Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. My thanks to the patience of Southpaw for proofing.
Thanks also for the reviews chaps, muchly appreciated.
If a good student of alchemy were to look beyond their texts and into the fabric of their customs they would find a practice older than the word 'alchemy', older even than Amestris.
Across the world there existed a few masters of this nascent science, hungry minds in pursuit of a single, incommensurable truth. This pursuit was so new that it had yet to be captured in a single word, but wheresoever a master roamed, they were sure to inspire wonder or fear in the hearts of the people who encountered them. Some would lure the water upwards and out of the sea, teeming down salty rain on amazed onlookers. Others would build great forts out of the wet earth itself, split boulders in two and make flat earth were there had once been rough terrain.
In what was then known as the Kiangsu province of Xing, Wei Po-Yang was seated as the most venerable and ambitious of all the old masters. He forged a school in the centre of Kiangsu's provincial capital and would often hold audience with the emperor himself. He lectured on what was then understood to be the magical movements of the sun and moon, explaining that a more methodical process was at work – one of science and reason, not of gods and sorcery. His disciples would hang on his every word, going out into the world with a fire in their bellies to learn more.
As the years passed and Po-Yang watched his pupils grow up and move on, the bitter wind of mortality began to blow through his soul. He had so much to accomplish but already he could feel himself grow old and frail. His hair had turned from black to grey, and grey to white; his nails had grown long and his joints stiff but still his hunger for truth burned feverishly in his very being.
He began work on a thesis, using the still unstable art of arrays and diagrams to design a curtain through which he could slip into a new skin of possibility and vitality. He called the thesis the 'Pill of Immortality', comparing his work to a pill one might take for the illness that is 'mortality.' He was thorough and canny, selecting only his most talented students to work along side him. He knew that if he coached them correctly, they could carry his torch forward – they could cultivate his science. While his teachings spread, he could lie dormant in the ether of unmarked time and await his rebirth into a world rich in the science of truth-seeking, a world that honored the science with the full respect it deserved.
Years later and even deeper in the clutches of old age, Po-Yang began to weigh the success of his ever growing school with the icy fingers of death. He was growing weaker by the day, and on some days he struggled to work at all. Though he would have liked to have perfected his methods more, the time had come for him to bid farewell to his students and propel himself into a future full of promise. He drew a vast array on the floor of the school and gathered his students about it.
"My students," Po-Yang began, "There is no more coaching I can give you. You must spread the blanket of all you have learned over the brightest and the most promising of our peoples. The science must survive. You must grow it: you must push it outwards – even to the flamboyant lands of Xerxes, bitter Ishbal and beyond. I, its father and the master of this house we call truth, will cast myself far into the future, ready to pluck our fruit when it is at its fullest and most liable to drop from the tree branch. This is the time when my science will need me the most. Longevity is the primary importance in this great triumph. Are we understood?" Po-Yang asked with pride and anxiety. He was met with a resounding 'Yes!' "Carry these small truths forward, plant them as seeds and I will be there, somewhere in the distance, waiting for the harvest."
Feeling it was finally time to bid their master farewell, some of the students grew anxious and scared. Po-Yang calmed them with his own confidence and stepped resolutely into the circle. He nodded to his most senior student who knelt, readying himself to activate the array. Po-Yang, turned to look at each of his students and smiled, "Careful study will open doors to secrets. Forge on. Good-bye."
With tears in his eyes, the student slammed his palms down on the array. The room exploded in a ferocious column of blue light. The students screamed for their teacher as they watched him begin to dissolve before them. Soon there was nothing but a ringing in their ears and a few remaining wisps of matter, drifting upwards and out into the future.
Eighteen Eighty-Five was the hottest year recorded that decade. The streets of Shaoshan, a small city in southern Xing, shimmered with the heat, the tar bubbling on the roads and roof tops. The grasses in the gardens had turned yellow and dogs lay stretched out, panting heavily on the stoops of the low houses.
None though, could surely be feeling the heat more than Fu Shi. She was only fifteen but had enough sense to know that a girl in her seventh month of pregnancy should not be hauling a sack of sweet potatoes in each hand. She stopped and wiped her brow, cursing the sweat that kept dripping into her eyes. She placed one sack on top of the other and sat down heavily on her makeshift chair.
A couple of businessmen strode by, looking at her with pity and gossip written clearly on their faces. One of them shouted back, "Whore," before they both exploded into laughter, one slapping the other on the back.
Shi popped a hand into the sack under her and drew out a sweet potato. Closing one eye, she took aim and flung the hard, pink vegetable. It hit one of the men clean on the back of the head. As he shouted and turned in surprise, she found purchase on another and managed to hit him on the nose with it.
He and his friend came marching towards her, shouting abuse as they did, cursing her for every whore and harlot of the century. She stood facing them with hands on hips, a smirk playing on her face and devilment dancing behind her black eyes.
One of the men grabbed her roughly by the chin and spat in her face, the warm spit feeling even more repulsive in the dry heat of high summer. Shi repressed a scream, not wishing to give them any satisfaction. Instead, she slapped the man with one hand as her other snaked into his belt and removed his silk handkerchief. She wiped her face roughly with it and threw it back at him. Noticing her sleight of hand with a scowl, he reached back a hand to strike her.
She flinched and readied herself for the blow but before it came, she was hit by something far more terrible. A lancing pain shot through her stomach. The man's hand came down, but found nothing except air as Shi bent herself double, clutching at her stomach. She screamed out and tried to brace herself with one hand but the pain was sapping any strength she may have had. She buckled onto her knees, howling through tears as the white hot pain continued to stab at her. The men, who seconds ago were nothing but thugs, began calling for help.
Thick blood was already pooling around her. Her eyes rolled wildly as she was wrenched and torn by the pain in her belly. There was no relenting as the agony seethed and grew in her insides until finally she collapsed forward into the arms of her abusers.
As a small crowd gathered, one woman noticed what others did not. A glistening mass, hidden somewhat by the folds of Fu Shi's skirts. The woman clutched at her breast and sobbed. The girl had lost the baby. Angered by the curious audience, she started pushing at the onlookers, trying to give the young girl some privacy as she lay pale and broken on the ground.
Alkahestrists and elders alike were shocked when two weeks later, Fu Shi gave birth to a baby boy.
The story of the tiny infant and the unusual circumstances of his birth spread across the city and soon the child had earned the nickname, Zai Sheng: the reborn.
On first hearing the peculiar moniker, the young mother smiled down at the little bundle in her arms and considered his pinched face and shock of black hair. Fu Shi's first born had been named by the city and she wasn't about to disagree. Little Zai Sheng Shi, against all odds, had thrust his way into the world in a flurry of notoriety and gossip, perhaps a sign of things to come.
Hughes watched with something akin to humour as his friend picked his way through the cooked breakfast he had lovingly prepared. Mustang's kitchen was an absolute culinary disaster. He had hundreds of cenz worth of cooking equipment but if you were to hunt through his larder you would find little more than a jar of capers and a tin of out of date corned beef. Hughes had tried his best to admonish the man but his ire was met with a yawn and an even, disinterested look.
Mustang, wont to carry his eccentricities all the way through to even the most basic task of eating, ate only the yolk from the fried egg, the centre from the toast and was currently in the process of levering the fatty part of the bacon from his plate onto Hughes'. He dropped the gelatinous string of fat on the plate with not so much as a 'do you mind?' Hughes stared at it with disbelief and looked up to be met with a wide, cheeky grin.
"You like the finer stuff, don't you Roy?" Hughes said with resignation, pushing the discarded fat to one side.
While Hughes cooked, the two men had spoken quite casually about the night before. Mustang laid down the law from the outset that whatever happened between himself and Hawkeye was completely off limits. Hughes accepted on the condition that he could bring it up over their lunch on Monday. Mustang agreed, already plotting how he could best distract his curious friend when the time came. Mustang's episode had come up and he tried his best to describe in detail exactly what it was he saw. It was something that lay between a thought and a dream and in the tempest of his hangover he struggled to put sense to the fragments in his mind. When he mentioned certain aspects of his recollection, Hughes would stop in his machinations at the stove and the two would ponder quietly. Occasionally, one or the other would throw up theories about the letter and the phone call. They would toy with the ideas for a while before the scant notions lost solidity in their pathetic lack of information.
Now, in the silence of eating, Hughes' mind was working overtime, despite the best efforts of his irritating companion.
"Roy-" Hughes began but tutted when he received no response. "Roy?"
Mustang was prodding the white of his egg with his fork and didn't bother to look up at the mention of his name. "Mm?"
Hughes could practically see the walls going up. He knew Mustang had a sixth sense for the onset of any serious conversation relating to him that didn't concern the pursuit of the Fuhrership. Hughes kicked him under the table.
Mustang grabbed his shin and looked at the ceiling, repressing a yelp of pain.
"Stop being childish." Hughes said flatly.
Mustang continued rubbing his shin and with his other hand snatched up a crust of toast and held it languidly, "I don't like the whites, the crust or the fat. You should know this by now." He said.
Hughes drawled out an "Uh-huh" Before leaning further across the table, forcing eye contact. "You know what I'm talking about."
Mustang popped the crust into his mouth and chewed noisily through a sip of coffee. Hughes spotted this as another well worn 'Mustang device.' When the alchemist didn't want to engage or tell the truth, he would inevitably find something with which to block, stop or cover his mouth. Whether it be his hand, a newspaper, a cup of coffee or in this instance, a piece of toast – he would always find something to provide a cloak for the words he was saying. Hughes had worked in Investigations long enough to feel saddened by this; they were the telltale signs of a habitual liar.
Mustang pushed his plate aside, the china bumping across the worn oak table. He leant forward, resting his chin on his upturned palms in mock attention and raised his eyebrows. He winked.
"You're an ass." Hughes said, laughing a little.
Mustang laughed too, leaning back and rubbing the back of his neck shyly. "Sorry." He said, before driving his knuckles into tired eyes. He looked at Hughes for a moment, before asking somewhat timidly. "Do we have to be upright for this conversation?"
Hughes threw his neck back with mock surprise. Mustang lowered his eyes to him in response.
"Don't get the wrong idea, Hughes -" he stood and started out the door, "let's carry on in the lounge. I have a feeling I'll need to lie down for this..."
Hughes smiled and cleared the plates before making his way into the lounge where he found Mustang stretched out on the chaise longue. He took a seat opposite him and was shocked to see the black, bright eyes of his friend staring straight at him. He looked cat-like, tentative and ready to spring away if threatened.
Hughes would never mention it to his friend, but it was Mustang's erstwhile war colleague and veteran medic, Dr Knox who suggested that an intervention was required. As well as being a coroner for the State, he was also something of an unwilling expert on ex service personnel. At a recent forensic conference, Hughes was joined in the bar by the weary doctor who wasted no time in bringing up Mustang's worsening condition. Hughes had followed up Knox's initial comment with a series of meetings. They discussed the alchemist's demeanour, his downslide and experiences of the war. Knox shared things with Hughes that Mustang had never mentioned – even in their darkest and most drunken dialogues. Stories of Mustang coming back from the front covered in the thick, repulsive sludge of human ash mixed with sweat. Stories of how the other soldiers would flinch if they saw the infamous alchemist move too quickly or how Knox had once treated him for severely blistered and cracked hands. It turned out he had been washing them with methylated spirits and sand.
Knox had explained that if Mustang's experiences weren't aired to even his closest companions then they were inside him and him alone. Sufferers of the neurosis were in a constant flux between wanting to share their experience, to make the world understand and feelings of shame or self-loathing. Apparently, Mustang was doing very well in keeping everything under lock and key as long as he had. Both Knox and Hughes agreed though that the higher he climbed and the more responsibility he acquired, the less able he was to cope. He now had two young charges in the guise of the Elrics after all, and they came complete with their own setbacks and burdens. To carry the many trials of the Elrics, wrestle with the spectres of thousands and continue to pursue his grand vision for Amestris, it was vital that Mustang had his feet planted firmly on solid ground. If he was going to succeed in spinning so many plates, he would need to make sure he had a steady hand but things just weren't working out that way.
Not only that, but his weight loss was also becoming obvious and although Hughes was confident that his old friend succeeded in hiding it from his team, he had started to notice the tiniest manifestations of something malignant in the psyche of the Colonel. One Friday when they were sat under the sepia lights of a grubby bar, Hughes glanced down to see Mustang rubbing his hands obsessively as he stared into the middle distance. It was in that same circular motion of washing one's hands. There were other times when Mustang, lost in a daze in the back of a car, would jump half a foot in the air when the door was slammed. The birthday party was the final straw for Hughes. These accumulated incidences seemed even more sinister than the dark days when he would catch the contemplative glances Mustang cast at his pistol, or the ominous transmutation circles drawn on every book, in every corner of his home. They signalled something deeper and more poisonous than even suicide – the internal ruination of a man.
Knox had cautioned that no matter how tempting it was to practice diplomacy in their conversation, Hughes must force himself to address the issue face on and with conviction. "A flat instrument," Knox had said, "makes the best hammer. This isn't surgery, Lieutenant Colonel, it's demolition. Hard, blunt blows."
Hughes took a long breath and even as he did he saw Mustang wince almost imperceptibly at what he was about to say. He took no measure to prolong the anxiety. "Battle fatigue." He said simply. Mustang merely continued to stare, his face failing to register any emotion at the mention of the term. Hughes was about to speak again when Mustang butted in through a cynical smile.
"Who have you spoken to about this, Hughes? If my health insurance goes up next month I'll know who to blame..."
Hughes didn't shirk under the intensity of the black eyed scrutiny. "No one. I didn't need to go running to the medical department. I work in investigations, we have enough training to -"
"Careful Hughes, you know I'll check up on this." Mustang's voice was sing-song.
Sometimes Hughes wondered if Mustang forgot just how long they had been friends. "Enough circumlocution, Roy. Nice try on turning the tables..." Hughes then continued without hesitation by listing his observations and those aspects of Mustang's behaviour that made it a certainty that he was suffering war neurosis.
"You're not sleeping. Look at you, you're a wreck. The flashbacks, loss of appetite, headaches, dizziness, heart palpitations, inability to relax, irritability-"
"I've always been irritable!" Mustang cut in defensively.
"Disruptive behaviour-" he paused with a frustrated sigh as he heard Mustang grumble an objection but then persisted nonetheless, "Feelings of losing control, increased arousal -"
Mustang sniggered immaturely and stretched further, but his eyes remained fixed on Hughes.
"Hyper-vigilance, your reaction to the mention of Ishbal, the way you snap out of your daydreaming. A door slams and you jump out of your skin. You hear sirens before anyone else, you see conspiracy where even I can't, your performance last night - that episode, Roy. Your reaction to those damn teeth." He saw Mustang close his eyes and open them again slowly. "I'm worried about you."
Mustang stayed quiet for a very long time, staring straight at Hughes. He wore the expression that struck fear into the young corporals and sergeants of headquarters but held no threat to a friend as time worn as Hughes. It was a mixture of distaste and loathing, and would be quite potent to someone unfamiliar with Mustang.
The alchemist broke off his stare and took a noisy, ragged breath. "I suppose there's no way we can avoid talking about this?"
Hughes shook his head. "You're thinner now than you were at the academy. I looked in your larder for some butter and found a three year old tin of corned beef."
Mustang laughed and propped himself up on his elbow. "So what do you propose, mister psychiatrist sir?"
Hughes was actually taken aback somewhat. He hadn't expected Mustang to be so quiet about the subject. He had expected ranting, accusations of condescension and general 'Mustang misdirection'. As it was, things were going relatively well – perhaps Hughes really had succeeded in being scary the night before. Unfortunately for both of them though, there was no proposition of a cure. There was no answer to Mustang's problem. The only hope for any improvement was to throw some light on the shadows of the young Colonel's mind. Both Hughes and Knox knew that Mustang would never dream of taking psychiatric medication in a million years.
"I don't know. Talk I suppose. Open up a little more." Hughes said, opening his palms to his friend.
Mustang lay back, dangling his arm over the edge of the chaise longue and playing with the pattern of the rug beneath him. He felt the slow release of poison into his mind, the same petulance and acid from the night before but he fought it back, trying his best to find trust somewhere inside him and indulge his dearest friend's worry. He knew that he wasn't well, that Hughes had noticed and that the conversation was a long time coming. He also knew that following his concessions from the previous night, Hughes would no longer entertain his tricks of smoke and mirrors. He sat up straight and folded his arms, then unfolded them with a huff; he wanted to present as being as honest and as straightforward as possible.
"Listen, Hughes." Mustang started then stopped dead, a confused look on his face.
Hughes, crossed and uncrossed his legs with impatience while he watched Mustang struggle with whatever he was about to say. "You done, Roy?"
Mustang smiled sarcastically, then rolled his eyes, sat up even straighter and began to talk, the words tumbling out of him in one great, staccato itinerary of personal disaster. "Okay. You're right. Here goes. Okay. I – look, Hughes." He growled, closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, began. "Yes – I'm wrestling demons. Yes – I've lost weight. I can't sleep and I feel a little bit like the world is making less and less sense to me. I'm angry at the slightest things, I'm irrational – more irrational –" he stopped to take a breath before continuing with fervour, "When I first saw the teeth all I could think of were the bodies I left behind in Ishbal, because that's about all I did leave behind and now all I can think of is that poor, abysmal wretch of a woman who I think is my mother but I can't quite be sure. I think someone may be after me, perhaps they're even making a threat against my life, but I can't be sure. I think Bradley is on to me but I can't be sure. I think those damn Elric kids are okay but I can't be sure."
Hughes could see that Mustang's confession was in danger of derailing him. He tried to intervene with a supportive word but his friend's outpouring continued unabated.
"I fell getting out of the bath on Monday and couldn't bring myself to get off the floor for two hours, I forgot how to spell 'Amestris' the other week when I was drafting a report and sometimes I can't remember what day it is or what rank I am. Sometimes I wake up and think I'm still in Ishbal, sometimes I wake up and I don't know where I am, or who I am. My head hurts more or less constantly, I have a recurrent shake in my left hand and I go through about 6 bars of soap a week – I've developed a bit of a habit of unwarranted hand-washing – I'm sure you've noticed. Suffice to say, I know I need help and I know that you know that too. I have done for a while. I'm sorry for ignoring you and making you worry. I know that Christmas was burgled and you hid it from me which is fine and I know that you and Knox have been speaking about all this, so I'm sorry for trying to trick you before."
Here Hughes tried to cut in with an apology of his own but was stopped again.
"Look – don't apologise Hughes. It's okay, really. I would have lied to me too and I know you would never go anywhere near the medical department because of that terrifying matron with the big hands." Mustang smiled warmly at his friend. "Thank you for being such a persistent, annoying pest of a friend and grabbing me by the scruff of the neck. Thanks too for going to all the trouble of looking into this. Even if there's nothing we can do just now, it's nice to know that I'm not making this up as I go along."
Hughes smiled back shyly, still somewhat shaken by what must have been a record number of words for Mustang to have spoken all in one go. "Well, if anyone was going to, it would be you..."
Mustang stood and held out his arms in invitation to a brotherly embrace. Hughes, though a little suspicious of Mustang's sudden display of warmth, stood proudly and approached his friend with arms wide open and ready for the hug. At the very last moment, Mustang ducked under Hughes' outstretched arms and delivered a sharp smack to the back of his head on the way past.
"You'll never learn, Hughes." He called back as he made his way up the stairs two at a time, stopping at the small landing to call back. "Let me get a wash and then we're going out to talk over this letter business some more. I need a drink."
Hughes adjusted his glasses and crouched to see Mustang disappear off the landing and up the stairs. "What the hell was that?" He asked himself before moving into the kitchen to clear up from breakfast.
