Title- Rebirth

Disclaimer - Arakawa owns them, I just play with them.

Timeline/Spoilers - post 108, so spoilers for the end

Warning - none

Summary/b - Scar has come home.

Author's Note- Scar, being a priest, seemed like a natural for a prompt dealing with divine messengers. I sort of played with the word, 'Malach' Hebrew for 'messenger' to come up with Malak (and it turned out that was an Arabic word for the same thing, neat and thanks to those who pointed it out). This was written for fma_fic_contest's 'angel' prompt on livejournal

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Scar took in a deep breath, the dryness of the air almost painful. The cool breezes of the night caressed him as he lay out under the stars. Not too far away, Marcoh snored, or maybe it was one of the other Ishvalans who helped overthrow a monster and change a country. Extending his marked arms, Scar knew it wasn't just the country that had changed.

He was profoundly changed for a second time. His life would be measured in distinct phases: young priest, revenge killer, and whatever it was he was becoming. He was now a man who had fought along with an alchemist who'd put whole towns to the torch and came away with an unexpected respect for him. Sleeping in the desert with him was an alchemist who had done even worse, stealing his victims' very souls and yet now wanted to dedicate himself to helping the Ishvalan people he had harmed so badly.

In the end, he would tell the elders it was worth keeping both Mustang and Marcoh alive, making them work hard for the Ishvalans, using them to rebuild what they had destroyed. What would a few state executions gain them anyhow? Tools were of no use broken, his father had taught him that.

A silvery gibbous moon hung over him, watching him come to decisions that would have been unconscionable not so long ago. He was back in the desert he grew up in, alive, more alive than he had been in years and almost whole. The part of him that was once a priest could almost imagine he heard the susurrus of wings among the whispers of the wind. He was supposed to believe in the Malak, the intercessors of Ishvala.

For so many years, his prayers had fallen on parched, unyielding ground. He had to fight to keep his belief in God alive. Scar had forgotten he once believed in the Malak. There were no winged messengers carrying his words to God's ear. His arms still reaching heavenwards, he sang almost inaudibly, an ancient prayer, the first he had ever learned. Now was the time of rebirth. He no longer had a name to give to God but he knew his words would be heard any how. The next time he prayed, he would have a name again. He would finally be whole.