[royai; r] Casualties of War Title: Casualties of War Author:emilie_burns Theme: 27. Love, hate and the like; emotions (30_Romances) Pairing: Roy Mustang/Riza Hawkeye Rating: R; warnings for combat scenes. Spoilers: Vague, nonspecific spoilers up to Chapter 58; There's a reference to a panel in chapter 34. Word Count: 5186 Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) is copyrighted by Hiromu Arakawa/Square Enix. This is a work of fanfiction for personal entertainment only. Manga continuity. Lyrics quoted are from Toad the Wet Sprocket's "Are We Afraid?" Jossed. Summary:It was the power of gods, and gods they weren't, mere mortals too fragile for the weight of it all. Original LJ Post Date: May 03, 2006 @ Chaotic_Library
Casualties of War
.part i
He was the approaching thunderstorm. In the distance, charing the air, dark and dangerous. A violate, explosive element. His temper was visible, known, and professionally controlled. A wild storm, crackling and electric, tamed by the uniform and the regulations. The mastery over the elements of air underscored his control. The fiery explosions vented his anger, however indirectly. He took the war into himself, the burden and guilt and rage, and turned it outward on itself again, back into the war.
He was the tired joker, the sad clown. Quick with a laugh to counter the clouds, the neutralizing agent for the explosive element. His good humor sometimes bordered on the overdone, a jester, a clown, someone to laugh and make merry. No one paid the clown any mind, and he heard more than people realized, saw more, knew more. He rejected the horrific reality and focused beyond the blood and death onto the girl back home.
She was the inert element. Stable, nonreactive. Nothing unsteadied her hand on the trigger, completely passive to the elements around her. She was the quiet one, the straight man to them both, the one who toed every line, and followed every reg. She was terrifying in her lack of emotion, intimidating in the face of the wall of professionalism which she presented. With that same wall, she blocked the war, blocked home, blocked anything which threatened the steadiness of the muzzle.
They worked on the battlefield, on the lines, close enough to smell the blood and see the dying eyes. They remained in the heat of it, in the fire. They worked together, brothers in arms. She worked alone, unseen in the background, a sharpshooter drawing a bead from a distance, or a sniper moving among the shadows, removing sentries with deadly precision.
Bound by ties stronger than blood, the blood they drew that others shed. Bound by secret loathings, secret plans which bridged the chasms dug by secret fears no one dared to breathe aloud. And in the silence, they buried things. Survival was not cheap, and any solider who planned to walk away from battle intact surrendered something. They were not exempt.
Laughter died. Conscience was buried. The price was Self.
Wasn't it hard, And did we want penance? Summer's so long, Colder men when their ice prayer never came.
.part ii
"How can you two stand to eat this crap?"
Riza Hawkeye glanced at the major across from her. "It's the food we have available to us, sir. It's this or go hungry."
"I know that," Roy Mustang retorted, poking at the barely-identifiable contents on his tray. "We've been out here, what? Seven years now. You'd think in that time, the cooks would've figured out a way to keep sand out of the food."
"You're expecting too much from the military, Roy," Maes Hughes said, not looking up from the letter he was reading.
"Apparently."
"Sir, some of the men have been out here all these seven years. I'm sure the cooks do their best. Now eat," Riza told him. "There's nothing else we can do about it."
He gave her a look that was almost a glare. "Do you really expect me to believe you don't mind eating stuff I wouldn't give a dog?"
"This is the military, sir. We're good at many things. Cuisine is not one of them," she pointed out. "And I never said I liked it, there is just no point in complaining about what we cannot change."
"You know what you need?" Hughes said, finally looking away from the papers in his hand.
"An actual bed and some real food?"
"That's always useful, but in the meantime, you should get yourself a girlfriend. I read Gracia's letters and I don't even notice what I'm eating!" He looked back to the papers with a happy grin. "Being around her, even if it's just through a piece of paper, is enough to make the rest of the world fade away."
"Well, isn't that something special."
Riza paused for a heartbeat in mid-chew, then continued eating, ignoring the speaker behind her even as the bench jostled as he stepped over it, sitting beside her.
"What do you want, Kimbley?" Mustang asked, his tone conveying that what he wanted was for the other Alchemist to go somewhere far away; hell would be a good starting point.
"It is," Hughes said, almost at the same time as Mustang, happily ignoring the intended insult on Kimbley's part. "Gracia's the most wonderful woman to ever touch the face of the earth. She's an angel straight out of heaven."
"Then enjoy it while it lasts," Kimbley said, and out of the corner of her eye, Riza saw him give Maes a nasty smile. "Angels don't stay long on earth, you know."
"I don't recall inviting you to sit there," Mustang snapped.
"Tch. Touchy, aren't we?" Kimbley asked, unfazed by Mustang's attitude. "Know what might help that, Flame Alchemist?" He held up his hands, showing off his palms.
Riza didn't look up from her tray as she picked up another forkful of food. "Have they grown hair yet, sir?"
Before anyone could reply, Mustang reached out and quickly grabbed Kimbley's wrist before his hand barely had a chance to get started on its swing toward her. "Try it, and you won't have a chance to grow any hair there," he growled.
Kimbley just grinned. "Living dangerously, aren't we, Mustang?" he asked. "You know contact's how I work best." He twisted his hand around to grip his wrist as well. "I could turn you into a bomb just by this. And what could you do to me? You'd explode before you could even snap your fingers."
Hughes folded up the letter and tucked it in his pocket as Riza's hand crept down to the butt of her sidearm. "Tell me, Major," he said, "do you routinely go around threatening to kill fellow officers?"
Kimbley let go of Mustang's wrist and pulled his hands back, holding them up in a gesture of compliance. "Who said I was threatening anyone? I was just stating the facts." He looked to Mustang again, another dark grin tugging at his lips. "You know, blood's got oxygen. So do lungs."
"What's your point?"
"Isn't that flammable? Think of all you could do if you found a way to induce spontaneous combustion with a touch. None of that long-range shit you're stuck doing. You can grab those red-eyed bastards and burn them alive. That'll make you forget about the sandy food."
"Just because you're a dick doesn't mean the rest of us are," Mustang snapped, getting to his feet.
Hughes followed him a moment later, putting his hand on Mustang's shoulder. Riza glanced at them, and abandoned her mostly-finished supper as well, circling the table.
"Hey, what's with all the hostility?" Kimbley asked, his tone taunting as his lips curled into a dark grin. "Here I was just giving some friendly advice to a fellow soldier who seems to have some kind of issue with doing his job and following orders."
Hughes grabbed Mustang's arm with his free hand and Riza moved in front of her commanding officer. "Come on, Roy. Trash like that isn't worth your time or the reprimand that it'd bring," he said.
"This isn't over," Mustang snapped, glaring at Kimbley as he was pulled away from the table.
"Of course it isn't," Kimbley replied.
"Sir, it would be in your best interests to turn around and walk away," Riza said, following as Hughes pulled Mustang from the table. Without another word, Mustang violently shrugged out of Hughes' grip and stalked for the doors as they followed close behind.
"He's not an Alchemist, he's not even a soldier," he said once they were a distance from the mess hall. "He's just a murderer sanctioned by the state."
Hughes and Riza exchanged looks as they picked up the pace, moving up alongside him. "Major," the eighteen-year-old said, "that's what a solider is. In the confines of war, that is when society considers it acceptable to kill an enemy when it is not allowed at any other time."
Mustang looked at her for a moment, his eyes darker, shadowed by something from within, from behind, then the trio finished their walk in silence. She turned to face him outside his tent, her hand raised to deliver a salute.
He was looking between them, past them, out to the desert, to the mountains. "This is bullshit, all of it. A pointless war with a stupid purpose."
"Roy, we've had this conversation already," Hughes said. "You know I agree with you, but it doesn't change the fact you're a dog of the military and those are our orders."
She watched the two men stare each other down, something unspoken being said between the lines. Finally, the taller of the two looked away. The noise of the base camp seemed distant, hollow and far away under the wind that kicked up the sand.
"Then maybe there should be different orders given."
Riza looked at the major, watching him, waiting. "The führer isn't going to change the orders and drop the war."
"No." There was something in his eyes that made her feel chilled even in the late afternoon heat. His tone was level, too level and even. "I suppose he wouldn't."
In later years, what stood out the most in her memory of that moment was sound of a rough wooden door on a nearby tent banging shut against its frame.
Didn't we fight it, And weren't we hard? Holding back a friend of mine All the way coming home.
.part iii
Shouted orders were indistinct, masked by distance and drowned by gunfire. She watched the company squads advance on the adobe-walled village, moving from rock to rock and opening fire behind cover, driving the residents back.
The upper stories and the windows on her side of the city stayed in focus through her scope; she remained patient, detached and far removed from the chaos of battle below, waiting for the opportunity to draw a bead on any Ishbalite who might try to take aim from a higher vantage point. A point where the enemy might stand a chance at taking down the company's commander, the human weapon, the Flame Alchemist.
Visibility was still high; adobe was not particularly inclined to lend itself toward flammability, and the arid atmosphere further hindered the major by depriving him of a higher concentration of combustible gasses. The company needed to drive the enemy back, to open a way through for the alchemist to get closer, close enough to better control the spark, the gout of fire he could summon with a snap, so it would take.
A breeze threatened to tug the hood of her dull tan poncho away, to pinpoint her location to the Ishbalites with a gleam of gold amid the high rocks. Inch by careful inch, Riza moved her hand to the edge and slowly pulled it lower, more secure, keeping her movements controlled in order to remain hidden.
A glint of sunlight on metal caught her eye and she lowered her head back down to her rifle, adjusting her scope and zeroing in on the window. The body was in shadow, out of the direct sunlight overhead, but there was no mistaking the silvery black of the long barrel pointing out.
It would not be an easy shot. The breeze was coming over her shoulder, blowing at an angle away from the village, and she pegged the distance to be slightly more than a kilometer, with the target partially obscured by the thick wall. Her attention remained in razor-sharp focus through the scope while she studied the distance and weighed the wind to find the spot she needed to aim toward in order to ensure the bullet traveled a path to the gunman in the window.
Then it happened. A quiet rattle, a muted scuff noise from somewhere near behind. She did not move, although her attention was pulled out of the scope and into her immediate surroundings. Had she imagined it? Had it been merely the wind brushing a dry branch against bark on the desert shrubbery behind her?
Another scuff, along with the faint, but unmistakeable plink of pebble on rock.
She was careful not to alter her posture as she removed her hand from the trigger guard, holding the rifle steady with her shoulder and opposite hand, and reached inside her jacket for the pistol butt. A gritty sound, sand scraping rock, was barely audible, and it was closer.
Riza breathed, counting out three heartbeats while she tensed and prepared and prayed, then released her grip on the rifle. Even as she turned, she drew her pistol, its barrel elongated by a silencer, clear of the holster and her jacket. Her eyes registered a form, a shape near her, the glint of sunlight on metal, and the very obvious absence of blue in the span of a mere second before she pulled the trigger.
The silenced gunshot barely made an echo of a whisper against the hard desert rocks, and the heat of the overhead sun boiled the adrenaline in her blood, making time seem like a far away concept. The blood was in slow motion as it splattered against rock and sand, and for the body, just two quick steps from her position, finally hit the ground ages later with a muffled thud. The clang of metal on rock was a dizzy sound, and hollow, from a lower point of reality beneath her.
She looked over the terrain, her heart wild and breath erratic, aiming at ghosts appearing in the corners of her eyes. Were there more? Where was the posted lookout, her guard, the soldier assigned to watch her back? Betrayal? Desertion? Was he even still alive? Were there more? Her mouth was cotton, thick and dry.
Finally, her gaze dropped, going to the body at her feet, to the bloodied shirtfront and the face above... The face. She clamped a hand over her mouth as her stomach protested, rebelling against logic. That face was younger than hers, he looked barely thirteen, if even that. They were waging war against children, fighting a war that pushed lives far too young to be taken into a position where they had to kill or be killed.
Stop it, he was going to kill you. He would not have had any problem with it. Save your tears for your allies that fall, not for anyone who will kill you, no matter the age, she repeated, closing her eyes as she struggled to breathe.
The sounds of battle behind her drew her back into reality, and with a final, frightened glance around her, she picked up her rifle and resumed looking through her scope. She didn't want to do this. The scope's window shook; her hands trembling and unsteady. They shouldn't be there. It was wrong, all of it was wrong. Everything she ever said to the Major came back, the calm reminders that they were soldiers, these were their orders, and those people were going to kill them. Of course they were trying to kill them! The military wanted to exterminate them! What were they doing there? What was the point of killing -- not just enemy soldiers but women and children fighting for their lives?
She ducked her head and rubbed her damp eyes over her sleeve, angling the muzzle upward as she moved her hand from the trigger. Riza looked behind her again, her stomach sick and knotted, fear making her hear phantom noises of approaching enemies. She wished she knew what happened to the guard posted, why he wasn't watching her back.
Just like I'm supposed to be doing for him. Riza looked through the scope again, trying to spot Mustang and Hughes, catching sight of them walking, temporarily shielded by a wall, the taller man leading the way, their clothes dusty. A barrage of gunfire made both men flinch and press to the wall for cover, and she used the scope to look at the buildings. Several windows in her section were full of gunsmoke. The breeze pulled it away as soon as it formed, and she closed her eyes.
She wasn't killing Ishbalites. She was protecting him. She wasn't waging war, she was acting in defense. Defense, and he needed her, he needed her to give him cover, to protect him. That was all. Nothing more and nothing less. She repeated that over and over, clinging to the thought like a sacred mantra, and forced the emotions, the horror and fear, down into a deep, dark corner, locked away from her thoughts.
With rock-steady hands devoid of emotion, she spotted through the scope, calculated the trajectory, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.
Aren't we the ones who never got tired?
.part iv
"Incoming!"
The shouted warning was a prelude to another homemade chemical bomb, launched by a crude catapult, arcing toward the soldiers. The military was fighting due to orders. The Ishbalites were fighting for their very existence. That feverish desperation gave way to creativity and ingenuity, the hardened survivors learning how to fight back with vicious brutality.
Riza started to press against the wall, to duck her head and take cover for the next explosive firestorm to erupt when the bomb impacted behind their lines. A harsh grip on her arm pulled her away.
"Cover me!" the Major shouted, letting go, speaking even as he moved out from behind the wall, not looking at her, his dark eyes focused on the sky.
She didn't ask questions. Riza rose from behind the wall, aimed, and unloaded the magazine as fast as she could pull the trigger.
Overhead, the bomb detonated, turning the scorching afternoon into an unbearable inferno. Even as she looked up, the fire was starting to roll, coiling and billowing in midair, reversing course away from them and pouring down out of the sky.
Riza glanced back; he stood several feet away, tall and straight and dark and terrifying, his hand outstretched -- unnecessary save for the focus it gave his thoughts and will to transmutate the unstable gases. Like a god of old, of legend, sending fire from the sky, smiting the rebellious. The fire in the sky expanded and swelled, towering in the sky like a cumulonimbus cloud, and the screaming grew louder.
It rained then; flame and smoke and scalding heat coursed down over the Ishbalite unit, and the roar of the fire was the storm's thunder, drowning out the shrieks. She could smell it, the smell of roasting flesh that first made her hungry, then turned her stomach. The fire engulfed the other bombs and if there were any survivors from that first onslaught, that ensured there would be none.
Flame alchemy is the strongest. It is also the most deadly.
Her back ached in long-forgotten pain, her heart twisted, and she looked up at him, afraid to see that same haunted emptiness she was too familiar with in those dark eyes. They weren't empty, but unreadable, his expression tense and set in stone, a rigid wall against the emotions as he stared at the flames.
It was the power of gods, and gods they weren't, mere mortals too fragile for the weight of it all.
The men were silent now, no one certain what to do with the battle brought to a sudden, violent, crushing halt, close enough to smell it, taste it.
She raised off her knee, to her feet, and pushed away from the wall, going to his side.
"Somehow, I'm putting a stop to this. Someday."
His voice was low and thick, strained and soft. A sheen of wet, red by the reflection of fire, glassed over his eyes, then was gone with a blink.
A moment passed. Then wordlessly, she turned to face the still-roaring fire, shoulder to shoulder. She brushed her pinky finger against the rough Pyrotex fabric of his gloves, and felt him shift his hand, squeezing her own tight for just a moment, a silent acknowledgment of unspoken words.
Wasn't it magic? The flames rolled, and I said okay. Weren't we just asking For something to come our way?
.part v
The train wasn't moving fast enough toward the promises of warm beds, hot baths, a home-cooked meal, and above all, the lack of a never-ending grittiness from the hot, unhindered wind blowing sand into everything. Impatience made her restless; even the low rhythmic cadence of the wheels rolling over the tracks and the easy rocking failed to lull her to sleep. She stretched her legs over the empty seats again, trying to work out the travel-induced fatigue, and tried to find a position for her head that kept it from thumping back against the window.
Riza closed her eyes, smothering a yawn, and tried again to fall asleep while she had the bench to herself before Mustang and Hughes returned from wherever they were. Some of the tension began to fade, then a hand grabbed her bottom ankle and hoisted her crossed legs up in the air. Riza snapped to instant awareness immediately, almost squawking in protest before she saw who it was.
Hughes waved her off and sat down, dropping her legs over his lap. "S'just me."
Riza yawned again and rubbed her eyes, looking around. "Where is he?"
"Still in the officer's lounge; he'll be along shortly." Hughes tried to smother a yawn of his own. "Stop that," he mumbled around it.
"If I could sleep, I would. Is anything the matter?"
He shook his head and pulled his glasses off to rub his face. "Not really." She watched him put his glasses back on, staring straight ahead in the car, his expression distant. "You heard he's going to be promoted when we're back in Central?"
"Yeah." She pulled her legs off his lap and scooted closer. The car was mostly silent, save for the sound of the wheels on the rails, and the rest of the officers in it were asleep, or trying to get there.
"He's going for colonel next, after that." Hughes voice was lower now that she closed the distance between them. He didn't look at her.
Riza frowned. "Well, that's logical," she murmured back.
"And then brigadier general, and after that, lieutenant general."
"I know the chain of command, what's--"
"He's going to become führer."
His voice was so soft, Riza wasn't certain immediately whether she heard him correctly or not. Now that made her stop and blink. Aiming for a position of ultimate power that everyone between him and that office coveted?
At her silence, Hughes turned his head just enough to look down at her out of the corner of his eye, the moonlight from outside the train window glinting off his glasses. "He told me to tell you that if you wanted out, just say the word. This isn't going to be easy."
She shook her head. "Out? What are you talking about? If he wants me to leave, I will, but otherwise I'm not going anywhere. He needs me. Especially now if he's going to try the impossible."
Hughes closed his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's what I told him, but you know how Roy is."
"Hell of a road we'll be stepping onto when we leave this train," Riza said, quiet a moment longer. "And I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."
He chuckled quietly. "We're going to have to play this close to our chests."
"Think we can do it?"
That made the smile fade away, and he didn't answer immediately. "Can we do it?" Silence. "Not in a million years." That wasn't the answer she expected. Riza stared at him, bewildered. Then his gaze met hers, and in the darkness, she could just barely make out that smile returning. "But we're not talking about you or I now, are we?"
That made her grin.
"It's not going to be easy, and we're going to need more support."
"We'll find it, I'm sure." Riza yawned again, covering her mouth.
"I know something else that'll make it easier."
She rested her head against his shoulder, it was softer than the window. "What's that?"
"You two need to get married."
They were sharply hushed by several nearby soldiers, disturbed by Hughes' yelp as Riza elbowed him in the ribs.
Are we another, were we afraid? Is there a hope that we'll wait to walk a time? He's a long road...
.part vi
It was a tempting thing, to close her eyes and sleep, to surrender to the comfortable, lazy warmth, and the sense of being home. Outside, the rain continued to fall, beating a steady low rhythm against the house and windows. The prospect of facing the wet, chilled dark made the reality of needing to leave even less desirable than it already was.
His breathing was soft, deep and even against her neck, his warm body pressed up against hers, spooning flesh against flesh. But she knew he wasn't asleep. He never slept while they were together, nor did she. It was partially from not wanting to lose even a moment of time to something so mundane as slumber, and partially from not wanting to lose track of the dark hours, to sleep until sunrise when the city would be awake and active, heightening the risk of discovery.
They had no work the next day; the ranking officers with desk jobs and their command staff had a typical workweek, with regular hours provided no conflicts arose. They had that day to catch up on sleep forgone in late hours spent tangled up, lost in each other, tasting and feeling and savoring each moment.
"I should go." Her voice, barely more than a hushed whisper, sounded startlingly loud to her own ears. His only response was to tighten his arms around her, clinging, holding her to him. She didn't object. For those few moments, she wished that somehow, the whole world would shift around them, becoming a place where she didn't need to leave.
Then reluctantly, Roy relaxed his grip and drew back, lowering his head to kiss her shoulder, trailing warm lips and breath across her upper back. "All right," he whispered.
Riza turned her head, rolling onto her back, looking to him as she brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. There was so much she wanted to say, but no words existed for her thoughts. His hand slipped into hers and he kissed the back, then opened his eyes, studying her before covering her lips with his own.
"Someday," he whispered against the kiss, answering the unvoiced questions. "Someday you won't have to leave, I won't have to leave, and we won't have to sneak around in the dark like..." He trailed off, silent.
"Like we're cheating on the military we're both married to?"
Roy's answer to that was to pull her toward him and bury his face against her neck, his hand tangling in her hair, gripping it as he held her with a fierceness that left her trembling.
"Just a little while longer," she told him, nuzzling his shoulder. They both knew 'a little while' could be decades, if ever.
"I know." There was a pitch to his voice which seemed to indicate there was more to be said, but in the end, that was all.
Roy pulled away to kiss her one last time, and watched as she withdrew from his bed and dressed. By the time she was lacing her boots, he was up, belting his robe to walk her to the back door.
"Be careful today," she admonished him as she buttoned up her dark blue coat.
He made a face. "I know it's raining, Lieutenant." His voice still held a stung note, petulant and hurt.
"You're not useless, sir." She didn't have to stand on tiptoe to kiss him now, not with him barefoot and her in boots. "But the rainy days are why you have me."
Roy looked out the door window at the dark rain, silent while she reached for her waterproof poncho. "Stop."
"Colonel?"
He looked at her, pulling the poncho out of her grip as a sly smile formed. "You're staying, Lieutenant."
"But-!" Riza looked at him, bewildered. "But what if someone finds out I was here?"
"Let them. You're my adjutant and bodyguard, and I'm an invaluable State Alchemist, and an assassin killing us all off one at a time is confirmed in town, and knows I'm here. Me, the Flame Alchemist. And it's raining. Wouldn't I make a perfect target right now?"
"Well..." She hesitated. "This might hurt your next promotion."
"Being dead would too, not to mention depriving the military of such a valuable resource." Roy began to unbutton her overcoat. "You're staying. That's an order."
She shook her head, bemused as she smiled at him. "Yes, sir."
Don't we mind waiting, And are we ashamed, Coming here in the black, dark night? And I don't feel so strange.
.part vii
I'm going after military command. Will you help me?
There was no need to ask, no question.
The train returning to the east was dark and silent, the wheels on the tracks making a muted, throaty rumble that easily faded from conscious notice. Riza looked over at her commanding officer, slouched low in his seat against the window, his eyes closed, his chin resting on his chest above crossed arms, his breathing steady.
Yet he wasn't asleep; there was a telltale twitch to his facial muscles as he struggled to ignore a pervasive reality: Hughes was dead, and someone above them was involved, somehow. The focus on the führer's position became personal.
She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the seat, trying to relax, to ignore the sting behind her own closed lids, to bury and muffle the grief he didn't need to see. His own was enough for him to carry, and he'd lost his source of emotional support he relied on the most. She now had to fill both her own shoes and his, somehow.
To get him to the top, they had to be strong enough to hold him up to where he could reach it. A critical support was gone, and she felt she needed to be at her strongest, stronger than she'd ever been, in order to compensate. She would grieve apart, on her own time, where he couldn't see, wouldn't know, and wouldn't worry.
Just like in Ishbal, so long ago, she had to be steady. It was time to be calm again, the inert element, nonreactive and passive. Steady hands, precise aim.
She buried her grief with Maes, and locked it away in a deep, dark place where she wouldn't feel it. She could be everything he needed, she would be. She had to be. For him, for Maes, for herself, for the rest of them. Support could not be weak, could not buckle or falter under the strain, and as now the highest-ranking officer in their little secret world under Roy, they would be looking to her.
She drew in a deep breath, forcing everything away.
Beside her, there was a muffled, strangled sound, and his eyes were closed tight, his lips in a thin line as his shoulders trembled.
What could she say? That Maes was where he had been out of choice, because he believed in Roy? That they hadn't put him in a position for his death? He knew those things, and it wouldn't lessen the empty ache.
The hand which moved to the colonel's arm for a gentle, firm grip was steady.
Are we the lady? Were we afraid? Are we the summer...