Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

Notes: Yet another story, hurrah! This one I began a year, maybe a year and a half ago. I was watching a particular television show and got the idea. I won't say what it's called, and especially what that episode is about, because it would give the game away. This is a short piece, 13 small chapters, but I hope they tell the story well enough. I'd like to thank my good friend Griselda Banks for reading over the first half and making sure I was giving the right sort of impression. If the second half is dodgy at all, it's because I wanted it to still be a surprise for her when she read, and so it doesn't have her wonderful eye having fixed anything up for me. Oh, and I know I have annoying OCs in every second - if not every - chapter, but I hope I've portrayed them and the main characters in such a way that doesn't detract from Arakawa Hiromu's wonderful creations. Thank you, and enjoy!

"The Truth Will Set You Free" by Dailenna

Chapter One:

In one particular month, when I was thirty-five, Henry Fitzwilliam's name was on everyone's lips. For weeks he was all I would hear about from the rest of the world. I was questioned, poked and prodded so much that I thought I must have been Henry himself. After that month passed, I heard of him less and less frequently, but there would be the odd mention tossed into the air; the occasional probing remark sent in my direction. Now, his name is mere background noise. For a person to pick his face out of a crowd, they would have to have known him, before it all started. Not many people can claim that connection. Even I didn't know who Henry was until a few days after that tragic event. When I did meet him, however . . .

Let's just say that on my way in to my first visit with him, the guards told me to "Be careful of this one – you get the feeling he's going to burst, sometimes." Although, I reasoned, would he really be in a mental institution if he wasn't a danger, in the state he was in, either to the general public or to himself?

Whenever we met, a guard would be present – two, at the beginning, when he was most upset – to make sure that nothing untoward happened to either me or to him. Considering what had happened, I understood, but Henry's behaviour during our meetings, and when I wasn't there (at least as it was reported to me), could have fooled anyone into thinking the man was harmless.

I still remember sitting down across from him that first time, and introducing myself. I'd heard about the conditions of his incarceration, and I was wary, to say the least, but tried to present a strong front. In my training we had been told that showing weakness would give our patients the upper hand, and I was afraid of losing control of the situation, especially around a man I at that time considered to be dangerous. I still remember saying . . .

"Do you know why you're in here?"

Henry put his head on one side, his puffy, red eyes full of hurt. The expression on his face told of a terrible ordeal he had been through. "You believe them, don't you?" His voice was thickened by the mucus his weeping had brought. "You think that I killed her."

I stiffened, and told myself that the police report I read earlier had said this already, and I should have expected this sort of response. It was my first criminal case, so I was nervous enough already. My mind was just magnifying my fears. I had expected a murderer to be merciless; to be alert and aware of the situation, brashly denying it, not mourning so openly. I didn't know how to react, so I decided to see what information he was willing to give, first of all. Drawing his side of the story out could let me play on inconsistencies to find the truth. It was my job, after all, to find out why.

"So you didn't murder her, then?" It was a bad choice of words, but it was what I said.

"No!" he pushed. I could see the tears welling up in his eyes again. "Of course I didn't! I wouldn't do that sort of thing – not to her."

"Not to her . . . But you would to someone else?" I asked, trying to keep my tone conversational, rather than condemning.

"No, you're misunderstanding me! I just-! I-!" He stopped, leaning into his hand and sobbing quickly and quietly.

For a moment I didn't know where to go from there. Talking about this was upsetting him, and continuing on the same track wasn't going to help me gain his trust, which I wanted so that I could find out what lay beneath. I decided to approach from a different angle and see what I could discover in that way.

I waited for his shoulders to stop heaving so quickly. It took some time, but eventually he calmed down a little. One of his hands wiped at his nose.

"Henry, can you tell me about her? What was she like?"

He sat there for a moment longer, composing himself. When he looked up his nose was dripping, so I asked one of the guards to go and get him a box of tissues. The guard hesitated for a moment, but afterwards stepped outside for the barest of moments before returning, tissues in hand. Henry was so lost in thought that at first he didn't see the guard standing beside him offering the box. When he did, he took it and thanked the man. Henry blew his nose quickly, and wiped his eyes on the end of one sleeve.

"She was so beautiful," he finally said. The whole time he spoke his eyes remained on the table between us, as though he was watching her through it. His fingers traced the table-top lovingly, and a trembling smile only just curved up the corners of his lips. "Every one of her moves was so graceful and efficient. She was like an artwork. A liquid sculpture."

"When did you first see her?" I asked.

His eyelids closed gently and two tears rolled out from underneath them, slowly making their way down his cheeks. "We met three years ago," he replied. "The nineteenth of October."

I scribbled the date down in my notes. "Can you tell me more about it? How did you meet her? What happened?"