First of all, this is NOT a songfic. It is a POEMFIC. Thank you.
Secondly, some historical background: Catullus, the author of the poem, was deeply in love (understatement of the YEAR) with a woman named Clodia, and wrote most of his poems about her. Unfortunately, Clodia was married to someone else, so in the poems, he had to refer to her as "Lesbia," after the island of Lesbos. In the poem before this, Catullus talks about her pet sparrow (I might do a fic to that one too, I'm not sure). In this one, the sparrow dies, and Catullus is rather unhappy about it-- another gross understatement.
Now, some people, when they read the poem-- myself included-- do not believe that the sparrow was really a sparrow at all. I thought it was actually Clodia's child, which makes sense, because if Catullus wanted to hide to whom the poems were written, he couldn't exactly come out and say, "oh, yeah, her kid just died." So he decided to be all metaphorical and call him/her a sparrow instead.
Now, I took a bit of artistic license and switched the genders, so Riza is in Catullus' place... yeah. I mean, she's forbidden to be with Roy because of fraternization laws, just as Catullus couldn't legally be with Lesbia/Clodia... just read the story, it makes sense there.
Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,
et quantum est hominum venustiorum:
As I opened my front door this morning, I found myself surprised that it wasn't raining. In fact, the weather is rather nice today-- and I simply cannot understand it. I am a grown woman; I have seen plenty of grief in my life, and yet... I just cannot see why, on this day, this day of all days, the sun shines cheerfully on Central Headquarters.
And of all places! This city, so full of life and joy-- this, the very site of such horror-- no, today, the citizens should not be peaceably going about their business. Today, any man, woman, child and dog should be silently dropping their bearings in wordless horror and grief, for today...
Today is Edward Elric's funeral.
passer mortuus est meae puellae,
passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quem plus illa oculis suis amabat.
Today, Colonel Mustang-- Roy-- my Roy-- must say goodbye forever to another one of the few people he has ever truly cared for. Because for all he could not show it or say it, that child was his. In his heart, Edward was my Roy's own baby. And I may never understand completely-- after all, I had never known the Elrics quite as well as he did, and though I did always feel compelled to protect the boys, it was not nearly to the extent that my Roy did.
To think, that after nearly every woman in Central or East City tried their damnedest to weasel their way into the Flame Alchemist's desperately guarded heart, two little boys from the country had suddenly found themselves there without even trying. I have no idea how long it took me to get there; it could have been years, which was about how long it took Brigadier General Hughes, if I remember his words correctly. For Edward Elric and his brother, two punk alchemists who used to strut around in leather and steel like it was nobody's business, it took no time at all.
And how deeply they had burrowed! My Roy poured his heart and soul into protecting them; his face and words revealed nothing, but his actions-- and the determination with which he did them-- laid the truth of his feelings bare to anyone's gaze. My Roy, as well as the rest of us, would have done anything to protect those children. He loved them... so dearly.
Nam mellitus erat suamque norat
ipsam tam bene quam puella matrem,
nec sese a gremio illius movebat,
sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc
ad solam dominam usque pipiabat.
And I used to believe that Edward had no idea. I used to feel a great deal of unjustified anger at that boy, who was luckier than he could ever imagine, and did not seem to care in the least. I remember that day-- only two weeks ago? two weeks?-- when my Roy finally forced himself to show some mere fraction of what he felt towards the boy. And Edward... paused... and smiled. I remember I had wanted to cry.
Because that was when I realized that he must have loved my Roy just as intensely.
For why else would he act the way he did? He knew his commanding officer just as well as any child would know his own parent; aware that my Roy did not like to show emotion, he too kept his face guarded; knowing how important his safety was to us and that we had almost nothing to do but worry for him whenever he left, he would give us detailed, exact reports; realizing how boring my Roy often found his job, he actually let the man get away with teasing him, overreacting perhaps even more than usual, just to keep things interesting. The rest of us-- myself included, I have to admit-- used to find a great deal of entertainment in watching the two go at it.
But for all of Edward's complaining and even fit throwing, he never tried to leave our unit. He would go on his missions, yes. He would sulk, yes. But in the end, he would always come home. I think he might really have known how much we all missed him; how much my Roy had missed him.
Maybe no one else noticed it, and I would never have said it to his face, but Edward Elric was actually quite a caring boy. And my Roy would never have admitted it, but Edward made him happy-- happier, I sometimes think, than the rest of us ever could.
And what remains of that happiness now? An empty grave.
Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum
illuc, unde negant redire quemquam.
Edward's brother did not come to the funeral, nor did the last of the Rockbells. It was a simple military service, not even as well-put-together as that for Brigadier General Hughes. It had been done almost off-handedly, anyone who didn't have other duties within the new government perhaps taking a few hours off to pay their respects. I remember the indignity, the rage in Havoc's eyes when he saw how few would attend. He understood they had other priorities, of course, but so did we. Nothing is more important than those boys... nothing.
But what good is all that now? What good is all our loyalty and devotion when we did not protect Edward the one time it really mattered? Edward is gone, and there is nothing else to be done about it. Never mind that none of us had really wanted to say goodbye-- at least not in that way. It should have been us first, the adults, not him. Never him.
At vobis male sit, malae tenebrae
Orci, quae omnia bella, devoratis:
tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis
O factum male! O miselle passer!
And now I suddenly remember Breda's muttered words of yesterday: that he wished Bradley were still alive. As do I, my friend: I too wish the Fuhrer and Miss Douglas-- no, not only them, but all their fellows as well-- I now wish vehemently that they could still be killed. I would kill them myself, slowly, painfully, make them feel some small fraction of the pain we all must endure. I know I mustn't think that way, but...
But... oh, Edward-- if only he could see. If only he were here. That poor, innocent child, who always held true to his most basic belief, Equivalent Exchange. That the world was fair. Where is the equivalency, the fairness, here?
You, you homunculi, you war-mongering, hateful creatures, are you happy now? Having sucked all the life and beauty out of this once-great country, having destroyed so many cities, towns, families-- I promised myself I would never give in to revenge, but... Edward, gone... Alphonse, alone... those poor, sweet children, both so cruelly taken away from us... and Roy, my Roy, staring unseeingly at the headstone after everyone else has left, my Roy in so much heartbreaking pain...
Forgive me if I need someone to blame. I have to say it was all their fault, or I fear I may lose my mind.
Tua nunc opera meae puellae
flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.
Yes, their fault. The fault of the homunculi. It is because of them that we now stand here, and my Roy--
Oh God, my darling Roy...
He stands stoically in front of the grave; doesn't say a word. He has stepped forward, but it seems as though he has almost forgotten why he did so. He looks down quietly, takes a breath, and reaches into his pocket as he kneels slowly, his shoulders desperately steady. And out of his pocket he pulls... a small piece of paper, which he unfolds and places lovingly over the little grave. On it is one of the most complicated alchemy circles I have ever seen.
A horrifying thought suddenly occurs to me, and I call out to him in warning. But he shakes his head just a fraction, assuring me that my thought was wrong, and he will not be trying that again. I hold back a relieved sigh.
But he is doing something-- what is he doing?
He activates the circle...
...And this time I cannot hold back a gasp, as a multitude of the most beautiful flowers I have ever laid eyes on springs forth from the harshly packed dirt. Oh, Roy...
I lay a hand on his bent back, and he sits back on his heels, but gives no other sign that he's noticed me. I glance around the graveyard, and see no one else; this should be okay, then... I couldn't have held back, anyway.
I bend over beside him, in front of the still-damp paper, before the still-fresh grave, among the still-blooming flowers. His shoulders are slumped in defeat, though still beautifully broad and powerful; his face is blank and broken, nearly half of it covered by the patch, but it remains beautiful, and just as precious to me as the rest of him. My beautiful, injured, beautiful General, so weathered and hurt by the past year alone...
He knows what I mean to do as I carefully take him into my arms; knows how badly I want to help him as he pays his last respects to the only child he may ever call his own.
And, as I kiss his flawless porcelain cheek, he knows I can still taste the salt of his tears.
Catullus 3:
Mourn, o gods and goddesses of love,
and all men of finer feeling.
My girl's sparrow is dead,
the sparrow, of my darling girl,
whom she loved more than her own eyes.
For it was honey-sweet and knew
its own mistress as a girl knew her mother;
nor did it move itself from her lap,
but it hopped about, now here, now there
it chirped continually to its lonely mistress
now it goes on the journey shrouded in shadows
that, from which they say no one returns
A curse upon you, wicked shadows,
Orcus, who devoured all beauty,
you have taken the beautiful sparrow away from me
What a wicked thing! O poor little sparrow!
Thanks to you, now my girl's eyes
are red and swollen from weeping.
Nota Scriptorae (Author's Note):
Makes you wanna take Latin now, doesn't it?
Poem credit to Gaius Valerius Catullus, one of my favorite Roman authors; translations credit to me and my Latin class.
Reviews, please? Q.Q