Author: daringu
Spoilers: ep.47?
Pairings: vague roy/liza
Notes: I didn't like this at first because it was short and uncomplicated, but others said something about beauty in simplicity. I kinda see it.
It's just a bunch of crotchety old men. Just a bunch of crotchety old men who have no idea what they discuss, no idea of what they talk -
all except one. Generals all, with children and wives sitting in pretty parlors at home, curtains with flower-patterns decorating the window-shade. The Generals are not guilty of knowing. Yes, they are. They don't interfere directly like Grahn, but there's a distinct blind eye turned to certain on-goings in the military, especially when it comes to State Alchemists.
"You're shaking," Hawkeye says. She doesn't look worried at all. The meeting is in a half-hour, and true to the military unspoken rule that the accused is always early he is there early. Well, not accused yet. He's waiting for it, it is as inevitable as Bradley smiling at a cornered prey. Did he smile at Hughes like that?
The room is across the hall: it is the room where National Alchemists have their interview, where some time ago he watched Edward Elric sit upon the golden three-legged chair and say that he wanted to be a National Alchemist for his only family. Roy didn't give that answer, but he probably would now. Family doesn't have to be blood-relations.
They sit on a red-velour covered bench. She always sits up straight. He's half-slouching, one elbow propped on the wooden handrail. It is polished, with an elongated Amestris dragon trailing up the side.
"I'll get over it. You know, there's a historical regime, a long time ago, that tried to conquer the world."
"Really," she says. They have a tradition of him randomly bringing up some point of reference; some obscure trivia; some gossip that he heard in the flower shop in uptown Central while browsing for roses for a date. There's a catch, however. It is always when he is nervous as hell.
"Yes. They were committed to exterminating every member of a certain race as well as world domination."
"Hmm." Memories of shots and screams, crackling flames and pleading brown faces are not needed for reference.
"They say history moves in circles," he says with a little smile.
"What happened to the regime?" she asks.
"They were defeated when several great nations rose up against them."
"Very wise of those nations. I'm sure there was help from the inside, too, if that answers your question," she says, and gestures at the blue-suited men heading inside the great hall with the engraved mythological scene on the door. He thinks he should recall what the scene is from – did he learn it in university classes? in a book somewhere? - but he can't.
She'd probably remember, but she's standing and saluting now, one hand sharply pressed to his forehead. He stands, wrinkles in his uniform, and does the same. The generals ignore him, probably enacting the exact moment in their minds when they can greet their wives in parlors, when this is all over. Last is Bradley, who turns and smiles at them both before walking slowly, carefully in the room, his hands behind him.
She turns and nods to him, tone different from before. "Sir."
He nods back, slowly, turns and walks into the great room, foot by foot. It is dark. The curtains are pulled across normally light-bearing windows. It is exactly like the time of his National Alchemist interview. The Fuhrer sits in the center of a long table, flanked by those inept generals. There is no gold three-legged chair. I am becoming a National Alchemist for the sake of my only family.
Years of practicing an appearance of calm keep him from clenching his fists. Though he can feel the beads of sweat forming on his brow, they should not and he wills them not to: history is on my side, he repeats to himself.