Face masked in crimson light, he watched the setting sun disappear beneath distant sand dunes and sighed.
In his hand he played with the chain of a weather-worn silver watch he had found among the ruins of what was once a town called Lior.
Its owner, he did not know.
The town, he did not know.
Its people, he did not know.
The boy sat, alone, and thought of the things he’d done, in a different time, in a different life. He knew only of the things he’d been told.
He knew, for example, that he’d been here two times before. He found the details of the first in a report written by someone no longer by his side.
The second time, he’d heard talk of from the military folks he no longer knew by name. But even then the details were foggy.
He also knew of a man named Scar- a man from Ishbal, with red eyes and brown skin. A great X, of unknown origin, crossed his face. His arm had a giant tattoo of an ancient transmutation circle. The man had sought to kill his brother numerous times, he’d learned, and possessed a great power.
But the boy could not remember him.
He’d never kept a memory in the first place. So it was only natural that he knew nothing of the man’s true nature, or what bond they may have formed, or what words or sacrifices they could have exchanged at one point in time that seemed never to exist. Perhaps these things hadn’t happened at all.
And yet the boy still sat among the sand, sweating under the desert sun and shivering under its cold moon. He sat, with just a canteen of water at his belt, to brave the biting wind. To stare into the emptiness and dream.
He would soon forget to listen for his teacher’s calls, and his teacher would soon forget to call for him.
The boy would stay there for another day.
And he would lay his head upon his knees, alone, and cry.
Crossposted to: csakuras and scaral.