Fate

"Hey, alchemist, mail for you."

Roy looks over at the soldier behind the desk, not surprised, not really interested. He's been finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on feeling emotion. Darker, more ominous thoughts are busy brewing in his mind, slowly creeping out from shadowy corners. He takes the envelope automatically, the crisp cleanness of the paper strange to his tired eyes, but even that novelty is quickly forgotten.

He opens it slowly, where he stands, disregarding the few soldiers milling around the central tent of the barracks. There aren't many familiar faces now, most of the men he'd spent time with—not necessarily bonded with—have already been sent home. That is, the ones that have survived.

Roy feels a flicker of some feeling, anticipation or interest, when he finally registers that the letter in his hands is from Hughes. How strange that his friend would write him when he'll be home soon. But a part of him hopes the letter doesn't contain detailed descriptions of how and where they'll meet and what they'll do the moment Roy arrives in Central. He's not ready for that.

The penmanship is sloppy, the message obviously hastily scrawled—it's so Hughes it hurts. He was excited when he wrote this. Tucked into the folded sheet of paper are three photographs. Two are of a woman Roy has never seen, and the last is a shot of her and Hughes, looking quite proud of himself.

Squinting at the cryptic script, he manages to read it through. Then once more.

He feels like crying, or dying, but he knows he's incapable of mustering the strength for either.

"Guess what, Roy! I met someone! She's the best thing to ever happen to me, and I mean it. We've only known each other for a short time, but she just said she'd be my girlfriend! Her name is Gracia, and she's just the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen! …."

The letter goes on, without any mention of reunion plans. Roy knows now he won't see Hughes when he gets back. Not for a long time.