Even Of Dead Waters: Chapter 2
Havoc didn’t know what he’d been expecting. A terrifying explosion, perhaps, or maybe for the Gate of Truth to open before them and swallow Mustang whole. But nothing like that happened. As soon as it had come, the bright burst of white light faded to nothing, leaving Mustang kneeling, trembling, in the street, holding Riza’s body in his arms. So that was it then, Havoc thought: Riza was dead. The array had failed to save her. Havoc had been prepared for it, of course, had been ready to strike the killing blow himself if need be, but even the inevitability of her death could not stop the pain of that realisation from slamming into him with full force. He choked on his breath, his stomach churning and bright, angry spots shimmering across his vision. They had been together for so long... worked together, fought together, laughed together... imagining a world where she was no longer among them seemed almost impossible. How would any of them cope without her?
Except... something was not right. Ed and Armstrong had crowded around Mustang but their movements did not seem distraught but rather brisk, concerned. As if their actions could make a difference any more...as if there was still hope. Havoc saw Ed lean down to take a pulse from Riza’s limp wrist, saw him nod to Armstrong and, moments later, saw what had been in front of his eyes all along, what he had not dared to believe. Hawkeye’s body was a dead weight in Mustang’s arms, her skin was shockingly pale, but her chest was rising and falling steadily, each breath strong and unbroken. She was alive.
Before he even knew what had happened, Havoc had pushed past Ed and Armstrong to kneel on the ground next to Mustang, both of them gazing at Hawkeye’s unmoving form. She looked so dead, only the unwavering pull of breath betraying her as living, and as the long minutes dragged by, she gave no sign of rousing from her unconscious state.
“Damn it, Mustang, what the hell have you done?” Ed burst out, his voice echoing in the silent street. He rushed forward as if to shake Mustang but Armstrong held him back with a single hand. Mustang gave no indication of having heard Ed but instead raised his eyes to meet Havoc’s and for the second time that day Havoc found himself flinching away from his commander’s gaze. There was something in there that was sharper than despair, more insidious than madness. Tears cut swathes through the dirt streaked across his face but he seemed to take no notice of them. All of his attention was focused on Havoc, like a wild dog ready to flee or strike.
“She’s not dead,” he whispered, his whole body shaking so hard Havoc worried he would not be able to hold Riza. He moved to take her from Mustang’s arms but he clung to her like a child refusing to part with a much loved toy. Hawkeye’s head lolled from side to side as Mustang shifted her closer to him, blood still dripping its slow, sticky way down her neck from the bite the creature had given her. Her hair had come undone from its clip and now trailed on the ground, tangled and dirty. Mustang lifted his head to look at Ed and Armstrong, savage laughter escaping him, the sound sending shivers chasing up Havoc’s spine. He glanced back to see Ed barely able to hide his horror. “She’s not dead!” Mustang laughed, a desperate edge to his voice. Ed knelt down next to Havoc, drawing Mustang’s attention towards him. The young man looked visibly shaken but was trying him best to remain composed.
“Mustang, you have to tell us what you did.” Ed spoke softly, all traces of anger gone. There was a slight tremor in his voice that he was struggling to control, but whether his fear was for Mustang or of him, Havoc could not tell. “What did the array do to Riza?”
Mustang frowned at him, an expression of mild bemusement and long suffering patience in the face of stupidity. It was a look so typical of so many interactions between the two alchemists in the past and to see it now, when their old lives were little more than half remembered dreams, was almost more than Havoc could take. “What did I do?” Mustang seemed to consider the question. “I saved her life. I stopped her from turning into one of those creatures, using the array you showed me.”
“Okay,” Ed sighed. “You’re right, Hawkeye’s definitely alive and she hasn’t progressed any further in the transformation.” He was speaking to Mustang as if he were a small child or particularly stupid but Havoc supposed he couldn’t be blamed for that. Whether it was a result of the alchemy, the emotional strain of nearly losing Riza or just pure physical exhaustion, the man was clearly unstable, maybe even dangerous. The horrific thought crossed his mind that Mustang’s loss of control may be permanent, his mind bowing under the weight of thousands of burdens and tragedies, but Havoc pushed it firmly to one side. If that was the case, they would deal with it when they had to and they could gain nothing from worrying about it now. “But the transmutation can’t have worked completely,” Ed continued. “She hasn’t moved at all since you activated the array and she’s shown no other signs of waking up. What went wrong in the transmutation?”
“I don’t know!” Mustang screamed and this time Ed did flinch back from him, just a little. “Do you think I wanted this to happen?” he drew in a deep, sob-like breath, his fingers twitching as they curled around Hawkeye’s shoulders. “The array should have been perfect! I don’t know why it didn’t work, I just...” Mustang’s face was a ghastly white beneath the grey dust and ash and his breaths were the harsh, desperate gasps of a drowning man. “I don’t...” Havoc moved before he’d even realised what he was doing, grabbing Hawkeye as she fell from Mustang’s trembling hold. Armstrong had rushed forward too, catching Mustang before his head could hit the cracked paving stones. The big man stood, lifting Mustang’s unconscious body easily. His face was unreadable. Perhaps this was no surprise to him, Havoc thought, remembering how he and Mustang had served together in Ishval. Cradled against Armstrong’s broad chest their commander looked almost like a child, shockingly small and far frailer than they had ever allowed themselves to realise.
Havoc struggled to his feet, gladly accepting Ed’s support as he stood. Hawkeye wasn’t particularly heavy but he was still badly shaken. Ed moved forward, surveying the street with cautious eyes, searching for signs of any remaining creatures. But there was nothing but silence and the stench of burnt flesh still drifting through the air. Havoc could feel the precious movement of Hawkeye’s breathing as he carried her through the rubble and smoke and he struggled to blink back tears when he thought of how close they’d come to losing her, how far they still had to go to truly bring her back. If such a thing were even possible, of course. He could see Armstrong walking before him, Mustang’s head falling over his arm. His face, stained with tears and dirt and white with exhaustion, had surrendered to the enforced peace of unconsciousness, all traces of sorrow or rage wiped clean. A temporary respite, nothing more. And Havoc’s tears were for him too, for the unfairness of it all, that so much could be taken from one person, when he had already suffered so greatly. He wondered briefly what would happen to Mustang, should he be unable to recover Hawkeye from her state of limbo, before realising that such questions were pointless. He already knew the answer. The real question was what would happen to all of them, the ones who would be left behind.
Breda watched the shadows dance over his commander’s face, the flickering light of the fire casting ever-shifting spectres across the room. From the corner of his eye he could see Armstrong sitting back against the far wall, his gaze never leaving Mustang’s sleeping form. They had kept this silent vigil for almost three hours now, ever since the group had returned, their general and his most trusted lieutenant unconscious to the world. Breda had watched as Havoc and Armstrong walked through the heavily guarded gates of the compound, Mustang and Hawkeye’s bodies pale and unmoving in their arms. For a few, endless, unbearable moments he had thought they were dead and the world lurched sickeningly around him as he struggled to accept the magnitude of such a loss. Havoc had hurried to explain to them all that their leader was still alive, saying little more than that General Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye had been injured on the trip into the city; the general was expected to recover soon but Hawkeye’s situation was less certain. In private, however, he had confessed to the team the true nature of what had taken place, no longer trying to hide the fear in his voice or the grief in his eyes. Breda had volunteered to join Armstrong in watching over Mustang, everyone agreeing that he should not be left to wake up alone.
Breda shuffled over to the fireplace, throwing another few handfuls of coal onto the flames. Fuel was one of the few things that was still relatively abundant; every house in Central had a coal cellar and it was something the creatures had no interest in. Breda poked at the fire for a few moments, sighing when a vicious draft swept through the room, scattering the slowly gathering warmth. It wasn’t that it was particularly cold in the room- both he and Armstrong had shed their jackets not long after lighting the fire- but Mustang had not stopped shivering ever since they had brought him in. He was practically buried under blankets and coats, curled up in the pile of rags that passed for a bed in the hellhole they lived in, but still it made no difference. Breda had wondered, in moments of almost whimsical despair as the hours dragged on, if Mustang had simply given up, his body no longer caring to fight for life in a world where he had lost so much, but he had quickly dismissed those thoughts as ridiculous. Mustang was stronger than that. While there was even a chance that Hawkeye could be saved, he would fight for it with everything he had.
Mustang muttered something in his sleep and both men tensed. Breda glanced at Armstrong and could see the same anxiety reflected in his eyes. They had no way of guessing what state of mind Mustang would be in when he woke up, and neither of them wanted to break the news to him that Hawkeye had shown no change. They stayed frozen, waiting, for several long moments but Mustang made no further sounds and both men slowly allowed themselves to relax. The wind whistled through the walls once more, the minor irritation suddenly seeming intolerable to Breda. He moved away from the fire, not returning to his place next to the door but instead sitting down beside Armstrong. The other man glanced over at him in surprise but made no comment.
“These drafts...” Breda muttered, mindful not to disturb the room’s sleeping occupant. “Can’t you do something about them? Fix the walls with alchemy, something like that?”
“I have considered it,” Armstrong spoke equally softly, his voice a low rumble. “But both Edward and General Mustang consider it likely that the creatures are attracted towards alchemic power and I believe they may be correct. Certainly it is not something I would wish to risk, given our,” he hesitated, casting a glance towards the corner where Mustang was lying. “Present situation. I don’t have to tell you how dangerous it would be to draw their attention at a time such as this.”
Breda sat silent for a moment, considering Armstrong’s words. It was true, now he thought back on it, that the worst of the attacks always seemed to come soon after someone in the shelter had used alchemy. Both Mustang and Armstrong had tried to avoid relying on alchemy but they were not the only alchemists among the survivors and many others were not so restrained. Just their luck, that one of their few advantages over the creatures would also turn out to be a dangerous weakness.
Seeming to mistake his silence for anxiety, Armstrong reached over and placed a large hand on Breda’s shoulder, the gesture lacking in all the grandiose displays of affection he had once been renowned for. The last few weeks had drained the joy from all of their spirits. “I shouldn’t worry too much about General Mustang,” he said, his eyes not quite meeting Breda’s as he spoke. “He’s recovered from worse than this before.”
Breda looked back at him but the big man said no more, settling once again into silence. He didn’t need Armstrong to elaborate; he knew he could only have been talking about Ishval. Breda knew almost nothing about what had happened during the war, but the little he had heard was enough. Mustang had almost never spoken of his experiences in Ishval but he had told them enough for Breda to be able to imagine the horrors that lay hidden behind what Armstrong had told him. Breda had never thought he would see that side of his commander, the side the stories spoke of. He had seen the spectres that gathered in Mustang’s eyes when they had first stepped foot on the sands of Ishval after the Promised Day, the way the Ishvalans ran from him as he walked through their streets but he had never imagined he would ever see that same fear in eyes of his own comrades. The way Jean had looked when he walked through the gates... “I... I don’t know what happened, Breda, I swear he’s gone mad. I thought he was going to kill us all...” Breda forced the memory away, trying his best to take comfort in Armstrong’s words. Mustang would get through this. He would find a way to save Hawkeye and they would carry on as they always had. There was simply no other option.
They both looked up at the sound of gentle knocking on the door, which was pushed open a moment later by a tired and harried looking Ed. “Armstrong, we need you to come and talk to some of the people out here. They want to speak to an alchemist.” Ed seemed too exhausted for bitterness but Breda could tell how hurt he was. He had never resented giving up his alchemy to save his brother but the fact that he was no longer considered qualified to even give advice on alchemical matters; that had to sting.
Armstrong left the room with Ed, giving one last troubled glance at Mustang before softly shutting the door. Now alone save for his unconscious commander, the silence seemed somehow even more oppressive. Breda moved back towards the fire, watching the last remnants of the day’s light disappear through the gaps in the boards across the window. It was getting colder now but his jacket had long since joined the others heaped on top of the figure in the bed and, besides, Mustang needed it more than he did anyway. His eyes moved back to stare at the fire, needing the sight of something abstract, something unconnected to the horror their lives had become. But the flames reminded him too much of Mustang, of the way the creatures crumbled under his fire and the way he was slowly crumbling too, under the weight of a heavier burden than any one person should have to carry. Breda had never felt so useless in his life. In all the challenges they had faced before, he had been able to help in some way, to contribute his knowledge and intelligence to the problem. But now, Mustang was standing alone against an ever-growing enemy and there was no one that could truly be of help. Even Ed and Armstrong could only do so much.
The sound of confused murmuring and the rustling of blankets broke Breda away from his thoughts and he turned to see Mustang struggling to sit up, tossing away the blankets and coats he was buried under and clutching his head in one hand. Breda rushed over to him, remembering to keep a cautious distance between them. Havoc had been afraid of Mustang before, had feared he would be dangerous. He didn’t seem as if there was anything wrong with him now, but it was too soon to be sure.
Mustang lifted his head, staring at Breda with sleep-dulled eyes. “Breda? What are you doing here? Is everything...” He stopped and Breda could see remembrance dawning, confusion and fatigue dissolving into frantic, panicked anguish. “Where’s Riza?” he gasped, pushing himself upright with shaking hands. “Has she recovered? What’s going on?” He grabbed Breda’s collar, gazing at him with a desperation Breda had never seen before. It unnerved him, no matter how much he had been expecting it. He looked down at the floor, unable to meet Mustang’s eyes as he gave the news.
“Riza’s in the other room. She... she’s still unconscious. She’s breathing fine and she hasn’t undergone any... changes... but we don’t know when she’s going to wake up.” Breda lifted his head, risking a glance at Mustang. His eyes were closed, his face devoid of all expression. His hand fell from Breda’s shirt, hitting the pile of blankets with barely a sound.
““I’ve failed her.” he whispered, his voice echoing with defeat. Breda had never thought he would hear such a tone in the voice of his daring, volatile, brilliant commander, but Mustang was far from that man now, had not been for weeks, and the words fell far too easily from his lips.
“I was so sure the array would work,” Mustang continued. “I knew there were risks but they were nothing compared to... to losing her. But now... I know what must have happened. The transmutation equilibrated, leaving her trapped. She’s no longer turning into a creature, but she can’t become human again either. She won’t ever be able to wake up when she’s stuck like this.” He spoke dispassionately, as if distant from the horrors he described. But Breda could see the way his fingers were turning white as they dug into the rags on the bed, twisting and tearing at the tattered fabric in a frantic, unconscious movement. “She would have been better off dead.”
“But Riza’s not dead. She can still be saved.” Breda didn’t know what made him speak out, except the fact that he had never withheld an opinion from Mustang before. It was why he was valued, after all. But as Mustang turned his dark, desperate gaze upon him, Breda found himself wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. A memory of the fear in Havoc’s voice as he talked of Mustang came back to him with sickening clarity but he forced himself to keep on talking. Mustang was reeling and distraught but he had not yet lost himself. Breda had no cause to feel afraid. “You can’t just give up on her yet, Sir. While she’s still breathing, you’ve got to do everything you can. Modify the transmutation; find a way to bring her back.”
For a long moment Mustang did nothing but stare at him and Breda could only imagine the turmoil of the battle being fought behind those eyes. He nodded finally, seeming to have arrived at some kind of decision, and when he spoke again it was with the same confidence that drawn them all to him for so long. “You’re right. I want to see Riza... please, take me to her.”