Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Souvenirs We Never Lose ❯ What May Be ( Chapter 3 )

AN: Final chapter, already. I don't own either of the quotes, and the song Edward sings to Winry is Fisher's “I Will Love You.” Truly a beautiful song. Play it while you read, then you'll know what I was hearing in my head as I wrote. It's free on Amazon.com's Music Downloads section; search for “Fisher.”

 

Please enjoy—I would love any comments, props, or criticisms. It's still open for editing.

 

 

What May Be…

 

“In secret we met -

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee? -

With silence and tears.”
~ Lord Byron "When We Two Parted”

 

 

Years later, Brigadier General Riza Hawkeye is killed in a skirmish with a last pocket of Ishbalan insurgents. Her grieving husband takes his first leave of absence since he became Fuhrer in order to attend her funeral and mourn. The people mourn with him at the loss of their beloved Brigadier General and first lady. For reasons known only to him, he has a totally private funeral. No one knows where he has his wife buried, but rumor has it that it is somewhere out in the country.

 

A week later, another death goes nearly unnoticed, except by the closest friends of the deceased. Winry Rockbell, talented mechanic, dies when an auto mail arm that she has been developing explodes, catching the workshop that she had been working in—containing five drums of oil—up in a conflagration. It is like a beacon in the night, and its light can be seen for miles around. The funeral is set for three days later, when, according to her husband's wishes, she will be buried between his mother and her own grandmother in the local cemetery…

 

“My apologies for your loss”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Our greatest condolences.”

 

“Thanks, it means a lot.”

 

“I'm so sorry.”

 

“She will be missed.”

 

“Yes.”

 

The mourners file slowly away from the gravesite, each offering a few words of inadequate consolation to the husband of the deceased. The shadow of his hat obscures his eyes as he thanks them, one by one, for their condolences, for their presence. Shaking hands until his own are numb from the firm grips, the cold, and the wet drops of rain.

 

His brother, last to leave, says nothing, just embraces him hard and long, sobbing softly into his shoulder. The heavy drops run down their black suit jackets, releasing the scent of wet wool as sodden golden hair mingles. The older man runs his hands up and down, up and down his brother's back. For a short while, they stand there while time holds her breath. In the end, however, even the brother gives one last squeeze, placing a bouquet of yellow roses on the fresh earth before walking slowly away.

 

Then, the man is left by the freshly turned earth of his wife's new grave. He remains stock still as the rumble of the cars disappears in the distance. Eventually, he turns to the grave and whispered words begin to fall from his lips.

 

“Why am I always the one left behind? Even when I left…”

 

His voice catches, but he goes on, his voice gaining strength and volume.

 

“Even when I left…through the gate…I was really left behind by everyone else. Two years. Two years, dammit!” He is yelling now, he realizes. Realizes that none will hear.

 

He takes a deep, shaky breath and speaks again, whispering now, more pain in his voice than when he had shouted with the force of it. “Life here kept moving. He kept on moving. But you waited, Winry. For that I thank you. I'm so sorry…”

 

And the first tear falls to the wet earth, undistinguishable from the rain.

 

“So sorry I couldn't love the way that you loved me. Thank you, Winry. I did love you, you know.”

 

Unable to speak, he begins to sing. It is his Winry song, he realizes. The one that he had sung to at their wedding, as they danced for the first time...

 

“Till the storms fill my eyes,

And we touch the last time,

I will love you…love you

I will love you…love you…”

 

Tears from golden eyes flow freely now, as he falls silent. Stands there, lost.

 

So lost, he fails to hear the footsteps behind him.

 

Suddenly, there is a hand on his shoulder, snapping him back to reality.

 

His head jerks up, but otherwise, he doesn't move. Doesn't turn. Just waits for whomever it is to speak.

 

It takes a while. When the owner of the hand finally does speak, it is only one word, choked out in a voice thick with unshed tears.

 

“Ed…”

 

And, with a start, he realizes who is behind him.

 

The boy he was, years ago, would have pushed the man away, yelling out all of the thoughts that came though his mind. How could you! How could you forget about me, about us? Why didn't you wait for me? Why did we all have to go through this?…all of this…

 

Years ago, before he had lived. Truly lived. Felt the pain and the ecstasy of living, in all its bittersweet joy.

 

Back then, he thought he had, but there is something…something inimitable that the passage of time lends to the bearer. It was what had changed him from a child into a man. Whether he knows the answers, or whether the questions don't matter, he isn't certain. But…he understands.

 

Long ago, he realized the truth behind the saying, “an action is worth a thousand words.” Now, instead of speaking—what would he say?—he acts, knowing that the other man will understand.

 

Turning around, in one fluid motion made graceful by his grief, he embraces the older man. Utterly failing to notice that their heights are now, after many long years, equal. Doesn't see the first threads of gray in the other man's dark hair.

 

He does, however, feel the man in his arms stiffen—he had obviously been expecting anger, or, at the very least, for him to walk away

 

Slowly, however, the Fuhrer relaxes into the arms surrounding him. It doesn't register that both are now flesh and bone. His arms wrap gingerly around the other man, then, gaining confidence, he embraces him tighter, as though afraid he might still try to run off. The blonde seems to fear the same from him.

 

The rain falls in gentle rhythm onto the graves of Riza Hawkeye and Winry Rockbell—the one a scant ten yards from the other. It mixes with their husbands' salt tears as they hold each other tightly and shake with the force of their long-pent-up sobs.

 

Neither has any plans of letting go.

 

 

“Forgiveness is a rebirth of hope, a reorganization of thought, and a reconstruction of dreams.”

~Beverly Flanigan