Fullmetal Alchemist is the property of Hiromu Arakawa.

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Part I

The Sands of Ishval

April 13, 1919

Messa, Southeastern Ishval

The food in Messa's hospital tasted like sawdust and had a texture like frog skin, but it was all there was. There was no money to pay for better food; the doctors spent it all on medical supplies, and the black market dealers were dishonest and had steep prices. The good doctors tried to avoid buying from the black market, but the fact of the matter was that supplies were so scarce that the black market was their only option.

"Do not despair," the doctors said. "The Amestrian restoration will be here soon, but until then, we must be patient and calm. After all, Ishval was not built in a day."

I'd heard plenty about the Amestrians and how they'd spent the past four years re-building Ishval from the ground up. Story and rumor held that the Amestrians came in loaded with food, medicine, water and seeds for planting, handing it all out to the Ishvalan people. I'd also heard that they were just trying to get us all in one spot so that they could get rid of us all in one fell swoop, but my seven-year-old self believed the doctors. The Amestrians have come to help us, I told myself, they will be here soon, they will make all the hurts go away and Ishval will be rich again.

I believed that. I had to believe that.

I finished what little dinner I had and returned the plate and fork to the cook, thanking her. As I walked toward the exit, I whistled, and a small, big-eared, wiry-haired dog with brown and silver spots trotted up to me and walked with me out of the hospital's cafeteria.

"Good girl, Khadija," I said. My companion sneezed in response.

The hospital was built entirely out of concrete that was full of bubbles, cracks, good-sized stones, and the occasional piece of glass; the floor was so bumpy and uneven that it was a small miracle if you didn't trip at least once while crossing it. The railings on the stairways were caked with enough rust to leave a reddish-orange stain on your palm for a week. The few electric lights that worked cast a dim, weak glow that provided more shadow than light, and the animal-fat candles were no stronger. There were no doors, only threadbare curtains that continuously sprouted holes, no matter how many times they were patched. Worst of all, however, was the smell.

Any man or woman who ever had the misfortune of being in an Ishvalan hospital during that time never complained of a bad smell ever again, for to say that the places reeked would be high praise. Always the nose was under assault from innumerable foul stinks: burning animal fat, the open and rarely cleaned privies, the oily smoke from the cookhouse, the stagnating water in the barrels, and always – always – the iron odor of blood and the omnipresent and indescribable smell of rotting flesh, filtering in from the makeshift graveyard in the hospital's yard.

This was the Ishval I was born in.

My name on April 13, 1919 was Ali Lior Sakar. I was four months from turning eight years old.

My mother had been dying for over a year.

Every day since she'd been admitted to the hospital I'd begged her to hold on. Just a little longer, I'd tell her, just hold on a little longer. The Amestrians will be here soon, they'll make you better, Mother. Just hold on. No matter how many times I was told that the afterlife was a place without suffering or misery, I had no desire for Mother to go there. I knew she was sick, I knew she was in pain, but I didn't care; Mother and Kadija were all I had left. The rest of my family was dead.

…Alright, that was a lie. Most of the rest of my family was dead.

Mother heard me come into her room and turned her head towards me, a happy but tired smile on her face.

"Hello, Ali," she said. "How was dinner?"

"It was fine," I said. "How was yours?"

"Mother wasn't very hungry today, my dear. I didn't eat."

"Oh." I sat down on a splintery, rickety stool beside Mother's bed, and took her hand.

"Mother," I said.

"Yes?"

"When are Father and Rashid coming home? Soon?"

She shook her head. "I don't know, my dear. I honestly don't know."

Please, let it be soon, I prayed.

You see, when I was a baby, my father left on a long journey, taking only some supplies, his horse, and my twin brother, Rashid Gupta Sakar, and promising to return as soon as he could. The only things I had left of the two were a photograph of my brother and me with '1911' written on the back and a notebook that was full of elaborate circles and scribbled words. I couldn't understand the words very well, but I was fascinated by the circles. They were so beautifully drawn and so complex in their designs that it was difficult not to get caught up in the lines, the symbols, the shapes.

When I'd asked my mother about the notebook, all she'd been able to tell me was that my father had written in it a great deal. She didn't know that much about it; she'd never asked my father for details.

Our neighbor, Dr. Hussein, was more helpful.

"Your father was an alchemist," he said.

I was only five when he told me about this, and I had no idea what he was talking about. Dr. Hussein explained to me that alchemy was the science of understanding how the world is put together, so that a person could understand how to take apart something in the world and then put it back together. The circles in my father's notebook, he said, were an essential part of this.

"I think when he left us, he was going to the north to do more research on alchemy," Dr. Hussein said. "Why he would take a baby boy with him, and why he would disappear for so long, I do not know."

And there was the kicker. No one knew anything. No one had heard one word from Emir Muhammad Sakar in the seven years he'd been gone. Now Mother was dying, and God only knew where he and Rashid were, and I couldn't help but wonder:

Why isn't he here? What could be so important that he'd leave his wife and one of his sons for so long? Where is he?

"Maybe they'll come in with the Amestrians," I said.

"Maybe they will, at that," she said. She smiled. "I wouldn't put it past your father to come riding in with the cavalry, smiling at us atop his horse in the middle of a platoon of Amestrian bluecoats, and yelling 'Talia, I'm home!' And Rashid! He'd be such a big boy by now."

"Like me, Mother?"

"Yes, Ali. Just like you." She closed her eyes. "It's such a shame I shall never get to see that sight."

At first, I didn't understand what she was saying. That didn't last long.

"Mother, you're going to be all right!" I said. "The Amestrians will be here soon; they have medicine and food and good doctors, they'll make you better. Besides, Father and Rashid aren't home yet! You can't leave before they come home; you just can't!"

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not now.

Mother smiled and stroked my hand. "Oh Ali." She slipped her beaded pendant off over her head and placed it in my hand, pushing my fingers over it. "This is my last gift to you, my son. I'm sorry…" Her voice became soft. "I'm so sorry..."

Her eyes closed, and her hand fell onto her stomach.

"Mother?" She didn't respond.

"Mother?" She still didn't respond.

I felt something warm slip down my cheek. "Mother…?"