A/N: It is not my custom to start this particular story with an author's note, but there are a few things I wish to say as preface:

First, when I wrote the main scene for this chapter back in April 2012 (holy shit!), I never thought this fic would take so much from me. It's been an exhausting process. Exhausting, but rewarding.

Second, I could never have gotten this far without support. Specific thanks will be doled out in the last chapter, but let me say this: Thank you for sticking with me, even after the long hiatus. You are good people.

Third, there will be only one chapter and an epilogue after this one. We are nearing the end, folks. Finally.

-o-o-o-

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any related characters.

Chapter 22: Chord ( / kôrd / )

1. noun - a straight line connecting two points on a curve

2. noun - an emotional response, especially one of sympathy

3. verb - to bring into consonance, harmony, or accord

4. noun - a set of notes that blend harmoniously when sounded together

-o-o-o-

"Fuck," Breda whispered. He could not manage anything more forceful; all of the air was driven out of him when he lost his footing and crashed sideways into a wall. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." His wound tore again - he was sure of it. Looking down, he dipped his hand under his shirt to press it against the dressing wrapped around his chest. It came away dry - no blood. He could push forward. Breda allowed himself a few seconds of relief, then forced himself away from the wall.

It was the explosions that roused him from his fitful, drug-induced sleep. He was certain one of the doctors prescribed him a sedative after he made such a scene. It was not just the incident when he fell out of bed, desperately grasping for Mustang as he was taken hostage by an enemy who wore his best friend's face like a mask. It was his multiple attempts at escape since. The sight of Hawkeye's disheveled appearance and desperate tone unnerved him, rousing him to action despite his injury. It took two nurses and a surprisingly stern-faced Fuery to coax him back into bed. After, he made a nuisance of himself, demanding a radio for his room and hourly reports from the young sergeant. He did not notice the nurse quietly pushing medication through his IV until it was too late.

"It's for your own good, you know," she said as she unscrewed the now-empty syringe from the line.

He almost believed her.

Seconds later, Breda fell into a narcotic-induced sleep. It was far from restful, punctuated by nightmarish images too amorphous and strange to be fully remembered. It was as though his waking mind frantically clawed at the walls of its sedative prison, desperate to stir him into action. He hated the thought of his friends in danger while he lay, useless in bed. He was not a man to remain idle when there was work to be done.

When Breda woke, it was to the sound of crumbling stone and falling timbers, followed by blood curdling screams that lifted the hair on the back of his neck. The infirmary came to life, animated with the voices of medical staff and the cries of the injured. Breda cast around, looking for anything - any clue - as to the nature of the commotion outside. The radio at his bedside was missing, likely stolen by the same meddling nurse. Based on the panicked calls for order that trickled from the street, Breda imagined it would be of little use to him.

Though he was usually a methodical man, he was up and moving in seconds, throwing off the sheets, his injury forgotten. He was halfway out of the bed when a ripping sensation rent his chest. The air left Breda's lungs and he stopped, propping himself up with his hands braced against his knees. Now forced to contemplate his intentions, Breda wondered what use an injured soldier could be in the thick of conflict. But the thought no sooner entered his mind before he shook his head. This was no time for consideration. He was resolved before he heard the sounds outside: He would be of use to the others, even if it meant tearing open his wound in the process. His body had not healed, but he still had his wits. Wincing, Breda shuffled to the nearby locker, grateful Kain brought him a fresh set of clothes earlier that evening.

It was remarkably easy to slip out of his room. The doctors and nurses were occupied, tending to the newly-wounded without much care for an upright and walking - albeit slowly - uniformed soldier. He managed to keep his posture from betraying his injury until he made it into the exit hall, where he collapsed against the wall, covered in a sheen of sweat. He raked one trembling hand through his hair, avoiding the gash on the back of his scalp where Havoc hit him with the butt of his gun. Breda tried not to let his thoughts dwell too long on his friend; Jean would be horrified if he ever found out what he did. And now Havoc was lost: Vanished into the desert along with the general. To Breda's knowledge both had yet to be found.

Another explosion sounded, closer this time. He could not linger here.

The street outside the hospital was bustling, filled with a steady stream of soldiers with frightened faces and bloodied bandages pressed to wounds. Breda gave them a wide berth, shuffling as quickly as he could manage along their periphery. He made a quick turn into an alley to head for the center of camp - towards the square that housed the command post. As he moved from the alley to a connecting street, he was plunged into a weird, yawning silence. Though he could still hear the distant sounds of shouts and screams, these roads here were abandoned. The surrounding barracks were too still to be occupied.

"Where the hell is everyone?" Breda said, and regretted it immediately. Pain tore through his chest with every word. Shaking, he sidled over to a nearby wall, pressing his feverish temple against the cool stone. What the hell am I doing? He thought. Just what am I going to do? His friends were scattered - Havoc and Mustang, taken hostage by some unknown enemy. Hawkeye and Falman desperately sought them in the desert. Fuery was the only one who remained in camp, and it would be a miracle if Breda managed to find him in all this chaos. What use could he be to them now?

Breda's chest throbbed again - an unnecessary reminder of the wound inflicted by his commanding officer. The burn hurt far deeper than he cared to admit: cutting to the bone, carving through years of friendship, perhaps even severing something sacred. Every one of Mustang's contingent were committed till the end; abandoning that mission now seemed too impossible. Breda had not considered what he would do without the cause to which he dedicated his life. And here, alone, he wished he had other things to occupy his thoughts.

Wiping an errant tear from his cheek, Breda pushed off the wall and ploughed forward. This was no time for self-pity.

It was another frustrating quarter of an hour before he made it to his destination. Walking was a slow kind of torture and - dazed with pain - he took a wrong turn somewhere midway through his journey. When he finally entered the main square, he was breathing heavily, weaving on his feet like a drunkard. It took a moment to register the crowd gathered before him. When he finally managed to catch his breath enough to take in his surroundings, his heart jumped into his throat.

The entirety of the Amestrian detachment was gathered in neat rows at the west end of the square: a tight formation meant for defense. Breda could see pale, frightened faces and the flutterings of anxious movement - of weapons brandished and restless fingers on triggers. Major Miles stood at the front of the group, his stance tense and wary. Lieutenant Fuery and a handful of officers stood at his side. Miles had his hand out - a signal to hold fire. To wait.

Across the wide expanse of the square was a huge group of Ishvalans. Unlike the soldiers, they grouped in loose clusters and their hands were empty but for a few simple farming tools. Scar and the three Ishvalan elders stood at their head, and hovering nearby, Breda recognized Shane. The boy seemed reticent; he stared at the ground, glancing up from time to time to fix the assembled soldiers with a hateful glare.

Undeterred, Breda shuffled forward through the ranks of soldiers, barely apologizing as he jostled between frightened men and women, swearing under his breath with every flare of pain. It was not long before he pushed through the front of their ranks, stalking up to the cluster of officers with as much aplomb as he could manage. Fuery was the first to see him - his pale face grew paler over the white sheaves of paper clutched to his chest.

"...and I will approach them alone." Miles' finished, his voice firm with command.

A warrant officer standing at his side shifted uncomfortably. Breda did not recognize him - possibly one of the soldiers who recently joined as part of the water caravan. "Sir, do you really think that's the best course of action? With all their people here in force?"

Miles rounded on the man furiously. "They are not -"

Fuery, having taken in Miles' stormy expression and perhaps sensing intervention was needed, rushed to the major's side. "Sir," he piped, tugging at the man's sleeve. "Lieutenant Breda is here."

Miles glanced over his shoulder, perturbed.

"Looks like you could use some help," Breda said, his casual tone entirely feigned.

"Breda, you were ordered to strict bedrest," Miles snapped. "I don't have time for this. Report to the infirmary at once."

"There's no way in hell I'm laying in bed with this happening," Breda said, gesturing at the ranks of soldiers behind him. He took a step forward, swallowing his pain. "Just what the hell is going on here, Major?"

Miles opened his mouth to speak, but the warrant officer interrupted first. "The Ishvalans invaded our camp," he said. "They've come here to attack." Breda glanced at the man. His face was wan and pinched - he reminded Heymans of a petulant weasel.

Miles lifted a calming hand. "They are not here to be hostile," he said. "I will speak with them -"

"Sir, no disrespect, but this is the definition of hostile! They enter our camp, uninvited, with no advance party to -"

Breda strode deeper into the group of officers, elbowing one out of the way to step in front of the warrant officer. He barely registered Miles' incensed look before he turned his attention toward the weasel-looking man "Look… uh…" Breda flipped his fingers in an offhand kind of way, indicating he did not know the man's name and barely cared.

"Warrant Officer Willys," the man said stiffly, eyeing Breda from head to toe, clearly unimpressed.

"Willys. Sure." Breda pointed his finger out to the crowd of Ishvalans, who patiently stood at the other side of the plaza. "Do they look like they're a strike force to you?" It had taken Heymans only a second to see these people were of no threat to them - it was blatantly obvious for anyone who had two eyes to see and a brain to think. Willys apparently had neither. "Read any strategy book from the military library and you'll discover invading forces don't typically bring their women and children! They aren't here to fight. They came here to tell us something."

"Oh yeah?" Willys said, his lip curling into a sneer. "Where do you think these explosions are coming from, then, lieutenant? Thin air?"

"It can't be them." Breda shook his head, digging his fingers into his palm to keep from crying out as the movement pulled at his wound. "The Ishvalans don't use Alkahestry."

Miles' brows furrowed. "Alkahestry? The girl… the one who committed the attacks… I was told she used alchemy."

"Alchemy doesn't work from this distance, sir," Breda said. "I'm sure of it." Then why are they here? He scanned the horizon in the direction of the Ishvalan camp and saw a thin trail of smoke snake into the night air, obliterating the stars. But no explosions boomed over the desert. "There were blasts in both camps when this all started," he guessed, willing himself to sound more certain than he was. "But we haven't heard detonations from their camp for some time." Breda glanced at Fuery, a question in his eyes, and saw the young man nod, wide-eyed. Yes, that has to be it. "Maybe they found a way to disarm the arrays."

"This is ridiculous," Willys said. "All the more reason to believe this attack is propagated by the Ishvalan Resistance terrorists! You would really risk the safety of our soldiers - ?" He was cut short by a sharp gesture from Miles.

"Perhaps the lieutenant is correct." Miles said. "But nothing good will come if we jump to the wrong conclusions." He jerked his chin in the direction of the Ishvalan leaders and fixed Breda with a steely stare. "Come with me. We will speak with them." He turned to Willys. "If anyone so much as puts their fingers to the trigger of their guns, I will have you stripped of your rank and sent home with a dishonorable discharge. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Willys said bitterly. He threw Breda a murderous glare as the lieutenant passed him by.

"Come, we don't have much time." Miles strode forward at an uncomfortable pace, his shoes crunching against the crushed gravel that lined the courtyard. Breda struggled to keep up, his breaths coming in hot, painful gasps. The major gave him a sidelong look from the corner of his eye. "I really hope you're right, Lieutenant."

"Me too," Breda huffed. "Was there really an explosion from their camp?"

"Yes," Miles said, frowning. "More than one, but they stopped approximately one hour ago. You did not know?"

Breda swallowed the bile that rose to the back of his throat. "Lucky guess."

"Let us hope your luck stays with us tonight, lieutenant."

Something had shifted in the leadership of the Ishvalan elder group. This time, the older woman - Caelyn - stood at the front, a pace ahead of the others. The bald-headed Master Mulvihill stood to her right. Alain remained at her left, his face contorted in that same unpleasant expression. Caelyn made a hand gesture Breda recognized as a traditional Ishvalan greeting, her grandmotherly smile quirked in an irritated kind of way. "Major Miles, thank you for… finally receiving us."

Miles bowed his head, mirroring the greeting stiffly. "I apologize."

"We have come to speak with you," Caelyn said. Her hands were folded quietly now. Like the rest of the Ishvalans behind her, she barely moved. Breda felt apprehension drop in his gut. She had a calm certainty that unnerved him - like the heavy smell of air just before a storm.

Miles' lips pressed together. "We gathered as much." He paused, considering his words. "I... am sorry, Elder, if I impart any disrespect, and I do not mean to rush through ceremony or even common courtesy…" Breda could see a glimmer of sweat on the man's brow - an overt sign of his internal disarray. "...but what is your purpose here? We are clearly under attack from an unseen enemy. It would be best if the People stayed away while we got the situation under control."

Caelyn's pale red eyes traced over the faces of the assembled Amestrian soldiers, her expression neither disapproving nor concerned. "We are here to aid you in that endeavor, Major."

Miles leaned forward slightly, as though uncertain he heard correctly. "...Aid us?"

"Yes," she said. "We have discovered the source of the explosions that wrack our camps." She made a sweeping motion with her hand, beckoning Scar to her side. The tall Ishvalan stepped forward to stand next to the older woman. His stony face was expressionless as always, but Breda saw his jaw muscle twitching. Something had him spooked.

"They're Alkahestry arrays," Scar rumbled. "Set to self-trigger at regular intervals once the reaction is started. They are planted everywhere - a network placed in both camps, to create as much confusion as possible." As though on cue, another explosion boomed from the northeast corner of the Amestrian base. A wave of anxious energy traveled through the ranks of soldiers; they were more on edge than ever.

Breda studied the tall Ishvalan, biting the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "And you know how to disarm them?"

Scar nodded.

Miles shifted slightly, and Breda could detect a hint of relief in the tilt of the major's shoulders. "We… would be grateful for the help." He gestured towards the officers, still clustered at the head of the assembled soldiers. "Perhaps if you show us how to disarm them, we can -"

"No," Caelyn said, the word like a hammer.

Miles froze. He gazed ponderously at the elderly woman, his body tense and waiting.

"What do you mean no?" Breda blurted. He could not help himself; it was unacceptable for reason to be suspended without apparent cause. "You just said you were here to help us!"

"Do not fear, Lieutenant Breda, we are indeed here to aid you," Caelyn said. The soft, maternal grin was gone, replaced by the steely assurance of a woman, decided. "The elders and I have spoken." She paused as the two men behind her nodded in affirmation. Caelyn spread her hands out to either side, encompassing all of the Ishvalan people gathered behind her. "We have decided to invoke Ksama."

The reactions from the Ishvalans present were as varied as they were baffling. It was as though Elder Caelyn spoke of something profound and sacred, both marvelous and horrifying to behold. Miles let out a choked cry and reached up to cover his eyes with both hands. A second later, he bent at the waist, overcome. Scar nodded - a perfunctory and absolute motion of the head. Clearly he knew this moment would come. Mulvihill's soft smile widened, relief and peace apparent on his friendly face. Alain's usually unpleasant face softened, as though he had just let out a breath he had been holding for a long time.

It was Shane who displayed the most violent and dramatic response: the boy fell to his knees with a strangled cry, his fingers clenched in the gravel at his feet. Breda could not decide if his reaction was one of relieved hope or abject despair.

A long silence stretched, during which Miles' shoulders began to heave: deep, painful breaths billowing haltingly from his chest.

Breda looked from one tanned face to another, feeling strange and foolish for not knowing how best to react to this news. He pursed his lips. "What's… Ksama?"

Miles rubbed his reddened eyes under his glasses. "It means forgiveness," he managed to utter in a harsh whisper. "Absolute forgiveness."

"And it shall fall over the land like a mantle," Mulvihill, the bald elder, intoned. "And they shall see beyond themselves. And in that seeing, they shall know the true faces of their brothers."

"And the people shall know peace," Caelyn finished. "We told you once that our people value unity above all things. We wish to be allied with you - one united force against a common enemy: a woman who wishes to thwart our reconciliation. But in order for us to defeat her, we must do what she most fears. If we are to work beside you, we must first forgive you, the Amestrian people."

Still crouched in the gravel behind them, Shane let out an afflicted sob. Scar's jaw clenched, but he nodded again, certain.

Breda never fought in the war, but he understood what this choice meant for the Ishvalans. Their people were sacrificed like lambs to the slaughter; they had no voice for many years, no advocates. Their perseverance in the face of government-sanctioned genocide was a thing he would never fully comprehend, especially when that loss was as meaningless to its enactors as a dot on a map. But despite this - despite all odds - the Ishvalans now forgave. These people had an infallible, abiding, incomprehensible strength - a strength Breda was unsure if he could ever know. His thoughts strayed to Mustang, sitting hopeless and lost at his beside in the wake of the untenable injury he caused. Breda drew a trembling breath. Could he forgive the general with such an open heart? Could he fight alongside him - trust him - as he once did? Somehow, the Ishvalans found the strength. Somewhere, they drew forth the power to move forward.

"Know this." Caelyn cocked her head to the side, as though by way of apology. "We do not absolve, for some things cannot be forgotten. But we will forgive. We will forgive, for Ishvala commands it - by sand and wind and life-giving rain." The two elders mirrored her as she touched two fingers against her forehead, then to her lips. A wave of movement traveled through the Ishvalan crowd as each performed the same gesture in kind.

"Thank you, Elder," Miles said as he wiped his eyes again.

"Ksama does not require thanks," Caelyn said. "That is not the way of things." Her lips widened into an more kindly smile, but determination shone true from her eyes. "Come, we have much to do."

-o-o-o-

He felt pain before. It was not foreign to him. And there had been moments - many moments - when he thought he might die. But he never felt pain like this. This was a deep pain, a bone-pain: world-ending and final. Something vital had been torn away and he felt himself slipping, falling into a deep abyss. This was an end.

She hovered above him, muted and unsubstantial as mist. Tears streamed down her face, leaving wet trails through the dust and grime that coated her cheeks. Her lips moved and he was vaguely aware of her words, as though they were filtered through a heavy sheet of rain. He heard her deliver a command. Then she uttered a plea. Then she said something impossible. Hope rose up inside him like a sudden bonfire ablaze. His end would not be here. He would be a phoenix, resurrected.

He felt her hands on his, lifting them and then pressing them together. And then the skin of her cheeks was upon his palms, slippery with a mantle of blood. The feel of them were like a naked back marred by a triquetra-shaped wound. And as he did before, he reached out to her - reached out with a deep knowing - and felt a familiar power rush through him. He again entered a strange world, just as he did when he found her. But this time Riza was not the only one at its center. This time, he was there with her.

She was seated on a battered leather couch, a book balanced on her lap. Roy was reminded of an evening in his apartment when he asked her to read from one of his journals. He remembered the soft coolness of her hand, the warmth of her voice. He remembered, with so small measure of guilt, how he asked her to read his vulgar research notes.

The Riza on the couch looked up at him over the pages of his notebook. When she opened her mouth to speak, her words seemed to come from deep beneath the earth.

"He studied her every detail."

The melody of her voice called to him. It was a beacon in the chaos, drawing him toward her. He took a step forward.

"They were in complete synchrony; their hearts beat as one."

Uncertain, Roy reached forward, fingers outstretched. He stood on a brink and did not know if stepping over its edge would be his salvation or his end. Riza smiled up at him, her presence an oasis amidst chaos.

"Together, their souls resonated…"

They were inches apart.

"Reverberated…"

His hand fell over hers.

"Echoed."

There was a blinding flash.

Roy felt rough material beneath his hands. He was lying on his stomach - on a cot, by the feel of the creaking springs below him. He looked down to see a wool military blanket. Canvas walls filled the periphery of his vision; cracks between the thick material allowed thin slivers of light into the stuffy interior. He knew this setting well: he spent many nights in a tent just like this one during the Ishvalan war.

But something was off. This tent was not the one he occupied for countless sleepless nights. It was far too tidy – everything placed just so. The blanket below him smelled pleasant: the soft, feminine scent of lavender. There was something maddeningly familiar about it - about the tiny keepsakes lined up on the box at the foot of the bed. He knew this place; he had been here before. Roy shifted and looked down at his hands, realizing they were not his. They were small - a mixture of masculine calluses and feminine softness.

They were Riza's.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" A voice to his left begged.

That's my voice, Roy thought. I said that.

"Yes." He felt himself say. But he was using Riza's voice.

What is this? Roy thought. What am I doing here? And then, after a pause, ...How do I know this?

"I..." his voice whispered from somewhere nearby. "I don't know if I can..."

"You can. You said you would." Roy felt Riza's stomach clench against a wave of anxious nausea, but with it came unshakable determination.

"Riza…"

The exchange was achingly familiar. He knew every word before it was spoken. This conversation occurred many years ago, on the day they were scheduled to leave Ishval forever. The memory of it was branded in his mind, engraved during the many sleepless nights that followed the decision he made this day.

"I'm ready," he said in Riza's voice.

Mustang shifted. "We should wait… have a doctor nearby."

"No." He felt another rush of conviction. "I need to do this now."

And then Roy understood. By some strange, terrifying miracle, he was in a memory, experiencing it through Riza's eyes.

He felt a soft breeze and became aware of the nakedness of his – no, Riza's – back. He shuddered as he realized what was about to happen. How could he forget? It was the day he seared Master Hawkeye's array from the then-Warrant Officer Hawkeye's back, sealing his teacher's secrets from the world. Riza begged him to take the burden away and he - lost in the guilt of his own transgressions - could not refuse her.

"Please," Roy heard the voice of his younger self plead from the other side of the tent. It was barely audible, no more than a whisper. "Please reconsider."

Roy's vision shifted as Riza turned her head to look up at her superior. He could see Major Mustang standing uncertainly, gloved hands limp, a tormented expression twisting his face. He looked so young. Young, yet prematurely aged in a way - branded by war. Roy felt a surge of emotion come from Riza at the sight of him. He could feel trust - hope, even - but her emotions were conflicted and discordant. Roy's sense of foreboding grew as he realized he was not only experiencing Riza's senses, but also her sentiments. He was not simply aware of her emotions; they were as real and poignant as though he was living them, along with her.

Right now, she's feeling... pity? Roy wondered. How could she possibly feel pity for me? I abused her father's research. I used it to kill people, to scar her forever. I betrayed -

"It's okay," Riza's voice cut through his turbulent thoughts. Roy felt another flood of emotion, this time resolution. "I'm ready. Just… do it. Please." His vision shifted again as she lay down on the cot, eyes trained on the canvas wall.

There was a long silence. Roy remembered how he agonized over this choice, frozen by indecision. He burned so many in the war. His fingers were raw and callused with the killing, and he was tired of being an agent of hurt. He remembered how beautiful her back looked in the soft light that filtered into the tent. How the rays illuminated her golden hair and fell over the dips and crests of her spine. He remembered how he slowly lifted his gloved hand, desperately hoping she would stop him - that she would do anything but wait there like some silent offering.

But she did not. She remained calm and steady, as she had so many times before, and would so many times thereafter. A willingness settled over her - a firm resolve. She would not run from this thing, for she was the bearer of this burden - of this destructive man and his flame alchemy. And now, from this new perspective, Roy could feel the true depth of her devotion.

There was a resounding snap.

The pain was unimaginable. Flames rent the array and the delicate skin beneath, obliterating the painstaking work of his former master. Trapped in the prison of Riza's memory, Roy screamed - an endless and breathless howl, a desperate plea for release. He knew what it felt like to be burned; he knew the sound of his own boiling flesh and stench of rendering fat, but he never felt it so sharp and close. This injury was deeper - much more than skin or muscle or bone. It was an intimate pain, one of betrayal and promises that could not be kept. Roy screamed again, begging Riza to cry out, to buck away from the flames, to do anything but be so still.

But she only drew a trembling breath as waves of heat enveloped her back, drowning out all other sensations. Her sweaty palms gripped the wool blanket until they blanched, but she did not utter a sound. She pulled the pain into herself, emptying into a dark place she kept in the very center of her.

Another snap. Another blazing wave of pain, this time across her shoulder. It was no less excruciating. Roy screamed again, blubbering and seething, unable to stand the agony. But no cry escaped Riza's lips. She only trembled and released another long, halting breath. Her emotions swirled turbulently – too fast for Roy to read or understand. For a long time, she merely shook as the pain ran down her back in searing rivulets.

"I'm done." Mustang's tone was bitter - the voice of a defeated man. This last act of war took everything from him - there was nothing left. "I'm done," he said again, this time meaning something else entirely.

Riza panted and shuddered, her hands gripped into white-knuckled fists. Roy could not say how many minutes passed before the pain subsided enough to get his bearings. He wanted nothing more than to slump to the bed and curl inwards on himself. Instead – impossibly – Riza lifted herself up on two elbows, raw skin stinging in the dry desert air. Her arms trembled as she pushed over on her side. Trying to move her back as little as possible, she slowly swung her legs over the surface of the cot to rest her feet on the ground. She sat on its edge, bare-breasted, her breaths coming in soft, quaking gasps.

Through Riza's eyes, Roy saw his past self step forward hesitantly, a fearful expression on his face. He remembered well the trepidation he felt in this moment. Did she resent him for using her father's secrets to kill? Would she hate him for being the second man to mark her forever? Was it too late to ask for forgiveness?

But Roy could find no hate in Riza's heart. There was only pain and sadness, and a deep exhaustion from too many regrets. He watched as Mustang fell to his knees before her, face stricken and utterly hopeless. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "Please… please."

Even now, Roy felt shame for what he did to her. He never meant for things to end this way. How could he have known his pursuit of flame alchemy – so innocently conceived – would be twisted to such a perverse purpose? She shared her secret with him and she regretted it. She could not release her father's research into the world again. 'There can be no more flame alchemists,' she said. How those words had cut him with their hard truth.

Roy felt a choking sensation rise to the back of Riza's throat, but she did not cry. She simply sat, looking into the major's eyes. The burns that rent her back throbbed in time with her aching heart. And trapped behind the window of hindsight, Roy grieved for her.

What happened next that was emblazoned in his memory forever. Even seeing this scene through the lens of memory, Roy marveled at her strength. At the time, it seemed so wrong. It had been so incongruent with his fears. He would never understand her steadfast strength.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her voice was deliberate and steady, a sharp contrast to the emotions that swirled turbulently in her breast. "Thank you."

The Mustang who knelt before her let out an agonized sob and bowed his head, pressing his forehead into her knees. Roy felt his – no, Riza's – hand slowly lift from the roughspun blanket to rest on Mustang's crown, her fingers slowly stroking the hair of her superior as he wept against her.

Even now, Roy wondered at a woman capable of comforting another as burns stung furious at her back. A woman who could so easily forgive a man who caused so much suffering.

And suddenly, Roy felt a rising sensation grow in Riza's chest. It was comforting, warm. It filled her, spreading through her like a balm. It eased the pain of her still-fresh wounds.

This emotion – what was it? Roy struggled to sift through the feelings that swirled within her.

She –

Flash.

Roy was lying on a cold, hard floor. He pressed his hand to his throat, desperately holding back blood as it spilled between his fingers. He weakly looked up to see himself across the room, held captive by two men holding swords.

I'm in Riza's memory again, he thought. His vision faded as he felt her body weaken. It's the Promised Day. The day she was almost taken away from me.

"Don't sacrifice everything for my sake…" The words whistled through her torn throat, but her pain was remote. She just barely floated on the edge of consciousness. The only thing keeping her awake was a terrible fear. From the confines of her mind, Roy moaned, uncertain of what Mustang might do - afraid his devotion would lead to their ruin. The world was crowding close, growing more dim with every second. There was movement all around him - the vague sounds of shuffling feet, of shouts and metal striking metal - but he could to nothing but desperately cling to the wound.

"Lieutenant, stay with me! Lieutenant open your eyes!"

Roy had not realized how distant her consciousness had become, because he was only vaguely aware he was being shaken. But try as he might, he could not open his eyes. He could not cry out, could not move. He felt a dark, still blanket settle over Riza's consciousness. She had passed out.

It was a long time before sound returned. The noise of battle filtered to his ears, muffled and distant. The pain rebounded, but it was less severe. He felt his – no, Riza's – body lift gently from the floor. Strong arms surrounded and cradled her. Her vision came slowly into focus as she opened her eyes. The colonel leaned low over her, a hopeful expression on his face. Relief washed over her - he had not chosen to do the forbidden. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe. Secure. Home.

There was something else. Another emotion stirred in her breast. It was as comfortable and familiar as a campfire, warm and inviting.

She -

Flash.

General Mustang sat on a chair at her bedside. His cheek was flushed an angry red, evidence of the open-palmed blows she delivered seconds ago. Riza's arm ached and her hand stung. Her eyes itched with unshed tears. A gun shone dully next to her hand, a reminder of a promise made and a warning of the violence to come. Both soldiers' breaths came in heated, rushed gasps.

Roy felt a hot anger envelop him - fury mixed with a desperate sadness. Mustang failed her, and now Roy could see she blamed herself. It was her fault the general lost control. She should have been there to stop him; only she knew of his secret darkness. Roy felt shame and revulsion overcome him, and deeper: an overwhelming fear of being truly and finally alone.

He watched as Mustang raised his head, his face impassive. His blind eyes found Riza's. Roy could recall the emptiness he felt in this moment - the fathomless dread that she was lost to him forever. And here from this new viewpoint, he knew Riza felt the same.

"Riza..." Mustang began.

"Don't," she choked.

"Riza." He reached for her again.

"Don't touch me!"

"Riza, please..."

"Captain Hawkeye," she corrected him sharply. Something broke inside her, and Roy cried out as though a fundamental piece of him had been torn away. There would be no turning back from this - no return. Their bond - already tenuous - broken by his own folly.

But despite the finality of her words, a flicker of something remained insider her - an ember that would never die. It lay there, buried but breathing, biding its time for a moment that may never come.

She -

Flash.

He walked into a familiar office in Eastern Headquarters. His boots tapped methodically against the wooden floorboards. Roy looked down to see not his, but Riza's arms holding a stack of paperwork against her chest. He was in another memory, experiencing it through her eyes. But unlike the other flashbacks, he could not remember this one. It seemed just another day in the office, back when he was Colonel Mustang and she Lieutenant Hawkeye.

Roy's vision shifted as Riza looked up. He could see his former self sitting at his old desk, idly toying with a pen and actively ignoring a high stack of paperwork.

He could feel Riza's exasperation. Her resolute footsteps took her to the colonel's desk.

"Are you planning on finishing your work tonight, sir?" He heard himself say in Riza's voice.

The Colonel looked up, a coy smirk gracing his features.

No wonder she gets so angry with me. Roy thought. Do I really look like that?

"Why no, Lieutenant," the Mustang at the desk said blithely. "I hadn't."

Roy sighed, preempting Riza's own. She was irritated. He did not have to feel her emotions to know that much.

I can really be a little shit, can't I? he thought.

"Sir," she warned.

"Lieutenant," Mustang teased, aping her serious tone. His former self paused, then look up at her with an appraising eye. Roy felt a strange sensation drop in Riza's stomach. It felt like she was falling from a high place – dizzying and wonderful. "What if we took off for tonight and got a drink?"

"No."

"Come on. We work so hard."

"Correction: I work so hard." Despite her sarcasm, Roy felt her resolve soften as a warm, fond feeling blossomed in her.

"Exactly!" Mustang pushed himself away from his desk. He took the bundle of paperwork from Riza's hands and slapped them on top of the already-teetering pile. "You look like you could use a drink, Lieutenant."

"I wonder why that is, Sir?" Her tone was dry, but Roy was surprised to find she was no longer irritated. She was amused. He watched in wonder from Riza's eyes as Mustang helped her into her coat. He felt a tremor travel down her spine as the colonel brushed his hands over her shoulders, smoothing the fabric. That same, pleasant feeling spread through her as Mustang's hand rested on the small of her back to guide her out the office door.

And then Roy knew the emotion he had been struggling to understand all this time. It took this simple scene – a mundane night at the office – to know how she felt. Without other swirls of emotion to cloud his sight, he finally knew the secret she quietly carried for so many years.

She loved him.

Flash.

A boy sat across from her, bent over an alchemic textbook, his face lax with boredom. He stole a glance at her father. Seeing his back was turned, he reached forward and placed his hand over hers. She stared at him wordlessly, afraid to break the overwhelming silence that boomed through the empty house.

She knew it even then.

She loved him.

Flash.

The colonel stood before her. His eyes were blank and unseeing. His hands gently held her face as his lips brushed along her skin. He kissed the scar on her neck. The feeling that engulfed her threatened to overwhelm everything she knew and was.

She had never come so close to admitting it.

She loved him.

Flash.

Fathomlessly deep. Profoundly earnest. Painfully secret.

It was a part of who she was. It was written on her very soul.

And like a sweet poison, it eroded her heart until she was but a shell, clinging to duty and service with a desperation bred from fear. She was afraid of how much she loved him. Afraid he might not feel the same. Afraid of what love could mean for them, and that change might drive them apart.

And with that love came guilt. Guilt that her devotion came solely from a wish to be redeemed. That it was not truly love, but rather her own selfish desire to be free of the burden of what she did. The idea made her breathless. It banished all thoughts of sharing her true feelings. And so she remained always with him and apart from him, satisfied to keep things as they were if only she could stay by his side.

She loved him.

Flash.

She loved him.

Flash flash flash.

Flash flash flashflashflash.

Scene after scene played before Roy's eyes. At last he could see what was before him all along: He was not alone - he had never been alone - for she had been with him, trusting and loving him even in the darkest times. Her strength was unabiding - a pure and selfless thing. Hot tears fell from his eyes and he knew with an impossible certainty they fell from hers too. For she Saw him as he Saw her, and she Knew as he did. They had no secrets any longer; a door had been thrown open, and forgiveness dealt without a word passing between them.

And suddenly, they were crouched together on the cave floor. Their foreheads rested against one anothers'; their trembling gasps echoed through the cavern in perfect synchrony. Riza's hands clutched his shoulders. Roy's wound around her waist. Neither could discern where one ended and the other began. All they knew was that they were alive and together in a way they never experienced before. Something new resonated between them, creating a perfect harmony - an unbroken chord.

"I see you," he whispered. No, that was not right. It was not enough. "I… see you." He shook his head. No matter how he said it, its meaning could not be expressed. It was too big for him and there were too many facets. Yet Riza nodded mutely. She understood as she always had, and now he knew her understanding had a profound and wondrous depth.

Riza looked down to where the horrible wound once gaped just over his heart. Blood soaked through his shirt but his chest rose and fell with each breath, steady and smooth. She slid her hands up to the front his coat and began to unbutton it, fingers fluid and sure. Roy remained motionless, eyes fixed to hers, hands desperately clutching her waist as though it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Riza brushed his coat, then his shirt aside. The skin there was perfectly smooth, a clean hole in the fabric the only sign of the blade that nearly took his life. Riza stared at the place for a long time, watching the ebb and flow of his breathing, hypnotized by the cadence of it. He had done the forbidden and yet he was intact; he had sacrificed nothing. How were such things possible? Roy pushed away his questions as he leaned down to press his face into her neck, grateful for whatever miracle saved his life. He felt Riza's fingers lace into his hair, then slide to his jaw, lifting his chin to meet her eyes.

"We did it," she said. She ran her thumbs over his cheeks, her smile so peaceful it made his heart ache.

"How?" Roy whispered. He searched her face for an answer and saw himself staring back.

Riza's eyes dropped to his chest, studying the place where Ashika stabbed him. "It is a pure and simple thing," she said slowly, as though remembering something from long ago. "Most good things are." She looked up at him, smiled, then laughed at his bewildered expression. Her voice came rich and strong, chasing away any traces of darkness that remained. "There will be more time to talk. We have more time."

And then she kissed him, and pulled him to her.

Her lips felt soft and warm and heartbreakingly familiar, as though he kissed her a thousand times before. The scent of her filled his senses - of gunpowder and mineral oil and lavender - a scent that was uniquely her. She let out a soft moan and pressed into him, sliding her palms to the back of his neck. His hand left her waist to run down the length of her spine, fingers pressing into her flesh, leaving white comet trails across her skin. Overcome, Roy drew closer, his body melting into hers.

Though they never once practiced, they knew the steps to this dance. Lips brushed lips, faces and necks. Hands found hips and ran over the scars of old war wounds. Neither had touched the other in this way, but both could swear they knew the feel of the one another's skin under their bare hands. Everything was achingly familiar and startlingly new. It was natural and perfect and right.

And yet the space between them seemed too far. Roy's fingers curled under the hem of her turtleneck, pulling it over her head in one smooth motion. Her hands delved into recesses of his shirt and she pushed it off his shoulders along with his coat. Their bodies crashed together again, skin hot, mouths hungry. He pulled her to him as she rose to her knees, crushing her hips against his chest. Her hands tangled into his hair, forcing his head back. Her lips found his again, open and eager.

An energy rose from the earth, enveloping the two soldiers in an otherworldly glow. The shimmering heat of their breaths shuddered though the space, their voices reverberating off stone and sand and sweat. His hands made overtures against her skin. Her body writhed, full and supple.

They lay together, under the streets of Ishval, their silence and fear forgotten. The emptiness was gone, replaced by a wholeness each had never known. And together they made a sweet harmony - a splendid song, meant only for them.

-o-o-o-

Last Chapter: Sigh