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The Unpublished Memoirs of Roy Mustang	By : nomdeplume Category: Fullmetal Alchemist > Yaoi - Male/Male > Roy/Ed Views: 710 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to these characters or the Fullmetal Alchemist manga. These belong to Hiromu Arakawa. I don't profit off of this work of fanfiction.

Chapter List
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I will warn readers now that this has spoilers for the entire Fullmetal Alchemist manga series, and it will contain a number of canon pairings. Yes those canon pairings.

Rebels overthrow Bradley administration

Furher King Bradley dead

People hail Mustang, support fuhrership

Mustang, Armstrong, tyrants or saviors?

Fullmetal Alchemist returns from underground alive
Brother Alphonse in critical condition

Kain Fuery: the voice of the revolution

Maria Ross found alive, innocent of Brig. Gen. Hughes' death

General store, former lieutenant linked to rebellion

Hohenheim Elric, renowned alchemist, dead at 50
I could include more of these headlines, I suppose, but they wrote about the rebellion-slash-revolution-slash-slaughter-slash-defense of Amestris for weeks. Each of the men and women involved got at least one feature story done on them and each was viewed as both a hero and a villain, sometimes in separate pieces, sometimes in the same article. It was no surprise to me that both Olivier Armstrong and I were given top billing in both of those categories. What did surprise me was how minuscule they made Ed's role in the battle. If only they knew. But for the public to realize what happened in the underground tunnels, it would mean letting them in on a very malevolent side of Amestrian alchemy, a side that none of us wanted to see unleashed ever again.

The four of us who made it out of those tunnels alive, though Al was barely so, agreed to never speak of what the true plans that the homunculi's leader, Father, had for the country of Amestris.

So we circulated a different story, that Bradley had recruited the help of a powerful alchemist and planned to create a weapon that would have killed thousands, not only in outlying countries but even in Amestris. Most surprisingly, to me, was that Izumi Curtis was the one most willing to step forward and explain our cover story. The woman who despised the military most of the time, who previously had only disdain for even those of us fighting against the fuhrer, was providing all of the alchemical knowledge necessary to flesh out our story. However, I had to, occasionally, put what she was saying in more diplomatic terms. Though she seemed to be more endeared to those of us who fought with her, she had no love for the media, or the government for that matter. Unfortunately, I didn't always get to filter her for the media. I was still in recovery for the first few press conferences. When Riza read those news articles to me, I groaned and realized regardless of how I looked or felt, I needed to run interference.

I made it to the next press conference, and several more after that. They all began to blur together. Each would begin with the hushed whispers of the crowds of journalists, the discreet clicks of cameras despite requests that they not photograph me in the condition I was in at the moment. With some satisfaction, I could also hear other journalists reprimanding their fellows and even confiscating cameras. Those ones called me a wounded hero; I didn't much buy into the "hero" part of it, but I certainly was wounded. With bandaged hands and dark glasses over my eyes, I would sit and answer questions. I did my best to pretend I had been temporarily blinded and that doctors were expecting a recovery of my vision in a matter of days, perhaps weeks. It was a lie that I liked to believe, myself, sometimes. That was always one of the first questions. Someone always seemed to feel it was necessary to inquire about my health.

Each would begin with me making the same statement, "Please be respectful of others' turns." It was a reminder that was little-needed after the sixth or seventh of these. "I can't tell who raised whose hand first and my men do their best to ensure you all get your questions answered, so please show them proper courtesy."

I would offer a brief smile, though I wasn't sure how my usual charm came across with half of my face obscured by the boxy frames covering part of my face, and then I would turn serious as I was asked again what had happened in that tunnel. There were theories, apparently, that my eyes hadn't been injured at all in the final battle. These conspiracy nuts thought that I wore the glasses to prevent anyone from realizing that I was an atrocious liar and discover my "tells." All, according to them, were connected to my eyes. Truthfully, the only "tell" I knew of had to do with fidgeting fingers that would tap whatever surface was closest -- which is why I have mastered clasping them behind my back, steepling them in front of me or hiding them beneath a table to rest, and tap, at my lap -- and they couldn't have seen that during the conferences either. I could barely move my hands thanks to Bradley.

What the people "know" and what I know are very different things. Even I am aware that I do not have the whole story, as my most vital sense had been deprived of me before that battle.

One of the last things I remember was Pride, formerly and once again known as Selim Bradley. That monstrosity forced me to give up my vision for a gift I didn't want, forced me to participate in a human transmutation when I had had the will to say no.

I understand that in the time since, the fuhrer's wife took Selim in to raise the boy as her own, despite obvious deformities: a marked forehead and an evil past. She, and Ed apparently, felt he needed a second chance. Personally, I think if I come across him one day, I may kill him, regardless of what memories he might or might not possess of sending me through the Gate. I have been fortunate enough not to encounter the young man, a fact that is probably better for both of us. I have been told that he has no recollection of his life before. I still don't care. I would leave nothing of him but a scorch mark. Regardless of the forgiveness I have been shown in my past, I have a very limited ability to return it to the creature.

Even after time passed, I rarely got a decent night's sleep. So many of my dreams were filled with memories of the Gate. Having now been there myself, I understand why the mysterious entrance-cum-higher-being is spoken of with such reverence by those who have witnessed it. You can almost hear that they, in their minds, capitalize the word "Gate" as they speak it in a way some cultures say the word "God" with that obviously uppercase G. I could have lived a few dozen lifetimes without witnessing it, and not for lack of curiosity. I am an alchemist after all, but I knew the costs, and I refused. Repeatedly, I was ordered to and I refused to perform a human transmutation, not only knowing the consequences, but because I knew I would be used for weapon fodder. Even when Riza's throat had been slit and her death seemed eminent, I knew that she could never forgive me if I attempted to bring her back.

My hands still bear their scars from that day, as does she. Riza didn't die, but the homunculi found a way to force me through the Gate anyway. Bradley's swords left telltale marks on my hands that remain today, just as his sword wound has left a thin white line on Riza's pale and otherwise perfect neck. I remember some from my passage to the Gate. A creature who was mostly human, not really animal, made up of light and dark at once. The "truth" of alchemy was forced into my mind and in return, I would be make a sacrifice against my will and released at the feet of Father, the grand master schemer of Amestris' history. Perhaps future as well.

After being unceremoniously dropped below, I was happy to find an ally in Alphonse Elric when the time came to face off against Father. Edward and Mrs. Curtis fought together, a sight I would have liked to have seen rather than heard as Al's armored body protected me, his permanently 10-year-old voice calling out the directions of our enemies. I do not know what type of alchemy I was producing at that moment. I knew I was using my own blood that flowed freely from the sword wounds through my injured hands. Thankfully, the rush of the battle did not let me think about the pain or the blood loss. I put the circleless alchemy to good use, though I didn't really have a clue what I was doing or even who I was aiming at. (In the time since the battle, I have teased Ed about how quickly I learned to use the knowledge the Gate gave me, but he insisted the only reason an "old fart" like me managed to learn it at all was from watching him in the first place. Though I will admit here that this is probably true, I won't give him the satisfaction of allowing him to hear me admit it aloud.)

Of the four of us, Al and I made our way to Father first, while Ed and Mrs. Curtis were forced to fight Pride alone. I still believe we were only a distraction for Hohenheim, who had somehow managed to merge with the homunculi's leader and blow him up from the inside out. I have been informed he was a philosopher's stone himself, and some of their conversation during that final fight implied he still had the souls of those who were killed to make him what he was. My own darkened perspective gave me no indication when Hohenheim had joined the fray or if, perhaps, he had been there all along. No one else seemed to have noticed just when he joined in any better than I did, but at least I had an excuse.

The explosion once again brought me to the Gate, this time with Al at my side, trying to explain where we had landed ourselves. I didn't need the explanation; there was something that felt both very right to every part of me that knew and used alchemy and very wrong to every part of me that felt like a normal human being. The place was a clash of who I was, and even in my state of darkness, I knew where we were. This time, I heard a voice asking me why I was not satisfied with the gift it had given me. It tried to extol the benefits of circleless alchemy, but I shook my head and told the thing that it wasn't worth what I'd been forced to sacrifice and that I'd not come to the Gate seeking truth anyway.

I could feel a difference as I left, but it had nothing to do with my vision. It was still blackness surrounding me, even as I cradled a frail, nude body in my still-bloody hands. I could hear Ed crying out for his brother, and occasionally for me, somewhere in the distance. Mrs. Curtis sounded to be alternating between doing the same and trying to calm Ed.

"Over here!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, taking for granted if they were calling out and searching that our enemies must have been gone. "I have Al! ... I think." I hoped.

Everything after that was a rush of the rescue, first by Ed and Mrs. Curtis, then by my team, including Riza and the strangers from Xing.

Looking at what I've just written, I don't know if this is really the best start to what I should write. I didn't want to be one of those types who wrote memoirs, but I find the need to finally put pen to paper inside of the journal Ed gave me those years ago is overpowering of late. Surprisingly enough, I cannot blame last month's wedding. To be honest, I felt that had given me closure on a number of things, which I'm sure I'll get into on these pages that follow. It took another reminder of my own mortality to make me sit down and begin to fill the handmade-looking book with newspaper clippings and my writing on love, government, all of the inner thoughts that so few are privy to.

Though it is her death that makes me write and contemplate where I've come since that day I lost my eyesight, I don't know if I can truly dedicate this to the distant woman who raised me when she didn't have to do it. I can at least give her the credit for the inspiration.
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The Unpublished Memoirs of Roy Mustang