There were times that he was ever so thankful Father could not read minds. For if Father could, quite a reliable wealth of experience told him of the severity with which he would be questioned, perhaps even punished. He both hated and adored Mustang. The boy reminded him of days long ago; of the pain they only were and of the most hope's death, of him self as he had been, wanted to be. Someday, he promised himself, when Mustang's naïve and excruciating belief of returning to what he was became too much, he would attempt to describe exactly what it was like when a soul died. He idly wondered if there were even words to entail the sheer twisting the flesh and mind did in order to retain what was its.

Damn that boy, the thought festered within as he watched from his high office window, posture perfect and characteristic and all so fake but so real; it was what he was, now, this façade. Damn him.

Damn him.

Because he wanted.