ficlet for 7stages
Title: Good Intentions
Author: Rydia Highwind, vwl
Pairing: Al/Martel
Prompt: the palms of his two black hands
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Sure.
Summary: Because, who else would there to be to hold Brother when he cried?
Notes: For 7stages. It was supposed to be Al/Martel and then turned into a little Al vigilante. Mixing anime and manga, because I can't remember what happens where. Currently unbeta'd.
Brother is curled up on his lap, shaking and trembling and trying very hard not to cry against the cold metal of the chest plate. He holds Brother because it is the only thing he can do; he holds Brother in the palms of his two black hands.
“I killed him, Al,” Brother sobs, hands clenched into fists, the automail making tiny metallic thuds against the steel of his chest. “I didn’t mean for him to /die/...I never wanted him to /die/, Al...”
There aren’t any words that will make Brother feel better. He knows this because he hadn’t meant for /her/ to die either...he had never wanted /her/ to die. He doesn’t have a stomach to feel sick with, he doesn’t have eyes to cry with, but if he did...well, he would feel now like Brother does.
The sword had not scraped the armor at all, because he had not been its intended victim. The sword had been meant solely for her, and there hadn’t been a damn thing he could have done about it. Her hands inside his, manipulating leather and steel, holding the throat of the Fuhrer after he had cut down her companions...
Her blood had been all over within him, and Brother had had to wash it out by hand, making sure he did not touch the blood seal that held his soul to the armor. He had been asleep when that had happened--he did not sleep, but he hadn’t been /there/--and maybe there was a God and maybe he was merciful because he did not think he could have managed to be okay for that.
He had once held her life in his hands the way he is holding Brother, and he had failed her. He had let her die after working so hard to protect her.
“I didn’t mean to kill him, Al,” Brother says again, as though he is desperate for Al to understand this.
A large, leather coated hand comes down lightly on Brother’s head, stroking back that disheveled braid and cradling Brother’s neck as best it can. Brother looks up at him as though he doesn’t quite believe that he is being forgiven so easily, and his golden eyes are thick with unshed tears.
He wonders more than ever at the sanity of what they are striving to do. So many people were dying, and those who were left were slowly going mad. But he knew...he knew. As long as he had this hollow inside of him where he could actually hold those he wanted to protect, people would keep dying, and he would keep feeling this unnamable feeling in the pit of his--well, his /nowhere/. Even when it was hard like this, he had to keep fighting.
Because, who else would there to be to hold Brother when he cried?
“I know, Brother,” he says softly. “Sometimes, despite our best intentions, the worst thing still happens. No matter what we do, we’re still...”
Brother doesn’t say anything, because he shares a single thought with the souled suit of armor. They both know they have transcended into God’s territory, and if there is a hell, they are certain to end up there someday, if they’re not already there. There is a graveyard of those who have died for this around them already, and the ground is littered with what is left of their good intentions.
The road to hell, after all, is paved with them.
Author: Rydia Highwind, vwl
Pairing: Al/Martel
Prompt: the palms of his two black hands
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Sure.
Summary: Because, who else would there to be to hold Brother when he cried?
Notes: For 7stages. It was supposed to be Al/Martel and then turned into a little Al vigilante. Mixing anime and manga, because I can't remember what happens where. Currently unbeta'd.
Brother is curled up on his lap, shaking and trembling and trying very hard not to cry against the cold metal of the chest plate. He holds Brother because it is the only thing he can do; he holds Brother in the palms of his two black hands.
“I killed him, Al,” Brother sobs, hands clenched into fists, the automail making tiny metallic thuds against the steel of his chest. “I didn’t mean for him to /die/...I never wanted him to /die/, Al...”
There aren’t any words that will make Brother feel better. He knows this because he hadn’t meant for /her/ to die either...he had never wanted /her/ to die. He doesn’t have a stomach to feel sick with, he doesn’t have eyes to cry with, but if he did...well, he would feel now like Brother does.
The sword had not scraped the armor at all, because he had not been its intended victim. The sword had been meant solely for her, and there hadn’t been a damn thing he could have done about it. Her hands inside his, manipulating leather and steel, holding the throat of the Fuhrer after he had cut down her companions...
Her blood had been all over within him, and Brother had had to wash it out by hand, making sure he did not touch the blood seal that held his soul to the armor. He had been asleep when that had happened--he did not sleep, but he hadn’t been /there/--and maybe there was a God and maybe he was merciful because he did not think he could have managed to be okay for that.
He had once held her life in his hands the way he is holding Brother, and he had failed her. He had let her die after working so hard to protect her.
“I didn’t mean to kill him, Al,” Brother says again, as though he is desperate for Al to understand this.
A large, leather coated hand comes down lightly on Brother’s head, stroking back that disheveled braid and cradling Brother’s neck as best it can. Brother looks up at him as though he doesn’t quite believe that he is being forgiven so easily, and his golden eyes are thick with unshed tears.
He wonders more than ever at the sanity of what they are striving to do. So many people were dying, and those who were left were slowly going mad. But he knew...he knew. As long as he had this hollow inside of him where he could actually hold those he wanted to protect, people would keep dying, and he would keep feeling this unnamable feeling in the pit of his--well, his /nowhere/. Even when it was hard like this, he had to keep fighting.
Because, who else would there to be to hold Brother when he cried?
“I know, Brother,” he says softly. “Sometimes, despite our best intentions, the worst thing still happens. No matter what we do, we’re still...”
Brother doesn’t say anything, because he shares a single thought with the souled suit of armor. They both know they have transcended into God’s territory, and if there is a hell, they are certain to end up there someday, if they’re not already there. There is a graveyard of those who have died for this around them already, and the ground is littered with what is left of their good intentions.
The road to hell, after all, is paved with them.