Author's Note: This takes place in what I like to call my "Nina-Trisha canon" (a series of fics about Ed's children). To date, this is the final one. It's more about Ed's family, I suppose, but since Al is the most important person in his family, it also has a lot to do with their brotherhood.

Timeline: After "Promise" (Chapter 10 of this fic)

Theme 4: Grave

An old man stood on the crest of the hill, silhouetted against the setting sun. This man leaned on a slender cane, which he clutched in both hands – one feeble and knotted, the other firm and smooth. To all appearances, he had to be at least eighty years old, but in truth he was little over sixty-five. Various things had contributed to this aged appearance. Circumstances had led to him being a little undernourished as he grew from childhood to adolescence, and one or two deadly risks he had taken in his younger days had taken several years off his life. But perhaps what contributed the most to his premature aging were the smooth stones he faced on the top of this hill.

The stones were white, with names carefully carved into their faces. The man wheezed out a weary sigh as his tired old eyes passed over the names yet again. The first one read Trisha Elric. He could still remember the day they buried her. His mother had died when he was ten, and he had never stopped missing her. He missed her smile, her laugh, her warm hugs, her gentle kisses.

On that same headstone, written underneath the first name, was the single name Hohenheim. Somehow, it looked sad on its own, as the man it had belonged to had been most of his life. The old man had thought once that he would be allowed to spend many years with his father, once the two of them were reconciled to one another, but that was not to be. All too soon, he had died, asking only to be buried next to his long-dead but still beloved wife.

The old man sighed and looked at the next stone, marked with the name Sara Elric. This one was smaller, for it marked the resting place of a two-year-old girl, snatched from life at such an early age. The old man closed his eyes on the sight; even after all these years, thinking about his dead little daughter brought stinging pain to his chest. He couldn't understand why someone so young like her had to be taken away, but he supposed that wasn't for him to understand. He could only hope that she was in a better place now, far away from sickness and pain.

But that was not the end to this old man's grief. He paused for a moment, as though his eyes were unwilling to bring his heart any more pain. He knew what name would be on the next stone, but he forced himself to read it anyway: Winry Elric. Tears welled up in his ancient eyes, and he hunched over his cane, letting them slide down through the wrinkles in his face. He had loved his wife very much – he still did, in fact. He could still see her old face smiling up at him from her deathbed. "Don't cry," she had said as he sat at her side, holding her hand tightly in both of his. "I want your tears to be tears of joy, as mine have always been – because of you." But he had been unable to fulfill her request. How could he cry tears of joy when she was farther from him than he had ever been from her in all his travels?

The old man took his handkerchief out and tried to stem the flow of tears, but it was impossible, for his eyes strayed to the final headstone of his family. Alphonse Elric. The tears came faster and faster, dripping down onto the dry earth that encased his little brother's body. His little brother's perfect, flesh body. Fifty-five years was too short of a time to cherish a real body again, the old man thought. Even at the end, Alphonse had rubbed his fingers against his older brother's skin and sniffed at his hair, as he had the first day he could do those things again.

Edward Elric traced one metal finger over the carved letters of his little brother's name. He felt so lost without his brother to point the way. Every day, he lived only to see the night, so he could close his weary golden eyes and dream about days long gone, friends long dead. He knew he was being a fatalistic, foolish old man, but he couldn't help it. His loved ones persisted in leaving him, dying and leaving him alone here, standing on a hill and staring at their names carved on their graves.

"Dad?"

Edward let the speaker think he hadn't heard, to give himself a chance to wipe away his tears. One nice thing about being old was that people expected him to be hard of hearing, so even though he had surprisingly good hearing for someone his age, he could still pretend sometimes.

"Dad?"

Edward turned around, pretending he had only heard the second time. A young man stood a short distance away. Well, by some standards he wasn't so young, Edward supposed; Maes was in his forties now, his black hair just beginning to turn grey in little tufts and patches. He greatly resembled his father, but that brought about sad thoughts Edward had no wish to entertain, so he pushed them aside.

Maes smiled a little sadly and said, "It's getting cold out, and supper's almost ready. You should come home now."

Edward glanced around, noticing for the first time the biting wind that tossed his long white hair all about. "You're right," he admitted, shivering a little, and followed Maes down the hill, using his cane to help him with his limp. Maes lent his arm as well, and Edward leaned on it gratefully. In years long past, he would have snorted in disgust at such an offer, grumbling something to the effect of, "It's not like I have one foot in the grave, young man; don't be so eager for that inheritance of yours." But he just didn't have the energy to fight it anymore, and even he had to admit that his body, strong and lithe for so long, was finally giving out on him.

The walk back home was silent for the most part; Edward's son-in-law knew from experience not to talk about the graves on the hill. But that silence was shattered as soon as Maes opened the door to the yellow house.

"Dear, can you reach this bowl for me?" Nina called from the kitchen, over the sounds of several pots boiling and the teakettle whistling.

"Be there in a minute!" Maes called back, hanging up his and Edward's coats.

"Mommy!" shouted a child's voice from somewhere upstairs. "How do you spell 'hippolatamus'?"

"What?" cried Trisha from the bathroom, raising her voice above those of two cousins who did not want to get their baths.

"H-I-P-P..." shouted a man's voice from farther in the house.

"Grampa!" a small boy yelled, grabbing two fingers of Edward's hand. "Come help me with this equation!"

As Edward was forcibly dragged farther into the house, he reflected on how he really had two families – one noisy and one absolutely silent. One in the house and one under the hill. One living and one dead, but they were both his family. And whether they were hidden from sight beneath earth and stone, or smiling and chattering all around him, he knew he loved them all.