Late that evening, Cyrus was perched in his favorite tree and pouted to himself. Florica was too busy to talk to him. Boamos was, well… Drunk. He was left to ponder everything on his own, still as confused as before.
"Is the higher air helping you, son?" Roger called from the ground.
Cyrus glanced down. The old alchemist was smiling up at him.
"Somewhat," Cyrus replied.
"I find it helps me as well. I suppose, that is one thing this camp has in its favor. The great outdoors." Roger grunted and ascended the tree.
"Don't fall and break a hip, old man." Cyrus mumbled under his breath, bitterly. A branch snapped and he glanced. Roger was already half way up the tree. "Hu, pretty spry for a geezer."
Roger hoisted himself onto the thick branch under Cyrus. "How are you doing? I'm sure all this is a shock for you."
His concern made Cyrus defensive. "I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, I'd actually like to apologize." Roger grinned. "I'm absolutely disgusted by the actions of your creator. So, I'll apologies for them. You haven't had a very good first impression of alchemists. I'd like to assure you, not all of us are bad."
Cyrus shrugged. He didn't blame Roger. He just didn't trust him. Not quite. He seemed to have a secret agenda.
"Let me repay you. If there is anything you wish to know about your kind or alchemy, I will do my best to answer it," Roger said.
Cyrus thought on the man's offer. He was surprised when something came to him. "What's it like to preform alchemy?"
Roger stroked his chin. "Well, it's invigorating, understanding the elements of one's world. Then once you understand, you are able to reconfigure it. It has helped me my whole life, and I've done my best to represent the art with passion and respect."
Cyrus sighed and pursed his lips. "Must be nice. Trovius says as a homunculus I can't perform alchemy."
"You know, you are not as limited in alchemy as you think you are." Roger began.
Cyrus raised his eyebrows but didn't speak.
"You yourself are an alchemic reaction. One that is completely self-sustaining and regenerative. Most likely, very soon, you will be able to manipulate the elements in your own body to a certain caliber. This is also alchemy." Roger explained.
"You mean I have a special skill that I don't know about?" The thought made Cyrus bitter. He hated his creator all over again. He could appreciate Roger's apology somewhat.
As if reading Cyrus' mind, Roger spoke up. "Yes. That also means there could be a way to restore your memories."
That grabbed Cyrus' attention. "R-really?"
"Memories are never truly gone. Only covered up. Though it is a long and tedious process, I have been successful a few times. Would this be something you would want?"
Cyrus thought hard. The only memory he had to go by was the fire… But, he was sure not all of his recollections were like that. Would he recall his creator?
Cyrus was curious, in a sick kind of way, what caused the moments in the tunnels. What had he done to provoke that military man in the first place? He wanted to know.
But, was Roger trying to force his hand? Was the old alchemist looking for a way to test the many theories and experiments he had collected over forty years of research?
"Would it affect the memories I have now, in this life?" Cyrus asked, at last.
"Not at all. Your forgotten memories would be added to the collection you have," Roger assured.
"What will it take to get them back?" Cyrus asked.
"A lot of research and patience. I will have to study your body chemistry, so I know where to begin," Roger said.
Cyrus' hand flew to his chest. It felt hot, like touching fire but there was no flame. He gasped.
"What is it, boy? What's wrong?" Roger asked.
Cyrus wasn't able to answer. The burning sensation was inside his chest. His Stone. He closed his eyes, willed the feeling to pass. But the pain grew.
He forgot where he was. The heat pulled him back into those tunnels. The black-eyed man stalked closer. His fire licked Cyrus' face.
Hot wind rushed by him, the branch slipping from under his body. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
The transmutation sparked under Darbus' hands, throwing him backwards into the tiled floor.
His assistant Bin ran to help him him.
"Sir! You're hurt!" Bin took Darbus' hands in his own.
Darbus cast his eyes over the red blisters covering his palms, as if he had grasped hot coals.
They both looked to the flaring transmutation circle. The smoke cleared. Empty air rewarded the effort. Darbus stood with Bin's help. He walked towards the markings. A weeks' worth of work… Worthless. He had studied Lyda's circle so carefully. He worked through sleepless nights to reverse the array and bring back their people's treasures. But he was missing what made the transmutation successful for Lyda.
"What happened?" A woman asked from behind. They turned. Julia, their Milosian host, stood in the dark temple's entrance. She watched as light ebbed out of the array, her blue eyes curious.
"A rebound," Darbus growled.
Julia rolled her eyes. "I see that. But what went wrong? What was the transmutation meant to do?"
"It was meant to reverse my sister's transmutation… Bring back the Stones she sent away to Amestris." He let out a frustrated grunt before kicking the chalk across the decorated tile. "But I'm missing the Stones… And without at least one of them, I can't bring them back."
"We will have to send more people into Amestris," Bin said, his tone sounding defeated. They never heard back from those already there. There were rumors they had been killed.
Julia walked to them, her footsteps slightly uneven. Her one leg heavy with an automail replacement. "Best not risk it again," Julia sat Darbus in a wooden pew and unfolded a cloth in her lap. An array was sewn into it, and she started the process of healing his burned hands. "If the transmutation rebounds and kills you, then who is left to control the Stone's power? You have time. Stay safe within Milos until you are ready to retrieve the Stones yourself. Use judgment."
"Every minute I waste is a minute my sister suffers," Darbus whispered.
Julia took his gaze, her face stony. "My people waited hundreds of years to regain these holy lands. If one of my ancestors had acted without judgment, we may still be lurking in the dark valleys below."
Darbus' eyes fell onto his mended hands. He failed to find his voice to respond.
She continued, "Be patient. Then strike when the time is right. If you act without judgment then you too will die, and then your sister will have no one," Julia paused, delicately. "Give Lyda the joy of hearing of your victory. Either from your mouth after her rescue or from the Golden Shores of paradise."
Falling.
Cyrus was lowered by an unseen force. His mind was peaceful. He couldn't recall where he was or why he was there. His mind was at peace… He didn't question.
Then he jolted, as if the force controlling his descent came to an abrupt stop.
He opened his eyes and saw nothing. He was in darkness. Now, he was worried. His body lifted upwards again. His anxiety began to rise. He was frantic, looking around himself. He saw two others by his side, but they were shrouded in shadow.
Light flooded the darkness. He turned his attention skyward. A pair of stone doors floated overhead. Slowly, they opened, let out a blinding light. A figure stood in the threshold, gazing down at him. A small, thin girl. Her face was obscured by shadow, gave her outline a heavenly glow. She reached for him with one hand, the other arm clutching a box for dear life.
Cyrus reached, felt a desperate longing for some kind of comfort. She withdrew her hand, and he whimpered at the loss. She opened the box in her arms and pulled out three pure white crystals. They emitted a glow that equaled the light behind the girl.
For a brief moment, her face was illuminated. Light skin, golden, auburn hair, and deep, sad eyes. Her face submerged back in shadow as she let the Stones fall. One found its mark in Cyrus' chest. He gasped, tried to remember how to breathe. Electricity surged through him.
The girl spoke in a light but somber tone. "It has to be this way."
Three separate doors, one under him, and two under his shadowed companions, thrust open. He spun to face the girl, reached up to her as her own doors began to close.
"I'm sorry…" She said.
Cyrus fell fast towards his own doors. The last of the girl vanished into darkness before he was consumed by it as well.
Cyrus awoke with a gasp. Trovius loomed overhead, helping him out of a pile of leaves. Roger had brought him back to consciousness with a transmutation array drawn in the dirt.
"Oh Cyrus my dear boy, are you alright?" Trovius panicked.
Cyrus glanced down at his chest, which no longer burned.
Shelta, Boamos, and a few other men from camp stood by. The men were most likely brought to carry Cyrus back to camp if Roger's array didn't work.
In normal circumstances, Cyrus would have been mortified, but his mind was still foggy. He looked between the two old alchemists and spoke. "I saw her."
"Saw who dear?" Shelta wondered.
"The person who created me."
A silence suspended the air.
"In a memory?" Trovius sounded hopeful. "Did you get them back?"
"What did she look like? Do you know if she is nearby?" Roger asked, seeming a tad nervous.
"Stop it, both of you." Shelta snapped at the men then turned back to Cyrus. "Tell us what you saw, dear."
Cyrus told them everything. The vision of the dark place and the girl who vanished. It was far from his normal memory of the tunnels and fire. But he didn't feel alive in the new memory. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He was recalling the moments before he was born. But, could he comprehend anything before the Stone gave him life? It was almost as if he was already there in that place, and the girl… Brought him back from the dead.
Up until then, Cyrus hated the faceless alchemist that created him. Now that she had a face, he felt guilty. There was desperation in her eyes and so much sadness. A look of hopelessness. The pure fear that reflected on the face of one who knew they were going to die. He must have looked equally distressed when on his knees in the tunnels… Gazing up into the black eyes of that man before his fire descended.
Cyrus was restless for the rest of the night. He lay awake in bed while the others slept. He could not stop thinking about her. The sad girl's face fixed on him, her hand reaching out to hold him. He raised his hand towards the roof of the tent, trying to reach for her.
He wondered what she was like. Perhaps like Shelta, the only mother figure he knew. Kind, understanding, warm.
Cyrus made a fist in the air. He wanted the girl, his mother, so badly the pain was crushing.
Wouldn't it be something if she appeared at the tent's entrance? Her relieved eyes would pool with tears and she'd run to him, desperate to wrap her arms around her son. She'd look into his face, explain through tearful sobs why she had to leave him and why he had lost his memories. She'd assure him they were safe. The man, his fire, and all other threats that followed them were gone. They could be together again.
Cyrus wasn't sure he could leave his new family, so he would convince his mother to stay with the gypsy caravan. She'd be happy to agree. There was only misery back in their home country of Creta, and she wanted him to be happy, after all.
He pushed the thought away, as it was causing him more pain then it was worth. No mother was coming for him, and there was not going to be a tearful reunion.
'Get over yourself,' he growled in his mind, ignoring the ache in his chest.
