spat viciously. "Who do they think they are, coming here to lecture me how to do my damn job?" She scoffed. "They don't know squat about this garrison if they think my constant presence is needed for things to go around. Just because they need someone to hold their leash and a Master to tell them to heel doesn't mean they're free to consider my men as part of the same ilk," she muttered.

Miles smiled wryly. "Their ignorance will work to our advantage, sir."

She snorted. "And a damn good thing that is."

"So, tonight?"

She looked up, and nodded brusquely. "The very minute those fops are in their bunks."

He returned the nod. "I'll set up the patrol," he said. "They'll be discreet."

"Good," she said, but didn't rise from her chair. A moment passed before she continued. "I'll be going alone, Major." She looked at him. "I'll need someone here I know can wrangle those goons while I'm gone."

He hesitated, but nodded. "Aa."

"You understand, of course?"

He smirked. "Aye, ma'am. I'll keep the men briefed in your absence."

She nodded, and drummed her fingers against the tabletop. "I'll need rations for two," she said, almost to herself. "Extra bandages – there's no knowing what state he'll be in. Extra gear and camouflage." She snorted softly, and muttered, "His gear alone will take up most of the space in my pack, the damn bear."

"Have you thought what you'll do once you find the patrol post?"

She smirked. "Well, I won't go knocking on their front door, if that's what you're asking." She shook her head. "I haven't gotten there, yet. First I need to make sure that's where they're keeping him. After that..." she trailed off with a shrug. "I can think on my feet."

He nodded, and moved towards the door. "I'll go rearrange the patrol roster," he said. "You should pack."

She cut a glance towards him. "I won't insult you by reminding you of the discretion necessary for this mission to succeed."

He smirked. "Noted, ma'am. I thank you for your trust." He paused then, and looked at her long and hard. She raised a brow in question.

"What?"

The part-Ishvalan shook his head, an odd smile on his face. "Nothing. I was just thinking that Captain Buccaneer is a lucky man."

She glared. "Don't confuse my loyalty for some passing fancy, Major," she warned. "I won't have it said that I'm playing favourites."

He shook his head. "I'd never think that, ma'am. No soldier under your command would." Then he smiled again – the same, knowing smile as before that spoke volumes where his words didn't. She'd never harboured any misconceptions that he was in any way ignorant of the identity of the man who shared her bed, but it was one thing to know and quite another to be presented with the fact outright. "But you're allowed your share of bias, even as the General of Briggs," he said then, surprising her. "Frankly, for all you've given for us, our support is the least we can give in return."

And with that said he turned to leave, closing the door behind him and leaving her sitting by the table. Her hand was still clenched into a fist, and she loosened her fingers gingerly, until her hand was splayed flat on the tabletop. The turmoil within her had settled somewhat, but she watched the door with furrowed brows, turning over the events of the past few hours in her mind. It hadn't been a full day yet, but it might have been a week for all the crap she'd had to deal with. She hadn't thought the Central goons would make it easy for her, but she hadn't thought they'd go to such lengths to keep her in check, either. But as was so often the case with her men, they rose to the occasion when she needed them.

"Support, huh?" she muttered as she made to rise, striding towards her locker to tug out her rucksack and gear, a pleased smirk lingering along her mouth.

"That's something you didn't count on, eh, Central Majors?"

Night-time in Briggs was often an eerily silent thing, the quiet expanse of of the great mountain range like a graveyard for an outsider, but for a soldier of Briggs, the solitude was a blessing. A quiet night meant a peaceful night, and a peaceful night meant rest, even for the wicked. For those whose ears were used to the sound of cannon-fire and the thundering footfalls of an enemy battalion, the quiet was a rare blessing.

And for those who sought to lurk like wraiths in the dark, it was a perfect disguise.

"The patrols?" Olivier asked as she packed her rucksack, moving between her bunk and the map splayed open on her desk. A candle burned bright in the corner, wax dripping onto the tabletop and the map, and there was no other source of light in the room. She'd had to keep up the appearance of going to bed, after all, and wouldn't risk her appointed watchdogs catching on to her plans if she could help it.

"Have all been briefed. They'll turn a blind eye for tonight, and be none the wiser in the morning," Miles responded.

"Good." She hesitated, hand hovering over the extra roll of bandages, but a split second decision had her stuffing them into the bag. Folding the map and shoving it inside before tying the strings together, she sat down on the table, grabbing a fistful of hair in one hand as she set about twining the loose locks into a tight braid. Miles watched her work silently for a long moment, an unreadable look on his dark face.

"What?" she snapped, feeling suddenly exposed under the red of his naked gaze.

He smirked. "Nothing. I've just never seen you with your hair braided, ma'am."

She scoffed, but said nothing as she continued, deft fingers working her usually unbound hair into strict submission, from the top of her head and down the back of her neck. For a colour as easily recognizable as hers, she'd need it to stick out as little as possible. Braiding it tight and close to the base of her skull was the most sensible option if she intended to get anywhere without being discovered once she crossed into Drachma.

"Did Captain Buccaneer teach you that?"

She glared from beneath one of her raised arms, but said nothing as she continued working her long locks into a tightly wound plait. Going by the smile on his face, though, her silence said more than enough, but she wasn't about to grant him the satisfaction of an actual answer. Her hands didn't still in their ministrations until she was at the very ends of her hair, and she wound an elastic around it before she set about pinning the braid to the base of her skull, winding it round and round until it was secured at the back of her head. Next she tugged a warm hat over it, and tucked any loose locks she could find into its confines.

When she turned back, Miles was holding her rucksack, and she took it without word or ceremony. Without her heavy winter coat, her gear felt deceptively light, but she knew as well as any Briggs soldier that bulk didn't always mean good insulation. Her camouflage gear was designed to withstand severe drops in temperature the likes of which they didn't see even at the Fort, and consisted of several layers of thin wool beneath a white parka and pants to hide her from prying eyes. It had been years since she'd last needed to resort to hiding her identity, but she'd been a soldier a long time before she'd become a General, and so she fell back into the familiar routine with little effort.

Checking to see if the coast was clear, Miles motioned for her to follow, and they began their trek from her quarters towards the stairway that would take them to the lowest level of the Fort near the foot of the mountain. Closing the door behind her, she followed at his heels, eyes and ears alert for any unwanted company. They passed a patrol on their way, but the soldier seemed to see right through her, though she caught the mute salute as she passed, and felt a smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. My loyal cubs.

When they reached the lowest level, there wasn't even a patrol in sight, and she risked speaking for the first time since setting out from her quarters. "If you don't hear back from me in a week, assume we're both dead," she said, voice a low drum in the quiet of the corridor. "There'll be no other men risked for the sake of our hides. Have I made myself clear, Major?"

Miles nodded, but the reluctance hung heavy like a cloak to his tense shoulders. "Yes, ma'am."

"And I trust you to take care of things while I'm gone. Make sure those Central whelps stay put – I won't have them defiling my Fort with their sorry excuse of military protocol."

A wry smile lingered along his mouth. "Aye, ma'am."

They'd reached the end of the corridor, and stopped before the heavy door that would take her out on the ground level on the Drachman side of Briggs. She regarded it only a moment, before curling a gloved hand around the handle and tugging it open, the shriek of metal-on-metal loud in the empty corridor, but no one came running. A gust of cold wind and snow escaped inside, and she tugged her hood over her head, tying the strings tight and snug as she adjusted her tinted goggles. With a last look at Miles, she nodded at his salute, before slipping out without another word.

The loud bang of the door closing behind her seemed to die on the wind howling around her covered ears, and she clenched her eyes against the flurry of snow as she pushed forward. All around her was the cold and the endless white of winter, but she drew the weather around herself like a physical cloak, knowing it would hide her passage. If anyone knew the North it was she, it's designated sovereign, and she embraced the wily temperament of the Northern cold like an old friend.

And with her resolution hard-as-ice a comforting weight on her shoulders, The Queen of Briggs strode fearless into enemy territory.

AN: Queen of the North coming through, Drachma better watch out /snaps fingers.