Even Into Hell, a fullmetal alchemist fanfic

Even Into Hell

"Wait! …Riza!"

He was lying there in that bed with his head and chest in bandages, and his face desperate as I'd turned to leave— calling out to me not because he so much as recognised my face, but because he sensed that I could help him. I suppose he sensed that I couldn't not help him. Though he remembered nothing of his life before it happened, I suppose he sensed that I cared about him very much. I suppose he needed that.

I turned around. Slowly.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his black eyes were crinkled in dismay. "I'm sorry that I don't remember you, Miss Riza."

I waved it off. How could I blame anyone but myself, when it came down to it? I wanted to turn back to hide the tears that were starting at the corners of my eyes, but his gaze was fixed on me— I couldn't move a muscle.

"I'm sorry that I don't remember you," he repeated. "But… if you're so upset that I don't, then… Well, Miss Riza, it just seems like you're the only one that is. Please don't leave me here alone."

I was silent. All I could do was stare at him. Roy Mustang. My Roy Mustang. And he couldn't remember me. Not anymore… Though we'd been so close.

"I feel as though you must have been someone very special to me once. Please don't leave me."

I had to say something. He was so innocent in his ignorance. He was so honest. I reached out my hand and he grasped it eagerly.

"Please," he repeated but I still hesitated.

"Do you understand how difficult this is for me?" I asked, and of course he did.

"I want to make new memories with you, Miss Riza."

How could I fold so easily? Without even touching on the consequences?

"I'll do it."

He was surprised and I could feel the strength of his sudden relief. His grip on my hand loosened a little.

"If nothing else," I impressed on him emphatically, "Please remember this: At any time you need me, at any place, for any reason…I'll be there. You… are someone very special to me too, Mister Mustang."

The look on his face tells me that the present tense of that last statement was the right decision. He beams. He relaxes. "I'm not usually like this…" he says awkwardly. "I don't think I am…"

"I know." I grapple for something further to say. "…Why don't you rest now? I'll still be here when you wake up."

It was nighttime by the time he came, dragging behind him one bag, a large box, and the wretched little pony my father had sent to collect him. Obviously neither wanted to budge.

"Stupid horse!" he cried out in frustration, and that was a laugh and a half.

Milky wasn't much of a pony, and she wasn't so much as a hair to a horse. I could picture father chuckling by the window of his study upstairs. He'd probably promised to send a noble steed.

When the boy hadn't so much as reached the path to the house ten minutes later I gathered up my skirts and went to help him. It was my lame-ass pony after all.

"You th' alchemy student?" I called out to him within a couple of metres. He glared at me something fierce.

"You makin' fun of me, little miss?" he snapped back and I pursed my lips in response.

"I sure ain't! I'm offering you a hand up to the house… If y'ain't too proud to accept it, that is!"

"I ain't proud!" he retaliated, "I just don' think a little miss like you coul' get this donkey a step up that hill!"

"He ain't a donkey, ye noodle. He's a pony. And he ain't gonna move a step in any d'rection if you keep on tugging his mouth like that!"

The boy puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms, dropping the bags at my feet. "Let's see you do it then, if you're so good, li'l miss!"

I grimaced at his lack of confidence. He was just like my father… then again, perhaps all alchemists were so highly strung. "T'ain't hard, mister," I replied haughtily and when he wa'n't looking I slipped Milky a red jelly baby on the sly— perked 'im right up, and on 'e walked, bags an' all.

I giggled at the look on his face.

"Just you be mighty careful wi' that box up top, li'l miss," he grouched, and despite my reservations about the kid, I was curious as to it's contents.

"Wha's in it?" I asked, not looking at him as we walked up the hill.

"Present from m'own father," he replied. "Said if he were t'die, I was t'seek out Mister Hawkeye and give 'im that box. Said he'd give me a place to stay and teach me somethin' too— just mind I di'n damage the contents."

I considered this, then shut up.

I'd just decided that I'd keep a special eye on the box when suddenly the kid tripped and slammed into Milky, sending both his suitcase and the box resting atop flying into me, and leaving the lot sprawled across the darkened grass in less than an instant. I closed my eyes, winded and unable to move, feeling the fresh dew on my cheek and soaking into my dress. I was surrounded by little shards of glass and the box lay crumpled somewhere to my right. All was silent for a moment, and then I heard the boy sob.

"I'm such a gorram klutz, li'l miss!! I was almost there! Wha's Mister Hawkeye gonna say?"

I knew what my father would say. He'd send the kid away— broken goods weren't no suitable payment. Out of nowhere, I felt sorry for him.

"Maybe we can fix it," I offered, scrambling to my knees. I felt the glass pierce my hands as I set them down and I winced, but tried to ignore it. "Or maybe we can find him a new one! D'you know where your daddy bought it?"

"There ain't another one to buy!" the kid fretted. "Where'm I gonna go now it's broke? What'm I gonna do?" I didn't reply and he broke down himself. "I can't do nothin' right, li'l miss!"

I was sick of his whining by then. I pushed myself up with my injured hands and I turned and ran up to the house. Father was already halfway down— I wasn't wrong when I'd pictured him watching from the window.

"Father, I broke the kid's present. I'm sorry!" I said quickly, my head bowed down to avoid his flashing eyes.

I jerked to the side the first time he slapped me across the face, but I remained standing. I heard the boy's horrified gasp in the background as he hit me again, and again.

"Mister Hawkeye, that's a lie!" the kid cried, running over. "It was all my fault! I tripped up the hill and I knocked it off the donkey. Please don't punish the little miss for my mistake!!"

My father didn't stop. I knew he just wanted someone to take it all out on.

I bit my tongue hard and the tears exploded.

"Mister Hawkeye, please!! I'll go now, but please don't hurt the little miss any longer! Please!!"

I fell to my knees and the glass in my palms swiped across them as I fell, causing me to cry out again in pain. My father grabbed my hair, and suddenly the little boy was crying too as he tried to pull me away. My cheek smarted and burned but my father had stopped. My hair was released, and he began to walk away.

"Bring Mustang's bags up to the house. I'm going to make a call."

It was over just like that.

The boy and I exchange a look, and then he extended a hand to help me up. We didn't say anything more.

When Roy first woke up after the battle I remember thinking, cliché as it sounds, "Maybe there is a God." How else could he have survived all that he'd been through? I began to cry, fresh tears down already salty-stiff cheeks. And he just looked at me blankly… I whispered his name and I fell down to kiss him but he cried out and pushed me away.

If a stranger had done the same to me, I suppose I would have acted similarly, but at the time I was shocked.

"Roy, it's me. It's okay now… Roy? It's me, Riza."

It may as well have been me that had been stabbed in the chest. I staggered back, a hand resting loosely over my heart. I was speechless.

The name obviously meant nothing to him.

"Miss Riza…"

I cringed. It was what he'd called me when we were young together at my father's house. Miss Riza. Little Miss. Young Miss. Sweet Missy.

"Hey, Suzie Scapegoat. You gotta name?"

I turned slightly from the grubby dish-filled sink, saw the boy now standing at the door, and turned my back on him. "Elizabeth... Sometimes my mother would call me Riza."

"Oh… Hey, your dad was somethin' scary back there, wasn't he, Miss Riza?"

I didn't know how to reply. "He… He wa'n't always that way, mister," I said in my father's defence. "It's only since mama died that he's started… changin'."

The boy's face turned fierce. "But that's still no reason to take everything out on you!" he cried, and I hushed him before he continued more quietly, "You're important too, little missy!"

I couldn't help but smile a little. "…He gonna let you stay?"

"I think so," the boy admitted.

"Then you're lucky…" I faltered a little and he supplied his name.

" Roy Mustang."

I smiled and blushed. I think I was in love with him already.

Months later, following his release from the hospital, Roy Mustang was living in my crowded Xingese apartment, suitably domesticated. He had regained some semblance of his usual demeanour, perhaps a little cheerier without the memories of the war, and he had decided to involve himself in the preparation of the evening meal.

"Miss Riza?" he began.

"Mmhmm?" I was busy chopping vegetables when he addressed me— he was playing with the settings on the oven.

"How did we meet?"

I had to sit back and think about that one— lowering the knife contemplatively, unwilling to start him back on a violent path he didn't fully understand. "My father was a painter," I invented casually. "He used art as a medium to create dark and scary images of the thoughts and nightmares that haunted him… You were different. You wanted to paint a better world than the one we lived in and you asked my father for an apprenticeship." I chanced a glance at his face and found him listening intently. "My father gave life to your unskilled visions of a Utopia somewhere. You created beautiful things…"

"May I see them?"

A reasonable question.

I reabsorbed myself with my vegetables.

"No."

Roy started at that. "Why not? If I saw them, don't you think I might remember something? A painting is a very personal thing!"

"There's nothing to see," I informed him monotonously. "I destroyed everything."

The tone of my voice indicated that the conversation was over.

"Miss Riza?"

Roy always began conversations this way.

"Where did I paint?"

"With me," I replied. "Always with me."

Roy appeared surprised. "You paint too?" he asked and I shrugged vaguely.

"Not like you did… You could say that I sketched things: I had ideas but I never could execute them like you could. My father despaired of me. …You know, I was supposed to be a great artist like him, but I was all determination… no real heart. I just wanted to please him."

"I'm sure you did," Roy tried to assure me, and I almost laughed. But how could I expect him to remember things that I myself have kept from mind for so long. Things that we never really talked about, or came to terms with.

"No," I disagreed half-heartedly. "I never did."

"What about your mother?" asked Roy, trying a new tack. "…What about my mother?"

I flinched noticeably. "Dead, both of them," I told him. "As are our fathers." I didn't mention Madame Christmas or the girls. It would have been too complicated.

"Were they old?" asked Roy, brows furrowed slightly. "…Am I old?"

I had to smile despite the seriousness of it all. The question was just so typical of him. "I'm promise you're not old, sir."

He paused contemplatively and for a moment I wondered what he had latched on to, then I realised.

"It's a nickname, Mister Mustang. I always called you 'Sir'."

He didn't seem entirely convinced but he nodded anyway. "And what did I call you?" he asked, dropping some of my vegetables into the pie we were constructing.

"Lieutenant," I forced out. "You called me 'Lieutenant'."

He wanted to know why.

"I don't know, Mister Mustang. It was just another of your fanciful ideas," I told him dismissively. "'If I were in the military I could really make a difference.' Sometimes you doubted your worth… but I never did."

Roy's hand appeared over mine —stationary above the chopping knife— and he gently prised my fingers away to allow him possession of it. Cutting slowly, quietly.

"Thanks."

The dull thunk of the old knife on the board was strangely therapeutic.

"Don't thank me." The words rolled off my tongue in a sigh.

Da… Da… Da…

"Why not?" he asked and I leaned back against the counter, head inclined forward slightly to study my bare feet. I wriggled my toes unconsciously.

"Because if I'd told you sooner how much I… Then perhaps…"

"Perhaps what?" He stopped cutting to look at me. His gaze was firm, unyielding. I had to look away.

"Perhaps you would have remembered."

The words rang out across the kitchen, and without the gentle thud of the knife to sooth me, I felt incredibly bare before him all of a sudden. I wanted to take it back.

"Roy, I—"

"I don't remember anything, Lieutenant." He said it sweetly. I know he meant 'Lieutenant' to be an endearment but it made me cringe nonetheless. "However, if I could… I have no doubt that it would be you."

I was silent, having nothing to say in response. This prompted him to go on.

"How did it happen, Lieutenant? How could I forget that beautiful, honest face…? That unerring loyalty…?" I wanted to give him some sort of assurance at least, if I couldn't give him an answer, but he continued, a slur of unanswerable questions. "Why am I staying with you? Not that I'm ungrateful but where do I live? Where are my possessions? My friends? I know you say my family is dead but—"

"Stop, sir. Stop, please. Let me think."

I needed air. I needed air badly. And I hated the silence more than I hated the questioning.

"…We don't live here, Mister Mustang— not really," I explained eventually. "We lived in Central once, and in the East before that. But there were uncertainties… We were running away."

"From what?" Roy begged of me but I couldn't answer him. Not the way he wanted me to.

"…From everything you can't remember."

"You're always studying, Mister Mustang. Why won't you come for a walk with me?"

A fifteen-year-old Roy glanced up from his books uncertainly. "You know I want to come, Miss Riza, but I can't…" he told me honestly and I pouted.

"Why not? Surely you know everything in the world by now?" I asked, only half joking.

"Not even close," he sighed in reply. "…Can I tell you a secret, Miss Riza?"

I leaned in conspiratorially. "Anything."

"I'm studying for the military academy's entrance exams. It's where I want to go once your father teaches me his secret alchemy."

"The military!" I exclaimed, and he shushed me desperately.

"Your father can't know— he never understand!" he warned me.

"I'm not sure that I understand, Mister Mustang," I replied, shivering unconsciously. "Why would you want to join those murderer? You are not a murderer!"

"I want to make a change in this country," he told me. "And I can only do that from the top of the military. Please don't tell anyone just yet…"

"I won't," I replied immediately. "…But when will you go? Not soon?"

"As soon as I master the flame alchemy: I need something that will separate me from the others and guarantee my appointment as a state alchemist—" He paused at the horrified look on my face. "I won't be like them, Miss Riza. I promise! I'll be an alchemist for the people. You'll see!"

I was silent, contemplative. "You're really serious about this, aren't you, Mister Mustang?" I asked, and he nodded.

"I've been thinking about it for a long time now," he said. "I think it's the right thing to do."

I could see in his eyes how he longed for my approval, and I gave it to him willingly. "Okay…" I said. "…But please, Roy. Don't forget me when you leave. I need you here, you understand? I can't be alone anymore."

I watched him as he closed the book he'd been studying from and leaned up to kiss me gently. I bit back tears.

"I will never forget you, Miss Riza." I could hear the honesty ringing in his tone. "I love you."

"Miss Riza?"

This time we were walking Hayate.

"Did we have friends in Central? Did we leave them behind?"

I bowed my head to the memory of my comrades. "Yes," I said simply, but I knew from experience that I couldn't leave it there.

Roy was silent for a few moments, then he spoke again. "What were their names?"

I gave them, with appropriate reverence: "Jean Havoc, Heymans Breda, Vato Falman, Kain Fuery, Alphonse and Edward Elric, Rebecca Catalina, Maria Ross, Denny Brosh, Maes Hughes…"

Roy's eyes seemed to flash in something akin to recognition but it quickly faded. "Why did we leave?" he asked quietly. I think there was a part of him that knew the answer already.

"They're all dead."

As I'd expected, he didn't appear surprised.

"What aren't you telling me, Miss Riza?" he asked, still in that quiet, controlled voice. "Why are we the only ones left?"

My voice faltered. "We played the game too well…" I told him, equally quietly, but never so controlled. "…Maybe we didn't play it well enough."

"What don't I remember? Dammit, Miss Riza! Tell me!"

His voice was rising, I could see his face reddening, and then suddenly, as if by some natural instinct, he clicked. Flames shot from his fingertips and I traced them down to a transmutation circle doodled in the blue ink on the inside of his hand. He saw me looking.

"I've been dreaming of this sign for the past few nights…" he owned, staring at it in awe himself. "There were flames… everywhere… people screaming… and there I am in the middle of it… snapping my fingers like some God of Death… striking down these forgotten innocents… every night, wearing gloves with this symbol on it…"

His voice was low, mine was non-existent. I'd had the same dreams ever since Ishval.

He was staring down at his hands, looking lost and confused, guilty even. When he looked up, I made sure to be out of sight.

That night I took the long route home. When I arrived his few possessions were gone and I was alone again. I'll admit that I was a little bit relieved, but the thought of him out in the world by himself brought bile to my lips. Wherever I went I could taste its putrid bitterness.

So I tried not to think about him.

I called Gracia Hughes, and I didn't tell her he was here.

But she found out anyway.

"Do you have to leave, Mister Mustang?"

I knew he did.

"I'm sorry."

I knew he was.

He left the very night of my father's funeral, having determined that I was safe to be left alone, though I wasn't entirely sure about that myself. He explained to me about the war going on in Ishval as if I didn't know about it. Even if I hadn't, I could have guessed that it was horrible from the changes in him since the first time he'd left. In some far off, lonely land my first love had become a murderer, and against my will, I pitied him. I determined to help him somehow, even if that meant following him into hell.

"Roy's here, Riza. Why didn't you tell me?"

I'd been walking Hayate but I'd stopped to greet her when I noticed her running toward me. Now I wished that I'd kept walking.

"Gracia—"

"He's alive Riza! He doesn't remember any of us! He doesn't remember my husband!"

I couldn't reply. I couldn't. She was traumatised, I know, but she pulled herself together.

"Riza," she addressed me sternly. "You called me here because you needed a friend in this lonely place, and I came because Roy Mustang was my husband's friend and I thought I had a duty to the woman he loved. Now you have a duty to me: What is going on?"

I breathed in deeply and tried to control all of the things that I was feeling toward this confrontation. I fail, of course. Stressfully, I ran a hand through my hair and invited her back to my apartment.

We always looked out for each other, didn't we, Roy?

"That young lady there…" Kimbley said as we sat around the fire one evening. "'I'm doing this unwillingly'— you're wearing that kind of face."

He was wrong.

"Killing isn't enjoyable," I admitted, but he disagreed. I could see Roy already shaking in rage nearby. He needed to learn to control that temper…

"Is that so?" Kimbley asked me, and I turned my attention back to him. He was smirking and it infuriated me. "When you defeat your opponent, can you definitely say that you don't think: 'I hit him! All right!' And hold pride in your skill— that you don't even have a little moment when you feel a sense of achievement in your work? Miss Sniper."

I was too dumbfounded to answer, but I didn't have to.

Roy stood up for me. He always did. He grabbed Kimbley and yelled at him… but he was still right, in a sense, and it haunted me. I was glad to hit them. I was glad to protect the man I loved. I had become a dog of the military, and a monster, for him. And no matter what happened, I couldn't go back.

"We knew it was the final battle, one way or another," I explained into the cup of coffee I had just made before handing it over to Gracia and preparing to make another. "I didn't think I'd leave there alive, though I hoped to God that Roy would… At the end of the day we were weak— divided. …I was terrified."

I paused the telling as we walked into the living room and sat down. I wondered how to start.

"…In a quiet moment, Roy found me alone. Jean Havoc back at headquarters had devised a plant to get all of us out alive. I asked him how he expected to conquer our enemies with no sacrifices— what kind of game did he think he was playing? But he wasn't concerned with our enemy. He told me that he just wanted to escape… far away… with me." I blew across my hot coffee softly and closed my eyes as I took a sip. "It was so unlike him. I was stunned into silence. He told me that what he wanted had changed somewhere along the way— he had new goals now. He wanted to share them with me… but then all hell broke loose."

"Riza—"

"One by one, I was forced to watch my friends' slaughter, unable to move, or even to think in defiance. I could see how it crushed Roy too… I knew instinctively how he wanted to die at that moment and it terrified me. Pride killed Edward, his brother, and even the little cat huddled in the boy's armour… and then, just when I thought that he would kill me too, Roy made a sudden move and shot himself in the head."

I lifted my eyes warily but Gracia could fathom no response. I knew how she felt.

"…I still don't know if it was some trick of Pride's or if it was he himself wilfully pulling the trigger, but I'll never know now. Pride just smirked at me. He asked me how if felt. Was I flattered? Did I feel cheated? How did it feel to watch the man I loved kill himself so that he wouldn't have to watch me die? Powerless to do anything else. He said that it would be kindest to kill me too… but he didn't. Cruelly, he didn't. And then by some miracle, Roy survived too."

Sensing the end of the story, Gracia struggled for some intelligent thing to say— or anything to say, really. What could someone say in response to that? I could feel the regret for her harsh words. I could feel her dismay. "I'm sorry," she stammered eventually, and I shook my head, swirling a teaspoon around my cooling coffee. I wanted to say something.

"I still love him, Gracia…" I admitted. "But how can he be the same man not remembering all the times we shared? Who is he now? The stranger with that face…"

"Isn't that for you to discover?" Gracia asked me, and though I knew she was right, I was hesitant.

"I can't even look at him, Gracia. Not since he rediscovered his alchemy, not after all the lies I told him… I pass that sad face in the street and immediately pretend to myself that I haven't, but it's a lie. It's all a lie…"

"It's never too late…?"

Wasn't it?

I was scared, and I told her so. "I'm so afraid that this time around he won't fall for me… You can't know how I regret the wasted years now, when I knew he loved me but I never…" I sighed. Of course she could understand that. Of course she could. "…It's just so ironic. We were finally going to run away from all of that and start afresh somewhere… and he— he kissed me, Gracia. It was beautiful… gorgeous… and then I lost him, just like that."

I was trying to appease her somehow, but I only made her angrier. I saw her eyes flash all of a sudden. I was confused, but then I understood and regretted my words once again.

"And just how have you lost him?" she asked me broadly. "I've lost my husband, Riza. He's dead and I've lost him. All I have now is you and Elysia and Roy Mustang. All of my dearest friends are dead— yours too, I might add! But you haven't got nothing, Riza. The man you love is still in there somewhere. He's not gone!"

"How can you know?" I protested,

"Because I spoke to him, Riza!" I froze. "I spoke to him, and he was miserable without you! Anything, anytime, anywhere— he says that you promised to help him—"

"That was before—!"

"But when have you ever let him down before, Riza? I almost can't believe it!"

That put me in my place… He trusted me. He'd always trusted me. Rationally or irrationally, he always had.

"I have to pick up Elysia from school," Gracia sighed after a short time, and she leaned forward to put a scrap of paper on the coffee table, eyes never leaving mine. "…He's not gone, Riza. You haven't lost him yet."

She left and I flipped over the paper.

A number, an address, and a short, simple message:

Please don't leave me.

At the door I was unsure how to greet him, and I think he was wondering the same thing. A handshake seemed informal and inappropriate, but was a hug too intimate, given the circumstances? Could I dare to kiss him? For a few long moments we stood awkwardly, chest to chest in a vague sort of embrace. Eventually I leaned my head onto his shoulder and kissed his neck behind his ear before pulling away. He smiled nervously and stepped aside to let me in. No words were exchanged for a while.

"I don't suppose you'd like a cup of tea— No… you drink coffee, don't you? Black with three sugars— it looks bitter but it tastes sweet, just like you."

I was taken aback by the statement. "You can't remember who I am, but you can remember how I like my coffee?" I joked weakly and he shrugged.

"I'm remembering little things," he explained, not making to move the offered coffee. "Most of them insignificant… but I do remember that I'm no painter, Miss Riza. Why did you tell me that I was?"

"…Because most of the time, I don't like to remember what we are either…" He wasn't satisfied by this and I sighed. "Roy, you've suffered so much already," I told him. "I just thought that if anyone deserved a second chance at life, it would be you."

He shook his head darkly and I wanted to offer him some comfort, though I wasn't sure how. "I'm a murderer, Miss Riza."

I bristled at that. "You're a good man, Roy Mustang!"

"I'm not! I killed innocent people!"

I touched my forehead briefly and let out a little sigh. "Do you remember that night in Ishval, Roy?"

"What?"

"I was really to kill myself and you stopped me. Do you remember?"

He didn't, of course.

"That night you told me that every human being is worth something, and that suicide would be a tragic waste of a beautiful soul. You promised me that we'd change the world together."

"I don't remember," he told me quietly and I shook my head.

"Well I remember it clearly," I said. "I remember feeling like I was worth nothing at all— that the world didn't need another killer." I shrugged and attempted to appear calm above everything, to keep the tears at bay. "I forgot that I was ever more than a murderer, and you reminded me who I was beneath it all."

"Miss Riza…"

I shook my head again. "We made love for the first time that night." I ignored Roy's startled movement. "It was slow and beautiful… The night outside was cold and empty but I was so warm. I've always felt that warmth with you..." I took a deep breath. "Roy, who we are or who we were doesn't matter in the slightest. Beneath it all, the fact remains that we are two people whose meeting was entirely a coincidence— two people who managed to find love in an impossible place... I believe that we can do it again, Roy. Do you?"

Beside me, Roy had his head in his hands. I turned to face him completely on the couch, crossing my legs under me.

"I can't remember," he repeated into his hands. "Why can't I remember??"

I sighed, leaning closer to him and resting my cheek against his softly, my left hand falling on the opposite cheek. "We lost, Roy. We lost and our friends paid the price. I wanted to die… but more than that, I needed to protect you. A thousand times you've saved me, do you realise? I love you…"

Gently, I turned his face to mine and I kissed him, but he pulled away quickly, his face panicked.

"Miss Riza, I can't! I'm sorry, but I—!"

"I know." I released him and bowed my head. "You don't remember. I'm sorry." Bravely, I lifted my face to look him in the eye, offering him a weak sort of smile. "I guess we have to build our way back up from the beginning."

"The beginning…" he repeated quietly, and I nodded, resting a hand on his knee comfortingly.

"You were six-years-old and I was three," it started. "My father was an alchemist of some note and your father had just died…"

"The battle of Ishval isn't over inside me yet. No… it will probably never end. But I was the one who believed in you and entrusted my father's research to you. I was also the one who chose to go into the military academy, wishing for the happiness of the people. Even if that has had undesired results, I can't run from the facts… I put my arms through the sleeves of this uniform of my own will."

"…I want you to protect my back. Do you understand what that means? To watch my back means that you can shoot me from behind at any time. If I step off the path, shoot and kill me with those hands. You are qualified to do that... Will you follow me?"

" If that is your wish, even into hell."

FIN