When Thou Shalt Come to Judge the World By Fire

by BewareTheGeminiII

Roy was silent, unable to answer. Hughes was right. There hadn't been any other girl for him, not really. Something about her. Something about Riza Hawkeye that made her so much more than a memory. Hughes leaned against the bar, shadows lengthening on his face. "So, what was it? What ruined dating? A regret, or a promise?" Pre-Series Royai Complete

9. Chapter 9

Epilogue: Requiem

The Graveyard, Town of Hortus, East District

The Morning of the Summer Solstice

A Seven Year Old Boy

"…how mouth-like they are, and how their speechlessness makes the road quieter.

Each flower is a surprise, like the flaming tip of cigarettes in the dark …

I'm thinking of my son, asleep, and of the wild tiger lilies. How frail they are in the new light.

Why they come.

Why they spring up,

unannounced as suddenly as the promises we make with ourselves when we are young."

"Meditation with Smoke and Flowers"

Requiem for The Orchard, Oliver De La Paz

---

05:10

Introitus: Requiem Aeternam (dona eis, Domine)

The sun rises early on the longest day of the year.

As is yearly promised by the lengthening days, the summer now begins, although for much of Amestris the warm season has long since begun.

Major Maes Hughes is not yet awake. Within a few minutes, he will be. But he will not watch the earliest dawn of the year. Not this year.

Instead he is resting. He is sleeping in the shortest darkness, the shortest night, the shortest rest of the year.

Et lux perpetua luceat eis

Far away in the East, where the day starts earlier on account of the sun, where it is already six in the morning, a funeral has begun. In some ways it is not truly a funeral, instead it is a tradition—long since become a ritual—in which the town commemorates all of its losses yearly on the morning of the summer solstice.

The old mourners are chanting the old prayers. They share the same ancient griefs, the same perpetual supplications that their ancestors prayed and that their descendants one day will too. The chanting is musical and rhythmic, spoken with an unrehearsed unity that borders on a miracle. Or perhaps an uncanny disquiet.

"Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla."

In the midst of the crowd stands a green-eyed boy. The boy, barely old enough to read the booklet shoved into his hands by his mother, struggles to understand the foreign words. The path crunches under his too-large shoes and he ponders that "gravel" is just one letter away from "grave."

For a second he is able to match the sounds to the text in front of him. Without being told, he knows that the Amestrian text means the same thing as the foreign words to their left. He has always prided himself on his intelligence and his knack for figuring things out. His inquisitive nature and his habit for forming mock trials and tribunals amongst his schoolmates had been enough for his teacher to label him a brilliant boy but a disruptive influence. One day while making him copy out his alphabet in punishment, she'd declared that he'd make a fine politician one day. He did not know what that meant. But he took it as a compliment.

This day, this day of wrath
shall consume the world in ashes,
as foretold by David and the Sibyl.

He has watched this ceremony, whether he has remembered it or not, for each of the seven years he has been alive. As such, he has the whole affair figured out. Moreso than the grown-ups who blindly return to their spots each year and mutely respond with the same responses. He thinks they must be mourning the winter itself.

What else could they mourn yearly? And why else would they chose today, the day furthest from winter? The little boy has not yet lost anyone, not anyone meaningful at least. Not yet. He has not yet lost childhood playmates to the ravages of the great flu, or the good friends of his youth to the great eastern rebellion. Precocious though he is, he has not yet experienced a reason for mourning.

According the booklet, the minister had mentioned something about everlasting light. The light today will last until past his bedtime, until past even nine o'clock; it will keep him awake despite his mother's efforts to draw the curtains shut and insist he still falls asleep by eight thirty.

Bored of the chanting and the dull brightness shining into his eyes, he looks back at the pages of text he had been reading before.

What trembling there will be
When the judge shall come
to weigh everything strictly!

He didn't remember this part from last year, all this talk about a judge. But he wasn't that good at reading last summer.

When the judge takes his seat
all that is hidden shall appear
Nothing will remain unavenged.

The boy felt a sudden pity for this great judge everyone feared. Why did he have to judge everyone? Why was everyone so scared of him, whispering their fear in hushed tones? Did he decide to be the judge, or had someone else elected him for the position?

And he wondered if this judge, who surely wore a powdered wig and dark robes like his father in the village court, ever got lonely. He imagines the judge to be a real person, not some disembodied symbol of something. He imagines that the judge looks like the bespectacled minister standing before the crowd—not too old, but not quite young anymore, perhaps resembling one of the teachers at school.

The boy isn't scared of this judge. After all, the booklet says that the judge is righteous. That must be a fancy way of saying he is right. Why would he, why would anyone, be scared of a judge who judges right, who knows all good from bad? He's not scared of the judge. Rather, he wishes he could keep him company.

He wonders when the day of judgement is coming, and if it might as well be today, the longest day of the year, the one with the most light. Today is the height—although not quite the full heat—of summer, and it is as good a day for judgement as any. It only makes sense that the last day would be in the best season of the year. Plus, there are so many words about fire and burning in this section about the day of judgment, and fires only come in the summer, after all.

So, the boy decides with certainty, the day of judgement will be on the longest day of the year. What other day would have enough time for the judge to judge all the people in the graveyard?

The old people are now chanting in Amestrian, rather than the other language he does not know the name of. He does not know why.

He has stopped chanting, because he has lost track of where they are. But every other mouth in the crowd keeps moving. All the other children, grouped around their older siblings and parents, seem to know the words. It seems they know things that he alone does not. He turns around and notices that the entire crowd behind him seems to be looking at him with annoyed, disapproving looks in their eyes. The same look Ms. Sion gets when he disrupts class to tattle on the class bully for tossing chalk at Gregory Bernard in the back row.

He notices that he alone is silent.

He is alone and lonely, just like the judge.

"When thou shalt come to judge the world by fire," the whole crowd speaks in unison, and he is scared. He is terrified.

When they say "thou," he feels as if they are talking to him.

It startles him. It confuses him. Is he now the judge? He does not want to be the lonely judge.

The warm morning now feels as cold as a February rain. A sudden fear overtakes him. Have they declared that he is to be the judge?

He realizes now that they are not merely mourning the winter, they are mourning the summer too. The days had been lengthening daily since the cold months. The boy blinks, and for a terror-filled instant, the summer vanishes, devoured by the heat before it could even begin.

They then ask for rest. Eternal rest.

So, as he is still a child who has not yet tired of anything, save perhaps schoolwork, the boy wonders who would need to sleep when the day is new.

The funeral has ended. The black-dressed crowd is dispersing into the hazy morning, vanishing into the shadows of trees and buildings. The moment of dread has abated, although he fears that these horrible revelations may return to haunt him his whole life through.

As he walks away from the gravestones and the untidy clumps of yellow and orange daylilies that seem to turn and stare at him as he passes, he promises himself that he will never become a judge. He will never. He can't be sure of this other judge that everyone, even the grownups, fear. But if anyone asks him to become a judge—the judge—he will say no. He will never judge the world by fire.

He will never judge anyone or anything.

Unlike his father, he will not grow up to be a judge.

Still, the lilies continue watching him with their open, speaking mouths, and he cannot help but think that they are reminding him of his newly-discovered fate.

He blinks as a mourning dove coos unseen from some tree, as if awakening the sleepy haze that will soon blossom into an oppressive heat. The ground and the graves around him seem to tremble in the silence after.

No, the lilies are more than mouths. They are the trumpets sounding the day of judgement.

He trips on the gravel and, scared, chases after his mother.

OOOOO

Office of Investigations, Central City Military Command Headquarters

Monday, June 21, 1909—The Summer Solstice

Major Maes Hughes: Age 24

06:58

Kyrie (Eleison)

The sun must have risen early, Major Maes Hughes thought as he opened his office door.

But by the time he arrived in his office, the sun bled like a dying thing through the slats of the blinds, heavy like snow, yet burning like white fire on the floor. As he settled himself at his desk, glancing at the calendar in an act of unavoidable routine, he remembered that today was the summer solstice. The first day of summer. The longest day of the year.

He supposed he had known it since the morning. Something had buzzed within his stomach since he had awoken, reminding him that today was not like other days. He had kept glancing over his shoulder on his morning commute, turning to look at each pigeon, startling at the doves perched on the electric lines above the streetcar. He jumped at shadows, as if he was anticipating something inevitable, waiting and watching for something he wasn't yet sure would actually arrive. But, he convinced himself, the jittery feeling somewhere between fear and excitement was just adrenaline born of some vestigial evolutionary sleeplessness, a circadian quirk of his mammalian brain.

No, it wasn't even that, he thought. Today was the last day of work before he would be finally able to leave on honeymoon with Gracia. Of course he was excited, it was only natural.

He was excited. Simply excited and nothing more.

So, turning his back to his distractions and the sunny sky behind him, he pulled his type writer close to draft a memo; his work day officially began with a ding and a new line of text.

Maes Hughes's office job in Central differed greatly from the field officer position he held during his deployment to Ishval. Sometimes it required court appearances, sometime visits to crime scenes, and occasionally it involved the interviewing of suspects or witnesses or experts. The hours were unpredictable and the out-of-city trips were frequent.

But while it tended to involve less explosions, casualties, and genocide than his previous position, it was never boring.

"Investigations" is what the military called it. "Husband-hogging-day-job" is what Gracia named it. Some of his more confused relatives mistakenly referred to it as Intelligence, and many of his military co-workers who worked in other buildings lazily lumped his line of work in with the Court Martial Office and Military Police. Yes, Investigations technically was a part of the Court Martial Office, Maes would exasperatedly concede, but it really was its own office. He wasn't sure why he felt so strongly about ensuring that people knew precisely what he did. But sometimes he just did. Just a quirk of his fastidious nature, of his exacting brain, he supposed.

But besides the steady pay and relative personal safety, the access to documents and information was a great boon to a curious man like Maes. And once in a while, he hoped he'd have the opportunity to conduct his own investigations. Ones that had been on his mind since Ishval.

A bouquet full of white lilies and roses (along with some blue things he didn't know the name of) overshadowed the five photos of Gracia on his desk. It was from last week, and he had forgotten to bring it home on Friday. But he needed to remember to do so today. He had promised himself that he would. Otherwise it would sit in the office for the next two weeks while he and Gracia were enjoying their honeymoon, and he doubted the other officers would appreciate having to tidy the slowly falling petals.

Some of Roy's words had been echoing in his head for the past week. "In some ways, we're married to our jobs." What a Roy thing to say. Ishval had changed him for the worst, convincing him that he had been irrevocably changed, that he was damned in some way, and that he was beyond all hope and deserving of future happiness.

If he kept up that like, he'd end up miserable.

While in Ishval, Maes had learned that several sects of the Ishvalan faith considered marriage a sacred covenant, not merely a contract overseen by the government or a private decision between two people. They rejected all notion of divorce, because they believed marriage changed a person intrinsically. Perhaps this was where Roy had developed those thoughts he had internalized. That the war had changed him forever, and he was forbidden to divorce his past and remarry civilian life or a civilian bride.

What a load of self-sacrificing shit. Maes didn't agree with it. He didn't think it was right that anyone should be bound by the promises they made when they were young. He didn't want to live in a society bound by that philosophy.

But, as stupid as he thought his friend could be, it was that stupidity he had decided to investigate today. He didn't have any assigned work to finish before he left for a two-week honeymoon with his beautiful wife. So surviving today was all that was left to do. Surviving a workday that should have been short and simple—

And then Second Lieutenant Michael Davidson, the dumbest and most asinine soldier that the Military Academy had graduated in the Class of 1909, loudly knocked open the office door. Although he possessed far too little common sense to his name, the guy was eager to prove. His current probationary job involved processing incoming cases by ranking and sorting them in relative order of priority by evaluating a variety of factors such as threat to national concern, the severity of violations in reports, and the number of presently ongoing investigations.

And even though Maes had written him out a detailed guide outlining the exact procedure by which to do these tasks, and who exactly to contact with various questions, Second Lieutenant Michael Davidson still struggled.

And for some reason he had imprinted upon Maes. And he consulted Maes with all of his questions, especially in instances when he should have been seeking the guidance of literally any other soldier in the military. Any other.

"Good morning, Major Hughes!" The man was also the loudest, most situation-blind soldier Maes had ever met. "I have a question."

"Yes, Lieutenant." Maes didn't even bother looking up from his typewriter.

"We have a request from the CO of the Tiefthal Base. Three officers are complicit in a drug-trafficking situation that resulted in the death of a Private."

"Did they take the drugs as well?"

"One of them did sir, and he—"

"That'll still probably end up being manslaughter. That'll need a good JAG. Send that one to Captain Blake down the hall in 305. I trust his men run to handle that investigation."

And so Maes listened to Davidson ask about a litany of other cases including the now-infamous Latronem case that involved a Sergeant accused of selling classified information to Drachman Intelligence Agents. Maes doubted that was truly the story, but he had dropped out of the case several weeks prior and had been too busy to keep up with all the details. Personally though, he believed poor Latronem to be innocent. Not like there was anything to be done about it. The military had likely already made up their mind before the matter even went to court.

There had been so many cases like this lately. Classified material was showing up anywhere and everywhere it wasn't supposed to be. There had been reports of mysteriously vanishing dossiers and folders, even an entire filing cabinet of top secret information that had vanished from the Court Martial Office. Thankfully the filing cabinet's disappearance had only been temporary, the handiwork of an over-zealous second-lieutenant rearranging his workspace.

All of it, however, was making his life unnecessarily harder. The military had begun responding with a reciprocal tightening of procedures, increased charges for mishandling of classified documents and other similar offenses, and a rising number of random searches of anyone qualified to handle classified documents, including his own men.

But, after ten minutes of questioning, Davidson still hadn't walked away yet. He was still standing there. Maes glanced up. He wore an expectant look on his face, somehow not showing a trace of shame. How long would it be before this man realized he had earned himself a day of misery from his annoyed boss?

"What else, Lieutenant?"

"Sergeant on a bicycle? Nearly collided with the South Command's CO, Brigadier General Tract."

"Was the guy drunk or do you have reason to believe this was a premeditated assassination attempt?"

"Oh, definitely drunk, sir. When he fell off the bike he was unable to stand, and he had a blood alcohol level of 0.2—"

"Well then, why, when you were sorting incoming investigations last Friday, did you put the investigation in the sedition folder with the red marker that means urgent? Why are you wasting this department's time?"

"Sir, I'm sorry—"

"You know what, I think you can handle the investigation for that case yourself. Because clearly, our nation's safety hangs in the balance of this case's outcome!"

"—uh, yes sir—"

"What are you doing? Go and start your interviews, gather your evidence! Clearly an armada of drunk cyclists are coming for our good Fuhrer President Bradley and only you can stop them!"

The Second Lieutenant scurried through the door in a flurry of apologies and yes, Major, sir and desperate attempts at salutes before there finally was silence.

Silence. Glorious silence.

What had he needed silence for?

Ah yes, his own work. His own investigations. Now he had time to begin. Where to begin? With the records of State Alchemists, where else?

But he needed help. Help that could only be rendered by that same idiotic assistant of his who he had just dismissed.

"Davidson! Get back in here! I need State Alchemist records from the past fifty years!" For added effect, he added, "This is a matter of urgent national concern!"

"What for, sir?" The door clattered open on its poor abused hinges as files and papers flew into the air. "Is this about the bicycles? Do you need—"

"Yes, clearly this is about the dreaded bicycle alchemist—No! Of course it's not about the bicycles. And who told you that you could ask me questions? What's your security clearance again? Do you think you've earned the privilege of asking me questions yet? Anyway, I need you pulling all the State Alchemists records from downstairs. I need them fast. This is a matter of urgent national security!"

"Yes, sir, of course sir."

The door slammed shut behind the Lieutenant's hurried exit, leaving the office in relative silence. Only a bird outside disrupted the quiet.

Maes smiled. About damn time.

"Sorry to interrupt you sir, but quick question How do you start an investigation?"

Maes let his head slam onto his desk. His darling beautiful wife smiled at him from one of the photographs.

This was going to be a very long day.

OOOOO

08:17

Graduale: Requiem Aeternam (dona eis, Domine)

Maes had thought he'd first try his luck with the records of State Alchemists. Obtaining them had been easy and innocuous enough. Davidson had carried in the boxes from the archives that were kept conveniently on the floor below in the in-house records office, and there'd been no questions from him or anyone else. If there were, all he'd need was a convincing justification offered with a gracious handwave, something along the lines of a cold case murder haunting him and the need to check if the unusual cause of death aligned with the talents of any State Alchemist.

But there was no Hawkeye in those files.

Over half an hour of searching showed no leads. No State Alchemist from West did anything that resembled flame alchemy. In fact, there were no now-deceased State Alchemists from any district who were of an age that would allow them to be Riza Hawkeye's father. Two were too young and five were too old. The only promising leads had all been casualties of Ishval.

He was sure that the alchemist he was looking for was Riza Hawkeye's father. It had to be. No other story made sense.

Sighing, he repacked the boxes and began carrying them back to the records office.

"But Lieutenant Gardner, I still don't understand. How do I—"

From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Lieutenant Gardner looked ready to jump into the moat of Central Command.

"Well, Davidson, you see—"

How was it barely 8:30?

OOOOO

08:57

Tractus: Absolve, Domine (animas omnium fidelium defunctorum)

Panting, Maes climbed the steps to First Branch of Central's National Library.

Dwarfed by the grand columns of the portico—a relic of Xerxesian grandeur—he was reminded of his childhood. He had loved visiting the libraries when he would stay with his mother's family in Central each summer. His grandparents would have to drag him out of the stacks when the closing hour came.

But today's journey was not to those same publicly-accessible reading rooms. Instead, he turned to the records in the Central Library, starting with the First Branch's collection. He'd try to sift through the haphazard records of civilian alchemists. After an unnecessarily complicated conversation with one of the clerks, he had finally made his way into the third floor of the building.

As the archivist, a warrant officer perhaps a few years older than himself, fiddled with the keys to the records room, he asked Maes conversationally, "So what's the nature of your visit today, Major?"

Maes startled for a second, but quickly regained his composure. "I'm not at liberty to reveal the nature of such a high-level investigation. I don't need any information leaking to the enemy.

The archivist paused with a glimmer of concern in his eyes. "The enemy?"

"Yeah, and if you read the paper, you'll realize they're all over our country." Maes didn't like talking like a war-mongering radio reporter, but it got the job done. "Drachma, Creta, Aerugo, any surviving Ishvalan insurgent bands, the anti-war extremists—"

The warrant officer stood, face pale under his blond bangs.

"Do you want me to go on?"

"No, sir."

"Then please, stay outside while I conduct my investigation."

He shut the door to the dark room behind him, and he was left alone. He pulled at a cord and a row of flickering lights illuminated the cavernous space. The records were stored in folders, almost like books in stacks, and the bookshelves stretched across a room that was nearly a hundred feet in length.

He paced to the shelves marked with a letter H and prayed he'd be lucky. Within a few minutes he had found it.

"Hawkeye"

Hawkeye, Berthold Cornelius

D.O.B: July 25, 1860 Residence: 410 Winterberry Lane, Town of Marian Woods, West District

Specialties: Manipulation of gaseous elements, atmospheric alchemy, manipulation of fire

State Alchemist Status: Contacted 1891, 1900—UNINTERESTED, DO NOT CONTACT AGAIN

N.B. Mr. Hawkeye has been twice contacted with offers of recruitment to the S.A. program. Both have resulted in verbal altercations and threats of physical violence directed at the S.A recruiting officers involved. [Admin. Note: In keeping with Mr. Hawkeye's known history of anti-government demonstration in his youth. Please reference records pertaining to essays and other publications written during his time at Wellesley College.] At the time of the second contact (1900) he was in direction of an apprentice, a youth, who appeared interested in learning more about the S. A. program. Recruiting officers were unable to obtain the apprentice's name due to the intervention of Mr. Hawkeye, but Major R. C. Jameson has reason to believe the young man will be seeking a military career after the ending of his apprenticeship.

I highly recommend voiding all other attempts at contact.

Lieutenant-Colonel P. Mundi

February 13, 1900.

This single sheet seemed to confirm his entire hypothesis. Provided of course, that this Berthold was indeed Riza's father. Not that Hawkeye was a common last name. Still, he could confirm that with a little more researching. The library was supposed to have copies of the entire nation's birth certificates and death certificates as a way of centralizing information. If he was lucky, everything would be located in one room.

First though, he pulled out his notebook and copied the document, word for word. He could not stop his hands from shaking.

Within minutes of leaving the first archive room, the archivist led him to an entire floor that was reserved for maintaining copies of western town records. They were spotty, especially with regards to small rural municipalities, but he would try anyway.

"Depending on what you're looking for sir, the certificates of both birth and death only stretch back to the last century or so."

"That should be fine, thank you. Please stay outside, again. I'll call you if I have any questions."

"Yes, sir."

His findings would likely be superfluous, but he needed to be sure. The room he had just entered, containing all the records for Spinestail County, was utterly labyrinthine. Eventually he managed to find the grouping of shelves that contained the records of Marian Woods.

After digging through a pile of unsorted birth certificates in box, he managed to find Riza's.

Hawkeye, Riza Jane

Born: October 2, 1889 Parents: Deirdre Elizabeth Grumman and Berthold Cornelius Hawkeye

Town of Marian Woods, West District

Signed: James L. Spem, M.D.

He turned to the shelves of death certificates next. A word caught his eye. Iudicium. Judgement. Scribbled on one of the folders was a Xerxesian epithet. He remembered enough from his academy days to translate it roughly. It was some wish for the souls of the dead to be spared from a judgement of revenge.

Inside, he found the death certificate of Riza's father.

He flicked his eyes over the document, scanning for any piece of relevant information.

Hawkeye, Berthold Cornelius

Sex: Male

Age at Last Birthday: 44

Died: January 3, 1905

Informant's Name: Riza Hawkeye

Informant's Relation: Daughter

Signed: James L. Spem, M.D.

The time matched. 1905 would have been their final year in the Academy.

Yes, just as he had thought. The girl was indeed his teacher's daughter. A story wove itself together in his mind, of teenage love, a disapproving father, and perhaps a promise to elope. The idea of a young Roy madly in love caused a barely-suppressed smile to bubble at his lips.

Nevermind the future, the past had been interesting indeed.

He couldn't help but laugh to himself as he stashed the death certificate of Berthold Hawkeye back into the folder he had found it in.

Yet he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled on his shoulders as he walked to the door. With a faint buzz, a fly flew into one of the exposed light bulbs in front of him and fell, dead, to the ground.

OOOOO

10:05

Sequentia: Dies Irae (dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla)

Maes returned to his office overheating and desperate, sweat sliding down his back. He shucked his jacket on his chair and shoved some papers into a desk draw before returning to the main office. It was empty, save for his favorite second-lieutenant.

"Davidson."

The man's head popped up from the paperwork piled on his desk. "Yes, sir?"

"You went to East, right?"

"Yes sir. They're consolidating the campuses, did you know that? Moving everything back to Central, due to—"

"Yes, I knew that," Maes answered annoyed, cutting through the boy's talkative habits. As he turned to open one of the windows, he slipped his voice into a calculatedly casual tone, one he had long-since practiced in interviews. "Anyway, did you know a Riza Hawkeye while you were there?"

"I did, yes, sir."

"She's quite the sharpshooter, isn't she?" He managed to push up a second rather-stuck window, still trying to be causal. Hopefully that would be enough to let a breeze in.

"Yeah, she really is. I would practice with her before she got deployed—she was terrifying even back in the Academy. She came in amazing as a first-year and only ever seemed to get better." Davidson smiled to himself for a moment before shaking his head and looking back at his work. "We asked her how she was so good and she just said she started practicing a lot once she applied. Like damn, she must have been shooting as a kid to be that good."

"Did you have classes together?"

"Only one, sir."

"How did you end up as shooting buddies, then?" Maes asked, keeping his voice carefully level as he paced over to the coffee cup and poured himself a habitual cup. "Care to share how?"

"Well to be honest, we were pretty close, especially considering I spent most of my third year in her room."

Maes spit out his coffee, spluttering and utterly incoherent in shock. "You were—" Did Roy know? Or were they never a thing? Was Roy merely one in a long line? Not like he knew Hawkeye all that well, but she didn't seem like the type to serial date men, but who knew, clearly he knew nothing anymore in this life. "You were together with—"

"With the Hawk's Eye?" The man laughed. "No sir, I dated her roommate, Catalina." He stated this as if the names and happenstances were common knowledge. As if no one who knew anything would make the mistake of thinking he could have ever dated the Hawk's Eye instead of this Catalina girl.

Maes crumpled, his heart still faltering as he tried to sop up the coffee on Lieutenant Caeli's desk with a napkin.

"I think about thirty guys in my class alone tried to date Rebecca."

"Well, uh," Maes was realizing he still lacked the ability to form coherent words or thoughts. "How long did you last?"

"Four months."

"You managed to sneak into the women's barracks for four months?" Maes gazed, distracted now, for a second. He felt a slight new respect for Davidson, before wondering if perhaps some possible punishment for the rule breaking had been what had led him to incur whatever brain damage or trauma he seemed to possess. Then he startled back into wakefulness. "Anyway, tell me about Lieutenant Hawkeye."

"She was always close with a Rebecca, ever since that first summer. But really, she was quiet, kept to herself mainly. Most guys seemed to stay away from her. They were either scared of her, or those who were gutsy enough to approach her thought she was taken."

"Taken?"

"That's what Rebecca always said. That it would be a waste of time trying to date her. She wasn't interested in any guy at the Academy."

"Did she mention a man? Or some sort of engagement?"

"No," Davidson replied, his eyes finding the past somewhere on the wall behind Maes. "She didn't have a ring or anything. And Becca would never say. I couldn't tell if it was just a best friend's honesty, or if she was disappointed at not knowing everything. One year there was rumors she was engaged. Someone else said there was another soldier she was waiting for, someone who died in the war."

He shook his head. "I don't know, though. It all seemed like talk. I will say though, she seemed depressed our third year, but who wasn't with Ishval? It was a terrifying time." He paused, cocking his head and fixing his eyes on one of the bookshelves in the room. "You know, now that I think about it, she seemed determined to go and fight herself. Maybe there was another soldier. You could see it in her eyes, honestly. Like there was always some part of her stuck in the past, holding her back. But whether it was a promise, or the sadness of something ended, I don't know."

Maes stared toward one of the windows, fixing an uninterested look on his face. He was shocked at the guy's ability to register and report the delicate range of human emotion, he thought such subtlety analysis beyond Davidson. Maybe he was just some repressed romantic who would have been better off anywhere but the Academy.

"She came back from her fourth year assignment different. But I suppose anyone who was there did."

"Where were you assigned?"

"They sent me west for my fourth year assignment. One of the Drachman border stations there. But they had me doing psych evals on the new recruits and draftees mostly."

"Of course, makes sense," Maes muttered distractedly. His brain was now threading all of Davidson's reflections into his mental loom, hoping soon to see the whole picture it would produce.

"Can I ask you a question, sir?"

"Of course, go ahead," Maes replied.

"Why are you asking? Has Hawkeye done something wrong? Am I going to be a witness or something?"

"Nah, nothing that serious. Just a background check for a friend."

"Makes sense, you graduated with Lieutenant-Colonel Mustang, didn't you?"

"Yeah I di—wait, I never mentioned Colonel Mustang." Maes' heart beat erratically as he jumped to his feet. He had been lazy and careless. This is all it took, just one episode of indiscretion, one careless question linking names that should never be linked. He had underestimated Davidson. Of course he wasn't an idiot. He should have actually come up with an excuse for this conversation beforehand. "How did you—why did you—"

"How do I know you're friends with Mustang? Well I saw you two in the paper, it mentioned he was best man at your wedding. Wasn't that hard to figure out."

"No I mean—"he stuttered, "Why do you think Mustang has anything to do with this?"

"Well, who else would you be running a background check for? It's a little late for that though, isn't it? Considering he hired her over a week ago."

"Hired? Her?"

"Yes, as his adjutant." The man paused, sounding again as if he had just stated the most obvious, widely-known fact in Amestris. "Wait. Why are you asking me if you didn't know all this to begin with. Is this a test, sir?"

"How do you know this?" Maes continued, his panic refusing to fade. "How do you know?"

"I mean it's common knowledge, sir," he said, visibly trembling, as if realizing how dangerous Maes' anger could be. "I swear it was all Central Command was talking about last Monday. I suppose you took last Monday off, on account of the wedding, but still, everyone's been talking about it. Almost as much as you talk about your wife. And then I read about it a few days ago, in the book, so it must be official—"

"The book?"

"You know, the book? That's what they call the staffing directory. One of the guys up on the seventh floor updates new hirings and transfers for every base and duty station as they come in. It's how the JOs survive their first few cases without knowing everyone yet. Everything's in the book!"

"Get me that book or a copy of it right now. I need it on my desk and then I want you gone, because I have a call to make."

"But— seriously, is this a test? Because if it is, I don't even have access to any classified documents at all! I swear, sir, I haven't done anything—"

"This isn't a damn test, Davidson! Just don't ask questions you can't know the answers to."

He took his seat at his desk. Waiting for Davidson to bring him this book, waiting for these hidden rumors to be revealed as either fact or fiction, various thoughts volleyed in Maes' mind, pinging painfully against the walls of his brain.

It made sense. But of course. A Lieutenant-Colonel needed an adjutant. A position usually left to a first lieutenants. Or a qualified second lieutenant. It made so much sense that it was obvious.

There was something poetically fitting about the most well-known Alchemist from the war choosing to work with its most efficient sniper. The glaring renown that their names evoked would disguise any prior connection in plain sight. Of course the Hero of Ishval would want another name-brand soldier working besides him. Especially if he were seeking to make a flashy reputation for himself.

It was so brilliant that it made Maes doubt himself, filling his mind with an insecure fear that he was merely seeking conspiracies.

But what had Roy said in that West City tavern, those infinite years ago? "He—her father—begged me to look after her."

He wondered, if he were to walk toward the diner on the corner where the two of them had often talked, would he find Roy sitting there with Hawkeye in Maes' old spot? Would they be staring at each other over mugs of coffee, emotions percolating in the pot on the table, public for all to see?

"Here it is as promised, sir."

Davidson lowered a spiral-bound book onto his desk, already opened to a page with the heading June: Central Command (cont.). Halfway down the page were the names he was searching for. The reality caused him to startle in his seat. Being written down meant it was real.

Riza Hawkeye, Second Lieutenant: East City Branch, adjutant to Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang.

What had he said about that girl named Elizabeth? "I made a mess of things in the past but we're about to see each other for the first time in—in a few days." What if this Elizabeth were Hawkeye?

He was of half a mind to pick up the phone and call Roy now, berate him for this careless mistake.

"Sir—"

He could barely hear Davidson's voice, the world seemed faint.

"You're dismissed, Davidson. I need to make a phone call."

"But—"

"You're dismissed. Now." Davidson scurried out of his office, the door closing behind him.

With numb fingers Maes reached for the phone, felt them close around the lifeless ceramic, and waited for the operator to connect him to Roy Mustang's office.

The phone clicked.

"Roy Mustang!" he shouted, trying too late to temper his violently interrogative tone. "How goes it?" He couldn't fake the nicety. He was too mad. "Do you have any idea how flagrantly—"

"May I ask who is calling?"

The voice that answered was one he had not heard in nearly a year. He hadn't expected her to pick up the phone. The shock completely disoriented him, leaving him spluttering and unsure of what to say. She did not wait for him to recover.

"Is this Major Maes Hughes in Investigations?"

"Uh, this is indeed him. I'm, uh, calling—"

"Oh, Major Hughes, the Colonel said to expect a phone call from you this morning. Can I take a message, sir?"

"Uh—no—uh, wait, who are you?"

"Major, you may not remember me, but this is Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye speaking." Her tone was utterly no-nonsense, as if she had already been annoyed at someone or something long before Maes had called her. "The Colonel has asked me to answer all incoming phone calls when he is away from his desk. Would you like him to call you back later, sir?"

"I'll call him back. Any idea when he'll be returning to the Office?"

"He got into work around seven hundred, so he appears to be treating himself to a late breakfast for beating last week's early morning record. But I anticipate that he'll be back within the half hour. Can I take a message in the meantime, sir?"

"Oh—uh—no, I mean, just tell him I called, and uh, have him call me back when it's convenient for him."

"I will, sir."

As she seemed about to hang up, Maes took his chance. "Was he out on a date last night?"

"I beg your pardon? I didn't quite understand your question, sir."

"Was it a date that kept him out late last night? Is that why he's late?"

"I could not say, sir."

"Is he still going out with Vanessa? She mentioned he was taking her to the symphony last Friday."

"That is entirely outside of my purview, sir." Her tone was flat, emotionless, revealing no hint of jealousy. Yet there was something else. A guarded tenseness, like a tightly compressed spring waiting to snap.

At the thought of Vanessa and the memories of the wedding, another name filled his head. "Or was it Elizabeth?"

"I haven't heard of any women by that name, but once again, I would not know."

"Are you sure? He said he met her in West when he was stationed there—"

"No, sir." And he was shocked that she had dared to cut him off. Considering her rank, it was a move bordering on disrespect. "I haven't ever heard him speak of a woman named Elizabeth."

Maes hesitated. He asked anyway. "Even before you started working for him?"

"No, sir." Her response was terse, definitive. She inhaled deeply and then there was silence. He had made a mistake. "Sir, I know that you share a close relationship with Colonel Mustang, as you were comrades from your Academy days, but I do not share the same level of familiarity with either of you. I simply do not ask my commanding officer details of his personal life. That would be simply inappropriate."

He startled. She had this uncanny knack for toeing the line between impertinence and pluckiness. She was certainly brave to do so; her bravery was balanced by a calculated tact and a non-combative tone. Such a mixture was not something all officers would enjoy in a young female officer straight out of the academy, but any officer worth his salt would appreciate an assistant confident enough to call him out on his mistakes. So he admitted his mistakes.

"Yes, of course Lieutenant. I've been out of line. My apologies for asking such impertinent questions."

"There is no need to apologize, sir. And congratulations on the wedding."

"How did you know?"

"I am literate and have a subscription to the Central Times, sir. They put just about everything in writing nowadays, you know? Awfully hard to keep a secret in this modern world."

"Too true, Lieutenant, too true. Let Roy know I'll call him in a bit."

"I will. Have a good morning, sir."

The call became silent.

So Roy was planning to keep her by his side after all. He couldn't be sure of what relationship the two had shared in the past. But he guessed it to be an intimate one. One that, even if left solidly in the past could remain a liability for a man with Roy's ambitions. Mere memories could compromise a professional partnership. And a record of shared history would lend credence to rumors.

Roy, I hope you know what you're doing.

He'd need to see Roy first to determine just how careless he was being, observe how he interacted with his new Lieutenant in the office. But would there be time for that? Certainly not before he left for his honeymoon. It would be better to act on his own. Act, so he could grasp the scope of the situation. Act, before any mishaps could be chanced.

But first he needed to draft a course of action. Maybe draft some forged documents as well.

He heard some arguing from outside his office. One of the first lieutenants was yelling. "This is the day of judgement for everyone who's been stealing the snacks I've been buying for the office and not contributing money to the snack fund."

"But—"

"No, buts. Spare me the sob story, bitches. From now on you're all on your own."

And now he also needed to buy lunch.

OOOOO

14:27

Offetorium: Domine, Jesu Christe (Rex gloriae)

Maes glanced up at the portrait that stared at him from the wall. His eyes wandered when he was tired, and he was certainly tired. A hurried ten minutes lunch in the Mess had only aggravated his fatigue.

Fuhrer King Bradley.

Glorious Fuhrer King Bradley.

What a fitting name for a tyrannical man like him. What an unworthy king, waiting to toss them all into the jaws of the lion when it was most convenient for his interests.

What an asshole.

His moment of self-indulgent, reflective hatred over, he sighed and directed his attention to the list of tasks he had hurriedly scribbled on a legal pad.

"I need someone to make a call for me," he announced to the room, directing his voice at Lieutenant Davidson, who had been sitting peacefully with a sandwich in front of him for the past hour. "I need the town clerk of Marian Woods Township in West District. I think it's by Lisbeth, near the Drachman border."

"Is it more on the Westgate side of things or Herronstown?"

"You know, I don't know. It's a small town! Just figure it out, or have the operator figure it out, and let me know once you've gotten hold of a town clerk or the mayor or the Marian Grand Poobah, or whatever, ok?"

Davidson quickly downed several bites of sandwich before jumping up and grabbing several telephone directories and running from the room. Maes returned his attention to his typewriter. A few minutes later, Davidson called from the main room. "Sir, I have the call waiting."

"Put it through on my line. And finish your lunch out there at your other desk. I need some privacy in here."

Maes waited for the door to close before sitting back down and picking up the phone. He had wanted to see a copy of her parent's marriage certificate. There hadn't been a copy in the Central archives. But he was also hoping that he might be able to learn more about Hawkeye's childhood from someone who may have known her. He had experience with small towns. Everyone likely knew everyone else.

"Hello, Marian Woods Town Hall, Office of the Town Clerk." The woman who answered the phone was older, likely in her seventies. Her voice had a distinctive western twang. "My name is Sybil, how may I assist you today?"

"I'm Major Maes Hughes from the Office of Investigations of the Central Amestris Headquarters. I'm calling on behalf of Riza Hawkeye—"

"Oh, I haven't heard that name in years. Is she alright? She's not in trouble with the law, is she? She was always such a well-mannered girl."

"No, ma'am. I'm just calling—" He paused, quickly gathering his thoughts and cover story. Why was he being so careless today? "I'm, uh, merely calling on behalf of Central University. You see, the University simply needs some extra information for census purposes before they're allowed to award her this year's Minerva Scholarship for female scholarly excellence. It uses federal funds and all, you know? So the Office of Investigations typically researches any personal information that the Office of Education requires."

"Oh that's wonderful to hear. Riza's such a smart girl. I always knew she'd be a college girl like her mother. You said you were in the military right?

"That's correct, ma'am."

"Well, do you know whatever happened to that Mustang boy?" This woman was insistent, impossibly unconcerned about revealing information through her questions. "There was a young Roy Mustang who studied with the late Mr. Hawkeye, may he rest in peace, and there was always talk about him joining the Academy."

Maes' mentor from before Ishval had always told him that people tend to fill in silences with their own information, without ever needing to be asked anything at all. So he let that happen. He let her talk, and listened to the stories she was happy to tell herself. Leave the true story sparse and let this woman fill in the blanks she created.

"Well, he certainly did join the Academy. He's out here in Central currently, and he's making quite a name for himself." He wasn't sure exactly what the woman wanted to hear, but he certainly wanted to keep her happy.

"I'm so glad. You know, Mr. Cuthberger had said that he had come back for the late Mr. Hawkeye's funeral in uniform. And it wasn't long after that that little Riza left, she said she was leaving for school. If you see her, please tell her that Mrs Magdalen sends her regards and hopes she's well."

"Yes, of course, I'll be sure too. Well I am calling because I need to ask some questions about Miss Hawkeye's parents. We don't seem to have a proper copy of their marriage certificate on file. I apologize for being distastefully blunt, but were they married?"

"Of course they were, I was there! I signed the papers as one of the witnesses. Oh I remember the wedding—it was a hurried thing, barely more than an elopement. But it was beautiful, such a beautiful day. You know, Berthold had done so much for the town over the years, we were happy to help them, after all, he was such a happy man. I was the one to sign it all. I was so happy to, they were both so happy—"

"Elopement?" He paused, pondering everything she said. A happy man? On the few occasions Roy had talked of his alchemy training he had always emphasized how much of a miser his teacher was.

"Yes, I don't think Berthold had much family to speak of. He took over the family manor when his father died. The he rest of the family wasn't happy, but the house was his and there wasn't much of the family left at that point, anyway. But Deirdre, she ran away from something, well from family. I think her father was a colonel at some army base not that far away. It was only just a rumor, but you know how rumors are."

"Oh, of course," he agreed, nodding along with his sympathetic voice. As he lied he blinked, trying to think which Generals had missing daughters, anyone who would have lost a daughter sometime around the time he was born.

"That's strange. I can't find it," Mrs. Magdelen supplied. "I'm trying to recall her maiden name."

The idea—half memory and half guess—came to him in an instant. The old western fox who now haunted the East. "It was Colonel Grumman, wasn't it? Her father?"

"Yes! Her maiden name was Grumman," she repeated mostly to herself. "How could I ever have forgotten that? And you know what? The gentleman himself just came in here a few days ago, asking about marriage certificates himself. I remembered the name but I just couldn't place it. It was on the tip of my tongue—"

He paled. Yes, it had been on the birth certificate. Her mother's maiden name had been Grumman.

"—but anyway, he said he had wanted to help her prepare for the big day, as her grandfather and all."

"Yes! Yes it was, like I said, I'm just trying to find out some things for Miss Hawkeye—" he trailed off, paling. "I'm sorry, big day?"

"Yes, it's funny how things repeat themselves, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, a peculiar fear overtaking him.

"Well I wasn't the only one hoping that she'd be the one to take the midnight train East and get married. And that's what happened, isn't it? Mr. Grumman himself said she was settling down with a military man and all. She must have ran off with young Master Mustang after her father's funeral, why else would she be in Central. Is he finally marrying her like we all thought he would? I saw the way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching—"

A loud noise from his office caused him to cover the receiver with his hand.

"Calling unsecured lines on work time! Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" It was Master Sergeant Martyrus, a man ten years Maes' senior who seemed to exist solely to highlight his faults.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Magdalen, I'm afraid that I have an urgent matter to attend to. But thank you for your time. You've helped me—and Riza, of course—so much."

"Of course, I'm happy to help our boys in blue. But please pass along my best regards to Riza."

"Of course. Thank you again, ma'am. Good bye."

He inhaled deeply, his eyes unfocused on the blank wall before him. The bizarre cache of information the woman had shared was overwhelming him. What game was Grumman playing at? Did he know something Maes didn't? Or was he simply running his own investigations?

Grumman had been the scion of a distinguished military family himself, and was now the last remnant of both a bygone combat dynasty and an era now being quickly swallowed by the passage of time. Some fifty years ago the Grummans were not too dissimilar to how the Armstrongs were nowadays. But tragedy had followed his career, and his legacy began increasingly being dwarfed by the memories of his forebears and the greater successes of his peers. Yes, his accomplishments had been rewarded by his making General, but he had seemed to be locked out of Central's High Command, despite his victories in the Southern Border Wars. Perhaps he had made enemies in the wrong places.

Still, he was a dangerous and cunning man, even now past his prime.

He mulled over the dramatis personae. The youngest Colonel in military history, with unrivaled alchemical power capable of leveling nations singlehandedly. A General who, although now passed over by High Command, still possessed an unparalleled intellect and was about to become Roy's commanding officer. The most lethal sniper to have left Ishval. An upstart alchemist whose research slowly claimed the lives of his family, as well as his own happiness. A woman who had deserted her military family to run off with a flame alchemist.

And like that woman had suggested, history seemed poised to repeat itself. Or had it already? Yet who knew that this family tragedy was seemingly repeating itself? And who knew the familial ties that bound them together?

But did Roy know? Did Hawkeye?

And to what extent did Grumman?

Was she about to be caught in the crosshairs of the two most powerful men in East City Headquarters? Yet she was no helpless damsel waiting to be saved from her sniper's tower. He had a feeling that she and her military performance, not Roy's favoritism, was responsible for achieving her current position.

Trapped in the tangled web that connected this lethal trinity, he now began to fear what would happen to him if he were discovered to be investigating. He had no desire to meet any of these officers' ire, let alone the combined force of the three. He let his head fall into his hands.

"Did you hear me at all, sir?" Sergeant Martyrus again interrupted. "Bad things happen! People find out things they shouldn't know!"

"Yes. Yes, I can, Sarge, you can spare the hellfire," he murmured, his back aching again. "I can hear you. Loud and clear."

OOOOO

16:51

Sanctus (Sanctus, Sanctus)

The afternoon sun gleamed on the grand columns of the First Branch, but the shadows had shifted to reveal that somehow, miraculously, time had passed since this morning.

The same officer checked Maes in, and the same archivist led him toward the fourth floor. Once again, he asked to be left alone. The man complied. As the archivist opened and shut the door to the room behind him, he fidgeted with his briefcase.

He grabbed the alchemist record bearing Berthold Hawkeye's name and exchanged it for a false record he had forged in his office. With the addition and deletion of just a few critical letters and words, Berthold Haversham, a man, who a day before had not existed, was now a simple, medical alchemist who had lived in an obscure West district town.

Faking the paper and the format had been easy enough. He'd even been able to replicate the official stamps.

His brain flickered to the myriad other places where Berthold Hawkeye's name might be tied to alchemy, where it might be recorded on a public document, on one that had been stamped and stored in Central. He would make his rounds. But this was a start.

Carefully, he inserted the original copy into his briefcase. But, realizing that his briefcase might be searched, he rolled it into a tight scroll and tucked it into his waistband, concealing it under the seam of his shirt and the sweltering wool of the jacket he dejectedly buttoned. A photograph had fallen to the ground. He picked it up and pocketed it.

The door shuttered behind him and he thanked the archivist, feeling a twinge of dread and an oppressive wave of heat.

As he descended the steps, he thought about calling Roy. So he found himself passing by some of the payphones in the park, because he couldn't deal with Sergeant Martyrus again. And then he hesitated, his hand atop the phone, feeling the metal and ceramic cold beneath his sweaty hands.

But why? What would it accomplish?

So instead he called the Marian Woods Town Hall again, because something didn't add up. Her mother's death certificate had lacked a cause of death.

"Hello, Marian Woods Town Hall, Office of the Town Clerk. This is Sybil, how may—"

"Yes ma'am, this is Major Maes Hughes calling back again. I need you to pull the death certificate of Deirdre Hawkeye for me."

"Is this—"

"Yes, this is related to my current background check of Riza Hawkeye."

"Deirdre had been sick for months, please, she had been sick. That's all." Her voice was all a defensiveness he hadn't expected. He didn't know how exactly to respond.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I need to know exactly what it says. I need the exact language."

"It was all an accident. She said so herself as she lay dying. Please don't—she didn't want anyone to know." Her voice cracked. "Please, understand it was an accident, he didn't mean to—"

"Ma'am, I must know. The records in Central were left blank."

"Yes, because it's not on paper."

"But you know, Sybil," Maes said, as soothingly as he could muster. "If you didn't know, you would have already told me that by now. But clearly, you know what the original cause of death was."

"Yes, because I'll always remember what the doctor had scribbled on paper, and how he—how he had, how—"

The woman was already at the point of breaking. But still he pushed her. He had learned how to do so from his interviews. It was easy, instinctual, to use every ounce of power his position could muster. "I need you to tell me how Deirdre Hawkeye died."

"I promised her I'd never tell," she whispered, as if that was all she could manage.

"Ma'am."

Her voice finally broke, rough and aching, somewhere between a sob and a scream.

"Suspected burns of unknown etiology."

He froze, something choking him as he struggled to piece these increasingly perilous shards of the puzzle together.

"Yes, I see. Thank you ma'am. Thank you for your time with regards this matter. And I'll be sure to send your regards to Lieu—to Miss Hawkeye."

She said nothing, but he could hear the sobbing until it was replaced by an uneasy silence. "I want to let you know that she's quite well."

The phone was silent. He dropped the receiver and it swung like a hangman.

"Burns"

The old saying his dad loved to repeat ad nauseam began to echo within his head. Play with fire and you'll get burned.

Regretting every decision to investigate this family drama that he had no business investigating, he returned the phone back into its holder.

Is that how this Hawkeye girl would end up too?

An ambulance screeched past, its alarm bells breaking the silence like the death knoll that would ring in the wake of the next executions.

OOOOO

18:45

Agnus Dei (qui tollis pecatta mundi, dona eis requiem)

The evening was dying the white lilies a blazing orange.

It was later than Maes had hoped. He had wanted to leave before 1700. But here it was, nearly 1900.

The sun was beginning to once again stretch itself along the floor like a tired old tabby. It would be heading west now. West, toward the graveyard where Riza Hawkeye's parents lay buried. The town of Marian would enjoy at least another four hours of light, even after the sun had long since set in Central.

He had finally located Marian on the map. It was indeed by the edge, the edge of the district and the country. Right at the edge where the sun would soon sink beneath the horizon.

He stared at all the notes he had scribbled, all the files he had illegally harvested. Dates and names and numbers cycled through his head. All of it was bad news.

Most damning of all, of course, was that book, that unchangeable book, that publicized and affirmed the reality that she was now Roy's assistant. But how could he reverse the uncountable decisions that had led to that? It wasn't as if he could be certain that anything about their current relationship was illegal or even suspect.

He packed his briefcase before standing a moment at the door, briefcase in hand, listening to several of the junior officers talking in the main office.

"No, this is the same problem I have explaining to everyone, especially to the jealous wives that call in, and the stupid COs as well. The thing is, fraternization is simply hard to prove."

"I know, I'm having that problem with the Hoedis debacle right now."

"Any article 134 violation, I don't care which one—"

The officer speaking grew suddenly softer. Maes pressed his ear against the door, hoping to hear more.

"Yeah the burden of proof is lesser with the officer and enlisted situations, but still. And that's Hoedis, right?"

"Yeah, it's completely under wraps right now, I'm not even supposed to know, but it's one of the girls in his office."

"Look, we all know that that Hoedis is an absolute asshole, but if you end up with that case, I recommend you talk with one of the JAGs. Before you go pulling call records, you're going to want to make sure that's within the scope of your investigation."

He had heard enough. They were being careless and blasé. Too careless for the office. He opened the door. "Caeli! Terra!"

"Major Hughes, sir!" They startled and straightened, offering him a hurried salute.

"No gossiping about cases after hours. Or at least have the decency to do it outside of work, alright?"

"Of course, sir. It won't happen again," the braver of the two answered.

Looking about nervously, he set out down the hallway, each thin sheet of paper weighing on his chest. The weight of his briefcase threatened to drown him, to sink him into the sewers. Each single step was misery as he jumped at each shadow and sound that could be an MP requesting to search him. But finally, he had made it out of the building and within sight of the streetcar stop at the corner.

There was something unnatural about the way it was this light this late. Seemed it was only 1600 when it was almost 1900. Disorienting, really, this perpetual light shining upon them.

And then he stopped. The flowers, he had forgotten them. He couldn't forget them a second time. "Dammit!"

The illegal documents weighing heavily against his chest like some scarlet letter, he ran back up the steps, terrified. Each moment he stayed in headquarters was a moment he could be discovered. A moment the classified documents could be revealed. A moment he would regret when he was being tried on the unnecessarily trumped-up charges of sedition and—

"Major Hughes."

The voice that disrupted his mental anguish was low and gruff, betokening a tone of unmistakable command rather than greeting. His heart stopped as he turned to greet the head of the Court Martial Office. Speak of the devil—the man who had gifted the flowers in the first place.

"Colonel Abraham, sir."

"I thought I'd be seeing you at the Latronem case today, Hughes. Where were you?"

"I reassigned that two weeks ago sir, I realized it was too much with the wedding. You know, I didn't want Gracia to have to worry abut all the last minute things by herself—"

"Oh." He seemed slightly distracted and his tone was somber. "You had done all that work at the beginning of the month, though. Probably would have done the poor guy good if you were the one who had followed up. He was an absolute wreck today."

"I had—I had my own work to wrap up, what with everything—"

"I'm not blaming you, don't get me wrong. Of course I understand. Well, I want you managing the investigation next time there's another case like this." He paused, breathing slowly. "Well, enjoy your honeymoon. Send my best to Gracia."

"I will, sir. I'll see you in July."

Finally, he made it back to his office. He paused a moment, catching his breath from the brisk walk and the unnerving conversation. Then the phone rang, as loud and terrifying as a gunshot.

Hands trembling, he picked up the receiver. A woman's voice answered. "Is this Major Maes Hughes?"

"Yes. This is he."

"We have a call from a Lieutenant-Colonel Roy Mustang on a military line."

His heart thudded slower as he sank into his chair. "Put him on."

The phone clicked in response. "Roy?"

"Unfortunately this is once again Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye." For the second time today, she surprised him. Her voice, however, even with its apologetic overtone, differed from the morning, as if something significant had occurred in the intervening hours.

"I apologize, sir. The Lieutenant-Colonel had just dialed your number when he was called out of the office by a colleague. But he should really only be a moment."

"No, of course, I understand—"

He trailed off as he heard a shuffling at the end of the line that could only be Roy returning to his office. He could hear the exchange, half-muffled. "Sir, it's Major Hughes on the line."

"Thanks, Lieutenant, now go get dinner." Roy's voice too was changed—different from the times they had spoken in the past few weeks. He heard a note of uncharacteristic tenderness, as if the smile that must surely be on his face was audible in his voice. "No, I'll be sure to eat something myself, don't worry. And please get the door behind you. I would appreciate privacy. Yes, of course, Lieutenant."

And then, his voice now clearer, the flicker of tenderness vanished, replaced by professional detachment.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye said you had called earlier. Thought you'd have called back yourself by now to talk about Gracia. But sorry for not calling back earlier. It's—it's been one of those days."

That earlier conversation with Hawkeye now seemed a lifetime ago, buried under the weight of all of the other secrets and promises this longest day had brought to light.

"Yes, it really has."

"Yeah I can only imagine, what with all the security leaks. Have you been involved with the Latronem case?"

"I was, but with all the wedding prep, I dropped my involvement a few weeks back. I didn't think I'd have enough time to do a good job. But yeah, even without working on it, things have been crazy here. And it's only going to get worse."

"I was wondering what your thoughts were on Latronem. It seems like the military's almost on a witch hunt, trying to make it look like they're in control of the situation."

"Yeah I don't think he's guilty. I met the guy—Dismas is his first name—and he seemed to have been too public in his opposition of our involvement in Ishval while he was working in Central. They probably decided to make such a big stink out of it as a political statement. Was he being careless with the documents he was transporting, sure. But it was just one document he brought home, and frankly it shouldn't have even been classified. Statistically, most of the actual security breaches have been some upper level field officers. Certainly not because of one sergeant forgetting to clean out his briefcase at the end of the day."

"That's what I thought too. Seems like High Command has had their mind set on the outcome of the case for a while."

There was silence for a moment.

"But don't think I don't know why you called this morning." Again Roy's tone shifted. This time from professionalism to something less guarded, something audibly irritated. "I don't want your commentary, or critiques alright? And I don't need you running interference for me."

There was no point bluffing or playing nice. The day had been too long for him to have any self-restraint left. "Where do I begin, Roy? I thought you said you were only holding one interview the day before my wedding and that you had scheduled several for the week after. How the hell, then, do you already have someone working that position?"

"I'd been overdue for an assistant. Personnel helped move things along."

"I thought you had chosen a different path for yourself, Roy. I thought you had—"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Hughes." Roy's voice was cold, now feigning ignorance. "I know exactly what I want and what I'm getting out of my relationshi—"

It was at that word, the half-uttered relationships, that Roy knew, as well as Maes, that he had revealed too much. The word was too telling, belaying for too much unprofessional intimacy for either to be able to ignore its connotation. And so he paused, as if a moment's indecision could revoke it from the air, remove it from their memory. As if, by admitting this momentary mistake through his hesitation, that Maes would ignore it, that he would show mercy. But Maes wasted no time in pouncing on this moment of weakness.

"Do you? Do you really, Roy?"

"Is this why you're calling me? To insinuate things, to judge something you know nothing about?"

"I know more than you think."

"I don't think you know anything at all. This is some desperate bluff in an attempt to get me to admit to some kind of salacious bullshit that's in your head. But there's nothing. You're just delusional."

"Delusional?"

"Yes, delusional. Not just about what you think I'm doing with my free time, but what you're doing with yours. As if you actually think either of us deserve a normal life."

Maes raged at his audacity, doing his best to restrain his desperate urge to find Roy, wherever he was, and beat the smug, self-righteous look off of his face. "I married Gracia because I knew what I needed and what I wanted, and I did what I had to get that."

"And I'm not married because I'll know I don't deserve what I want anymore."

"So what? You thought you didn't deserve to put a ring on it, but thought that hiring her was the perfect loophole?"

"As if you haven't been joking about this ever since Ishval? Since the Academy?" Roy's tone grew mocking. "Get a wife, Roy, get a wife. How about that blonde sharpshooter I'm convinced you have a thing for, you should go marry her." Roy paused, his heaving metallic and unnatural when magnified through the telephone. "You would never shut up about any of this. But now you have the audacity to condemn me for my choices. "

"Well, yeah Roy, because you need to get your head out of your ass and start living in the present. I thought she wasn't happy in the military. I thought she was getting out. I thought you wanted a wife, not a court-martial just waiting to happen."

Roy's voice flared loudly. "Is that what you think this is? You think I just hired her to sleep with her?"

"I'm not an idiot, Roy! I know who she is—"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean," Maes could tell that Roy was now trying to desperately backpedal his argument, to once again plead innocence, plead ignorance, "You know who she is?"

"I'm telling you, I know who she is."

"And I know who I am," Roy spat.

"You're deluding yourself if you think you can play house in your office."

"As if you're not playing house yourself?" he scoffed. "I'm not the one playing pretend. You're deluding yourself if you think you didn't leave Ishval a murderer like the rest of us. Gracia—"

"Keep my wife's name out of your mouth, asshole."

"She's completely ignorant to what a murderer she married—"

"Don't you dare call her an idiot, don't you dare—"

"I didn't call her an idiot." Roy's quiet voice seethed with a malicious flame. "I said she was ignorant."

"After all the kindness Gracia and I have shown you, you have the audacity to insult my wife because you still hate yourself—because you're jealous?"

"Jealous? You think I'm jealous? Jealous of you and her? Why would I be jealous?"

"As if anyone's going to believe that. I don't believe that myself, Roy. You lying son of a bitch."

"I'm lying? You're the one who's lying to yourself and to your wife every day."

"I've never lied to her."

"That's a fucking technicality and you know it. But keep telling yourself that your job is the only thing keeping you from telling her everything. Really think about why you don't tell her what you did in Ishval."

"Alright, then. But tell your new assistant this then, if you're so determined to tell her everything. Tell her," in this word Maes emphasized every tone of disgust he could muster, enraged by the way Roy dared talk about Gracia, "That a certain Mrs. Magdalen from Marian Woods sends her regards—"

"You didn't. You—"

"And says she wants to know if that Mustang boy ever proposed to a certain Riza Hawkeye. Evidently the town gossip still thinks you have the sweets for the alchemist's daughter. I told her that she did seem to have run away with him—"

"You fucking bastard—"

"Be happy I'm on your side, Roy Mustang."

He slammed the receiver down, Roy's shocked tone still ringing in his ears. He was seething, panting as if he had just been in a physical fight. He had never hated Roy more than he did in this moment. He probably had never hated anyone at all so much as he hated Roy in this moment.

The sun blazed in the windows and on the metallic street signs, setting the streets of Central aflame. He needed to get home, to get away from all this bullshit he could do nothing about.

"Major Hughes?"

"Davidson! What the hell are you doing here?" Maes startled, anger still rankling him. Davidson was the last person he could have possibly wanted to see. "Go home."

"I'm sorry, sir. I was just about to leave. But I wanted to let you know the decision on the Latronem case, since you'll be gone for the next couple of weeks."

As if his life couldn't get any worse. As if the foundations couldn't get pulled out from under his feet for the second time in five minutes. And so he collapsed in on himself.

"Look, I know I stepped away from that, I just didn't have time, I just couldn't—" Maes pleaded defensively, as if there was some judge now listening to him who would forgive his pointless excuses. "I haven't had anything to do with that in weeks—"

"They're executing him."

He felt the disorienting palpitations in his chest. If only he had defended the guy. If only he had tried, instead of passing the investigation off, the end might not have been so bleak. The judgement might not have been so damning.

He slammed his right fist against his desk, the telephone bell tolling for him, as well as for the man condemned to die.

"When?"

He felt the bruise already forming, as the flowers continued to speak words he couldn't yet understand.

"It'll probably be this Friday. Along with that poor guy, Lazarus or whoever, that they're convinced murdered General Dives."

Davidson continued to stare. Maes felt he wanted to sob. Sob like Sybil Magdalen on the phone, sob like Roy had in the desert after he had been shot. But he had to act like the man his father had raised him to be.

His anger slipped from his mouth in two whispered words.

"Damn it."

OOOOO

19:51

Lux Aeterna (luceat eis, Domine)

Maes paused a moment outside the apartment door, trying to shake the uneasy fear from his hands and replace the lingering bitterness from his conversation with Roy with a smile.

As he had left the office, he had told Davidson to contact the generally trustworthy Captain Benigne with any questions he might have while Maes was gone. As much as the guy drove him crazy, he didn't need to suffer needlessly. Maes still had his compassion.

Still juggling his briefcase and the overflowing vase between his hands, he swore as he realized his keys were utterly inaccessible in his pocket. He knocked against the door with his elbow, hoping that Gracia was inside and within earshot. She had mentioned that she'd only be teaching in the morning, not the afternoon, so she should have gotten home hours ago. "Sorry, I'm home late, I didn't mean—"

The door swung open and he marveled at the domestic scene within the threshold. This image, his wife standing before him radiant and smiling, the smell of fresh bread and cooking vegetables emenating from the lighted rooms behind her, had not yet become ordinary. It was still extraordinary, but precisely because it would soon become routine.

"Oh I know! Don't worry, I had a feeling you'd be running late wrapping things up before the trip, so I actually just got back from Angelica's half an hour ago. We were having a glass of wine over—"

He interrupted her with a kiss.

"Well at least one of us has been enjoying ourselves," he laughed as he pulled away from her.

Her eyes flickered to the vase he held in the crook of his arm. "Those flowers are lovely! Who got those?"

"Colonel Abraham sent those—actually that's why I'm so late. I forgot them in the office once I had made it all the way to the streetcar stop and then remembered. I already forgot them in the office last Friday, so—"

She interrupted him with another kiss as she pulled him by his collar into their apartment.

"Oh that's sweet of you, Maes. So thoughtful." He stared, dumbstruck, as she pulled the briefcase and vase out of his hands. "Now wash your hands and get ready for dinner."

"Yes, Ma'am," he answered stupidly. She laughed in response.

Over dinner he watched the sun falter and flicker, dying in its glorious, golden way as it began to bury itself behind the brick apartment buildings. And then something shifted and set the neighboring windows ablaze, quickly growing too bright too look at. Gracia had begun to notice his quiet distraction. She paused in the middle of her story about—

"Are you sure there's nothing you want to talk about?"

"Hmm?"

"Maes, you've been terribly distracted all evening." She paused, doing her best to meet his gaze, which slipped quickly from the windows to her face. "Is something bothering you?"

And suddenly he was crushed by the weight of things he could not tell her. He could never tell her. There was an entire side of his life he could never share. The nauseous wave in his stomach was replaced by a strange envy. An envy of Roy, of all people.

Was it better to be fully understood yet never loved, or to be loved, but never be fully understood, he wondered? Again, he felt an uncontrollable urge to sob.

Where were these thoughts coming from? He blamed it on this strange day—no, not the solstice, just this tiring, bizarre day. Still, it was an easy lie, an easy lie to avoid suspicion. "Just one of the guys in the office. I'm afraid he's setting himself up for a court martial in a few months if he's not careful."

"Oh, what for?"

"Just," and he paused, trying to inject some measure of honesty into the lie. "I'm just worried I'm going to have to start investigating one of my own guys soon for fraternization. I think he's got a thing for his new assistant."

"Oh that's not good." She mused between forkfuls of quiche. "Is she enlisted? Or a junior officer?

"A JO. She's fresh out of the academy, but I think they knew each other before."

"Hmm. Anyone I've met?"

"No."

She accepted the answer with an easy nod and he felt the nausea grow.

"As if you're not playing house yourself?"

OOOOO

22:54

Pie Jesu (Domine, dona eis requiem)

A manic, maniacal energy pulsed through his veins, winding him tighter than a clock. It kept him searching the watch face for any change in its expression, as if each of his panicked glances were a new unit of timekeeping that could somehow speed up the flow of the night.

The anxiety buzzing in the bones beneath his eyes would not let him sleep. An incessant twitching in his left ear like the infernal hum of a trapped bug kept him running his hands through his hair. He had been checking his watch multiple times per minute and he wasn't entirely sure why. He simply knew he could not rest, could not sleep until the day had passed.

A sudden orange glow made him turn toward the window. Had the sun finally set?

It had set an hour ago, he remembered. The orange light that had startled him was only the gaslight reflecting on a passing car, scattering the glow like one of those distant supernovae, this one exploding its galaxy-stuff atop the ceiling.

"You look like you've challenged your watch to a staring contest. Are you coming to bed soon, Maes?"

He startled. "Just a little while longer," he lied again.

He watched Gracia's shadowy reflection in the window above his desk, her smile now a thin line as she turned and walked toward their room.

"Well don't stay up too late. I've set the alarms for five thirty tomorrow to give us time to finish packing."

His face set like flint, he felt the sparks of a rising argument kindle and then fade in his throat. The closing door shuttered him alone inside his office.

Another orange glow made him jump.

OOOOO

June 22, 00:04

Libera Me (Domine, de morte aeterna)

Maes startled awake in his desk chair to the alarming sound of a silent street. Groggy and confused, he wasn't sure why he was hunched over his empty desk. Was it morning or night? Was he early or late?

He checked his watch. Four minutes past midnight.

Tuesday. June the twenty second. The second day of summer. He found himself surprisingly relieved. He had outlived the longest day of the year.

in die illa tremenda

Had it been something to survive? Or just an ordinary day?

Truly, it had been the longest day, not just of the year, but of his whole life. Even in Ishval, sleep had always managed to fall upon him fast. But today—yesterday now—had left a deep fatigue within him that seemed to surpass exhaustion. Even after he had managed to snatch an hour or so of sleep from the evening, he felt an incurable ache in his chest, like when he was a child and had spent too long swimming in the lake by his grandparent's house, in the town his father was born and raised. He would be cold after swimming, and then wake up from a nap sun-dried in the early evening, his body two different temperatures and still tired.

Yes, today's bizarre experiences had merely conjured the phantom of unsettling childhood memories. He was feeling the vestiges of unfounded childhood fears, that was all. Nothing more.

There had been nothing to survive today.

Still, why could he not dispel the thought that something momentous had happened? The days would only grow shorter now, shorter until they were swallowed up by winter. Was he on the precipice of a great decrease? Had the whole world turned its attention to fall—the inevitable destruction of summery life that was only now beginning? Why did he feel he was being forced to ponder the approaching end? Maybe it was just the talk of executions at work. Maybe it was merely the fact that he was almost twenty five and, safe from the unpredictable risks of Ishval's battlefield casualties, was forced to grapple with natural human mortality for the first time in his life.

Embers of the year's first half were slowly extinguishing themselves from beyond the glass. He watched the city twinkling beneath the hill on which their apartment lay perched. Other lives were as small as lighted windows, which from his vantage point were as insignificantly valuable as gemstones sewn into a black velvet dress.

They'd likely be leaving this hill and moving elsewhere in the fall. Gracia had wanted to look for places with at least two bedrooms. He'd agreed. But still, he'd miss this apartment. It had been the first place he'd moved after the Academy. The first place he had been truly independent.

One of his legs half-asleep, he painfully stood and hobbled toward the living room, Berthold Hawkeye's record in his hand. A candle still flickered on the table, casting long shadows on the ceiling.

Standing before the empty fire place, the mantel clock still watching him, he studied the record and the small photograph that had been clipped to it. Dark eyes stared unflinchingly, speaking words from their perpetual stillness.

Riza Hawkeye's father. What sort of man had he been? What sort of father? He remembered the girl he had talked to several times in Ishval—both before and after she had gained any significance in his life. What disarmed him the most was that she seemed simultaneously a girl of fifteen and a woman of seventy five—she had seen too much and nothing at all. She had a quiet voice she never raised, and he had never once heard a curse slip from between her lips. She seemed to belong to a different place and time, yet that had never made her stand out from the crowd.

Only when he had looked at her up close and talked to her did he realize what an anomaly she was.

The resemblance between the photograph and his daughter was faint, almost the difference between a hawk and a sparrow, although perhaps the strong jaw, the line of the nose, and the fierce eyes were shared.

What had his role been in the events that had come to be?

Years ago Roy had talked about the girl from his apprenticeship, the girl who could be none other than Riza Hawkeye. "I had promised that I'd look after her. I was going to marry her."

Had her father asked something of Roy? Had he expected a promise?

No. He remembered now, something about the man's dislike of the military. "I think her father had an inkling as to where I was headed. He always disapproved of the military, especially for me."

Well, Maes questioned, imagining silent figures of Roy and Berthold Hawkeye as witnesses in the court room, perhaps he had asked something of Roy before he had left for the Academy. And what had he expected of his daughter?

Or had it been the opposite? Had Berthold, in neglect of his daughter, or perhaps outright rejection of Roy, challenged them to seek comfort in each other? Pushed them from his very wishes?

The ghostly figures remained silent.

Perhaps he would never know. More likely than not, the ignorance would drive him mad. He enjoyed knowing. Ever since childhood he had wanted to know, to know everything and everyone, analyze and discover even the most banal of motivations and thoughts. He wanted to know the good and the bad and the evil, to judge—

He looked into the photograph's motionless eyes, wishing he could console the long-dead man that his daughter was in good hands. At the very least, Maes fought the flicker of doubt catching in his throat and hoped that he himself could be sure.

No. Roy was a good man. There was no question. Roy was a good man. Just a good man who had done horrible things.

Clearly, Roy had tried to take care of this Hawkeye girl. He had been distraught when he saw her in Ishval. Maes hoped though, that the man had known, before he died, that his daughter would be taken care of.

"And his dying words to me were to watch over her."

The memories of this long ago conversation were returning to him.

"Those were his last words. He begged me. And he had just admonished me, considered me unworthy because I had entered the Academy. Yet he still begged me to take care of her."

He knew. The man knew. He had asked Roy, after all. What a strange thought. The old alchemist must have trusted Roy, liked him as a son, to ask that of him even after such a seeming betrayal.

Burns, the secretary had whispered in the silence.

He knew at least, that Roy wouldn't kill the woman he loved. Not with literal flames, at least—he was neither careless nor mad in a conventional sense. Still, his reckless gambit would likely end in some murder-suicide that would put the characters of tragic theater to shame.

Men far more careful than Roy had been destroyed by the flames of passion, and history was built on the ashes of civilizations destroyed by it. Didn't the legends say that Xerxes had burned because it was lit by the fires of a king's passion?

when the heavens and the earth shall be moved,

He took the photo, looking at it again, and pocketed it. Destroying it would be too much like letting Berthold Hawkeye die a second time. How many photos existed of this man? What else would be left of his heritage?

His child, Maes realized with a jolt. Hadn't the minister mentioned a similar sentiment during his speech? Children were the only legacy of your body that lives on after death.

His daughter. Yes. Riza. The girl that Roy seemed to treasure more than anyone, more than anything, in this world. And Maes wondered for a second, because he had a knack for understanding people, if Berthold had forgotten that his child, more than the flame alchemy, was his primary legacy and responsibility. But he could not help but think that Berthold had loved the flame more than his own family, and was happy to feed his studies all his time and effort.

It had killed his wife, after all.

Riza Hawkeye was now the only remnant of her parent's marriage, of Berthold Hawkeye's life, of General Grumman's fading military career. Just her. Her and the flame alchemy that had enchanted and cursed his best friend.

And hadn't he risked breaking multiple military laws for their sake? Yes, he had judged that this was the right thing to do. Prudent, even. Wise. Necessary. His mind had already been made up.

With shaking hands, he pulled a lighter from his pocket. He snapped the flame into being and watched as it devoured the page. Ink evaporated into dark smoke, the edges of the document folding in on itself until they folded into nothingness.

With a shudder he understood that he had utterly destroyed a life, leaving it to be confounded in ash.

when thou shalt come to judge the world by fire.

The lilies were staring at him from the vase on the table. No, nothing about them seemed to watch him—they were mouths, open mouths. Did they condemn him? Support him? He could not hear the words they spoke.

I am made to tremble, and I fear,

Startled by a feeling of déjà vu he couldn't place, he glanced at his watch out of habit. The hands had circled their orbit. It was seven minutes to one.

Suddenly, a nameless drive overtaking him, he pulled the photo from his pocket again. He clicked the lighter a second time and the man vanished, swallowed in the maw of his legacy, his face vanishing utterly. Fire, even in these small amounts and with little to feed it, was terrifying.

Phantoms writhed in the smoke like dying bodies in the moment of anguish.

He glimpsed something poetic about the man destroyed by his passion; his own creation was killing him. It had already killed his wife, likely killed the childhood of his daughter as well. Would it kill Roy too? He knew Roy had a romantic flair that disguised self-destruction as heroism and obsession as passion. Had he learned it from the dead alchemist?

Although the man had been dead for years, Maes felt somehow complicit in his death. As if by destroying his records he was killing him a second, final time. He now felt as if he had become the judge. Become the executor. Become the fire itself.

A final judge for a final judgement.

But he had to. He had no other choice.

Within seconds he had to drop the last corner of the photograph as the flames singed his fingers and gnawed at his cuff. Nervously shaking his hand, he watched as the flame vanished almost as immediately as the photo, like an ouroboros snake eating its own tail.

Feeling that instinctual, human fear of fire, he wondered what had driven any of them to this madness. Not just Roy, but Riza, and he himself. He thought of the woman burned to death by her husband. Was it truly an accident?

For the first time in his life he questioned what love was.

At the sound of a gentle, distant noise—Gracia turning about in bed—he turned toward his bedroom, and supposed that desperate people had done far madder things to enjoy just one evening of normal married life. The apartment itself seemed to settle in the silence, releasing the breath Maes himself had been waiting to exhale all day. Never before had the prospects of lying down besides his wife in the cool cotton sheets seemed so inviting. He had waited long. He had long ago promised he'd never take a single day of it for granted. Not a single day. Not even this longest day of his life.

He turned away from his tired reflection in the dark windows, paced toward the table, and, bending over it, extinguished the candle with a single breath. The smoke lingered, far more than would be expected of a single flame. It smoldered acrid in his nose. He turned toward his—no, their—room. It was their apartment, he marveled.

He was an adult. Yet the small part of him that was still a child afraid of the shadows in the hallway wanted reassurance. He wanted reassurance that he had done the right thing—investigating and burning those documents. He wanted his father to tell him he had done a good job, because he wasn't sure himself whether his actions would be worth it. Was it wise to risk so much for a man who had no qualms risking everything he held dear?

And even if it were worth it, would it be enough? Enough to hush the rumors, to spare them from the judgment of the military, enough to dissipate the shadows? He didn't know. There was only so much he could do and he had already done all he could. So, as he padded away to his bedroom where his sleeping wife lay waiting for him, he noticed the encroaching shadows and scurried slightly away from them, still a child seeking safety from the darkness under the sheets.

Yes, in some ways, although he was twenty four years old with a wife, with an apartment, with a job, he was still merely a child. No wonder he had skirted around the sun all day. His subconscious mind remembered the silly superstitions from his Eastern childhood. The rituals on the summer solstice. The way that people would come like pilgrims from all over to mourn the year's dead.

He shook his head as if he could dispel his thoughts like he could an out-of-place hair or a fly. East had always been a superstitious place, birthing so many religions and beliefs, and the people there so happy to nurture them. Maybe that's why he was so easy to take the position in Central with the Investigations Office all those years ago. He thought he could run away from any fears, any doubts, if he could just distance himself from the place itself. Distance himself from the ghost of the judge he had been running from all his life, whether he admitted it or not.

until the judgment and the coming wrath be upon us,

The words returned to him, a childhood fear as silly, yet as tangible, as the hallway shadows that threatened to snatch at his feet.

It was all silly. Superstitious.

when the heavens and the earth shall be moved.

"Maes?"

"Yeah, it's me. I'm going to sleep now."

"Yes," she murmured her voice muffled in the pillows, "You need to sleep more."

He would rest, if just for a few hours.

The shadows could not reach him if his arms encircled Gracia's warm body, if the cotton sheets shrouded him from the shadowy world, if his dreams claimed him and never let him go.

He would be safe if he escaped into the dreams themselves.

Still he could not shake the smell of smoke that lingered in his nose, the fingers that trembled as if still holding the burning photo and the lighter, an inescapable warmth on his skin, nor the feeling that he had decided wrong, judged wrong. Roy's criticism from the phone call—and the desert tent in Ishval—returned unbidden. Yes, he dared hold this woman he loved in his arms. Yes, even with these hands that had known death. These hands, that just a moment ago, had rendered judgement. And in this dark silence, words he had long-since forgotten from his childhood in East returned.

The words that lingered now, as if tattooed upon his brain, were unforgettable, inescapable. The silence uttered them with the voice of the crowd, as it had when he was seven years old.

A bird called unexpectedly outside. Their chanting resurrected the shattered promises of his childhood.

For a horrific moment he realized that in the west, in the town where Riza Hawkeye had been born, where her parents had married and died, it was still June twenty first. The longest day of the year had not yet ended.

That day, that day of wrath,

He had not escaped the longest day of the year, but rather his world had ended, as once he had feared.

A tear began to leak, fiery and hot from his eyes, trickling down his face. He had promised himself. He had promised himself when he was a boy that he would never, he would never—

that day of calamity and misery,

He wept. Consigned to the fate he had crafted for himself, to the judgement he had wrought with his own hands, he cried silently, careful not to wake the woman in his arms, because he could never explain to the woman he had married why he was crying.

And so the lonely judge sobbed silently on this day of judgement.

The judge prayed he had chosen rightly. Both his wedding and his selfish preoccupation with unraveling Roy's mysterious past had distracted him from his job and prevented him from saving the life of a man who had misplaced state secrets. He had shirked his duties today just so he could get away with committing the same crime. Just so that he could chase his own curiosities.

He wondered if he had damned himself with that act.

No, he didn't wonder. He already knew. Try as he might to ignore his reality, he had long since been damned. Though he didn't like thinking it, even to himself, he knew that perhaps Roy had been right—both of them, all of them, were unworthy of this life that Maes had coveted since before the war. They didn't deserve this normal, domestic happiness.

Not that there was any judge to judge them besides themselves.

But, what else could he do? Break Gracia's heart? Surely she loved him as much as he loved her. And what else could he do for Roy and the Hawkeye girl? He couldn't change their future. Nor could he change their past. But he could at least destroy all traces of it, at least from the world.

that day of great and exceeding bitterness,

A final tear leaked, and he did not know for what or whom he mourned. Perhaps it was for himself and the love that would always remain partially a lie. He felt a familiar pang of pity for Roy and the girl who he must have desperately loved, and perhaps still did. He wondered if they too were lying together like this, or if they ever had.

He could barely judge them if they had. Were they not both seeking an escape just as Maes himself was? An escape to the innocent days when they had exchanged childish promises they did not realize would bind their future to their misguided expectations and set the course of their lifelong tragedies.

Which of them had chosen the right course?

He had to believe that he had. He had to believe that marrying this beautiful, ordinary woman who knew so little about the horrible things he had done, was right. He could not bear the thought that he had chosen wrongly, so he wrapped his arms tighter around his wife, as if this present love could absolve past sins.

He knew that today's horror would fade, just as many sins and crimes had faded slowly and imperfectly from his memory with his conscious effort. The morning would arrive refreshed and baptized in dew before the the fiery heat, and bring with it a new summer untouched by the colors and leaves of preceding years. And he would not think of work and responsibilities while the train carried him and Gracia west to the lakeside town that smelled of sycamore bark.

The birds kept calling in the predawn darkness.

Still, their fate was unavoidable. Just as his father would say, they'd played with fire and they'd all get burned.

The fire would come to judge them all eventually.

OOOOO

1:17am

In Paradisum (deducant angeli)

The Hughes' Apartment Bedroom

June 22, 1909

Gracia Hughes: Age 23

She had waited until her husband's sobbing had faded into ragged breaths and until those had faded to gentle, phlegmy snores before easing herself up onto her pillows.

Rain had begun to fall outside, breaking the summer heat.

In the faint light from the window, she could just make out the tracks of tears glistening on his cheeks, tracing their way toward his stubble. She smiled sadly at his handsome face. Gracia doubted this was the first time he had fallen asleep in choked sobs. Likewise, she doubted this would be the last.

His fight with Roy must have gotten to him. There was something bothering him, and now he felt like he couldn't even talk to Roy about it. What a truly lonely place. They were both broken men. Two broken men. First crushed by the war, and now unable even to talk about it. She could almost imagine them squabbling over whose life was worse, over whose job was harder, their natural tendency toward competition exacerbated by whatever it was that had occurred in Ishval.

She had figured out their fight as soon as she had gotten that call just after seven. The operator had announced it was a call from an officer at Central Command. She had doubted it was Maes or one of his men calling in his stead, and so she had answered the phone with a formal, guarded greeting.

"Hello, Hughes residence. This is Gracia speaking."

She could hear the surprise in Roy's voice as a slight stutter. "Gr—Gracia. Is Maes there?"

"No, he hasn't made it home yet."

He paused a moment. "That's strange. He said he was leaving when I talked to him just under an hour ago. I didn't think it took him that long to get back."

"Maybe something kept him back. But the streetcar line on Daedalus has been having issues since May. Do you want me to have him call you back once he gets home?"

"No, that's alright." He seemed dejected, almost remorseful. "I don't want to bother him. I'll get in touch with him after your trip. I hope you both enjoy—"

There was a question that had been on her mind for over a week now and this was perhaps the only opportunity to ask it. So she interrupted his trite goodbyes.

"That girl with the flowers—were you able to see her or are you still looking for her as if she'll turn up every time you turn your head?"

"I just saw—Did Hugh—did Maes put you up to this? He's been trying to get you to snoop for him, asking you to find out more about Elizabeth hasn't he? He's convinced I have a thing for Ri—" He cut off sharply, as if realizing he was giving away information she didn't yet have.

"No he didn't. I was just curious. You were acting like such a nervous, lovestruck wreck at the wedding, always glancing around—"

"I seriously doubt that this has nothing to do with him. You know how impossible he gets when he's investigating one of his conspiracies."

"No Roy, this has nothing to do with him. I'm asking of my own accord. We're two separate people, you know."

"No, I just seriously doubt that he withholds things from you. I serious doubt he didn't ask you to ask me that."

"I'm sure he withholds things from me. I know he does," she fired back, desperate to prove to him as much as to everyone else that she still had an identity outside her husband. "There are plenty of things he doesn't tell me."

"Well that's his job. He could go to prison, Gracia. There's things he can't tell anyone, even his wife."

She hated his spiteful tone, somewhere between patronization and condescension. "And do you think I don't know that? I'm not an idiot, Roy. I may not work for the military but that doesn't mean I don't know how things work."

And at that he rankled, audibly recoiling, as if she had said the one thing he couldn't bear to hear. In a beat of insight that probably arose from her own defensiveness, she realized that this was the tone of an unhappy man. He must have already said something similar and had already regretted it. And now, repeating the same mistake, he was crumbling in on himself.

Then to her great shock, he seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

"I apologize Gracia." His tone was honest, expressing a genuine remorse. "I shouldn't have said any of that. And please tell Hughes, I mean Maes—"

She could hear from the the distance a woman's voice. "Colonel Mustang, sir. You must eat dinner. I'm here to inform you that the Mess Hall closes in under thirty minutes."

"One second Gracia—" He had done something to cover the phone, but she could still hear his half of the conversation. His responses were punctuated by the silence that could only be this woman's questions. "No, I'm not flirting. Yes, this is work-related. Hughes' wife. He's not home yet. Yes, Lieutenant. No. Yes, I will go eat dinner when I'm finished with this call. What, I thought you already ate? Yes, I'll eat as long as you do too. It won't do to have you going on hunger strike everyday to guilt me into eating. Yes, Lieutenant."

Lips tightly pursed and eyes watering, she did her best to hold the laugh that was threatening to pour out of her rapidly-growing smile. Was this the girl who had taught him about flowers?

"Apologies, that was Lieutenant Hawkeye. She does her best to keep me on schedule." He paused a moment as if unable to stem the smile spreading across his face and into his voice. "She's great but she's still new, you know? So we're still straightening out some of the twists in the office routine."

Where had she heard that tone of blatant admiration, spoken by a man unable to stop himself? Or the shameless use of the plural "we're," when "I" would have probably sufficed? Her own husband, when she had walked in on moments of his shameless bragging.

"Yes, the honeymoon period does take a while to adjust to. You go have dinner, alright? I'll have Maes call you in the morning before we head out. Goodbye, Roy."

"What? Gracia, wait. Gracia—"

She smiled to herself. It had taken a full two minutes for her to collect herself after the phone call, she had been laughing manically at his startled spluttering.

She'd ask Maes, if she found the right opening, just how new Roy's new assistant was. She pictured the two of them laughing in the train, swapping stories of their encounters with a clearly love-struck Roy. Yes, she knew it wasn't something to laugh about, legal cases and fraternization and all. But they'd still find it funny. Because love is either funny or sad, and how else can you keep your love from turning into a melodramatic tragedy but by laughing about it?

Still, she wondered if Roy's relationship was what was truly bothering him. Or was there something else?

Maes tried to shoulder too much upon himself, not wanting anyone else to worry. That she had always known. There were things he'd never tell her, because he didn't want her to worry. She appreciated his concern, but still, she didn't want him to shoulder his burdens alone. She also knew there were things he simply could never tell her on account of his job. Things he just couldn't. She had known that since the beginning.

And so she had promised herself that she'd never ask.

She stroked his hair, marveling at the intimacy of the moment that had seemed so distant a concept just a few weeks ago. These simple moments were what she had dreamed of ever since he had been sent away to Ishval.

Sometimes she wondered if she had chosen wrong. Because there were things that she too would never be able to tell him.

Maes' parents of all people, had called her after the engagement, and his father had told her that she was making the wrong decision in marrying Maes. They were both too young, too naive, he had assured her. And it would only end in tragedy for the both of them, but for her in particular.

With a chillingly detached tone, he stated that Maes had a knack for getting himself into trouble unnecessarily, that he was the cat curiosity killed, and, were she to marry him, that it would all go up in flames. She still remembered his exact words, "play with fire and you'll get burned." Marrying Maes would be playing with the most dangerous fire of all. Call it off, the old judge had pleaded.

She had been offended, but she had tried her best to swallow down the unexpected betrayal. She had done her best to smile the next time she had seen them, to smile as she paced down the aisle, smile through the reception, although she didn't want to let old Judge Hughes offer a speech, because how could she know what he would decide to say? She had done her best to never let it trouble her, because Maes could never know what they had said. Hearing how his father thought of him would break him.

Still, she hated secrets.

His parents had also asked her why she wanted to marry Maes. She didn't have a reason, not one that would have satiated their curiosity, not one that would have stopped their complaining.

Because, she had simply decided one day that she would.

She thought back to the August morning when he had left and she had promised herself that she would wait for him, even if he never returned. She had made her choice then on the train platform, just as Maes had. Well truly, she had made her decision two years ago on that early June night when they had met on the streets of Central outside of that basement apartment, and she had decided to jump in the wrong cab just to keep talking with him.

Yes, she had known it wasn't her taxi. No, Maes didn't know. Maybe he never would.

She had heard Maes earlier, muttering about the day of judgement, the inescapable day of judgement. Well, today was a day of judgement, as good as any. And today, smiling down at the sleeping man in her arms, she judged that all the waiting and loneliness and pretending had been worth it.

It had to be, because she had made her decision long ago and she had promised herself that she'd never regret a single decision.

Maes had told her once that every adult was comprised of all the promises they had made when they were a child. She realized now, that those childhood promises were the ones you couldn't escape, no matter how hard you tried.

Outside a mourning dove cooed. It was getting late. She'd need to make sure Maes actually packed, and she had her own things to finish. Roy would call too, and there'd still be the matter of getting to the station in time.

She settled into a comfortable position, trying to nestle herself into his arms.

She hoped that Maes would make up with Roy in the morning. Some chasm had been crossed that hadn't ever been before. But they'd get over it, they had to. They had survived the war and they'd survive this fight, whatever it was about. Both Maes and Roy were people that no one would want to be enemies with.

A passing car sent a flash across the ceiling like a fork of lightning. She thought a moment of the flames. In the photographs on the front pages, the flames had towered over the small, solitary figure that the headlines named the Hero of Ishval. He seemed somehow both more and less than a man, totally inhuman. To love him would be a tall order. The woman who loved him and hoped to be loved in return was facing quite a challenge. She was glad that wasn't her problem, that she had fallen in love with an ordinary man. Yes, he had ghosts of his own, wounds he couldn't discuss or share.

Her heart jumped uneasily. Maybe Roy and Maes were more similar than she cared to think.

She wondered if she would ever meet this girl that Roy Mustang loved. Maes seemed to be keeping her away from military events if he could manage. But she knew, somehow, that someday they would meet and someday they would understand each other. She wasn't a soldier, but then again, this other woman would likely never be a wife. So they'd meet and they'd understand each other with a wordless look, and they'd know there could be no regret in the choices that had set them on such different, yet wildly similar paths.

A faint odor of lilies filled the air. They smelled of mid-summer. And they smelled of funerals.

For a second, she allowed herself to doubt her own decision. Here she was, married to a man unknowingly scared of becoming the father he had been desperately trying to impress his whole life long. And for all his intelligence, all his investigatory prowess, all his knack for reading people, he didn't even know. And she'd never be able to tell him.

She thought of those old prayers that whispered fears of an omnipotent, all-knowing father. Fears of the judge. No wonder he was scared.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. That would be the forecasted cold front coming through, breaking the heat.

Perhaps Maes' father was right. Perhaps it would all go up in flames. Perhaps soon.

But it hadn't yet, and that was enough for her.

So, smiling, she closed her eyes and nestled into her husband's arms, holding his right hand in hers. It had been a long day and it was time for rest.

aeternam habeas requiem

Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.

The empurpled vines dear memories of Thee bring:

A bird at evening flying to its nest,
Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.

Come rather on some autumn afternoon…
And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.

"Sonnet upon hearing the Dies Irae sung in the Sistine Chapel"

Oscar Wilde

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A/N:

It is finished! Yes the epilogue has an epilogue. I had to give Hughes what he deserved. And he deserved a proper chapter (lol, this could be a stand-alone multi-chapter fic by itself). Also, I got way too inspired by James Joyce (peep a Ulysses-inspired structure, a blatant Gracia-as-Molly-Bloom rip-off epilogue, and notes of "The Dead" at the end), various readings for Easter and Passover, and a few tumblr posts that made me view Hughes as far more angsty and complex than I had before (which I love).

Why I ended this fic with Gracia, I'm not entirely sure. It just felt right. I did however, always intend for this chapter to be Hughes-centric. In fact, this story was originally meant to be entirely told from his perspective, detailing the various alcohol-fueled encounters in which Roy told him snippets of his childhood romance.

Anyway, now that this is over, I'll be working on my other WIPs, as well as starting an FMA AU set in a 1920's/30's world inspired by the cabaret culture of the time. I'm also going to be publishing a collection of chronological one-shot's from Riza's perspective that accompany this fic. Hopefully the first chapter will be out soonish.

Thank you to all the readers, past present and future, especially those who have been kind enough to leave a comment. Your kindness and encouragement have meant the world to me during a very weird and amorphous phase of my life. It's been truly fun to grow as a writer when I'm surrounded by such amazing support and conversation. See you all soon!