I wrote a lil fic about Wrathās Early-ish days as a homunculus, and then it quickly spiraled into me thinking about Father and his whole deal. Just giving a little thought to the homunculi and their dynamic. Enjoy.
The homunculus named Wrath, the man named King, had become Fuhrer of Amestris, as was planned. While the achievement was not the end of the line, it had been everything heād worked towards since his birth. Despite now being Wrath, he felt another sin in himself, pride, for accomplishing what all the other prospective Kings had not.
He stood before his Father in the cavernous throne room, giving a report on his progress. Some of his āsiblingsā milled about, listening boredly. Though the man sitting on the throne called himself Father, and Wrath called him such in turn, he didnāt exactly think of him in that way. He had no context for what that sort of relationship was like, before, but he reminded Bradley of his teachers, the people who raised him. He had the same cold charge, so things didnāt really feel different. It was like his leash had simply traded hands.
Yet he still wanted feedback, reassurance, as he was used to. That was where the differences lied. Father did not have any response to Bradleyās success, and only mild ones to failure and inconvenience. King had no one to compare himself to any longer, no grades to defer to. He didnāt know what to improve, what to change, if anything. He wanted to make his use clear and well known. Hence, as he concluded his report, he made a suggestion.
āAnd thatās the state of Central, Father. Iād be more than happy to show you what changes Iāve made- minor things like the layout of the barracks, training grounds. I could generally show you your country, of cour-ā Heās interrupted by rather unconcealed snickering.
He turns to glance at Envy, the source of the sound. Next to them stands Lust, who looks similarly amused. Even Gluttony, sitting beside them is smiling more broadly. āFather doesnāt bother with trivial things like that anymore, Wrath.ā Thereās an air of arrogance in their tone, they, like his other siblings, have the privilege of centuries of knowing this man. It seems to be an enjoyable pastime for them, prodding at that little inadequacy.
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