Sacrifice
A Fullmetal Alchemist Fanfic
Disclaimer: Hiromu Arakawa owns Fullmetal Alchemist and the characters, of course, unless I end up coming up with any original ones. And I'm not making any money on this.
Possible scene from Fullmetal Alchemist fanfic WIP “Restoration.” Set many years after the end of the manga, Jean Havoc is now a captain in charge of a company of “blood soldiers”, soldiers who participated in the Amestrian attempted genocide of the Ishvalans, and are now volunteers aiding in the restoration of Ishvala. “Restoration” is my attempt to figure out how the survivors of genocide can work with the people who committed it. Because yes, that is exactly where Arakawa sensei went with the manga.
Jean Havoc entered the room, very agitated, and immediately started pacing, not even touching the dish of sand.
“Aster’s pregnant,” he began.
This wasn’t news. “She’s due at the turn of the year. Around January,” said the Ishvalan priest. “Your youngest is what, five now, isn’t she? You must be excited.” He motioned Jean towards the dish.
That wasn’t why he’d brought it up, but Jean smiled then and walked over to touch sand and forehead in greeting, though without sitting down. When Aster hadn’t gotten pregnant again soon after Michelle had been weaned, they’d been afraid maybe they were finished with babies.
“And you’re worried about the trials?” asked the priest, sharing the same sand as Jean as he also performed the greeting ritual. He was happy to see it had the usual effect. Jean’s instinctive stiffness with the greeting softened when people, especially those with good cause not to, like a cleric, actually shared his sand instead of using their own.
“She’ll be close to the third trimester before they’re over,” the priest continued, prompting.
“Yeah,” said Jean. “I’ve been getting the nightmares again. I’m wondering if we’re doing this right.”
The trials were only now coming up, but the basic process had been worked out during the early years, when Grumman had still been Fuhrer. The Ishvalan-Amestrian partnership in Ishval revisited it from time to time to tweak as necessary, but the basics had not changed.
“What do you think the problem is?”
Jean leaned on the back of the armchair facing the priest. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked, pausing briefly to wait for the priest’s nod before lighting up. It was just a formality. The priest always had an ashtray on the coffee table for the soldiers who smoked and usually a book of matches as well.
Jean took a drag on the cigarette. “Maybe we’re sending the wrong message by letting all of us off. Maybe there needs to be an example. Like me.”
“And what would that achieve, Jean?” asked the priest.
“There have been threats,” he answered.
“There are always threats,” said the priest. “And as long as any of you are still alive, there probably always will be. But I wasn’t aware of any increase –”
“Not here,” admitted Jean and finally sat down.
“Coffee?” asked the priest and poured a cup without waiting for Jean’s response.
Jean took a sip. “In Amestris. West Area.”
“And you think your execution will be enough to sate their bloodlust?”
“It’s not like that! Mustang and Hawkeye are in Creta. After all the deaths, someone has to pay.”
“A scapegoat, Jean?”
“A scapegoat is innocent. I’m not.”
“So a simple execution? Or would that be too easy? You took hundreds of lives, Jean.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking of that, too. Whatever it takes. My wife is one of yours, and my firstborn, but the others are all only half. And now this baby… I’ll submit to anything…” And he got up and started pacing again.
At that, the priest himself rose and went to Jean and took his arm, forcing him to stop. “Come back and sit down, Jean,” he said, and he let himself be pulled back to the chair.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he said, “and it won’t work.”
“But if there’s a chance…”
“There isn’t,” he said bluntly. “Someone could always get through and then you might have to suffer what we did. There is no absolute protection for them.”
Jean winced. “But I’m willing –”
“Of course you are,” he said. “Don’t you think we were?”
“And you did. And you did save some –”
“Look at me, Jean,” he said. “You know very well why this won’t work. You have to let go of the hope that there’s some way to keep them absolutely safe from what you did. There isn’t. And offering up a bloody sacrifice never sates the beast, it encourages it. You and I, haven’t we been working all these years to starve the beast? Now is not the time to feed it!”
Jean just sat there, stiff and still.
“And you’re wrong about something else, too,” he said, gently this time, and took Jean’s hands in both of his. “It’s not just your wife and your adopted son who are ours. They all are. We’re going to try to keep them safe. We don’t want any more sacrifices. Of any of our people.”