I can't believe I'm actually posting this! Finally! This fic has consumed my writing life for over six months now, and I am finally ready to post.
Many, many thanks to the friends on tumblr and discord who have encouraged me, read snippets, and squealed over this fic even in its infancy. You guys are awesome!
I'll try to update weekly with new chapters, but who knows. We'll see. Welcome, and enjoy!
This story begins with a blow to the head.
This is a love story.
Once upon a time, there was a kingdom. Small though it was, it was a prosperous, peaceful, and wealthy domain, ruled by a beloved king and queen. They had two young sons, golden-haired babies who would grow up into fine princes.
But the king was a curious man, searching for knowledge in places he perhaps shouldn't. He was devoted to the study of alchemy, the science fabled to bring eternal life and riches.
One day, without warning, the kingdom was rocked to its core. The sky grew dark, and an earthquake shook the ground, felt for hundreds of miles. Nearly half the kingdom, rich and poor, man and woman and child alike, simply dropped dead without warning.
When the sky cleared and the ground stilled, the kingdom was a changed place. Cries of grief echoed through the cities, the villages, the forests, the countryside. Even the beloved king could not escape the tragedy—it was said that his wife and two sons, both little more than infants, were among those who had perished.
The king withdrew in his sadness. He relinquished power, handing the kingdom over to his top generals and remaining a king in name only.
He never emerged from his palace but once a year, to launch a fleet of alchemized lanterns in memory of his lost family.
As years passed, the corruption in the high ranks of the military grew more pronounced. They were concerned with their own gains, not the welfare of the kingdom's citizens, who struggled to recover from the tragedy. Those in the military who spoke out, advocating for change, were quickly silenced.
Rumors sprang up here and there, whispers that the king was planning to take back power, that one of the princes was still alive somewhere, waiting for the right moment to reveal himself.
But they were nothing more than stories, born of a people more desperate for hope than truth.
Alphonse woke with the morning sun.
It was quiet, as it always was in his secluded home. Birds sang outside as the sky lightened from a dusky blue to vibrant pink and orange. Alphonse rose from his bed, descended the stairs, crossed the floor to the window, and drank in what he could of the outside.
Wind blew gently through the open window, bringing faint scents to him. He could only guess what each of them belonged to.
He placed his hands on either side of the window sill and leaned out as far as he dared, tilting his head downward.
The view was dizzying from this angle. The stone of his window gave way to an equally sturdy wall, which sloped downward unbroken till it met the earth—hundreds of feet below.
Alphonse breathed deep once more, taking in the morning before retreating back into the high tower that was his home.
.
A darkness stalked Alphonse.
As he crossed the tower, his shadow flickered. Thickened, as though it were filled with a black liquid.
Behind his back, a single red eye blinked up at him.
His neck prickled.
Alphonse froze midstep, one hand on his desk. He turned his head, searching, listening. "Hello?"
No response. The red eye disappeared, leaving only the suspiciously dense shadow.
Al spun without warning. He held a light, shining a bright beam directly on the floor behind him.
The darkness broke away from his shadow. It emitted a high-pitched squeal as it fled the light, taking refuge under the shadowy bed.
Al giggled. "Gotcha." He flopped onto his back and spoke to the darkness. "Good morning, Selim."
The black shadow emerged from under the bed, taking the form of a small, four-legged creature. Two red eyes blinked into existence in the darkness where the creature's head would be.
Alphonse motioned with his head, and the little shadow scuttled over to him, climbing on top of his stomach. It made a motion like nuzzling its head against Al's shirt. All Al felt was a faint pressure on his skin, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.
He sat up, letting the shadow dart into his hand, where it spun shapeless in circles before re-forming into the creature.
"You'll be able to sneak up on me one day," Al assured him. "Just keep trying. Whenever I least expect it."
His pet (he had no better word for it) was the only friend he had in the tower—and the only secret he had from Father.
Al had discovered Selim when he was very young. He'd been cleaning under his bed, and he'd cried out with surprise at finding a pair of eyes staring at him from the darkness.
Selim was darkness, as it happened. He had no defined shape, no body—just a mass of black smoke-like energy he could mold into whatever form he pleased.
When he wasn't moving, he typically took the form of a little animal, small enough to sit on Al's shoulder, or in his palm.
Al didn't know what exactly Selim was—he could find nothing in all his books about shadow creatures. But he was a friend, a companion for the long, solitary days Al spent in the tower.
Al surveyed his room with a critical eye. He'd stayed up late reading last night, and had fallen into bed before tidying up, leaving his room messy and disarrayed. Books were strewn across his bed, a half-eaten sandwich abandoned on the nearby chest of drawers. The faint, husky smell of smoke hung in the air, evidence of the apple pie he'd baked—and burned—the evening before.
He needed to clean up, in case Father came today.
Al could never predict when his father would return; he came and went unannounced, unplanned. The thought of him coming home to a messy bedroom was enough to propel Alphonse into action.
He was never harsh or cruel with Al, but he always made his displeasure known. And untidiness irked him.
Al paused to don a shirt and pants, and to tie his long, golden hair into a ponytail. Then he was off, beginning the morning routine.
Sweeping and mopping the tower floor came first. Selim skittered after him, sliding and spinning on the stone. Al was grateful his little friend wasn't corporeal, and could play without leaving tiny footprints all over his hard work.
While he waited for the floor to dry he sampled another slice of the apple pie disaster he'd made yesterday. It tasted better now that it had cooled, and he could pick off the burned parts of the crust.
The apples were sweet and savory, seasoned just to his liking. Now he just needed to figure out the exact composition of the crust, the perfect thickness, and how long to bake it before it blackened…
He wasn't absolutely hopeless at cooking; he was just a slow learner. Father had told him as much many times.
Al allowed himself a quick break to savor the morning air at the window once more. His tower was far away from anything else, sequestered away in a deep canyon which rose even higher than the stone walls. He could see precious little from his vantage point—just the blue of the sky above and the green of the luscious grass below.
Although the outside was beautiful, it rarely changed, He had to find ways to entertain himself inside. Reading, learning, playing with Selim. Running about the tower, climbing all over it, to keep himself in shape.
At night, he could see the stars above, especially well if he climbed the rafters, through the trapdoor, and sat on the roof. Astronomy he liked; it was calm and predictable and he could rely on it.
One night a year, though, things were different. Tomorrow night, in fact. Every year—the day he turned a year older, incidentally—the sky was peppered with not the gentle, twinkling starlight he was used to, but with huge bundles of light that seemed to float through the night, moving much faster than any stars he'd seen.
He'd posited several theories over the years—since they moved faster than stars, the sun, even the clouds, that meant they were closer to earth, not heavenly bodies. And since they only appeared one night a year, which was unnatural for astronomy, they were probably a man-made phenomenon.
Selim sat on the windowsill next to his hand. He cast a curious glance up at the sky, then at Al.
Even without words, Al knew what he meant. "Yep. That's tomorrow."
The mystery of the floating lights burned in Al's curious mind. Part of him dreamed of journeying to the source, running through the night, following the lights to where they began. Just so he would know—and so he could experience the wonder firsthand.
"I wonder if Father would let me go see them this year," he mused idly.
He'd tried in years past to muster up the courage and ask to go. He longed to explore the world outside. To take it all in. Maybe even with his real eyes, instead of through a visor.
He'd never asked. He'd never been bold enough.
Selim nudged his hand encouragingly.
"I'll ask," Al told him. "This is the year. If I wait to ask until I'm ready, I'll never do it. When he comes back, I'm going to ask him." His fist curled resolutely.
Selim vibrated with what Al assumed was happiness.
"But first I have to finish cleaning," Al admitted. He wanted Father to be in a good mood (well, as good a mood as Father was ever in) before asking something as huge as this.
Back in Al's room, the books he'd been reading in bed went back on the shelf in his room, lined up neatly in a row.
He wasn't sure why they'd kept him up so late last night. Why they'd seemed so compelling. It wasn't like he'd never read them before—Father rarely got the chance to obtain new books for him to read. The storybooks he could practically recite word for word, his voice rising and falling with ebb and flow of the story's action. (He'd performed them for the empty tower, several times over.)
Father brought him other books as well. Mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology… Al was well-versed in these subjects. (The one he ached for, though, he still lacked. No matter how many times he asked, hinted, even pleaded on occasion, Father would not let him study alchemy. Too dangerous, he maintained. You know too much already.)
Al knew Father's protection was out of concern for his safety, but it still irked him. He was almost fifteen, and he was very capable. He could handle his power. He could do amazing things with it—if only he could study it, just a little more.
Behind the curtains on his wall, under stacks of parchment on his writing desk, were scrawled messy and amateurish transmutation circles. They were all Al knew—bits of information, gleaned from other books that happened to mention alchemy. He understood very little of what the symbols meant, but there was something calming about drawing the simple shapes—and adding in his own artistic flair. A promise—a promise that one day he'd learn everything there was to know about alchemy.
He returned to the kitchen and stowed away the cooking ingredients, placing the crispy brown pie on a back shelf of the icebox. Selim played hide-and-seek with Al's shadow, dancing back and forth on the floor.
He'd just finished scrubbing the kitchen clean, lamenting his inability to chase the burned smell away completely, when he heard a familiar shout in the distance—from outside the window, down on the ground.
Father was home.
Al rushed to his wardrobe and flung it open. Hanging amidst a rather monotonous selection of pants and shirts and robes was a complete set of armor.
In his haste to remove it, he tipped the armor and the pieces spilled onto the floor, clanking and rolling in different directions. The helmet bounced once, twice, loudly, before skittering under the stove.
Al grumbled, bemoaning his clumsiness as he began the arduous process of donning the armor. His hands moved smoothly over the metal, securing it over his body piece by piece.
He'd worn the armor since he was very small. By now putting it on was second nature, like playing a well-practiced piece of music.
His feet and legs were covered before Father's booming voice echoed up through the tower again. "Alphonse."
"Coming!" Al shouted back, knowing his smaller, higher voice wouldn't carry nearly far enough for Father to hear.
He was out of time. He'd have to assemble the rest of the armor while Father was on his way up.
His armored feet clanked against the stone as he hurried across the room to the window where Father waited below.
He closed his eyes and concentrated. Placed his palms together, then touched them to the stones of the tower.
A blue, electrifying light surged from his palms to the stone. It hummed with energy as it shot down the wall, all the way to the ground, where the distant figure of Father waited.
The stones shifted, their shapes melting and re-forming into a set of stairs, twisting around and around the tower from the ground to the window.
Al peeked cautiously out, making sure his bare face remained hidden. In the distance, he could see the figure on the ground step up onto the steps and begin the long trek upward.
Al breathed deep, knowing his time was now limited. He clanked back and continued assembling the suit of armor.
The pieces were disproportionately large. Wearing the armor elongated his limbs and distended his chest far beyond his true slender form. Doing much of anything in the armor was a long and arduous process. Al supposed that was why Father rarely stayed in the tower for long, so he wouldn't have to suffer the armor for days at a time.
"Get in," he murmured to Selim, motioning to the darkness of his closet. "Don't let him see you."
Selim scurried in, and Al closed the door behind him.
The armored chest plate went on, the spikes on his shoulders creating a hazard for the doorway and any wall he happened to be near. The stone walls memorialized his clumsiness in the armor, scratches slowly growing up the wall over the years as he got taller.
Leather gloves and gauntlets went over his hands. Now all he needed was the helmet.
…which was still under the stove.
Al muttered insults at himself as he awkwardly lowered his bulky body to the floor and slid a gloved hand under the stove. Why hadn't he retrieved it before putting on the rest of the armor? He could be so dim sometimes.
He managed to drag the helmet out and dust it off just in time. A scrabbling at the window indicated Father had arrived and was climbing in. Al jammed the helmet onto his head and hurried to greet him.
Father brushed off his robes and turned to face Al. He surveyed his armored form with a neutral expression, the only quirk in his face one raised eyebrow.
Al couldn't tell what emotion that single brow was meant to communicate. His father was a very hard man to read.
He was sturdily built, tall and doubtless well-muscled under his pale, flowing robes. His hair was long and loose, golden like Al's but lighter, almost faded.
Everything about Father always appeared a bit faded, to be honest. Despite ample time in the sun, Father's skin was as pale as Al's. His eyes were golden too, but unlike Al's they didn't shine, didn't stand out. It was as if the brightness had bled out of them.
Maybe it was all that time in the world, Al supposed. So many years, under the weight of all their stares and judgments, with no armor to protect him…perhaps it took its toll. Sucked the life and color and emotion out of everything, even an imposing man like Father.
(It was a sacrifice, Al reminded himself. Father chose to go out in the world, so Al wouldn't have to. So he could remain safe from prying, greedy eyes.)
"Alphonse," he rumbled in greeting. He never called Al anything but his full name.
"Hello, Father." Al's greeting was more cautious than usual. Preoccupied by what he planned to ask. "How were your travels?"
"Tiring." He dropped the slim suitcase he carried to the ground. "But worthwhile. How did you fare while I was away?"
"Fine." Al worried that Father could hear the nervous anticipation in his voice, even through the armor's tinny echo. "Same as always."
He wanted to clap a hand over his mouth as soon as those last words fell through. Father hated when Al expressed ungratefulness. (No, hated was too strong—he disliked. Father was not prone to anger; he rarely ever raised his voice. He had other ways of expressing his discontent.)
Still, Al knew better than to say such things, to sound resentful of his small, secluded life.
Father did not keep him here out of cruelty; it was protection. He knew that.
If Father took offense at the comment, he did not show it. "Good."
He strode across the tower room, taking it all in with eyes that seemed to see everything. His gaze paused on the new equations Al had scrawled on the wall during a late night study session. His beard twitched as he glanced toward the kitchen.
Al bit his lip under the helmet, psyching himself up to ask the question. "Father—"
"Your staircase was shaky today," Father cut in smoothly. "Were you distracted?"
Al's cheeks grew warm. "A little," he admitted. (Perhaps Father hadn't heard him begin to speak. He did remind him often to speak up.)
"You must focus on your transmutation. Otherwise, your alchemy will always be sloppy." Father kept his back turned, surveying the curtained wall over the fireplace.
"I know." Al ducked his head. He'd been distracted with putting his armor on, and it had resulted in a shaky transmutation. If the steps had crumbled, if Father had fallen, it would've been his fault. Then who would look after him?
Still, a tiny ungrateful part of him muttered sullenly that if Father would let him study alchemy, let him read some books and learn about the circles, he wouldn't struggle so much.
"Transmute something for me, Alphonse." Father crossed the room and opened his case, pulling out a small bag of what looked like gravel. He emptied it on the table and looked at Al expectantly.
Al clanked over to the table, examining the pile of rocks. "What do you want me to make?"
"Anything. Focus on it in your mind."
Al took a long, steadying breath. He conjured a shape in his mind's eye, concentrating hard as he touched his palms together.
When he pressed his fingers into the gravel, the same blue surge as before sparked up, swirling around the rocks, rearranging them.
Al closed his eyes, the hum of alchemy ringing in his skull. When he opened them again, the rocks had completely reformed, taking the shape of a small bird.
Father picked up his creation, weighed it in his hands. Turned it over, examining the composition. Al winced at the telltale flakes near the base—a sure sign of sloppy alchemy.
"Not your finest work."
"I know. I'm sorry. I can make another—"
"No need." Father set the stone figurine back on the table. "We'll resume another time."
Al knew he had disappointed Father with his performance, but arguing for another chance was no use.
"Father, I was thinking, and—"
"Been experimenting in the kitchen again?" Father opened the icebox, poking around until he found the remaining apple pie. "Seems you still have much to learn."
"Yes," Al said, an uncertain response to both of Father's statements.
"Your exploits would move much faster if you followed the recipes, Alphonse. Cooking is not like your alchemy; you cannot simply envision the end result and will it into existence."
"I do follow the recipes." Al worked to keep his tone light, non-argumentative. "But sometimes I don't have everything it calls for, and sometimes my oven acts different than—"
"No need to exhaust yourself explaining. A mere observation." Father chuckled dryly. "My son, always so serious."
Al shrugged, despite knowing the motion was all but lost under his armor.
He decided to say it now and get it over with. "Did you know it's almost my birthday?" The question came out in a rush, nearly blending together into a single long word.
"Oh? Hmm." Father stroked his chin. "Birthdays are something I've never understood. A commemoration of another year of the same world under the same sun. It's nearly meaningless."
Al couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "I'll—I'll be fifteen in two days."
"Fifteen. So many years you've survived in this world with that cursed knowledge in your head," Father mused. "A marvelous feat. You'll be expecting a gift?"
"Not—not exactly." Al was breathless. "I was hoping I might…"
"You can make yourself something, with alchemy. I'll bring you some materials."
"I actually wanted…" Al took a deep breath, steadying himself as he stepped forward. "Well, this is something I've wanted—hoped for, really—for a long time—"
"Speak up, please, Alphonse. Don't dawdle." A hint of sharpness rose in Father's tone now.
"The—the lights," Al stammered hastily. "I want to go see the floating lights."
Father's brow crinkled in what was clearly confusion. "Floating lights…what do you mean? The stars float in the sky every night, but they're too far away to visit."
"No, not stars. These lights are man-made, and much closer. And they only appear one night every year—the night of my birthday. I just want to see what they are. Up close. Maybe…maybe without the armor."
His words turned upward hopefully, pleadingly.
"I see." Father made his way over to the window once more.
"I would be cautious of people. I wouldn't let anyone hurt me. I just want to—"
"To see these lights, yes." Father kept his back to Al. "Alphonse, how would you know if someone wished you ill? Humans are terribly good at deception."
Al pressed his lips together. "I…I would…"
Father cut him off. "You wouldn't know. You are far too trusting. Anyone with a kind smile and a quick wit could lure you into a trap."
Al flushed. It was probably true.
"And what then? Could you fight your way out?"
"If I—"
"You would be helpless. Without my supervision to perform alchemy, what could you do? You are not a fighter, Alphonse. You are weak and defenseless."
"Then I'll wear the armor. Or you could escort me," Al offered breathlessly. "Keep me safe."
"Listen to me." Father turned abruptly and crossed the room. Al jumped back, caught off guard at the speed Father moved.
Father lifted Al's wrists and pressed his palms together, an imitation of his transmutation. "Do you know how rare it is to be able to perform alchemy without a transmutation circle?"
"Very rare."
"Yes. Nearly unheard of. To this day, you are the only one I have ever met in all my travels with this ability."
Al nodded along rotely. He knew how special he was. Father never let him forget. (Sometimes, though, he just wanted to be normal.)
"Seeing the truth comes with a great cost. You were nearly lost to me, Alphonse, when you did. I sacrificed a great deal to retrieve you, to restore your body to the world."
"I—I know."
"You would waste away out there. Your body is not meant to live among others. You know why I created that armor, don't you?"
"To keep me safe." The answer was automatic.
"Without it, you would be seen. Exposed, revealed. You would fade away, your soul and body returned to the portal of truth, where I rescued you all those years ago. Do you wish to spend your life there, growing up in nothingness? Slowly wasting away?"
Al shivered. He hated when Father brought this up. "No. But Father, I—"
Father continued on as if he hadn't heard Al. "This world abhors those who break the laws of nature. If anyone knew what you have seen? What you can do? You would never know a moment's peace. They would never stop trying to destroy you. They would not see you, Alphonse. They would see a sinner. An abomination."
The harsh words cut into Al, as they always did. They snaked beneath his armor and sliced into his delicate heart. "I—I understand."
"Do you know how many selfish, greedy people would love to find you? To have an alchemist who can transmute as you can…you would never know a moment's peace. In the world, out there, one wrong word and you would end up a slave. Is that what you want?"
Al's heart pounded. He imagined what Father braved every day, going out into the world to bring him food and supplies and everything he needed to live in this tower. The prying eyes, the hateful glares, the hiss of unkind whispers.
And how much worse would Al face? Grabbing hands, pointing fingers, violence like he'd read about in his books.
The floating lights sounded less enticing when coupled with all that fear. At this moment, a warm bath and some time in bed sounded better.
"Is that what you want, Alphonse?" Father, apparently, was waiting on an answer.
Father knew best.
"No." With that single word, he admitted defeat.
"I know it seems unfair. That you stay here while I venture out into the world. But you must trust me, Alphonse. I only want what is best for you."
Al sighed and lowered his head. "I know, Father. I—I won't bring it up again."
Father's lips lifted into his version of a smile. "Excellent, my boy. You have a gift, and it must be protected as well as treasured."
He tipped Al's armored head upward, as if he could see right through the faceplate and look into Al's eyes. "Even if others would see you as a curse, I do not. You are a blessing to me, my child. Remember that."
"Yes, Father."
He turned back toward the window. "I'll return within the day. Practice your alchemy. You'll have another chance to prove yourself."
"Oh." Al blinked, bemused at the sudden change. "Okay. Safe travels."
Father breathed deeply, surveying the tower, and Al in it. "Stay safe for me, Alphonse. If I lost you, all my efforts would be for naught. I would have nothing."
Al nodded his agreement, but Father was already climbing out the window, heading down the stairs.
"I'll be here," he said softly. "Like always."
It was worth it, though. He was everything to his father. He had a responsibility to protect himself, to honor Father's sacrifices.
As Father completed his journey back to the ground, Al watched from the window. He removed his helmet and let the soft breeze caress his cheeks.
Longing washed over him like a wave. Another year of watching the lights from a distance. Wondering what they were.
The world didn't want him, after all. Why should he want to be a part of it?
Thank you for reading! As always, let me know what you think - comments feed my SOUL. I'm on tumblr too, hop over and say hi!