Hero of Ishval

A fullmetal alchemist fanfic

YAJJ

Date: 11/02/2017 1:30 pm

Summary: There are many reasons that Roy Mustang is known as the Hero of Ishval. But the very first reason is one that most in the military don't know about. Ishvalan!Elrics au. big brother!roy. Rated for war and language

A/N: I don't have the second chapter written yet, I just was curious how this would go over. Please review and let me know!

Disclaimer: Do not own.

The men came into the district, all with not-red eyes and not-white hair but not without an intent to kill.

"No!" screamed a boy, standing before his mother and little brother because there was no father to protect them, not anymore, and the boy refused to listen to his mother when she said to get back. "Stay away! You dirty Amestrians don't belong here, go back to your cities! Leave Mom alone!"

"Oh?" said the man with the long hair and the grey eyes. "Little Ishvalan scum has a little life to him, does he?"

"Don't call me little!" said the boy with fire in his eyes.

"I wonder… how quickly can we drain the life from you? You're coming with me!"

The little Ishvalan boy was dragged away from his mother's arms like a common criminal, dragged kicking and screaming through the district, and loaded onto a truck.

None of the Ishvalans could stop the man who made explosions from his palms, most were too frightened to try. The only one who did, the mother, quickly had a gun pointed to her forehead and had to be held back by her fellow countrymen. The truck drove off, a child still calling for his mother from the back while his mother cried for him.

"ZEDEKIAH!"

Chapter 1

When Roy Mustang was 18, and he joined the Military Academy, his naivety had him dreaming glorious dreams about going to war. Yes, people died he knew, but they died with honor, fighting for their people and their country. He had never really dreamed of becoming a war hero (although some nights the thought would flash through his mind for a fraction of a moment), but he dreamed of going to war and returning alive.

His foolish self, of course, had never experienced the true horror of war, all the blood and death. He had been surrounded by war all his life—the military was in at least one almost every day of the year for the past fifty years. It was something that most everyone was a part of in one way or another, and the military was the biggest employer in all of Amestris, so imagining himself in the military wasn't so odd or unnatural. There wasn't one boy or girl that he knew of that didn't imagine that in one way or another, they would be part of a war.

Even imagining being in the military, his thoughts could never come close to the real thing.

Death was in the air, death and dying, at all hours. He feared his enemies, he feared his comrades.

He feared himself.

This was why Master Hawkeye hadn't wanted to share the secret of flame alchemy with him. Somehow, Master Hawkeye had known the ruin that Roy would bring with a snap of his fingers.

"Yo! Mustang! Move your ass!"

Roy kicked at the desert sand beneath his feet, heat bearing down on his neck relentlessly. He looked toward the voice—Hughes was hailing him forward. It was mealtime, they were just returned from a mission in one of the southern districts, and even though he was damn hungry, he didn't even want to think of eating.

"What do you want, Hughes?"

Hughes, Roy's academy buddy and longtime rival, jerked his head toward the wash station. Roy rolled his eyes, assuming a new batch of nurses or some such nonsense had come in. Hughes was happily taken, but he never hesitated to attempt to set up Roy, or one of the others in their squad. The man made sport out of watching them fail, Roy was sure of it.

Still. Hughes was obnoxious when someone paid him attention, but worse when they ignored him. He walked slowly to the man, glancing at whatever had caught Hughes' attention.

A crowd of men surrounded one of the flagpoles, all of them jeering and laughing. Roy sneered at them; that was rarely anything good.

"What do you think they got ahold of, a nice t-bone?" Hughes wondered loftily, turning to Roy.

"I don't know, man, I was on the same mission as you. Come on. If they're all busy with this, I bet the line's clear and we get first pick."

Hughes grinned and laughed, hooked an arm around Roy, and lead him toward the mess.

Roy and Hughes beat a hasty retreat when the mess started filling. Most of the men had appeared to grow bored of whatever had kept their attention, and now wanted to appease their angry stomachs. Hughes carried a napkin full of what could best be called dry gruel. It was the sort of junk you could only stomach a little at a time; Roy hadn't been able to finish his, and it got too crowded for Hughes to finish. They chatted as they walked—well, Hughes chatted, while Roy walked alongside and listened halfheartedly.

Roy glanced back to the flagpole as they walked past, the same place all those men had been crowding around earlier. A few remained, but most had disappeared into the mess. Somewhere near the ground there was a red swatch of fabric and a little foot, but Roy couldn't make much out of that. Some of the guys made a habit of bullying some of the younger ones. Maybe they had got ahold of some poor bastard who made some small mistake. It wouldn't be the first time.

There were some quick words from the crowd, words that he didn't recognize and when he glanced at Hughes, he found that he hadn't either. He knew some of the others spoke Aerugan, Cretan, or even the occasional Drachman—since they were surrounded on all sides by these great nations, it made sense for someone on their side to speak it. It was possible that it was one of those who spoke foreign tongue being tormented, but Roy doubted it. Some of those words sounded sort of like Xingese.

Then, a loud call, a sharp cry, and a child's voice: "No, No! Mama!"

Beside him, Hughes stiffened, his eyes narrowing, and Roy felt a shudder pass through him. What was a child doing here? No one in their right mind would sneak their child into the middle of an active warzone. The only other possibility was—

Yes, they realized as they approached. A little, Ishvalan child. No more than six.

It was a boy, very small. He had shaggy white hair and piercing red eyes, skin darker than the sand around them. He was covered in a red shawl, and wore no shoes on his little feet. His eyes darted all over the place, looking for an escape, but Roy quickly realized that the poor child had been bound to the flagpole.

What the hell was he doing here?

"Awww, what's the matter, you baby? Are you gonna cryyyy for your mooommmyyyyy? Go ahead, see if she can hear you."

Oh, and of course, why was Roy not surprised? Solf J. Kimblee, the truest psychopath in the entire military, was leading the show.

The kid blinked his eyes hard and sniffed hugely, swallowing back any tears that were left. He looked like he was trying damn hard not to cry—like he was trying to be stronger than Kimblee, stronger than what was happening.

"Kimblee," Roy said, grabbing the Crimson Alchemist's shoulder and tearing him from his victim. "Leave him alone, he's just a kid."

Kimblee tore his shoulder from Roy's hand, glaring at him. "What do you want, sand-fucker? You're apart of this war too, what's one brat to you?" Kimblee scuffed his boot into the sand, kicking some up right into the kid's face. The boy squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop the sand from getting into his eyes, grimacing and turning away.

Roy scoffed, but didn't otherwise react to the insult. He'd been called it before, and it had stopped affecting him. It first started in the military academy, when he'd been surrounded by people hardly out of high school (if they had even gone) who were still practically children. He came to the aide of his now-friend Heathcliff Erbe, and from then on, became known as a sand-fucker—an Ishvalan sympathizer.

If the opposite of being a 'sand-fucker', was being Kimblee, then he didn't mind being a sand-fucker at all.

"Where did you get the kid? He doesn't belong here."

"Plucked the brat fresh from his mommy's arms. He had a couple things to say, and I wanted to, uh…" Kimblee laughed, "teach him about his betters."

"His betters? Who do you think—"

"Mustang! Kimblee!"

Roy flinched and glanced over his shoulder to see a general approaching looking unamused. Roy and Hughes snapped into a salute, and with a little reluctance, Kimblee did too. General Raven inspected the boy bound to the flagpole, then ignored him and turned on the two soldiers. "What are you doing, lollygagging? If you've got time to start arguments, you've got time to clear the ten o'clockers for a lunch break. March! Both of you!"

Mustang scowled inwardly but kept his face impressively blank. Seven o'clock guard. Was there anything less interesting? He glanced down to the kid, who glared all around at everyone he could see, offering no warmth or anything. Roy smirked to himself just a little. He was quite the kid. "Yes, sir."

Once night rolled around, the entire camp fell into almost total silence. The only ones still awake and about were the night guards, who only watched the perimeter and had no care for the happenings inside its borders, and the boy, who was silent with his tormentors no longer about.

It was this fact alone that allowed Roy to sneak out of his tent at half past pain-in-the-ass o'clock, canteen around his neck and napkin of not-so-goodies in hand. His tent wasn't far from the flagpole, so it only took ten silent seconds to creep across the camp to the little boy.

He couldn't, in his heart, leave this boy to his fate. He knew that no one had fed the poor thing, or even let him off to relieve himself, and no one had tried to shade him from the unrelenting desert sun. If he wasn't sunstroked when Roy got to him, he would be surprised.

"Kid. Hey… kid, wake up," Roy said under his breath, crouching beside the boy. The kid's neck was craned awkwardly forward, like he had fallen asleep like that. He had reason to suspect that the kid wasn't asleep at all, but he didn't want to startle him.

Indeed, the kid quickly shot his head up, eyes bleary. He pressed back against the flagpole and glared at him weakly. "Go away."

Roy chuckled a little and sat beside him, crossing his legs to try and appear as friendly as possible. The poor kid had had enough fright in this place. "You won't say that when you see what I've got for you."

That piqued the kid's interest for a moment, nervous curiosity flooding into those crimson depths. He flickered his eyes from the ground up to Roy, lowered his head to his toes, then hesitantly wondered, "...what?"

"Shh, you have to stay quiet. We could both get in trouble if we're not careful. Are you hungry?"

The boy nodded blearily, and Roy knew with the flush in his cheeks that this was true. He was probably starving. He didn't know when the kid had been collected, but it was probably at least since then when he last ate.

Roy set the napkin down in front of the kid, revealing its contents. It wasn't the best stuff, and if he had better he'd give it to him, but it really was all he had for today, and he couldn't go stealing rations, not just for a little kid. "Here. Open your mouth."

"Do…" The kid coughed and opened his mouth, licking his dry lips. "D'you have any water…? Please…"

"They… haven't even given you water? All day?"

"No…" the boy croaked. "You have some, right?"

Roy's heart constricted for a moment, then he sighed and stooped his head, grabbing for the strap of his canteen. "Yeah. I have some. Move your head away from the pole."

The boy did, so Roy unscrewed the canteen and cupped his head. He pressed the canteen to his lips and tilted back. Water spilled from the corners of his lips, but he didn't seem to mind, drinking greedily. When the canteen was pulled away, he licked at the water on his face.

"Ready for food?"

"Yeah." The boy opened his mouth as he had asked earlier, and Roy patiently fed him everything that Hughes, bless his soul, had saved.

The night passed on in silence while Roy stayed by the boy's side. He noticed halfway through what barely constituted a meal that the kid was shivering mightily. The kid must have been freezing cold after he spent all day burning to a crisp in the sun, and then hastily being introduced to the chill of the night air. Whatever skin was burnt, which had to be everything exposed, had to be horribly irritated.

"Are you cold?"

The boy shivered again, and through the shiver Roy noticed a very small nod. Yeah, the poor kid had to be freezing.

He slowly unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders, pulling it around to lay over the boy. His little naked toes stuck out of the bottom, but he wiggled around a little and crossed his legs beneath the fabric, covering his chilled toes.

"...Thank you," he said. His voice sounded better now that he got some water in him, at least. More like a kid and less like a decrepit old person.

Roy shrugged awkwardly; he had never been good at taking thanks and he doubted that he ever would be. "Sure," he said, finding his feet. The kid was taken care of, at least, and Roy couldn't do anything more for him without running the risk of getting in trouble. He could check on him again in the morning.

"W—wait!" the boy cried when Roy stood, looking up at him with nervous red eyes. When Roy looked back, he looked down to his feet, as if he was ashamed of his outburst.

"...What?"

"Don't…" The kid struggled with his reservations for a moment, kicking at the fabric of the coat. "Don't go."

Roy stood by, blinked once, twice, three times. He didn't know… what to say. An Ishvalan kid asking an Amestrian soldier to stay by him? He supposed that he had only been mistreated since he had arrived, and Roy was probably the first friendly face he'd seen all day.

But he didn't really have much of a choice. He was already pushing it, being out here past night bell without direct orders. He couldn't stay out here much longer without facing possible consequences.

He opened his mouth to respond truthfully—I have to, I can't stay, go to sleep, you'll be fine—just in time for the child to whisper, "please, please don't go. Please don't leave me alone. The other soldiers, they'll come back, they don't like me. They… they hurt me and spit on me, and what if they come back and do it again? Please…"

Roy felt each separate word like a slap to the face, and looking to his face, desperate and frightened but willing to trust him, might as well have been a sucker punch. Roy had always been a sucker for the underdog, a sucker for kids like this one. He was no good with them—being raised in a brothel didn't help matters, especially since when he did go to school, he stuck out like a sore thumb because of his slanted eyes and his upbringing, and it set him very far from kids his own age—but that didn't stop him from sympathizing with them, from wanting to protect them and from never wanting to see the exact face this little boy was making…

He cursed to himself, quietly enough the child didn't hear. His mind was made up before he was even aware of it. And screw anyone who said even a word of it in the morning.

He turned back to his tent without a word to the boy. If he was going to be sitting outside all night long, he might as well make himself comfortable, make it more bearable.

He collected his sleepsack and pillow, ignored the grunt of confusion from one of the bunks on the other side of the tent, and stepped back outside. He ignored all thoughts of foreboding and instead looked to the child, who looked even more defeated than before.
Perhaps a word in before he left would have been good…

Oh well. Perhaps next time. It was too late now. He approached the boy who stared down at his toes, still cloaked in Roy's blue jacket, and scuffed a little sand by him so he knew he was there.

The boy started and looking up to him, clearly expecting some sort of reprimand judging by the fright filling his eyes. The fear in them dulled and surprise flitted in when he recognized Roy again and saw the sack in his arms. He didn't say a word when Roy turned and sat beside the boy, leaning as much of his shoulder into the pole as he dared, and he didn't say a word when Roy shook out his sleep sack and laid it over both their laps, nor when he fitted his pillow behind him against the pole to act as a cushion.

In fact, he didn't even say a word when Roy put his arm around the kid and told him, "go on to sleep, kid" and then leaned his head back like he would fall asleep right then.

The only other movement, then, that passed between them was when the boy, oh so cautiously, leaned his head into his companion's side, and when Roy couldn't fight back the smile in response.