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mortal flaws, fatal sins

Summary:

An unfortunate encounter with one of the monsters he has been trained to hunt and destroy leaves Roy Mustang cursed. Faltering through life with unclear intentions, uncertain if he wants to cure his curse or fall victim to another slayer, his wallowing is abruptly interrupted when he discovers that his former teacher's daughter, long thought dead, is indeed alive. But like him, she too has fallen victim to a terrible curse.

Realizing that their days have become numbered, they must work quickly together to reverse their curses before they fall victim to them forever.

Notes:

A/N: I realize that I have some unfinished works here, but it's been a rough year (or two) and sometimes you just need something to get your mind off of things, and that is precisely what this story is to me. My motivation to write has been iffy this last year, but for the first time in a while, I've actually had the motivation and ambition to write things down for this AU, and have started to post it on Tumblr.

I decided to cross-post here as well since I'm working on, and nearly finished with, the fourth chapter. I'll post the first one today, and then slowly add the others until I post the fourth, and then go from there. I hope anyone who reads enjoys this little fantasy AU that I've created!

Chapter Text

This time last year, things had played out very differently. Though the atmosphere around him was the same, the circumstances that have shaped Roy’s life and pivoted it to this very moment were not.

His eyes remain closed as he takes another sip of the stale ale that had been poured for him nearly an hour’s time ago, allowing the holiday ensemble’s music to fill the gaps in his unimpressive, nearly one-sided conversation. There wasn’t a point in enjoying it anymore, now that he can no longer embrace the numbness it brings. Though, he decides as he lowers the glass from his lips, he will gladly welcome the familiar warmth it brings as it cascades down the back of his throat.

“Well?”

He opens his eyes and lazily sets them on Maes Hughes, who is a little too eager for Roy’s taste this evening… both figuratively and literally.

“Nothing,” he replies, much to Maes’ disappointment.

His friend turns his gaze away for a moment and takes a swig of his ale, and then shakes his head. “You’re right,” he says as he sets his mug down. “Definitely not as strong as they say it is.” Despite that, he takes another quick sip.

“Really?” Roy gestures toward his friend’s rosy cheeks. “Because your face says otherwise.”

Maes scoffs and sets the stein back on the counter. A few moments of music bridge the gap their awkward exchange brings.

Roy’s eyes fall closed again. Since the incident, their relationship has been… different. Though he puts on a brave face and acts as goofy and unconcerned as before, Maes is still just as transparent as he had always been. His facial expressions and mannerisms are on par, but no matter what, he can’t hide the raw, primitive instincts his body is designed for. He can’t stop his heart from pounding against his ribs, nor prevent the steady stream of sweat that pours from his pores every prolonged moment he is in Roy’s presence. It’s human nature, and no matter what, he can’t stop what he was naturally designed to react to.

And that’s okay. Roy just… wishes that he would let go of the charade for a moment to admit that, rather than try to get him drunk when it’s no longer physically possible simply to bring back a sense of normalcy between them, he would just admit that he’s afraid.

He thinks about disrupting their already drawn out lull when the distant trill of the town’s bell reaches his ears. Roy waits a few moments before responding to it to curb his already heightened senses. Only when the people around them begin to shift and grow uneasy does he respond by lifting his head. The distant cry of, “wolf… wolf!” forces Maes’ heart into overdrive.

“But it isn’t a full moon,” Maes mutters under his breath.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Roy reminds him as the pub’s patrons begin to pour out into the streets. He stands, intending to follow. “If it’s a true lycan, that is.” 

Maes’ hand encircles his wrist and holds him in place. Roy turns his stare toward him. Maes swallows and his heart again begins to pound. Roy’s glare softens and he loosens his stance.

“You don’t have to go out there, you know.”

Roy sighs. “I know. But the longer I wait, the more difficult it’s going to be to allow me to return to normal.”

The feet of Maes’ stool scratch against the floor as he stands and releases his hold on Roy’s wrist. His stare is desperate, his eyes pleading for him to reconsider.

Roy sighs and shoves his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Come on, let’s go.”

It takes a few minutes longer than intended, squeezing between the ever-growing frantic crowd that has begun to form in the street, before the two of them find themselves between a streetlamp a few blocks from the pub.

Now alone, Maes begins debate again. “You don’t have to go, Roy. You know what’ll happen if they figure it out.”

Images of the numerous hunts, quarterings, and burnings Roy has driven, and sometimes even led, flash through his mind, and for a moment he considers his friend’s plea. But then the thought of sinking deeper into this wretched curse prompts Roy to dismiss his friend’s regard for his life. Regardless, whether he stays and allows it to continue to consume him, or goes and is found out, the end result is the same - dying as a monster not too dissimilar to the one the townsfolk are mewling about at this very moment. He turns on his heels and begins to stalk toward the forest.

“Roy,” Maes pleads again as he reaches out and clutches his shoulder. “Please, listen to me. You’ve been different ever since you came back - more reckless. It’s like you’re trying to throw your life away now. For all you know, she could still be out there. If you throw your life away, you’ll-”

He shoves Maes’ hand off his shoulder. What would he know about throwing his life away? He hasn’t been subjected to this eternal damnation; forced to walk the earth always starved, never able to satiate a neverending lust for blood. Right now, Roy has two options: Stay and allow it to consume him, or go and let this task be the deciding factor. If he takes its heart, he could end this eternal nightmare, and finally find peace. Granted, as long as most of his soul has remained intact.

He stops after a few paces and Maes does too. “Actually,” he murmurs over the steadily rapid pound of his friend’s heart in his ears, “I think we’ve both changed, Maes.

“Tell me,” Roy continues, as he glances over his shoulder. “Did your heart ever beat for me the way it does now before I changed?” As the color drains from Maes’ face, he continues, unrelenting. “I had always prided myself in discerning friend and foe’s inner feelings, but ever since I became ‘this,’ I discovered how wrong I had been.

“I can smell fear, and ever since I’ve returned as I am, it’s the only stench that rolls off of you.”

Maes blanches. “Roy, you know that I-”

Roy turns away. “There’s no denying instinct, Maes. The longer you continue with this denial, the harder it will be to accept what you already know deep down.”

“Denial,” Maes sputters angrily. “Denial, Roy?” His hands clench into fists against his side and the fear that Roy has grown accustomed to rapidly devolves into rage. “I might be denying what you’ve become because I’m not ready to give up, but you’ve done everything except deny and question what’s happened.

“You might have accepted this fate, Roy Mustang, but your acceptance is nothing more than blind complacency. You’ve refused to question this because you don’t think your fate will change.”

“You don’t know that,” Roy shoots back. “By hunting it down, I could reverse this. I could change my fate-”

Maes gestures at  him. “With only a silver knife?! If you actually cared to, Roy, your crossbow would be at your side. You’re setting yourself up to die.”

“And if I do,” Roy snaps, “Then what of it? The world would be rid of another monster, and your wife and daughter could once again sleep soundly.”

Maes takes a step toward him. “You know that’s not what I meant. You’re twisting my words-”

“And you’re distorting my intent,” Roy fires back. “You weren’t there that day. You didn’t see the devastation it left in its wake. The blood that beast coated the walls with. Or at least… what was left of those walls. Everything I’ve known, Maes, was gone, in an instant.”

“… Everything?”

Roy’s hand curls into a fist. “You know what I meant. The life I had known as a hunter-”

“But not the life you had created here, right? The life you’ve created with us?”

He presses his lips together and turns away. “Go back home to Gracia and Elicia, Hughes. They’re the one constant you can rely on-”

“But they don’t only have to be,” Maes pleads as he reaches toward him. “Please, Roy. We can fight this together. We can fix this…”

The offer, though tempting in its most basic premise, will ultimately fail. Every day the desire for blood becomes stronger, and he fears -no, knows- that it will only be a matter of time before he can no longer contain it. It will be better for him, for all of them, if he lays to rest this abominable curse once and for all. And if that means he dies, then so be it. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “But you need to let me go.”

Before Maes can form a rebuttal, Roy has already plunged into the brush.

——————————————————————

With every step away from the village he takes, the less heavy the conflict weighs on what remains of Roy’s soul, and the more determined he becomes. Soon, he promises himself. 

Soon, there will be a resolution to this endless nightmare. 

The scent of blood is what draws him to it, long before the villagers before him who rely only on their memories and ‘intuition.’ It helps having mapped out where their traps were laid, though in retrospect, and nearly never as effective as tracking. 

The years Roy had spent as a hunter equipped him with the skill and wherewithal to successfully track each and every creature that blights man. Ghouls, messy and tactless - they’re the easiest to track down. Vampires, easily the most difficult to trace. Their conscious effort in concealing themselves had proved challenging to Roy in ways that he hadn’t imagined… until he became one. 

Werewolves settled somewhat comfortably in the middle. Elusive when they needed to be, yes; but the care they exercise when human is grossly distorted when they change. Though they retain their human-level intellect, Roy has found that few of their human memories transcend the boundaries of their metamorphosis, and that is ultimately their downfall. Without consistent, rational thought, their elusiveness falls to pieces, and they very much behave like the beasts their legacies paint them as.

The stench of blood becomes stronger and Roy slows to a slow canter, taking care in avoiding unnecessary twig snaps and rustling of the leaves underfoot. Though the overwhelming scent suggests to him that it’s stationary and capacitances, he cannot discern whether it’s immobilized. 

Carefully, Roy steps into a clearing bathed in the half moon’s light, and finds the mess of blood and grey and tan fur that lays in its center.

The wolf senses his presence and recoils, curling itself into a ball beneath the rope and steel contraption that encircles it. He stops short of it to survey its precarious position - apprehended by a mass of steely spikes and snares, the trap envisioned by the village trappers had not been kind to it. Though the half moon’s light was not nearly that of its full counterpart, he can still make out the pool of blood, growing with every second, left by its blunder. 

“Legend has it,” he murmurs, “That the heart of a werewolf will cure the blight set upon a vampire.” He carefully draws the silver blade that has been situated against his hip, and carefully curls his fingers around its hilt. “That its properties will heal even the most unfortunate of curses.” He steps toward it and it bares its teeth. “Think of this as equivalent exchange,” he contends. “Both cursed as monsters, only to help the other rise from the ashes to reclaim their humanity.”

With this, they will both finally rest. 

With this, he will finally find peace.

His fingers curl around the blade’s hilt and for a moment, he swears he can feel the rush of adrenaline that this practice brings about.

Its lips curl as its yellow eyes steadily drift toward the knife.

He stops short of it, in the event that its shackles loosen, and gradually he lowers himself to its level. Carefully, he scopes out the precarious position it has been left in, bound and tangled by rope and sharp steel - designed to maim, but not kill. A trap designed to even fool the most clever of wolves. As his eyes drift, so does his curiosity. The moon above is very much halved, and yet a wolf is present before him - one of human conception. Its sharp ears and longer digits give its origin away. 

Lycans are a rare breed, one that is dying out, but all the while, cursed just as unfortunately as he. The child of any and every moon, their transformations are all the more dangerous - becoming more unstable and unpredictable than the last, as they falter between human and beast without the moon’s guidance. It’s a favor, he contents with himself as he drags the silver blade against his palm. A kill dripping with mercy. To leave it in the state it’s in would be cruel. Because if he doesn’t kill it, the villagers that are mere steps behind him will surely string it up until its final breath, and parade its corpse around the town’s square like a trophy.

At least, that’s what he always rationalized with himself before striking, as his master taught him…

The thought of his master forces him to stop short.

Leaning back on his heels, Roy turns his face up toward the hole in the tree canopy above him. If he could see him now, would he be proud? Or, most importantly, would his daughter? 

Thinking about Riza at a time like this seems uncanny to him, and yet, despite this, her visage fills his mind and brings about a sense of peace. Would she approve of him, her father’s legacy, despite her disdain for it before? Would she approve of this… ‘thing’ he has become?

His grip on the blade’s hilt tightens. Moments before he rids the world of yet another monster…. Moments before he could regain his humanity, he thinks about…. This? Is it… 

The misplaced scent of lavender wafts past his nose and the collectiveness he has worked to build falters. Why does it suddenly smell like her?

The wolf senses his uncertainty and shifts, prompting him to shift his gaze toward it again, after he had momentarily forgotten its presence. And, had his heart not stopped before this, it almost certainly would have at this moment.

Eyes he had dismissed as devoid of anything remotely human suddenly draw his attention to them, enveloping him in an odd sense of familiarity. He doesn’t dismiss the fact that lycantropes retain their human-level intelligence but for once… he finds himself conflicted. The humanity that seeps from its golden eyes force him to pause.

He knuckles the knife, trying to call forth the wisdom Master Hawkeye had endowed on him, but despite that, she overtakes his mind.

—–----------------------------------------------------------

“Try aiming a little lower. You’ll hit your mark more often.”

Roy raises a brow and glances over his shoulder toward Riza. She sits perched in the same tree’s crevice she always does, a book balanced carefully on her knees. Though her eyes are cast down toward the book, every ounce of her concentration is on him.

The corner of his lip twitches. “Care to show me?”

She pauses for a moment, her eyes still on the book. But despite that, her body language says otherwise. Her hands have refused to still, running along the edges of the book impatiently. The familiar feel of a crossbow cradled in them is a powerful motivator.

He lowers the weapon and disarms it before holding it toward her, dangling it playfully.

The bait is a success, and with a sigh she slides off the tree and discards her book on the ground. Her fingers run along the flight groove before sliding around the weapon to take hold of the stock and foregrip. “Like this. She takes the arrow that had been mounted moments before and loads it.

Where it takes Roy moments to contemplate, aim, and shoot, Riza doesn’t. Before he can even focus on her target, she lets the arrow fly, striking the handpainted target that stands meters away. 

A perfect bull’s eye.

Turning to him, she offers the weapon back, which he slowly takes. The ghost of a smile crosses her face and she lifts a brow. “Catch that?”

He swallows as his cheeks begin to burn. “I think so.”

She folds her arms and watches as he reloads another arrow and poises. “Lower your elbows,” she offers, and he reflects her suggestion. “Straighten your back.”

He does as she says.

She reaches out and slowly pushes the bow so that it hovers parallel to the ground. “Now,” she continues softly. “Look for that window, and hold your breath when you shoot.”

He sucks in a breath and plants his feet firmly against the ground, mirroring everything she has offered to him. He releases the breath, inhales, and steadies himself as he stares down through the risers. “Why don’t you practice this more often? Your father mentioned that he began training you.”

He catches her flinch out of the corner of his eye and she remains quiet for a few moments before the tension in her shoulders releases and she mutters, “Just shoot.”

He abides, and the arrow sinks into the tree adjacent to the target. As he lowers it, she strides to the tree and pulls the arrow from it. But rather than return, she instead stands firmly in place, staring down as she balances it in her palms.

Carefully, Roy walks to meet her and she shakes her head, and he stops in his tracks.

“He’s made you numb, Roy,” she whispers, dragging her fingers over the grooves and gouges etched into the arrow’s body. “And he nearly did the same to me.”

He opens his mouth and attempts to reform a rebuttal, but stops when one fails to manifest.

She looks into his eyes, her glare unyielding. “Because they’re still human.”

—————————-

They’re still human…

The hand free of his blade reaches up to cover his mouth and he stumbles back, as thought something had delivered him a devastating blow. 

The wolf exhales and rests its head against the ground, its eyes sinking closed as it seems to accept its fate.

He drops to his knees. “You’re human…” Staring down at the blade in his hand, he finds himself overcome by a new sensation. One inexplicably, irrationally against everything his master had instilled in him…

Has he really become… numb?

Dragging his fingers through and fisting it in his hands, he stares down at the creature he had, until this moment, fully intended to kill. Now, it pays him no heed; its chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. Its eyes are open now, focused on the earth beneath it, as though it reflects on its existence. Its purpose. 

Just like him. 

Without another thought, he grips the rope that has entangled it and thrusts the blade’s edge against it, severing it. Again. And again.

And again.

With every stroke, the rope’s hold on it loosens. And the weight on Roy’s soul loosens too.

The final stroke releases the last shred of guilt, but undoubtedly also releases it. Despite his heightened strength and senses, even he cannot react nearly as quickly as he believes. The force of its body crashes against him and in a matter of moments, he is pinned against a tree and its teeth are at his throat. His fingers grapple for the knife that had been planted against his palm moments before, only to find that it’s no longer there. A quick glance confirms his suspicion - that it has slid outside of his grasp, abandoned beneath a bush well outside of his reach. His mind races with possibilities, from clenching its throat until its neck snaps to thrusting it off of him, only to realize that in every scenario, he is at the disadvantage without silver to establish his dominance.

Rather than dwell on its unfortunate disposition, he turns his gaze toward the wolf. Seemingly realizing that it had the advantage, its lips curl into what Roy could only interpret as a grin.

“You’ve got me,” he utters against the breath that beats down against his neck. “So why don’t you end it? We’re enemies, aren’t we?”

A growl ripples through its throat, reverberating through his neck and chest, and its teeth tighten against him. His eyes defensibly close and he braces himself for the darkness he has come to expect. Somehow, though he had envisioned a fate designed in a similar fashion - one in which he is bested by one of the things he thought he was destined to hunt and eliminate. How fitting, being expunged as one of similar regard.

But after what seems like an eternity, the pressure unexpectedly releases. By the time his eyes open, the wolf is gone, leaving in its wake a trail of blood.