#it can be easy to look at armstrong as a heavy handed attempt at **POLITICS IN YOUR BELOVED MGS**

[aeirs-moved]

cinema sins game sins type videos piss me off so bad like Is it not enough for a game or movie to be interesting, enjoyable and relevant for you?

[jeminy3]

The Things We Carry.

One of many old drabbles I’m finally getting around to finishing. Expect more Blind!Roy in the future.

In this one, Roy visits the Hughes house a few months after the Promised Day. He refused Marcoh’s offer to heal his eyes.

Features: Blind Character PoV, implied self-loathing, depression, character death and the repercussions on their spouse and child, discussions of death and violence with a child.

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Cool art by Manalfedz

–

"Can you see this, Mister Mustang?"

Roy stares, aiming slightly down and to his side where Elicia's voice is coming from, but he sees nothing besides the usual darkness.

"No, I can't," he says.

He hears the girl huff softly, then the clicking and clacking of plastic as she retrieves another toy.

"What about this? The light's really bright, can you see?"

Roy knows it's pointless, but he strains his eyes anyway. He thinks he can see the tiniest spot of grey flickering in the darkness of his vision,  maybe, but it's so faint he can hardly tell.

Well, he can't bear to dash the girl's hopes. So he says, "Just a little bit."

Elicia gasps softly. "Really? Yay!" Her little voice beams with excitement, and she claps her hands vigorously. It warms him, and Roy can't help smiling.

Suddenly there's the sound of her mother, Gracia, entering the room, telegraphed by footsteps on the dining room carpet and the shifting of her clothes.

"Look, mommy! It's so bright, even Mister Mustang can see it!" Elicia says, probably waving the light-up toy around for her mother to see.

"That's nice dear, but I think Mustang's had enough for now," her mother replies, somewhat curtly. There's the soft 'thunk' of dinner plates, heavy with food, being laid upon the table Roy's currently sitting at.

"Can you pick up your toys and play in the living room? We're having dinner now."

"Okay..." Elicia says, not hiding her dejection.

There's more click-clacking as she retrieves her toys, and the sound comes and goes as Gracia joins him at the table and begins to speak. Roy can imagine her carting her toys to the other room one armful at a time - she must have brought more toys than he first thought.

"I'm so sorry if she bothered you, Mustang," Gracia says quietly, slightly strained.

Roy lightens his voice, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh no, no, it's fine. She's just curious is all. Perfectly natural at her age."

Gracia sighs, a bit long-sufferingly. "I suppose. I can't imagine what it's like myself."

"Not many can," Roy says casually.

By now he's felt around for his fork on the table, which he uses to explore his dinner via holding it by the base of its tines instead of the handle, using his fingertips to discreetly touch at the food. Feels like meatloaf slices, with sides of peas and mashed potatoes. Very humble, as Gracia had warned him before he came over, but nonetheless appetizing as the smell wafts up to his nose. It's warm, homely, like the Hughes' household always is. Thank God that hasn't changed.

Roy tries the peas first, enjoying the way the soft seeds gently burst into mush between his teeth, tasting mildly sweet and buttery.

Gracia speaks up again after a soft clinking of metal-on-dinnerware from her direction. "I don't mean to pry, but- how are you, lately? I'm sure it hasn't been easy, at work or otherwise."

Roy pauses to swallow the peas. "...Like I've said, we have a system now, and it works. I should be asking how you've been, Gracia. It's been a while."

Gracia stutters a bit. "Oh- Me? There's not much to tell, really. Just more of the same."

Roy blinks uselessly in her direction, halfway though lifting a piece of meatloaf to his lips. "...Even after the eclipse?"

Gracia laughs uncomfortably. "Ah- Well yes, that was quite the scare, but we're alright now. And very glad that we are!"

His guilt stings at him again at the word, the memory of that day. In all his nerve-fraying preparation for that event, he'd arranged safe passage for his own family out of Central, but not the family of his closest friend. Another wound to pick at himself with until the end of his days.

...And by now Roy thinks he's hearing a pause in Elicia's toy-handling that line up perfectly with every other line of their conversation, but... Eh. He elects to ignore it. Not like she'll understand what they're talking about anyway

Roy clears his throat lightly. "...I'm happy to hear that, but- I worry about you, Gracia. You know I do. And I'm sorry again that I couldn't visit sooner."

He can hear the shifting of Gracia shaking her head. "Roy, please. I'm alright, really! Major Armstrong has been kind enough with electing to watch Elicia for me when I'm out. He's such a great help, you know."

Roy smiles around his mouthful of meatloaf, both at her statement and the juicy texture of the meat. Gracia always was a great cook.

After swallowing, he says, "So I've heard. Working out well, I imagine?"

"Oh yes, Elicia adores him. Says she talks his ear off all the time."

She chuckles lightly. Roy can’t help laughing as well, imagining the tiny girl pestering the relatively massive Strong Arm Alchemist with a deluge of comments and questions, not unlike what she was doing earlier with Roy himself.

But the lightness is short-lasting, falling into an uncomfortable silence as they returned to their food. Roy fills his mouth with a spoonful of mashed potatoes, doing his best to ignore the emptiness that occupies the third seat at the table now - even without eyes, he can still feel it there.

Gracia gives a small sigh, suddenly. "...Still...."

"Mm?" Roy grunts through his mouthful of potatoes.

"...Are... Are you sure you're alright?" she asks, in this strange, almost desperate tone of voice. "I know at work you are, but- what about your personal life?"

Roy swallows thickly, partly because of the potatoes, partly because this conversation was making him uncomfortable now. He clears his throat and forces a chuckle.

"What personal life? I practically live at the office, you know this, Gracia," he says, half-laughing.

Gracia doesn't lighten her tone, though, cutting deeper instead. "...I'm serious, Roy. After what you've gone through, what happened in-"

"The explosion, yes. It was terrible," Roy cuts in, more curtly than intended.

He jerks his head in the direction of the living room, because by now he's confident that Elicia is quietly listening in on them. An explosion had taken his sight - that's the public statement they'd released, among many, many others, to explain what'd happened on the Promised Day.

Gracia catches his hint with a small cough. "Ah- of course. Sorry..."

Roy straightens, clears his throat again. "...It's fine. I'm coping as best I can, like I always do." His tone leaves another sentence hanging between them, unspoken - So please, don't worry about me.

"...That's what I'm afraid of," Gracia says quietly, more to herself, really

Roy can't think of a response - and soon silence falls again, this time pressing down like a great, crushing weight, a sensation of drowning.

There's another clinking of dinnerware - Gracia seems to have stopped eating. She sighs again, this time with an air of finality. "Just... don't run yourself too hard, Roy. You've been through a lot."

"I'm-"

"I would know," she adds quietly, cutting off Roy's response. This time, he swallows nothing. Or perhaps the sentence he attempted to say.

He's not liking this trend of everyone around him worrying excessively for his personal well-being, lately. But it can't be helped, he supposes, with the severity of his condition and the position he's still holding despite it. It's been nearly two months now, and his superiors are still shocked that he's refusing to retire, but at least Grumman's been willing to work with him. He'll admit that it's been anything but easy, but he'll be damned if he stops pursuing his goal and lets himself become a burden to everyone. He simply can't give up now - he's done too much, come too far, and couldn't live with himself if he did.

...Besides, he can hardly live with himself as it is.

He hears Gracia shift, and suddenly feels a warm hand grasping his own from across the table, gentle but firm.

"If you ever need to talk, I'm right here" she says, full of warmth and sincerity like she always is.

...Like Maes was, too.

Roy swallows at nothing again. "...Thank you," he whispers, trying his best to sound sincere.

Because to be brutally honest, he can't see himself taking up that offer very often, if at all.

---

The tension at dinner never quite went away, even into dessert. Sweet slices of pumpkin pie gained a bitter aftertaste on Roy's tongue, and he decided to take this as his cue to take his leave and head back home to his apartment.

“Thank you for the food, Gracia,” he says, somewhat tersely, rising from his chair. “Delicious as always.”

“Thank you, Roy,” she responds, a little stiffly. She shifts and takes his hand to shake it - hangs there for a few moments, awkward, leans closer as if wanting to offer him a hug instead. But she doesn’t, probably sensing Roy’s tension at the idea.

Still, he bows politely, retrieves his cane and makes his way to the living room and the front door beyond it – then finds himself stopped by a small hand tugging on his pant leg.

“Mister Mustang! You’re not leaving, are you?” Elicia chirps at his side.

Roy lowers his head in the direction her voice is coming from (or as best as he can guess). “I’m afraid so, dear. I’m sorry, but it’s getting late-”

“But I wanted to show you somethin’!”

“Ah- Oh. You did?”

“Mommy, can I take Mister Mustang to my room before he goes? Pleeeease?”

“Yes dear, but don’t keep him long,” Gracia calls out from the kitchen over the soft sound of running water, probably starting to wash the dishes.

“Okay!” Elicia bounces against him, and he feels her small fingers reaching up to grasp his own. Roy flusters slightly, caught between his own awkwardness and the whims of this precocious little girl. The girl, of course, wins out, and he submits to being tugged along by the arm across the house and into a bedroom down the hall.

Roy feels for obstacles with his cane instinctively as Elicia leads him inside, helping him around her furniture and scattered toys on the floor. He finds himself lead to her bed near the back.

“You can sit on my bed, Mister Mustang,” she says. Strangely, it sounds more like a command than an offer.

Roy ponders this as he seats himself on the little bed’s soft comforter, along with the silence that’s suddenly settled around him. Elicia doesn’t say a word as he hears her walk across the room, close her bedroom door, then return to the bed. Neither does she stop to retrieve a toy, or a book, or anything.

Roy feels the mattress sink and rise as her small form takes a seat next to him, still saying nothing. He feels very nervous, suddenly.

After a beat, she finally speaks, and in this strange, solemn sort of way. "Mister Mustang, can I ask you something?"

Roy turns in her direction, not sure what she's implying... but he gives her a smile anyway. "Of course, dear. Ask me anything."

"Who really took your eyes?"

Roy is... caught off-guard, to say the least. His smile vanishes in an instant, and he stammers out his response, his eyes blinking uselessly. "My... W- What?"

Elicia pauses for a moment, then speaks again, still in that odd tone of voice. "...It was the monsters, wasn't it. The ones who killed my daddy."

She knows. And she sounds far, far too serious about it. It's frightening.

...But then, Roy thinks, should he really be surprised? This poor girl lost her father when she'd barely turned three years old. She's been living with a grieving mother ever since, and the entirety of her short life in a violent, war-mongering country that's just gone through an earth-shattering upheaval within the past few months. He can't imagine what she's gone through, at such a tender age.

Obviously quite a bit, as she already has the presence of mind to keep up appearances in front of him and her mother while they discuss sensitive topics, and the intelligence to corner him for sensitive information in privacy.

Ah... she's already so much like her father, Roy realizes. Too stubborn to accept anything but the truth. He sees no point in not being honest with her.

He clears his throat to compose himself. "...Yes, it was them."

Elicia grunts. "I knew it."

Now, Roy could ask a sensitive question. "And how did you know, Elicia? Who told you about the monsters? Not your mother, I hope."

Elicia shifts, her hair-ties clinking softly as she shakes her head. "No, not mommy. She gets too sad. Mister Armstrong told me. I asked him over and over and over, 'till he told me all about the monsters living under the ground, hurting people and making them die. They made all that bad stuff happen during the ee-clips."

Oh, Alex... His heart is so soft. And Elicia is so cunning, now.

"They're all gone now, right Mister Mustang? You guys killed them all?" she asks expectantly.

"...Yes, we did. Even the one who killed your daddy. I fought him myself," Roy says, but not with any air of triumph.

Elicia doesn't seem to notice that, though. She gasps with excitement. "You did?! You used your fire, right?"

Roy nods, the memory not being pleasant. "Yes... I burned him a hundred times. Maybe more."

Elicia's hair-ties clink again, nodding her head. "That's good. I hope he hurt before he died."

This voice of cruelty and vengeance has no place coming from the mouth of a four-year-old. Roy frowns, poised to nip it in the bud here and now.

"Well, I don't, Elicia. Not anymore."

"Huh?" Her hair-ties clink again as she turns to face him, probably wearing a puzzled look on her little face.

Roy takes a deep breath, releases it. "Elicia, listen... I know how you must feel about this. I felt it too, when I was burning that monster. But it's not a good thing. I almost lost myself back there."

Elicia makes an odd, confused little sound. "Lost...? Like a maze? Mazes are easy, you just follow the walls 'till you find the way out."

Roy can only chuckle. She's thinking of her puzzle books... Perhaps her innocence isn't completely lost after all. But ah, how to explain this...

"It's... a different kind of maze," Roy says, grasping for the words even as he speaks. "It's more like... a maze that's inside you. With no walls."

Elicia makes another confused sound,  shifting and scratching her head. He can imagine her small face scrunched up with exasperation.

"...You're weird, Mister Mustang," she says finally.

"Hah, I know," he chuckles. "But it is like a maze."

He reaches out to touch her little shoulder, patting lightly when he finds purchase. "Listen... have you ever felt so sad, or so angry, that you forgot about everything else? Even who you are?"

Elicia makes thoughtful sounds at that."Um... I dunno. Maybe when Daddy died. Mommy was so sad she forgot to eat sometimes."

"Mm..." Roy scoots closer to her on the bed, draws her in with the arm at her back, hugging her against his side as she leans into him.

"Well, that's how I felt," he continues. "When I found that monster, and he told me he killed your daddy... I was angry. So, so angry. Like it was filling me up, all the way from my feet to the top of my head."

Elicia hums sadly.

"I forgot about everything. I forgot who I was, who my friends were. All I wanted to do was just... be angry, forever, and burn that monster over and over for what he did to your daddy."

Elicia pulls away slightly. "But- you can't just be angry. Not for forever."

Good, she understands. "That's right," Roy nods, "I couldn't. I thought I could, but my friends knew better. They stopped me, before I was lost for good."

Elicia makes a sound like something between awe and sadness.

"It was like... Like I was a completely different person back there," Roy says, getting a bit lost in the memory himself, now. He could almost laugh at it now, in this terrible sort of way. "...Can you even imagine? Being so angry that you're not even yourself anymore?"

"No... That's scary," Elicia says, matter-of-fact.

"Yes, it was," Roy says thoughtfully. "I was pretty scared back then. And I don't scare easily."

Elicia sighs, then wraps her small arms around his waist in a hug. "It's okay, Mister Mustang," she says, as if he were still upset about it now.

...Well he does sound a bit watery in his voice, Roy realizes belatedly. Remembered too much of his emotions back then, perhaps. He chuckles again, but welcomes her comfort, wrapping his arm around her small shoulders.

"I'm fine now, dear, I just don't want that to happen to you."

"Mm..." Elicia hums, snuggling closer to him. Roy leans against her in turn, the warmth a small but welcome comfort.

There’s a beat of silence. Eventually, Roy breathes another long sigh. "Well... it's over now. Hopefully there won't be monsters like that ever again.”

"Yeah," Elicia mumbles, her face half-buried against his torso.

They stay like that, holding each other, for a long while. At least, long enough for Roy to fight back down the tears threatening to well up in his chest. No need for that, now.

Suddenly, Elicia leans away from him and speaks up again. "Mister Mustang... Can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course," he says.

"Don't tell Mommy. Promise."

"I promise."

"No, you gotta pinky promise. Like this."

She takes his hand in her two small ones and carefully splays out his fingers, then hooks one of her little pinky fingers with his own. Chuckling a little, he bends his finger, sealing the gesture.

"Alright, alright, I'm doing it. Will you tell me now?"

Elicia giggles slightly, and he can hear her smiling now. "Yeah, yeah! Um-"

She pauses for a moment, as if steeling herself.

Then she says, "I wanna be like you when I grow up. An Alchemist."

Roy's grip relaxes at the revelation, his breath escaping him slightly with bewilderment. An alchemist… like him? Despite the still-cynical part of his mind, he can feel his heart swell in his chest. He can only hope that by the time Elicia reaches adulthood, the State Alchemists will be reformed into something she can be proud to be a part of. Servants of the people and paragons of science, no longer living instruments of war and death. Hopefully...

Elicia releases his hand and makes a worried sound at his tension. "Um- Girls can be Alchemists too, right?"

"O- of course," Roy says, trying and failing to recover. "Just... do your studies and work hard. That's all you need to do, really." Setting aside everything else, he isn't wrong.

"Okay! I will, I promise!" she says, all but bouncing against him on the bed by now.

Roy tries to laugh through the tightness in his chest. "Hey now - I hope you don't want to burn things like me, too?"

She stops bouncing. "Huh? No, not that. I wanna help people. Make no more bad things happen."

And this… gives Roy great pause. Her desires are so pure, so simple - so much like his own, when he was young and innocent and only knew he wanted to learn, to fight, to protect people.

Yes, he definitely wants to cry now. "Oh- Oh?"

"I dunno what I'll do,” Elicia continues. “But- I just wanna help people. Like Daddy did, but with Alchemy. You can do that, right?"

Roy swallows, losing the battle with his emotions. "Of... of course you can. We're supposed to, in fact. It's one of our rules: 'Alchemist, be thou for the people.'“

God, let it be true when this girl grows up.

"'Alchemist, be thou for the people'..." she repeats, slowly. After a beat, she says, "...I like that."

"...I'm glad you do." Roy smiles, now feeling tears gathering in his blind eyes, spilling from their corners.

Elicia startles at him. "-You're crying! What's wrong, Mister Mustang?"

Roy wipes at his eyes with one hand, sniffling. "Sorry, Elicia, I... I-it's happy tears, really."

She throws her little arms around him in a desperate hug, burying her face in his chest. "Please don't cry Mister Mustang! You're gonna make me cry!"

He holds her against him, laughing and pressing small kisses into her hair. "I'm sorry, I'm just- I'm so proud of you, dear.”

When he senses her lift her head to look at him, he adds, “...Your daddy would be, too."

He hears her start to sniffle, and she buries her head against him again, turning her head slightly.

"I hope he watches me,” she says softly. “I wanna be the best Alchemist ever."

"...And I'm sure you will," Roy whispers to her.

And he hopes Maes is watching him, too.

END.

[aswithasunbeam]

May 1814

The great commotion in the front hall woke Hamilton before the knock on the bedroom door. He could hear distant voices, muted but abuzz with excitement, and a drumbeat of heavy boots against his hard wood floor. After adjusting the blankets over Eliza’s shoulder, he rolled to the side and began the arduous task of transferring himself into the chair parked beside the bed. By the time his aide made it to his door, he was arranging a blanket over his lap.

“Sir? Urgent news.” The light of a lantern spilled through the small crack in the door, just large enough for his aide’s head to peek inside.

“So I gathered from the circus in my front room,” he grumbled in a whisper.

“Sorry, sir. The news caused a bit of a stir.”

His aide pushed the door wide for him to make his way through to the hall. Hamilton motioned his head for his aide to close the door behind him. Only when he’d heard it click closed did he ask, “What time is it?”

“Just about four, sir.”

Lanterns were lit in the front room, he could see, and men in blue and buff uniforms were hurrying to and fro as though it were mid-day. Not yet ready to face the brightly lit and busy scene, he rolled into his office instead, his aide a pace behind him.

“What’s happened?”

A wrinkled note was thrust into his hand. He unfolded the paper and stared at the scribbled intelligence report. With a sigh, he rubbed his hands over his eyes before fumbling through his desk for his glasses. At last the blurry scribbles assembled into intelligible words, but he still stared down, blinking.

“Has this been verified?” he managed.

“Yes, sir.”

He looked down at the paper and read the message yet again, eyes fixed on the first two catastrophic words:  Bonaparte defeated.

“Then God help us.”

His aide bowed his head momentarily. “Shall I prepare the carriage, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose. I should be at the White House.” After his aide hurried out, he added to himself, “For all the good it will do.”

Quietly as possible, he made his way back to the bedroom, forgoing any light in the vain hope of not waking Eliza. He’d nearly managed to wrestle himself into uniform in the dark when he heard her stirring in the bedroom. “Alexander?”

He sighed. “In here,” he called, a little breathless as he finished maneuvering his breeches into the right position. His arms were shaking from effort as he reached for his uniform coat.  

A soft golden light flickered to life behind him. He heard her footsteps coming towards him as he finished fixing his cuffs, caught up in the sleeves. Her arms circled around his shoulders.

“You should be asleep,” he said.  

“So should you,” she replied, squeezing him gently. “What’s happened?”

“Napoleon Bonaparte has abdicated his throne and gone into exile in Elba.”

“Bad news for Bonaparte.” She yawned over the name, her nose nuzzling the nape of his neck. “But why has that gotten you out of bed at this hour?”

“It’s bad news for us.” He took a moment to adjust the Diamond Insignia of the Society of the Cincinnati that had once belonged to Washington, his palm closing around it for a brief moment. “If the British aren’t fighting Bonaparte, they only have one conflict to turn their attention towards. British troops will be flooding into Canada, and more undoubtedly will be reinforcing Cockburn on Tangier Island.”

“You’re worried about the capital.”

“Yes.”

“Madison still won’t see sense?”

“Every time I start to bring him around, Armstrong steps in his with nonsense. He’s convinced Cockburn and the rumors of a threat to Washington are a distraction meant to draw troops away from the real conflict in the North.”

Eliza’s lips tickled at the sensitive skin under his ear.

“Stop.” A laugh slipped from his lips despite himself as he turned his head back towards her. “You’re tickling me.”

“Oh, am I?” She sounded far from repentant. The feather-light touch of her lips resumed.  

He laughed softly as he reached back to shoo her away. “If you’re going to kiss me, do it properly.”

She shifted, her hand running over his shoulders as she came around to face him. In the dim light, he could still see the strain from her bout of pneumonia in the slightly sunken quality to her cheeks, the loose fit of her night dress, the lingering pallor in her cheeks. Stark reminders of the price this pointless war had nearly extracted from him.

He’d insisted she return to the Grange to recover when the worst of the danger from her illness had passed. The tragic loss of their dear sister Angelica during her convalescence had been yet another blow. Hamilton had felt it keenly, both for having lost a treasured friend and as another reminder of how very real the threat of losing Eliza was. When he'd arrived home for the funeral, he'd found his wife a shadow of herself. He'd stayed in New York for two weeks, comforting her as best he could. And when he finally could put off the journey to the capital no more, Eliza had insisted on joining him again. Had he been stronger, better, he’d have insisted she remain at home, safe away from the political machinations and the real threat of invasion. But having her at his side once again, so close and real, had proven a temptation too sweet to resist.

He reached out to brush a loose curl back behind her ear, his thumb stroking over her cheek. His strong, steady, beloved wife. Her lips brushed against his. He tugged her closer, deepening the kiss. When she pulled back, she looked into his eyes and smiled.

“Everything will be all right,” she whispered.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you. That’s enough.”

“Sir?” His aide knocked on the outer door to the bedroom, interrupting the moment. “Your carriage is ready.”

He blew out a frustrated breath.

Eliza’s hands cupped at his cheeks, forcing him to meet her eyes. With utmost certainty, she repeated, “Everything will be all right.”

From her lips to God’s ears, he prayed.

“Go back to sleep,” he ordered, nudging her gently. “Rest. I need you strong, my angel. You have no idea how much.”

“I’ll try.” She stole another kiss before releasing him. “You go save the nation.”

He chuckled. “I’ll try.”

**

“British warships are already heading across the Atlantic,” Madison read aloud from the latest intelligence dispatch.

“Any word of their heading?” Hamilton asked.

“Canada, obviously,” Armstrong answered, without having looked at a single piece of intelligence.

“Obviously,” Hamilton repeated under his breath.

Armstrong shot him a look across the table. Hamilton answered by making another attempt at his coffee, the poor quality masked nicely by the fact that it was still boiling hot. Madison pushed the dispatch towards him.

“You’ll need to alert Burr. He needs to prepare.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

The Northern front, at least, he felt more confident about, especially now that Wilkinson had offered his resignation in the face of certain Court Martial and removal. Wilkinson’s conduct had been negligent bordering on treasonous, but it had ended with the right man in command. And after a full winter of solid training and proper supplies, the troops were as ready as they’d ever be to face battle once more.  

“And,” Madison paused for a long moment, deep in thought, “Start preparing a small force here in the Chesapeake.”

“Mr. President,” Armstrong objected immediately.

“Small?” Hamilton asked in the same moment.

“Two thousand men to start.”

“Two thousand? Against the full might and fury of the British army?”

“We can muster militia to make up the deficit of numbers should they be needed.”

“Should they be…” Hamilton took a breath, trying to keep his voice even. “They’ll come for the capital, Mr. President. I can assure you of that. Even without reinforcements, Cockburn is preparing for an invasion.”

“We can muster militia,” Madison repeated.

Gritting his teeth, he forced out, “Yes, Mr. President.”

“A waste of resources,” Armstrong muttered stubbornly.

“Whether they are necessary or not, we can’t afford to equip another full army,” Gallatin added from down the table. “Harrison’s force in Detroit cost us nearly three million dollars without having marched an inch. The war has interrupted commerce to such an extent that even with Congress authorizing additional taxes, our revenue is still down. We’re teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, Mr. President.”

“But Congress authorized another thirty-two million in loans, didn’t they?” one of the clerks from the War Department asked nervously.

“We have no credit abroad,” Hamilton offered, meeting Gallatin’s eye. “No one wants to lend to us.”

Gallatin nodded.

“If I may, Mr. President,” Gallatin continued tentatively, “I do have a suggestion for mitigating the crisis.”

“What’s that?” Madison asked.

“Re-charting the Bank of the United States may ease some of the financial strain.”

Hamilton had to work to keep his jaw from falling open in shock.

Madison wasn’t as successful. “How exactly does another bank help us, Mr. Gallatin?”

“The Bank of the United States was empowered to make short term loans to the government, removing the necessity to go begging abroad. We were also entitled to a portion of the Bank’s profits from the commercial business, a revenue source sorely missed especially now when taxes aren’t bringing in revenue as they should be. And the Bank was authorized to manage timely repayment of foreign loans, a job that very shortly will be taking up a great deal of resources from the Treasury.”  

“Congress isn’t going to authorize a second Bank in the middle of a war,” Madison said.  

Hamilton cleared his throat. “If I may, Mr. President, there won’t be much more of a war if the country goes bankrupt. Of course, ideally, the charter wouldn’t have lapsed in the first place. This is precisely the sort of crisis the Bank was designed to mitigate. And getting it up and running again in this economy will be no easy accomplishment.”

Gallatin met Hamilton’s eye. “Should Congress authorize another charter, I would…I would appreciate your input on seeing it successfully enacted, General Hamilton.”

“Of course,” he replied, striving for a casual tone. “It would be my honor, Mr. Secretary.”

Madison’s lips thinned. “Keep trying to find a source for the additional loans Congress has authorized, Gallatin. I’ll… I’ll give some thought to the other matter.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Gallatin agreed.

Hamilton looked down at his notes in front of him, fighting a triumphant smile.

[aquietwritingcorner]

Whumptober 2020 Day 1: Let’s Hang Out Sometime (waking up restrained/shackled/hanging) Word Count:  1880 Author: Katie/Ally (aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl)   Rating: T Characters: Olivier Mira Armstrong   Summary: Olivier wakes up in Drachman hands, and quickly finds out this is going to be worse that she thought.   Notes: Yes, I stole the name of the prison from another fandom. Points to you if you can tell me where!

Waking up

When Olivier began to regain awareness, it came the knowledge that she was in enemy hands. It was hard to say what tipped her off first. Was it the shackles that she could feel on her wrists and ankles? Was it the fact that, even with those, she could feel that she was also tied up? Or was it the odd sensation of hanging, almost like in a hammock, as if she wasn’t on something solid? Olivier wasn’t sure, but it honestly didn’t matter. The fact of the matter was that she knew she was in enemy hands.

Even though she had returned to awareness, though, she gave no sign of it, instead listening. She would wager that she was in Drachman hands, considering that they were the closest and had the biggest grudge against her. But Olivier had not made it this far with assumptions. It was better to stay seemingly unconscious and gather what information she could through her other senses.

She heard what sounded like metal clanking all around her, as if people were walking on metal grating. The footsteps sounded heavy, like they were in boots. She could hear voices far off. They weren’t clear enough to hear distinctly, but they had the cadence and tonality of Drachman. Regular movement happened as well. A patrol, perhaps? There were other sounds of movement, that sounded like they came from a distance away. There was the sound of some sort of gas leaking. Steam perhaps? It was quite warm in here, and there was a moisture to the air. She could smell metal, and perhaps the metallic scent of blood as well. There were other, strange smells that she couldn’t place, but that made her think of electricity and motors and oil. When the boots came near her, she felt the vibrations from them, and a slight swaying, as if someone was walking over whatever she was attached to.

She timed the patrols. With nothing else sounding near to her, she risked opening her eyes. There was a reddish cast of light that seemed surround everything, no matter which way she looked. She was, it appeared, in a metal box, perhaps about nine feet in all dimensions. The sides and bottom of it appeared to be solid metal, but the top was a grate, as if to allow someone to look down at her. Perhaps they did. It would make sense. It would be harder for her to injure or take someone hostage if they were nine feet above her. Not impossible, of course, but more difficult. It would also be harder to work on the bars of the cell this way. Actually, it was an ingenious design, and she’d have to look at the merits of implementing it when she got back to Briggs.

And she would get back to Briggs.

Olivier herself was restrained in a very interesting fashion. She seemed to be wrapped in a cloth hammock of sorts, one that she didn’t see an easy way out of, and that left her suspended off the ground, but away from the top of the grate. Chains held it in place and seemed to be attached to moors on the sides of the walls. It left her body in a somewhat reclined position, but not a restful one. She could feel the angle pulling at her back and assumed that was part of the purpose of it. She also could feel that she had metal shackles on her wrists and ankles and ropes tied around her arms and legs. The fact that she could feel the shackles on her ankles meant that she didn’t have her boots on and, truthfully, whatever clothes she had on didn’t feel like her uniform. It made sense. They wanted to make sure she was stripped of any potential weapons, she was sure.

So. She was clearly captured. She was in a metal cell with one exit on the ceiling. She was restrained. And she was suspended above the floor of her cell in a hammock. All of this could only mean one thing.

She was in Rura Penthe.

Rura Penthe was legendary. It was the most harsh of all of the Drachman prisons. No one came out of it. It was reserved for the worst of the worst, and the most high-ranking political prisoners. It was located in an inner area of the country, far north, and rumored to be so cold that Briggs winters looked like spring compared to it. It was constantly frozen. The Drachma government had dug down and built a prison here, using prisoners as labor. The ones that survived were imprisoned in what they had built. More than that, she had heard of the tortures that went on here. Their unusual ways of restraint was just the beginning. Once you were in, you were theirs for as long as they wanted to keep you alive.

Olivier smirked. Good to know that she ranked so high on their list of dangerous people that they had put her here. And she had an advantage—they’d want to keep her alive.

There was no way to keep track of time in Rura Penthe, she found. She estimated it based on her heartbeats, but those were variable, and with no natural light, there was really no way to tell how much time had passed. Everything here was bathed in a sense of red. The metal, the guards, the light. She watched as the guards passed over her cell, looking down at her to see if she was awake. They seemed not to care that she was. One just spit an explicative about her mother her way, laughed, and walked on.

The hammock, she discovered, was worse than she thought it would be. It was definitely not for the sake of comfort, or even for keeping her restrained. She was unable to shift even the slightest bit in it, especially as restrained as she was, and she found that her arms and legs were growing numb and stiff. She did what little she could to try to keep her circulation going, but it didn’t help much. Eventually she couldn’t feel them at all, and it was only by seeing a slight shift, or by feeling movement against other parts of her body that she still had feeling in that she could tell she was moving them.

She had counted about four circuits of the guards when there was a disruption in the pattern. The sound of heavy boots walking over metal grates sounded, and Olivier looked up. A big man in a heavy coat and with a thick black beard looked down at her, smiled, and then looked at the guards who were with him.

“Lower her,” he said in Drachman to them.

Olivier watched as the guards opened the grate above her and attached small metal ladders to the sides of it. It was with these that they were able to reach the moors in the wall where her hammock was chained, and slowly they lowered her to the ground. The ground was hard, but surprisingly warm. Her body, after being held in a curved position for so long, did not like lying flat on her back like this and it ached.

She didn’t show it.

“Remove her,” he commanded, and the guards climbed the rest of the way down. They reached out, opening the hammock and then unceremoniously rolling her out of it.

“Remove the ropes, but attach the chains,” the man said this time. “Bring her up.”

The guards cut the ropes, and Olivier felt the stinging pain of circulation starting to return. They roughly took her arms and legs, and ran chains through the shackles, attaching them. They stood her up, then, and she let them, although pain flared through her legs as they did. Supporting her on either side, they walked her over to the ladders, and began to manhandle her up one of them. She jerked them off.

“I can do it myself,” she snapped out at them.

They glanced up and the man must have made some sort of gesture, because they didn’t try to do it again. She reached for and grasped the ladder and started to climb. Her whole body ached, and she was still having trouble feeling her hands and feet, but she forced herself to climb up on her own anyway. She could barely feel the grate through her bare feet when she stepped onto it, which might have been a blessing actually. Still, she stood straight and tall in front of the man, as if she were in her uniform and commanding at Briggs, and not a prisoner with no shoes in thin prison garb. Another deterrent, no doubt, to attempting to break out. No one would go out in these clothes if they had any sense.

“Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong,” the man said, seemingly pleased with her. His Amestrian was heavily accented, but it was understandable. “I should have expected no less from you. Most people can hardly move after nine hours in the hammock.”

“Most people aren’t of my bloodline,” she said back to him.

“Ah, this is true,” he said. “Allow me to introduce you to your new surroundings. You are at Rura Penthe, deep in its belly. There is no escape from here, only death. Which, I suppose, could be a type of escape, depending on what you believe about the afterlife.”

He paused, as if he were waiting for a response from her and, when he got none, he continued on. “As for myself, we will be working very closely together, General.” He grinned at her. “I am looking forward to it.”

“And what makes you think that I will work with you?” she asked him coolly, not showing just how much pain she was in as her body tried to readjust itself after nine hours in the same position.

His grin widened. “Everyone works with Geograg Sodeset eventually.”

At that she couldn’t help the shock that went through her, and she knew some part of it had to have shown on her face, if his gleeful laugh meant anything. She had heard of Geograg Sodeset. Everyone had. She had even heard Drachman soldiers speak his name with fear. The twister. The mutilator.  The experimenter. The master of keeping someone on the brink of life and death for weeks, or even years, if the rumors were to be believed.

She believed them.

He laughed. “Come. We will get started. Let’s see what makes your bloodline so hardy, no?”

The guards, now up from her cell, grabbed her again, and pulled her along with them. And, unfortunately, she wasn’t in much of a position to resist.

Hours later found her being placed back in that hammock and suspended above the floor once again, although sans the ropes. After a session with Sodeset, there was no need for them. She wasn’t even moving under her own power. The guards manhandled her the whole way. And this time, as she hung there, she had a new way to keep track of the passage of time. It was from the drip drip drip of her pooling blood seeping through the material and falling onto the floor.

[calorieworkouts]

Know Before You Go: Road Cycling

After enjoying this year's Trip de France and Olympic track biking, it's tough not to be inspired to jump on a bike and ride. Whether the objective is to ride down a hill quicker than an auto, defeat close friends in a race, drop weight, experience fit, or have a reason to buy a new toy - road biking has everything. Here are the need-to-know truths every aspiring roadway biker ought to realize previously striking the open road.

Pedalling the Pavement - The Need-to-Know

Lance Armstrong makes it look easy, yet do not be misleaded - roadway biking is no walk in the park. It requires concentration, equilibrium, toughness, endurance, and also a bit of insaneness. It also calls for a bunch of energy, given that it's probably the most calorically demanding sporting activity. A 150 pound dude could burn around 700 calories an one hour pedaling at a 14-15.9 mph speed (modest effort). If our striving biker increased the pace to a more vigorous effort of around 16-19 mph, they could burn nearly 900 calories an one hour 2011 Compendium of Exercisings: a second update of codes and also MET worths. Ainsworth, B.E., Haskell, W.L., Herrmann, S.D., et al. Workout and Wellness Program, Institution of Nutrition and Health Promo, Arizona State College. The Journal of Medicine and also Science in Sports and Workout, 2011 Aug,43( 8):1575 -81 . While other sports like running can melt just as several calories each minute, an elite marathoner might use around 2,000 calories for the whole two-hour race, however a professional bicyclist can maintain this initiative even much longer. They can burn greater than 6,000 calories in a solitary day of racing, as well as do it on a daily basis for over 3 weeks Nutritional techniques of man and also women endurance cyclists. Burke, L.M. Australian Institute of Sport. The Journal of Sports Medicine, 2001,31( 7):521 -32 . Cycling is also reasonably simple on the joints, makings it a fantastic exercise for obese individuals or those with mobility troubles. However do not ditch the strength training. One research found that leisure bicyclists had reduced bone mineral density than joggers, likely due to that they weren't putting as much stress on their bones Participation in road biking vs operating is related to reduced bone mineral density in males. Rector, R.S., Rogers, R., Ruebel, M., et al. College of Missouri. The Journal of Metabolic process: Scientific and Experimental, 2008 Feb,57( 2):226 -32 . Also pro cyclists have lower bone mineral density compared to typical Joes Evaluation of the bone standing in high-level bikers. Guillaume, G., Chappard, D., Audran, M. French Professional Cyclism Team. The Journal of Clincial Densitometry, 2012 Jan-Mar,15( 1):103 -7 . Not just will strength training boost bone thickness, it could also improve cycling efficiency by boosting metabolism, creating lean weight as well as losing fat Resistance Training is Medication: Results of Stamina Training on Health. Westcott, W.L. Quincy College. The Journal of Current Sports Medicine Information, 2012 Jul,11( 4):209 -16 Effect of various bicycle body placements on power outcome in aerobically educated women. Hubenig, L.R., Game, A.B., Kennedy, M.D. College of Alberta. The Journal of Study in Sports Medicine, 2011 Oct,19( 4):245 -58 .

Live Free and Ride Tough - Your Activity Plan

Ready to begin using? Below's a 12-step activity plan to obtain you started.

1. Wear a helmet: This ought to be a piece of cake (literally, if a bicyclist crashes without one). Not all states require bikers to wear a headgear but it's one of the simplest and most reliable ways to maintain the noggin safe.

2. Get the right fit: Work with a local bike store to produce an ideal fit on the bike. This will certainly stay clear of neck and back pain and also injuries and enhance performance over the long-term. Bike fits are extremely specific, however a great general rule for identifying saddle height is for the customer to put a bare heel on the pedal and readjust the saddle to make sure that the knee is secured. Cyclists could change it from there to suit taste Cyclists Enhance Pedalling Efficiency as well as Performance After Heavy Toughness Training. Hansen, E.A., Ronnestad, B.R., Vegge, G., et al. Aalborg University. The International Journal of Sports Physiology and Performance, 2011 Dec 2 .

3. Bring a repair job set (and also discover the best ways to use it): Buy an extra tube from the neighborhood bike shop, cover it in child powder (making certain it moves right into the bike tire in emergency situations), and also placed it in a plastic bag. Carry a bike pump as well as a patch set to avoid experiencing stranded. Technique repairing a fixed in your home prior to the trip to make certain it can be done in an emergency.

4. Find a place to ride: After searching for a cycling club, look for ride paths and maps on the club's website. These trips will certainly be more secure, smoother, as well as much easier to adhere to compared to random roads.

5. Find some cycling friends: The ideal way to discover roadway biking is to ride with more experienced cyclists. There's no alternative for real-world direction and also most cyclists are satisfied to educate newbies every little thing they understand. Search the USA Biking website to locate a club.

6. Bring some ID: Mishaps occur, as well as it's a smart idea to have some identification in situation a biker faints or harmed. Bring an old motorist's permit, doodle some information on a notepad, or make use of a fancy bracelet or anklet with contact details on it, called a Road ID.

7. Get comfortable with cars: Cyclists have to share the road as well as not all drivers are as polite as they could (or must) be. Don't obtain upset or flash repulsive hand gestures if a motorist comes also close. Stay calm, maintain control over the bike, and also wave. It's better making pals with drivers instead of be enemies.

8. Learn the lingo: Cycling is not simply a sporting activity - it's a society with its own language. The terms will certainly come normally after a time, yet here are two essentials every cyclist must understand: 'composing,' riding behind one more cyclist to limit wind resistance and also save power, and 'peloton,' a group of riders drafting off one another.

9. Spin up to speed: Aim for a high cadence of around 90-100 changes per min. This might not be feasible at first, however make it an objective. This will make the pedal strokes smoother, which will minimize fatigue and also boost speed Effects on the crank torque profile when changing pedalling tempo in level ground as well as uphill road biking. Bertucci, W., Grappe, F., Girard, A., et al. Université de Franche Comté. The Journal of biomechanics, 2005 Might,38( 5):1003 -10 Effects of saddle height, pedaling cadence, and also work on joint kinetics as well as kinematics during biking. Bini, R.R., Tamborindeguy, A.C., Mota, C.B. Universidade Federal do Rio Grande do Sul. The Journal of Sports Rehab, 2010 Aug,19( 3):301 -14 .

10. Learn how to like tight clothes: It's feasible to obtain away with normal shorts for brief trips, yet wear some tight-fitting, padded bike shorts for longer ones. This keeps the body cool, cuts down on bother, as well as maintains the, ,' undercarriage' comfy.

11. Resist need to spend lavishly: Believe it or otherwise, it's possible to spend more compared to$ 20,000 on a bike. Do not do it. Many novice bikes will certainly be around$ 500 to $1000, which is still a good piece of adjustment. Fortunately, the rewards deserve the expense, as a good bike will certainly last a number of years. Begin with a lower-priced design and resist the temptation to get a super-bike ... a minimum of for now.

12. Think of signing up with USA Cycling: USA Biking is the main controling body of mountain biking, BMX, track biking, road biking, and basically other form of human powered vehicle on two wheels in the USA. For those who are interested in trying a bike race, an USA Cycling permit is needed. Signing up with UNITED STATE cycling additionally has some wonderful benefits, consisting of details on where to ride, bike stores, cycling news, suggestions, and also clinics.

Feeling faster already? Go to the neighborhood bike store( 'LBS' in cycling speak) and begin evaluating some bikes. Ask lots of concerns and also prepare to make a couple of errors- that's how roadway biking is found out. Look into the checklist of sources below to learn more. Will you attempt roadway cycling? Inform us in the remarks below.