Okay, horribly late update from hell. I'm terribly sorry. At least now my exams are over for a good period of time, so I'll try to update more regularly. Thank you so much for your patience!
Warnings: torture this chapter, though not terribly graphic.
Riza made her way down Twenty-Second street, outwardly nonchalant, but always aware of the weight of the gun under her shirt. She didn't expect trouble, not in Central, not now, when the slightest mistake could cause major setbacks, but she would watch her step just the same.
A street urchin dashed past her, and she quickly reached out to snag the back of his jacket.
"I would like copies of the Central Times, Sunday Tribune, Military Affairs, and Grapevine, please," she said.
The kid looked up at her suspiciously, eyeing her uniform. He rubbed a hand on his grimy chin in consideration, then asked, "What's in it for me?"
Riza held out her hand to show a shiny twenty cenz piece. "And twenty more upon delivery."
"Sure thing, lady." He pocketed the money almost too quickly to see, and scampered off into the crowd.
She watched him for a moment, refusing to acknowledge the man standing behind her. After a few moments he came up to her, a smile on his face, apparently tired of her silence.
"Lieutenant Hawkeye," he said, nodding pleasantly. She nodded back stiffly. Nothing one of the public supporters of the Amestris National Party had to say interested her.
"Mr. Reynolds," she answered, for the sake of outward politeness.
"I don't think you will like the headlines this morning, my dear," he said, smoothing his short black whiskers.
Riza would have dearly liked to make him regret that endearment, but was too professional to show it. Instead she waited patiently for the boy to return. "We shall see," she said.
"Your pet alchemist will be your ruin."
A smile touched her lips. "Will he, now." Not even the current turmoil could mar the relief at the news of Ed's return.
"Here," the boy said suddenly, popping up at her shoulder. He handed her the papers, their headlines readily visible: Hero of the People or Dangerous Traitor?, Homicidal Alchemist – Returned!, Fullmetal Alchemist: Mass Murderer at Large.
"What about the Grapevine?" she asked.
"They were sold out. You couldn't get a copy of that for gold, right now."
"Do you remember the headline?"
"Sure." The kid flashed a grin. "Old Regime Loyalists Kidnap the People's Alchemist." He hesitated, then added, when she nodded encouragingly, "I bet they won't have him for long! He's a hero."
"I quite agree. Thank you." She allowed her smile to show through, now, and turned to Reynolds, who no longer looked nearly so confident. "It seems clear who the people are listening to," she said sweetly. Mustang would be pleased.
The blankets were too thin, but then, they always had been. At least by sharing a bed like this they could save on energy, help keep each other warm. Embarrassingly enough, Alfons seemed to manage just fine with their current arrangement, leaving Edward to try in vain to convince his body he was warm enough to actually sleep. He shifted on the crappy mattress, wanting to press closer to Alfons' warmth, but afraid to wake him. It was difficult enough for Alfons to get rest as it was, and if Edward moved any closer chances were he would end up kicking (if he ever managed to get to sleep, that is). He would rather shiver alone on his side of the bed than subject Alfons to that, especially because he knew Alfons would never say anything about it.
Munich was just so fucking cold, though! He pressed his legs together, curling them slightly upward, but the prosthetics were absolutely useless when it came to retaining body heat. His ports ached, and his joints hurt, but he tried to push it all away.
Alfons made a murmuring sound and Edward froze. Oh shit, had he woken him up? Edward scrutinized Alfons' face, the pale translucence of his skin, the way his short hair was tousled with sleep. His breaths were still even, if slightly raspy, and Edward sighed in relief.
Tentatively, he reached out (trying vainly to keep his hand from shaking in the cold) to touch Alfons' jaw with his right-left-flesh hand, and didn't know where the sudden acute desire to see his smile had come from.
He just barely resisted an undignified squeak when Alfons moved suddenly, groped forward and pulled Edward against his chest, murmuring sleepily, sounding utterly content. The swift heat that rushed through him had nothing to do with Alfons' body, and everything to do with how his heart fluttered at such proof of being desired. He pressed close, could smell Alfons' skin, but was still so damnably, unbearably cold-
Ed shivered awake to find himself alone, curled up in the blankets he had been loaned for the night. The vision of Alfons' face was still vivid, and the memory of light and color made him ache. Now his eyes were open, but that did nothing to dispel the blackness. He didn't know what time it was, how long until dawn – it had to be some time yet, he could hear around him sounds of people sleeping quietly. He didn't even know if it was worth trying to get back to sleep despite the bitter cold. Pulling the blankets tighter about himself, he tried to utilize what warmth they brought, with little success. What he could really use was a hot drink (or spirits), but blundering around the sleeping campsite until he stumbled across something was out of the question.
Sleep would probably be the best idea, though he doubted he would manage.
Alfons had to be safe, he told himself. Even now Alfons was probably in a soft bed somewhere, feeling just as strange and lonely in a bed by himself as Ed felt, but at least warm....
Stupid, and what about Al? And Winry? There were suddenly so many people for him to think of and worry about. A strange smile curved his lips, though he was far from being happy. It was good to be home.
"Fullmetal?" came a whisper in the dark. "Are you awake?" The voice was unfamiliar.
"Yeah," he said softly. It should have been obvious. "It's fucking cold," he added, by way of explanation.
"I can get you something-"
"I'm fine." Ed sat up, pulling the blankets with him. "What time is it?"
"About two hours before dawn. We'll be up and moving pretty soon."
Lovely, Ed thought. The prospect was profoundly uninviting. Ah well, no point in going back to sleep now. "So, who are you?"
Footsteps came closer, crunching squeakily on the snow, and then clothes rustling softly and a gun moved out of the way as the man sat down next to him.
"Irmi."
"That sounds Ishbalan."
"I am," there was a note of defensiveness in his voice, and Ed smiled. Four years ago he never would have imagined a situation where an Ishbalan served as an equal in a military unit.
Though - "Why?" he asked. "And why do you people care so much about me?"
"Why am I here?" Irmi correctly interpreted his question. "Because Ishbalans have as much interest in a better government as anybody else, and now we even have a party of our own. And of course we care," he sounded offended that Ed might doubt. "You're the hero of the Revolution! Everybody knows that you fought for the people, and were the first to strike out against the corrupt Old Regime, who tried to hunt you down and silence you. For years people believed they had succeeded, but then we received word-"
What the fuck? When the hell had he 'struck out against the old regime'? Oh, he supposed the whole business with the Philosopher's Stone counted as giving Bradley the finger, but he was hardly... just what the hell was going on here?
"- seeing what you did gave so many people hope that there was a chance for a better country for us all-"
That was Mustang, Ed wanted to say. He had never given very much thought to bettering the country as a whole; he had been too busy trying to save his brother and protect his own interest, while doing his best to help out everybody and his dog that he ran into along the way. He knew he was popular, notorious in some places, but a national hero on this level?
"The truth is," Irmi confessed, and Ed's wandering attention snapped back to him. "I used to dream of having the chance to meet you, and fight by your side."
"Yeah, well," Ed said bitterly, "doesn't look like I'm capable of much fighting right now." In all honesty, his fantasies of home had circled around lazy days spent with Alfons, maybe their own lab, dragging him and Al all over the country to revisit the places he had forgotten. But though he might not want to fight, having the ability stripped from him was almost more than he could bear.
"You don't have to worry!" Irmi said, and Ed could practically hear the other man's chest puffing up with importance. "It's an honor for us to escort you to Central. I – and the rest of us – none of us would let anything happen to you!"
And that, Ed thought, might be the most worrisome of all.
Eventually the camp started waking up, and then they were on the move again. He was starting to be able to differentiate between their voices, already having names attached to some of them, some only recognizable by their timbre or turns of phrase. He had heard, once, about people who worked as assistants for the blind, accompanying them around and describing things for them. Company he had – plenty of it, in fact. As people got used to him, it seemed they were vying for the privilege of helping him along. If the whispered arguments behind him could be relied upon, they had set up some sort of system where his escorts were changed every half an hour or so. The whole situation bordered on the ridiculous, but he couldn't help the creeping satisfaction. It was very, very nice to be liked.
He wished he knew what things looked like, though, with an intensity that almost scared him. Had Alfons been around, Ed knew he would be willing to provide running commentary, describing things so Ed wouldn't be limited to the snow he could feel crunching under his shoes. There was a whole world out there, his world, yet he could hardly perceive it. But he was too proud to ask these soldiers for anything more.
After several hours of walking he could already feel a difference from the previous day. His companions had started chattering at him, as if Ed had nothing better to think about than the stories of their life. As the stories of the lives tended to revolve around him to a certain extent, he decided against protesting.
Embarrassingly, he had no clue what they were talking about, most of the time. He didn't remember all those times he had supposedly helped their friends, neighbors, childhood pet – for goodness' sake, how had he had time for all these supposed escapades? His years as a State Alchemist were blurry, seeming an endless futile chase after the Philosopher's Stone.
But he could listen, and nod along, and pretend interest, because it seemed so important to these people, and they had helped him.
"- and then you transmuted the bridge at Millford, which by the way, is still standing today, and a friend of mine who's an architect said that it's one of the sturdiest bridges he's ever seen. Millford has grown a lot since then, I bet you hardly remember how it was before you transmuted that bridge, but you should see it now-"
As a matter of fact, Ed had absolutely no clue what he was talking about, and could only hazily remember a town called Millford. He kept most of his attention on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to avoid tripping over anything. With the slightly oversized boot slipping around on his automail foot and fucking up his balance it was already hard enough.
"-I'm sure my family would be happy to put you up, if you ever wanted to visit, watch out, there's a branch on the ground in front of you. Oh! Is it true that you cleared out an entire gang of bandits by Ransk?"
Here Brian paused, waiting for a response, so Ed dutifully wracked his brains trying to remember when he had been in Ransk. It sounded like it was up north somewhere... he could vaguely remember some bothersome thugs he had beaten up, probably for calling him short.
"There were barely ten of them," Ed said, just a little uncomfortable, and not sure why. Now that he thought about it, he remembered telling Alfons this story, making much of his heroic fight against an entire camp of bandits. Alfons had laughed, yet at the same time looked suitably awed, and just a bit jealous. It had made Ed wish that there was a bandit camp somewhere around Alfons could help him subdue, just so he didn't feel left out. "And I didn't know they were bandits, at first..."
"Really?" somebody else said, off to his left. "I heard there were at least twenty of them."
"And that you fought off a pack of wolves, too!"
Ed could feel the confused frown on his face and ducked his head, uncomfortable. It could have been twenty people, and maybe a pack of wolves – hell, throw in a forest fire for the hell of it. But suddenly he was so tired of living vicariously through stories of past achievements, gratifying as these people's adoration was. He thought he would come back and be the Fullmetal Alchemist again, not stuck telling the same old stories....
"Shhh! Talk later, people. We're not out of the woods yet."
Everybody fell silent (though a few mutters about bad puns were exchanged), which was a bit of a relief.
It was nerve-wracking, and for a moment he wished Alfons were there to consult with. He still wasn't entirely sure what had gained him these people's adoration, so how could he go about keeping it? Surely Alfons would have an idea-
No. He unconsciously tried to straighten his back, and crushed his feelings away to the back of his mind. He couldn't show weakness, couldn't throw his burden onto Alfons' shoulders. His alchemy might be lost, he might be blind and mostly helpless, but he still had his pride – and he was still the Fullmetal Alchemist.
Immediately upon the report of the first gunshots, Ed found himself shoved unceremoniously to the ground, accompanied by a quick hiss of "watch out!". Then he could hear no more above the whizz bang of bullets around them. He hated guns. He fucking hated them, and if there was anything he hated more, it was sitting there, blind and helpless, while people were shooting around him. He didn't dare move for fear of being shot.
He remembered, quite suddenly, what it had been like to die.
Fighting terror, he reached out to grab the nearest sleeve, just to reassure himself he wasn't alone.
"Fuck, there's too many of them," someone said off to his left – Alan? He couldn't remember.
"Who's attacking?" Ed asked the air urgently, hoping for an answer from the person whose sleeve he couldn't quite force himself to relinquish.
"Hell if I know," he grunted, and the air shattered with another volley of bullets. "But we're not giving them what they want."
He felt like his senses were exploding from overload – the smells of smoke and snow assaulting his nose, gunfire and shouting in his ears, but the one sense he wished for remained stubbornly absent.
"What do they want?" he asked, his mouth dry. He knew what they wanted, but he hoped to hear it denied. A choked-off cry of pain reached his ears; somebody had died.
"You."
Correction: somebody had died because of him.
Shuffling sounds, somebody drawing closer, a hushed exchange:
"We're badly outnumbered. We have to get Fullmetal out of here before we're cut off."
"Can we make it?"
Grim silence spoke louder than any words.
Ed hunched down, hardly feeling the wet snow on his skin, shaking. If he was most useful curled up on the ground and silent, that was where he would stay, though it chafed at him horribly. He could smell blood, and smoke, and death.
He slammed one fist into the snow.
These people were going to die. He had never known them, not really. All he recognized was their voices – light with laughter, hoarse, comforting, lilting and musical, gruff and deep, a vast spectrum that would be snuffed out of existence. Because he was too useless in battle. Because they cared about him, wanted to protect him, thought his skin was actually worth something. Out of nowhere, an option rose in his mind. A way out.
The decision was easy.
"Give me to them," he said. "Maybe then you guys can escape."
"Never!" the man next to him hissed furiously. "We're going to get you out of here."
"You'll die!" Ed said, ashamed of how his voice cracked. Don't you know how horrible dying is?
"We knew that risk when we were sent to retrieve you. Your survival is more important!"
"No it's not!" He tried to modulate his tone, reached for reason. "The guys on the train didn't kill me. They probably want me alive. If you can get away, maybe you can rescue me again later."
"We can't take that risk-"
"I can." And with those words, Ed stood up, heedless of the bullets (crushing his terror), and slowly, haltingly, walked forward. "Hey!" he shouted, ignoring the furious calls to get back here you idiot what are you doing?! "I'm the one you want, right?"
He had better be right about them not wanting him dead, because otherwise Alfons would probably never forgive him. The sounds around him slowly died down, and he could practically feel the incredulity as he inched his way forward, hands outstretched, hoping desperately he wouldn't trip, because that would be too fucking embarrassing.
Now he could hear the enemy talking amongst themselves apprehensively.
"Got to be a trick... the second he claps his hands we'll all be dead!"
"I can't do alchemy," he said loudly. It hurt less, this time around, and what point was there in hiding it? He inched his right foot forward another step, then his left. He thought he could hear his – friends? – allies behind him, cursing helplessly, but it might have just been his imagination. Run, he thought at them.
Footsteps came closer, advancing from the enemy's direction.
"What's wrong with him?" somebody asked suspiciously, then, addressing Ed - "You! Fullmetal, if you make any sudden moves, we'll shoot."
"I won't," Ed said, wondering if they could hear the hopelessness in his words. "I'm blind, anyway."
"He's bluffing!"
"No way that can be true..."
"We can check that pretty easily."
The last words sounded ominous, but before Ed could formulate a plan of action, something hard and blunt descended out of nowhere, smashing into the side of his head. He collapsed into a dazed heap, assisted by a boot to the stomach.
It hurts worse when you can't see it, he thought.
"What do you know," the voice said jovially. "I think he is blind."
For possibly the first time in his life, Ed lay still and let himself be made helpless. He didn't resist when they yanked his arms roughly behind his back and tied them, did his best to be docile and follow where they tugged him. Only his head he kept down, so they wouldn't see how tightly his jaw was clenched in an effort not to snarl.
They made him walk, prodding him along with the barrels of their guns, applying verbal abuse when they felt he wasn't moving fast enough. After a while he tuned them out, more focused on keeping his feet moving forward, doing his best to stay upright.
His head hurt, throbbing painfully in cadence with his footsteps, the pain increasing every time somebody decided to trip him for fun and send him face-down in the snow amidst loud guffaws. It got very old, very quickly.
"I liked the other ones better," he said flatly once, after regaining his feet, and got a rifle butt to the stomach as a reward. The pain was enough to convince him to keep his mouth shut, though at the back of his mind he knew there was something wrong with him. Years ago he would never have tolerated this sort of abuse; if they wanted him to come, they would have had to beat him half to death and fucking dragged him. Then again, he never remembered being beaten up hurting so fucking much. All those years in the other world had made him soft.
Still, he slogged on. It felt like his clothes were soaked through from repeated falls in the snow, moisture which was rapidly turning icy in the chill air. For a while his face, fingers, and toes had hurt, but now he could hardly feel them any more. He didn't know how long he had been walking. Time had no meaning for him, measured only in his footsteps. Abstract hunger gnawed at him after a while, but it was forgotten in the greater discomfort of his bruises, and the intensifying shivers.
After one particularly nasty fall, he found himself remembering a night in America, when his prosthetics had given out on him. It had been freezing that night, too, and Alfons had come to get him, picked him up... he could almost feel the warmth of Alfons' back against him... it was no longer ice against his face, but the soft hairs at the back of Alfons' neck tickling his nose....
Get the fuck up, bastard!
He hardly noticed the kick that connected with his much-abused ribs. He missed Alfons so badly.
Murdering sunovabitch, he deserves to die here.
We have our orders. Get him to his feet.
He thought of Al, then, and shame penetrated his longing. What kind of older brother was he, groveling in the mud like this? What would Al think if he knew that a hug from Alfons would have made it so much easier for him to deal with the abuse?
Pathetic.
He dredged up strength from somewhere, thrust his weakness away from himself, and managed to get his feet under himself, assisted by rough hands pulling him upright. Deep inside himself he found a lukewarm core of fury, which gave him enough strength to clench his teeth and attack as best as he could, snarling and kicking, clamping his teeth down on a hand and getting a mouthful of blood. The scuffle was short and bitter. Soon enough they had grabbed him again, though he writhed and tried to break free. Something heavy smashed into the back of his head, again, again, until finally consciousness slipped away.
He wondered if now Al would be proud of his big brother, and if Alfons would understand.
Only the fuzziness in his head kept the pain from being excruciating. Sometimes people around him shouted, making his head pound. Other times he could feel himself being dragged, jolting him to the roots of his teeth. At intervals, a cloth that smelled cloyingly sweet was pressed to his face, but even that wasn't enough to keep him from shocking conscious at the pain when his hands and feet were rubbed back to life.
For a time, the lack of thought, of decisions, of worry, was a relief.
When he woke, this time for real, it was with a gasp and splutter as what seemed to be a bucket of ice water was emptied over his head. Impressions bombarded him – he was sitting on something hard, hands chained behind his back, in a place with a small echo (probably a small room of some sort. He didn't like where this train of thought was leading him), and there were others inside with him.
He was cold, bone-deep. Water dripped down his face and made his hair stick to the back of his neck, and he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. His automail ports were a mess of pain; he was sort of glad Winry wasn't there to see them, because they felt damaged.
(He was lying to himself. He would have given almost anything for Winry to have been there.)
"What's your name?" a voice snapped at him.
It didn't occur to him to lie. "Edward Elric," he managed through an aching jaw, his voice unsteady. Didn't they know who he was? What was the point of all this? He wanted to lie down, to shut down, he was so tired, he hurt....
"Liar," the voice claimed harshly, and Ed found the strength to chuckle drily.
"I wish," he said. Something was off in his lungs, an itch deep inside that seemed intent on tearing out of him. He thought of Alfons, of his hacking cough and rasping lungs, of the blood and the worms and felt a rush of longing.
"Who are you?" was shouted again.
Ed repeated his answer tiredly. His head lolled to the side, and space started spinning around him.
"Edward Elric vanished four years ago."
"I came back," he mumbled distantly. The voices were far away, he was spinning, and the part of him that was aware he was losing consciousness was quite happy about that situation-
Another dash of freezing water left him gasping, and more awake than he really wanted to be.
"Stay awake." There was an undercurrent of glee in the voice that made Ed's stomach twist with apprehension. Whoever the bastard was, he was enjoying this. "Where were you?"
Tense silence as they waited for his reply. His attention was momentarily arrested by the rhythmic drip of water on the floor somewhere below him. It was dark, and it was silent, and maybe if he stalled long enough-
He was backhanded roughly, snapping his head to the side. "I asked you a question."
Ed forced his breathing under control, and felt an empty sort of despair. He couldn't answer. Anything he said would put Al in danger – put Alfons in danger.
"Fuck you," he said tiredly.
This time there was no blow – though he flinched in anticipation of it when the hand touched his hair, tangling in it, forcing his head back. His eyes were wide, hopelessly trying to pierce the darkness.
"You might as well answer," the voice growled in his ear, too close for comfort. "One way or another, you will tell us."
Ed's breath came heavily around the strain in his neck, and when he tried to swallow, his mouth was dry. He remained silent.
"Come, now," the man said, his voice lightening, "I don't want to have to hurt you."
"Yes, you do," Ed managed. His mind was happy now to supply him with images of what this room could be like, stocking it with a whole arsenal of various torture devices.
It would hurt, worse than it did now. He knew pain, in various forms – and he knew they could destroy his body, take away what little he had left....
"Just tell me what I want to know," the man said softly, persuasively.
For a moment it was as if he could see – Alfons' image flashed before his eyes in full, vivid color, bleeding out of what could have been a fatal hole in his chest.
These people wanted him hurt, dead. Better him than Alfons.
And maybe... even now, surely Al was trying to find him, those soldiers would come after him, try to rescue him....
"Fuck you," he said, his voice weak but resolute, and steeled himself for pain.
His hair was released abruptly, and the man tore away from him with a vile curse. Swift footsteps, the heavy clang of the door slamming shut, and Ed was alone.
A bluff? It was a relief, to be alone, though now he was free to notice how badly his body hurt. And a reprieve now didn't mean there would be no torture later. Still, it was something.
Fuck, he was cold. So very cold.
He drifted, for a while. When somebody else came in, he didn't even have enough energy to react. But they were gentle, directing somebody to lift him from the chair he was chained to, and had him carried into a room which was blissfully warm. By now he was shaking so hard he could barely stand unassisted, and definitely incapable of protesting when his shirt and pants were stripped off of him. When they were replaced with something warm and thick and dry, he no longer wanted to.
All the while somebody was clucking over him, a female voice this time, commenting on his bruises and mistreatment. He didn't know who they were, or what the fuck was going on, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. For now he was dry, and warming up, and nobody was beating on him, and of course he wouldn't mind answering a few questions about....
"Who are you?" he rasped, his mind started to work logically once again.
"Charlotte Bryant," she said immediately. "Please don't worry, I'm here to try and help you! But in order to do that I need to know a few things. Please tell me, what did happen in Lior?"
Lior. Scar. Kimblee. The Philosopher's Stone. Al. And now he remembered King Bradley blaming him, and initiating a country-wide manhunt. No way....
"What do you want with me?"
"Just to know what happened, nothing more! Was it your brother who brought you back?"
Ed stared off into the darkness. "Are you with... Mustang?" he asked tentatively. He didn't think Mustang would help him, but maybe... they had sort of had an understanding, once....
She hesitated. "Of course!" she said warmly. "Mustang sent me to take care of you. He's been very worried. Now, won't you tell me what happened to you?"
He shifted on the mattress. It was so soft, so inviting... the implication was inescapable. All he had to do was cooperate, and he would be given what he so dearly needed.
If only he believed her.
"If you're with Mustang, then send him," he said. She was silent after that, and left a little while later. It came as no surprise when other people came and tossed him in a cold cell, with nothing but hard concrete to lie on. At least he was dry, he thought. And Al and Alfons were safe.
Time passed. At some point a bunch of soldiers came – there was shouting in the corridors – and then he was marched out, apprehension heavy in his gut. But then they unchained him and took him somewhere warm, where a guy calling himself Alan Berman introduced himself as the head muckety-muck of some political party or something and, surprise surprise, tried to get Ed to talk about Lior et cetera. This time Ed cooperated long enough to insist several times that he hadn't done it, before falling silent on the issue of what else had gone on there and where he had been.
For a change, his lack of cooperation didn't lead to immediate punishment. He was fed, kept in a warm room with a bed, and even allowed to sleep for several hours. After a time they brought in a doctor, who cleaned him up with something that stung like hell in his cuts, and bandaged his cracked ribs, and gave him something for the pain. He hated how pathetically grateful he was for it.
It drove him nuts that he couldn't properly gauge the passage of time. He knew it had to be several days at least, because he was fed (too intermittently to help with timekeeping), his cough was worsening, but his face was starting to feel less like one big bruise. Even with the fact that he tended to heal quickly, it had been far too long. He absolutely refused to wonder why there was no rescue, why he was still here....
At least, for now, he was enjoying relative peace with this Berman and his fellows, until some other people burst in and dragged him unceremoniously away, over the protests of whoever had custody of him. They dragged him for a while, then beat him up, dragged him around some more, chained him to something, and kicked him a few more times for good measure. Ed sprawled on the floor, feeling the clicking of something having gone quite wrong in his shoulder, and gratefully lost consciousness for a bit.
He didn't have to spend too long with these wonderful specimens of humanity, though. After a while he was picked up by some other people, who didn't particularly seem to like him, either (as evidenced by their fond nickname of 'murderer', a nice change from being called the Homicidal Alchemist), but at least they didn't seem inclined to hurt him. There was another interrogation – by now he dealt with them easily, simply pretending he was somewhere far away, preferably with Alfons, and stayed quiet.
They got creative, too. People tried to pry information out of him with cajoling and threats, bribery and wildly implausible stories about which of his friends they represented. Mustang featured prominently on the list.
Then somebody decided to sell him some new story – a guy introduced himself as Leon Harris (something mildly familiar about his voice, though Ed couldn't pinpoint it), and said he was a lawyer, and wanted to represent Ed.
Ed laughed. "Lawyer?" he asked incredulously. "What, they can't drag me in front of a firing squad by themselves?"
"Nobody is going to be dragging you in front of a firing squad without a fair trial," Harris said staunchly.
"Right," Ed said, and snorted in disbelief. "Are you going to tell me Mustang sent you, now?"
"Well," Harris hesitated. "It may seem hard to believe, but he did. Colonel Mustang has a vested interest in you winning this trial – as do many of us. But in order for me to help you, I'm going to need some cooperation."
Ed swung his leg in a jittery motion, rattling the chains. Years ago, Mustang had hinted heavily that if Ed and Al were ever found out, the military would quietly cause them to vanish, no questions asked. Now this man was coming and talking about lawyers and shit, and he didn't know how to swallow it. If his headache weren't as bad he might have tried to figure out some sneaky way to pry the information he needed.
Lacking the energy for finesse, he just decided to ask straight out. "Why should I tell you anything? You could have a whole army of people there just waiting for my confession."
"That would be illegal," Harris said, sounding just a bit unhappy. "I would offer to show you my credentials, but your blindness makes that a bit pointless."
"And kidnapping me out of my home, dragging me across the country, and beating me up every few hours is legal?" Ed wondered. Though he supposed having lawyers was an improvement over not having them, even if the military's methods didn't seem to have changed significantly.
"No, it's not," Harris answered. Ed could hear the rustle of his clothes as he shifted. "It's not a great comfort to you right now, I suppose, but we've been raising hell over your maltreatment. Public opinion is very much on your side."
Yes, because 'public opinion' would be such a great comfort tonight when they put him to bed in his freezing little cell on the horrible mattress (which definitely had bedbugs or something) and he tried to ignore his hunger and aching limbs and go to sleep. Lovely.
"Will you answer some questions?" Harris asked, sounding just a bit impatient. Ed's ability to piss people off seemed to have grown exponentially in those four years. He had apparently managed to get whole hosts of people he didn't even know royally ticked off at him, and it had taken him a bare five minutes to get to Harris.
"No."
"Can you direct me towards witnesses who can testify your lack of involvement in the destruction of Lior?"
Against his will, Ed found himself interested. Finally, a question that actually made some sort of sense, and fit the persona this person was putting forth.
He pondered. "All the survivors from the units sent there that were at the eastern end of the city. They should have fucking seen me trying to block the-"
"The what?" Harris pounced.
Ed shut his mouth with a snap, and refused to say any more, heart pounding. Idiot. He berated himself all the way back to his cell, and fell asleep that night sick with worry that he had somehow doomed Al, and dreamed of Alfons.
Had Alfons not been gawking like some country bumpkin, Al probably wouldn't have noticed there was anything different about Central. Whispers following him were normal, and if there were more soldiers around – well, lately it seemed that there were soldiers everywhere, it was hardly worth noting. But since Alfons seemed to find Central interesting Al looked around, too, and wasn't particularly pleased at what he saw. People seemed unusually tense, and the murmurs following his red coat were louder than usual.
A disquieting thought occurred to him. If whoever-it-was was desperate enough to kidnap Ed, was Al in danger as well? And what if somebody decided to go after Winry or Alfons? Winry was smart and capable enough to hold her own to a certain extent, but Alfons seemed totally helpless. He added protecting Alfons and Winry to his mental list of things to do.
Abruptly he paused, unsure. He had had vague plans of imposing on Gracia for hospitality, but if there was danger, maybe they would be better off finding somewhere obscure and out of the way? His lack of foresight had already cost them dearly. If only Ed were there, surely he would know what to do.
"What's wrong?" Winry asked, and he bit his lip. If he had been alone it wouldn't even be an issue, but now....
He was about to voice his concerns when, across the plaza, he saw a familiar figure, flanked by four more soldiers.
"Hawkeye!" he said, a smile of unfeigned relief on his face. He didn't want to rely on others, knew the danger in entrusting Ed to their mercy. Even so, it was a relief to see her rapid, decisive footsteps. Hawkeye would know what to do, how to go about springing Ed.
A tense conversation later, and they were headed in a different direction. Not to see Ed – Hawkeye was disturbingly quiet about when that could be brought about – but to a safe place, where they would meet with Mustang and discuss their next moves. Which would involve freeing Ed, Al told himself firmly.
Mustang's headquarters at the moment were in what used to be The Paradise Hotel, but was now fortified almost past recognition. A wall surrounded the premises, obviously erected by alchemy, soldiers situated atop it at regular intervals. At the gate, the guards recognized Hawkeye immediately and let them in, and Al fought to suppress irrational apprehension when the heavy gates swung shut behind them.
No gate was a match for his alchemy, he told himself.
Inside, Hawkeye led them through the corridors, up stairs, and eventually they were forced to slow down to compensate for Alfons' lungs. Al felt a grudging respect that Alfons didn't complain, but walked grimly on, even though pain was clearly visible on his face.
Finally they reached their destination, a suite that seemed to have been converted into a conference room.
"Ah, good, you're here," Mustang said, looking up briefly from his discussion. The man he was conversing with looked up as well. He was well-dressed and broad shouldered, clean shaven but for a moustache, with short, fair hair.
Al was about to ask who this man was and what was going on, but the attention was momentarily diverted by Alfons' sharp intake of breath. Al turned to him, to find him staring at the strange man as if he had seen a ghost, white as a sheet.
Mustang stood up, frowning, apparently having shelved whatever he was going to say, for now. "Who is this?"
Al looked to Winry for a plausible answer, but she was staring at the floor. How much were they supposed to admit? How much had Ed told? He wished they had agreed on a version of the events.
"Well?" Mustang said, starting to sound impatient. When nobody answered, he sighed. "Come here." He then grabbed Al's elbow, despite his sharp protest, and stood the two of them next to each other, regarding them with dark eyes.
"It's uncanny," Hawkeye said softly. Al scowled. He hated any reference to Alfons' status as his doppelgänger.
"Explain!" Mustang barked, a strange note of tension in his voice. "Damn it, Alphonse, we're in enough trouble without you springing this on me! I need to know how he could influence the outcome."
"Where's Ed?" Al asked, but at that moment Alfons decided to speak, so of course everybody ignored Al. Damn.
"I'm a friend of Edward's," he said, then paused. "How much do you know about where Edward has been?"
Mustang let out an explosive sigh, and sat back down on one of the couches, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. As if that had been an invitation, everybody moved to do likewise, squeezing far too many people onto the too-small sofas, and leaving Winry to perch on one of the arms.
"Edward," Mustang growled, "has been completely uncooperative. He won't talk, he won't-"
"-And as I've been telling you, that's completely understandable, given how he's been treated," the strange man cut in smoothly.
"You saw him?" Alfons burst out, Al's cry on the tail of it, and Winry leapt to her feet.
"Gentlemen," Hawkeye cut in, loudly. "And lady. I believe introductions would help."
Everybody quieted down, though Al found it difficult to calm the racing of his heart. Why were they sitting here wasting time if this man had seen Ed, and knew where he was? Why couldn't they break him out?
"I am Leon Harris," the man introduced himself. At the corner of Al's eye, he saw Alfons flinch and look away. "Colonel Mustang has requested my services as defense attorney for Fullmetal."
Al wasn't sure if he would have preferred the man to use Ed's name. The familiarity would have annoyed him, but at the same time, the distance of Ed's alchemist title made him unhappy.
"Attorney?" Winry asked in a small voice. "Is there going to be a trial?"
"We'll get to that," Mustang announced, and looked pointedly at Alfons.
"My name is Alfons Heiderich," he said, his voice just a bit rough. "I am a friend of Edward's from – from where he was for the past four years."
"And where was that?" Mustang asked, but Al cut in.
"Your turn. Where did you see Ed? Is he okay? What's this about a trial?"
Harris sighed.
"The Fullmetal Alchemist is accused of murdering over 900 soldiers and destroying the city of Lior. And a minor charge of desertion. Many in the higher echelons of the military, including members of the ANP are pushing for his trial."
"But he didn't do it," Al said stupidly into the silence. What kind of joke was this? Oh, he knew there were some who bandied about that it had been Ed's fault, but anybody with half a mind should be able to see how ludicrous the claim was!
"That is what the trial is there to prove," Harris answered.
"But why now?" Alfons said, uncertainty making his accent even worse. "Four years have passed. This is very drastic."
Mustang spoke then, irony heavy in his voice. "Politics. The Democratic Revolutionary Party is the basis of the current Parliament, which has been extolling Edward's many virtues for the past four years in an attempt to gain favor with the people."
Politics? Al could hardly listen, fury rushing through him. Treating Ed's life like it was some kind of game, accusing him of crimes he hadn't committed....
Was this what he had brought his brother back for?
"If Edward is proved guilty, the current government would fall out of favor, both with the populace and internationally, a situation which the ANP would undoubtedly pounce on."
"As I was saying earlier," Harris cut in again, "The opposition must have something up their sleeve, because as of now their case is remarkably flimsy. There are dozens of witnesses who can testify that Edward was not inside Lior at the time. This is a diversion."
"So even if we win, it's still not over," Winry said darkly, and Harris nodded. "Can we win?"
"It's not just an issue of proof," Mustang said. "Edward has the right to choose his own lawyer, but if he doesn't, the court will choose for him. According to Mr. Harris' reports, Edward has been badgered to the point where he trusts no one."
"What's wrong with a court lawyer?" Al asked in a small voice, wondering if it was a very stupid question.
"Because it's a question of which court," Mustang said with a snort, crossing his arms.
Harris elaborated. "It's simple. If Edward is tried by a military court, he will be found guilty, because the vast majority of the military wants to be rid of him. In a civilian court, there is a high chance he will be found innocent, because the people currently in Parliament would like to keep their seats. Therefore the military refuse to allow him to be tried by civilian court, and vice versa."
"What can we do?" Alfons asked.
"Convince that stubborn idiot to accept Mr. Harris as his lawyer," Mustang growled, "so we can actually start working on his case. Though," he narrowed his eyes suddenly and sat up straight, looking at Alfons, "I believe you may hold some of the answers we need."
Al's heart skipped a beat. They hadn't ever sat down and discussed what was okay to tell Mustang, and even worse, he hadn't warned Alfons of everybody's treachery. Now Alfons, who probably didn't know any better, would spill the beans and what if Ed was hurt again?
"I do not know which answers you need," Alfons said, a vague sort of look on his face.
"This is not the time for games," Mustang said. "What happened to Edward? Where did he vanish to, and how did you come to return? Nobody has a clue where Edward vanished to four years ago, since Alphonse lost his memory and-"
Shit. He hadn't wanted Alfons to know!
"You lost your memory?" Alfons repeated to him in horror. "That – not possible – you don't remember...?"
Al squirmed uncomfortably. A heavy silence descended, and he felt small and guilty. As if Ed wasn't important enough to him to even remember, as if Ed's sacrifice and suffering had been meaningless.... He wanted to say it didn't matter, that he had learned as much as he could and that things would still be the same, but couldn't. Not to Alfons, who seemed like he was hoping for Al to tell him otherwise – and why did he even care so much?
"I don't remember anything from the time I was in the armor," he said stiffly. "I managed to piece together some of what happened to him – to us, though."
"Oh," Alfons said. He looked at the floor, practically radiating dejection – where the hell did he get off? What right did he have to sit there like it was his own personal tragedy, as if he could understand what it felt like for Al, what it would do to Ed if he knew?
The thought that somehow Alfons did understand what it would do to Ed terrified him.
Mustang cleared his throat. "Alfons? Answers?"
Please, Al thought, as if it could change something. Everything depended on what Alfons would say, now.
"Edward once told me there would be great danger if people would know," Alfons said suddenly, a faraway look in his eyes. "He doesn't like to talk about it. About – what happened. He would be angry at me if I would tell."
"There is more at stake here than Fullmetal's feelings," said Harris drily. "Wouldn't you prefer he be alive to be angry?"
Alfons bit his lip, then looked to Al for support. Relief at the fact that Alfons hadn't spilled the beans suddenly morphed into terror. How could he make the decision?
He wanted to know what Alfons was hiding, what secrets Ed had told him. During one of their conversations Ed had hinted at some sort of alchemy, but immediately clammed up when questioned. How could Ed keep secrets from Al? They were all each other had. For years they had stuck together, through more than anybody could possibly imagine. And then along came Alfons, with his stupid accent and his secret language that only he and Ed spoke, and the stupid fringe of hair on his forehead that Ed liked to touch.
He would make Alfons tell, but later. Not when everybody was around.
Decisively, he shook his head. There had to be another way.
Infuriatingly, it was Alfons who thought of it.
"But all you need is for Edward to trust you," he said quickly, after apologizing once again for refusing to give away information. "I can tell you something to say that will make him know you have my cooperation."
"Why you and not me?" Al blurted, before he could think of all the reasons not to speak up. "I'm his brother, if there's anybody who shared things with him it's me-"
Alfons interrupted, his voice calm, collected, a complete opposite of Al's strident tones. "What I have to say is something nobody in this world knows."
Al's mouth snapped closed and he leaned back on the sofa, sure his face must be burning with fury and humiliation. It was true, and it hurt. Ed had spent four years in another world with this person, sharing memories that nobody else would ever be able to intrude on.
He felt a disquieting flash of resentment at how Ed had botched the transmutation of his memories, quickly quelled.
Alfons, in the meantime, was talking again: "Tell him... 'Alfons Heiderich denkt, dass du kein Dämon bist'."
He listened idly as Alfons made Harris repeat it several times, until he claimed Harris pronounced it understandably. The conversation continued around him, Alfons and Winry asking questions which he couldn't really be bothered to listen to. What he really wanted was to free his brother, but Mustang so plausibly and elegantly explained why it was impossible, and would lead to further complication of the already-complex situation. It would be better to spend their efforts on making Ed as comfortable as possible, Mustang said. Against his will, Al was convinced.
He watched the clock, waiting impatiently for the meeting to be over, so he could finally be alone with his thoughts.
This time, it was slightly easier to get in to see Fullmetal. Some of the guards remembered Harris, and by quick talking he managed to have them set up an urgent interview despite the late hour. The security around the small prison compound was tighter than he had ever seen; it took three checks, rifling through his bag and patting him down for weapons or anything else he might try to sneak in, and a dim-witted looking guard following his every step until he was in the small, concrete-bound meeting room. Once again the guard made snide remarks about how dangerous the prisoner was, and asked whether Harris felt safe being alone with him, which the lawyer found frankly offensive. He brushed the guard off, preferring to wait alone.
When the heavy door on the other side of the cell clanked open, Harris was once again struck by how Edward Elric looked nothing like the legend he was. He shuffled along slowly, hampered by heavy shackles around his ankles, his half-open eyes pointed blankly at the floor. Heavy bruising could be seen on practically every inch of visible skin, and Harris made a mental note to monitor guard abuse closely. He looked nothing like the murderer the ANP claimed him to be, yet at the same time, nothing like the character of the Fullmetal Alchemist as seen in comic books and films. Quite simply, he looked like a tired, hurt, depressed young man, who badly needed a shower.
Harris cleared his throat, mildly uncomfortable at dealing with a blind man, and trying to suppress it. "My name is Leon Harris. I spoke to you earlier today."
Elric was silent for a moment, then spoke in a sarcastic little mutter. "So it's still 'today', huh? Good to know." In a louder voice he said, "Well, what is it this time?"
Harris brushed aside annoyance at the aggression. "I have a message to deliver," he said. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the slip of paper he had written a transliteration on, and carefully repeated the words Alfons had taught him.
The change was remarkable. Elric stiffened at the first words, staring straight ahead, wide-eyed. He swallowed, then tried for a tired smile around the swelling on the left side of his face. "I was beginning to think they had forgotten – they really sent you – you're going to help me?" The raw hope was plainly visible.
"Yes," Harris confirmed, pulling his chair closer to the scratched metal table between them. He set his briefcase on it with a low clang, inwardly relieved. He had been wary of trusting the strange young man's assurances that this would work. Time was of the essence, and every day that passed was another day somebody else might manage to convince Elric of their sincerity, some other lawyer win the right to represent one of Amestris' most famous wanted men in what might be the trial of the century.
"Is Alfons alright?" Elric asked suddenly, eager. "He wasn't hurt? Is he here? This is Central, right?"
Harris reassured him, and wrote something down in his notebook. The way the two asked after each other, one might think they were the brothers, instead of Edward and Alphonse.
"Now that we know each other, shall we move on to more pressing issues?" Harris arranged his papers, reviewed the list of questions, and then looked at his charge. "I'd like to start off with -"
"Hang on," Elric interrupted. The innocent relief dropped off his face, replaced by a wariness more alert than what he had shown before. "Why are you doing this? Who are you to Mustang? Why do you want to defend me?"
"I'm a lawyer," Harris said patiently. "This is my job. Mustang hired me because he knows I am one of the best in the field."
At that Elric looked perturbed. "So, you believe I didn't do it?"
Harris lay down his pen, and regarded him. "What I believe is immaterial. By law, you are innocent until proven guilty," he ignored Elric's muttered remark of 'well that's new', "and it is my job to defend you to the best of my abilities."
"I did not fucking destroy Lior!" Elric snapped, obviously having completely missed the point of Harris' little speech. "How can you say it doesn't matter? How the hell can you defend me if you think I did it?"
Harris found himself getting annoyed again. Did the young man know nothing of the legal system? "Even if I were to know for certain that you were guilty, I would still defend you to the best of my abilities."
It was the wrong thing to say. Elric looked stricken, and turned his head away to hide his expression. "I have enough bastards here thinking I'm a murderer," he said roughly. "If you think so too, you can just get the hell out."
Harris was silent, pondering. His first impulse was to say whatever it took to get Elric to open up, but he disliked lying to clients. As for his innocence... from the evidence, the case did seem flimsy enough, though Harris himself was a skeptic. He had seen all manner of criminals and murderers hiding behind innocent faces and indignant acts, though none had gone so far as to refuse an attorney on the basis of it.
He was surprised to find that he rather wanted to believe in him. Elric was a hero to many, and Harris was intrigued. Cynical as he was, he, too, had grown up on the legends of noble thieves helping the poor, and masked alchemists fighting crime.
"I would like to believe you," he said quietly. "I'm just waiting for a reason to."
He could see his words taking effect.
"I'll tell you," Elric said roughly. "But... promise you'll help me?"
"I promise," said Harris, feeling childish.
And then Elric started his story, and if even half of what he said was true, the films and books barely contained a fraction of the real legend of the Fullmetal Alchemist.
Alfons sat alone in his room, unsure whether or not he was pleased with the current arrangement. It had been a relief when Mustang had offered them a place to sleep, a small room for each of them. Gratefully, he changed into the nightclothes he had brought from the Rockbells', and curled up in bed, ready to fall into a much needed slumber. But it was still too early for that, despite how exhausting the day had been, and the bed was far too empty.
When he had imagined what it would be like in Edward's world, he hadn't ever imagined himself alone.
Rolling onto his side, he pressed his face into the pillow and hugged it to him, thankful that no strangers shared his room so he wouldn't have to answer for his pathetic actions. He closed his eyes, and pretended Edward was beside him, one arm slung over Alfons' waist the way he liked it, half possessive and half needy. He wouldn't need to look at Edward, or even hug him back. Instead, he would stare ahead into the darkness, and say, hey, Edward. Harris - he looks like my father.
And he wouldn't have to say anything else, because Edward would understand. Edward knew the horrible wrench of losing family, the emptiness it left behind. Even more, he knew the shock of seeing them again, a familiar face with alien eyes, a person who didn't move or talk like they were supposed to, but whose voice was still the same. He knew what it was like to desperately search for just a hint of recognition, to think all the words that had never been said, but know that to say them to this person would just paint you a lunatic, to try and pretend, just for a moment....
There was a lump in his throat. He thought of his parents' graves in Lienz, and reminded himself that Leon Harris was not his father.
Quite suddenly, he remembered the first time he and Edward had met, and the raw, despairing hope on his face, dashed so quickly once Alfons had opened his mouth to introduce himself. He thought of living with Harris, of seeing his face every day, a constant reminder of what he had lost, and suddenly wondered just how much pain he had caused Edward by looking like Al. He remembered, so long ago, when he had first kissed Edward, full of his own offended pride and barely sparing a thought to what it must have done to him.
Had Edward been with him, Alfons would have apologized for that time. And he knew that Edward would have done something, said something, that wouldn't have made everything better but would have helped him cope, taken the edge off his pain.
But Edward was gone, locked up somewhere, and Alfons couldn't even comfort himself with the thought that surely Edward was thinking of him right at this very moment, not now that Edward had more people to worry about than just him.
He opened his eyes in the darkness and sat up. The movement was too sudden, and he was forced to wait for the sharp pain in his lungs to fade. He leaned over and fumbled by the bed until he found his tiny suitcase, and inside, the book he had filched from a shelf at the Rockbells.
Then, he squirmed back under the warm covers and turned on the small gas light on the nightstand. A book about Edward was better than no Edward at all, and any distraction was better than none. He started on the first page, curiosity taking hold.
He could hardly believe Edward was as famous as he had always claimed, but there was his name, and this book was just one of many. His Edward, the reclusive, obnoxious man, was a national hero. Every word Edward had told him was true, and Alfons felt a rush of warmth that despite everything, Edward had chosen him.
But after barely twenty minutes he tossed aside the book, a strange ache in his chest. The person described, the brash, arrogant, introverted adventurer was completely unfamiliar to him. If this was Edward, then who was his Edward? He had never imagined that Edward's personality could have been so different.
Was this how Edward really had been? Was this the true Edward, and the one Alfons had known simply a muted stand-in until he could return home? He lay on his back, staring up at the black ceiling in hurt confusion. Even Edward was becoming unfamiliar to him.
Edward had died, and he had changed. Alfons thought of the Edward he had known these past three years, and of the Fullmetal Alchemist in the stories, and wondered if he could learn to love them both. He was afraid the answer might be 'no'.