En Route
An FMA oneshot.
Summary: Father is destroyed, Alphonse is back, and the world is right again. Now it's time for Hohenheim to disembark from this life and journey onto the next. He just needs to prepare his lines first.
Warning: I guess spoilers is the only thing I can give here. But lets be real. If you haven't finished the series, what are you doing on fanfiction anyway.
He tried to cherry pick his memories, delicately searching the bushel for the shiny surface of a ripe memory, at the perfect time to harvest and reap the rewards. But most of the basket was rotten, and Hohenheim felt guilty, or at least, partially responsible, for not being there to pick a better crop.
There was nothing he could do about it now, though; and even if he had the time, he wasn't sure he would try to correct his wrongs.
No, he thought as he stepped onto the train, this is enough.
People scurried to their seats, children bobbling on the cushions as he walked by. Mothers lounged and read their hard-covered books, men scoffed and chatted about the news, the radio broadcast. He limbered past them and found a seat in the back where he would be happy to be ignored.
The Dwarf in the Flask was dead. But if he leaned back and closed his eyes, he was there, puttering around the flask with a spiteful frown, talking about freedom.
What necessarily is freedom?
The train lurched forward, and he folded his suitcase on his lap. One memory came, a small one, barely suitable for a mouthful, but he welcomed it all the same.
"Dear," Trisha spoke softly, her arms full with their two children, two and one respectively. "They share your eyes, don't they? And Ed… I bet if there were pictures of you as a baby, you would look exactly like him."
He shook his head. "Not really… they have your eyes, Trisha. They have the kindness and the warmth mine never had."
And she smiled, though she rebuked him. But he loved that smile. He loved those kids.
He listened to the children as they prattled on the train, pretending to be alchemists as they slapped their hands together and shouted nonsense. One little boy even braided his hair—and Hohenheim couldn't help but release a small chuckle, but he swallowed it.
He had missed it—most of it at least. He had lost it far before they were conceived, on that day in Xerxes when the world turned black and all he heard was screams. Trisha knew, that someday it would come to it, that some time he would have to leave behind his future to chase away the past. Yet, she stayed.
Yet, she smiled.
He slipped a notebook and a pencil from his suitcase, using the surface as a desk. He thought for a while, pressed the lead on the paper, but simply tapped as he formulated his words.
Would he say anything to Edward and Alphonse?
No, he finalized. They are happy enough without me interfering.
He tapped a few more time, scratching at his temple. The city bled into pastures, and the world seemed to expand in all directions. To think, he had seen grass a thousand times since he left Xerxes, but never has it been more beautiful.
He wrote on the first line. Trisha.
Alchemy never provided him all the answers. He never knew if there truly was a heaven or a hell, or a god the dwarf desperately sought after. As a slave, all he imagined was a cycle, a cycle of life and death and life again that was never interrupted by a divine being or a divine plane. It was a simple thought, but he would like to think someone like Trisha went somewhere, even if it was against what he previously thought.
There's so much I want to tell you, that it's hard for me to decide first.
He wrote slowly, hoping more words would follow. But nothing came after he dotted a period on the slip of paper. If he was already at a loss for words, how would he possibly know what to say if—or when—he saw Trisha face to face again?
He sighed softly and stared out the window.
There was a lot to say, but there was so little too. She probably knew, everything—had kept an eye out all this time on their children like any mother would do. He was proud of her. She raised to fine boys.
He found another memory, towards the bottom of the basket. Its surface was a little bruised, but it was perfect in his eyes.
"Use my body to bring Alphonse back. I've lived long enough." He was tired of losing everyone, of standing behind a curtain, unable to move until the puppeteer called. He just wanted to go quietly, and quickly, and help his son in the process.
But Edward screamed, tears running down his face, and all he could process was, "You rotten father!"
He smiled a little, the lead tracing the words of his heart onto the paper.
Edward called me father. Although, he did add rotten before it.
He imagined many things when he looked out the window, rocking with the train. He imagined Trisha's smiling face. He imagined their house. He imagined their two boys, two young to know as he walked out the door.
No, he didn't understand the Dwarf in the Flask's version of freedom. All he wanted to do was escape the cages he kept putting himself in—and that was far from what Hohenheim wanted.
He picked another memory from the pile. It was beginning the fester and left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he consumed it anyway.
Everyone was dead, his entire people, wiped away. And he lived on, days and weeks and months and years, old friends aging before his eyes. The same would happen to Trisha, to Edward, and to Alphonse.
"It's okay dear…" Trisha whispered softly as she hugged him, and he couldn't stop the tears. "Some good will come from this… you can't be impatient waiting for it."
Yes, he was impatient—or rather, he was scared—of his immortality. And the freedom he sought, the freedom that was different from the Dwarf in the Flask's, was to cast off that immortality.
I thought it would be too much, to watch everyone else die before me. He wrote. But by meeting you and our sons, I was able to appreciate the fact that I was alive.
No… The true freedom he wanted was to live with his family, freely. He would be content if nothing eventful happened for the remainder of his life, if he could just be forever at their side, until the very end.
And yet somehow… His fingers trembled a little. I still want to live…
To not miss any more moments. To be a part of his sons' lives—but he would take up too much space. He didn't belong there, to spoil their bushel of happy memories. They would make plenty of them, on their own. They didn't need an old man invading in that happiness.
This is more than enough, Trisha…
He felt a burn behind his eyes, but he fought against it. There was no use crying on the train, crying for the inevitable.
Although I really am a good-for-nothing…
He blinked when he felt the carriage rolled to the stop, the station sprouting outside the window. He struck out the first line, writing the first words that came to his mind at the sight of the cement—I'm home. He hastily tore off the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, throwing the notebook and pencil back in his suitcase. He stood and waited for the other passengers to disembark, watching the children still playing.
He thought about Trisha, and Alphonse, and Edward.
And he smiled.
Yes, he thought, even without the freedom I desired… this life was more than enough.
The train conductor hopped back on the train. The car had already been cleared.
"Sir?" The conductor asked.
Hohenheim straightened his posture. He didn't need a script to talk to Trisha. She already knew what was written on his heart.
"Sorry," he said. "This is my stop."
I was supposed to be writing my long list of My Hero Academia stories. Instead, I binge-watched the last ten episodes of FMA. I always loved Hohenheim, so I did this little warmup dedicated to him.
I hope you enjoyed.
Soul Spirit