He stands. Tall. Up and up and up gazes travel to see his face. It is a height born not of physical stature. It is too complex for that. This height is born of pride, strength, confidence.
He stands. Tall with pride. But pride without hubris. Tall as he stands, he reaches higher still. Not to be better than another, his is not the pride that seeks to cast down god. He reaches to be better than himself. He strives to grasp and hold what he could not before. Then he will reach again.
He stands. Tall with strength. The kind that is bought not given. Paid for with work and endurance and sleepless nights. Strength of the body. Of the mind. His best is never enough and better is almost within reach, teasingly brushing outstretched fingertips. Because he is not the only one relying on that strength. Others need it too. He knows. And knowing pushes him relentlessly. Strength is not enough. Is never enough. He cannot just fight. He has to win.
He stands. Tall with confidence. Earned with sweat and blood and tears and loss and never giving up until the goal is reached. He has paid his price. The evidence is left in his scars. Rips and tears. Mere scratches. Near-mortal wounds. And his wings. Once they would have been beautiful. White. Soft. Magnificent. Awe-inspiring. Terrifying. Once they would have stretched out behind him as he strode forward. Uplifted, they would have provided a daunting background to his ferocity. Not walking, stalking. Hunting down his prey as a lion would hunt a hyena. Swooping and diving in breathtaking aerial acrobatics. Now his wings are blackened from fire. Broken from fighting. But he stands with confidence, not regret. His wings are not hidden. They are out in full display. Telling the story of what he has sacrificed. What he has lost. What he has won. He fell. But he is not fallen. Once he would have been called an avenging angel. Swooping down in all his glory on those who wronged him and his. Now he has gained the softer edges his wings have lost. Mercy learned without forgetting justice. Now he is called an archangel.
He once called himself Icarus. The boy who flew. Flew and fell. He thought he could avoid the consequences everyone else faced. Thought he was different. Special. He is. But it does not make him immune. The sun shines down on all equally and its harsh rays bring even the most terrible truths to light. He still thinks of himself as the boy who fell. But he knows that he survived the fall. As broken and burnt as his wings are, they are his. And his story does not end here. He will never fly again. And sometimes that hurts. Aches deep in broken feathers. But he has two good legs. If he cannot fly… He will stand. Stand tall. And walk forward.
AN: This started as something else and quickly morphed into a character study of Edward as he is at the end of the manga and the Brotherhood anime. In case it wasn't clear, the wings are supposed to be a metaphor for his alchemy. My inspiration for this came from several things, one of which is a recent fascination with the mythical character of Icarus. This tied in nicely with Ed's comparison of himself with that same character. Then, of course, there is Ed's short complex throughout the series along with the fact that the author, brilliantly, portrays all her young characters growing up over the course of the story, both mentally and physically. For some reason, this has been one of the things I have always loved about FMA. By the end of the story, more specifically when the photo album of what happens after is shown, Ed may not be the giant he hoped but he is definitely not short either.
I tried to write this as the point of view of someone close to Ed, someone who knew what he had been through and what it had cost him, and how they would see him after the story. No particular character was chosen for this but it would probably be Al or possibly Winry as they knew Ed before, during, and after the events of the manga and they seem like the only people who would be likely to be 1) this introspective and 2) this poetic about the whole thing. Granny Pinako strikes me as being too straight forward for something like this. Mustang might know Ed well enough for this, but again, wrong personality.
Please comment with any thoughts, suggestions, or praise for my literary prowess. But seriously, any comments will be appreciated.