Title: Destiny Is A Many Splintered Thing

Pairing: Eventually HughesxRoy, mentions of previous Hughes+Gracia

Summary: Quiet country life suddenly takes a radical turn for Mäes Hughes when he takes an interest in Roy Mustang, a man who came seemingly out of no where and who knows a lot more than he’s saying.

Disclaimer: Characters have been pilfered from FMA, which is certainly not mine. Hiromu Arakawa owns it. Don’t sue me.

Rating: Pg-13 for the most part, may creep into R later in the story.

Author's Notes: I’ll say right now that it’s an AU.

This is really my first FMA fic and my first real fic in about two years so I’m really unsure about it. As such, comments and criticisms are both loved. If something seems terribly off, please tell me. As for the world that I’ve set the story in I’d say it’s an interesting amalgamation of modern day and the turn of the last century.

I

The young man’s body was thrown down to the ground none too gently, colliding with the large slab of slate with a dull thud. Yet, it had no sooner impacted the cold surface that it was hoisted up by some of the stronger men in the crowd that had all congregated to watch the spectacle. On all sides they surrounded the slab up to ten deep, craning necks out to get a better look, the entire time remaining barely silent out of reverence for the officials present. But in that silence the seething, venomous silence could not only be felt, it overwhelmed pulling out a fire that would’ve lain dormant in normally mild citizens. It was a miracle for decorum that the object of such hatred remained relatively unscathed to this point in time, sporting only a few assorted cuts and bruises, which had mostly resulted from the trip to this spot. It had to be made through thick groves of trees and bushes notorious for their thorns and needles.

Here, around the slab of slate that jutted out of the ground like some ancient monument, the bush had receded considerably to the wiles of the thick grass, making it very much a natural stage. Or in this case, a place of judgement.

Held up by the arms, the man’s back curved, his head downcast and feet limply brushing the ground, belying his fatigue. He made no protests, even as his arms wrenched painfully to raise him higher above the stone, so that no relief could be had. The crowd seemed to glow with anticipation at this, growing proportionally more anxious.

The silence now seemed to buzz with a tension looking for release, the crowd a few steps away from becoming a mob.

Then, abruptly, the silence was broken.

“Those who have considerable power must also be wary of its use. In this fundamental rule you have failed utterly. The damage done by your actions is irreconcilable and will continue to tarnish the face of this nation for generations to come. The suffering you have caused can not be forgiven, nor can the luxury of death be so easily extended to someone so disregarding of basic responsibility,” The voice was dark, its venom carefully concealed and modulated under a dignified manner. It’s owner stood on the edge of the slate panel, looking directly at the bowed head of the young man being addressed. His stature was apparent in the way the people gave ear to his words, wholly agreeing.

“It has been decided that for this crime your punishment shall be a world without the comforts you have abused, without the fundamentals you have denied to so many who did nothing to offend,” he paused, the air heavy with a sense of destiny, of retribution. “You shall live on with only your deeds, the weight of this suffering as your companion.” The crowd would have cheered in agreement with this, if not for the aura the speaker exuded, one of strict authority, one that called for reverence.

“Have you anything to say to this?”

The young man moved for the first time with purpose, and despite the odd angles to which his arms were wrenched above him, lifted his head so that his face was no longer obscured by ebony bangs. Jet black eyes stared at the man in front of him, never wavering to the crowd. They were sharp, accusing, retaliating, burning, holding a severity none in the crowd perceived.

“Nothing,” the man replied evenly, even respectfully, but the accusation was in his eyes.

“Very well,” the one who could safely be regarded as master of this ceremony acknowledged, bowing down to the stone, running it under his hands as he talked under his breath words that formed a language very different from the one the crowd understood.

Slowly though, the sound of cracking slate was heard, minute striations widening and splitting under a seemingly unseen force until the small woody stalk of a sapling crawled through the cracks in the centre of the stone, directly underneath the young man’s dangling feet. Still, the stone continued to crack, the sapling reaching up at an amazing speed, it’s bark trunk wrapping first around foot and then the other. Gradually it swallowed the young man in it’s barky depths, the gnarled trunk embracing even the white fingertips, bending up in opposite directions to the heavens as the main branches followed the length of each outstretched arm, the men holding him in place having dutifully left their work to the ever growing bark and foliage. His face was the last to be engulfed within the trunk, retaining the same defiant dignity, his eyes burning until there was nothing left to indicate there had ever been a human being on that spot.

The slate was now taken over by the distorted roots of the tree, holding the gigantic rock together and yet separating it at the same time, giving just as it took. The trunk was twisted and ugly as it rose towards the sun, but the gentle emerald leaves that sprouted from it’s branches whistled gently in the wind and cast a mosaic of sunlight and shadow over the crowd.

Finally the man rose, facing the tree once more.

“May this prison hold you to the consequences of your deeds for all time,” he finished, stepping solemnly and silently from the stone, the crowd parting as he walked back the way the procession had come. When his silhouette was no longer visible against the dense bush beyond the crowd finally broke into shouts, cheers, insults at the one who was imprisoned. The burst of energy released wafted through the air like smoke and then disappeared in much the same way.

Not long after that, the contented slowly began to file back to their houses, reassured once again of their security. In time people talked less of the man imprisoned in the clearing and began to rebuild the damage. The tree remained steadfastly planted through every storm and threat, a testament to justice.

“And then everyone lived happily ever after right Uncle Mäes?” A young girl sat on the edge of a slate slab, kicking her feet lazily in the afternoon sun, errant rays breaking through the large canopy of leaves above her and bouncing off her golden hair.

“You could say that, Maria,” Mäes Hughes laughed, rubbing his niece’s hair playfully staring up at the tree they sat underneath, to which she protested mildly as she tried to keep the blue ribbon tying it back in place. It matched her dress of light cotton that blew slightly in the breeze.

“That’s no fair! There weren’t any knights at all, and not even one dragon! I want a story now Uncle Mäes,” a second child whined, maybe a year younger the girl at all of five years. Jumping up and down on the stone, kicking some of the chips over the edge onto the grass his face was an amusing scrunch of young flesh, all dimples and lips and eyes, it was really more cute than convincing.

“But the story was true!” Maria protested, “Everyone knows there were no knights or dragons back then, silly.”

“I am not silly,” the boy sulked.

At that moment, the one where a sibling disagreement teetered on the verge of an all out fight, Mäes Hughes was left with only one course of action. He reached out to either side and began tickling his niece and nephew, turning their stubborn frowns into squirming and giggles soon enough. It was a talented man that managed to tickle two young children at the same time.

Just as soon as the two children had broken free of their uncle and had begun to playfully chase him all around the clearing all waving chubby limbs and soft cotton clothes sewn for the hot summers, a woman emerged from the ring of trees, not too unwieldy because of the path that had been cut into them long ago. She smiled warmly at the sight of the two children weaving running and stumbling around the large tree, as they remained only a few steps short of catching their tickling tormentor. She smoothed a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of her long braid back into place and patted her pale pink apron down one more time to get most of the flour off of it, watching as it rose in little clouds into the air like errant wisps of smoke.

“Maria, Jeremy, don’t you think you’ve bothered your uncle for long enough today?” she called out over the clearing, receiving an answer in the form of two little bodies leaving their quarry to attach themselves to her skirts at the same level as her knees.

“Mommy, mommy, Uncle Mäes told us the story of the big tree!” Maria exclaimed excitedly.

“It was kinda cool too, even though it didn’t have any knights or dragons,” Jeremy reluctantly admitted as she bent down and hugged both of them, Their uncle standing nonchalantly a few feet from the embrace, smiling amusedly.

“Isn’t that nice of him,” she laughed. “But if you don’t run back to the house and wash up your uncle and I might just eat all the cookies I just took out of the oven.” Two pairs of eyes lit up at the thought of sweet goodness and a resounding cry of ‘cookies!’ sounded throughout the clearing. As the two children tore down the path towards the small large house on the other side of the dense forest, Sybil Martin, formerly Sybil Hughes fell into pace with her younger brother, hooking her fingers in the small pockets at the front of the apron. Underneath the sleeves of her white blouse were rolled to the elbows contrasted against the small gold locket that hung around her neck and looked to the entire world as if it had just been taken out of its box. Her skirt too was the kind of unnatural clean that only women who knew a kitchen like the back of their hands were able to achieve when backing. In this case it was a dark emerald green, a straight cut that pleated at the back with a generous satin bow.

“That little fairy tale again, hmm?” she asked playfully as the two sauntered lazily down the path. Dried needles and twigs snapped underfoot, remnants from last fall and those before it. There were traces of a dried leaf here and there, but the majority of the path was soft brown dirt and the rusty-coloured pine needles that didn’t decompose as easily. It sounded a bit like walking on top of crackers actually and was more of a subtle contented crackling than an all out snap.

“Why not, it was your favourite when we were young,” he replied with a devious little smile, taking off the square-framed glasses he wore and wiping them with the tail of the purple button down shirt he wore.

“You mean the one that made me scared to death of that clearing you mean?” She replied amusedly. “I don’t want you frightening Maria, it’s the last thing I need.” Sybil was a plain girl, with nothing either extraordinary beautiful or ugly about her. But she was a quick-witted and soft-tempered woman whose kindness tended to rub off on everyone around her. Though when she became set in her ways she refused to budge, much to the surprise of many of her former suitors.

“Maria wasn’t frightened at all,” he laughed, slinging an arm over his sister’s shoulders as they walked. “She was the one who asked me to tell it, just like every time you come to visit me.” With this oft-repeated reassurance against having to deal with nightmares, Sybil relaxed against her brother finally, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“It’s so nice to be back out here,” she sighed fondly. Sybil had married early and moved into one of the big cities, or as big as cities got in this little country anyway, away from the house she’d grown up in, which was surrounded by forest with the path cut to the little clearing. The two of them had inherited it after the death of their parents a few years ago. They’d known full well the house couldn’t be split, so Sybil had taken some much-needed furniture and most of her mother’s things, leaving the rest to her bachelor of a brother whom she called Mäes, but whom everyone else had always called Hughes.

“You can come anytime, you know. It’s as much my home as yours, no matter where you’re officially living.” There was no artifice in the offer.

“I hope its not too much trouble to have us here though, I know Maria and Jeremy can be a real handful. It seems they’re always running somewhere. Sometimes I just don’t know how to keep them occupied.”

“It’s no trouble, and besides, you know I love kids,” he rebuffed good-naturedly as they ended the trail and came out of the dense forest in front of the house/cabin amalgamation that had once been home to a swarm of their relatives, once home to as many as 30 members of the immediate family. But generations had grown progressively smaller in number over the years, and more tended to move into the cities and villages below.

It was a hulking beast of a structure, all exposed beams and raw wood, though the tiles on the roof were a red ceramic that was fired down in the nearby town. Somehow though, it managed to look completely at home with the part of the hillside it had been built into. A large patio descended gracefully down into the grass after a series of shallow steps, the columns that attached it to the overhang of the roof weathered by time to be smooth to the touch, their square edges slightly rounded now. Aligned with the cardinal directions the house caught the best sun during the day and one could watch it rise over the horizon of mountains and forest from one room and watch it set again in another. The outside walls were lined with rows of large windows that were indeed beautiful in their size and simplicity, but cost the house a great deal of heat in the wintertime. The giant logs of which the houses’ frame had been fashioned were also worn, having never been painted were now a kind of earthen woody tone that paint simply couldn’t capture. It stood a respectable two stories off the ground, though a third room with a quaint round window peaked out of the height of the steep pitched roof that kept the snow from piling up in winter, and was sort of a third floor. What it didn’t have in height it made up for in girth, spreading itself across the ground with the look of a fattened bear going into hibernation.

“I pity the girl you finally marry,” Sybil laughed as they walked through the large wooden door, “You two will have so many children underfoot you won’t know what to do,” As an afterthought she added, “Just one big, happy family.”

“Yeah,” he replied in a similar reflective tone, the two silently talking about things that hadn’t been thought about in a long time.

But that moment was as fleeting as the summer breeze and the sombre note was quickly replaced with one of Hughes’ teasing smiles.

“Now how many of those cookies do you think will be left by the time we get there?”

The two sibling’s laughter filled the air in that peaceful corner of the country.