Disclaimer: I don't own Full Metal Alchemist. Neither am I Horace, though I'm sure the copyrights on that expired a good couple thousand years ago.
Summary: Another post-ep-25... He's drinking and thinking about etymology.
Notes: Inspired by the nigh-universal desire to memorialize Hughes, and the poem I had to memorize for my Latin final. A rough translation is later provided, but you can probably find a better one if you just Google one of the lines. A brief study of Roy, or what might possibly be him. (I don't presume to think I understand the Machiavellian bastard's psyche. This is probably just my projection...) Fairly angsty, but looks up at the end. (Couldn't resist throwing a yelling Ed in there, I suppose...)
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He's drinking and thinking about etymology. This is a deeply Alchemist thing to do. Almost to the point of cliche, it's typical. He's seen it a thousand times: Alchemists drinking away memories and thinking of insanely obscure facts, often reciting them out loud. Latin is a favorite. Greek as well, though somewhat less so; many Alchemists learn Latin for the sake of the work, because so many of the old, valuable works are written in Latin, and a totally satisfactory translation is almost impossible.
(Another day like this, a woman crying, chanting with drunken abandon: Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi, finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios temptaris numeros--)
And so the Alchemists get drunk and talk about everything but what they're thinking about, everything but the old sin and guilt, shrouding it in tales of Icarus and Cicero, quite a lot like the codes they use in journals. Alchemist-speak, for peccavi, omnes peccavimus-- I have sinned, we have all sinned.
Even to himself, he uses that secret language.
(That woman, half in agony and bitter, hot sarcasm-- half trying to inflict pain, half suffering from it terribly: Ut melius, quidquid erit, pati--)
And thus the Alchemist cliche, the Alchemist funeral rite: get drunk as hell and think of what you should have done. What you should do.
What, after all, would the dead want you to do? Invariably, he thinks, with old, almost ancient, bitterness, you're pulled between two extremes: enjoy life while it's there, cherish the memories, carpe diem-- and-- make sure this never happens again.
"You all just take the weight of the world upon your shoulders, don't you?" Gracia had observed.
The tempration of alchemy, he thinks: you're either seduced by it, turn it to your own will, or else you feel it's your responsibility to change the world. That's always been my downfall, hasn't it?
(Her voice had been breaking, she'd reeled around on the barstool: Seu plures hiemes, seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare Tyhrennum--)
He knows in the bottom of his heart that this is his fault. That he's dead because he'd been trying to help him-- had supported him, all along.
And he knows that, if he tried, he might damn well be able to bring him back.
The Philosopher's Stone-- temptation of temptations-- your heart's desire, free of charge, more magic than proper alchemy--
Temptation-- the word comes from 'test'. A testing. And so many people fail.
But would it truly be a sin, he wonders, to bring back the dead? Wouldn't it be a good thing, the best of things, to just end that-- that pain?
The Philosopher's Stone, he thinks, but it doesn't appear out of thin air...
He doesn't know how to create a Stone, but his dabblings-- his ongoing dabblings into the forbidden alchemies-- have given him a vague idea of the price that might be involved.
But if that could be bypassed-- if only that could be bypassed--
(The pain overcoming the woman's rage, the words spilling out of her like poisoned wine: Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi, spem longam reseces--)
Every Alchemist's ambition.
"Is that why you're so interested in him?" A wicked smile. "Or could it just be love?"
He made that joke, he knows, because it was true. Has always been true. He is interested in Edward Elric because of his mission. Because his impossible powers suggest that other impossible things might just suddenly appear. Because if anyone can truly create the Stone-- he has a feeling it'll be him.
Oh God. Who'll tell him? Who...
(The emotion draining out of her voice entirely as she turned back to the bar: Dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas--)
And all this time, what has he been doing? What the hell has he been doing? Has he accomplished-- anything? Will he ever? Except hastening the death of the few good people he knows?
All this time, working for-- utopia. He had always pretended to be realistic, to have more modest hopes than that, to be so supremely pragmatic that Fullmetal, for one, occasionaly wished to see him dead-- but--
But in his heart, that's always what he's wanted. His attempts to persuade himself to accept anything less have been all but useless.
"Are you trying to create-- what? Some sort of utopia?" he'd asked.
And he'd denied it, because of eytmology.
(Carpe diem, the woman had said, passionate melodramatics over, quam minimum credula postero.)
Because the word "utopia" meant "nowhere".
And maybe it was all useless. Maybe he should follow Hughes' advice, settle down, find a good woman. Carpe diem. Quit trying to change the world.
(Everyone in the bar had still been staring at her, her non sequitur drunken outburst. Roy had understood. He knew the woman was an Alchemist. Had been to the same funeral. Had heard the whispered gossip, both the speculative and certain "Sapphist"s. Was considering trying to talk to her-- she was somewhat pretty, after all-- and not all Sapphists were exclusive--
--and she had taken up her glass, with a gold glitter of alchemy, taken her glass knife, and slit her throat.
Roy had sat there, uncomphrending, not breathing, looking at the blood as it sprayed onto the mirror behind the bar, unable to move until he heard the thump of her body on the floor.
The breaking of the knife as the Mirrored Glass Alchemist became another corpse.)
That night... he thinks. It haunts him, but differently from the others. No emotion attached to it. No guilt. No sadness. Nothing.
But often he wonders if someday he'll be her.
He glances down at his empty glass. Roy, here's your chance...
("'Carpe diem'... what's that mean, anyway?"
"'Seize the day'. It's Latin. From a poem. Horace."
"You Alchemists and Latin. I'll never understand it."
"Well, so much of this crap is written in Latin, and always the damn translations are either ambigious where they shouldn't be or not ambigious where they should."
"Huh. So what's the poem about?"
"Basically... I could try to translate it, but..."
"Give it a shot."
"Well... along the lines of... 'Do not ask-- to know is forbidden--... what end to you, to me, the gods have given... and don't try astrology.'"
He'd paused, thinking again.
"How better it is, whatever will be, to--endure--whether... Jupiter allots many winters, or this the last which now lashes the opposite shores of the Tyrhennian Sea. Be wise, strain the wine--"
"Strain the wine?"
"Times were dirtier back then."
"What exactly had to be strained out of the wine?"
Roy ignored him. "Be wise, strain the wine, and since time is short, prune back long hope."
"Huh?"
"Think-- overgrown. Extending too far into the future."
"Well, that makes a little sense..."
"Let's see... spem longam reseces...dum loquimur... While we're talking, jealous time will be fleeing. Carpe diem-- seize the day-- and trust the next one as little as possible."
"Huh. Cool.")
He laughs. That question again: seize the day, as the older, wiser ancient poet suggested, or keep on fighting a battle that probably can't be won?
("And then we met the guy and he showed us around his lab and if you already KNOW EVERY FLIPPING THING THAT HAPPENED WHY THE HELL ASK ME!")
Because passion is contagious.
("If you think I'm a KID, then why the hell did you drag my ass all the way here and make me do all this crap and go halfway around the damn world on your dumbass little missions!"
"Seeing how many expletives we can fit in a sentence, are we?"
"No, if I was I'd at least have added 'you son of a bitch'. But I'm SERIOUS!"
"If I thought you were just a kid... I wouldn't have, would I?"
Edward sighed, and he fancied that the flash of irritation in his eyes meant he knew full well that that deep-buried respect was what had kept him here all this time.
"Then why the hell don't you SHOW IT!"
"Can't have your ego growing any more disproportionate to your frame than it already is, eh Fullmetal?"
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A SUBATOMIC PARTICLE!")
For Fullmetal has an extraordinary, unnatural gift for fixing situations, and though he'll probably never admit it to his face, Roy needs him desperately if he's to succeed. Partly to help fix these things, and partly to remind him that fixing these things is even possible.
("You, the Fuhrer... Of course it sounds crazy, but I'm not letting you give it up now. You could hardly be worse than the guy we've got now! Maybe we'll finally get all of these corrupt sociopaths to adhere to that motto of yours, 'Be thou for the people', that's what it is, right? You're damn right we might fail! Maybe we'll look stupid, maybe we'll go down in flames-- hell, we could probably even find a way to make it even worse. But you were right. We have to try. For all those people... For the right to even call ourselves 'people'. We have to try. If no one ever stands up, where will we be?")
("Huh... that jackass, Fuhrer?" he'd overheard Fullmetal say to his brother. "You know, that Machiavellian bastard could probably pull it off...")
With a little help from my friends.
Unless it kills them...
A stab of guilt. Has he really any right to bring anyone into this? Particularly children?
...no. They're not children.
("I just want you to know you're not MAKING me do a DAMN THING! I will ACCEPT this hellhole mission OF MY OWN FREE WILL! If I wanted to, I'd transmute you into, into a hot-dog stand and leave this place so fast I'd TRAVEL THROUGH TIME! YOU BASTARD!")
("We believe in you. Why else would we be here?")
The world is a heavy thing... but maybe, with their help, he's equal to it.
("C'mon, don't give up now. Find a way around this. For me?")
He pretends to be pragmatic, but he strives toward utopia. He pretends to be detached, but feels guilty about those he may be leading into danger. He pretends to be so damn independent...
But no one ever is.
He smiles faintly, downs the rest of his drink. Fumbles in his pockets for money to pay the tab.
It still hurts, it hurts sharply and bitterly, all but overwhelmingly, and it'll keep hurting for a long time. Possibly forever.
But now he knows again what he must do.
("You'll be Fuhrer. And I'll be the one behind the scenes, making nice with the higher-ups, keeping an eye out on everything for you...")
Keep your end of the bargain, Maes, and I'll keep mine.
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