moar fic
hmmm.... now that I have figured out how this place works, to a certain extent, it's becoming increasingly addictive. And so I decided to post more of my fics up here.
Volatile materials delighted Kimbley. Ever since he was a child, he had always been drawn towards those substances that burned brightest and fastest, combusted most readily, victims of their own fervent nature. Ever the believer in life imitating science, he had sought out such qualities in the people that surrounded him but had always been sadly disappointed. Kimbley had found much to be admired in the nature of humans but he had never seen personified that breathtaking arc of ferocious beauty turned to desolate destruction that so epitomised his own alchemy. Never, that is, until he came to Ishval, until he met Roy Mustang.
Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist. His brother in alchemy, Kimbley had first thought the young man a disappointment in all other ways. Roy’s fragility was irritating; his painful, martyred morality had no place on the field of war, no more than his slowly dying idealism, that bright fire of youthful hope and ambition, now the funeral pyre for his own innocence. Kimbley had always felt disgust at those who could not accept their true nature and Roy Mustang, with his shadowed eyes and ugly smudges of guilt marring the clean beauty of his kills, seemed to embody everything Kimbley so despised.
But Kimbley knew that with time, and the bodies of enough Ishvalan dead, he would eventually be able to shatter the last remnants of the Flame Alchemist’s brittle virtue. The boy was like him, after all. Behind the facade of the scared, naive, young soldier- an image so deeply ingrained that Roy had managed to convince even himself of its truth- lay a secret, hidden yearning to surrender completely to the siren call of destruction, to snap his fingers and set the whole world alight. Kimbley understood intimately the heady feeling of holding power over life and death in his hands. In the few seconds before the light faded from his victims’ eyes, he was a god, bestowing upon his worshippers the merciful release from life’s agony. Flame felt the same way; of that much he could be certain. It was clear in the dark self-hatred he saw in the young alchemist’s eyes every time he returned from the battlefield, the way that he harshly scorned his friends’ concern- even the pretty, young sniper. He’d have to be truly suffering to turn away such warm, amber-eyed compassion, Kimbley thought to himself.
Instead, it was to Kimbley’s scornful gaze that Roy subjected himself every night, crawling into the stifling darkness of their shared tent, crowded with the ghosts of Ishvalan children that Roy refused to leave at the door. Kimbley still couldn’t understand what it was that Roy sought when he raised haunted black eyes to meet cold, compassionless blues, whether it was punishment or absolution, but he was determined to give neither. Instead he just lay in his cot, listening as the hours slipped by and his fellow alchemist finally surrendered to the faithless hold of troubled sleep. Every night, Kimbley waited for the velveteen silence to be shattered by the first soft, choking sobs and desperately whispered apologies, the fires of Roy’s nightmares feeding hungrily on the toxic fuel of his guilt. One day, Kimbley imagined, the nightmares would stop. One day Roy Mustang would no longer look at him as if he longed for both salvation and condemnation and thought that Kimbley could deliver them. And wouldn’t that be for the best? If Roy could be free from the sharp agony of his own tortured conscience, wouldn’t that be kinder? Wasn’t quickly breaking this young man’s naive, compassionate spirit ultimately the most merciful thing to do?
It had been this conviction that had first spurred Kimbley to speak when he had challenged Flame and his companions by the campfire, taunting the young, blonde cadet girl in the hope of igniting his fellow alchemist’s anger. He had certainly achieved that- the memory of Roy’s eyes lit up with rage still sent shivers down Kimbley’s spine. He felt a curious sense of pride when he thought of the barely constrained violence behind Flame’s hands, the way his fingers twitched as if eager to snap and rid himself of this threat. Truly, Kimbley had found his brother-in-arms.
But then again, the most volatile substances are always the most unpredictable, and Roy Mustang was no exception. It seemed at times as if the dark eyed young idealist’s spirit was too pure to be tainted by blood, too fine in composition to be boiled away by the desert heat. It was times such as these that Kimbley felt no victory in his own, peaceful nights, his untroubled conscience. On those days, Roy made Kimbley feel as if he were the one that was damaged.
“Well, Flame, what are you going to do?” Kimbley leered, his gaze moving from the still-living body of the young Ishvalan woman to the pale, frozen features of his companion. Roy’s eyes were wide in horror as he stared down at the girl, her slender form ravaged by livid burns, her once golden skin now charred and blistered, exposing the raw, damaged flesh below. Weak moans of agony spilled from her mouth as she lay motionless, clearly beyond salvation.
“From the look of it, she’s one of yours. Guess that means this is your responsibility, then, isn’t it?” At that, Roy finally looked up at him and Kimbley felt his mouth go dry at the cold emptiness of those black eyes. Anger, guilt, agony, all those Kimbley had expected and all he could easily deal with. But this...
“Yes,” Roy replied softly, not breaking his gaze. “It is.”
The Flame Alchemist turned away once more, drawing his handgun from his belt. He shot the girl once, cleanly to the head, killing her instantly. Roy gazed steadily into the girl’s clouded, pain-filled eyes as she died, the way Kimbley had taught him, before walking silently away, a fine spray of blood staining his uniform. His hands were steady as they returned the gun to its holster.
Yet Kimbley knew that Roy could never allow himself the same kindness he showed his victims, that he would never let himself forget his guilt, nor lose himself in his love for power. Kimbley wanted to feel disappointed that the young alchemist would not accept the mercy that he had so compassionately offered, but he could not. Watching the flames of Roy’s overwhelming guilt consume his soul, Kimberly realised that the slow devastation of an innocent spirit was many times more beautiful than the rapid destruction of a body. When it came to Roy Mustang, Kimberly found he had no desire to be merciful.
Volatile materials delighted Kimbley. Ever since he was a child, he had always been drawn towards those substances that burned brightest and fastest, combusted most readily, victims of their own fervent nature. Ever the believer in life imitating science, he had sought out such qualities in the people that surrounded him but had always been sadly disappointed. Kimbley had found much to be admired in the nature of humans but he had never seen personified that breathtaking arc of ferocious beauty turned to desolate destruction that so epitomised his own alchemy. Never, that is, until he came to Ishval, until he met Roy Mustang.
Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist. His brother in alchemy, Kimbley had first thought the young man a disappointment in all other ways. Roy’s fragility was irritating; his painful, martyred morality had no place on the field of war, no more than his slowly dying idealism, that bright fire of youthful hope and ambition, now the funeral pyre for his own innocence. Kimbley had always felt disgust at those who could not accept their true nature and Roy Mustang, with his shadowed eyes and ugly smudges of guilt marring the clean beauty of his kills, seemed to embody everything Kimbley so despised.
But Kimbley knew that with time, and the bodies of enough Ishvalan dead, he would eventually be able to shatter the last remnants of the Flame Alchemist’s brittle virtue. The boy was like him, after all. Behind the facade of the scared, naive, young soldier- an image so deeply ingrained that Roy had managed to convince even himself of its truth- lay a secret, hidden yearning to surrender completely to the siren call of destruction, to snap his fingers and set the whole world alight. Kimbley understood intimately the heady feeling of holding power over life and death in his hands. In the few seconds before the light faded from his victims’ eyes, he was a god, bestowing upon his worshippers the merciful release from life’s agony. Flame felt the same way; of that much he could be certain. It was clear in the dark self-hatred he saw in the young alchemist’s eyes every time he returned from the battlefield, the way that he harshly scorned his friends’ concern- even the pretty, young sniper. He’d have to be truly suffering to turn away such warm, amber-eyed compassion, Kimbley thought to himself.
Instead, it was to Kimbley’s scornful gaze that Roy subjected himself every night, crawling into the stifling darkness of their shared tent, crowded with the ghosts of Ishvalan children that Roy refused to leave at the door. Kimbley still couldn’t understand what it was that Roy sought when he raised haunted black eyes to meet cold, compassionless blues, whether it was punishment or absolution, but he was determined to give neither. Instead he just lay in his cot, listening as the hours slipped by and his fellow alchemist finally surrendered to the faithless hold of troubled sleep. Every night, Kimbley waited for the velveteen silence to be shattered by the first soft, choking sobs and desperately whispered apologies, the fires of Roy’s nightmares feeding hungrily on the toxic fuel of his guilt. One day, Kimbley imagined, the nightmares would stop. One day Roy Mustang would no longer look at him as if he longed for both salvation and condemnation and thought that Kimbley could deliver them. And wouldn’t that be for the best? If Roy could be free from the sharp agony of his own tortured conscience, wouldn’t that be kinder? Wasn’t quickly breaking this young man’s naive, compassionate spirit ultimately the most merciful thing to do?
It had been this conviction that had first spurred Kimbley to speak when he had challenged Flame and his companions by the campfire, taunting the young, blonde cadet girl in the hope of igniting his fellow alchemist’s anger. He had certainly achieved that- the memory of Roy’s eyes lit up with rage still sent shivers down Kimbley’s spine. He felt a curious sense of pride when he thought of the barely constrained violence behind Flame’s hands, the way his fingers twitched as if eager to snap and rid himself of this threat. Truly, Kimbley had found his brother-in-arms.
But then again, the most volatile substances are always the most unpredictable, and Roy Mustang was no exception. It seemed at times as if the dark eyed young idealist’s spirit was too pure to be tainted by blood, too fine in composition to be boiled away by the desert heat. It was times such as these that Kimbley felt no victory in his own, peaceful nights, his untroubled conscience. On those days, Roy made Kimbley feel as if he were the one that was damaged.
“Well, Flame, what are you going to do?” Kimbley leered, his gaze moving from the still-living body of the young Ishvalan woman to the pale, frozen features of his companion. Roy’s eyes were wide in horror as he stared down at the girl, her slender form ravaged by livid burns, her once golden skin now charred and blistered, exposing the raw, damaged flesh below. Weak moans of agony spilled from her mouth as she lay motionless, clearly beyond salvation.
“From the look of it, she’s one of yours. Guess that means this is your responsibility, then, isn’t it?” At that, Roy finally looked up at him and Kimbley felt his mouth go dry at the cold emptiness of those black eyes. Anger, guilt, agony, all those Kimbley had expected and all he could easily deal with. But this...
“Yes,” Roy replied softly, not breaking his gaze. “It is.”
The Flame Alchemist turned away once more, drawing his handgun from his belt. He shot the girl once, cleanly to the head, killing her instantly. Roy gazed steadily into the girl’s clouded, pain-filled eyes as she died, the way Kimbley had taught him, before walking silently away, a fine spray of blood staining his uniform. His hands were steady as they returned the gun to its holster.
Yet Kimbley knew that Roy could never allow himself the same kindness he showed his victims, that he would never let himself forget his guilt, nor lose himself in his love for power. Kimbley wanted to feel disappointed that the young alchemist would not accept the mercy that he had so compassionately offered, but he could not. Watching the flames of Roy’s overwhelming guilt consume his soul, Kimberly realised that the slow devastation of an innocent spirit was many times more beautiful than the rapid destruction of a body. When it came to Roy Mustang, Kimberly found he had no desire to be merciful.