"She is Lust. It should be a simple thing: a lovely young woman raised because of a grief-blinded man's all-consuming passion." Nothing is ever simple that she should be able to remember. [Animever...
Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist is not mine. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Written entirely too late at night, and therefore probably less than coherent. Title sucks a whole lot. Animeverse.
The names she and her siblings bear are so appropriate that sometimes she wonders if there are really such things as coincidences; surely Dante could not have known how apt they would be when she named them.
She is Lust. It should be a simple thing: a lovely young woman raised because of a grief-blinded man's all-consuming passion. But there is a miscalculation in that, a fatal flaw, as there is in all of them, and hers is - in ironic counterpoint - simple indeed, for like the sin she is named after, she will always desire, and never be satisfied. It runs deeper yet: she will want, but never have.
Perhaps it is because the man who tried to bring her back did it for love rather than the sin she is. Perhaps, she thinks, that is why all of them are flawed, but she never thought it mattered. She never dwelled on it before, likely because she had never wanted something quite so much before - petty desires pale next to the unexpected fire of memory. She remembers, when she should have no memories of any sort, the man slumped against the wall, and knows it is memory because his face is unmarked and his hair still sandy-dark. She remembers the brother, whom she loved and who loved her, enough to dare taboo not only to try and bring her back but to even seek the forbidden lore wherein that knowledge was rooted, and while she loved him, he was not the only one, and if she loved the younger any differently, she can no longer tell, and is not sure it matters -
She cannot remember the younger's name, and that is fitting, when the man who sits across from her is so little like that boy (she knows this, somehow, despite the fragmented memories, and does not question it). But her fingers (gloved, or a mimicry of gloved, for he is warm even through imagined fabric) reach out, and though they can be razor-sharp, when they stroke lightly along his cheek she knows she cuts him in gentleness more deeply than lancelike nails ever could. His lips are dry against hers, unexpectedly hesitant, soft despite being desert-chapped; his words are both lie and merest fraction of truth.
She knows, with a deep certainty that has nothing to do with a memory she could not possess, that he wept for her (/who she had been/, she corrects herself) once, long ago - perhaps more than once, even. Watching from high above as he collapses into the circle's furrow and becomes light made flesh made potential power trembling on the edge of realisation, she knows she should weep for him. She should at least feel triumph, when he is dead and the Stone is within her grasp, even if she begins to suspect that the only victory here is his. But her eyes are dry despite the fierceness of the breeze, and she tells herself the tightness of her heart is only anticipation.
- finis -