Title: The Sight Whereof
Author: vanillavinegar
Rating: T (gore, violence, descriptions of war)
Summary: Maes Hughes has seen the worst humanity has to offer.
Warnings: SPOILERS through the Ishval arc (volume 15/chapter 61). Please also note the rating.
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.
Author's Notes: This fic was written for prompt 136, 'survivor's guilt', at fma_fic_contest. It won third place that week. Sorry for the dearth of updates lately; I've actually caught up with all of my entries from the comm, so updates will probably slow down. Thanks to everyone for reading!
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He had seen blood shed, a lot of it. Ishvalan, Amestrian – once out of a body, there was no difference in the blood. He knew that as well as any. Better than most. He could never hope to measure the amount of blood on his own hands.
He had seen people die in a hundred thousand different ways: bullets ripping neat holes through skulls; explosions that left more parts than bodies; bayonets slicing through limbs; fires that melted flesh; buildings that crushed their occupants; the very earth swallowing people whole (or, worse, not whole). Whether those who fell quickly in a flash of serrated knives or those who took long hours of screams to die were the worst was something he had not yet decided.
He had seen a pitiless gaze refusing to stop the slaughter, the exultation of his comrades as more of the enemy fell, and his own bone weariness reflected back at him in the eyes of others. He knew the face of evil, had witnessed more cruelty than he had believed possible, and found that goodness and mercy were scarcer than water in the desert.
It was years since he left Ishval, but still war raged in his dreams.
And yet.
He had seen the same steadfast love and warmth shining from Gracia's face from the moment he stepped off the train in Central to every morning they woke together.
He had seen Elicia take her first, wavering steps and laugh in delight at her own accomplishment.
He had seen the untiring determination glinting in Roy's eyes.
He had seen a hundred thousand acts of kindness, from a grocer waving away a poor man's bill to his neighbor's daughter adopting a homeless kitten. He recognized the bravery in Sheska's efforts to support her ill mother, the generosity embodied in Major Armstrong, the loyalty daily shown by the men he commanded.
He had seen hell, yes, and saw it anew whenever he closed his eyes. He owed a debt to every person he had seen die, to every soldier of his that he had outlived, to every Ishvalan he had killed – a debt that he was incapable of paying, a guilt that would linger no matter how long he lived.
But for all of the days he had lived since Ishval, and for all of those yet remaining to him, Maes would live and love as much as he could. He could not live for those who had died any more than he could bring them back to life, but neither could he waste the life he had. That he had survived at all was both gift and burden, and it was his duty, now, not to squander what he had been given, when so many had not.
THE END