Funeral Rites
He had been a good man.
They file past his casket, place flowers on the body until only the face is visible. You stand in the background, one arm still in a cast and your left eye blind; the doctors suggested you wear a patch, but you refuse to hide your scars and wear them proud as badges of raw humanity. Some people who pass didn't even know the boy in the casket very well, just maybe met him once or twice on the street, shook his hand when they first saw him. You look at them and envy them as they cry over such a young life lost.
There have been so many funerals in the past month for you to attend. You show up at them with your wounds, in a new military uniform with medallions of service adorning your breast. The associate who is always with you grips your arm as if guiding your blindside, but she limps heavily on that injured right knee; you're actually supporting her as she guides you.
Hughes' daughter is walking up the casket now. You're amazed at how much she's grown over the past two years, at how much she resembles her mother but has the air of her father. She glances at you and smiles gently, an expression too old for her six-year-old face. At the coffin, the little girl paces a flower down and then peers at her Uncle Edward on tip-toe. Her mother approaches behind her, places her hand on her daughter's shoulder as they peer down at young life taken.
You move to come over for the first time since you identified his body when it came into the mortuary, your left hand clasped over your right elbow to keep you injured arm from bumping the hard wood. His face is set in a gentle, peaceful expression, his hands clasped into prayer on his chest underneath all the flowers. A frown escapes you as you look down at this and you move the flowers aside for a moment to unclasp his hands.
A collective murmur runs through the crowd that's gathered, some asking aloud what you're doing, why are you doing this? Someone even dares to tell you that you're defiling the body. You tell them all to shut up; you know what you're doing. You know what he would have wanted in this situation.
You untwist his metal fingers gently from where they rest on his flesh, careful not to snag the edges and grooves on the fragile skin. You open his palms and bend his elbows so that the open palms come together as if he was clapping his hands in front of his chest. Openly, you then smile and step back towards your previous spot, glancing a little more too the left to make up for your impaired sight; soon the murmuring stops and they understand.
When Edward Elric's hands are clapped together, he changes the world in ways that God cannot; with his hands together, he creates wholeness.
Disclaimer and Final Notes:
I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. This entire work is a only speculation of a possible end to the series. First posted on a livejournal community. Any and all constructive critiques will be much appreciated.