Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters. I do, however, own Henry Fitzwilliam, his family, and the Unnamed Psychologist.

Notes: And this is the very last chapter, with the basic explanation of Why he did it. I can understand his reasoning, because I wrote him and I know what's going on behind it all, but if I haven't explained properly, let me know, because there is no more afterwards. If you liked it, and if you're a strange person like me maybe you should go back and re-read, and now you know what happened and why Henry did it, see if you can pick up the hints :P Otherwise, thank you very much for reading.

Chapter Thirteen:

There was a silence before I dared to speak. Henry's lip was trembling, and it looked as though he were about to burst into tears, but at that moment all I felt was revulsion. This man had just admitted outright to having killed the woman he idolised, and he had the audacity to be regretful? No – not even regretful, he just mourned her, as though he had any right to it after stealing her from her own friends and soon-to-be-family. It wasn't my job to judge him, and I reminded myself of as much over and again as a way of removing the prejudice from my mind. What he did was appalling, but I couldn't just leave it at that. I couldn't just find out what had happened. I had to know why.

"H-Henry," I said – and yes, I admit that I did stammer. I was quite unsettled at the time. "You do realise that you have just admitted to me that you killed Riza Hawkeye." I swallowed, trying to ease the dryness of my throat.

"I-I-I did;" – for he stuttered, too – "I killed her. With my own gun."

"But Henry, do you remember when I asked you if you murdered her?" He began shaking his head in such a way that denied the murder itself, not the recollection. "No, no, I know – that was a poor choice of words, but it is what I said. You told me that you couldn't do that sort of thing to her."

"That's right – I couldn't just murder her." He was becoming unsettled in his seat now, and his agitation was making me feel nervous, myself.

"If you didn't murder her, then why did you kill her-? What purpose-? Why did you do it?"

The sorrow in his eyes seemed to still his fidgeting, and although he could by no means be considered calm, he was composed enough to seek my own eyes out, as though giving me no chance of escaping his meaning. He had never spelt it out so clearly for me before, even if he did not realise for himself, either at that time or at any later point, looking back at his words.

"She was going to marry him," he said. "She had no other choice. He would have followed us if we'd run – he was even right there when I spoke with her, watching over her shoulder as though in nothing she did could she ever escape him. If he'd been close enough to hear what we'd been saying, and found his way out of the public eye, do you think he would have let her go without reminding her who was in charge? Do you think he would have ever let her forget that she considered another man? That's naivety on your part – you don't know how people like him think or act."

"Do you really believe that a man of the sort of character you have in mind could have become such an icon to the people?" I asked, trying to separate Henry's idea of Mustang from the man himself. "Even to fool just a few, he'd have to be a wonderful actor."

"Yes, an actor!" Henry cried, as though that had been precisely what he meant to convey this whole time. "A terrific actor – so good that even the people he worked with didn't realise the lengths he went to, to make sure his family was run the way it should be! Do you know how he treated us? A-And even still, no-one outside of our family knows exactly why Rechel killed herself, or why Peter can't maintain one sweetheart for more than however long it takes for his behaviour to make the woman loathe herself. Mother was always there, always being punished for our behaviour, or for her own little slip ups. He'd never let her forget it. He'd never let any little thing pass him by. Do you know how much she suffered? I'm older now – I'm not just a little child, but even now she was still just going to marry him, and put up with that for the rest of her life."

"Henry. Henry." It took almost four minutes, as he began to wail, reliving her death, for me to calm Henry enough to listen to me and to be able to answer. There wasn't much point in trying to separate his idea of the people who had played such great parts in his life, both past and present. What was done was done, and I could see no outcome other than a guilty verdict on the charts for Henry. But still, if I couldn't separate those people in his mind, I still had to know. "How could something like killing a person help?"

He looked up from where he had collapsed over the table between us, wiping tears away hurriedly. "We were going to be together. If I hadn't been stopped, I would be dead too, now. I would be there with her, in whatever afterlife there would be – or, even if there is no afterlife (how am I to know such things?) we wouldn't have to feel the pain any more. I didn't murder her. I didn't- I couldn't just do that out of such a cold-heartedness; I love her. I didn't murder her. I set her free."

I knew Henry Fitzwilliam intimately for a very short amount of time, having spent several days each week visiting with him, and hearing about his life, about the things that went on in his mind, and about his love affair with a woman who barely seemed to know he was there. My findings led me to pronounce him mentally unstable, delusional, and a danger to himself more than to anyone else at this particular time. He was still tried and found guilty of the murder of First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. I didn't manage to visit him in jail. The sentence itself, I believe, upset him so much that at the first chance he found, he killed himself. The only visitors he had were a Jake and Matty Fitzwilliam, neither of whom I was able to find when I later investigated.

I'm still not sure what to think of Henry. I grew attached to him in part, I believe, as one grows close to another person when they spend a lot of time in frequent contact, but remembering our talks reminds me time and again of just how perverted a human's behaviours can become, when all they know is pain and suffering. I have my own family now, and I find myself, when disciplining my son, remembering the feral, instinctual expressions on Henry's face as he spoke of his father's actions. I think because of the shock such a experience has given me, I may not discipline my son thoroughly enough – he has enough cheek for three boys – but even as I tell my son off for what he has done wrong, I remember to show him that no matter what, as his father, I will care for him and help him to know what is good instead of just letting him know what is bad.

Henry may be dead, but I could never forget him. He has become too much of a reminder and a conscience for me, even more so than he was in life.