The First Notebook - Pt. II

As I pick up my pen today, I am filled with a damp feeling in my heart. It is a gray, overcast day. A slight, pleasant drizzle is tapping on the roof of the rented apartment. The air is moist and thick. I took a walk earlier today and it was very foggy. I've become very fond of rain in these days. I remember I used to hate rain because it rendered me essentially incapable of field studies. Flame alchemy is unfortunately not so conducive to moisture, the old fire-water balance I guess. So on rainy days like this I would always cloister myself up in my room with a book. I can't really read anymore, sadly. None of the alchemy books have anything to offer me. Whenever I try to connect the principles they offer into something new, it just comes to a dead end. Literature and politics have also lost their luster. I just can't enjoy them like I used to. It's not so bad, I've grown to appreciate other things. Like sleep, as long as I don't dream. Rain is perfect for inducing that perfect, quiet, empty sleep. So that's what I did most of today. Just, sleep. But I have to write. This isn't going to write itself. These are things that have to be put into words. I wonder if I can do it.

Thinking about it, I never have mentioned why I started writing this sordid memoir. It was all Hughes' idea. We talked about it earlier, a couple of days ago. It was a bright, sunny day. So bright that you could barely look up without squinting. We were sitting outside on the verandah of the Cafe Gebhard, named I think, for the old owner of the place, before he died. It's since passed on to his son and grandson. It was apparently pretty popular back when Gebhard owned it, but not so much now. The food is superb, but I guess people don't really come to family-run businesses much anymore. Anyway, the promise of good food and quiet is enough to drive us there every few days, to have lunch and keep up with each other's lives. It's a nice arrangement, at least for now, I think.

The two of us were talking about books at the time. Where I've slipped in my studies, Hughes has remained diligent. Politics, military theory. I often forget how intelligent Hughes is, but there are reasons that he climbed the ladder so quickly. Even with that new girlfriend of his, Gracia, I think it was, keeping him busy, he always seems to find time to keep informed about events and ideas.

"Have you read Klein's new book? The one on revolution? Great stuff, I'd check it out. Gracia just loves it," he said. He'd been accepting recommendations from her apparently. From what I'd seen of his new girlfriend, she was a simple and kind woman, with, fittingly, very gracious features. Apparently her reading habits weren't reflective of her disposition. Or maybe Hughes' tastes were rubbing off on her. He does have an infectious personality.

"Can't say I have. Haven't been reading too much lately."

"That's no good Roy," he said, wagging his finger playfully. "You've gotta lighten up. I was out there too, you know. But things have changed. We're members of polite society again. We need to act like it." His voice was dripping with sarcasm, but not vitriolic sarcasm. Just the humorous kind adopted between friends.

"Acting is fine, Hughes. I'm fine at acting. But I can't feel what I don't feel."

"What do you feel?" He said, genuine concern lighting across his face. "Are you alright, Roy?"

"I've been having too many nightmares, Maes. When I'm asleep, when I'm awake. I can't get Ishval out of my head. And I can't help feeling like I made the wrong choice."

"There was no other choice, Roy."

"There's always another choice."

He scratched the back of his head, averting his eyes slightly, as if in embarrassment that he'd said anything. But then his gaze flying right back at me, with the heartbreaking force of a flying dagger. He has such a kind, friendly smile. But when he gets serious, there's nobody more earnest, more sincere. He grabbed the edges of the table we were sitting on with his hands, causing the whole thing to shake.

"It's not your fault. It's the government, that's who's responsible. The Fuhrer and his warmongering toadies. They were the ones that gave the orders. They were the ones that authorized the killings."

"That's easy enough to say. But ultimately it's just a denial of responsibility. The government may have given orders, yes, but we executed them. In any just society, we would be war criminals. It's only by the government's good grace that we're even still alive," I said, only half believing myself. "And watch what you say, Maes. Saying things like that could be dangerous. I know you're more careful than that."

"War criminals?" Said Maes, horrified. Then, slowly, his expression shifted into a sad smile. Tears began to roll down his face. I swear, he switches between poles so fast it's uncanny. "I guess you're right. I guess that's what we are, is was criminals."

"Be careful who you say that around, too. Remember, we're heroes. We need to be heroes. That's what the General said in his speech before we left, remember?"

"Even though we're not?"

"Even though we're not."

We sat there in silence for a long time, staring at our sandwiches, neither of us courageous enough to keep talking or to take another bite. Then I blurted it out, all of a sudden.

"I'm thinking about killing myself, Maes."

"Why?" He said, his brows furrowing.

"You're right, we're not heroes. Having to be a hero is pissing me off, to be honest. I feel like killing myself is the only way to reconcile those two images. Or maybe it's just a way to escape the nightmares. Anyway, I can't go on living like this. You know that as well as I can. I haven't done any serious alchemy in months"

Maes thought about that for a moment. Then, his voice trembling, he said, "why don't you write it down?"

"Write what down?"

"The war. What we really did there. Not about the war the newspapers write, but the real war. Klein wrote that that every revolution begins with an idea. If we showed them what really happened, well," he said wryly, "maybe they'll hang us themselves. And the damned Fuhrer too."

"Watch yourself," I said. Still, I couldn't deny the logic in what he was saying. If we could show the public what really happened in Ishval, what we really experienced, hell, what the Ishvalans experienced. Maybe they would understand and try to change things. It was a shot in the dark, to be honest, but I decided to try it. At least before I died. Maybe a part of me just isn't ready to die, isn't ready to accept what happened. So I write. Anyway, it is helping to clear my mind.

So here it goes, a wild stab in the dark. I am Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang, and this is my account of the Ishvalan War of Extermination. Signed and dated, March 3rd, 1910.