"The Shadow Proves the Sunshine"
Arc One: Chapter 27
Balance of Power

Part One

WARNING: Post Series, Post Movie, SPOILER HEAVY and just a bit AU

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August 20, 2006
Central Oklahoma

Tony Redfeather removed his welding hood and dropped it onto the bench. He wasn't going to get anything useful done today. Not until this whole thing was over with. Stepping out of his workshop, into the bright, late morning sun, he shaded his eyes and peered into the far distance -- in the direction of the Gate and the sacred ground. Today the sky was brilliant blue and crystal clear -- in complete contrast to the gloomy, disturbed mood swirling within him. The place was too far away for him to see, but Redfeather sent a prayer to the ancestors to watch over them all for him.

Behind the old barn and the farmhouse, the woods had sprung up abruptly -- a screen of serenity from the rest of the world, shielding the property from the busy highway a quarter of a mile away, and insulating his home from all but the sounds of nature -- but in front, the prairie stretched out before him. As far as he could gaze, there wasn't a single barrier to block his view, so he had ample time to prepare himself when he saw the rapidly growing black spot come up over the horizon. He recognized the bird by the familiar call that had turned piercing with warning, and watched in horror as a wavefront of blinding light screamed behind the raven, catching him and overtaking him before he could reach the safety of the barn. The bird who had been his son's constant companion was flipped tail over beak in mid-air and tumbled to the ground in a flurry of shredded black feathers.

Redfeather barely had the time to throw a protective arm over his face before the wave crashed into him, lifting him off the ground and slamming him against the wall. It was a double wallop that stole his breath and turned his world black before he returned to earth. When he opened his eyes once more, it was to the sound of thunder beneath him and vibrating dust tickling his nose.

As the tremor faded, Redfeather calmly got to his feet, dusted himself off, and waited.

"Brother!"

Tom crashed to his knees in front of Maes, on the other side of where Ed laid still and pale. "Do you know CPR?"

Maes shook his head, staring blankly at the older man.

"Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation?" Tom demanded. "Can you breathe for him while I keep his heart pumping?"

"Yes. Yes, of course!"

Tom nodded, then straddled Ed's hips and felt around the boy's chest. "Clear his airway and breathe when I tell you to." When he found the spot he wanted, he crossed his hands, palms flat, and pressed.

Tilting Ed's head back, Maes used two fingers to scoop out a sticky, black substance with the consistency of molasses and smelling like a sewer. It rolled up over Ed's lips and dripped down his cheek in a thick trickle...

...and Al's voice grew shrill with terror as he called to his brother over and over.

Tom rhythmically pushed, counting softly, then said, "Breathe."

Maes clamped his mouth over Ed's and forced air filled with fear-laced carbon dioxide down the boy's throat and into his lungs, then listened as Ed's chest fell and the air was exhaled. But he didn't inhale again, and Maes shook his head at Tom, who started chest compressions once more...

August 20, 1919,
Risembool, Amestris

He was burning up, blind, racked with pain -- face, back, chest, arm -- dead? alive? His consciousness surged in and out (mostly out), and each time he surfaced -- minutes? seconds? -- the heat and pain rushed over and through him again. He found himself breathing, short gasps, each accompanied by a sharp, stabbing jolt in his right side. That meant he was alive, at least. But for how long? He barely had time for the thought to form before he felt the dark waters surge up yet again, trying to drown him.

"Roy! Are you all right? Say something! Roy!"

Riza's voice, dragging him up from the depths before he could sink further. He gasped again, gritting his teeth at the spasm of pain in his side. She might even be holding his hand, but he wasn't sure. His face hurt, the left cheek damp with hot liquid, as though molten lava flowed from his ruined eye. He was afraid to try to open his good one.

Yet he saw it all again, in a swift montage: the lying and kneeling boys, the Gates, the knife, the bomb. Then the searing flash, the heat, the force, the knives of pain ripping through his body. Knives...

Now Riza again, as though from a distance: "Find a way to get us out of here, Havoc!"

No! They couldn't take him away now, when he'd been so close! He tried to lift a hand in protest, but the pain that shot up the arm and across his chest swept him away yet again in a tidal wave of darkness.

Damn. So close, and then...

Maes lost count of the number of times he'd breathed for Ed, or of how long Tom had been forcing the blood to pump through the kid's heart and into his brain, but his vision was beginning to tunnel and Tom was soaked from the effort. Over and over, Maes kept to the rhythm of breathing when Tom nodded, but each time, no spontaneous gasp would follow.

Behind him, Al sniffled. "Come back, Brother... please," he murmured as Reilly stifled her own sobs and clung to the boy. Heist had finally struggled back to consciousness and cried openly while Ducky talked softly to her, an edge of grief in his own voice.

Maes wanted to reassure them that Ed would be fine in a minute. He was tough after all. He'd fought homunculi, dodged flying wrenches, bested Roy in battle, strutted through Hell, and lived to turn around and thumb his nose at all of it. Edward Elric was the Fullmetal Alchemist, and he was indestructible... he couldn't die... he wouldn't... he couldn't... "Oh god Ed, don't you dare die," Maes whispered and breathed for him again.

The next breath will do it, he told himself every time he heard Ed's lungs deflate. The next one... the next one... Goddamn you sawed-off, mouthy little shit, breathe! He wasn't going to give up, not when the next time he breathed for Ed would be the one that brought him back.

Again, he heard the exhale, then silence... silence that stretched too long. He gazed up at Tom and didn't want to see the look of failure and grief on the older man's face. "Don't stop, dammit--"

"Maes," Tom rasped, "he's gone."

"Ed!" Al wailed. "No!"

Maes yanked Tom down to his level by the front of his sweat-soaked shirt and choked, "He's not! Don't fucking give up on him now!" He saw pity in the older man's eyes and shoved him back, disgusted. "Fine, you can quit. I'm not," he snapped as he leaned down to breathe for Ed once more.

As he tilted his head to listen, Tom started pressing on Ed's chest again, counting softly.

Three more times Maes forced air into the boy's lungs; three more times Ed exhaled and didn't inhale again. Maes' vision swirled and blurred and the blackness at the edges grew, and he was beginning to come to the same realization as Tom. No amount of effort was going to bring Ed back this time -- the Fullmetal Alchemist was dead.

Once more, Maes thought as his throat tightened. One last time. He placed his mouth over Ed's cold, pliant lips, but that final breath refused to leave his lungs. Shaking, tears burning his eyes and splattering on the lenses of his glasses, he laid his forehead against Ed's and sobbed.

Somewhere in the distance he heard Al scream his brother's name and felt the boy fall against him...

...and he felt a twitch beneath his fingertips, then a gasp. The small body under his hands jerked and flailed weakly, and Maes sat up straight as Ed choked and gagged, and breathed.

"Get him on his side!" Tom yelled.

Maes snapped out of his shock to roll Ed over -- just in time for the boy to vomit out a mass of sticky, black tar onto the ground. Wrapping his arm around Ed's chest and holding his head, Maes made sure he didn't aspirate. When the spasms stopped and Ed was no longer heaving, he gently rolled him back and cradled him.

Ed's lashes lifted, gazing at Maes through gold eyes that were dazed and limpid. "What..."

He broke off to cough again. Al grabbed his brother's hand and the others milled around them, silent, waiting for Ed to speak again, to reassure themselves that he was, in fact, really alive.

"Hughes...?"

"I'm here, Ed." Maes shifted his friend in his arms. "We're here."

Ed slurred, "Wha' the hell... are you doing...?"

Jean Havoc usually just followed good-naturedly as Roy Mustang led his subordinates through his odd adventures, but when the need arose, the first lieutenant was fully capable of taking charge. Hawkeye, kneeling at the general's side, yelled over her shoulder, "Find a way to get us out of here, Havoc!" but he had already grabbed some of the intact chunks from the upper floor and had begun leaning them against the cellar walls to create something he and the others could climb. The ground still rumbled from the blast and the Gate's disappearance, so he wedged the ends of the wooden chunks as hard as he could into the floor and wall. He only hoped the charred planks were still intact enough at the core to hold some serious weight.

Armstrong couldn't climb them, of course, but he'd get out somehow, bash footholds in the wall if he had to. But the shaking was getting worse -- verging on an actual earthquake, in fact -- and the walls down here were already unstable. They had to get Mustang out before the rest of the cellar collapsed on all of them.

"Good work, Jean." Now Hawkeye stood at his shoulder, as Armstrong carefully got to his feet behind her, cradling their boss against his chest.

Jean grabbed hold of the black wood with both hands. "If you and I go up first," he said briskly, "Armstrong can lift Roy up to us."

"Agreed."

The plank held, thank goodness. Jean skimmed up quickly, bracing his feet at the grassy edge of the hole and reaching a hand down to help Hawkeye up the last step. They both turned, then, toward Armstrong as he lifted Roy's body toward them. But the ground heaved under their feet, and Jean staggered, finally stumbling and going to one knee while Hawkeye crashed into him and would have fallen if she hadn't grabbed his shoulder.

"Riza!" he gasped. "If we kneel -- we can get him--"

She understood immediately, and together they went to their knees near the crumbling edge of the cellar hole. Armstrong spread his feet to buttress himself, and lifted Roy up to them as carefully as possible. They half-dragged, half-carried their superior away from the edge as it crumbled further, a huge chunk of the cellar wall collapsing where they'd knelt just a moment before.

Jean glanced over his shoulder to see Armstrong scrambling up the moist ramp of earth formed by the collapse, feet sinking in dirt almost to the ankles with each step. But immediately, Roy groaned, recapturing his attention. "So close...," the man whispered, "so close..."

"Don't try to talk, sir," Hawkeye admonished quickly. "We'll get you to safety first, and get medical help."

For the first time, Jean got a good look at his boss, his breath catching painfully at the sight of the scorch marks all down the front of Roy's uniform. The forearms were especially blackened, probably when the general managed to cover his face just as the blast -- whatever it had been -- threw him backwards. But even so, the large patch over his left eye had essentially disintegrated, leaving that side of his face bleeding through the tatters, and the ends of his hair singed.

The ground heaved again, a rolling subterranean rumble, and another section of cellar wall gave way with a heavy thump. "Better get out of here," Jean muttered.

"Can you take him?" Hawkeye demanded of Armstrong, who nodded, already bending and sliding his hands under Roy's shoulders and knees. The movement jarred the unconscious man's right arm and he gasped, his eye fluttering open briefly before his head sank back again. Hawkeye rose as Armstrong did, holding the general's arm against his chest to keep it from moving again.

Damn, Jean thought, maybe broken. I wonder what other injuries he's got? But there was no time to stop and check; all the walls of the cellar seemed to be collapsing at once, and the ground even a few feet away wasn't feeling very firm either. "Back to town?" Jean suggested crisply.

Armstrong, now on his feet, gazed over the heads of his companions and murmured, "Probably not, lieutenant. We seem to have help."

And there was Pinako coming across the field, sitting beside another man in a small wagon pulled by a single horse. As the wagon halted beside the tableau of military officers, the woman peered up at the figure in Armstrong's grasp and remarked, "Got himself in trouble, I see. I wondered if he might. You'd better put him in here and I'll have a look at him while we head back to the house. You three will have to walk alongside."

"We shouldn't impose--" Hawkeye began, but the diminutive woman cut her off.

"He'll get as good medical care from me as from any doctor in town, and I'm closer. Now, lie him down in the back."

The sound of Ed's voice, weak as it was, spurred the group into action. Ducky watched with a curious detachment as the scene played out; surrounding noises sounded muted and everyone moved at a sluggish pace that he knew was deceiving, but perceived nonetheless. Tom and Maes huddled around Singer and began working out a plan to get everyone to a safer location. Al kept his brother talking and Reilly stayed close to them both. Ducky wondered if this was what an out-of-body experience felt like. He turned slowly -- so slowly, what is wrong with me? -- to ask Heist if she was feeling the same way.

Apparently, she wasn't. Not ten minutes after nearly dying and then waking up in the middle of an earthquake to Ducky's shouts that she needed to get up and move, she was attempting to do just that. With enough speed to jerk his own senses back where they should be, Heist frantically searched her pockets with her good hand, though she listed drunkenly to the side as she did so. Ducky threw an arm around her shoulders to steady her and when she didn't find what she was looking for, she faced him with tears of desperation welling in her eyes.

"Quick, I need your phone!"

Ducky absently pulled it from the cargo pocket of his pants, but paused before he actually handed it over. "Why?"

"There isn't time, Ducks!"

"Unless you're calling a doctor," Ducky swallowed thickly, his eyes darting between the still forms of Ed and Singer, "or a morgue, what could you possibly need a phone for?"

Heist just stared at him with the same look she always gave him when she thought he should know something. His brow knit together and they stood there for a few seconds while he tried to figure out what it was. And then everything clicked, and Ducky nodded once and yelled for Tom.

Al fought down his panic as the motion swirled about him: the Elders who had left them early this morning finally barreling into the clearing in trucks or 4x4's or on foot, carefully gathering up Singer's body, shepherding everyone else into other vehicles. He stood in the center of the noisy maelstrom, helpless to do anything useful, while Tony Redfeather slipped into the back of the nearest 4x4 with Ed held limply on his lap, and another barked quick orders into a cell phone. Al gathered that the man was calling ahead to his wife, or something, telling her to prepare a room for a very sick young man.

The door slammed shut. They were taking Ed away from him. And Al could only stand and watch, frozen. Useless to do anything.

And there was Singer -- friend and helper, even mentor -- being laid with gentle care on a blanket in the back of a truck, his chest and arms dark with blood. Two men climbed into the back, to crouch on either side of him and accompany his body on its journey to wherever he was being taken.

Sing well, my friend, the man had said to him. And then died.

Died.

Al pressed his clenched fists over his mouth as the two companions pulled up the gate at the back of the truck, and he lost sight of the dead man's body. The wave of relief that had swept over him when Ed finally started breathing hadn't subsided at all, but kept rushing through him until it had become a whirlwind of dizziness and nausea. As the ringing in his ears mingled with the surrounding tumult and the shouts of people taking charge and issuing instructions, he wondered if he might be about to collapse.

"Al." A strong arm slid around his shoulders, and he found Maes standing beside him, drawing him close. "Come on, Al, they want you in the Jeep with Ed. He needs you with him." He indicated the second door in the side of the vehicle, still sitting open, with one of last night's Elders motioning the young man to come forward.

"C-come with me," Al stammered, teeth beginning to chatter.

"Of course. Everything's going to be fine," the man reassured him. "Tom!" he called softly to the side. "Make sure Reilly and the kids are right behind us, okay?"

Al peered past Maes to see Tom nodding briskly and drawing Ducky and Heist toward the clearing where the Ninjavan waited. Ducky had an arm tightly around Heist's shoulders, probably to try to help her stabilize after she'd lost so much blood. But neither seemed entirely steady on their feet. Meanwhile, Reilly cast a reassuring smile back at Al and Maes before turning to follow the others.

Al climbed wordlessly into the Elder's vehicle, and anxiously leaned over the back of the seat as Maes slid in beside him. Ed's head lolled a bit on Redfeather's shoulder, but he did manage to force his eyes open, just for a moment, and focus on his brother's face. Recognition sparked briefly into his bleary eyes, and his black-streaked lips moved in the beginning of a smile, but then he was gone again, the breath rattling lightly in his chest as he sank into unconsciousness.

Al sagged back in his seat and pressed his hands over his face.

"He'll be all right, don't worry," Maes tried to reassure him.

But even Maes had given up hope of Ed's recovery, before his brother had miraculously come back to them. The sight had shaken Al almost as much as any of the other cataclysmic events of the day. "I hope you're right," the boy muttered wearily.

"What happened in there?" Maes asked. "Maybe if we knew that, it would help us know how to treat him. And when Llyn gets here, we can give him some direction."

"Llyn? He's coming? How?"

"Heist called him, just as the Elders found us. He'll be on his way shortly, if he isn't already."

"Oh thank goodness! Thank goodness. I didn't know what we were going to do, without being able to get Ed to a hospital."

"He's going to be taken care of, Al, don't worry. We'll get him through this. But now let's try to find some clues about how to help him. What happened when you went through that Gate? And... what happened to Bond?"

Al took a long, careful breath, and tried to take better hold of himself. He couldn't fall apart now, when Ed still needed him. "It's kind of complicated," he answered, marshaling his thoughts. "There were three Gates, and Bond got pulled into one of them. I don't know where he ended up. But before he went through, he managed to grab a panel from Ed's automail arm and make one of his bombs. And when it blew up, it threw us back here."

"Three. There were three Gates? Al," Maes asked eagerly, "did they all lead to home? Do we have that much of a chance to get back?"

Al saw his friend's enthusiasm and hope, and leaned forward, burying his head in his hands. "No," he answered, his voice breaking. "We don't have any chance at all. He blew them up, Maes -- all the Gates were connected and they've been destroyed. There's no way we can go home now."

He heard the stifled gasp of shock and alarm. "No... oh no... that can't be true... not after... all that we've..."

"And there was another thing." Al lifted his head and fixed sober grey eyes on Maes' face. Might as well tell him everything and get it over with. "Just before it blew up -- General Mustang came through one of the Gates. I yelled at him to get away, but he didn't even have time to turn around and run. The bomb -- it blew up right in front of him. I--I don't think he had a chance--" He broke off at the horror and disbelief in his friend's eyes.

"No! Not... Roy," Maes whispered, face ashen. "Roy? Dead...?"

"He might be. I'm so sorry, Maes. I'm sorry for everything." Al bowed his head, once again covering his face with his hands.

Jean reflected that it wasn't often he saw Hawkeye defer to anyone, but she allowed Pinako to take charge of the general, even agreeing to walk beside the wagon rather than trying to get into the back, or oversee things from the seat beside the driver. Still, she wasn't exactly relaxed as they hurried back to the house; her hands clenched into fists at her sides, she continually cast fretful glances through the wagon slats, trying to guess what the older woman was doing. Jean didn't blame her, since he was doing exactly the same thing. Armstrong was luckier, walking on the other side of the wagon; he could easily look right down into it.

Even though the earthquake was finally dying down, the tremors coming less frequently and with less strength, the wagon still jolted now and then on the rough ground, and sometimes they could hear Roy moaning when it did.

At one point, they heard Pinako tell him gruffly, "We're almost there, and I'll get it splinted, so hold on."

Yep, Jean thought glumly. Broken arm.

By the time they arrived at the Rockbell place, Roy was fully conscious, and definitely in pain. He managed to push himself into a sitting position and, after Armstrong helped him out of the wagon, stood on his own feet in the yard in front of the house. But he swayed dangerously as he regarded the front steps looming in front of him, his left hand pressed to his bleeding face. Without a word, Hawkeye gently pulled his hand away and swung his arm around her shoulders to support him on that side, leaving his right arm to hang limply on the other side.

But even then, as he put a foot on the first step and tried to lift himself up, his legs gave out under him and he collapsed forward. If Hawkeye hadn't been there, he would have smashed his face on the upper steps, but even as she caught him, his right arm swung forward to bang into the stairs, and he couldn't prevent a sharp yelp of pain.

"This is ridiculous, sir," Armstrong said gently, stepping to his right side and pulling on his shoulder to lift him back up. "Allow me to take you in quickly, so you can be tended to."

"This is... so undignified," Roy muttered, but allowed himself to be picked up again, his head sagging against the big man's chest as Armstrong once again swept him up.

From that point on, he was taken care of quickly. Pinako directed Armstrong to install him in the room behind the living quarters on the main floor, where she usually worked on automail patients. She asked Jean to help her get the uniform off, and it was a sign of how hurt Roy was that even though he was mostly conscious, he barely objected to being disrobed by his lieutenant and an older woman with whom he was barely acquainted. Once they'd gotten him into a medical gown and into bed, the woman could finally examine him thoroughly.

When she had bound up his injured arm, bandaged his face, and sedated him, she made her report to his three colleagues now waiting anxiously in her kitchen. As she poured each of them a fresh cup of tea, Jean realized that it was still morning, not even close to noon. Hard to believe, he thought, that the whole enterprise today had only taken a couple hours at most. He dragged his attention firmly back to Pinako as she began to list the tally of the man's injuries: his right arm was broken, but not badly, and would heal fairly quickly. The shoulder had also been dislocated, but had been set in place again and taped up, and should be fine even though the muscles around the shoulder would be swollen and sore for a few days. He had at least two cracked ribs. The injuries on his face were relatively superficial; they just looked bad because the area around his left eye was already extra sensitive, and was prone to bleeding easily.

"I can't promise that there aren't internal injuries, especially with those ribs," Pinako added, setting down the teapot and taking her own chair at the table, "but I think it's unlikely. It looks like he shielded himself pretty well, but I'll need to observe him for a few days, to make sure. He'll probably suffer nothing else but some deep bruises. And probably a wrenched back, from the way Lieutenant Havoc told me he landed after the explosion."

"Thank you for doing this for him, Mrs. Rockbell," Hawkeye murmured, hands folded around her teacup. "It's very generous."

"Nonsense, young lady," retorted their host. "This is what I do. I wasn't about to let him suffer that wagon ride all the way into town, when I could help him here."

Jean took a sip of his own tea and shared a relieved glance with Armstrong, across the table from him. It seemed the general was very lucky. Given the force of the blast that had thrown him out of the Gate, Roy appeared to have escaped rather lightly.

And when he woke up, in an hour or two, hopefully he'd be able to tell them exactly what had happened when he was inside, that had produced such devastating results. Above all, Jean wanted very much to know why, all through the examination and bandaging, a half-conscious Roy had continuously whispered, "That knife... what was it doing there... what was that knife doing there?"

Ed was breathing a bit better now that the oxygen mask had been affixed securely. Llyn pulled back the boy's lids, and was pleased to see the pupils dilate when he flashed them with his penlight. Putting the light away, he turned his head when he heard soft footsteps enter the room. Cue the younger brother, eh? Llyn wasn't surprised. He wasn't even surprised at the rest of the group surrounding the doorway, all of them expressing some sort of concern for the boy. Fear, sorrow, worry; they were all there, and most prominently in Al's and Reilly's eyes.

"Is... is he going to...?" The small teen's hesitant question brought Llyn's attention back to the second Elric. Al stood with his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he stared past the Welshman and at his brother.

"Aye, he'll be fine." Llyn graced Al with a tender smile and a bit of hair-ruffling. "He just needs some rest, s'all. Why don't y'sit by him while I get myself a bit o' coffee?"

Letting Al take his place by the bed, knowing how the teen wouldn't leave until he was dragged away, Llyn made a 'follow me' gesture to the adults in the group. He'd be sure to tell Al what his findings were as well, but he would do that later, privately. Let the kid be a little less worried about his brother, at least for a few moments.

Alex stood with Havoc in the shadowed doorway of the sick room, watching the debate inside and wondering if he should discreetly disappear. The curtains had been pulled to shut out the late afternoon daylight, but despite the fact that the general should have been sleeping by now, he had summoned all three of his subordinates for some reason. But he wasn't doing very well, and Alex thought he might appreciate one fewer member in the audience.

"You need rest and sleep, Roy, you young fool!" Pinako admonished in exasperation as the general struggled, for the hundredth time, to sit up in the bed. The light of a small lamp on the nightstand created flat circles of light on her face where her glasses sat.

Roy groaned as his cracked ribs protested, then gasped sharply as he jarred his broken arm. Sinking back with a thump against the pillows, he snapped at his caregiver, gasping for breath, "Not that young -- and I've survived worse than this -- so don't go -- giving me orders--" He shut his eye wearily, gritting his teeth against the pain, his head tossing back and forth in the heat of his fever, black tangles of hair plastered to his damp forehead. Hawkeye, barely seated on the edge of her chair in the shadows on the other side of the bed, dug her fingers into the sheets, helpless to ease his distress.

"He looks awful, doesn't he?" Havoc muttered under his breath.

Alex made a noncommittal noise, though secretly he had to agree. Roy had been wandering in and out of delirium for the rest of the day since he'd been brought here, even though Pinako had administered a painkiller and sedative. The general's body had fought and continued to fight almost frantically against the sedative, and the fever wouldn't allow him any peace.

Now it appeared as though his most recent surge of lucidity was beginning to fade again. He sagged a little against the pillows, as a fresh sheen of sweat broke out on his face. He lifted his hand for a moment, vague fingers touching the bandage pad over his left eye, before the arm lost its strength and flopped back down on the blankets. The poor man, Alex thought, not for the first time in his life. He needs rest... and that's the one thing he never allows himself. But maybe the sedative was taking hold at last. He certainly needed to sleep. Even in the dim light it was clear that beneath the black fringe of his hair, his face was the color of ash.

But no -- yet again he forced his bleary eye open and flattened his good hand on the mattress, trying to force himself up. Why would he not allow himself to sleep?

"I swear," Pinako muttered, "you have got to be the worst patient I've ever treated."

"Roy," Hawkeye protested. "You have to sleep -- you can't keep doing this."

"Listen," he gasped. "Just let me -- let me tell -- Alex--"

As both Havoc and Hawkeye darted questioning eyes at him, Alex felt his stomach drop in apprehension. He was the reason the general was so agitated? No, not him specifically -- it was him as an alchemist. That was the only explanation. As he watched Roy struggle to get up, and fight to peer down the bed at him, he grew more certain that he'd guessed right.

"General Mustang," he ventured, moving closer to the circle of lamplight so his superior could see him better, "I'll remain here as long as you need me. Whatever you wish to tell me, surely you can do it when you wake up."

"No -- you don't understand--" Roy gasped. "In case I take a turn for the worse -- you have to hear this--"

"Sir, you're going to be fine," Hawkeye insisted.

But if this was what the sick man needed to allow himself to rest, then so be it. "Very well, general," Armstrong nodded. "Tell me quickly. I assume you saw something important within the Gate?"

"Yes. You have to know -- Stealthworks is alive."

Stealthworks! Bond? Alive?

Alex gaped at Roy, the breath violently constricting in his massive chest. It was a mistake. It had to be. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Havoc's jaw drop, and Hawkeye was staring at the sick man as though he'd gone insane.

"Sir, that's impossible," Alex countered. "We know he died in that explosion in the north." Of course he had. He had died, and so had... so had...

"No," Roy interrupted, shaking his head vehemently. He collapsed against the pillows again, too weak to hold himself up. But he persisted in his quick account of what he'd seen, as though he could sense his awareness beginning to slip away. "I found the boys... Ed was injured and Al was at his side... but I couldn't get to them... didn't have time..."

"Because of the explosion?" Hawkeye asked.

"Yes... There was a bomb... Alex... it was one of Bond's spider bombs..."

"General," Alex tried to make the point again, "we know he was caught in that explosion four years ago. Do you truly understand what you're saying?"

"Dammit, I know what I saw," Roy ground between clenched teeth. "I tell you, this isn't the fever talking. That's why I'm trying to explain while I can. I saw the spider bomb. I don't know anyone else who can create one. I know it sounds impossible, but he's got to be alive. That's the only explanation." Roy's eye widened and he tried yet again to sit up, continuing even more urgently, "And the bomb was in front of another Gate. Maybe he went through it -- maybe he's back in Amestris -- Alex -- you have to watch for him! Promise me!" His eye closed again as he groaned, head moving back and forth on the pillow. "So hot... so hot..."

"I'll watch for him, general," Alex murmured, hardly aware of what he was saying, so violently did his mind reel at this latest news and all its implications.

"This," Havoc muttered at his side, "could be very, very bad."

Alex lowered his gaze. The lieutenant didn't know the half of it. Because if Bond was alive even after that explosion four years ago, then...

Roy moaned as Hawkeye took his hand. "So hot," he whispered. He was beginning to mumble as, finally having delivered his crucial message, he succumbed at last to the delirium. "Danger... such danger... Bond... and I-- I just don't understand... the knife... and the bomb..."

"Armstrong. Buddy, are you all right?"

Alex stared at Havoc, speechless, for a long time before he realized how he was trembling. "Pardon me, lieutenant," he muttered. "Did you say something?"

Havoc lowered his voice. "He sure seems fixated on certain things, whenever his mind starts wandering. Don't you think?"

Alex stood stricken, the breath cut off in his throat. Finally he managed to stammer, "Ex-excuse me, lieutenant Havoc. I need to take some air. I need-- I need to contemplate what the general has said. Excuse me."

He pushed out of the room, fully aware that Havoc was staring after him in bewilderment, but he couldn't worry about that right now. He only hoped the lieutenant didn't decide to follow him. He felt he was going to suffocate if he stayed inside any longer. The Rockbell home was far, far too small to contain the huge problem that had suddenly loomed before his eyes with the general's words.

He stumbled out into the early evening air and the front yard. Hugging his arms across his chest, he gazed out across the road and over the rolling fields of Pinako's neighbors. The sun, beginning to lower itself behind the low hills in the distance, shone into his eyes and forced him to turn away and wander aimlessly around the side of the house toward the work sheds at the far end of the yard behind it. He clasped his hands behind his back, lowering his head as he contemplated what Roy had told him.

Alex had kept secrets from his fellow soldiers before. He had walked a very fine line when he'd been assigned to work with Lieutenant Colonel Archer, for example. He'd been required to keep silent about much of what he'd learned during Archer's investigations. He hadn't even been able to tell Roy the things he'd discovered, though he was trying to help him move forward after Maes Hughes' death.

Hughes' death...

Alex had wrestled with his conscience every day for a year, after the funeral. He had almost broken silence at the funeral itself, watching the grieving of Gracia Hughes and listening to the cries of young Elysia. He'd had to lie to those who loved Hughes the most -- Gracia, Elysia, Roy -- and never betray any hint that he knew the man's grave was empty. No one had suspected or questioned him; any misstep had been interpreted merely as another of his many odd quirks. And yet during the following year he'd stood a hundred times, trembling, on the brink of revelation as he'd observed the subtle, ongoing signs of grief. He had never felt so torn in his life as he had for that interminable year.

And then... the explosion just outside the military post in the Briggs Mountains. He knew Bond had been there, and he'd been absolutely certain that Hughes had been with him. There had been no chance of surviving the blast, for either of them. His fear was all but confirmed as time passed... and passed... and there had never again been any type of communication from Hughes.

Alex had been grief-stricken, and, even worse, had had to conceal his pain from everyone else, who had already lived through their own grief the year before and begun to come to terms with it. But he'd acknowledged, in the privacy of his own guilt, that at least his dilemma was now gone. Maes Hughes really was dead. And although there was still no body in the grave with his name on it, it had finally become a genuine memorial to a dead friend and a man of courage.

Except...

If Roy had interpreted properly the things he'd seen, then Bond was probably alive. Which might actually mean...

And the way Roy kept muttering about "the knife"...

For so many years, in any other context, there would have been only one way to interpret the idea that he found a knife so significant and troubling. One did not obsess over just any blade one saw lying around.

Could it truly be possible? After all this time?

Alex lifted his head and gazed at his own massive shadow, stretching in front of him along the side of the house, through the yard behind it, all the way to the service sheds at the far end. Although he didn't want to allow himself to hope, he just couldn't prevent the small glimmer that began to shine in the most private recesses of his heart.

It would resurrect the old dilemma, certainly. But that would be minor, be negligible, be bearable, if only...

Should he say something now? Was he still bound by the orders given years ago? Where did his loyalties lie?

And would Roy kill him for keeping his silence all this time?

Llyn leaned against a buffet in the dining room just outside the guest bedroom, watching the others. Everyone but Ducky had followed him, settling themselves uneasily. The hacker seemed to prefer his silent vigil over the Elric boys. Whether Ducky was truly that worried about the pair, or just didn't want to hear the details about Ed's infirmities, Llyn wasn't certain, but was content to let it be.

Bringing his attention back to his audience, he noticed that Hughes and Tom had both chosen guarded positions which gave them a clear view of the door and windows, while Reilly and Helene claimed two of the chairs at the table. Rubbing his index finger across his brows, Llyn cleared his throat. "I have 'im stabilized for now, an' have 'im on oxygen. Gave him shots of antibiotics an' steroids, too. He seems to be breathing fairly well, but there's a few things that trouble me."

He sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, looking at the four adults in the room. "The stuff y'say he vomited up, the black filth; it seems he aspirated on it. I can't say what'll 'appen without running a complete workup, but without better treatment, there's always a chance he could develop pneumonia. There is also another problem, though whether or no it's related I can't say." Llyn tugged on his earlobe, the spiderweb of scar tissue along his neck hidden by his hand. "He seems t' have developed a small infection at the points where his prosthetics connect t'his body. That's what th' antibiotics were for, but since I don't know what med allergies he has, I don't wanna overdo it on treatment."

Reilly drew up her shoulders tightly, her head dropping to her bunched fists. She seemed to be searching for words, but it was Tom who broke the silence. "What do we need to do for him? Bearing in mind a hospital is pretty much out of the question for numerous reasons."

Llyn nodded. "Well, you all know he'll need to rest, drink fluids, the like. Once he wakes, I'll better be able t'ascertain what other treatment he'll need. Probably a continued course of antibiotics -- I can write a scrip for cephalexin -- an' maybe even an inhaler, if he has trouble breathin' when he comes to. Shouldn't be anythin' too serious, though. I'm more worried about the infection than anything else."

There seemed nothing more to add to that. The group remained silent, despondent, as they looked anywhere but at each other. Llyn scratched the back of his head, casting about for reassurances. He sensed an atmosphere of helplessness that had nothing to do with the young man in the other room. He'd been given only the barest information when Helene (as much as she preferred to be called Heist, he couldn't force himself to think of her that way) had contacted him. Something of an accident and possible biological contamination... and an explosion. Certainly something had blown up, given the light scorching on both Ed and Al's clothing; not to mention what looked like mild sunburn on both their faces and hands. He sighed. Nothing about this was right... he was missing something extremely vital. More than the injuries to Ed... something fundamental was affecting the entire group.

There was a rustle of cloth, and Reilly stood. Wordlessly she exited the room, and Llyn had no doubt where she was headed. Almost imperceptibly, Tom and Hughes shared a look. The older man followed after Reilly, while Hughes took the spot he'd vacated by the window.

Helene was still hunched into herself, knees pressed together, cradling her bandaged arm. Nodding her way, Llyn approached. "Will you be lettin' me look after that now?" He asked softly, noting the way her cheeks dusted a light rose.

Glancing once more at Hughes as he remained on vigil, she allowed Llyn to help her stand. "It's not... it's probably just... they did a good job..."

Placing a finger over her stammered words, he led her to the bathroom, setting his bag down and ignoring her surprised yelp as he hoisted her onto the sink. "Stretch out your arm then." Tentatively she extended her wrist, flinching just slightly as his fingers caressed the base of her palm, easing back the stained cotton. They had wrapped it well, he noted, if hurriedly. Still, it was doubtful any stitches had been applied, and the risk of infection was high without a shot of antibiotics. Unwinding the bandage, one hand gently cradling the back of her wrist, he slowly revealed the damaged flesh. The edges of the wound were a livid red, swollen and inflamed. The injury itself was penetrating, but appeared to have missed severing the artery. Still, it was deep -- and clearly painful.

"You'll need a wee injection," he murmured, sliding his hand into his case and withdrawing the wrapped syringe. Using his teeth to remove the plastic, and then the cap, he pressed the small shaft against her skin and slid it forward, holding her steady as she whimpered at the minor sting. Spitting the cover from his mouth, withdrawing the needle, he kissed his fingers before pressing them over the small well of blood. "There now... and just one more for the pain." Taking hold of one more syringe, this one a numbing agent, he repeated the same process as before -- though she seemed better prepared this time around, and only winced before relaxing as the point slid out.

Letting her cradle her arm for a moment, Llyn returned to his kit, fishing around until he retrieved his stitching equipment, laying the elements beside him on the counter. Helene was tensing again, and he reached out soothingly, running one hand across her collarbone. "You'll barely feel it, I promise... Just pinch my shoulder if it becomes too much." She smiled a little, placing her free hand on his upper arm as he took her wrist in his fingers once more.

Threading the needle, he caught her eyes with his, waiting until she nodded in readiness. Then, bending over her arm, he gently thrust the needle into her flesh. Predictably, the hand gripping his bicep tightened, but not enough to injure. Not pausing in his work, he pulled the small length through to the other side before plunging it back in again, an endless performance as he gradually tightened the skin back together. It didn't take that long, but she was gasping as he reached the end. Pushing the tip in one last time, he finished the repair, reaching up to slide his thumb across her sweaty brow. "You did well lass." Putting away used equipment, he reached up and helped her down.

Standing close to him, between his body and the counter, she smiled slightly, then leaned in close... almost near enough that he thought she planned to kiss him. But her lips stopped just shy of his own, her breath beating against his cheek as she spoke.

"Thanks..."

Slowly easing back, she turned from him and walked out.

Realizing he'd done all he could for the night, and still pondering what, exactly, had just occurred, Llyn closed the door. If he was going to be staying here for the next several days, he wanted to start the adventure clean.