#fmaxtmaau

Soldiers were the reason we could live as comfortably as we did in Amestris.

I was afraid to die but I was proud to fight. I was proud to be a soldier, like my father.

War, though, is hell.

They don't mention that part. It isn't the glory the adults always made it out to be.

It's dirty. It's bloody. It smells rancid. 

It's horrifying what you're willing to do to your fellow man to survive as a hero instead of dying like a martyr. Camaraderie becomes your main source of comfort. You have to trust the man by your side because he could be the reason you live or die.

It's funny the sort of friendships you'd keep on the battlefield. Almost everyone had their small partnerships and unofficial squads outside of battle. We'd exchange gifts and stories and letters from home - in an odd sense it kept up morale. Nothing like the looming threat of your own mortality to quickly build trust.

One, though, stood out among them.

His name was Marcus. He'd never told me his last name, but it seemed as if he wasn't too attached to the thing anyhow. He was tall, and thin, with dark hair and almost piercing eyes. I always felt a chill when he'd pass me by. 

He often spent his time away from the others during our sparse downtime between raids and battles, always seeming content to keep to himself, not that the others would give him much of a chance to join in.

He was a quiet, introspective man, the type you'd expect in academia over the battlefield. There was always something on his mind, always something swirling and tumbling inside, away from the view of others. I wouldn't describe him as cold so much as reserved. He just didn't mesh well with other soldiers. From the start, he was very openly cynical of the glory and heroism promised by our peers.

I suppose that's what had initially caught my attention. I felt betrayed. I felt alone. I felt angry. I needed something - someone - to take it out on.

I hate to admit that I followed the others in ignoring and belittling him, too. When, one day, I knocked one of his books out of hands into the sand by 'accident,' he immediately apologized to me and asked if I was alright.

For some reason, that alone made me stop hating him. Maybe it was the genuine kindness and concern in his voice, or maybe it was the way his icy blue eyes studied mine, prodding deeper than just the initial question. Either way, my anger was gone. It just didn't seem to matter anymore.

Eventually, I started to consider him my best friend.

He never would speak of home or family, but he could tell you anything you'd want to know about Xingese plants and their practical applications. I would always catch him reading something new and he was always eager to share with an interested listener. I was, admittedly, jealous by how well-read and intelligent he truly was. I honestly found it amazing that no one else took notice. Made me feel rather guilty and sad for him.

His company was a welcome distraction from the hell around us. We saw many comrades die. 

He was with me the day my leg was blown off, and I experienced the crawling fear of death for the first time in my life. 

I remember distinctly thinking how cold his hands were, as he tried to stop the bleeding.

He visited me often, in the field hospital.

I remember asking Marcus what he wanted to do if he made it out alive. He, of course, insisted I rest and not worry about such things - after all my fever was rather high and I was quite obviously delirious - but I insisted. I was scared for him. I don't remember why, but I was so scared for him.

He still didn't answer. He just sighed and tried to continue our conversation from minutes before about what he'd read recently, something about ancient sea creatures.

I interrupted his lecture again to ask him if he'd become a scholar or a teacher, with how intelligent he was.

With another sigh, he gave me a curt 'no,' and tried to bring me back to the topic with an entry from his book.

I asked about his family. If he had a girlfriend or friends to return home to.

He hesitated that time. His voice became much smaller.

"No," he said softly. "And it wouldn't matter anyways."

I must've made some sort of odd face then because he laughed.

"Don't worry so much about me. I still have both my legs."

I grumbled something about him not being funny, then asked if he wanted to come with me, if I survived. That I had a sister who was still single and she was cute and my father would love the extra help around the shop.

He simply gave me a sad smile. "You will."

And that's where he left it.

Oddly enough, it was almost bittersweet when the war started to come to an end. Things were changing and shifting so quickly, I was afraid I'd be lost in the chaos. But Marcus was there. As the first rumors begun to spread, as the shots started to die down, Marcus stayed by my bedside.

He’d said himself that he had a feeling that things were almost over. The look on his face was an odd one. Almost regretful.

It couldn't have been more than a couple weeks after my incident when the news officially came down.

I think I asked him again, then, where he would go. He answered that he would simply 'be around.'

I didn't like the look in his eyes.

He looked tired. When he talked, he sounded foggy. He stopped bringing his books around.

Another week passed.

His visits became shorter. News and updates from the battlefield began superseding his usual topics. Everything he said almost sounded robotic and cold. The air around him felt cold.

The last time I ever saw him, I asked if he was feeling ill.

He just gave me a wry smile.

"It's nothing, Mattias."

The next day, the official orders came down. The war had ended. The wounded would get priority and be moved to a military hospital in Central.

I never saw Marcus again.

I asked everyone I could who would listen - nurses, superiors, fellow soldiers - where was Marcus? Was he injured or was he still alive? Could they tell him where I was?

All answered me with odd looks.

"There's no one that goes by just 'Marcus' here."

"I haven't seen anyone with that description here. Are you sure you're thinking of the right person?"

"That tent has been empty since Colin died. It's just storage, now."

"Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

It got to the point where I was stuck in prolonged observation at Central Hospital while they watched me for signs of shellshock. 

Or worse.

Even I started to think I was imagining things. 

Did you know that the human brain can create false memories? The doctors had told me it wasn't so far-fetched that with the amount of stress I'd been under, what with the war being as difficult as it was and losing my leg and all, that I would have created a comforting presence, a friend, to keep me grounded. Apparently, with severe shellshock, it's not unusual for the mind to do such strange things to keep itself safe.

Over time, I accepted that answer. I didn't have much of a choice, really.

After all, either everyone else in the world was wrong. Or, I was. I may not be well-read. But I'm not stupid enough to think it could logically be the former.

It took a while, but I managed to recover. Physical therapy and working with doctors to process my experience helped. After a few months, I was in a well-enough state that they felt comfortable sending me home.

I'd managed not to linger too much on it.

It was about three months after I'd settled back home with my younger sister and father that I finally had worked up the energy to unpack my things from the battlefield. My nerves had been pretty frayed since I returned, what with my mental state and the loss of my leg and my pending automail surgery. I didn't want to look at my things, let alone handle them. I didn't want to remember my fallen friends and the blood and the fire. I didn't want to think about Marcus.

I think it was my sister who finally convinced me to unpack my bag. The typical talk of closure and how I'd feel better having the mess cleared instead of just looking at it. 

She was right, she always likes to rub that in, but it took a while for me to work up the courage to start. I found myself stopping every few minutes. The memories made me feel ill.

At the bottom of the bag, once the clothes and letters and other personal things were cleared away, was a book.

An encyclopedia on Xingese plant life.

I nearly dropped the damn thing. I did, actually. The cover was cold as ice, biting into my fingers and burning them like fire.

The pages spilt open when it hit the floorboards, and a slip of paper slipped out. It was a photograph of a tall, thoughtful young man with dark hair and icy eyes. His aging mother and father and two younger children, a little boy and girl, stood at his side.

The back read: "Remember - Ma, Pa, Millie, and Danny 1898"

I stuffed the book and the photograph away somewhere deep in my wardrobe.

I never found out how they ended up with my things, or how to contact the family in the photograph. I think I tried once or twice to show it to a few military officials but after a few warning looks from a few higher-ups, I decided to give up.

'Marcus' didn't exist, whoever, or whatever, he was. Not anymore, at least. I'm still not sure if he ever truly did.

I wonder if his family knew. If they remembered him. If they even existed, either.

I got a cold chill when I looked at them, staring back with the same icy eyes.

All I know is, I no longer fear dying, not in the same way I did before.

Death is simply the end of life. We leave behind memories, objects, people. We existed. And we can find comfort in that fact.

But, to stop existing, to be erased from this world, to be a shadow, a drifting thought… I think there's few things I find more terrifying than that.

I can't stomach military work now. My pride as a soldier died ages ago. I run a bookstore in town now, with my wife. I've even started reading more often, too. Still not incredibly well-read but...

I find it to be a good distraction from the cold.

Confessional ends.

The mods :

Luna - Hello I'm Luna/Lunes (she/he/they depending on the day) and I am writer of many fictions. I've been a fan of FMA since I was a wee void, and TMA has basically consumed my life for the last few years. I'm here to write horrific things with a heavy douse of angst and quite a bit of silliness too. My TMA Tumblr is @thevoidcannotbefilled. Hope y'all enjoy~