Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Levitas Fragosus ❯ . . . That which is to be Expected . . . ( Chapter 3 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Disclaimer: Perhaps I could form an army of corgis, we could take over Japan . . . and then, I'd own all of Japan. Ergo, I would own FMA. (nods) Yeah . . .

“You see the crumbling of reality and you accept it.”

-Marguerite Young

Chapter III: . . . That which is to be Expected . . .

“Hey, Maes,” Roy muttered hollowly. “It's been a while . . . hasn't it?”

The dark-haired man looked with a sad smile and a heavy heart upon the grave of his fallen comrade. The man, though a bit of an idiot and a picture-happy freak when it came to his family, had been the Flame's nearest and dearest friend since the time they were both young boys.

Memories came then. They were a bit jostled by booze and weathered by the passage of time, like wind against stones in the desert, but Roy was assaulted by them nonetheless. He remembered—not without a whisper of embarrassed blush tingeing his pale cheeks—how he had ultimately met Maes Hughes, back when he was a mere nine years old.

The colonel blinked forcefully and bit down on the inside of his cheek, determined not to let the rampant emotions overrun him. This wasn't what he had come here for—not to reminisce on how the bespectacled boy had ended up saving his life . . . earning a place in his reserved heart. He had come here for counsel . . .

Maes had been his right-hand man since that faithful day so many years ago and had given him good advice throughout his life—why should Roy not go to him now that he was dead?

Shuffling his feet uncomfortably and shoving his hands down into his trench pockets, the colonel swallowed. “I know that I haven't . . . haven't been by to visit you lately. I've just . . . been busy, is all.”

Uh-huh. Right.

“It's true, Maes,” Roy responded to the unspoken, accusatory remark, not at all startled by the fact that it was Hughes' voice. “I mean, the investigation into your murder . . . the entire team's transfer to Central Headquarters . . . the uprising in Lior . . .”

Roy, I don't doubt that any of that is true. I just don't think that thoseare the reasons that you haven't come to visit me . . .

The colonel smiled ruefully and muttered, “Sure are perceptive for a dead man.”

A long silence ensued, one punctuated only by the distant sound of a car horn and shouting voices, before Hughes—or, at least, the voice in Roy's head that he had labeled as Hughes—chose to speak again. You've been drinking again.

The Flame frowned. Damn the man for always getting straight to the point—disembodied voice or no . . . With a noncommittal shrug of one of his shoulders, the dark-haired man sniffed and turned his head away, not quite willing to look directly at the headstone as he stated, “Something happened.”

I know . . .

“Alphonse . . . he . . .”

I know, Roy. I know . . . It's okay.

“No, it isn't. He died because of me.”

Because of . . .? What are you talking about?

“I didn't protect him. I made a promise to myself to look after those boys and I failed. Just like Fullmetal said . . .”

He never said that. And they took an early train home. How could you have known?

“But I should have . . .”

Roy, you blame yourself for everything that goes wrong around you . . . For anything bad that happens to anyone you know.

“I should have protected him.”

You can't keep blaming yourself . . . Not for those boys or anyone else . . .

“I should have protected you . . .”

Me included.

“. . .”

You want my advice?

“Yes . . . Tell me what I should do, Maes. Please . . . help me. I'm so lost . . . Please.”

Go to him. He needs you now . . . Go and help him.

“What are you talking about, Maes?”

. . . Edward . . .

Roy's brow furrowed and he looked back at the stone marker curiously, momentarily distracted from the staring contest he had initiated with the large rhododendron bush a few yards to his right. “Wha—?”

His words were abruptly cut off as the otherworldly, yet hauntingly familiar blue light exploded somewhere in the distance to his left; he brought his arm up to shield his squinted eyes on instinct—something built into him from his days as a major in Ishbal—and waited briefly for the sound of a charge detonating . . .

Prayed for it, even.

Because deep down, he knew . . . past the fear and the doubt and the self-hatred, he knew that the cacophony of fire and accelerant and crumbling fragments of buildings and the screaming, quickly expanding outwards and engulfing anything and everything in its path . . . something that was distantly memorable when he was conscious, but that haunted his dreams like a spectre . . .

Deep down, he knew that it would never come.

Because he remembered that light from four years previous . . . He remembered the chilly rain against his back and he remembered the flash of alchemic blue light that had lit up every window of the tiny, country home. He remembered looking down on the barely conscious form of a small, blonde boy—sweating, trembling with fever and pain, his arm and leg missing, the stumps still weeping blood—and he remembered being humbled . . .

He knew that blue light all too well.

And now, he was terrified.

Daring himself to look, Roy cautiously peaked over the top of his arm. He blinked, his fully-dilated onyx eyes readjusting to the gloom as his brain came to the realization that the light that had assaulted him without warning only seconds ago—

(Seconds? Was that how long it was? I could have been standing here for minutes . . . hours.)

—was now gone. The colonel was left, once again standing alone in a dark cemetery, talking to a dead man, whose voice seemed to reside in his head . . .

Dropping his arm to his side, his heart rapping painfully against his sternum, Roy took a steadying breath and asked aloud, “What the hell was that?”

Hughes, apparently unfazed by what had just transpired, answered in his usual calm voice, I thought that you knew? Colonel Mustang, however, wasn't listening to the chiding voice of his best friend . . . he was looking in the direction that the light had come from:

The cemetery lot-keeper's maintenance shed—the place where the hulking armour that had once housed Al's soul had been stored in lieu of a quick burial. It had taken quite a bit of bribery and threatening on his small unit's part, but they had finally convinced the groundskeeper to put him there and to be quietly buried within the cemetery . . .

Though Edward, understandably, had been vehemently against it and had taken no part in the preparations, the unit (the only ones who knew of the younger Elric's death besides the Fullmetal himself) had unanimously agreed that, despite it only being a pile of useless metal now, the suit had been the only Alphonse that any of them had known . . .

So simply throwing it away was out of the question.

Hawkeye had, in her usual, clipped manner, suggested that, if they were going to bury the suit in lieu of a body, then it should be sent back to Resembool . . . so that Edward could bury it next to their mother's grave. Roy, though admittedly moved by Hawkeye's reserved sentiment regarding the boys and the situation, had squelched that idea.

Alphonse's armour was almost as well-known as Edward was—how was it going to look if a contingent of soldiers was seen carrying the disassembled suit back to the boy's hometown to be buried? How could they ask to have a funeral for a suit of armour, when everyone would want to be able to see the rosy-cheeked boy one last time?

No. They had opted for this. A quiet, almost non-existent service, late in the evening . . . To mark his existence.

With or without his brother there.

Though, now that Roy watched as a red-cloaked figure came stumbling out of the shed, hunched over and clutching his abdomen in apparent pain, the colonel knew just why Edward had decided not to get involved in Alphonse's funeral.

He wasn't planning on him staying dead.

“My God, Fullmetal . . .” Roy whispered into the damp air. “What have you done?”

His feet moved on their own. One unsteady foot in front of the other, hurriedly coaxing his legs back into motion—step, step, step, step . . . and then he was running. Galloping headlong towards the distant spot of crimson on the horizon and to a fate that he wasn't sure of . . .

He was running.

- + -

Maes Hughes smiled then . . . sadly, almost ruefully . . . and stated quietly, It isn't too late, just yet Roy . . . It isn't too late . . .