Don't move; don't do anything. . .
Edward opened his eyes. All around him was the pungent, labyrinthine garden of his family home as he had not seen it for a great many long years; the rows of tomato-stained zinnias and clawed roses, the thick, ever-stretching vines of bulbous tomatos climbing the fence, the unbreachable hedges that encompassed his childhood world. It used to be his sanctuary, a place of happiness and family, where he spent many a long day playing hide-and-seek with his brother Alphonse or picking cucumbers with his beautiful mother Trisha.
What we captured got away,
slipped from us; don't speak.
Don't, don't say anything.
They've been recording all we say
for years now. . .
It broke Edward's heart to see it, it truly did. He wanted so badly for it to be real, for all his years of searching and hardship to be simply wiped away like fog on a windowpane, but some part of him always knew this was a dream. Every time it came, there was that small, tearful voice that kept repeating, 'It's a dream, Ed. Only a dream.'
Only a dream.
You won't see them right away,
but you'll hear them singing.
Hold me closely, now,
but don't, don't say anything.
They've come to take me away,
and won't leave until I'm gone; I'm gone. . .
He saw something that made him catch his breath: His younger self, running down the worn path that was really only a gap in the foliage, cradling something in his pudgy, dirt-stained little hands. Then, there was Alphonse; God, Al, in his real body. Just a little younger, a little smaller, than Edward at the time, with darker hair and more serious eyes. He looked upset, and after a moment of fighting to catch up with Ed he stopped and sat down where he was, chapped bottom lip quivering. He always had been the more senstive one, and more often than not Ed would upset him enough to make him run from the house, down to the river that ran nearby, cool and clear, its banks littered with enough stones for Al to skip for all eternity. And, though it used to be a source of discomfort, sending his brother there, Ed wished nothing more than to be able to give that back to Al; let him come back there as a sad little boy to skip rocks until the sun went down and Ed came to reconcile with him and tell him that dinner was ready. No, not even that, really. He didn't even want to ask for that much, it was too much; all he wanted was that time for Al to be a boy and think about something other than the suit of armor which he now called his body.
If Ed had been awake then he might have wept, but in his dream he was pulled along the path behind his younger self, away from his now-crying brother, just following that little blond boy in the white shirt up the slope to. . . no. That couldn't be his mother, could it? But who else did he know with that long, brown hair, forever coming loose of its ribbon and smelling of lilacs and soap; who else did he know that cared for those horrid peas with such tenderness and care? Her pristine white apron was filled with pea pods, a wicker basket of discarded hulls and a cooking pot of water on either side of her slim, pale body. Her fingers-which were long and always softer than anything Ed had ever thought to imagine-were gently pushing a pea from its sanctuary, like she was coaxing Ed to come out of his bedroom when he was feeling upset, or leading Al down the road to town for his first day of school. What did she see in those peas? Ed had always wondered. They were disgusting little vegetables that grew in deformed little pods, and no one else he had ever met took a liking to them; every kid in school hated them with a passion and would stash them in napkins at dinner so they could throw them away later. Yet his mother had treated those sweet pea plants like she treated Ed and Al; like her children.
Don't feel; don't love anything.
Love attracts all those
who taint the cherished. . .
He watched himself run up the creaking porch steps of the old white house and stop on the step just below his mother, crying, "Mom, Mom, look!"
She slowly lowered her hands and stopped shelling peas to smile expectantly at her son, eyes soft. "What is it, Edward? Did you find something?"
Ed shook his tousled blond hair vigorously in denial, then giggled devilishly, "Nope! I made you a present! I put it together with alchemy!"
His mother froze for a moment, stunned, and she looked at Ed with wide, brown eyes, reflecting the tiny toy horse he had made for her now resting in her hands. She smiled, ruffling her son's hair as she had often been in the habit of doing, and praised him. "That's wonderful, Edward. You really are so much like your father sometimes. Thank you. It's very special, being able to make something like this."
Little Ed beamed, flushing a faint pink at her kind words, and ducked his head, knowing that she would go on for a while yet, maybe even give him something delicious to munch later on. She often did, when he showed her his alchemy. It was his greatest talent, and he flaunted it like a woman in the city flaunts her new red dress. Since Al was the youngest, he often got all the pity, so Ed had to get his mother's attention back with a valuable skill, and alchemy was his ticket to endless love.
Don't try to, to change anything.
Nothing pure can ever stay. . .
"But it's too bad. . ."
Everything stopped for a moment as Ed's younger self opened his eyes, uneasy and wary of what was happening; this wasn't what Mom usually did. What was too bad? His child's brain couldn't wrap around it, but his adult brain could; an older Ed knew what was about to happen. He knew it, felt it, saw it, hated it, but couldn't stop it, no matter how much he wanted to.
You won't see them right away,
but you'll hear them singing.
Hold me closely, now,
but don't, don't change anything.
They've come to take me away,
and won't leave until I'm gone. . .
The first trickle of sticky red blood came from the corner of his mother's smiling mouth, tinting her already-red lips an even darker shade. Then, gushing from her eyes, like crimson tears, dripping onto her dress and her apron, no longer pristine. Plasma plopped in fat red gushes onto the helpless, so tenderly cared-for peas in her lap, their innocence violently ripped to shreds with the first droplet of red. God, he would never look at peas the same way again. He felt a glob of horror lodge itself in his throat, far away from the dream world, and for the first time he gained control over his dream body; Ed ran. He ran as fast as he could go down the dusty pathway, past his brother, through the hedges, over the fence, out into the open field near the river, but it just wasn't enough distance to quiet those words his mother said through a throat that, he knew, bubbled thick with blood:
"It's too bad you couldn't put me back together, too."
Ed saw, heard, FELT, the red-and-green peas rain to the earth, and his beloved gift he had worked so very hard to make for his mother followed soon after and fell to pieces. He screamed.
They'll say, "Relax, you'll be fine,"
all we love goes away.
They'll take all you let them find;
all we love goes away.
I'm gone, I'm gone. . .
Gasping for oxygen and drenched in salty sweat-or was it tears?-Ed awoke, golden eyes wide and staring, praying to God. . . yes, God, that he was not still in that garden, near that house, seeing that earth. And he wasn't, thank God. Maybe God did exist, if only to pull Ed out of that dream. But if there was a God, there probably wouldn't be a dream for God to pull Ed out of.
You won't see them right away,
but you'll hear them singing.
Hold me closely, but don't say anything.
They've come to take me away,
and won't leave until I'm gone. . .
Ed did not see earth. He saw nondescript wood ceiling, plank-wood walls, polished oak floor, and a window into a late-night thunderstorm. Ed shivered, despite his heat and sweat; he hated thunderstorms. He always had, and he believed he always would. He fought for air, but it was hard, with his hair tangled around his neck like a hangman's noose, and the sheets wrapped about his legs like fabric chains. He could not breathe. He flung the sheets away from him, suddenly furious with them, and wrestled his hair away from his throat. His auto-mail leg creaked painfully, making Ed wince; he hated this life, if it could be called a life. He HATED it. There was so much he wanted, but was unable to do; like getting the Philosopher's Stone, like keeping his brother safe, hell, like bringing his mother back to life! He couldn't do a damn thing right, could he?
Don't say anything, don't say anything. . .
Feeling hopeless tears break in a tidal wave behind his eyes, he pulled his left leg to his chest and held on as he cried, like it was all that could keep him from falling apart.
"It hurts."
They won't leave until I'm gone; I'm gone.
Author's Note: This is my version of Ed's nightmare in volume 2 of the manga, so just go with it. I may write something else like this with the anime D. Gray-Man, but I'm not sure yet.
Song: It Was Mine
Artist: AFI
Lyrics were found on Metro Lyrics, idea came from Fullmetal Alchemist manga volume 2.
3 Catlethea