The World Apart
[drabble challenge for Amei]
He did not come to the war until near the end, when the Fuhrer gave the word and sent his State Alchemists to Ishbar, even those who'd earned their watches only the month previously. His mother and father both wept to see him leave, but they understood the call and importance of duty. Even his sister, beloved and coddled and sheltered, only held him once, before stepping away.
War, he soon learned, was a world entirely unto itself, separate and strange from all the ballrooms and and mansions of his childhood. There was neither beauty nor elegance here, save for what had been corrupted and destroyed by long years of fighting. Once, he paused by the newly-smashed ruins of a temple with his hand upon the remains of an engraving, and mourned that which future generations would never see.
There were no shades of gray on a battlefield, only hues of red. The entire world had been painted over. There were never any farmers in his family's bloodlines, but he knows that nothing will grow again easily in this soaked soil. Someday, he wanted to come back to this place, and perhaps bring back stories that could become an honorable family legend.
He mentioned that idea in passing to a young Second Lieutenant during dinner. The young man looked almost sick with the idea, and excused himself soon thereafter; they never met again directly on the battlefield.
And then, Colonel Basque Grahn authorized the use of Tim Marcoh's prototype research for enchancing alchemical reactions.
In the growing heat of early morning, every active State Alchemist was called to duty, standing at perfect military attention as each was properly outfitted with an incomplete Philosopher's Stone. Unfinished and imperfect, its power still sang to him, calling to that power that passed down through his family for generations.
When he flexed his arms, his entire body felt featherlight. Even as his father's son, he was large and powerful; it took nearly a day to become adjusted to the shift in his weight. Punching down to stone or desert-hardened earth meant nothing; directing his strength towards buildings that crumbled like wet tissues and so lives scattered like dust meant nothing. Ishbar, from the first moment he arrived, had little left to her beyond a fragmenting legacy.
The day after, he stood and surveyed the ruins. Regret twisted sourly in his stomach, and so he pulled his gauntlets off, then left them atop a column of fallen stone. Nothing of the culture his nurse had taught him of remained. With his own two hands, he had helped reached out and shattered the foundations of these people. The thought was sobering.
He went down on one knee and picked up a chunk of rock. He turned it over and thought it may have come from a home rather than a temple; it was simple and rough-edged, blasted into pockmarks by blowing sand. When he closed his fist, it easily broke into pieces.
This is not, he thought, the story I want to pass down to my children to share with future generations.
--end--