Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist
N/B: this is a slightly uneventful, housekeeping sort of a chapter, but I hope you enjoy it- some stillness after the action and upheaval.
It is a law, universal in all worlds in existence, that those who live as academics of one form or another simply cannot rise from slumber until a good third of the day has passed.
Thus, the Fullmetal Mage clambered muzzily from his bed, scrubbing at disarrayed hair, and blinked with bleary eyes at the room around him. He'd forgotten to close the drapes the night before, and the late morning sun shone in, obnoxiously bright and strangely tinted with red-orange. He yawned, shivering a little at the coolness of the room, and wondered, vaguely, why he'd slept with his staff in the bed, and why his university room had suddenly expanded to three times its usual size, and why he ached so much and…
Ah yes. He'd been captured by a Dragon.
Edward yawned again, scratching at an itchy spot on his neck. He was never at his best in the mornings, it was a wonder Alphonse had ever managed to drag him along on his Princess-rescuing quest. It had involved an obscene amount of early rising, following the brutal pattern of the sun's flight and fall, Alphonse was a creature of daylight and birdsong, Edward always felt he should protest that he was a being of night-time and candlelight and shimmering, ghostly presence of the moon…He stretched for a good long moment, feeling abused muscles protest the strain, a cacophony of bruises and strains clamouring for attention across his body. He felt like he'd been slammed into a wall, his left side was agony.
The Mage's brain, rather impatiently waiting for him to finish waking up, pointed out again the unfamiliar surroundings and the cause of his bruising, and waited for him to notice.
Edward stared at the stone walls of the room, noting that sandstone was an interesting choice of construction material for a fortress occupying the open maw of a volcano. Perhaps he could ask the Dragon…the Dragon!
He started upright in a mad scramble of limbs, wincing and grabbing up his clothes. He struggled hastily into them, cursing, not for the first time, the inescapable Magely practice of wearing hundreds of layers of underthings, breeches, hose, undershirt, shirt, tunic, under-robe, over-robe, ornate belt to hold it all together and leather boots. And this was his relatively simple travel ensemble, nothing like the richly-embroided, multi-layered and terribly expensive vista of fabric that made up his university costume.
He was just straightening the mud-hemmed red over-robe (with a displeased twist of his lips and a question in his mind of whether the Dragon might possess anything more suitable) when he encountered a problem. He didn't have a hairbrush. All of his gear had been left, as had Alphonse's, with Kitty, and would now be travelling back to Amestris with the Knight and Princes for company.
Edward considered the room he'd fallen into more by chance than design. Though dusty with neglect and somewhat musty, it was fully-furnished for human habitation. Judging by the Dragon's comments the day previous, any other 'guests' the creature had kept had preferred to keep their distance, which begged the question of why these furnished areas had remained intact. Had the Dragon taken a human castle by force, brutally murdering all of its inhabitant to set up home? Why would it do such a thing? The creature's immense size meant it could only comfortably inhabit the lowest floor of the main keep, despite extensive 'remodelling' on its part, and all in all, the castle's conquest seemed an awful lot of effort to go through for very little benefit…
All questions aside, however (eternal curiosity was ever the Mage's downfall), the extent of the furnishings in just this room led Edward to wonder whether…He approached the ornately-carved wooden dresser the dominated the far wall. Muttering an apology to whoever had previously owned it, he rummaged through its drawers, managing to unearth not only a sturdy hairbrush, but shaving utensils, a hand mirror, a vast assortment of clean, serviceable hose and, rather bizarrely, a whisk.
He decided not to disturb the whisk.
It did not take the wizard long to make himself presentable. He considered, briefly, mending the rips in his clothes, but decided it would be a waste of magic. He evaluated himself in the dresser's mirror. There was a sizable scrape on his right cheek, but he was otherwise presentable. Hopefully there would be a water supply in the castle somewhere, he would need to wash before he felt entirely comfortable.
Now to find his host.
Eventually, after fruitless hours, Edward resorted to the trick he used upon first entering the castle- sinking himself into the walls to impress the layout into his mind. He might have spent his entire life wandering the halls otherwise. The structure was vast and incredibly complicated; it contained more twists and turns than a wizard's promise, and the Fullmetal Mage would know.
It was more by chance than design that he stumbled upon his captor. The Mage was wandering through what he now knew to be the southernmost warren of corridors, peering in at every room (a gallery, a storage room, several massive, empty, echoing spaces), when he head the unmistakable scrape of scale and clink of metal, and hurried to catch up with it before it could move out of range.
He found the Dragon contemplating a spiral staircase, its eyes narrowed in concentration. He stared at it, marvelling anew at the sheer size of the creature, his hungry, curious gaze travelling over vast limbs, glimmering scale, the proud set of the beast's head, the delicate poise of his tail. He wondered if the Dragon would consent to a portrait, his treatise would be much improved with a few sketches…
Teeth flashed into his vision and he startled back to attention. The Dragon's head was turned to him, bright eyes studying the Mage, and his lips had drawn back from his teeth in something that looked so much like a snarl that Edward's hands gripped his staff and almost dropped into a fighting stance.
"Good morning," Roy said, amiably. "Are you well-rested?"
The Mage blinked. Definitely not a snarl, then. A smile? "Very well, thank you," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "And yourself, sir?"
The Dragon nodded, turning back to his study. Edward noticed that Roy's left cheek was crusted with dried blood, a remembrance of Alphonse's final attack, and his stomach squirmed at the thought of his brother.
Roy's voice interrupted his musings. "Mageling, come here."
He obeyed, unable to quell a quiver as he stepped into the Dragon's shadow, all-too-aware of the power locked in the creature's body. Roy, seeming not to notice his hesitation, gestured at the staircase with a claw. "This structure, would you declare it stable?"
Edward wondered at the question, but turned his attention to it regardless, focusing on the construction. He raised his staff to trace some symbols, then thought better of it as the gnarled wood sent a pulse of warning through his fingertips. It was still tired from the exertion of the day before, if he used it for something trivial, it was going to turn him into something unpleasant. He rolled his eyes at the staff, silently retorting that it was his instrument, he would use or abuse it however he wished. The staff pulsed again, prissily, pointing out with acid smugness that if that was the case, then why was Edward searching his belt pouch for chalk instead?
The Mage deliberately ignored the whispered teasing as he located a stub of chalk, and propped the staff up against the wall. He had inherited it from his Teacher and, like any gift of hers, it had been both a blessing and a curse. A staff was not a necessary piece of equipment for a wizard, but it served as an excellent focusing device for everyday casting, as well as an emergency store for magical energy. Unfortunately, the damn things were so imbued, so enchanted, that the inner heart of the wood that formed them would awaken, over time, rising to the call of the Mage's power. They were not alive, as such, they had no soul or personality, but they did develop…quirks. Edward's had developed an extraordinary pride in itself, which had made the Mage's brother wonder if wizard staffs picked up traits from their owners.
Edward chalked a simple circular symbol onto the wall and activated it with a touch of his hand. His head throbbed as he did so, reminding him that his staff was not the only thing that needed to rejuvenate its magical energies. He dropped the chalk back into his pouch, and took up his staff once again as the symbol began to glow, faintly.
A shifting noise behind him alerted the Mage to the Dragon's movement, and he glanced up to find Roy lowering his head, intent upon the light spilling from Edward's enchantment.
The light flickered golden as candlelight for a heartbeat, then shifted to a bright, brilliant blue. Edward reached out to touch it again, swiping through the symbol and silencing it, quickly rubbing the chalk off the stone.
"It should be stable enough," he reported, turning to meet the Dragon's eyes. "There is some weakening of the supports but it won't collapse unless there is considerable weight on it."
Roy tilted his head, his tongue flickering out briefly to taste the air. Edward was struck by the sudden thought that the Dragon had been well aware of the staircase's structural integrity, and merely wanted a show of the Mage's abilities. He shuffled his feet under the pearly gaze.
"I am glad to hear that," the Dragon said, after a pause. "That is the quickest route to the library, and the news of your death thanks to falling rubble would have saddened me. Have you found the kitchens yet?"
The Mage gaped for a moment, uncertain which part of the Dragon's statement to respond to, then picked the direct question. "No, no, I…" Before he could finish, his stomach growled, loud and insistent. He felt the prickle of a blush in his cheeks, but Roy seemed not to notice.
"Come then, I'll show you."
The Dragon turned, fluid as a cat, and began to pad out of the room. Edward had to run to catch up- even walking, the Dragon's pace was equal to a human jog. The creature's thick shoulders brushed against the walls every so often, as did the tips of his folded wings, and Edward had to wonder again at the inconvenience of castle-living for the creature. Even the Mage, who was…lacking in stature next to Roy, could not walk alongside him. The Dragon even seemed to be ducking his head- from the little Edward had observed, Roy typically held his head high, like a well-schooled dressage horse, and walking through the castle halls, he kept his head much lower on his long neck.
As he trailed behind the swaying haunches, eyeing the swinging tail with increasing nervousness (how would the Dragon know where he was to avoid walloping him?), the Mage reflected on his surreal situation. Surely, surely, he was not being shown the way to breakfast by a firebreathing Dragon? Surely this was the highest of flights of fancy? Was he perhaps trapped between the endless, rhythmic metre of a balladeer's tale of high romance?
Edward, his consciousness thus occupied, walked into a wall and thumped, with a complete absence of any grace or nobility, to land heavily his bruised behind. He groaned, trying to stand up and tangling his legs in his robes, and looked up sharply to glare at the wall.
It looked back, mildly perturbed. "Why," the Dragon enquired, his head swinging round on his neck to peer back at the Mage along his lengthy body, "did you just walk into me?"
For a heartbeat, Edward lamented his all-too-sudden, tragic, scorching demise. Roy, however, seemed disinclined to burn him, so he scrambled hurriedly to his feet and bowed in apology. "I beg your pardon, I…didn't quite realise how close you…how close I…I, er, didn't see you stop…" His voice tailed off in an embarrassed mumble, and he peered up at the Dragon sheepishly through his blond fringe.
"Hm." Roy gave him a critical once over, then sniffed and turned away. Edward pondered that scrutinizing look, as he made his cautious way forwards to stand at the motionless Dragon's head. Was the beast as interested in he as he was in it?
"This is one of the doorways to the kitchen," Roy announced, gesturing with one of his forepaws, replacing the limb on the stone with a thud that Edward felt through his boots. "There are larger ones, of course, and cellar pantries in the old dungeons, but this smaller galley was preferable to your Princess."
"I thought you said you scarcely bore witness to her, whilst she was here?" Edward blurted out, unthinking, then flinched with realisation.
The Dragon merely nodded. "She kept her distance, mageling, but we were not strangers in our entirety. For occasional necessities she was compelled to seek my audience. I shall leave you to your business; be alert to my summons."
And with that, Roy was gone, disappearing into the castle's labyrinth of corridors.
For a moment, Edward stared after him. The Dragon was an otherwordly, inscrutable creature; had he been human, Edward might have been tempted to attribute melancholy, even hurt, to the tone of those last words concerning the Princess… The Mage shook his head, ridding his body of the chill inspired by the Dragon's presence, and stepped into the kitchen, his mind momentarily relived of its burdens, fixated on the promise of food.
The Fullmetal Mage stared at the innocuous wooden door before him. Dark, aged wood, its long use was written upon it with scrawling sonnets of chipped and splintered inches, uneven edges and warped imperfections. Beyond the door might lie paradise, or the bitterest of disappointments. Edward's hand lingered on the cool metal of the latch, trembling a little, and not from the bite of iron's cold. The flickering, guttering light of hall torches, lit by the Mage mere minutes previous, illuminated the door with dancing, fluttering light, bringing its shadows and hollows to eerie life.
Edward squared his shoulder and drew in his breath. What lay beyond might damn him to an eternity of bored mindlessness behind stone walls. It might shatter yet another hope within his shattered-glass breast. But he was not Fullmetal for a lacking of courageous spirit.
With a firm, decisive flick of his wrist, the Mage clicked the latch up and strode purposefully into the room. And stopped dead, his eyes growing round as a Druid's circle.
Thick, layered with grumbling, groaning years, weighed with centuries of history, antiquity, modernity, classical and classified, the deeply satisfying scent of paper and parchment filled his nostrils. The library's air was refreshingly free of the dank moistness that clung to the castle like smog to a baby's lungs, it was heavy with an entirely different sort of weight, dust and destiny, ideas caught forever by strokes of ink to rustling paper.
It was a room of silent, watchful ghosts, conspicuous by their invisibility, yawning huge and hushed in the stillness of the room. Edward fancied he could feel the brush of their breath on his neck and his fingers, still pressed to the door handle, itched to rub at his hairline, to scrub away the tickly tingle.
Hungry golden eyes roamed the shelves, never pausing on nay single title, aided by the profusion of massive windows, paned with rare, expensive glass, that lit the room as if it were a sunlit courtyard.
Happiness chirped to life in his belly, a gleeful-singing skylark, and a boyish grin curved his lips. A library to rival the university's upper archives. He might insist upon living here. Untidily-scattered desks, complete with crusted-dry inkwells and straggly old quill feathers, kindled hope for the composition of his research notes warm in his breast.
His term of imprisonment, at first an oppressive and strangling duty, seemed, suddenly, entirely too short. He wondered if he might prevail upon the Dragon to extend it.
Walking as if upon the crackling motes of energy he controlled, Edward set to exploring his new wonderland.