Author's Note: First I was just going to make this be about the incident with the metal beam. But then I started thinking about the last chapter up to that point, and this story began to form itself in my mind. I'm pretty positive this isn't the way the manga's going to end up, so consider this AU.
Timeline: Sometime mid-series (towards end); spoilers for Chapters 76 and 84/Episodes 41 and 47
Theme 28: Pain & Wounds
Edward Elric was no stranger to pain.
Edward had felt the concentrated pain of first his leg, then his arm, torn right off. He had screamed, he had felt the warm gush of his lifeblood pouring out over the unforgiving stones of the floor. The pain had left his head spinning, his breath wheezing through his teeth in short gasps as he lost more and more blood. Desperation and guilt, that horrible knowledge that everything, everything was his fault, all crashed together and pounded against those gaping holes in his flesh where blood spilled out freely. The pain left him reeling, and he often wondered afterward how he had managed to keep from passing out before he was finished drawing the circle of blood in the empty suit of armor and on his arms, leg, and chest.
Edward had suffered the sheer, excruciating agony of automail surgery. He felt the constant jabs of pain that surged up every nerve, like strings of fire that wrapped around his entire body and would not let him go, no matter how he twisted and writhed. To be still was to know pain, to be in motion was to know agony through every cell of his body. Even the shallow breaths that expanded his ribs made his nerves ache and melt and fuse together till his whole body was on fire. He was feverish and in pain every moment of every day, and there was no reprieve. Not even when he slept was he free from the pain. There was no place left to think, for every thought was swept out of his mind to make way for that all-consuming pain.
And Edward felt that same horrible agony every time his limbs were reconnected. It was never half as agonizing, but he still endured hours of the flames licking around the insides of his body till he sweated and gasped and wished he could die, trapped in a cocoon of heat and pain.
Edward was accustomed to wounds.
He had the scars to prove it, too. If he had cared to, Edward could have pulled off his shirt and pointed to each in turn. "That one was from Number 48 in Lab 5," he would say. "This one came from Envy. That's from a time Master threw a knife at me. Oh, and that little one was from Winry." And on and on and on. Edward knew what pain was. He knew how it felt to be cut and impaled, and he knew how those wounds slowed him down in combat.
Perhaps the worst wound he had ever suffered was when an iron beam had pierced right through his left side, narrowly missing his kidney and nearly killing him in the process. He had been fighting Kimbley, who had blown up the tower they had been fighting in, and he had fallen to the ground far below. When he had tried to push himself back up, sudden pain had sliced through him. And when he had looked over his shoulder, he had seen a massive metal beam driven right through him. He had felt his blood splatter onto the ground when he moved, and a horrible realization had struck him: He was going to die.
His strength had given out, and he had fallen to the ground, unable to move much more than a tremble and a twitch. In that moment, his thoughts had raced to Alphonse. He had wished his little brother could be at his side. He had longed for Alphonse's cold metal hand on his cheek, his echoing voice murmuring to him that everything was going to be all right. Edward had groped at the ground, whispering Alphonse's name and knowing his little brother was in no position to help him. And the mere knowledge that Alphonse was miles away, oblivious to Edward's pain and his need for a comforting presence, made the pain all the worse.
For a time, Edward had been afraid that he would die of that wound. He had felt death creeping towards him, darkening the edges of his vision. But he had not died. He had survived to see Alphonse again.
A pity that the circumstances were so dire.
Edward stood, rooted to the spot, as he stared at Alphonse's familiar metal body. He knew every inch of that body, from the pointed toes to the ragged scrap of hair that flowed from his helmet. There had been so many times when he had touched that metal body and found comfort, strange though that might seem. Over the years, a cold gauntlet on his shoulder had been more soothing than the warmest, gentlest hand. Those cold, unfeeling gauntlets had fixed his transmutation circles for him. They had carried him when he was weak, nursed him back to health when he was sick, held him and comforted him and stroked his tousled head when he woke from a nightmare, sobbing and frantic and staring wildly around at the shadows.
But now those gauntlets were held in place by black tendrils that shouldn't have been that strong. They reminded Edward of the horrible black hands that had darted out from the Doors of Truth and pulled away everything that was dear to him. But they looked so fragile, so weak! Surely, they could never be strong enough to hold Alphonse, his Alphonse, that suit of armor filled with strength, immobile! Yet there stood Alphonse, and it was clear from the way his whole body trembled that he couldn't move an inch.
And even as it occurred to Edward to rush to his little brother's aid, he looked down and found those same tendrils wrapping around his own body. Before he could take more than one step, they had rendered him immobile too. Edward glared daggers at Pride, who stood calmly by, a placid smile on his face. The smile widened ever so slightly as he took in Edward's rage – and his complete inability to do anything about it. "Well, now," he said, his child's voice so cold and un-childlike that it sent shivers down Edward's spine. "I have you both where I want you. It's time for the sacrifice."
Edward whipped his head around to face Alphonse again, horror and desperation rising up inside of him. He saw one of the black tendrils slip through the crack underneath Alphonse's helmet, and for a moment he thought his heart stopped. Then he strained with all his might against the tendrils. "No! No, Al!" he cried, but the tendrils did not give way.
Suddenly, Alphonse stiffened. "Brother," he said. It wasn't a cry of alarm or surprise. It was the voice of someone who knew they were going to die, and it was a voice filled with emotion. With that one word, Alphonse said everything he had ever wanted to say, everything he had needed to say. I miss you and I love you and I need you, he said. You're the most important person in my life and you always have been and you always will be. Thank you and I'm sorry and I love you so very much, dear Brother.
Edward was no stranger to pain.
He was accustomed to wounds.
But nothing – nothing – could have prepared him for the searing, blinding, aching, burning, heart-wrenching agony that tore through him when the black tendril scraped across Alphonse's blood seal, and the glowing red eyes darkened forever.
"AAAAAAAAAAAALLL!" Edward screamed at the top of his lungs, stretching the vowel out as long as possible, tearing it and wrenching it through his throat till that was on fire, too. He had never known such pain could exist. Even ten automail surgeries stacked on top of each other could not compare to this pain, because this pain had nothing to do with blood or muscles or nerves or fevers. This wound had gone right through him and stabbed his heart, and it throbbed and ached and burned with pain.
And Alphonse wasn't there to touch his cheek with a cool, comforting hand. Only the memory of his voice rang in Edward's ears. Alphonse was gone.
Then Pride did the only kind thing he had ever done.
He broke Edward's neck.
