Fic: "The Sky Surrounds You" Fullmetal Alchemist (PG)
Title: The Sky Surrounds You
Author: tiamatschild
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Characters: Marcoh
Rating: PG
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, references to genocide
Prompt: Marcoh, "Now I am become death"
Additional Notes: This is manga continuity, and doesn’t really spoil the Ishval flashback arc, but it does make reference to it. (It’s also very, very late. But you noticed that.)
The Sky Surrounds You
Marcoh began to think of it, to imagine how he could do it. He could walk past the guards, with a smile and a nod to each of them, as normal as he could manage, as real, so that they would not think to stop him. He could walk, and walk, and walk, for miles on miles, until his legs would carry him no longer, until his feet were raw and his throat was cracked, and then, then he could wait.
He could wait, and the sun would be there, and the desert’s starkness, and the dry wind that came from the east would strip him of life layer by layer by layer, until there was nothing left but the comforting geometry of decay.
He wanted that, suddenly, wanted it with all the urgency with which he had ever wanted anything, wanted it in the way he wanted breath.
Here, in this place, with the heavy stink of constant cremation and the cold cold night (oh cold, how cold, and he had known deserts were cold in the darkness how had he not believed it?) he looked for them to bind him into a stone, into one of his stones, to his dream of life. He expected that, that one day they would, that one day his research - which was no longer progressing, which he could no longer work on, which consisted only of notes, confused and half crazed, on the failures and successes - would no longer be useful enough and they would use him too, they would set him in the circle and he expected it. It became the only end he could see, the only end, and from that it grew to something he wanted as much as he wanted the desert, as much as he wanted breath.
But oh! He still wanted breath, he wanted to live, the soldiers stood beside him with the guns and he shook and clung to his bag and he did not want to see he did not want to be there, he wanted them to shoot him he wanted them to put him in the circle he wanted to run and die, he wanted to be, in some small way, not what he had become.
But he did nothing. He did nothing because he was afraid, because something in him still clung to life, even when he had destroyed his life, even when he should have known, even when he could have known, if he had stopped to consider it, if he had thought about it for a moment, but no, no he had not and now he knew and now so did the prisoners, only the prisoners did not know anymore, because they were dead.
They were dead and he was alive and some nights he held the remnants of their lives in his hands, small and red and warm, and knew he’d wanted this, he’d wanted this, he still wanted it.
He breathed, and his breath fell upon the stone and did not warm it because it was already warm and he knew what he was, oh yes he knew.
He could have stopped it. But he’d wanted this. He’d wanted to do it, he’d wanted to prove it could be done, even when he saw what it would take, even when what would be needed jiggled at the latch of his mind and wanted in, oh yes, but he’d pressed onward, hadn’t he, because he’d wanted it, wanted the power, wanted the knowledge, wanted it as he wanted breath.
He wanted, and even knowing, he was not quite (not quite) willing to let go.
Author: tiamatschild
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Characters: Marcoh
Rating: PG
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, references to genocide
Prompt: Marcoh, "Now I am become death"
Additional Notes: This is manga continuity, and doesn’t really spoil the Ishval flashback arc, but it does make reference to it. (It’s also very, very late. But you noticed that.)
The Sky Surrounds You
Marcoh began to think of it, to imagine how he could do it. He could walk past the guards, with a smile and a nod to each of them, as normal as he could manage, as real, so that they would not think to stop him. He could walk, and walk, and walk, for miles on miles, until his legs would carry him no longer, until his feet were raw and his throat was cracked, and then, then he could wait.
He could wait, and the sun would be there, and the desert’s starkness, and the dry wind that came from the east would strip him of life layer by layer by layer, until there was nothing left but the comforting geometry of decay.
He wanted that, suddenly, wanted it with all the urgency with which he had ever wanted anything, wanted it in the way he wanted breath.
Here, in this place, with the heavy stink of constant cremation and the cold cold night (oh cold, how cold, and he had known deserts were cold in the darkness how had he not believed it?) he looked for them to bind him into a stone, into one of his stones, to his dream of life. He expected that, that one day they would, that one day his research - which was no longer progressing, which he could no longer work on, which consisted only of notes, confused and half crazed, on the failures and successes - would no longer be useful enough and they would use him too, they would set him in the circle and he expected it. It became the only end he could see, the only end, and from that it grew to something he wanted as much as he wanted the desert, as much as he wanted breath.
But oh! He still wanted breath, he wanted to live, the soldiers stood beside him with the guns and he shook and clung to his bag and he did not want to see he did not want to be there, he wanted them to shoot him he wanted them to put him in the circle he wanted to run and die, he wanted to be, in some small way, not what he had become.
But he did nothing. He did nothing because he was afraid, because something in him still clung to life, even when he had destroyed his life, even when he should have known, even when he could have known, if he had stopped to consider it, if he had thought about it for a moment, but no, no he had not and now he knew and now so did the prisoners, only the prisoners did not know anymore, because they were dead.
They were dead and he was alive and some nights he held the remnants of their lives in his hands, small and red and warm, and knew he’d wanted this, he’d wanted this, he still wanted it.
He breathed, and his breath fell upon the stone and did not warm it because it was already warm and he knew what he was, oh yes he knew.
He could have stopped it. But he’d wanted this. He’d wanted to do it, he’d wanted to prove it could be done, even when he saw what it would take, even when what would be needed jiggled at the latch of his mind and wanted in, oh yes, but he’d pressed onward, hadn’t he, because he’d wanted it, wanted the power, wanted the knowledge, wanted it as he wanted breath.
He wanted, and even knowing, he was not quite (not quite) willing to let go.