Foreword: Little bit more violent and foul for this chapter.

Trisha slid herself into the last remaining chair at the table, giggling at the wrinkled face her youngest made while her husband re-seated himself at the table.

"Mommy?"

Edward's call caught her attention.

"Didn't Winry's mom and dad already make us an anniversary supper?"

Trisha's fingers came to her lips in thought, "They did, but that was last month."

"They beat me to it, I was supposed to treat your mother to dinner," Hohenheim announced, an eye raised as he sat down at the table, "but there's no harm in having a second dinner. We can place the blame on the bottle of wine that showed up a month too late."

Her hand covering her mouth, Trisha began to giggle as her husband popped the cork of the wine bottle, "I love when you cook for me, it's such a masterpiece."

"It's not that good," his hands held the bottle with great care as he filled the two wine glasses on the table.

"You've had many more years to refine your cooking than I will ever have," Trisha protested, though she could not clear the delight in her expression after having spent the remainder of the day in the yard with her children while her husband filled the house with the luring smell of roast beef, steamed vegetables, and potatoes.

"Daddy, can I have some wine?" Edward's tiny voice peeped.

"Me too!"

Both parents gave a shake of the head as Hohenheim returned the cork to the bottle stem, "This is too strong, it'll put you to sleep and then you'll be waking up at all hours of the night."

Placing the tall glass in front of his wife, the father sat down; slipping the stem between his index and middle finger, Hohenheim raised the glass into the air, "To…"

"To Mommy and Daddy!" Alphonse's voice sang out as he held his plastic cup of juice strongly in the air, a motion soon mimicked by his older brother.

Trisha's giggles couldn't be withheld as she tipped the rim of her glass off her husband's, "To 'Mommy and Daddy'."

Chapter 68 – Returned to Parent

The voices in the room became only echoes of existence. Tired, gold eyes looked out from beneath the tight knot of a lowered brow. He thought hard, consciously pacing his breathing as he kept it in check, or else it would run away from him. Another bead of sweat slid down his forehead; Ed's toes tried to grip the cold cement as sat, keeping his back pressed against the wall.

It was that close; so close he could feel the touch of the metal doorknob in his hand, but between himself and the only exit was the old wooden table he'd tried feverishly to damage in his earlier struggles. On the chair at the side of the table rested what remained of the wooden leg that had kept him balanced. His teeth again clenched tight at the mess of wooden parts tossed across the table, recalling the sound of two gunshots shattering the ankle joint when he refused to go down on his knees. Edward found himself too busy cursing his mangled situation to be thankful that the man had not shot out the other ankle in the fight to bring him down.

The wall was not cold enough; no matter how hard Ed pushed his back into it, the chill did no good. Focusing on the clock, Edward struggled to watch the seconds move; nearly ten minutes had passed since he'd lost…

He couldn't allow himself to focus on that. So, he thought again, how could he get from where he sat to beyond that door without having a gunshot fired his way. Those anticipated shots would come from three men at the other table, tucked away in the far corner. But, they were so preoccupied with their new toy he could have easily made the dash, if only…

Shifting, Edward winced as he pushed the bare shoulder blade against the wall, it took all of his effort to see the sharp angles of the door clearly through the distorted blur disrupting his vision, let along the clock. He wondered, in the time since the muddied leather boot crossed his face, through the horrid moments he'd been pinned to the cement, face down in his own blood, until he'd finally realized the pain in his chest was because he was still breathing and had sat up, if he'd simply gotten use to this feeling, or if it had honestly subsided. It was a long ten minutes since that happened. What he did know, was that feeling was fuelling the numbness slowly creeping across his body.

Clearly, he could recall the body weight of the arms and legs pinning him at his neck, and at his shoulders, not forgetting the kneecap that dug into the small of his back. He couldn't bring himself to think about the last screw in the back of his shoulder blade, pulled out like all the others as his captors mused themselves by dissecting him.

Again, wiping the sweat from his face, Edward suddenly found himself face flat against the cement floor, never feeling the impact of his own metal forearm hurled against the side of his head.

"You're still ticking over there boy?"

The unsteady hand pushed his chest off the ground amidst the laughter and cigarette smoke filling the room. With every last ounce he could manage, Edward forced himself to balance upon his leg stump and kneecap, hunched over the arm balancing his position. The rancid sound of laughter emanated from the round table of three men gathered in the reclusive corner. He did not know their names, they referred to each other in code; nor did he recognize their faces from anywhere. They reminded him of the thugs who'd escorted Adolf to the stage during the gathering his members had crashed, yet they wore no sign of allegiance. They had spoken casually throughout the night, laughing, and occasionally getting up to remind Edward he belonged on the floor. And then they asked about his right arm, Edward almost wished he hadn't knocked out so many of a fourth man's teeth; but at least that abuser eventually left the room.

Ed did not hear the chair legs scraping against the cement as one man stood up, but he heard the alarming sound of approaching footsteps, and then felt the hand grab his loose hair. His eyes clenched, begging his body for some sort of stamina. Lurched upright, the only thing that came to him was the strength to have his left hand gripped around the bothersome wrist.

"Still hanging around, eh?"

Edward's arm slipped from the wrist that jostled him as he found himself sitting on the floor once again. Though his hair remained gripped, he still refused to give the man the satisfaction of his voice. The moment the first warning shot was fired his way, he'd taken every last ounce of strength and dignity and refused to let anyone hear this pain.

"If you're so interested in staying part of our conversation for a bit longer, why don't you tell us who made that for ya?"

Ed's rigid gaze tore back up at the man, watching as he spun the cigarette in his teeth. His head hurt enough; no amount of pulling his hair could make it any worse. The new gash where blood trickled down his face should have held a lasting sting, but there was a gaping wound at his empty shoulder slowly numbing his body that took precedence. His loose fingertips swept over the ground, finally taking hold of the dismembered forearm thrown at him moments before. Edward asked the horrid sickness churning in his stomach to relent, the exhausted tremble in the nerves of his body to cease, and the ache behind his eyes to ease long enough for him to utilize the fragment of pride held in his hand.

"Come on now," one of the two at the table called out as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. His free hand rose high into the air, holding the right hand they'd disconnected from Edward's AutoMail, the lengths of wiring dangled from it, "can't let someone selfishly hang around with us unless he's willing to share."

Again, the oppressive hand jostled Ed's by his hair, "I haven't slit your vocal cords just yet, so why don't you offer up an answer."

From where he sat, Ed turned his right side against the wall, planting his foot at the baseboards to hold his balance. He hated the unsettling feeling of his heart racing. He hated that the sweat in his palm was not washing away the blood drying on his fingers. Far more than that, he hated a situation beyond his control. Edward lifted his bitterly raging gaze up to the man standing over him.

"I made it," his lips slowly curled into a sneer.

"You?" the brow of the man looking down upon him rose.

The laughter again erupted from his captors. The man holding Edward's hair crouched down beside him until they were nearly at eye level, "You made all this? You want us to believe this?"

"Well, I based it off of some girl's design," he quipped, holding his sneer in check as the men's laughter grew louder.

"A woman is not smart enough to conceive of something like this," the other of two seated men announced.

Edward's nose curled, tasting the noxious fumes of tobacco flowing from the mouth that laughed in his face, "What? Did she make her design out of pots, pans, and canisters?"

Ed threw away the metal forearm in one swift swing of his left arm and watched as it skidded across the floor. His arm motion followed through until his clenched fist stopped, slamming against the kneecap of the man still gripping his hair.

"There are four metal rods that run along the back of that forearm. One for each finger," Edward's raging gaze again drifted into the dilated pupils of the man that looked down on him. Under no uncertain circumstances would he allow exhaustion to submit him just yet, "even if I couldn't make it work too well, the wires provide part of the nervous system connected to the muscles moving the fingers. The rods are just over 15 centimetres long and they're supposed to be only five millimetres in diameter. Mine are nearly double that width since I couldn't find any copper wiring thin enough to hold a decent current."

The man remained frozen beneath the low, searing voice Edward carried. Shifting from where he sat, Ed rose until he perched nose to nose with his opponent, "They're pinched at the ends so the wires don't shift, bunch up, or get caught up in the mechanics."

His teeth grit, Ed ripped the metal rod out from the man's knee joint, having jammed it into him moments before. Looking on, Ed snarled as the man's expression widened at the rushing pain.

"So they're a bit sharp."

The men at the table slowly rose from their seats, eyes widening as their companion holding Edward at bay let out a furious wail. The screaming voice vanished as quickly as it had started, the man suddenly thrown on his back as Edward threw himself headlong into his chest.

Holding his position silently, Ed would be the only one aware of his exhausted, trembling nerves. The determination and flowing ferocity radiated out from behind the tangled mess of hair that had fallen in his face. The stump of his left leg pressing into the man's gut, the right leg planted on the ground for balance. Edward's left fist pressed against his opponent's shoulder, the rods taken from the forearm gripped between his fingers and buried deep within the body he'd pinned.

"I knew a woman whose claws worked something like this. She was inhuman like you and the rest of this world," he ripped out two of the three remaining metal spears. While his eyes watched as the man grabbed at the third, Edward quickly stripped him of the firearm at his belt, "Yet she was more human than you could ever hope to be."

Quickly sitting back, Edward raised his arm as one of the comrades moved to defend his partner, swinging the length of metal chain down over him. Ed's hand remained tightly gripped around the weapon he'd taken, allowing the chain to snake around his arm.

His golden eyes trained on the second man entering the challenge of survival.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the voice echoed viciously within the confines of the room.

"Sorry," his arm stiffened and the sole of his shoe gripped the cement floor, preventing him from sliding as the second opponent jerked the chain tangled around Edward's last defence.

"I can't die here."

Silence always held some resemblance of peace, but the silent darkness Al ran through only captivated his fear. It was the only thing he could see, the silent darkness, which was interrupted only by his footsteps, which made Al hope to never hear whatever might be approaching.

Alphonse could not see everything he'd tripped over, and some part of him was grateful for that. Each time his hands and knees came crashing down to the ground, he didn't want to know what it was that his fingers were touching on the floor. He didn't know if he'd been followed; he couldn't remember how long he'd been going, but the escape route was finally above his head and he simply needed to take a moment to breathe.

He'd had no idea where Wrath had gone; his instinct had taken him down each hall whenever it came time for him to turn left or right. If he'd had time to worry about it, he would have asked himself why such a maze existed beneath this remote town.

Taking hold of the chilled, damp metal rail, Al made his way up the ladder, nearly smacking his head when the seal weighed far more than he'd expected. Finally pushing the manhole cover out of his way, the rush of water pooled in the street flooded down as he slipped out. His feet still dangling inside the cavity, Alphonse looked around at the township, somewhat surprised to find himself sitting in the middle of the road.

There wasn't a running car or face in a window to question why he sat there. Soon standing, Al began his walk down the centre of a ghost town. It was one thing to have driven through it with the car full of people; it was another to stand alone in the middle of it. The rain was no lighter than before, and the wind still cut a bitter path through town. He wished the sun was out, at least then he would be able to figure out which way was east and west.

Footsteps trampled the constant sound of rainfall. Al dashed from the middle of the road where everyone could possibly see him and ducked into the space between two darkened houses that lined the street. Voices, as faint as whispers, accompanied the parade of feet splashing along the ground. Obscured by the shadows and hidden behind the trash, Al crouched, watching as the men, dressed in black and wielding rifles, fanned out into the street.

Confused to begin with and uncertain over what these militants were doing, Al took some relief by watching them move away from where he hid. He slipped deeper into the shadows of the alleyway until he was certain that they could not see him move. Al's hand darted into his pocket. Finally, with fist clenched, he turned to disappear.

"Unfortunately…"

Alphonse froze, his eyes suddenly focused on the tip of a riffle.

"… your free reign in this city stops here."

The rainfall echoed off the damp, brick walls as the the stem of white chalk in Al's hand slipped form his fingertips, shattering against the cement. Petrified to move his body, the younger Elric locked his pinpoint grey eyes, focusing them on the daunting figure of a man towering over him.

"You're that boy staying in the ministerial house."

The weight of rainwater began to slip from his hair and run down his face. Stiffening his body, Alphonse gave his own statement.

"You're that man from the Central market explosion."

"Oh?" his posture loosened with curiosity, brushing a damp clump of hair from his forehead.

Slowly Al shifted, straightening his posture a little more, "Is there a reason you're in this city?"

"You've missed something," his voice almost seemed to laugh while he realigned the weapon in hand, "I'm the one asking the questions."

Looking out from beneath his brow, Alphonse shifted his weight, waiting for the interrogative question. The rainfall provided a nearly deafening echo.

"Where did she take them?"

"Who?" Al's eyes narrowed curiously.

"That woman."

Al could only squint with confusion at the question, "Major Hawkeye?"

"Are you playing stupid with me boy?"

"Marcus!" the call came from a body blackened by the light filtering in around him at the end of the alley, "They're moving down the 8th street corridor!"

His face burdened with obvious frustration, the man holding Al frozen finally let out a disgruntled sigh, "Only two blocks? Alright."

The man's strong grip took hold of Alphonse high on his arm. Throwing the Elric deeper into the alleyway, Al staggered to catch his steps, trying not to let the man's movements out of his sight. As much as he wanted to run, wanted to defend himself, he did not dare; he did not want to know what the world might be like if the rifle, trained on his movements, discharged.

"Walk."

Al straightened, watching as the man motioned with his firearm for him to move deeper into the alley. Silent, he turned, grey eyes focusing on the figure of the companion still positioned at the corridor's exit. Their footsteps moved closer but the figure remained motionless; Al watched the stout, unwavering figure stand in their path until finally the man showed signs of life and folded his arms. Even if Alphonse could not see his face clearly, he could feel the unimpressed look cast back upon him.

"And you're expecting him not to run off?"

The footsteps that had pushed him forwards suddenly vanished, Al's movements stopped at the disappearance of the sound. The silence of both men standing in the pounding rain took only moments to set off every alarm bell in his head. Alphonse spun on his heels, as though he stood on ice. He wouldn't have enough time to see; the shiver shot up his spine faster than he could lift his arm in defense, Al found himself ripped off his feet, dropped to the cement floor as the butt end of the rifle cracked across his face.

He didn't feel his body hit the ground. With his forehead against the road, his hands clawed at the side of his face. The impact pounded through his skull, burning at the side of his face. Centered at his left cheek, the sensation leaked into his body until it filled his head and tingled down his neck. The sound of the rain vanished, as did the recognition of the wind's chill. Their voices echoed around him, never entering into his mind. He had no idea what to do with this feeling, he knew his knees were on the ground and his head pressed into the dirty road, but his sense of balance told him he was upside down. Then, that same sense of shaken balance told him 'no' as he tried to push to his hands and knees, only to end up slipping like a fish out of water, flopping again, unable to hold himself steady.

Izumi had hit him before, she'd clocked him good more than once, but he'd never been unable to pick himself up before. He'd never opened his eyes and seen the world through a thick, white haze. Alphonse could not explain why his eyes watered so badly the tears ran over his face, disguised by the rainwater already drenching in his face.

Again, his hands and knees slipped in the water. Al moved his jaw, his breath flowed, but he could not get his tongue to release a single word for anyone to hear.

The disassociation he felt from his own body grew, until the muscular hands grabbed under his arms, hauling him up off the saturated ground. Alphonse barely felt the cement as he inexplicably fell back to the ground. The hands that lifted him had promptly released him. He couldn't hear it, but Al was sure the world existed outside of the pounding between his ears. Opening his eyes hurt, so he wouldn't bother.

He wanted to flinch when the sounds of the rifle discharging invaded the silent world forced upon him.

He wanted to ask if someone had fallen after the echo of shots ceased accosting the block in his head.

He wanted to know who picked him up afterwards, because it wasn't the same two hands that let him fall moments before.

It was the no choice option that stripped him of the level of morality Ed believed he upheld. Existing in a world where the dignity of human life carried a market value did not make it easier to accept how he'd willfully broken himself. It had merely corrupted him, and made it easier for the muscles in his hand to move.

Edward fired first, knowing that he did not have a second hand to combat the free arm that would attempt to change his string of fate. The man withered as the shot tore through his shoulder, dropping the chain which interfered with his movements.

The only conscious thought that passed into his mind was the one asking if his Sensei would be disappointed in him.

There was no 'one is all, all is one'. The earth was ravaged and it was survival of the quickest: quickest to think, quickest to act, quickest to move, quickest to run, quickest to take, quickest to fire. The human decency that haunted Mustang when could not finish him off during Edward's State Alchemist review had no business being in this room; and Ed fired a second time.

His shot entered through the man's eye as he lurched forwards again. Ed's arm suddenly trembled from the recoil. His outstretched arm was held in midair, frozen by his own actions, watching as the body hit the ground with a lifeless thud. Eyes wide, only able to see the results of his defensive action, Edward never saw the boot that whipped across his face, knocking him flat on his side.

"You son of a bitch!"

Slowly rolling his body, Ed spat out the blood in his mouth, watching through the clump of hair in his face as the last, uninjured captor crouched next to the comrade's side. Weapon in hand, Edward dug his fist into the ground and pushed himself until he sat once again. His tired body felt numb; it was inhuman to feel this way, he concluded. Ed composed a bizarre speech in his head, one that started with 'don't move' as he'd point the gun at the third and final person within his company.

"Eye for an eye."

Not wondering why it hurt to breathe, Ed found himself with his gun trained forward once again, expecting to be the one who'd spoken and not prepared to have a weapon pointed back at him.

His eyes slit, "'Equivalent exchange' doesn't work like that."

The gunshot rang out, stopping Edward's heart; he was the only one who knew that he would have been unable to pull the trigger a third time. His hand went numb, a sensation that slowly crippled his whole body. He scolded himself: how unmanly, how uncomposed, how disgusting, wanting to shed tears because he'd not been able to fire the weapon in his hand. The splattering of blood across his face felt oddly warm as it ran down his cheek. The muscles in his arm began to tremble and the weapon in his fingertips clattered against the cement floor. Edward's eyes remained fixated upon the face of a man who could no longer look back at him, the explosive bullet that rang out in the room had gone clear through the back of the man's head and exited through his eye. Disbelief kept Ed's attention upon a gruesome figure; he'd heard the bullet sail past him, but could have sworn that the sound cut through only him.

The suddenly dead body crumpled over. Ed tried to catch it, but ended up falling onto the cement floor beneath it. A wary set of gold eyes rolled away, towards an indistinguishable sound; Ed's tilted, upside down view of the room saw the last of the three men scrambling upon bloodied hands and knees towards him. Edward lay motionless, momentarily unable to draw the conclusion for why the man was rushing towards him in that manner. Disconnected from the thoughts that kept his mind lost, Edward found himself quickly pulling out from beneath the fallen body, his hand slamming down over the firearm on the ground between he and the person moving for it.

Ed swore that he could almost make out his own refection in the polished shine of the black shoe that stepped in his way, pinning his hand to the floor. The eyes of the man who once held an empty rage for him looked up from his knees to the figure impeding progress. The man was only given enough time to see the room's light glance off the silver casing that released two shots into his forehead.

Robbed of existence, the body collapsed to the ground at the same time Edward's head came to rest upon the floor. He watched vacantly as a pool of blood formed on the ground, dying the hair of his last aggressor a filthy colour. Nothing disturbed his bird's eye view of death's door until a set of hands slipped the heavy piece of metal from his grasp.

"Edward?"

The most familiar voice he could have asked for stopped the replay of the last minutes in his mind. He pushed himself onto an elbow, spitting the taste of blood from his mouth. A firm grasp took hold, his father's hand held beneath the only arm he had and hoisted him upright. Edward's single hand clung desperately to his father's shoulder, trying to remain balanced. His eyes downcast toward the bludgeoned mess across the floor, the empty looks of death in the three bodies close enough to touch.

In the corner, a mangled attempt at reconciling a part of life left behind lay useless upon the floor.

"Edward?" it must have been the fourth time his father had asked for his attention, and not until Hohenheim's palm slapped his cheek did he even realize where the voice was coming from.

"Dad?"

His wide eyes turned to watch the strong hand hook the top button through the jacket eyelet. When did his father's coat end up on his shoulders? Hohenheim's free hand brushed over his son's pale face, wiping away the red mess thrown across his complexion. Too numb to acknowledge the touch, Ed's eyes carried away, glancing around at the Thule members his father had brought with him. For a brief, inexplicable moment, the German voices of those companions became untranslatable. His wide expression could only look about, unable to wrap his mind around what was being asked of him.

His gaze trembled slightly, looking down at the first bled out body fallen to the ground. That could have been him; but he was the executioner. The hallow eyes were still open, wide in surprise of their own death. A hallow, ghostly emptiness carried directly back into Edward's eyes; the existence of death that swelled in this vision and held the Elric at it's mercy, unable to step away…

It was the sense of familiarity that finally interrupted Edward's thoughts. It rose up from beneath the fear of death lying before him; a warm and a quiet sound he instinctively knew to listen for. It lured him from one setting and lulled him into another. Ed couldn't quite place the sound, or where it came from, it merely existed as the faint remembrance of a dream not allowed in this world. It was an unchanging and familiar constant, as secure as the arms that could embrace him. Once upon a time, the world had been safer this way. He listened, carefully, the mind's eye covering a wide-open gaze. He knew this verse.

A hand brushed through his matted hair as the clarity between this world and one he could hardly remember slowly disintegrated.

Edward did not fall down, even when his hand let go.

Bright blue eyes stared up towards where the sun was balanced in the sky, having not yet risen above the peaks of the spruce trees towering stories above her. With the bird's welcoming voice, she stepped out into a light breeze that flicked the hemline of her dress.

Her sandals scraped over the cement that soon turned into a clay bed, each step made carefully to avoid crushing the pinecones that rested contently against the earth's warm surface. After no more than thirty steps the clay vanished beneath a thick bed of white sand. Standing at this edge, the fascinated eyes looked out upon the smooth surface of the lake not yet disturbed, the wilderness laid out before her beyond the lake reflected back upon itself in the water's natural mirror.

Slipping out of her sandals and stepping into the heated sand, the young mind wasted no time avoiding the assault of the cooked pebbles, rushing until her feet splashed into the crystal glaze of the lake's edge, unable to disturb the entirety of the smooth, liquid surface. She found herself squealing, delighted by the water's chill. The world was too hot from 8am to 9pm, she'd rarely venture outside after her first encounter with the sun.

But this, this was a good idea. Turning back to look at the cabin, showered in sunlight filtering in through the pine surrounding it, she ran out of the water nearly as soon as she'd entered. The collection of sand on her soaked feet and ankles grew as she scampered towards the old wooden dock. Rushing onto it, each step along the platform released a spray of sand, her movements echoing off the water beneath the platform. The end of the dock was simply a formality, she could have jumped off either side; but it was more appropriate to jump off the end of the dock, fully clothed, into the cool, crystal water.

"Brigitte?" the woman's head poked out her door moments after the sound of the splash came through the window, "Brigitte?"

A tiny voice echoed off the lake.

With a sigh, Maria took a barefoot stroll down the backyard embankment towards a pair of empty sandals and the sound of a girl's voice, "Are you alright?"

A soaken, wide-eyed expression floated out from around the pier.

Raising an eyebrow, the lieutenant, dressed only in jean shorts and a white tank top, came to a stop at the water's edge.

"What are you doing?" she didn't want to giggle, but the sound found a way into her words.

Though sheepish, Brigitte's triumphant grin ran across her face as she let her body float up to the surface.

Even if Maria did not understand the motive, the situation looked foolish enough that she couldn't help but laugh and shake her head. Finally forcing a stern sound into her voice, she addressed her young companion once again.

"Come out of the water, you have all your clothes on."

Brigitte's eyes flickered over, the language barrier would exist at her discretion today, and she would ignore the tone of voice her own mother used and paddle her feet instead.

"Well," Lt. Ross tilted her head, a smile on her face as she sighed, "at least this is better than last night."

Last night had been nearly sleepless. Maria had spent an hour trying to coax the girl out of the back seat of the car, and Brigitte had only relented after the vehicle heated up from the glaring sun. She'd fought with her to get her into the house, to pry her out of the corner, to get her to eat anything, to silence the fit she'd try to throw whenever Maria had gotten close. The behaviour, the officer realized, was her own fault. Brigitte hadn't started acting up until she'd removed the bandages and washed the makeup off her face.

50 kilometres outside Central, they were scheduled to change transports, in the process, the pair slipped away. Maria knew the location Broche would be waiting and Havoc had slipped the paperwork for his temporary assignment in that township through days earlier. With no time to waste, Brigitte was stuffed into the back seat of Broche's car and Maria flew in and out of the gas station washroom. The moment the lieutenant started the engine and looked over her shoulder, Brigitte curled away into the backseat, realizing this woman had spent the previous 24 hours deceiving her.

Broche remained behind, his superior taking the car out to the lakeside cabin her family used during the summers she'd been a teenager.

The car stopped at its 'middle of nowhere' location and the woman who'd lured Brigitte into feeling secure tried to convince her to go into the house. The young teenager's fit started and continued for the remainder of the day.

Maria had finally gotten her into the house, but left the girl huddled up in a corner. Not long before midnight she'd surrendered for the evening and moved the plate of dinner cooked hours earlier to an open floor space in front of the silent fireplace. Setting a blanket and pillow on the rug next to the meal, Maria told the teenager she could sleep wherever she wanted, and spent the next hour minding a headache on the back porch.

Just before the clock struck to turn over the new day she came back inside, her relieved expression turning to the girlish figure curled up atop the blanket and pillow, and the plate of food finished. Maria sat down on the floor next to a set of shining blue eyes that had been analyzing her every step. With a sigh, she suggested the sofa was more comfortable than the floor, and then apologized for the cold dinner, even if Brigitte would never understand.

Now sitting at the tip of the pier, her chin resting in hand, Maria watched Brigitte as she paddled about.

"I bet all the wood for the fire pit's rotted by now," Maria's finger scratched her chin, her bare feet dangling in the water.

"Hey lady," Brigitte called out, waiting until she had her undivided attention, "I'd like to see you jump in the water too."

Maria narrowed an eye in confusion, "What?" she glanced at her watch, "Do you want lunch?"

With the kick of her feet, Brigitte floated back towards the pier, "My aunt use to do things like that."

Wrinkling her nose, not sure what the girl was going on about, Maria continued on, "I put a loaf of bread on the counter and peanut butter in the cupboard…"

"Dammit lady, jump in the water," Brigitte kicked her feet up and sprayed the officer as she thumped her feet against the top of the water.

"What are you d-?" scrambling to her feet, Maria backed off down the pier, shaking the water from her hair, "don't do that!"

Straightening and floating back from the ledge, Brigitte's hands patted the water's surface, deepening her voice theatrically, "I will not tattle on you."

Scowling, and slightly more confused, Maria slid her feet along the wooden planks of the pier until she stood at its edge once more. Crouching down, she held her frown over Brigitte, "I have no idea what you want."

Again, she began patting the water's surface, a foolish grin crossing her face as Brigitte allowed her body to float to the surface again, "Well, I tried. I didn't think you'd come in anyways."

Raising an eyebrow, Maria's confusion persisted until she found herself sitting dockside, sweeping her feet through the water again.

He couldn't sleep. As much as he wished for it, he couldn't shut his eyes. He'd shut his eyes and it would be his ears that played tricks on him before his minds eye would; he could not stand the murderous echo vibrating in his head. But, even though he'd kept his eyes open, Ed hadn't seen the sunrise or the sunset. It felt like the pre-dawn hour he'd last experienced, but it was post-dusk, and grudgingly he'd accepted the numerous missing hours. But, time slowed to a crawl as he lay exhausted atop the bed sheets. By the time midnight came, he felt as though he'd existed for that missed time, and then some.

Deliberately, he hadn't ask how he'd gotten from that place to the hospital bed; though, he'd nearly blurted the question when he'd awoken, but withheld it when his father's hand instructed him to lay back down. Frustrated, he'd dismissed his father from his presence the moment he'd given his son the gentle 'sympathetic father gaze'; he did not want that from him. Ed had finally gotten that look removed from Hohenheim's repertoire of expressions the man would bestow upon him. The gaze dogged him around London for too long and the last thing he wanted was the man's pity again.

Lying on his back, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Edward only listened as Winry prattled on around him. He couldn't remember when she'd gotten there and began mulling about with her grossly transparent, cheerful guise.

What finally caught his attention was how she sighed and Ed picked his head up.

"Why don't I just make you a new one?" she said, giving a kick to the pieces of wooden leg scattered on the floor, "the wood wasn't properly treated anyways, it was rotting a little inside."

Ed's head fell back onto the pillow, his arm fallen over his open eyes; he couldn't understand why she was still at the hospital so late, "Alright."

"It shouldn't take me long," smoothing the bottom of her dress, Winry finally sat down on the side of Ed's hospital room bed, "a replacement limb is just screws, coils and some woodwork, it's simpler than AutoMail. I just need to find a hardware store."

"Ask Dad," Ed mumbled, energy lacking from his voice, "I'm sure he'll take you."

Coming into existence once again was the silence; the silence Winry hated to hear from Ed. His silence was far louder than his words ever were, and his discontented silence always seemed to rage around the room. She looked out the window, through the autumn leaves of the trees and into the midnight sky, running out of things to say to stop an uncomfortable evening.

"This evening, when your dad picked me up from the Haushofer's and we went home for a bit... he said Mr. Oberth called for you," she paused, only long enough to realize he wouldn't respond, "and he wants to see you after you come home, since you don't want him to come here to visit."

"Nosy bastard," he murmured through grated teeth.

"Ed," Winry's tone turned harsh, "don't talk about your friends that way. He's only worried about you like everyone else has been."

He didn't respond; Ed simply remained silent, laid upon his back in the hospital bed.

Eyes soft in thought, Winry returned to staring out the window, "What's wrong with the hospital? Is there a reason you don't like them?"

"What gave you that idea?"

Winry tangled her fingers in the hair pinned to her head, "When we picked up something to eat, your dad said that you didn't like hospitals too much," an eyebrow rose in curiosity as Edward's arm lifted from his face, "but I saw you in the hospital back home and you weren't this miserable."

Edward held the limb above his face, following the length of forearm speckled with purple bruising until he focused on his hand. He turned the arm over, examining the palm of his hand until Winry snatched it from his attention, gripping his hand tightly and pulling until he'd sat up.

"I brought you something," Winry grinned and hopped off the bed.

Taking his hand back, Ed narrowed an eye at her as she began digging through a bag she'd stuffed until the seams nearly burst. Dumping the tools and bit parts she'd fit inside, to Ed's horror, she began pulling out what filled the most space.

"While we were home, your dad said that you were in a hospital in London once and that's why the lady gave you this," Winry wrapped the blanket Ed had placed on her bed weeks ago over her shoulders, forcefully unfazed by Ed's gaping reaction.

"Why the hell did he tell you?" his voice snapped.

Winry gave a sharp sigh, a juvenile tone in her voice, "That you were in a hospital in London once and that the lady, who was a friend of your dad's, gave you this as a feel better present."

Glancing out the window, gathering his thoughts, Edward sighed finally and returned his attention to Winry, "Put it back on your bed, I'm going home soon, I don't need it."

"Just enjoy it for the night," she swung it off her shoulders, "see, it's pretty and colourful and-"

"I don't need any more sheets," his hand gripped the bed, "there's plenty here."

Scowling back at him, Winry clenched the quilt in her hand, "Humour me and take the blanket, Ed."

"I don't need the damned quilt, Winry!"

"No, you don't need it!" she bit back, "you need a slap in the face, but if I tried to hit you you'd fall over and that would defeat the purpose of slapping you because you'd be on the ground angry that you're on the ground and NOT worried over why I slapped you!"

"Huh?" Ed's face twisted, "slap me? What the hell for?"

"For being so selfish!"

"How am I being selfish?"

Wrinkling the blanket up in her two hands, Winry held it over her head and threw it at him, watching as the ball of cloth unbundled as he tried to block it, "You just want to sit here, be miserable, and leave everyone who's worried about you as far away as possible. Me, your dad, his friends, Mr. and Mrs. Oberth; that's not fair to us! I hope that 'comfort blanket' gives you some companionship while you sit there all miserable and lonely, because I'm not going to do it anymore!"

"…Winry!"

"Talk to me again when you remember much more older you are!"

"Winry!"

"You never listen to me!"

"WINRY!"

Her hand gripped the door handle, her tight, frustrated expression glaring back over her shoulder at him, "WHAT?"

Ed found himself sitting high, the quilt gripped in his left hand, and his mouth open with something to say, but finding no voice to say it with. Winry's grip slipped away from the handle as she watched Ed mull over his thoughts, slowly turning back into the room.

"I got the quilt from Mrs. Churchill when I was in the hospital, just after I crossed the Gate and ended up in London. I gave you the quilt when you were in our house, just after you'd come through the Gate and ended up in Munich. Couldn't you find-"

"Sorry."

Her voice blurted out suddenly and vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She'd cut him off, but long before she had, she started realizing what he was saying. It was Winry who'd create the silence this time, having made a frustrating situation even worse.

Turning, her feet brushing against the floor as she moved back towards the side of the bed, "I'm sorry."

Ed pushed the bundle of fabric out of his lap, "I need two hands to fold it."

"I'll fold it," she swept the quilt off the bed, holding it carefully at the corners as she folded it across her chest. Ed sat silent, watching from the corner of his eye until she finally placed the quilt at the foot of his bed.

"Once you're standing, I think we should go for a walk."

"What for?" Ed's expression lifted at the question, "Where?"

"Anywhere," smoothing the fabric, Winry sat back down on the bed, her gaze carrying out the window, "I don't particularly care where we go, but I'd like to just walk away, and keep walking until something different turns up."

Ed offered no response to the suggestion, only his silence yet again while time allowed their thoughts to drift.

"You keep the quilt folded like that at the foot of your bed."

Winry turned over her shoulder, watching as Edward's gaze rose from the folding job, "When we lived in London, I slept in the living room more often than not."

She watched, as the gaze in his eyes never seemed to return to the present.

"And Dad kept it folded over the back of the couch."

"Don't flinch."

There wasn't enough desire to open his eyes, or to even force himself back to consciousness. Alphonse let the voice echo in his mind as a gentle, cold touch came over his cheek.

He flinched again.

Whatever voices he heard remained as echoes in the backdrop. None of them setting off alarms in his head, the sense of comfort and security erased his concern. Alphonse tried to understand the low voices holding broken and disappearing discussions around the noise of a rickety, bouncing carriage. One voice suddenly resonated over his right ear; clear, concise, and familiar.

Alphonse's eyes cracked open, lifting his head from the cushion he rested on, "… Sensei?"

The cold, damp towel wrapped around a firm hand came over the sore cheek, "And you woke up anyways?"

Unable to see clearly, the only way he could move was to roll onto his back. With his legs sprawling out over the floor of the carriage, Al's gaze looked straight up to the hide covering their transport. Head resting in his bundled up jacket within her lap, between he and the covering were the eyes of his sensei looking back down at him.

Her smile formed, somewhat crooked as the young Elric's gawked back up at her, unable to form words in his mouth.

"You're going to have a headache," Izumi looked back down on him, "you should go back to sleep."

"What happened?"

The question was too broad for any one particular answer. Even if he had been more specific, it would not have drawn an answer out of her, "Don't worry about that right now."

"Where are we?" Al began to sit up until Izumi's hand clasped over his forehead and returned his head to the resting spot in her lap.

"Alphonse," Izumi's eyebrow gave a warning twitch, "didn't you hear what I just said?"

Letting go of the tension pinching his face, shoulders and back, Al gave in to the incontestable demand. Her hand, cradling a cool cloth, held his head where the rifle's end had landed on him. The numbing chill felt nice over a spot on his cheekbone fully swollen.

"Sensei…"

She hesitated with her response, though finally acknowledging him, "Hm?"

"Where've you been?"

It was an understandable question; he had every right to make it. She would have apologized to him if she'd not felt justified in her actions. Izumi's unburdened hand brushed over his matted hair, cautious with her answer.

"I was at the Ishibal settlement."

The road turned to gravel beneath them, the carriage beginning to bounce unsteadily as Al lay silent. The answer was nothing like he'd envisioned, though he didn't know exactly what he'd wanted to hear for an answer.

"Why?"

"If I have to tell you again to stop asking questions," her voice was sharp, "I'm going to dump you off the side of the carriage."

Alphonse took the hint and fell silent again. She wanted him to rest but there was suddenly no way he could. There was things he needed to know, wanted to ask, wanted to share, had to tell… she couldn't expect him to simply lay there?

"I saw Wrath again," the words slipped from his mouth, needing to keep some line of communication open with Izumi for even a little longer.

"I know."

"He told me something strange about the Gate…" Alphonse's voice softened when Izumi's hand came to rest at the corner of his jaw, as though to silence him, "and something about my dad."

There would be a more appropriate place and time to discuss this, Izumi thought. Her own curiosity for what Wrath knew would have to wait; she'd heed her own advice and not voluntarily start the questions.

"And Winry's missing."

"I know."

A hint of frustration emerged Al's words, "How do you know?"

"Your friends told me," Izumi's tone would remain steady and smooth.

The gravel path gave way to concrete again and the sound of the leading horses hooves began to echo, "Are they alright?"

"Everyone's fine."

Suddenly stiff, Alphonse moved from his resting place; finally able to steady himself with the ground he stat on, he rose to his knees, "Where are they?"

Frowning, Izumi's cloth hand slapped over Al's cheek, "Alphonse, we can discuss things in the morning."

It was the first time Al had realized that it was dark outside the beige cover of the carriage. Absorbing his surroundings and the familiar, resting bodies searching for sleep, Al's attention refocused on his sensei. Expecting to find her scowl searing back at him, he took a minute to burn the image of her frustrated, weary and sympathetic expression into his mind. Her other hand moved to adjust the brown and orange shawl that wrapped over her shoulders.

"I want to discuss them now," jaw quivering as he tightened it, Al's hand feverishly scratched his head, "y-you disappear, you leave me in Central to go to Ishibal?"

"That's not what I said."

"No one could find you, you could have been dead, and then you just show up and expect me not to think anything of it?"

Izumi sighed, her eyes focusing on the trembling, harsh expression Alphonse bestowed upon her. Her own ferocious gaze would always over power his, except that she didn't look back upon him with that in her eyes. Sliding to her knees, Izumi's arms came to wrap around his neck and shoulders. The youngest Elric would not surprise her with how easily his forehead fell against her shoulder, her fingers buried in his hair.

"Yes, I do."

Quiet, Hohenheim stood in the centre of the room.

He wondered if his son had slept. He wondered if he'd eaten. He wondered those, and many other things he'd been unable to do himself.

The pleasant morning was a cruel backdrop for the raging thunderstorm existing within the confines of the room. Hohenheim again wondered if Edward was lucid enough to understand he should not have won the argument. Unlike London, Edward was now old enough to demand his own hospital release in the coming afternoon. Much to the protest of his father and most everyone else, Ed dictated he would come home at four that afternoon and not remain in a place that did nothing but remind him how he'd gotten there.

It drove the father mad that he was refusing to stay in the hospital's care. There was no way for Hohenheim to convey the instances fused to the forefront of his thoughts; the ones that wanted Ed kept under the care of people far more capable of ensuring his well being. The perception of events that had come to pass was different between father and son. Where Edward knew what had gone through his own mind the moment the gun had been pointed in his face, Hohenheim got to see the look in his sons eyes when he thought he was going to die. Where Edward struggled to relinquish himself from the events in that room, Hohenheim got to hold him when he finally let go. Where Edward was allowed to exist in unconscious freedom, Hohenheim was given the painful task of taking him somewhere far safer.

Something far too traumatic exists as the barrier between personal experience and verbal discourse when a father carries his injured son away; without knowing how badly he has been hurt, without having a way to have prevented it, but knowing the circumstances arose from the father's soiled hands.

Again, at the edge of the bed, Edward sat; cut, scraped, stitched, bandaged, and horribly unbalanced. Yet, the orange fire raged in his eyes once more. The argument they'd fought had occurred first thing that morning and had ended with Hohenheim marching out of the room at mid verbal-volley. The trait the father possessed that the son did not, was the ability to diffuse a situation by walking away.

However, the trait the father had passed onto his son was the stubborn, solid backbone that did not allow either to back down. Hohenheim finally returned with his trump card, and he'd placed it at the foot of the bed.

Ed's eyes rose from the bed, looking in below the rim of his father's glasses as the old man cast his stern gaze back to the boiling son.

"You don't honestly expect me…"

His arms rose, folding across his chest as Hohenheim looked down towards Edward as he manoeuvred awkwardly where he sat.

"Take the tickets and go."

"You can't be that senile," Ed wished he could kick something, or throw the tickets laying out of his reach back at his father, "I'm not going to London."

"I told Winry you were taking her to London…"

"Just who the hell do you think you are?" Edward's voice raged again.

"… and she's looking forward to going somewhere where she can speak the language."

The strength of his clenched fist could have shattered something, "Did you slip into a coma and forget how many times I've told you that this isn't going to happen? Are you deaf maybe? You can't just decide these things for me."

"But I am your father, I ca-"

"Don't start that father bullshit with me," Edward's raging gaze clashed fiercely with the stone-cold, unwavering look Hohenheim carried, "you have never been my father."

The old man's eyebrows rose, "You call me 'Dad' now."

"I'd call you 'asshole' for all the good it would do me," Edward barked.

"And you use to call me 'Daddy' when you barely stood taller than my kneecap."

The conversation itself ignited Ed's rage, and the indestructible, unwavering tone Hohenheim conducted their discussion with only fuelled it.

"Yeah, and that 'Daddy' walked out one day and never came back. He never came back to see his children grow up, he never came back to be there for his wife, and he sure as hell didn't give a damn when she died."

Taking a strategic step deeper into the room, Hohenheim kept a cautious eye on his son's reactions, "Haven't we had this conversation before?"

Ed slammed his hand against the mattress, "Yeah, the last time I told you I didn't see you as my father."

His voice was quiet as he slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing out the window into the early portion of the day, "It's been a while since we've had one of those arguments."

"And I'm sick and tired of having to remind you of it," Ed scoffed, wishing he could storm out of the room, "maybe you should take Winry to London and remind yourself why I don't want to go back there. I sure as hell cannot understand how you were even able to deal with them."

"Edward," Hohenheim's hand stroked over his beard, his voice light, "were you old enough to remember when I left?"

His eyes slit, throwing a disgusted look back at the old man, "You can't even remember how old I was?"

"You were four, Alphonse was three…"

Ed rolled his eyes.

"You and Trisha taught Alphonse how to dry the dishes that day," his fingers pinched his beard, resting his arms in the windowsill, "later we went into town to pick up the mail. I carried you around on my shoulders while we were in town so you could see everything."

Edward watched, on the edge of instructing his father to 'shut up', yet remaining curiously silent.

"I received a package from an old friend, Majihal."

Ed's brow rose at the name.

"He'd sent me a bottle of the wine your mother and I had at our wedding and a beginner's alchemy book for fun. You asked about the book, and I told you I'd teach it to you when you were older," Hohenheim's hand came back and slipped the ponytail off his shoulders, "we had dinner that night and toasted to the family. I don't remember how it unfolded, but sometime during the dinner hour you asked how I burnt my arm again. That wasn't the first time you or Alphonse had asked, but that's just what you thought the lesions on my body were, because that's what I'd told you."

Ed's jaw grinded, grating his teeth as he turned his attention away, "That was your own fault."

"It was," the quiet, guilt ridden voice locked itself away in the past, "I'd told Trisha what was happening to me long before I married her and she never looked down on me for it. I'll never understand that. Your mother had a faith in me, and in humanity, that I can't grasp."

The mention of his mother's name so rarely came up. Inexplicably curious about what sort of look he carried on his face, Edward's eyes flickered over to his father.

"I don't know if I'd have come home if I had gotten the letters you and Alphonse had written," Hohenheim didn't want to see the reaction Ed gave to those words, "I told Trisha I was leaving until I could at least come to terms with myself, let alone explain to you boys the calamity of sins required to end up in this state. I couldn't let you see me rot away. Even if she knew, I couldn't let my wife see me deteriorate like that," his hand came up, resting loosely over his mouth as he spoke, "What a burden I was."

Hohenheim took a moment; inhaling a slow, deep breath as he gathered his voice again, "Trisha told me that she'd wait until I came back, but I can't imagine how much of her faith I took from her that day. All the faith she'd put in me and in the family we wanted; a simple world that I could not provide for her."

Hohenheim looked back into the room, almost surprised to find that Edward was looking at him.

"I found out she'd died when I came back to Resembool, and I was glad that she hadn't died alone. She had you boys with her," he replayed a scene active in his mind for too many years, "and some days I sit in the living room watching the candles flicker and find myself wondering what her last words were."

Stepping away from the window, Hohenheim moved to the bedside and picked up the train tickets out of Munich. Edward's gaze drifted away from his father's movements as the old man slipped the papers into his vest pocket.

"The day I left, the last thing she said to me was that she'd wait. We sat in the armchair, she tucked her head in against my neck; if I'd thought there was a God I would have prayed that I hadn't made her cry," his hands swept over his face, tracing through his tied hair until he gripped the ponytail and tightened it a little more, "and I sat there with her, until Trisha fell asleep. I continued to sit there with her, to just enjoy her company. Sometime past midnight I picked her up and took her to bed. There was a storm outside, Alphonse ended up waking up and crawled into bed with her."

"The tree outside his window use to wake him up when it was windy; the branches scratched the wall," Ed murmured, "Mom and the Rockbells spent a weekend moving the tree because she didn't want it cut own."

"You came downstairs just as I'd gotten up enough nerve to walk out the door," Hohenheim straightened his vest, "the storm woke you up, and no power existing on that green earth beyond my own was going to get you to go back to bed."

The mind's eye slowly picked apart the steps Edward's father laid out for him.

"So I sat with you in your mother's rocker. We use to sit there some nights and I'd have you tucked into my left arm for hours. Your head would never find the spot in my shoulder that Alphonse buried into, you'd just put your head against my chest and simply fall asleep. It was fairly easy."

The distant eyes Ed wore remained shielded by the bangs framing his face and masking his profile. Hohenheim looked towards the door; focusing head as his hands slipped into his pockets. He'd allow history to follow behind him.

"I put you in your bed before I left. You lay down and I brushed the hair from your face, I kissed you on the forehead and told you to sleep well."

The old left hand reached out, sweeping Edward's bangs up and ruffling his hair as he finally walked away. It had been an action his child had protested against long before he'd been able to stand on two feet, yet today he was silent.

"I left the house no more than five minutes later."

Hohenheim turned back as he pulled the door open, the blonde ponytail swaying over his back, "Don't think I can't remember what it felt like to walk away from all that."

The door to the deadened hospital room slammed shut as Hohenheim left, leaving his son's silent figure sitting in the middle of the early daylight flowing in through the open second floor window. Ed's only hand reached back, pulling the elastic tie from the mess of blonde strands. He tossed the tie into the middle of the floor as his hair slipped over his shoulders.

To Be Continued...

Author's Notes

Ed's having a bad week... Al too.

I try to not mix Japanese and English in the story but, Izumi is "Sensei". "Teacher" sounds strange and the boys would never refer to her as Izumi or Mrs. Curtis. 'Sensei' is a title with more familiarity in English speaking places, mainly because of martial arts.

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