On a cool breezy Friday in June, Edward Elric died.
He'd always thought that when he died, it was going to be dramatic. There'd be a torrential downpour, a thousand peals of thunder, a thousand lightning bolts, the reek of ozone, the sorts of winds that could shake a house to pieces. Failing that, there would of course be a thick and mournful curtain of rain. At least a bit of humidity.
That day, however, had dawned clear and stayed clear. It had been a day of few clouds and no rain, sunshine and blue skies, fresh clean air. It was supposed to be a day of mourning, a day of rage, a day just this side of the apocalypse. Instead, he died in the midst of the best picnicking weather so far that year.
He took the luxury of regretting that, and he took the luxury of regretting all his mistakes. He was supposed to have gone out in a grand victory. He was supposed to have gone out nobly. He was supposed to have gone out fighting to the last for the right cause, and he honestly didn't know if he was.
And he hoped with his last thoughts that there was no god, no divine presence – not because he was afraid of the torment of his atheist's soul, not because he was afraid of being wrong, but because if God did exist, then He was a real shithead, not even giving a guy proper weather on the day he died.