Death Letter
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Sadly. Even if it does make me cry. Or maybe it's the story.
Rating: T
Summary: The last few paragraph are stained by fear. Fear of death, fear of leaving the world without just means but, most of all, fear of leaving without being heard. The military had the letter policy for a reason.
A long time ago we met through ink on paper. Or perhaps it would be better to say: you met me through awkward, childish scrawl begging to fit more on a piece of paper than one could ever fit. It only seems fitting that this is also the last form of communication we should ever have.
When I was twelve and first told of this letter business, I scoffed. Hot-headed and brash as I was—and very well may still be—I believed that because I had bested the Gate, I could also best death. I'm sure that by now I've done it numerous times out of pure luck and coincidence, little to no thought and none placed to the welfare of others. I want you to know that I never did that because I was ignorant or because I was too stupid to think of it. The welfare and health of everyone around me has always been in the forefront of my mind—regardless of how obvious it is—and the only thing to trump it would be Alphonse.
Alphonse has always been there for me. He was the one thing I could hang onto and depend upon when I was brazen and unwilling to trust my elders. As a child, he would be at my side, completing the other half of my circle before I could even think of it myself. After I had placed him in his suit of armor, it became more than just a wish but yet a duty to ensure he got back to his body.
At the time that I'm writing this, I don't know if I succeeded in this. I don't know if he's standing beside you, creaking from rust due to rain or if he's flesh, bone and blood. If he is the former, listen to what he has to say and do the best you can for him, but do not give him back his body. I know he wouldn't ask this of anyone but myself, however I don't know how "close" we may be at the time of my death. If you think it upon yourself to fulfill what I could not, I demand that you step back and think about what you're doing. Chances are more than likely that this goal is exactly what led to my untimely death and will thus lead you to yours. You have dreams and aspirations to keep to, each and every one more important than the last and definitely more important than the obsession of your youngest subordinate, whom you knew for only a handful of years.
Now that I remind you of how long we've been acquaintances, you are probably wondering what in the world I am doing writing my death-letter to you and not to my brother. There are a myriad of things that could go wrong or even go right, but if I have my way than by the time you get this Al will have his body and be far from the clutches of the militia. As a student to a master, I'm asking you to keep him safe from the military. I neither know nor care what it will take to get him to safety, but just this once will you please listen to my request, even be it on a whim, and keep him from harm's way? If Bradley or whomever steps up after his death (the old fart is going on sixty, unheard of for a Fuhrer that has reigned this long; I doubt he will last much longer after this letter has been penned) ever learns of what Al went through, he will be targeted.
But if all things go wrong, there's a slight chance that due to our simultaneous Calling of the Gate, Al and my souls/spirits/whatever-you-call-it are in fact linked and therefore my death results in his. While this isn't a theory I've particularly tried upon, it's still something that may in fact come true years or even days from now. Because of this link, it would be useless to write a letter to him, though if he does survive my limited number of days, please... please tell him that I love him. Tell him that I can't stand the thought of him living this world trapped in a metal cage or tell him that getting him to his body was the single greatest thing I could ever do with my life. Whichever is true, tell him.
There are other things that this letter brings to mind. Winry, Hawkeye, Izumi, Sig, Pinako, Hawkeye and the rest of the team, Armstrong, Hughes, Gracia and Elysia… all of them I have things I wish to say to them. Things that I am too ineloquent—as a man who bottles his emotions up until they choke the breath from my throat—to say. But mostly, my thoughts come to you and onto your shoulders.
I have plans for what to do after my mission is over. Things to think over and consider depending on where I end my journey at. But most of my current thoughts actually revolve on staying in the Military. I know, shocking, yes, but this is all I really know. This is my home until I'm finally thrown into combat. It's where I met Hawkeye, Havoc, Fury, Breda, Falman, Black Hayate, all of the Armstrongs, Bradley, Sheska and, dare I even mention it, it's where I met you, Mustang. Or do I call you Roy now? Right now, all I can think of is calling you Lieutenant Colonel Bastard, which is much too long of a title. If you're not Fuhrer by the time you receive this, I very well don't know what the fuck you've been doing with your life.
But, back to these plans. They're stupid, short-lived things. I'm tired of traveling, even at the age of fourteen. I'm tired of lumpy train cars and stupid idiots who don't know a Xerxian glyph from a Baglusalve glyph. I'm tired of running and hiding from everything. But mostly, I'm tired of hiding behind an angry façade to keep important questions from being asked. I've seen so much and experienced so much in the span of two years that I wish I were like Falman—someone who only joined the Military to pass the time and someone who is counting years until retirement, not decades like you or I.
I planned on turning down some assignments. I planned on securing myself a stupid, boring desk job to focus on and to slowly move up in the ranks until I was a Brigadier General, be it that I last that long. I don't want anything more than a Generalship, though. I want to be able to stop and kick peoples asses with three or four words, get people to do what I want and/or need without feeling guilty.
So in essence, as embarrassing as this is to write, I had planned on pushing you up through the ranks, Mustang. I had planned on getting you to your Fuhrership, where you fucking belong God damn it. This country—more than the country—this nation needs you. She's desperate and poor and unable to think for Herself. She needs someone like you to right this wrong and turn bad things good. To rework and redefine what this government stands for and, damn it all, you're the only person to do this.
I have to remind myself that this letter is only to be seen by you after my death, even after rereading what I've already written. It's been a year since I placed this letter in the back of my trunk to finish after a short nap, yet not one of these words changes. Your rank may have improved and such, but I'm still planning on pushing you through the rest of them.
And, in the very same essence I mentioned one year ago, back when I was fourteen and naïve, I plan on learning under you. [The quick, uncertain jerk of the quill leaves behind a scattered mark, written over in the next paragraph.]
At fifteen I really was an easy-to-embarrass, naïve little shit wasn't I? But what I said a year ago and what I am writing now have no different meanings, Mustang. I've watched during my travels, promoting havoc where I may but leaving behind less than I easily can. I clean up my messes, Mustang. Not because I can or should (though those are factors), but because you would get a bad name if I were to do anything else. I place well-remarks in your favor as often as possible and, dare I even think it, I truly have learned under you. Politics and ways of deceit are both easily manageable, though not preferably. I still have far to go, though. I plan on more. I hope you don't disappoint me.
I am now laying my pen down to discuss with Alphonse some of the finer points of the newer theories we've come across in our newest travels. As it seems the tradition I've made for myself, I don't suspect I'll pick it up until I'm well into my seventeenth year, perhaps even further. Nevertheless, the words in this letter never yet cease to stop being truthful.
And truthful this last paragraph has become. It has been over a year since I last laid eyes on this page of mélange writing, scribbled in chicken-scratch debacle and goofy cursive both. Much has happened, so much so that I've finally steeled myself to sit down and finish this.
The Promised Day is to begin in less than twenty-four hours and I do not plan on living through it. This is my last chance. This is when Alphonse will get his body back or we will both die along with the rest of the world.
There is much I wish I had learned, but now that I have this older, less-naïve thought of mind and perspective to learn from, I can look back and understand the uncertain, heady, thoughtless rambling this letter began with and what I need to say now. When I first picked these pages up six years ago I thought I would write a book before feeling that I could get across the reasons why I would write to you above all else. I've finally understood that and finally have the ability to describe it into words.
But before I do that, there are other things I need to add. Like the fact that if you are alive right now, you better fucking making it to Fuhrer within the next three years because, damn it, what I said before still rings true. It rings even louder now that the corruption of Bradley has begun to grow and prosper into an abused flower—into an abused Amestris. I want you to know that there is nothing but death that can stop my supporting you and, damn it all, I expect you to fucking prove me right. [The rest of the letter is dotted with wet marks, smeared slightly with ink, proof of how Edward didn't have enough time to rewrite this letter without the tear stains.]
That's the one thing I want from you in life and in death. I want someone somewhere to prove that what I did and what I said were needed. That my voice didn't go unheard under the cacophony of hushed whispers of the Homunculus' true being and the parakeet squawks of disbelieving higher-ups. I need someone to prove to me that I believed in the right man and trusted that he was right. Just once in my life—even if it be after death—I want to have one thing I said or believed fullheartedly become true. I don't want to become some ridiculous, religious-minded nutter so you have to prove to me and to the others that what I said is true. If I were still there, Mustang, I would kick your ass until you did just as needed.
However, fact of the matter is: if you're reading this, I'm not there. I'm dead. Just as I planned. I'm better off dead after finishing my goal with Alphonse anyway, because there's really nothing left in this world for me. I will give up my entire body for Al to have his back. To right the God forsaken wrong I've committed. To blast this sin away from an ungraceful suit of armor and place it back into the arms of a living, breathing, flesh being.
And Mustang, I have one more thing to say to you before I tell you why I wrote this to you.
You are a great man. A conceited bastard who plays with the minds of everyone he distrusts with an ego to match the size of the continent, but you are a great man. A great man with great aspirations that deserve to be reached. You deserve to be Fuhrer and, God, I really wouldn't be saying any of this if I wasn't dead—that's how much this really is true. You are a great man at the hands of the worst critic known to man: yourself. You deserve everything you have fought for; everything from that comfy office chair to the team at your beck-and-call, myself including because, let's face it, I'm just as much as an egotistical bastard unable to come to terms with the fact that I'm still a kid and kids need guidance. I committed the taboo and survived, but that did not make me, miraculously, thirty years old. I was still a kid.
And this is where the reason comes into play, Roy. Roy, not Mustang, because this is my last day of life and I've always wanted to be equals with you. So let me be equal in death. A long time ago, a man walked into the room whom I had no idea existed prior and inspired me to get off of my ass and do something about the hand that Life had dealt me. I just wanted to be able to thank him.
I want to thank him, not you, not the uncertain man Hell-bent on revenge you are now. So when he comes back into existence, make sure that he gets this. I want him—not you—to know how thankful and grateful I am for every waking moment he has spent worrying over me and pulling strings for me. Because I know now how hard it would be for me to get where I am without you.
Most of all, thank you for treating me like a kid. I know you would deny it, but kids like to play games of make-pretend and force others to believe their lies and, damn it all, I was really just a kid. So thank you for playing this game of make-pretend with me and treating me like the adult we both know I'm not.
Thank you. For every moment, every day, every single breath you took to make sure Alphonse and I were ok. Even moreso than that, thank you for pretending like you weren't expending any hint of care or concern for us—for me.
There is no way to explain to you just how thankful I am in the mere course of words or even in person. I could go on for hours or days, neither of which I have. I could go on for the rest of my life trying to try, but the fact that I'm crying is evidence enough… right?
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry because I know you fought in Ishval and killed kids even younger than Alphonse is. I'm sorry. But this is another child's life gone to waste. I can't possibly imagine how many times you've run your hands through your hair or damaged something because you were pissed at me or worried or any mix in between. I had a childhood, full and free, and I threw it all away because I wanted to see some smile I could have seen if I were less ignorant and more open to looking at picture-books. So I'm sorry that I threw it away but more importantly I'm sorry I made you watch me cast it aside without allowing you to have your state of thought in it.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, but this is one less life on your hands.
Thank you for everything you have ever done, even if I was mad and even if I don't know of it now.
Thank you.
It seems what I said at the beginning of the letter is correct.
A long time ago we met through ink on paper. Or perhaps it would be better to say: you met me through awkward, childish scrawl begging to fit more on a piece of paper than one could ever fit. It only seems fitting that this is also the last form of communication we should ever have.
And it also seems fitting that the last words this letter reads are "thank you" because thank you.
Edward Elric, the former Full Metal Alchemist