a little bit of headcanoning is a dangerous thing...
Just a bit of potential background...
Gracia Lawrence was not supposed to marry into the military. She’d had more than enough exposure to that idea to be comfortable with it - her widowed mother had attempted to drill it into her head since her father had died in the line of duty. But that grief hadn’t stopped her brother from signing up, and it hadn’t stopped Gracia from following him to the city to watch over him while he was in the Academy and to pursue her own training as a teacher.
They left their mother's disapproval behind in the country with their memories of childhood - after all, they were adults now. They had to make their own way. Then the Ishbalian war broke out, and suddenly cadets were very much in demand, and the city was bursting with soldiers, new and old, and soon her brother was shipped out to fight and Gracia remained behind to teach these children of war.
It was a squadron of soldiers much like any other - young, handsome, beautiful, with their shining blue coats and walking in loose formation down the street. Gracia stood at the corner with two of her friends, waiting for them to pass. But a soldier with dark hair and glasses broke off and came to stand in front of her with an exaggerated motion.
“Excuse me, miss? What is your name?’
Gracia blinked. But when one is asked their name by a solider, one provides it. “Gracia Lawrence.”
“Aah, Gracia~” and he clasped both of his hands to his chest before moving forward and taking both of her hands in his as he spoke, “A lovely name, a beautiful name, a kind name - like its owner. I must go to war, Gracia. I will leave this city and this country, and I am afraid - will you write to me, beautiful Gracia, and remind me of home?”
Her friends were laughing. But Gracia couldn’t look away from this stranger’s eyes. Despite the bombacity of his words, there was a warmth in them which was entirely sincere. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Maes.” His eyes gleamed. “Maes Hughes, 7th squadron.”
And he said no more, only squeezing her hands lightly - Please.
Somewhat helplessly, Gracia shook her head slightly, trying to figure him out - was this a show? Was it desperation? Why her? Had he asked a woman on every block?
…she didn’t think so. His squadron grew impatient behind him and she said “I will write to you.”
And he brought one of her hands up to his mouth and kissed it before releasing her with a loud whoop of jubilation and very nearly dancing back to his formation. Her friends laughed and teased her, and the spot on her hand where he’d kissed her tingled.
That night Gracia sat at her little desk in her small apartment, and stared at the blank paper for a long time before she began to write.
‘I don’t know why you want me to write to you. I don’t know what you expect me to say. My life is very ordinary…’
She filled her letter with the details of her life, of her training, told a little bit about her family, and sent it. She wasn’t sure if he’d write back. But she received a response in a week. He didn’t answer her question, instead he dove in to the details she’d shared, asked insightful questions, and told her a little bit about himself. She didn’t ask again.
But she did write him back. Soon he was sent to a further outpost, and the letters took longer to go back and forth… and Gracia began to wonder if it would be a good idea to write to her brother too, and so she did. She filled her letters with stories of every day life, descriptions of standing in line at the supermarket, insightful vinaigrettes into her friends’ lives, a new recipe she was testing. Little things, ordinary things, and Maes responded with enthusiasm and perception. Slowly, he began to open up to her more of what he saw on the battlefield, more of what he felt, and though Gracia knew he was keeping much of what he felt inside, she still treasured what he shared.
The war went on. Maes’ letters grew sporadic, often she’d not receive any for a week and then three in a day. Sometimes they would fill pages, obviously written over the course of several days, sometimes they would be no more than a few lines.
Still she wrote to him of all the things in her life, little and great. She spoke of gardens and flowers blooming and school procedure and the laughter of children.
And then her brother died in the line of duty. She would have to leave the city to go back to face her mother for the funeral. Her heart was broken, and she filled her letter to Maes with it, with her grief and rage and fear. She did not receive a response.
And she thought she’d driven him away, that all he wanted from her was descriptions of tea cake recipes and stories about the light and darkness of other people’s lives. And she told herself that she didn’t care, if that was all that she was worth to him. She told herself that she could move forward on her own, that she wasn’t sorry she’d written him and she was glad he’d stopped, because that way she wouldn’t have to deal with false comfort. She traveled home in time for the funeral.
To this day, Gracia doesn’t know how he managed it. But Maes was waiting for her in his uniform at the station. Something in her heart broke and began to rebuild at the sight, and Gracia ran to him.
He held her. And she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat as she cried silently. He whispered that he only had the day’s leave, that he’d have to return that evening, and she nodded and held him back.
Maes’ arms held her up through the funeral, his eyes dark with sorrow and secrets when they lowered her brother to the dirt and her mother broke, screaming her grief to the grave. Gracia broke away from him, moved to comfort her, and she felt his gaze follow her, but she did not look to see him.
She took him back to the train station, and they stood in silence side by side while they waited. After a time, Maes reached over and took her hand. She looked down at their joined hands and then up at his eyes, questioning.
With his free hand, he held her chin with his thumb and forefinger, gently tilted her head back, and lightly kissed her. Her heart rung like a bell. She was certain he heard it. It was eternity, it was a breath of time, and he pulled away, slowly dropped his hand. “Will you marry me, Gracia?”
She raised her hand to lay it on his cheek and didn’t look away from the darkness in his eyes. “Come back alive, and I will.”
And she slid her hand around to the back of his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him fiercely. He kissed her back, held her to himself, and the moment ingrained itself into her memory - eagerness, joy, sorrow, desperation, and more than anything else - love. She felt impossibly full-
-the train whistled its warning, and Maes broke away, hands lingering, gaze adoring, to run after the already-moving train. Gracia drew in a shaky breath and touched her lips with her hand as she watched the train pull away with him inside, and she realized she’d forgotten to say ‘I love you.’
It didn’t seem to matter.
She stayed with her mother the next few days and then she had to return to her job. There was a letter waiting for her, oddly packaged. She opened it with shaking fingers to find it contained nothing more than a note - and a cheap ring, little more than hammered metal, possibly purchased at a kiosk between stations.
The note was just two words. ‘I promise.’
Gracia Lawrence was not supposed to marry into the military. She’d had more than enough exposure to that idea to be comfortable with it - her widowed mother had attempted to drill it into her head since her father had died in the line of duty. But that grief hadn’t stopped her brother from signing up, and it hadn’t stopped Gracia from following him to the city to watch over him while he was in the Academy and to pursue her own training as a teacher.
They left their mother's disapproval behind in the country with their memories of childhood - after all, they were adults now. They had to make their own way. Then the Ishbalian war broke out, and suddenly cadets were very much in demand, and the city was bursting with soldiers, new and old, and soon her brother was shipped out to fight and Gracia remained behind to teach these children of war.
It was a squadron of soldiers much like any other - young, handsome, beautiful, with their shining blue coats and walking in loose formation down the street. Gracia stood at the corner with two of her friends, waiting for them to pass. But a soldier with dark hair and glasses broke off and came to stand in front of her with an exaggerated motion.
“Excuse me, miss? What is your name?’
Gracia blinked. But when one is asked their name by a solider, one provides it. “Gracia Lawrence.”
“Aah, Gracia~” and he clasped both of his hands to his chest before moving forward and taking both of her hands in his as he spoke, “A lovely name, a beautiful name, a kind name - like its owner. I must go to war, Gracia. I will leave this city and this country, and I am afraid - will you write to me, beautiful Gracia, and remind me of home?”
Her friends were laughing. But Gracia couldn’t look away from this stranger’s eyes. Despite the bombacity of his words, there was a warmth in them which was entirely sincere. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Maes.” His eyes gleamed. “Maes Hughes, 7th squadron.”
And he said no more, only squeezing her hands lightly - Please.
Somewhat helplessly, Gracia shook her head slightly, trying to figure him out - was this a show? Was it desperation? Why her? Had he asked a woman on every block?
…she didn’t think so. His squadron grew impatient behind him and she said “I will write to you.”
And he brought one of her hands up to his mouth and kissed it before releasing her with a loud whoop of jubilation and very nearly dancing back to his formation. Her friends laughed and teased her, and the spot on her hand where he’d kissed her tingled.
That night Gracia sat at her little desk in her small apartment, and stared at the blank paper for a long time before she began to write.
‘I don’t know why you want me to write to you. I don’t know what you expect me to say. My life is very ordinary…’
She filled her letter with the details of her life, of her training, told a little bit about her family, and sent it. She wasn’t sure if he’d write back. But she received a response in a week. He didn’t answer her question, instead he dove in to the details she’d shared, asked insightful questions, and told her a little bit about himself. She didn’t ask again.
But she did write him back. Soon he was sent to a further outpost, and the letters took longer to go back and forth… and Gracia began to wonder if it would be a good idea to write to her brother too, and so she did. She filled her letters with stories of every day life, descriptions of standing in line at the supermarket, insightful vinaigrettes into her friends’ lives, a new recipe she was testing. Little things, ordinary things, and Maes responded with enthusiasm and perception. Slowly, he began to open up to her more of what he saw on the battlefield, more of what he felt, and though Gracia knew he was keeping much of what he felt inside, she still treasured what he shared.
The war went on. Maes’ letters grew sporadic, often she’d not receive any for a week and then three in a day. Sometimes they would fill pages, obviously written over the course of several days, sometimes they would be no more than a few lines.
Still she wrote to him of all the things in her life, little and great. She spoke of gardens and flowers blooming and school procedure and the laughter of children.
And then her brother died in the line of duty. She would have to leave the city to go back to face her mother for the funeral. Her heart was broken, and she filled her letter to Maes with it, with her grief and rage and fear. She did not receive a response.
And she thought she’d driven him away, that all he wanted from her was descriptions of tea cake recipes and stories about the light and darkness of other people’s lives. And she told herself that she didn’t care, if that was all that she was worth to him. She told herself that she could move forward on her own, that she wasn’t sorry she’d written him and she was glad he’d stopped, because that way she wouldn’t have to deal with false comfort. She traveled home in time for the funeral.
To this day, Gracia doesn’t know how he managed it. But Maes was waiting for her in his uniform at the station. Something in her heart broke and began to rebuild at the sight, and Gracia ran to him.
He held her. And she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat as she cried silently. He whispered that he only had the day’s leave, that he’d have to return that evening, and she nodded and held him back.
Maes’ arms held her up through the funeral, his eyes dark with sorrow and secrets when they lowered her brother to the dirt and her mother broke, screaming her grief to the grave. Gracia broke away from him, moved to comfort her, and she felt his gaze follow her, but she did not look to see him.
She took him back to the train station, and they stood in silence side by side while they waited. After a time, Maes reached over and took her hand. She looked down at their joined hands and then up at his eyes, questioning.
With his free hand, he held her chin with his thumb and forefinger, gently tilted her head back, and lightly kissed her. Her heart rung like a bell. She was certain he heard it. It was eternity, it was a breath of time, and he pulled away, slowly dropped his hand. “Will you marry me, Gracia?”
She raised her hand to lay it on his cheek and didn’t look away from the darkness in his eyes. “Come back alive, and I will.”
And she slid her hand around to the back of his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him fiercely. He kissed her back, held her to himself, and the moment ingrained itself into her memory - eagerness, joy, sorrow, desperation, and more than anything else - love. She felt impossibly full-
-the train whistled its warning, and Maes broke away, hands lingering, gaze adoring, to run after the already-moving train. Gracia drew in a shaky breath and touched her lips with her hand as she watched the train pull away with him inside, and she realized she’d forgotten to say ‘I love you.’
It didn’t seem to matter.
She stayed with her mother the next few days and then she had to return to her job. There was a letter waiting for her, oddly packaged. She opened it with shaking fingers to find it contained nothing more than a note - and a cheap ring, little more than hammered metal, possibly purchased at a kiosk between stations.
The note was just two words. ‘I promise.’