(AN: My first real, serious fanfiction. Criticism is not only appreciated but vital. Takes place in the 2003 canon, mostly. I may borrow elements from Brotherhood and the Manga. Expect at least weekly updates, but maybe more if I can manage them.)

The First Notebook - Pt. I

It is decided. After I undertake this project, I will kill myself. I've considered different ways, and I'm still not sure which one I will choose. There are a few fitting ones, I think. Perhaps I could stuff myself in a wooden barrel. With a snap of my fingers the whole thing would ignite and within a few minutes I would be nothing but a pile of ash. But the truth is, that one scares me. How pathetic is that? A war machine, afraid of a painful death. Perhaps I don't deserve such fury and splendor. An alternative is a simple hanging. One may wonder where the poetry is in that, but I think it makes sense. After all, hanging is the punishment given to war criminals. And though those fools may deny it, I am a war criminal.

I had a dream last night. A fire was raging in the desert. It was colossal, titanic, and only got bigger. I heard a chorus of high-pitched screams and violent, throaty bellows in the distance. But that was precisely it, the fire was a distant one. The screams were so far away that one could mistake them for the thin whine of a teacup after it boils. In my dream, I longed to throw myself into the fire. To feel it soak into my skin and into my bones and slowly, painfully, like falling gradually into a pool of water only to drown, I would cease to be. I wanted the ash to blacken my lungs and my eyes because that would be proof that I was still alive, still human. But even as I ran toward the fire, it got further and further away from me. Eventually, I ran out of breath and just gave up. With the flames glowing in my eyes and the wails of thrashing humanity echoing in my ears, I woke up. My back was stiff and my limbs were, for a brief period, immobile. I carried out of my dream the vague impression of being haunted. But of course, we alchemists know that there are no ghosts. Only humans.

I remember a conversation I had with another State Alchemist before the war. Rudolph Welsch, The Life-flow alchemist. Well, that was what we called him then. I hear that the Ishvalans had another name for him, The Plague-bearing Alchemist. They came up with many such mocking names. I remember myself being called The Hell Alchemist. He was considered something of a prodigy back then. His primary research had been in substances in the body like cells, and he found ways to alter them that he thought would revolutionize medicine. All sciences, even biology, broke down at a chemical level, he said, and chemicals are the very realm of alchemy. Many diseases, he said, could be eradicated if only the people in charge would listen to him. He was never really a fighter, more a bookworm type. He was always very diligent in his studies, even on the front. Always had a book in his nose. But the military determined that his research had considerable combat potential, and sent him to the front. It did indeed, from what I witnessed. The same powers that could be used eradicate disease proved extremely apt at introducing it into the population. Thousands of Ishvalans felt the effects, as their skins began to itch and eventually become hard as rock, a malfunction of the immune system. Eventually they killed him, hung him actually. I don't think he cared, really. I remember when we found the body, there was no fear in the eyes. Only a listless, bored look.

But before the war, I remember he had such bright eyes. We didn't talk much but the one conversation I remember we had was an interesting one, and always sticks out as being the defining moment of my life before the war. We were both in the back of a transport truck, carrying us and a dozen other alchemists to the front. It was a bumpy ride. He was sitting across from me. I think it was Kimblee to my left.

"You know in Ishval they have an old legend, about fire," he said, smiling at me. I hadn't know my reputation was so great, but evidently he recognized me. I smiled back, politely.

"Reading about the people we're supposed to kill? Now that's just a bad idea," said Kimblee, with his normal arrogance. I suppose in hindsight, though, what he said was true. Learning about anything that could make the Ishvalans human was just asking for trouble. Still, he went on.

"We're not supposed to kill them," reasoned Rudolph, "only to quell the rebellion."

"You're that naïve? The Fuhrer doesn't want peace with Ishval. He wants a bloodbath. I, for one, am inclined to agree with him," said Kimblee.

"Anyway," Rudolph rolled his eyes and looked back to me. "You know of the Ishvalan Holy City, Lavosh, yes? They say that one of Ishvala's first acts was to bring fire to the people living there. It was only a small settlement at the time, if it could even be called that. Just a little group of Ishvalans who collaborated in foraging expeditions throughout the desert, every so often turning up a cactus fruit or something like that. But it was Ishval who brought them fire, and thus the means to cook. Their civilization, they say, was born from fire, an old truism of theirs."

He explained this with all the innocence of a scientist. The impersonal love of learning that comes to truly intelligent people. He really was a sweet boy. He had a clean, unshaven face that seemed almost to glow in the hot desert sun. He had long, boyishly-cut brown hair that extended just to the edge of his jawline. When he died I remember that his hair had grown all the way to his shoulderblades, as he never really saw fit to cut it as the war went on. His face was ruddy and dark.

"Is that so?" I said, a little bored. I never was one for history.

"That's right. Really the Ishvalans are a very fascinating people. If possible I'd like to come back over all of this is over and just study them. Bio-alchemy is all well and good, but on the research side we don't really get a lot of human contact," he grinned sheepishly.

"Once all this is over," I said. "Pretty sure it's gonna be awhile." The truck jolted up, sending us all flying out of our seats. Once we were able to sit back down, Kimble pulled his hat down and smiled grimly.

"You ever hear that saying, from dust we came, and to dust we shall return?" He said. "It'll be the same with the Ishvalans. From flames they came, and into flames they will return. Just like all of us, when you think about it."

"You're nuts, Kimblee," said Rudolph. At the time, I was inclined to agree, but didn't say anything. Kimblee was my senior as an alchemist, and back then seniority meant a lot.

I'd say what he was saying was insane now, but in light of what happened in Ishval I don't think that I can. It's pretty messed up, when something Kimblee says is the most sane thing you've ever heard. But maybe, despite his cruelty and despite the sadistic pleasure he took in killing, he was on to something. Maybe he saw something that none of us did. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore, if I'm honest with myself.