Disclaimer: I do not own FMA at all. This is purely for entertainment purposes.

Author's Note: I had a review about Dawn's name and it said that she had a very 'Mary Sue' name due to the fact that I chose both time of day and a flower.

Here's my reasoning for Dawn's name: One, flower names are incredibly common recurrences throughout history and every culture, and I incorporate some Chinese (Xiao-Hua) which means 'little flower' as a reference to both her heritage and her name. Rose is an incredibly common name, in fact being very popular during that time period. Two, I actually thought it fit with what I wanted of her. 'Dawn' means a new beginning. My character was getting a 'new beginning'. Three, it was a name I'd thought about for a child of my own at one time. While it wound up being too 'trendy' to me eventually despite the oldness of the names involved, I thought it would fit with the story as a dying mother's 'last wish'. A name is a wish a parent makes for their child and Abby, Dawn's mother, had picked it out. It also would fit with her age considering she was only sixteen. Had Roy been allowed to participate, Dawn would have likely gotten a far different name. Possibly something relating to his own parents. Still, it didn't happen.

So, while Dawn's name is very 'Mary Sue', please forgive it. It might be a 'weak name', but it also has certain value. It embodies her very well. New beginnings and a fragile flower with sharp thorns. She's still a work in progress, not everyone loves her, and I hope you continue to like her.

-/-/-/-

Chapter 11: In Which There is War

.

When Dad came home, his entire body language screamed tension. By the look of absolute panic on my face, I could guess he knew I knew. "Come here." I went to him immediately without a word and found his arms wrapped around me even as I dissolved into tears at his embrace. I wasn't sure what I said, it was a pretty incoherent babble, but he smoothed at my hair and hugged me as I hugged him like I was drowning.

In a very metaphorical sense, I was.

Eventually, we piled onto the couch with me cuddled into his side and his arm about my shoulders. I listened as he spoke on the phone, the base next to his leg and the cord connecting it to the wall running nearly across the room. "Yes, I have to go," he told my grandmother as she audibly fretted over the line.

"And what about Dawn? Are you going to send her to us, Roy?"

"I'd rather not disrupt her from school," he replied. "Not after spending so long to settle her here."

"She can't stay there by herself. Oh… It's a shame Barty's working otherwise we'd both come to stay, but…"

"If I need to, I can send her to you. I can have Mrs. Liu watch out for my apartment."

"Roy," she chided. "I can at least come over myself for a while. If it goes on too long, I'd bring her back with me, but…"

"Sarah, it's going to be at least six months," he told her. I gripped his shirt. His hand ran soothingly over my back. "This stupid civil war is going into full mobilization and…" He sighed. "I wish they'd stop fighting. I don't even really know why this all started in the first place."

"I heard rumor of the child," Grandma told him.

"Before that," he sighed. "Before that child was killed, it was tense. I don't know what started it at all. Whatever happened, it was like fire put to kindling."

"Speaking of fire, do you think your ability will be good enough to survive?"

"I don't know," Dad admitted honestly. "But I've made a few promises… and they're ones I plan on keeping." His hand soothed at me as he looked down. "I promised to survive if I was sent out. I promised I'd always come home… and I promised you that I'd never leave her behind."

Heavy silence was heard on the line before a choked sob echoed to us from Central. "Oh, Roy."

"It's not a death sentence, Sarah," he told Grandma. "Yes, I'll be going out… but I won't go out there to die."

I just hoped he wasn't lying… He had to survive. If not for me, then for the brothers. I clung to my daddy that night, burrowed into his bed with him, and wishing the sun wouldn't come again because then, at least, he'd not be sent away.

.

The next day, Grandma took a train to East City and had followed directions to the apartment for she arrived while I was at school and Dad was busy making arrangements for his absence.

When I came home, he had already come home to let her in and they were quietly talking when I pushed open the door. Their words silenced and I looked at them in confusion and fear. "Dawn," smiled Grandma. "Come here. You've grown so much."

It was a nicety but one I had to pay attention to. I wandered over and climbed up into her lap, earning a grunt and an 'oomph, you've gotten so big!' from her. I cuddled, looking to Dad. "You're not going to tell her 'hello'?" he asked, vaguely warning me about my niceties.

"Be gentle, Roy," Grandma chided before pressing a kiss in to my hair. "She's afraid."

"I know. She's barely spoken…" He looked a bit pained at that.

"You'll just have to write lots of letters," Grandma smiled encouragingly. My eyes didn't leave Dad even as I clung to her. "Isn't that right, Dawn?" I nodded and was hugged again. "Oh, baby girl, you're a sweetie."

My eyes burned with unshed tears and I wanted to scream and throw a fit. I fought against it but my nose betrayed me and I sniffed loudly. The action, naturally, made some tears fall. "Xiao-Hua," mourned my father, fingers dabbing at my tears, and I climbed from Grandma to him and he held me close, tucking my head under his chin. My chin wobbled as I fought tears though I didn't have much success.

"Please don't go?" I begged, even if I knew it was a fruitless plea.

"You know I have to," he murmured, his chest rumbling with his voice. I closed my eyes, wishing I could make the war go away. That way Dad wouldn't have to go and Uncle Maes wouldn't have to stay away. Grandma was looking at me with pity, an expression I both appreciated and hated.

All too soon, I was sent to take a bath and settle down for bed. Dad took the couch, freeing up his bed for Grandma. Or, should I say, Dad would have taken the couch except for the fact that I was pretty much behaving like a limpet. Thankfully, he assented to my behavior and chose to sleep in my bed with me. Thankfully, he and I both fit despite it being a single bed.

He clung to me as much as I clung to him because we both knew all too soon he'd be gone.

.

The next day, Dad left. Grandma kept me home from school so we could see him off and I watched as he boarded a train to head out to Ishval. He was mixed in with so many other blue uniforms, but I kept track of him. I could also see Mr. Armstrong in the crowd because he stood head-and-shoulders above the rest. He also was very unique…

My main focus, of course, was on my Dad as Grandma stood just behind me with her hands on my shoulders. He glanced up once before he vanished within the train and raised his hand in obvious farewell. I waved back, my eyes streaming with tears. I knew he had his rucksack of things and among those items was a picture of us taken just that summer. I knew he would be as safe as he possibly could.

I couldn't see him from the windows of the train from where we stood, but we weren't permitted on the platform with the embarking soldiers. Grandma thankfully didn't lie to me. She didn't tell me he'd come back. She knew it would be a statement that could easily become a lie.

"Come on," she murmured as the train blew its whistle. "We need to go." I looked up at her and then nodded solemnly before looking to the train Dad had gotten onto. I watched as it shuddered and began to chug away. I watched as it carried him east to war.

"Okay," I whispered. She took my hand and guided me from the station, past crowds of other people who had waved off their family.

I'd like to say I didn't take it hard but… I took it hard. I didn't speak except for monosyllabic, dispirited words for the rest of the day.

.

Xiao-Hua,

I'm doing well here in Ishval. I've not seen your Uncle Maes, yet, but perhaps I will in time. People are shuffled around all the time out here. I was assigned some guards, if it makes you feel better. Apparently, each State Alchemist has three or four assigned to them so to better ensure the capability of the alchemist.

One thing I wish was different was that it wasn't so hot out here. There isn't very much in the way of trees, either. It's either sand or scrub brush like scraggly bushes and hardy grasses. Our current encampment is in an abandoned village and I am certain we'll be going on soon.

I read onwards, looking at the words hidden within the words even as my grandmother soothed her hands over my hair. He mentioned fighting in passing, of course, and how it was an honor to serve one's country. I wondered if he'd spoken to Mr. Armstrong.

Despite this, I could sense the vague discontent in his words. He wanted to come home. He didn't want to be separated from me. He didn't blatantly say he wanted to come home, naturally, but he said he missed me.

"What's it say, baby girl?" crooned Grandma. I handed the letter silently to her and she took it, pressing a kiss to my hair. "He sounds like he's doing alright," she mused. When I didn't immediately respond, she sighed wearily. "Dawn, you can't keep moping."

"Yes, I can," I returned mulishly. She popped me for that, earning a yelp. I turned to her, rubbing at the ear she'd boxed as I stared with wide eyes.

"Young lady, that's no way to talk to your grandmother," she scolded firmly. The hard look gentled. "I know why you're upset," she added. "I know you miss your father. But you can't take it out on everyone else." I sighed, lowering my hand and my eyes. She took my chin and forced me to look at her. "Now, are we going to write a letter back to him? And to your Uncle Maes?"

"What if he doesn't come back? What if neither of them come back?" I asked. "What happens then?"

"What happens to you, you mean?" she asked gently. I nodded. "I'd take you home with me, sweetheart. You won't go to an orphanage."

"I know," I mumbled. "But… Dad."

"It would hurt a lot to lose him," she admitted. "After he'd become so close…" I swallowed and nodded. "Well, it would hurt." She sighed, gaze pained as she looked at me. She even smoothed a hand along my face. "But we would do everything we could to remember him." I nodded quietly. "Let's write a letter," she encouraged. "Let's give him a reason to come home."

.

The letters I got back were pretty frequent as school progressed as normal. I got back into the habit of speaking without behaving like a brat, especially at school, and used my studies as a form of distraction. Grandma and I took a train ride back to Central every other weekend, arriving late on Friday and leaving again on Sunday to start all over again. Grandpa, of course, was as worried as the rest of our family but his job didn't allow him to take off.

I studied alchemy, the only way I felt close to Dad still. I did as told, hardly mischievous like I'd once been. My thoughts were generally a long way from wherever I was at the moment despite working hard and doing what I needed to do for whatever I needed to take care of.

My friendships suffered some, too. Not all the kids had suffered the loss of a parent being shipped out and, yes, many of them had been bummed when they'd first seen them off. I, however, was taking it a lot harder than any of them and no one, not even Laura, understood.

I mostly thought about how much the world would change if my father didn't come home. I thought about having to move back to Central, to my old friends, and to possibly lose everything I had here with him. I thought about the brothers, Ed-something and the big one that Dad had found. I thought about Miss Hawkeye, who loved him and would possibly grieve if she found out he was dead. I thought about Uncle Maes, who was out there too. I thought about what would happen if he came back without Dad and how he'd be affected.

Then I thought about it in a larger perspective. I was thinking about things in a personal way and from a barely-remembered story. In the larger scheme of things, Dad wasn't that important. He was a State Alchemist, sure, and the Flame Alchemist to boot… but that meant little in the grand scheme of things. Except for his family and a chiseled name on a headstone and possibly a monument with another chiseled name, very few would really miss him. He was merely an honorary Major, someone who hadn't done any great deeds of note. He wouldn't really be missed by the military except for the fact he'd not given over the secret ways of the fire alchemy. In fact, his journal containing the notes that Miss Hawkeye had given him had been hidden from everyone except for me. Only I knew about the loose panel underneath the sideboard in the dining room. Only I knew that beneath that piece of furniture and the short board was a snugly-fit cedar box with all the notes he'd worked on. And he had told me that, should he die, I was to make sure it stayed safe. I think he wanted me to give it back to Miss Hawkeye if he died, but I wasn't certain.

Still, Dad wasn't that big of a deal. Sure, he'd found those boys. Sure, he meant something to some people… but he wasn't indispensable.

And the fact that his life wasn't guaranteed scared me far more than I was willing to admit.

.

Winter Solstice came again and Grandma, after speaking to Mrs. Liu, closed the apartment and took me back with her to Central for the holidays. Dad and Uncle Maes were still in Ishval though they had managed to find each other by this point. Miss Hawkeye had apparently appeared there, too, and Dad said in a letter he was shocked that she'd gone into the military.

He also made mention that he'd been the one to suggest it, too.

I got a letter from her as well, the unfamiliar writing pretty and loopy even as I interpreted it. I wrote a letter back, responding to her kindness and letting her know about some small things. Dad had encouraged it in the letter that came with it, saying that she had no one to write to back home. Everyone she had contact with was in the military… and the one little girl of her one-time lover.

By this point, I was collecting the various letters in boxes with each person getting a box. I also organized by date so that it would be a positive progression of time. When we went to Central, Grandma had written a letter to say we would be staying there and that we wished Dad and his friends a good Winter Solstice.

Our Winter Solstice had been very subdued as none of us had the heart to do anything without the fourth member of our family.

Despite my attentiveness and advanced nature, the letters sent to me were watered down. Dad saw action, I could tell by what few things he did put in, but in each written sentence there was a form of… tension that didn't quite match the levity of what he was talking about. That same tension echoed across Miss Hawkeye and Uncle Maes's letters, too. It had something to do with the writing, I eventually decided, but no matter how I pressed they didn't illuminate upon what was bothering them.

Uncle Maes, I read one day after the New Year, had been split from Miss Hawkeye and Dad into another unit. He told me about the man, Armstrong, and commented on his strong alchemy. His supposition was that I'd like Armstrong and was amused when he learned I'd met the man.

Then I started getting letters from him, too. Armstrong's writing was as flowery as the man had behaved but there was a sort of strength to the forming of his letters. It oddly suited him. However, if there was something off in the words of my father's, my uncle's, and Miss Hawkeye's words… there was something practically screaming issues with Mr. Armstrong's.

He talked about how it was far harder to serve one's country than he'd thought and how it was a relief to write to someone who was innocent. There had been evidence of tearstains on his papers and offhanded remarks about Kimblee, a man I'd briefly met once and hadn't liked at all. What was left unsaid between all four military people's letters painted a dark picture for me, one that worried me endlessly. I think Grandma picked up on it, too, but she didn't speculate with me even though I tried to talk to her about it.

Finally, one day, I got a letter from Uncle Maes saying that Mr. Armstrong had been sent back home to Central due to disobedience. He also strongly encouraged me to go see him, hinting that he'd appreciate it. I in turn showed the letter to my grandmother and she frowned thoughtfully.

Thankfully, she agreed to a trip.

.

It had taken some time to ask around and find out where Mr. Armstrong was but, finally, I learned about it. He'd spent a short stint in the hospital before choosing to be discharged and went home to his family's estate.

When I found out where he lived, however, I was in for a shock.

"That's a big house," I mumbled to my grandmother who had come along with me. We both stared at the gate of the Armstrong Estate and right through it to the huge house across a sweeping lawn.

"That's what some call a mansion," Grandma told me. She swallowed and I agreed with the sentiment. "Well, I'm glad we phoned ahead." She moved up to the gate and pressed a button set into a box with a grill.

"Who is it?" asked a tinny voice from the speaker.

"This is Sarah Edgecombe and her granddaughter, Dawn Mustang. Mr. Alex Armstrong is supposed to be expecting us?" Grandma said somewhat tentatively. There was a long silence. "We called ahead," she added.

"One moment." There was a long, undefinable moment before a man appeared from what I guessed to be a guardhouse somewhere just out of sight. The man eyed us speculatively before opening the side gate that wasn't the main one and motioned for us to enter.

"Welcome to the Armstrong Estate," he bowed slightly before closing the gate firmly. "We'll take the car up to the main house so you ladies don't have to walk." He motioned to the car he meant, ironically just in front of the guardhouse I'd postulated on, and we slipped into the backseat after he opened the door. He didn't say another word as he drove us up to the entrance.

The two women who greeted us there were… likely related. One was tall, willowy, and not very beautiful with blonde hair that matched Mr. Armstrong's in color and a natural curl that mimicked his forelock that hadn't been shaved off. She looked worried even as we got out, Grandma taking my hand, and forced a small smile onto her face. The other one was far younger, perhaps her daughter, and had that same popularly blonde hair with that same errant curl that popped up. She had blue eyes where her mother's eyes were brown and she was very pretty all considered. She looked as worried as the older woman but less severe.

"Greetings," the older woman said. "I'm Emelia Armstrong and this is my youngest daughter, Catherine." The younger woman bowed a little. "I hear you're here to see my son?"

"Yes, Mrs. Armstrong," Grandma told her. "This one's uncle asked her to." The curious blink at me was a bit more focused. "Apparently Dawn met Mr. Armstrong when he visited East City right before he was drafted to go to Ishval. Maes, her adoptive uncle, thinks she can help him."

"And you believe this to be possible, too?" asked the Armstrong matriarch.

"Dawn has a way about her, I can attest to that," Grandma told the woman seriously. "She's been someone who has irrevocably changed my life and not just because I'm her grandmother." She offered a slightly bitter smile. "Her mother died in childbirth… but she has reminded me that, though my daughter is gone, a part of her still remains and I love Dawn all the more for it." I looked up at her before deliberately letting go of her hand. She made to grab at me again, but I went up to the two Armstrong women and looked at them seriously even as they looked at me with mild curiosity.

"Uncle Maes said he was hurting," I told them. "He said something happened that really hurt Mr. Armstrong. I want to help."

"What's the worst that can happen, Mother?" Catherine asked of the woman beside her quietly. "Perhaps this is what Alex needs?"

"Perhaps you're right," murmured Emelia. "Please come in," she said to us. "I've been rude long enough without inviting you in properly." We went into the large mansion and I looked around briefly before having my attention drawn to an unmistakable, actual maid. I'd never seen a maid dressed in an actual black dress with white apron and cap before, but she was genuinely there in front of us. "Henrietta, please go get Alex for us. Oh, and send someone with a service. We'll be in the parlor."

"Yes, ma'am," assented the woman before hurrying off. I found my shoulder being taken by my grandmother again as we followed the two women into the aforementioned parlor.

"I apologize that my husband isn't here to greet you as well, but he does have things he needs to take care of," Emelia told my grandmother.

"How old are you, Dawn?" asked Catherine. I looked at her even as Grandma silently directed me to sit down.

"I'm nearly seven," I told her.

"Seven? Really?" she marveled. I nodded. "And how many military people do you know?"

"Not many very well," I admitted. "There's my dad and my Uncle Maes. I've been writing Miss Hawkeye, too, and spent a little time writing Mr. Armstrong when he was in Ishval. I've never met Miss Hawkeye face to face, though."

"Anyone else?" I shook my head.

"I met a lot of military people, but I don't really know them."

She smiled. "You're a very smart girl."

"She is," Grandma told her with a touch of pride. "She's already practicing alchemy. I mostly blame her father on that one, though." Both women looked surprised even as a tea set was placed on the table.

"Really? That's a very young age," Emelia noted. "Would you like some tea?" As a proper hostess, Catherine was the one pressed into service to distribute the cups but even as Grandma received one, Mr. Armstrong appeared.

He looked haggard, which was kind of impressive considering he still looked fairly kept up and neat. There were dark circles under his eyes and a fathomless sort of pain I could immediately see in them. His clothes were clean and unrumpled, but they weren't the military blues so he hadn't been intending to go to work today or so I guessed. His curl didn't seem quite right nor did his mustache even though both had been waxed. Perhaps it was more rote than anything.

"Alex, dear, come say hello to our guests," Emelia encouraged as I mentally catalogued his appearance. His gaze slid dully over us before offering a slight bow.

I was on my feet and moving towards him before I even registered what I was doing. It was definitely before he gave a proper greeting. "Hello, Mr. Armstrong," I greeted once I was about a meter away. He looked at me quizzically before I added, "Remember me? I'm Dawn Mustang." His eyes widened at the reintroduction. "Can you show me your alchemy?" I asked disingenuously, wondering vaguely if this was appropriate to demand of him. "Uncle Maes said it was really impressive."

"Of… of course," he offered. "I would be honored." I grinned.

"Then I can show you mine! But don't tell Dad I showed you, alright? He'd be mad at me if I did alchemy away from where he could keep an eye on me!"

And like that, I had him hooked. I could see it. There was something in his gaze that wasn't happy still but there was something else alongside that sadness that gave me hope.

Ten minutes later, we were outside behind the house and he was showing me these fist-weapons he had. "Wow. I bet it'd hurt if you hit someone with those," I mused aloud, lifting one of the heavy metal things.

"Yes… I hurt a lot of people with them," he admitted, looking shamed. I looked up, seeing the tears standing in his eyes.

"It's okay to cry," I blurted before wincing. He sniffed loudly, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief he pulled out.

"I've cried perhaps too much lately," he admitted gruffly.

"But you have to cry sometimes," I tried to rationalize. "Crying is the way you get the sadness out so it doesn't hurt you so much." I fought a wince at how childish that sounded. Looking down at the gauntlet, I wondered how I could make him feel better. "Mr. Armstrong, do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he said shortly. "Not to a child like you. It would be wrong." I looked up at him.

"Can I guess?" He looked surprised by the words. "You killed people." He winced at my matter-of-fact tone. "Or you watched people die," I added. "And you found out you didn't like that. That it hurt you when you saw them hurt."

"Yes," he admitted, curious of me and introspective all at once. "I… I killed and watched others die…" His voice choked and I felt my own tears burn at my eyes upon witnessing his obvious grief.

"You're a really nice person, Mr. Armstrong," I told him. "And nice people don't like it when others feel pain." He was sobbing now. I'd reduced a full-grown man to tears. It was not something I particularly liked the feeling of. I reached across the intervening space to the man who was hunched in his chair, hands pressed to his face, and unaware of my proximity. I patted that bald head, finding a short stubble covering parts of it. He'd not shaved that head recently, I realized. I also realized it was really weird to pat a bald man on the head.

Ludicrous moments aside, I watched him look up with tears running down his face and surprise in his eyes. "It's okay to cry. But… it's not okay to cry forever. Grandma pops me if I sulk too long with Daddy gone." He sniffed noisily, searching for his handkerchief. Upon finding it, he mopped at his face.

"You're a very smart little girl," he told me in that deep voice of his currently rough with emotion.

"Because I've got lots of smart people around me," I told him.

"And what does the smart girl think I should do?" I tried to figure out a good way to help him. He was so gentle despite his muscular build that he wasn't really suited to military life. He wasn't a soldier. He was more of a guardian.

"Do you want to leave the military?" He thought about it before sighing.

"No. Not truly. It's a long-standing tradition that the men of the Armstrong family enlist in the military, continuing our generations of contributions to Amestris."

"Then maybe find something in the military that won't make you cry?" He looked at me then. I'd desisted from saying 'make you kill people' simply because, really, that was probably very rude and very possibly unlikely. He looked at me. "Not everyone has to be a soldier to be… military?" I was thinking of parts of the military that never really got deployed, such as those who helped maintain the infrastructure of the military. I'm sure he wouldn't like being a desk jockey for the rest of his life, but he could probably find something that would keep him at home.

"I probably won't have to worry about that anymore," he admitted in his deep voice. "I disobeyed and they don't deploy disobedient soldiers."

"Are they going to make you quit?"

"Discharge me? Maybe," he admitted. "But there might be other options."

The darkness wasn't gone from his eyes. I knew it would take a very long time if ever for it to go. But I smiled. He smiled, too.

"Mr. Armstrong? Can you show me your alchemy?" Perhaps he associated bad things with his alchemy right now, but if he did something and I behaved suitably impressed… Well, perhaps it wouldn't be so horrible to think about for him in the future.

"Of course," he rumbled, taking the fist-weapon from me and inserting his hand into it. The thing was a cross between a steel gauntlet and spiked steel knuckles. The part that fitted over the back of his hand had a transmutation circle inscribed in it and I could easily guess that his favorite method of transmutation involved copious amounts of physical effort that revolved around punching.

I was right.

My eyes bulged as he punched his fist down onto the turf just beyond the porch we'd been sitting on as alchemy happened. It was impressive. It was very impressive.

It was also kind of awesome.

I wouldn't learn until much later that alchemists that did static transmutations from some material to some other form of that same material had stylistic quirks. Generally, it came about when a particularly adept alchemist's mind would drift while transmuting something and, as a result, absently add details to the transmutation so long as it was within the original design's parameters simply because they thought in certain ways. I would, of course, develop my own stylistic quirks as I got older. I would later learn that a certain blonde teenager had an inclination to make ugly gargoyles and that a certain muscle-bound man I had been comforting tended towards some narcissistic tendencies with his 'self-portrait' statues.

Right now? The man had transmuted a beautiful statue that was of a girlish figure.

It took me a few seconds for me to realize that the girl statue was based off of a real-life person…

Me.

I gaped at the statue even as he turned to look at me with some pride. My mind was unhelpfully blank, shocked into silence by this tribute to me of all people. Thankfully, the man accepted this lack of response and the accompanying expression as one of amazement and awe. I was amazed. I was awed.

I was also horribly embarrassed.

"Is that supposed to be me?" I asked carefully.

"Of course. I wished to show you what I was capable of," he smiled from behind his bushy mustache. I looked to him, red-faced and wide-eyed. "Don't worry," he added, correctly interpreting my emotions. "It was merely a demonstration. You may transmute that if you wish to. We can correct the lawn later."

I nodded, blown away by the man's sweetness yet again. Of course, I had absolutely no idea what to do with a statue of me as a base for transmutation. There was even a largish divot in the yard where he'd pulled the soil up to form the statue on the blocky pedestal.

Still, I began to draw with some chalk he easily provided for me on the base, crouching to do so. I'd leave it, I decided, and transmute the stuff on top. What I was going to transmute was still not very clear to me but I had a few ideas.

One stuck out to me in particular. I'd once read a story a long, long time ago about a lion and a mouse. It was, of course, a moralistic story. I didn't remember the details, but I liked the idea.

It was also something I could use as a symbol of both strength and gentleness, something I saw Mr. Armstrong as.

I barely registered Grandma and the other women coming into the backyard with Mr. Armstrong and me. I didn't see the new addition to the group of an older man with a very impressive beard waxed into position.

I was focused on my statue and I pressed my hand to the transmutation circle, focusing on what I wanted to show the kind man. Because my transmutation was 'bulkier', it would also be smaller in terms of height.

Transmutation energy crackled as I focused on a lion bound by rope as a mouse chewed at the bindings.

It came together beautifully and I looked at Mr. Armstrong with a smile. He looked impressed even with my flaws visible and came closer. "I know this story," he mused. "It's a very old one." I smiled in return.

"It's kind of fitting, don't you think?" He gave me a curious look. "Well, we can all be the lion, who lets the mouse live another day not believing to be repaid for the kindness… or we can be the mouse, who returns kindness as it was given to him. It doesn't matter how strong you are or how powerless you seem… We can all make a difference even if we don't think the tiny things will amount to anything." He was visibly surprised by this.

"Yes, I suppose so." He looked at the statue before kneeling down near me. "Would you like some help refining your technique? Perhaps one day you'll become the next Strongarm." I smiled at him.

"I don't want to be a State Alchemist," I told him. "I want to be an alchemist who is a veterinarian, too. I want to redesign all the zoos and make them better for animals all over Amestris, maybe even the world." He gave me an interested look.

"That sounds like a very worthy task. Would you like to learn?" I nodded eagerly, glad I was helping him even as he helped me.

When we finally had to go, I knew I'd not healed Mr. Armstrong… but I had helped him get a little better and I think his family appreciated that greatly. My grandmother certainly seemed proud of me even as an invitation was extended towards us to return.

.

What little rumors I heard out of Ishval weren't great. In fact, it sounded like a bloodbath. I heard about the leader of the Ishvalans being executed along with his people on order of the Fuhrer and I knew my Uncle Maes had been there because he'd mentioned it in a letter. I heard about some attacks on a hospital, and I heard Dad was taken away from the direct fighting for a period though he refused to explain what he was doing. All Miss Hawkeye would say about it was that she knew he seemed more stressed than ever, which was very bad.

Amid the various letters, I knew that Uncle Maes had been elevated several ranks. I guessed that, from the death tolls, they were trying to plug up the holes of command and Uncle Maes was one of those picked. It didn't mean he was necessarily safer but, instead, more competent than the next guy. Miss Hawkeye spoke of promotion as well due to her achievements despite being technically just from the Academy. She still hadn't told me what she did even though Dad did. He said she was really good at long-range shooting. I guessed that meant she was a sniper, which possibly meant she had a larger kill-count than others because snipers usually had to be both remote and intimate with their kills thanks to high-powered rifles equipped with high-powered scopes. Dad hadn't been promoted yet, though.

I wrote the three of them about the trip to see Mr. Armstrong. Uncle Maes had been grateful in his response and Dad proud that I'd gone to help another. Miss Hawkeye seemed impressed that I'd do it, having not learned enough of my character though letters.

I also incidentally learned that Uncle Maes was still seeing Miss Harlow and that it was serious enough that he hoped she was still waiting for him when he returned from war. He also said his glasses had been cracked and that the line across his vision was annoying.

Everything was muddled, though. All of what I heard came through news sources, disjointed letters that aimed at keeping me pure, and my own guesswork. I had no concrete timeline of what was going on out there. I only knew that I kept getting letters from the three that mattered to me. With Mr. Armstrong safe (and that invitation in the works to be honored fairly soon again), I had one less person to worry about on the physical side of things.

The mental, though, I knew no one was safe… especially myself considering how much I worried. I knew others worried, too, but I felt like I had more at stake than anyone else. Logically, I knew I was being foolish. My heart, however, basically ignored my logic.

Still, I persisted at school (one scolding from my father kind of encouraged that considering my grandmother wrote a letter to him about how my grades were suffering) and did what I was supposed to.

I just wondered when it would all be done.

.

I wondered when this insanity would end. That was mostly because I wasn't sure if I was correctly interpreting the situation I was in. Visual stated, yes, there was the big man that had apparently become fond of me holding a delicate pink and white teacup with his pinky (that was bigger than my thumb) extended. The other hand held a matching saucer. I had my own teacup and saucer, the two of us taking a break from one of his more enthusiastic lessons on alchemy, and I could feel the heat of the liquid radiating from the fine china. There were even various pastries to go along with the tea, provided by the maids just five or so minutes ago.

The most ludicrous part in all of this was that we were sitting at a nice little table covered with a lacy tablecloth in Mr. Armstrong's personal study. It wasn't a very small room but I could estimate the size was relatively small for the building it was in and only one wall was covered with bookshelves. The other housed a large fireplace. We were sitting near the window, the afternoon sunlight pouring in.

And I was having a tea party with a giant even as he chattered cheerily enough with me. Or, maybe more accurately, at me.

It was very surreal.

I'd returned to the Armstrong Estate with my grandmother though she was off with the ladies doing something ladylike or so my guess was. She did tell me that if I didn't want to be around Mr. Armstrong anymore, all I had to do was come back to her. Mr. Armstrong, however, was a bit frightening and not in the way most would think of it. He was charismatic, loud, and there were a few times his voice had shaken the window panes. I was a very small girl not used to such eccentrics. I felt like Alice and I suppose he could have been considered the Mad Hatter in this scenario.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asked. I shook myself from my thoughts, looking at his concerned face.

"I'm fine, Mr. Armstrong," I replied. "I was just… I was thinking this was a very strange sort of thing."

"What was?" he asked, a little confused. I lifted my cup with a sardonic little half-smile.

"We're having a tea party."

"I fail to understand," he mused. I knew I was probably going to come off sounding either cute or insulting with my response.

"Little girls have tea parties, I guess. I've not really had any before…" It was a bit of a hedge-about, but I went on. "But you're not exactly what people think of when they imagine people sitting down for a tea party. You even stick your pinky out." He paused, looking at his teacup and the way he held it. It was small enough he could cup it easily in the palm of one hand. Then he looked at me.

"I suppose you're right. Does it upset you?" I shook my head, my braid falling over my shoulder.

"No, sir. It's just kind of funny." He smiled behind his mustache and nodded. "Daddy told me to always be unexpected. He always liked it a lot when I didn't do some things exactly how he expected me to," I confided. "You keep doing unexpected things, too, okay?"

"Sounds like a splendid idea to me, Miss Dawn," he said with a kind smile. I grinned back.

The door opened and in strode a woman I'd not seen before. Her gaze was hard, she was beautiful, and she was clearly an Armstrong. This was confirmed when Mr. Armstrong sputtered out a 'Sister!' in his surprise as she scowled at him.

"So it's true," she sniffed. "You were sent home dishonorably, shaming the family." I was taken aback even as the kind man flinched at her hard words.

"Yes, I…"

"He didn't do anything wrong!" I chipped in, drawing attention to me. My eyes were narrowed at the woman as I put the cup down. Both adults were looking at me. "And you're being rude! Barging in and being mean for no good reason! If I did that, I'd have gotten spanked! Go back out and start again!"

I don't know what got into me, but the imperious finger I pointed at the door had the woman and Mr. Armstrong staring at me in incredulity. The woman sneered finally. "Who is this child?" she asked of her brother.

"Sister…"

-/-/-/-

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