(A/N: Hi, this is my first fanfiction ever! Well there's not much to say about me except that my name is Sam, I love reading, writing, anime, and nature, which is probably why I watch this show…I promise I'm not a freak, don't worry. And I'd like to apologize that there's no Ed or anybody in this chapter. Sorry! He'll be there in the next one! But read this one anyway, because it's very important. Hopefully you'll read the rest of my story if you get through my blabbering about confessionals and snowflakes and all that junk…lol.)

Chapter One: The Confession

Chisholm, Amestris-1903

In every church there is a booth that invites the curiosity of outsiders and the fear of the sinners. It is customary when passing by it, as a sign of respect, to cover one's ear. It's not unusual during service for a man to keep his back to it, for its presence mocks him. It is the soul's painful reminder that humankind is imperfect.

There are two compartments: the right one, the most furnished with polished oak doors and a cushioned bench embroidered with velvet. The penitent's stall contains only a wooden chair with a kneeler, and a crucifix hangs over the thin screen that separates the compartment from the priest's, for the unworthy should not adorn themselves with comforts they do not deserve. There isn't even a light. The only flickering lightbulb in the priest's chamber ignites the outlines of the crucifix on the opposite side of the screen, and the guiltiness in your heart and fear in your soul is multiplied tenfold as its ominous image burns like fire. A child's nightmares of tales of ghosts and wails of monsters diminish as he grows into an adult and instead begins to fear that box and everything about it: the light, the darkness, the crucifix; for it demonstrates that mankind's most purest evil comes from within himself.

But if all sin is selfish…then what of sin that is selfless? Is there an altruistic reason that a soul would be staint?

Then which side would contain the sinner and which would have the saint?

In a tiny, microscopic space somewhere in the volume of a cloud, miles above the earth, the water droplets were freezing as the temperature fell, sucking away the heat and kinetic energy that enabled the molecules of water to wander freely. They cooled, releasing the heat that separated them, the atoms of hydrogen forming strong bonds with the oxygen atom of another molecule. The molecules deposited themselves by nature's brilliant design, arranging themselves by their angular nature and the charges of the atoms, positive with negative, pair by pair, solidifying into building blocks of crystals. The snowflake wafted in the air, intricately carved in perfect form. The geometric planes on the branches of the crystal gleamed and flashed the reverse reflections of its companion ice crystals.

The solidified water droplet suddenly became too heavy for the air, and fell. It swirled and spun, tumbling hundreds of feet through billions of molecules of water vapor and other forming ice crystals, through layers and layers of clouds, far from its birthplace in the cold, icy air, dancing around its fellow snowflakes, floating on the gentle winds that carried it.

The snowflake fell through a curtain of clouds, opening to reveal a view of what seemed like a painting of winter's wonders, as if the artist were sweltering in one-hundred degree heat and very much desired the coldness of twenty degrees below zero. Wind laced with chill caressed over the wooden houses below it, frosting windowpanes and rooftops, hanging icicles from trees, and carrying the snowflake to circle over a towering structure that rose through the center of the picture like its grand masterpiece: a giant cathedral, built of stone, presided over the small town, piercing the sky. The snowflakes fluttered around it, their view of the dizzying heights of its towers, the mysteries and stories of the images on its windows, the sinister gaze of the eyes of its statues, added to its image of majesty, regality, and power.

The snowflake drifted towards the belltower, blithely hovering around it, when its path was blocked by a sudden force. A deep, vibrating pulse shook the ice crystal to the cores of its hydrogen bonds, shaking them like beams of steel.

There was something…different…about this belltower. An eerie calmness surrounded it, enclosing it in its own sphere, cut off from others by something beyond the perception of the human eye.

There were stories told about it, how a person could pass by on the street and see a cloud about to pass directly above the belltower. On a particularly partly cloudy and windy day, a low cloud would be speeding toward the hill, going on its merry way, undisturbed. But as it got closer to the tower, the cloud would start to break apart, sliding around the tower's view of the heavens like caressing around a glass cylinder. On a slow wind day, a person would see the cloud approaching the tower, revisit it ten minutes later, and see the remnants of the cloud dispersed around the edges, forming a soft and fluffy halo around this architectural wonder, with the tower itself looking innocent and cherubic, like a small child caught standing in the middle of a floor powdered with spilled flour.

The person would have sworn that there was only one cloud one minute ago, but they'd shrug it off in the light of the laws of physics; clouds did not make way for open space like that.

And neither did snowflakes.

The ice crystal shuddered, broke in two, and changed direction.

The wind carried the broken pieces over plated roofs coated with snow, every window darkened, every snowy street deserted, as if the artist of this painting was indeed the only one who could tolerate such temperatures anymore.

The wind decelerated and died, distributing the broken snowflake shards into a cloister of the church, which, like the snowflake, was beautifully crafted with designs of vines with roses growing around its pillars, leading up to doors marked by a massive cross that too, would be broken in half as the doors were opened.

Delivered by the wind to its ultimate destiny, the flake shard dropped and had a view of its landing point. A man was walking solemnly through the cloister, gazing at the door with a blank look in his eyes. He was much leaner and paler than a man his age should have been. His tattered clothes gave the impression that he had traveled hundreds of miles, and his sunken cheeks and lank mousy hair gave him a somewhat unhealthy appearance. Even his green eyes, which were once brimming with animation, had been discolored and dull. He stood alone in the cloudless night, his eyes downcast, simultaneously wanting company, yet wishing none would come. He had the look of a man who wanted to be alone with his thoughts, to save the risk of corrupting someone with his presence.

He hesitated to trace his fingers along his left arms and draw the sleeve to expose the skin, which was enveloped in scars that had been repeatedly cut and healed over, to the point that they would never heal again.

And here is where the wind deposited one shard of the broken snowflake, in the palm of a broken man.

The shard absorbed the heat radiating from the man's glove. The perfectly carved design collapsed on itself as its structure melted, becoming free-moving liquid once more.

The man had been taught two contradicting principles which had been at war with each other for centuries. One had its origins in science, one in religion, both old enemies, since the beginning of time, both of which he lived by.

One declared that God had a hand in everything that happened in the world. Everything was predestined and controlled. The snowflake was created by God, and eventually God would melt the snowflake, and its existence would disappear forever.

The other one taught that snowflake would not disappear, but eventually the molecules of water in his hand would absorb enough heat to break free from the surface of the glove and ascend into the clouds where they would be arranged into a snowflake once more. And that snowflake would once again fall to the earth where it would land, and sit there patiently until it gained enough energy to float again. And the entire process would repeat itself, in an endless cycle. One is All, All is One.

He swallowed, staring at the church's entrance.

And he pushed the door open with a creak.

He would have preferred to believe the latter, that things did not just disappear, that everything had a purpose instead of predestination towards an unchanging eternity; that when you give something up you would always gain something of equal value in return.

Equivalent Exchange may work in alchemy, he thought as he stepped inside and the soundproofed door slid shut, but this was the real world, the human world, where religion decreed that one sin committed equals an eternity in hell; where Equivalent Exchange didn't exist.

His footsteps echoed off the stone walls as he walked, submissively, down the aisle, in between the circular rows of seats that all led to the altar. He made the sign of the cross, and kneeled before the Virgin Mary, praying for strength.

He walked a little bit towards his left, and stood in front of the box. He bit his lip as he walked toward it. Passages of scriptures littered with terrible stories of showers of blood, jolted the muscles in his legs to propel him towards the booth. Surely his punishment would be worse would he not confess.

He dearly hoped the candle wasn't lit.

It was.

"Enter."

The man jumped at the sound of the voice that chilled him to the centermost nerves of his spine. It was low in frequency, almost whispered , in a rich, bass-like tone that commanded and was accustomed to attention and respect. It was slowness of the delivery and the fullness of the voice that accounted for its gift to induce silence without effort, and that also made it more unsettling at softer volumes and when it was pleased…for whatever reason…

The door opened, and the man squeezed himself into the tiny hole and onto the rickety bench that just barely held itself, despite how thin the man was.

He looked up, and noticed the shadow of the priest through the screen to his right.

"Ahh…For…Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Pause. "Very well," said the voice on the other side. "What sins do you have to confess?"

The man swallowed. "I…I have attempted to kill myself, Father."

"How?"

"Stabbing myself, sir."

"Where?"

"Wrists, throat, and stomach, sir."

"How many times?"

"I've lost count."

"And it didn't work?"

"No, sir."

No response. The man tried to sit up straighter, as a way of maintaining his dignity. "You're not going to ask me why I did it?"

"I don't think it necessary," said the priest curtly.

The man's face was pale, but he prayed the priest couldn't see it. "Should you not ask a sinner why he sins?"

"That is not important, my son," the priest replied. "The 'why' is not important. What matters is the sin itself."

"I did it to get rid of a monster."

The priest sounded amused. "A monster, Adam Hawkins? Is that what you're calling yourself now?"

"I am a monster. You've made me a monster."

"You are an exceptional alchemist, Adam. You should be justly proud of your findings."

"My findings," he spat. "are the reason I want to die."

"You're throwing away a promising career."

"Consider it my highest honor, sir."

The man saw the priest's jaw curve inward and imagined him smiling.

"You intend to die with them, then?"

"…Yes. It is fitting that I die for my sins…and yours."

The faint outline of a jaw curved more and he was certain the face was contorted into a smile.

"Well Adam. I can't say I wasn't brooding on when you would try the idea of exploding yourself."

"You'll never get away with what you've done," said the man, anger in his voice now. "Equivalent Exchange. You'll pay for this."

The priest sighed. "Oh, Adam…" The man shuddered at the continued use of his first name. "My dear Adam…you could have been a powerful man. Yet you seem upset."

"I thought the 'why' wasn't important," he whispered.

"It's not a sin that you are ashamed, boy," said the priest. "More of a…disappointment."

"It's a sin to murder," hissed the man.

"Ah," said the priest slyly. "But I did not murder, Adam. You did."

"On your orders," the man snarled, his tone becoming sharper. "But if I had known what I was doing…"

He paused to pull himself together. "You remember the bargain, Father?"

The priest's smile faltered. "Yes."

"Then you will do well to uphold it, for I intend to die tonight with or without taking others. Swear to me, before I destroy myself, and all my atoms and fragments of brain matter that contained your knowledge are scattered in a million different pieces, or I'll go out there and explode alone."

The shadow did not move.

"If they disobey me," he murmured dangerously. "I will have no choice but to punish them."

"You would also do well to fear my children," the man added. "Should they find out the real story, they will seek revenge against you."

The priest's mouth curled into a grin. "I will fear your son, but your daughter cannot take three steps without tripping or stumbling and in what should be deemed a scientific discovery, causing a backup of three streets of traffic."

"Do not underestimate any of my family. My wife will cooperate only to protect our kids. But if you lay a hand on any of them, Silas—"

"That's Father Silas to you."

The man seemed to shrink in his seat as he spoke.

"Your time is running out," the priest reminded him. "Are there any more sins you would like to confess?"

The man called Adam Hawkins sat up and tried to compose himself. "No."

"Then I suggest you repeat Hail Mary starting from the time you exit this booth until your arrival at your final destination. From there you should pray for a speedy journey to purgatory."

The man did not speak.

"Is there something more you would like to say, Adam?"

No answer.

"Come now," said the priest invitingly. "don't think you can fool your old master..."

No reply. The only sounds were the shallowness of the man's breath and the flickering of the lightbulb above the shadow's head.

"I...I wonder...

"Why you do not try and stop me."

The shadow did not move.

"You taught me alchemy, religion, everything I know," he breathed. "I was your apprentice...

"Do you think I have done nothing to try and stop you? Can you honestly tell me you have absolutely no idea that I have been researching ways to rid me of this curse...this poison...?

He could not stop staring at the light, the crackling of the static electricity, transmuted into sound waves that traveled through his eardrum, pulsing into more electric waves that triggered the release of adrenaline...

"Do you not care that your secret-keeper is about to die?"

The shadow raised its hand, and flexed its unnaturally long, spiderlike fingers, as if inspecting them.

"There will be others, Adam," he remarked nonchalantly. "There are always others..."

The man tried not to look at the lightbulb, to ignore the sound of the static...he had always wished this box wasn't soundproofed...

"I wonder something myself," said the shadow in the same tone.

"I wonder why you feel the imminent need to impart this information to me.

"Oh yes, you came to make your last confession and inform me of your intentions to die, but I sense a deeper need. Not as much to impart knowledge, but more a desire to impart fear..." said the shadow in an unsettling whisper. "The only reason one would do such a thing is a psychological reaction to an elongated period of a desire to dominate that person. This only comes from a fear of that person himself..."

Adam Hawkins felt his legs shaking...and the seat did nothing to muffle them.

"Tell me..." the shadow seemed to grow in his eyes. "Do I frighten you, Adam?"

"Stop it..." he protested.

"Denial is common product of fear."

"I am not a child anymore, Father..." spat the man through his shuddering throat. "I am not your slave...you have nothing...you will never...for God's sake, would you fix that damn light?!"

Instead of ceasing its wavering, the light emitted a deep, ethereal noise as it burned all the more brightly, outlining some of the features of the shadow's face, its exposed, gleaming teeth.

"You didn't answer the question."

Adam Hawkins stared, fixedly, at the shadow's face.

"No, I did not."

"Care to answer why?"

"Because I believe that you only ask me why I fear you because you also, fear something...I am not sure what, but if you feel the need to impart fear into me..."

He purposely didn't finish his sentence.

"If you ask me why I fear you, I will not answer that either.

"The why is not important. All that matters is the sin.

"That's always what you've taught me."

He clasped his hands in prayer, and took a deep breath. "O My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen."

"May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and by His authority I absolve you from every bond of excommunication and interdict, so far as my power allowed and your needs require," said Father Silas as he made the sign of the cross. "Thereupon, I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

"May the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, the merits of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints obtain for you that whatever good you do or whatever evil you bear might merit for you the remission of your sins, the increase of grace and the reward of everlasting life."

Adam Hawkins kept his hands in position, seemingly saying a few prayers to himself.

"It's a shame, Adam," said the priest gloomily. "You always were a smart lad."

"The Lord works in mysterious ways, Father," remarked Adam Hawkins. "I, for one, take comfort that I will never have to be in here again."

He crossed himself, and stood up.

"Any last wishes?" requested the shadow.

Adam Hawkins hesitated. "My only prayer is this:

"May the day come when another has a deeper conviction than me. I pray for the day when someone has the courage to face their sins."

He took something out of his pocket, and gingerly placed it on the bench where he had sat.

"And I pray that when that day comes...so will you."

The priest waited until the door clanked shut before gazing at the silver pocketwatch the man had left on the bench, the wind of the door closing shut drafted to the candle on a small table, and the last words the man would ever hear from the priest echoed as the candle blew out.

"Until we meet again…Earth Alchemist."

After that night, a mysterious rumor spread through the town of Chisholm.

Whispered on the wind, carried through doorways, it spread. The strange consequence of the rumor was the sudden vastness of the grim procession every Sunday morning to church.

Although adults told their children it was nonsense, they were told the story of the power of the bells that had eyes, that watched the town for its sinners, that singled out one, that was never seen again...

Adam Hawkins' children grew up with that tale, every day listening to skipping children singing it happily like a nursery rhyme...

"Blackest Night, Blackest Night, towers pierce the skies. Avoid the bells, try as one might; cannot escape the Eyes. Blackest Night, Blackest Night, ashes colored red, the only time a sinner's free is when that sinner's dead."