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

Part Two

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

August 21, 2006
Central Oklahoma

Al strode along the dusty road with Maes, Reilly, Tom and Ducky as they followed the rest of the mourners who were either on foot or horseback. Llyn had chosen to remain back at Redfeather's house to watch over Ed, and Heist felt it best if she stayed with him, "In case he needs my help," she'd explained, although Al noticed a distinctive blush cross her cheeks when she said that.

At the head of the procession, a single horse pulled the driverless wagon carrying Singer's body in a simple pine casket covered with the American flag. It was led by a man in denims, dusty boots and a feathered headdress -- also on horseback -- and the wagon was flanked by two other riders who were dressed similarly. Many others within the group were just as casual, but there were embellishments -- in hair, around necks, or as part of the clothing they wore -- though none quite as splendid as the three at the front wore. Tom had explained very softly, when Al had looked askance at him, that the three were tribal chiefs.

Riding in the wagon's wake, on a pale buckskin with eagle feathers tied to its harness, was Redfeather -- Singer's father. His face was painted black and his long hair had been cut short, and while he appeared stoic, the glistening trail of tears that left pale streaks down his cheeks spoke eloquently of his grief.

Directly behind Redfeather, five men and two women marched in slow formation -- rifles shouldered and held in crisp, white gloves. The uniforms, dark blue and trimmed in red, were immaculate. The metal buttons sparkled brightly with each measured step, the black boots polished to a high shine, and the bright, white hats, spotless. They issued orders in low tones that were blown away by the hot breeze before they reached Al's ears. "Marines," Redfeather had told the teen when they'd arrived at his house early that morning, and pride had gleamed in his dark eyes.

New arrivals joined the procession as it grew closer to the final destination -- traveling much the same as the rest; there were no motorized vehicles. Many came out of their homes and watched in respectful silence, or from the nearby hills or the side of the road as the line of mourners passed. The only sounds beyond the creaking of the wooden wheels of the wagon, and the clop-clop of hooves, was an occasional soft command from rider to horse in a strange language, or a respectful war whoop from an observer. Even the birds were silent today.

And always... always, an old paint, head hung low, reins dragging the ground and saddle empty, ambled at the very end of the procession.

The three mile journey ended at a low plateau in the middle of a grassy plain, and as the horse and wagon were led to a beam and hide structure in the center, Al marveled at the sheer numbers of people already there. "I never expected Singer to have so many friends," he whispered.

He hadn't noticed that Redfeather had hung back and dismounted, until he swiveled around and nearly slammed into him. The Elder's horse snorted and jerked on the reins, as though offended for his rider, but Redfeather's eyes sparked in amusement. Al, realizing that he'd been heard, stammered, "Uh... not that he wouldn't, but he always seemed like a lon-- er... uh..." At that, he just gave up and buried his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment. "That came out all wrong," he mumbled.

He felt a warm, strong hand squeeze his shoulder and gazed up to the Elder smiling down at him through his tears. "My son served his nation and was able to travel the world. He met a lot of interesting people and I guess he made quite a few friends along the way." He nodded toward the crowd and added, "But these people? They're family."

Al stared, agog. "That's... a pretty big family."

Redfeather chuckled softly. "You have no idea." Then he turned to catch up with the wagon.

Al felt a presence near him, and glanced over to see Tom, ever-observant, scanning the people who were still gathering on top of the plateau. "Did you have a chance to read anything on Native American culture when you were in Germany?" the older man asked without looking at Al.

"A little," the boy responded.

Tom nodded and said, "Forget everything you learned, son." And with that, he strolled off to join Reilly and Ducky and Maes in the crowd. Not entirely certain of what was expected of him, Al figured the safest bet was to follow Tom's lead...

...Except that a rather large young man, dressed in desert fatigues, blocked his way with one muscular arm. At Al's shocked stare, the soldier shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "This is not your place, Little Wolf."

"But..."

The man jutted his chin indicating the structure in the center of the flattened hilltop and said, "You're expected to join Redfeather at the tipi."

As Al gazed across the wide, exposed space between the people and the tipi, a drumbeat began, and it felt like it was in sync with pounding of his heart. He couldn't imagine why he was supposed to sit next to Redfeather. He'd considered Singer a friend, true, but he'd only known the man for a few months, and not very well, at that. There were people here that the mysterious man had grown up with that surely were closer to him.

Hesitantly crossing the area, he watched as the Marines removed the casket from the wagon and placed it in front of the tipi, then two of the soldiers took their post on either end, beginning a shift that Al had been told would rotate through each soldier for the next two days.

When he reached Redfeather, the older man had already settled on the ground and had to gaze up at him.

"Sir," Al said, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, "I don't understand."

Redfeather gestured for Al to sit next to him, and said, "My son knew for years that there would come a time when he would be called on to serve. He'd spent his life preparing for that day."

"I'm not sure what this has to do with me, though," Al said, as he took the spot on the blanket next to Redfeather. "Shouldn't someone else be here, I mean? His brother, or wife? Someone close to him?"

The older man's lips trembled as he said, "He had no siblings, never married and doesn't have any children." He nodded at the reed flute poking out of Al's shirt pocket. "You're his legacy, Alphonse. Someone who can understand and sense the power that comes from the sacred grounds. He believed in your ability to be able to harness that power, too."

Al's hand automatically touched the flute and his vision started to blur. He hung his head and fought the tightness in his throat, as he whispered, "Then I failed him, sir. I didn't get a chance to learn what I could from him, and now... now... he's dead." Tears fell into his lap, staining the dust coating his jeans dark. "It was because of us that he died. Because Bond followed us and then he killed Singer. If he'd--" Al choked and the words fled him. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry, so sorry."

"My son died doing what he was meant to do, Alphonse. You didn't make the choice for him, he made it himself." Redfeather lifted Al's chin and said, "My son died bravely."

Al nodded. He knew Redfeather wasn't asking, but he felt it was important to confirm the truth. "Yes, sir. B-bond was the coward."

He gazed down at the flute again, slipping it from his pocket and running his thumb over the fetish of the playful wolf and butterfly on the end. Singer's legacy. How could Al measure up to that? Especially now that Singer was dead and so much important information was no longer available to him. He knew so little! How? How was the flute important? How was he ever going to be able to use it for something other than playing music once in awhile, and was the incident with the bonfire just a fluke? He had no idea how he'd transmuted the flames the way he had, and feared he'd never figure it out. And now? He wasn't even sure he would even be able to attempt it, not when every time he held the instrument to his lips, he'd see Singer's murder committed over and over again.

Al's grip tightened around the flute unconsciously, and a tanned, calloused hand covered his. "Singer showed you the door, Little Wolf," Redfeather said softly, "but you must make the choice to go through it."

Something tugged at the teen's memory... And then it hit him, and he scowled up at the Elder. "Does everyone in this world quote movies?"

"Sometimes the best advice comes from Hollywood," Redfeather said with a wink. Then, sobering, he added, "Singer wouldn't have taught you anything beyond what he has already. It's up to you to find your path."

"But--"

"If you don't continue to try," the Elder interrupted, "if you give up, then you will have failed him."

Al swallowed and nodded briskly. "Y-yes, sir."

The rest of the ceremony continued on with little else said between Al and Redfeather, except for the Elder explaining some of what the younger man was seeing. People approached the casket and left gifts -- beautiful hand-quilted star blankets, dream-catchers, and other things that held significance -- or spoke to the other mourners in a melodious language about Singer while Redfeather softly translated. Old men in uniforms -- some with red-tinted eagle feathers clipped to the backs of their caps -- iron-haired and gnarled, spoke about traditions and history.

And Al absorbed it all voraciously.

As the day wore on, the August heat became unbearable, and several people, dressed in the same desert fatigues as the man who'd sent Al to the tipi, erected tall poles and tied blue tarps to them to provide shade; others made sure that the mourners were given plenty of water.

And every thirty minutes there would be a softly uttered order and the marines would change shifts.

The sun settled low on the horizon and yet more people arrived and spoke, or left their gifts. A fire-pit was filled with wood and set ablaze, and torches around the perimeter were stuck into the ground and ignited, and people continued to arrive. Reilly and Tom and Ducky had eventually returned back to the house, and Maes followed an hour or so later. Al wondered about Brother, but trusted Llyn to send word if something untoward happened. It was merely a waiting game at this point, and he felt he had a duty to stay with Singer as long as he could...

...And still, the drums never silenced, and the marines always rotated on time, and people kept coming up to give their thoughts and wishes and gifts -- so many gifts -- and Al had nothing to give, and little to say.

Sing well, my friend.

He stared down at the flute once again. Maybe he did have something to offer, after all. "Mr. Redfeather," he asked softly, "would it be improper for me to play for Singer?"

He cast a cautious sideways glance at the Elder, but instead of the disapproval he feared he might receive, he saw something akin to a teacher gazing proudly at a pupil who'd just figured out a difficult equation.

Redfeather waved a hand at the quilts and miniature tipis and dream-catchers and said, "All of these things, the care and love that went into crafting them will travel with my son when his spirit goes to speak with the ancestors, but the things will be given to those who need them." He gazed down at the flute and placed a gentle hand on Al's shoulder. "The music you play, if it comes from your heart and soul, will be an honored and cherished gift that my son will carry with him." A sudden grin split his blackened face, bright white teeth in blinding contrast, as he added, "I'd wondered if you'd think of this."

Al's grin matched Redfeather's as he dipped his head and took a deep breath. He let his eyes slip closed and brought the instrument up to his lips, and let his heart make the music. He recalled the first night he met Singer, although he'd been too ill to realize the man was actually in his room. He thought about how Singer had always managed to frustrate Brother, and the music trilled as he tried to suppress a giggle...

...and as he let his fingers move over the flute, he felt himself slip into an almost dream-state. The drums had never hesitated and the voices of so many people speaking in their own language washed over him, and he hadn't even felt Redfeather shifting against him as he stood. It was only when the drums went silent that he noticed the Elder was now standing next to the casket.

Al stopped and lowered the flute out of respect, but Redfeather shook his head slightly. Understanding what the older man wanted, Al returned to playing, soft and low.

In English, Redfeather spoke: "Soon, my son will enter the spirit world and I would like to give him an Indian name, because this is how the ancestors will know him. His name is Wah-yahng Nah-zjee Wah-nah-ghee-yah-dah." The Elder gazed at Al and translated, "Stands-Watching-the-Spiritland. Guardian of the Sacred Doors. Even from the other side, he will continue to protect them." Then, Redfeather turned to the open casket and laid an eagle feather on Singer's chest.

And it was that moment that who Singer had been became clear to Al. He'd wondered why the man had seemed so interested in him and Brother. He thought he knew -- thought it was as a protector of them. While that was part of the truth, it wasn't all Singer was watching over -- he was duty-bound to protect his own world, and helping the two of them was a part of that.

Singer wasn't an ordinary soldier, but a warrior of the sort Al had only read about in myth. If he had been guarding the Gates, then he had to know where they were, and in order to know this, he had to be able to see and 'feel' them. Reilly had a similar sense, but she used maps and theories and computers to locate them -- Singer had used none of those things.

As Al continued to play, the marines moved his friend's casket into the tipi. The time was drawing near that his spirit would speak with the ancestors, the wake was nearly over. The mourners and friends and family would still speak and leave gifts, and soon they'd be given to the needy. Once the casket was placed inside the tipi, the marines emerged and took posts outside; their vigil would continue on.

The rich, somber notes from the flute seemed to reflect his new understanding without conscious effort on Al's part -- growing and swelling into something almost tangible as it rose into the warm summer night. It wove through the thinning crowd and caressed the marines standing watch over Singer's body, and told a story in a language without words, of the warrior who had given his life to protect three strangers and two worlds...

...and Al felt a part of his own soul carried up with the music -- to join Singer; to speak with the ancestors.

We celebrate his life, he thought he heard Redfeather say, although it sounded so far away. He was just visiting this world, like we all are, and now he is going home. The time to weep for him will soon pass, and the time to take joy in what he left for us all has come.

Al remained immersed in the music until he became aware of a sense of waiting, like the world had suddenly held its breath in anticipation. The very air around him tightened and pulled at him, yanking him back into his own body, and he slowly opened his eyes. A hushed murmur floated through the crowd, with everyone staring toward the tipi, rapt, and he heard one of the marines behind him whisper in awe, "Holy shit." Coming abruptly to his feet, Al twisted around to see what the subdued commotion was all about... and forgot how to breathe for a moment.

From the opening at the top of the thirty foot tall structure, sparkles of bright, indigo light rose up and swirled. Like a lazy cyclone, they spun and coalesced and then took a different form altogether. Two sparkling points, like the arms of a distant galaxy, emerged and grew and spread into wings. Other points, smaller than the first, appeared and became an obvious beak and tail-feathers. There was an eternity during which the ethereal raven seemed to just hover over the tipi, frozen in flight... then with a downward flap of its great wings, it soared up into the night, and disappeared.

Suddenly, time snapped back into place, and Al heard everyone chattering at once -- and Redfeather turned to stare at him in wonderment...

...and Al stared down at the flute.

August 22, 1919
Risembool, Amestris

Jean stood in the doorway of the sick room, night robe hugged around himself as he shivered. The scene was eerily similar to what he'd seen the first day Roy had been brought here: the room in darkness except for the lamp on the nightstand, casting its light over Pinako, sitting on one side of the bed, bathing Roy's face with a damp cloth. Riza, again seated on the other side, held his clutching hand between her own. The pain had obviously broken through the painkillers, and his bandaged head tossed back and forth as he moaned in his delirium.

They'd heard him from upstairs, in the rooms Pinako had given them the day before yesterday to sleep in while they waited for the general to heal. (Riza had Winry's old room, and Jean presumed he'd been put in her parents' former bedroom. Armstrong slept in the family room, where two couches had been shoved together; they could hear him down the hall, snoring softly.) Jean and Riza had met in the upstairs hallway and rushed down to find Pinako already seated at Roy's bedside, trying to administer another sedative. But it wasn't until Riza sat on the bed beside him and slid an arm under his shoulders to lift him up that the older woman could get him to swallow a spoonful of the medicine. He had leaned against Riza, barely conscious, but had managed to take the spoon in his mouth and swallow the liquid.

Now they waited for it to take hold, and in the meantime, he couldn't seem to get comfortable. He'd been going in and out like this for almost two days now, sometimes lucid and coherent enough to tell them more of what he'd seen on the other side of the Gate, and at other times sinking into unconsciousness or even a delirium like this one.

"It's just a bit of light fever this time," Pinako murmured, squeezing the cloth once more over the bowl of water on the side table before smoothing it along Roy's cheek again. "He should calm down once the sedative takes effect."

But Jean wasn't entirely sure. Roy kept muttering under his breath, words slurring, and he frowned as his mind struggled against the peace promised by the sedative.

"I wish he could just rest," Riza fretted, biting her lip. "Just once in his life, let himself rest--"

The sick man cut her off with a strident cry, "No!" He emitted a sharp gasp and suddenly sat up, eye flying open as he stared at Jean, seeing something else entirely.

Jean stepped to the end of the bed. "Roy, calm down. What is it?"

But Roy was already sinking back against Riza as she put her arms around him and helped lower him back to the mattress. "He -- the bastard's dead," he whispered faintly. "I know he's dead. I just don't understand..."

Riza laid his head gently back on the pillow. "He's thinking of Bond," she frowned. "After seeing that spider bomb..."

But Jean wasn't so sure, watching Pinako stroking the boss's face yet again with the cool cloth, a little worm of doubt curled up tightly in his gut. He'd been staring Roy directly in the face as the man had jerked up, gazing internally at the thing that had robbed him of rest for two days. And Jean was certain that thinking of the Stealthworks Alchemist would never have brought tears into the boss's eye.

August 23, 2006
Central Oklahoma

He started to stretch, and groaned when his neck muscle suddenly tightened in pain. He would have brought a hand up to massage the outraged tissue, but his arm refused to cooperate; and in confusion, he opened his eyes. He couldn't see. His breathing sped up for a second, until he saw the vague outline of a shape... the fluffy top of a head, cast in shadow and slumped over his left arm. Okay, the lights were off, it was night, and he wasn't paralyzed -- just a pillow. Good to have those immediate questions answered.

Of course, his neck still burned.

Rather than disturb Al, he opted for the next best appendage and tried to raise his right arm. That one wouldn't move either -- and this time there wasn't an unconscious teenager holding it hostage. Startled, Ed squinted towards the automail, shifting his body a little to try and pull it into the diffuse light barely filtering through the window. His arm was gone. Perfect. Did he pass out during the ceremony or something? Must have forgotten to reattach...

Ed gasped.

They'd been in the Gate... Bond... Hughes' knife... but... but what happened? He looked around again, but the darkness obscured the features of the room he occupied. But he had to know...

"A...Al..." His voice sounded terrible! High-pitched and scratchy, it barely cleared his throat. But it was enough to rouse his younger brother.

The younger kid raised his head wearily, sending tingles of sensation rushing back through the limb his head had been resting on. As his eyes lifted, he appeared to waken suddenly. "Ed!" Al lunged forward, wrapping his brother in an awkward hug. Ed's single arm wasn't up to the task of movement yet, but he did manage to curl his fingers and tap at Al's side in the parody of a comforting embrace. After a moment, the younger brother sat back, one hand still resting on Ed's midsection. "Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need some water?"

The prattle of questions made him squeeze his eyes shut again. "Al..."

"Does your throat hurt? How about your chest? Can you breathe okay?"

"AL!" Okay, that did hurt. His throat burned at the sudden exclamation, but it did make Al grind to a stop, his eyes too wide... not in hurt or shock, but with something else, something... and Ed was overcome with sudden grief.

"We... we didn't make it. Did we?" It wasn't a question; the look in Al's eyes had been enough to confirm that without words. Rolling his body away from the room, Ed raised his still tingling arm to wrap it around his midsection, leaving Al to clutch his own hands in his lap, silent, and radiating the same sense of hopelessness.