Edward,
My hand is shaking, so pardon me if this is not as coherent as I usually aim to be in my letters. I find I'm having a rather hard time coping, you see.
In any other situation, I'd be referring by title to Maes Hughes. Now, he's gone, and at least in this personal writing…I don't find it necessary anymore.
Maes is dead, and I don't know what to do with myself. He was a companion, a dear friend, a wonderful father…I could go on for pages talking about all the reasons the world was better off with him in it. It still wouldn't change anything.
It has been a very long time since I've cried, Edward. With my line of work, there is so much I see that should make me cry. In truth I suppose I've become somewhat jaded; I can't allow myself time to wallow in sadness when I have my duties. With Maes…I can't stop myself.
Lieutenant Hawkeye will never admit to seeing it, thank goodness, but I couldn't hold back a few tears at the funeral. That was nothing compared to the night, however. Lying there, imagining nothing but Maes stuck in the ground…oh, it still hurts to think about.
He's not the first person I've lost, but he is the first person close to me that has died in…well, ages. I've lost troops and I've lost acquaintances, but never in my adult life have I lost someone so important to me as Maes was. I don't know what to do with myself.
How long does it take for this pain to leave, Ed? Or do you still not have the answer to that question?
Signed,
Roy Mustang
P.S. And how in the world am I supposed to break this awful news to you? I can't bare the thought of putting this grief onto your shoulders as well…