A/N: I've been in an odd mood lately, and it comes out rather depressing and solem in my writing at the moment. I hope you enjoy anyway.
When I moved into the house, I knew we were never going to get married. I knew I wasn't going to be the kind of girl who got to settle down and have kids and be a family. That wasn't who he was. He knew the pain of having a father who was never there and I accepted it. In fact, I thought that I probably wouldn't even be in that house for long.
He was never satisfied. Always looking, always searching, always striving to be better, to work harder, to learn more. He would often lie awake at night long after I was asleep, staring at the ceiling searching for truth in the cracks that ran along it. He would scribble down thought into a note book he kept by the bed, kept there for that exclusive purpose.
I know he knew how it hurt me sometimes that I was not enough for him, that I was not the answer, his reason. I never doubted his love, but knew I was always second in his mind. Sometimes when he would come home after a journey, he would bring home something amazing, or he would spend a whole week just lazing about the house and the yard with me in his arms. There were times when he would do this with a guilty shine in his eyes, and I knew he had held another as he held me. But I wasn't hurt. Not really. He was always looking, and he was only human, as much as this fact distressed him.
He wanted to be more than that. He wanted to wrap the world in his arms and keep it safe and well. He had not a naive bone in his body, but he always had hope. He was the kindest man I have ever had the privilege to know, and his heart was so full and so heavy with caring I sometimes felt my love was dwarfed exponentially by his.
We never did have children. I suppose I might have liked someone small and warm to hold when he was gone, but children grow up too and leave as well. I didn't need that as well. I feel as though, for all his absence, that he would have made the better parent. Not to say I don't like children. Hardly a day goes by without some kid from town running up to my yard with a goofy gap-toothed smile to show me a shinning pebble, or to ask me to help them bake a surprise for their mother. They whisper to me their secret dreams and wishes, and give me happy smiles, and that is enough.
But still, even a child could not have even begun to replace him. He was my moon. Waining and waxing coming and going. Sometimes he reflected the sun, bright orange, off of his cool surface, and I would catch a glimpse of the fire in his eyes. And other times I he would appear a dusky blue, then hide his pale face against my bosom.
I knew when he was troubled, and did my best to comfort him. I suppose that's all any good partner can do for the other. The life of a retired solider is never as quiet and relaxing as retirement from another profession, but for me, I was still fighting. I fought for my own happiness, for his. I fought to smile above the pain, and I fought beside him for the wretched who could not fight for themselves. I never considered myself retired, and I doubt he did either.
Throughout the days we spent with each other, there was always a sense on how temporary everything was. It made me appreciate the good times even more. He made me value life more. I can only hope I did the same for him.
In Loving Memory of a Searching Soul, Lover, and Friend
Edward Elric, In Our Hearts.
- Hana Greenfield