By: White Rain
Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.
Character/Pairing: Just a few implications of canon characters.
Word Count: 998
Rating: PG-13 for violence and death.
Notes: Manga canon.
Summary: Ten stories about the Ishval genocide.
"Please don't kill me."
Her parents were both big and strong. So was her older brother. She, on the other hand, was very small. She wasn't sure if she'd ever grow up to be as big and tall as her family.
But she was determined to become as strong as them. She stretched her muscles and ran around the town and ate as healthy as she was able to (mom insisted that she learn to be reasonable as she cooked the fresh vegetables that cost much more than the ones turning brown).
She also climbed a lot.
She was climbing on the wall that father told her to hide behind until the soldiers left because she was sure she was strong enough to at least protect the people who were unlucky enough to be smaller than her.
Flames torched her skin before she could reach the top.
She died slowly, in agony.
"We're not going to live."
One laughed. The other followed. Then they kissed.
Their murderer would have enough mercy to kill them together.
She'd been left alone again. It happened a lot. She was always off in the corner, alone. Those who were loud got attention from the staff. She'd been in the orphanage long enough to know that. She just couldn't seem to figure out how to use her voice and when she cried, it was always quiet.
She'd been left alone again and she was so, so, so cold even as everything around her was up in flames. She wrapped her arms around herself and pressed her face against her knee. She rocked and cried as soft as always. Wished more than ever she knew her who her Mommy was. She'd save her. Or at least rock her to sleep and sing to her.
She'd been left alone again and she would die alone.
But she'd learn how to scream.
Her twins weren't even a year old. But she'd had nine months with them. Her little girl who was so happy and bubbly and her little boy who was quiet but smiled just as brightly.
She thanked god as hard as she could that she'd gotten those precious few months as she clenched them tightly to her chest.
She would die before she knew what killed her and her children.
"Don't look at anything," he told his daughter as he pressed her face against his neck. He wished he could tell her not to smell as well. Or hear. Or feel anything but him. Death invaded all of the senses.
"I won't, Daddy."
He wanted to kiss her forehead but he needed to keep running. He'd get to kiss her when they were safe. And they would find safety. He was so sure of it.
He really was.
He didn't see the bullet coming. He didn't hear his daughter scream when he fell down, dead.
She died with a smile on her face. She was holding the stuffed animal her daughter, who was thankfully out in the east with her father, made her a few years ago.
They'd take her home, her loved ones, her people, but they wouldn't take her love.
His mom begged him to run and hide and to live even as she clung so tightly to him he couldn't move an inch. He promised her over and over that he would. He would live. And study. And find a nice lady to marry. And have lots of children. His father died before she could have more than one and he knew she always wanted a big family. He told her this and she clung to him even harder before suddenly shoving him away and telling him to run and hide and live.
It's just that his best friend had never quite been able to walk properly. No doctor had been able to figure out why. And when he was running as fast as he could to an underground tunnel that had been built a few years ago just in case, he ran into her. Literally. And he couldn't leave her behind. So he pulled her up and tried to run with her.
He couldn't leave his best friend behind. He knew he promised his mom that he would find his way to safety. But he couldn't leave his best friend who got him the best birthday gift ever the year before behind.
When they were shot they died instantly. He knew they probably wouldn't make it. So he wasn't surprised. But he knew he couldn't just leave his best friend behind.
He just hoped his mom would understand.
He wasn't one for killing. His father always said it was for god to decide when people died, not humans. He believed that. Still did, really. His father wasn't wrong about much and he'd hardly worship a god who thought otherwise.
It's just that these fucking Amestrians were slaughtering his people, his village, his friends and his family. He couldn't stand by and do nothing. That's not the kind of man his father raised either.
He took down three before he was killed neatly by a single bullet aimed from a precise sniper and hoped god would forgive him.
"This was the house I grew up in."
It was in better condition than they hoped. It wouldn't take but a little alchemy to fix the remaining holes in the house. A crew had already fixed up most of the damage and cleaned up all the blood. Not just in their house. But every one's. The new Führer had kept his promise on that front.
But. There were things that couldn't be fixed, no matter how much alchemy was used.
He looked at his wife and touched her shoulder. She looked like she was going to cry.
"I want our children to grow up here."
He looked at the house. Battered but still standing. He looked at his wife, the strongest person he knew. He ran his hand down to the small of her back and she rested her head on his shoulder. "I do, too." Then, for the first time since the night he lost everything, he cried.
She held him.