Rumor spread and softened the public like melted butter, dripping quietly through every variety of social circle. Central's denizens could be heard, quite frequently, speaking of their fuhrer and his demure bride—the bodyguard and matron who could brew tea, speak competitively, and shoot a man without ruffling her pleated skirt.
They were fascinated by her because few had ever really seen her. Not she who had become sole indication of their leader's humanity, not she who could melt the frosty chill of his strong heart. The fuhrer was a capable ruler—he had, in just eight years, developed a prosperous relationship with Xing and its newly crowned emperor. He had created a parliament and revolutionized the state alchemy examinations. But he exuded a soullessness, comparable to the homunculi he had slaughtered years earlier.
If the prime minister or some foreign dignitary visited the fuhrer's estate, they would be assailed at the gates by mobs of crowding faces. Was it true? the people asked, bunching and scrabbling for warmer coats. That the fuhrer and his wife slept in separate bedrooms? That they barely spoke a word? That on some cold, tumultuous nights, a frenzied blond woman would stand on the third-floor balcony, masquerading as a hunter and sniping at pigeons that crowded the yard?
No, no, the dignitaries said; the fuhrer and his wife are content. Their principles guide them. Let us quash these rumors of intimacy problems: why, I have it on good word that they are attempting to produce an heir.
Wherever Fuhrer Mustang went, his bride would go, a chiffon scarf about her head and a rifle at her back. She acted as his chauffeur, guide, protector, caretaker. She booked their transportation, meetings, and lodging; she ensured he ate properly, she picked up dropped articles, and said little to anyone. Not even to him.
And in return, he exuded possessiveness. Should the press ask about her, he would treat her as a myth, or a detail too insignificant for discourse. If threats were made towards her, through letter or through spoken word, he quietly promised retribution so violent it would shake the world into a void darker than Truth.
If it were not for the marriage certificate in the public records, Amestris would never know they were a couple. It had been a quiet ceremony, according to former friends neglected in the storms of politics; they had both worn black, had held hands only briefly, not even giving those present the dignity of a sealing kiss. The fuhrer and his wife did not show their love or parade it around like a luxury vehicle. They were not comfortable with that.
One warm winter day, Fuhrer Mustang made his first personal announcement: his bride was with child.
Celebration and warm smiles faded into somber dust, and on a cold spring afternoon, the stalwart couple remained even as the last shovel of soil was deposited on a three-foot grave. They wore black. A netted veil hung low over her face. He had draped his arm across her shoulders tepidly, as if afraid of even that closeness. He was frightened that he would break her, as her womb had broken their greatest creation.
Seasons passed. Wars broke, and were repaired. Parliament had its scandals. The economy winded down, and with delicate precision, the government fed it until it could sustain itself again. And one year, looking down from the library window of his estate, Fuhrer Mustang surveyed the sun's light on his city. And he said: "It is finished."
They were executed, after a short trial, on the grounds of criminal indecency during the Ishballan rebellion of 1909.
They wore white.