Chapter 3 Not Winter Yet (Persephone)
He opened his eyes on pale dusk, with a chill in the air as a small, rickety train rattled it's way up to the platform. The thing looked—and sounded—about to fall apart as a worn, scruffy man leaned out of the cab.
"You coming aboard, boy?" Edward rose slowly, working some of the stiffness out of his limbs.
"I guess so." He said, digging in his pocket for his wallet. "How much is passage?" The man laughed, not unkindly.
"This time of night, for someone like you? Don't worry about it, this is mostly a supply run anyway." The man winked and grinned broadly, and expression Edward returned tentatively. He climbed aboard the train quickly, shivering—the air had gone so cold since the sun had dropped below the trees. The passenger car was completely empty, and he took up a seat on one of the hard wooden benches all but overwhelmed by an eerie sense of deja-vu. He'd done this before, he mused, before turning to look out the window as the train rattled out of the station. He didn't particularly feel like thinking about it right now, but it was something to remember the next time he put his mind to figuring out who he'd been. Settling back, Edward did his best to get comfortable on the rock-like bench. The view out the window was a pretty one, in the twilight, but fading fast. Edward watched until the grey hills melted into black, watched until the stars began to flicker into life. Like kindling fires, he mused, and let the memories that sparked play out across his brain. Flickers of raw red light, hotly ripping into even the bare earth, barely dodging one sharp lounge of... flame. The thought resounded, ringing around him like a church-bell struck by the hammer of god, and in it's wake came of flood of images and impressions.
A tall, dark-haired man stood by the window, shadows flickering in his eyes and the corners of the room as a single candle guttered; a rush of anger, brief and elemental; cold rain running down his back and a sick, scared feeling of loss; a silver pocket-watch, dropping to smash on invisible flagstones. Edward lay back on the bench, panting in the aftereffects of that wave of emotion. It was gone as quickly as it had come, but the images remained, burned into the backs of his eyes. That man... the one with dark eyes and a darker smile, who even in memory was surrounded by a halo of raw rage and a certain bitter gratitude. Even as he thought it though, the memory was fading, leaving only that pale, sad face. Edward noticed, and wondered if the person he'd been ever had, that even when he smiled the man's eyes were sad.
Slowly, Edward closed his eyes and tried to bring his breathing and his heart rate back to normal. Eventually, he sat up again, his legs pulled tightly to his body in a position of loneliness, discomfort. There ought to be someone there, he thought, to worry about that posture. There ought to be someone, who knew what it meant and knew how to deal with it, but every time he looked beside him, the train was empty. The rattling was a low hum in his bones, but couldn't quite mask the silence where another voice should be.
"Damn it." he said. The words were soft, clear, familiarly spoken, and he wondered how he had come to curse so comfortably. "He's not there." Edward said aloud, resolution and anger building in him. "He's not there—maybe he never was." The thought hurt, and he didn't know why. "Fine. I don't need your ghost!" the words were shouted to the empty train, and seemed to echo strangely in the silence. Edward felt drained, as though he'd been running for a long time and paused for breath. His chest felt tight, and the train seemed very empty indeed. Edward turned to watch the stars again, and this time tried very hard not to think as he rattled his way back towards civilization.
Edward must have fallen asleep at some point, because he awoke with bright sun streaming in the train windows as they rattled to a stop in Central Station. Slowly he pulled himself off the bench, though his limbs felt far too heavy, like someone had snuck in and replaced his bones with lead while he slept. Like a sleep-walker, Edward exited the train, stumbling over the steps and only perking up a bit when the smell of hot oil and frying food reached his nose. A stand near the tracks was selling what looked like some kind of fried bread with honey and powdered sugar, and the sweet scent was enough to make his mouth water and make him wonder when he had last eaten-- or in fact, if he had ever eaten at all.
Two minutes later, Edward sat on a bench on the edge of Main street, contentedly polishing off the last of his sticky treat. The funnel-cake gone, he licked his fingers happily. The day was cool, no longer locked in the bitter heart of winter, and the air tasted as sweet as the honey had before. Having finished off the cake, Edward carefully picked up his bare feet and inspected the bottoms. Yesterday's cuts and wear had healed cleanly, far faster than was perhaps normal, leaving tough callus which had protected the soft flesh beneath on the brief walk from the station. Handy, he thought calmly, poking at his foot with one short-nailed finger, but definitely not normal. Edward chuckled softly. Then again, nothing about me seems to be normal. And that, he thought, rings perfectly true in my beautifully empty head. Rising to his feet, Edward stumbled slightly as one leg seemed too light but caught himself with a grin. Something new had just occurred to him; if I have no memory, he realized, I have nothing to hate. I have nothing to grieve for, and I have nothing to lose. Despite the grim connotations of the thought, it brought a smile to his lips as Edward-not-Elric began his careless exploration of a Central City whose shadows danced with half-gone memories.
Edward did not make it very far. He was caught barely two blocks down the street, just before a shop selling, among other things, a sort of heavy work boots that looked cheap and comfortable. The hand that gripped his shoulder harshly, a little rough, was warm and broad beneath a plain white cotton glove. Edward spun, more gracefully than he had stood a minute ago, and was confronted with a face that instantly triggered a landslide of shadow-memories. For a moment, he was lost in them-- unable to pinpoint any specific image in a swirl of color, confused affection, and slowly growing rage. Not a moment of it flickered across his face, as Roy Mustang looked at the boy who could have stepped out of a twenty-year old photograph.
"Colonel..." Edwards voice was rough and raw, stripped to its bare bones and almost too soft to hear as he began to tremble with the force of the memories ripping lose into his mind. Finally, the storm slowed to a few flickers, a thread of flame in the back of his mind, though it remained emotion rather than any concrete image. Mustang let out a sound that could have been a laugh, were it not so painful. "You've been away a while, Fullmetal." He said, ironic and wary all at once, "I've had a bit few promotions since then."
"It was colonel, once, then?" Edward turned clear golden eyes on the too-familiar stranger before him, his voice far, far too young. His expression was open, innocent, as Roy had never seen it—emptier, too, than it had ever been. He nodded slowly, before his eyes caught on the edge of red showing at Edward's shoulder where the coat had pulled down a bit. Quickly, roughly, he pushed away the heavy material to expose the red seal.
A serpent biting it's own tail was pressed into the flesh in blood red ink, a six-pointed star inside. Edward looked down at it for a moment and, finding nothing exceptional, back up at the man before him—who was now several feet away in a fighting crouch, fingers raised to snap despite his unadorned cotton gloves. Edward didn't know why that posture should be so threatening, but he wasn't one to doubt his instincts. Automatically, he shifted to a balanced position on both feet, ready to strike or dodge at a heartbeat's notice.
"Stay back." Mustang's voice was cold now, the soldier who'd led his troops sliding into the flesh of the human man, turning it to marble. "I know what you are now." An expression curiously like longing settled over Edward's features as his posture relaxed just a hair.
"Do you now, Roy?" he asked in a voice like scales over stone. Abruptly his eyes darkened, his tone turned bitter. "That makes one of us." Only the tension around his eyes betrayed the confusion beneath. Edward had no idea what was going on, no idea what he was doing, only that this man was danger and safety and that he looked much, much too old. The two stood silently, unblinking and unflinching as they stared at each other for a moment that stretched long.
Then suddenly, Edward relaxed. He slumped one shoulder in a casual, unthreatening pose and smiled, a soft expression that didn't look quite right on his face. "Roy." He said again. "I don't think I ever called you that, did I?" There was no doubt in his mind now that this was someone he had known, someone he had felt strongly about, though he had no idea whether it was love or hatred that haloed the memories in red.
"You never called me anything at all." The words were a growl, torn from a throat roughened by years of smoke damage. "Homunculous." One hand was inching toward the pocket of his uniform coat; one white cotton glove dropped unnoticed to the polished flags. Edward looked puzzled.
"Ho... munculous?" He tasted the word. "A being born of alchemy. A homunculous has no soul." His hands tightened, clenching into fists totally at odds with his easy posture. "But that would mean..."
Mustang moved so quickly there was no time to react, re-gloved hand coming out of his pocket and rising in a gesture, heartbreakingly familiar--
-snap-
Flames danced across the flags and leapt up before utterly shocked golden eyes, drawing the beginnings of a choked, startled cry—then flickered out, leaving their target untouched. Roy was breathing in harsh gasps, his eyes closed, holding one hand to his chest as though he'd been struck. He opened his eyes slowly, and raised them to Edward's face as though afraid of what he'd find. The boy was smirking. "Edward." Mustang spoke like a man conceding defeat.
"Bastard." The voice was warm and familiar, unchanged in the twenty years since he'd last heard it. For the first time something like hope dawned in Mustang's expression, and it was only then that Edward realized how defeated he'd looked from the very start.
"You aren't him. You're a mockery, an imitation--"
"A homunculous." Edward finished flatly. "No, no I'm not."
AN: Chapter three. I'm as surprised as you are; maybe more so. Thank my friend Amara.