Chapter 69 – Resembool Verses

Verse I – Because Mommy Said So.

Rinsing the plate under the splash of warm water, Trisha handed the dripping white plate to Alphonse's outstretched arms. Keeping an eye upon her youngest son perched next to the sink, a towel draped over his outstretched legs, another towel fumbling around in his hands as he made a continual attempt to dry his mother's dishes; Trisha treated another plate to the rinse water. This time, the plate was passed across Alphonse to Edward, who handled the slippery item with a bit more precision than his younger brother.

Leaning across Edward, Al placed his clean dish onto the other plates they'd already dried, "Mommy, done."

Extending a bowl to her son's wide arms, Trisha couldn't help but giggle at the delight dancing in Alphonse's eyes, having finally been allowed to help his older brother dry the glass dishes.

Setting his plate off with the rest, Ed pushed to his knees and leaned into his younger brother's battle with the dish in his lap, "See Al, if you turn the bowl on it's side, put the cloth there, and turn it like that in a circle, it dries lots faster."

Following along with his brother's motions, wide-eyed Al did as instructed. As if a valued trophy, Al gripped the rim of his bowl and held it out for his mother to see, "Mommy, see. I done bowls too."

"Yes you did," Trisha's tone tingled with delight as she gave a huge grin in reply to Al's far larger one, "now pass it to Edward, and I'll give you another one."

"Okay!"

Ed sat the bowl his brother handed him aside and took a plate from his mother before watching her hand Al another bowl. From the corners of both Edward and Trisha's eye, the pair caught as Al tipped the bowl, put the cloth inside, only to have it slip from his grasp as he tried to turn it. Trisha was unable to move fast enough to catch the dish as it bounced off the counter's edge, and shattered on the hardwood floor.

Leaning over the edge of the counter, Ed examined the scattered shards of the white bowl, "Oops."

"Oh dear," Trisha's hand came to her cheek as she stepped back from the sharp mess, "I'll get the broom… oh, Alphonse," abruptly changing her mind, Trisha swept a few pieces aside with her slipper as she reached for Al, his lower lip trembling as his eyes watered up. Not given time to grab her son, Trisha took a startled step backwards at the unannounced handclap echoing from the top of the stairs; the shards of the bowl suddenly coming together on the floor. The transmutation light, and the decent of their father from the second floor, was enough to distract Al from his tears.

"See, Daddy fixed it," Ed pointed down to the ground as he tried to get Al's attention.

Trisha's hands came to her hips as Hohenheim crossed the kitchen, picked up the bowl, and sat it down in his youngest son's lap, "All better, right?"

"Thank you Daddy," Al's voice choked, the miserable look still in his eyes as he examined the restored glass bowl in his lap.

Hohenheim's hand came up and ruffled Al's hair before cheering the miserable look with a kiss to the forehead, "No tears. Remember what went wrong, and don't let yourself do it that way again. You'll do just fine when you try again, and don't forget I won't fix a second one."

"Daddy, Mommy's got a mean face on."

Trisha watched her husband look over to her at the prompting of Edward's voice, "How are they supposed to learn to be careful if you keep fixing everything they break?" She knew he knew this too, she told him every time.

"I don't fix everything," Hohenheim contested the accusation, even though he was well aware she would have the upper hand in this argument, "it was just one. I fixed Edward's first broken dish too."

Trisha continued to frown; still holding the belief that her husband constantly spoiled their children.

Still sitting next to Al, who cradled the bowl in his lap, Ed perked up, "I'll learn how to fix things too like Daddy!" at that, he slapped his hands together and squished his face as tight as he could.

Trisha's hand came to her forehead, unable to hold back the giggle at the face Edward was making.

"Oh no, I don't think so young man," Hohenheim's strong and playful voice caused Ed to crack an eye open, "do you know what I'll do to you if you put your hands together like that and something happens?" a mischievous grin grew across Hohenheim's face as he watched his son's eyes widen as he made a slow
approach, "I will spank you so hard…"

Edward shrieked and quickly dropped off of the restricted space of the counter; the change of platform didn't seem to help, as Hohenheim snatched Ed up by the back of his overalls. Tossing him into the air with a scream, Hohenheim caught the tiny boy effortlessly under both his arms.

"Trisha, did you need to go into town for anything? I have to pick up a package from the post office," Hohenheim placed the squealing boy down upon his broad shoulders.

Wiping her hands with a towel, Trisha glanced out the window, "I don't think so, but the fresh air and walk would be nice," reaching over to Alphonse, she took the bowl from her son's disappointed hands and pulled him to his feet upon the counter, "Alphonse, would you like to escort me into the town?"

Ed's chin came to rest atop his father's head, "Isn't that daddy's job?"

"Daddy's bad today," Trisha's voice shot over to the laughing man as though she were scolding her child, "and Alphonse's done lots of big boy things today, he can be a bigger boy and make sure Mummy gets safely into the town."

Al's grin stretched from ear to ear, the pride his mother showered him with radiated in waves from his body. Though he and his brother exchanged a set of stuck out tongues; today, Alphonse was a big boy too, just like his older brother…

because Mommy said so.

.

Verse II - Tastes Like Marshmallow

"Edward," Trisha's voice called out, "make sure you hold Winry and Alphonse's hands tight, okay?"

Turning over his shoulder Ed called back, "M'kay!"

"I wanna hold Winry's hand too," Al pouted as he toddled alongside his brother down the gravel path beneath the brilliant mid-day sun. The warmth of the summer rays filtered down through the forming shapes of puffing white clouds; pure white light drifting throughout the farm fields below.

"Well, I don't wanna hold a boy's hand," Winry scowled over to Ed, her face scrunched up tight in protest, "but Mommy says I have to hold Ed's hand. She didn't say I had to hold Al's too. I'm not holding two boys hands, I'll get a boy disease."

Al whined; sulking and dragging his feet at the rejection while he swung around the handhold he had with his brother.

Ed's pudgy face grew extraordinarily cross, scowling fiercely at Winry's teasing, "Don't be mean to Al. And I don't have a boy disease."

"Yes you dooo," Winry shot her head away from Ed and turned her nose to the sky, "all boys have a boy disease and you're going to give it to me and Al cause you're holding our hands."

"Brother, I dun wanna boy disease," Al's little voice continued to pout until he fell silent, once again distracted from the ongoing debate.

"Winry!" Ed picked up his squeaking voice in protest, "there's no such thing as a boy disease."

"Nuh'uh, you lie!"

"I do not!"

"Yes you do!"

"Brother!" Al suddenly bounced at his side, his voice squealing as he pointed out to the trio's left, "an octopus cloud!"

Ed's eyes widened as he followed his brother's pointing finger, "It is…"

"Wow, an octopus cloud," Winry mirrored Edward's gaping enthrallment of the sky. The children fell into silence, watching as their cloud paraded it's solitary way across the crystal blue, southern sky.

"I bet it tastes like marshmallow…"

"What do you suppose has those three all wrapped up?" Sarah glanced over to Trisha and Hohenheim as the trio followed a good twenty meters behind the children.

"That octopus cloud," Hohenheim pointed to the sky.

Trisha and Sarah exchanged a concerned look before casting an overly questioning gaze up at Hohenheim.

"What?" the old man's amused expression slowly fell away.

"I don't see it," Sarah said flatly.

"… Trisha?" a faint plea lay buried within the voice.

"I'm glad you can see the octopus cloud, dear," she patted the hand that he held hers with and returned her bemused smile over to the giggling Sarah.

Hohenheim decided it was time to deflect the conversation away from him, "Sarah, why is it just you and your daughter out today?"

"Oh that man," she folded her arms, "he wandered off into the valley, he'd collected some plants down there and put the roots into a serum that worked wonders on that cold Mom had a few weeks back. He wanted some more to work with."

Trisha grinned in amusement at Sarah's explanation, "That's so interesting, both of you having gone through medical education in Central and he still enjoys herbal solutions."

"He's done it every day this week too. I'm hauling him into town Sunday whether he likes it or not," she huffed, folding her arms while her voice snapped back at the children at large, "Winry! I told you to hold Edward's hand!"

"Edward," Hohenheim's voice commanded out after the mother's, "we told you, you had to hold both Winry and Al's hands. You are the oldest!"

Pointing an accusing finger at Winry who was stomping back towards her mother, Ed's spat out in protest, "Winry says I'm a liar!"

"You are!" she turned back just long enough to give him a raspberry, "Ed thinks that the octopus cloud turned into a spider cloud but it still looks like an octopus cloud!"

Both Trish and Sarah's narrowed gazes turned up to Hohenheim whose smirk was growing wider.

"I told you it was an octopus."

.

Verse III – Parent and Child
(Father and Son)

Leaving the wives and remaining children behind, Hohenheim picked up the son that followed him and placed him upon what the little imp had claimed to be his rightful spot: atop his dad's shoulders. The warmth of the midday sun wrapped the life below in a blanket only suitable for lounging around on such a peaceful day. And as his father walked the path through town, the little son kept eyes open as he slouched over his father's head, cheek loosening the tightened ponytail as he buried his face into the soft hair. Hohenheim paid no mind; he was used to it, even if his wife would nag that the boy should walk on his own two feet, he did not mind the presence on his shoulders.

"Daddy," like a kitten kneading a blanket, Ed's fingers played in his father's hair; his wide eyes embedded on a lazy body examining the activity in the town, "where are we going now?"

Though unable to see, Hohenheim glanced up regardless, "Remember, daddy needed to go to the post office. I had a phone call last night telling me that there was a box with my name on it."

"Really?" Ed curled his lips in amusement at the thought of what could be in the box, "maybe someone sent you chocolate."

Entertained by how his son's mind was still wrapped up with the candy store, he did his best not to laugh, "Perhaps someone did send me chocolate. But I'm going to guess it's a book."

"You have lots of those already," Ed's nose twisted, "Mommy said that she's going to burry them in the field if you get more."

"Did she really?" Hohenheim's brow rose at the statement, "well, we'll have to have a talk with Mommy and tell her that my books make poor fertilizer."

Though restrained by his father's hands, Ed still made the attempt to swing his legs as his voice sang, "I already told her you'd say that!"

"I'm sure you did," Hohenheim laughed as his hand clasped around the handle of the post office door. Ducking to allow Ed clearance through the doorway, the pair made their way to the abandoned desk. While Edward's eyes opened wider with curiosity, Hohenheim's narrowed with the same emotion as they both scanned the small entryway. No one at the desk, no one within eyesight in the building, no sounds to be had at all; it had been the only time all day that Ed had sat still upon his father's shoulders.

.

Verse IV – Foreordained

Hohenheim's hand came out and tapped the service bell upon the desk, within seconds of doing so, the backroom door swung wide and a sharp pair of eyes looked back at them.

"… Is Bryan here?"

Hohenheim found his eyes locked into the malevolent expression the young, brown haired man carried. He had been unable to cut himself from it until the man shook off his expression and gave a laugh in response.

"Sorry Sir, Bryan stepped out to the barber's. Was there something I can get for you?"

"Do you work here?" Hohenheim continued to carry caution about his aura.

"Yes I do, I apologize for not being at the desk," the door swung shut at he stepped out; waving all tension from the room with the sweeping of his hand, "there's been mice in the storage room and I've spent all my day trying to rid the place of the blasted things. Another darted by my feet and into the room not more than a minute ago."

"Daddy can I get down?"

The request was quickly fulfilled with the fluid sweep of Hohenheim's arms. Dropping to his feet, Ed did not remain in place long enough for his father to take his hand. Running up to the counter, Ed rose as high upon his tiptoes as he could manage; only his wayward antenna of hair peeked above the top. Taking a few steps back until he could clearly see the employee, Ed's tiny hands came to his hips.

"I'll catch the mouses for you!"

"The word is 'mice', Edward," Hohenheim corrected; his gaze shifting between the amusing determination plastered across his son's face and the inquisitive look growing on the face of the man behind the counter.

Ed quickly turned to his father, "But I said I'll catch'em! You can help too Daddy, right?"

"It's okay young mister," the post office attendant smirked with faint amusement and leaned over his counter, "I'll find a way to rid myself of these disturbances."

Raising his hands in front of himself, Ed's grin grew wide, "Daddy gets the mice out of the house when he cla–"

"Edward," though his actions were swift, his touch remained gentle as Hohenheim quickly took hold of his son's left hand. Kneeling down, the other strong hand came to rest on Edward's back, "why don't you go ask those girls outside if you can join them?" his voice held a playful tone up as a guise, "you can play jump rope, right?"

Ed nodded vigorously at the statement, "I'm better than Winry at it, and she's always bragging she's better at it."

"Well, why don't you ask those girls if you can join them and then show them how much better than Winry you are?

"Mmm kay!"

With that, Edward scampered from his father's grasp, toddling to the door and pulling on the handle until it popped open for him.

The young worker folded his arms across the counter as he shifted his weight, "He's a nice little boy. He's yours I assume?"

"Yes, he is," refocusing his attention to his other company within the room, Hohenheim rose to his feet as he nodded, "I didn't know that Bryan hired an employee finally."

"The man's getting on in years, he was kind enough to offer a traveler like myself a place to work until I took to the road again," dusting his hands off, the young man put them firmly on his hips, "what's the name on your package?"

"It should say 'Hohenheim' or 'Elric'. Bryan didn't specify."

Narrowing his expression curiously, the employee stopped before reaching the backroom door,"… Hohenheim…"

The man raised an eyebrow at the drawl of his name.

"You're that famous alchemist that Bryan was telling me about," his gaze engaged Hohenheim, "I traveled through Central City a few months back, your name causes quite a buzz there."

The reaction was somewhat disheartening, as though he'd not wanted to hear the man mention any of that, "My name still does that in Central? I haven't been there in a long time, I'm surprised it hasn't been swept aside by now."

The young man shook his head, "Oh no, Central is full of alchemists and your name comes up among them when I've heard them chatter. Though, it's not surprising that you'd find a nice, quite place to avoid all that attention, it would get quite burdensome after a while," his eyes turned out the window towards the playing children, "but, I never imagined you to be a family man until Bryan brought it up."

Carrying his gaze beyond the window, the curl of his smile began to show, "There are more joys in my life than just alchemy, Edward is part of that."

"I heard that you had more than one child."

"Ah," Hohenheim grinned, somewhat delighted that the conversation was focusing on his children and not on his skills, "my youngest son is Alphonse, he's in the park with his mother right now." His attention redirected to the postal employee as the young man looked off in thought.

"That's it? I was told you had more children in your household," the man said with the tilt of his head.

Hohenheim quickly made the correction at an assumption that crept up now and then, "No, we only have two boys. Winry is a family friend."

"Strange…" the man folded his arms, still in thought, "Someone must have been confused when I heard you'd fathered more children."

His head shook lightly at a mistake he'd more than once corrected, "It's happened before."

"Obviously some mistaken identity…"

The words rolled off the tongue so casually, without any honestly noted concern for the issue the man was creating; the underlying tone almost seemed theatrical. Words that flowed like scripture began teasing the back of his mind, unnerving Hohenheim. He watched as the young man kicked a peg into the backroom door, propping it open; finally reaching up onto a shelf for his package.

"… with 'Winry' then."

"Her parents are gone quite often, she spends a great deal of time at our house. I'm not surprised, there are a some people in town we aren't that close with," his voice came with caution, still mulling over how to identify which cord it was that had set him on edge. For a frightening moment, he wondered if…

"Ah well," as quickly as the nerves began to quake, the discontent vanished with a quirky smile and the presentation of a rectangular box, "your package, Sir."

Hohenheim's brow rose, the corner of his lip curling in amusement at the senders name scrawled at the top corner of the box, "… Majihal?"

"Someone you know?"

Unable to clear the grin that had quickly formed in his face, Hohenheim took the box up, curiously turning the box over as he felt it's weight and listened for the sounds it made, "Yes, I haven't heard from him in ages," with a bemused laugh, he tucked the unexpected parcel under his arm, "thank you."

"Not a problem," the attendant folded his arms over the countertop as he watched Hohenheim make his way outside, "I'll let Bryan know you stopped by to pick it up."

.

Verse V – Seeds for the Future

"Daddy!" Ed scampered over, his tiny feet echoing off the wooden deck as he ran up to the front of the post office door, "what did you get?"

Sitting down on the wooden step, Hohenheim placed the box in his lap and grinned a foolish grin to his curious son, "I got a gift from an old friend."

Coming to lean on his father's shoulder, Ed narrowed his face as he eyed the box curiously, "What sort of gift?"

"Why don't we find out," from his pocket, Hohenheim used the pocketknife to slit a seam through the tape that bound the box together. In his lap, with child's eyes peering, Hohenheim opened the box. Handing the packaging tissue to his young son, the father began to laugh as he pulled out the bottle of red wine.

"'Marianna's Finest'. That old fool, where did he find a bottle of this?"

Ed's hands reached out and clamped around the heavy dark bottle of wine, his hands not big enough to touch at the fingertips as he gripped the bottle, "What is it?"

"It's wine, Edward," Hohenheim sat the bottle down at Ed's feet, "a very fine wine. It's what your mother and I had at our wedding."

Plunking himself down on the boardwalk, Ed carefully examined the bottle that he'd placed between his legs, "What's it taste like?"

Hohenheim knew where this question was leading, "It tastes a little bit like raspberries," he watched in amusement at Ed's obvious approval that it tasted nothing like milk.

"And there's something else in this box," Hohenheim cleared the rest of the filling away as Edward began to examine the cork preserving the wine. Clearing away the remainder of the packaging, Hohenheim's hearty laugh sounded out as he pushed the box aside and dropped the book into his lap.

Ignoring his father's amusement, Ed's fingers wiggled the loose cork curiously. Clenching his tiny fist, Ed began to bop the cork back into the stem of the bottle.

"That old fool…" Hohenheim continued to shake his head. Entirely amused by the gift, Hohenheim flipped open the first few pages.

"Daddy, what did you get?" giving up on the wine bottle, Ed returned to his feet and again came to stand at his father's shoulder, "what's that?"

Flipping the pages to the book shut, Hohenheim held it up for Edward, "It's an introduction to alchemy text. Apparently, I have some old friends who think I need to touch up on my basics."

Ed's expression suddenly perked, "Can I read it?"

"Can you recite the alphabet?"

Puffing up like a frazzled kitten, Ed's face soured at the insult, "Yes!"

"Can you spell 'alchemy'?"

There was a long pause; the one that exists when the accused child debates if it is worth it to stretch the truth enough to get his way, "… No, but…"

Reaching his arm out, Hohenheim swept the child into his lap. Resting the book over his son's stout legs, the father's finger came to rest on the word in question; the title of the book, which was etched into the hard brown cover, "When you get old enough to know how to spell 'alchemy', then I'll teach you what's in this book."

.

Verse VI – Parent and Child
(Mother and Son)

It was the horizon never to be forgotten; the bed upon which, night after night, the sun would lay down upon. It was the holder of many daydreams. Even on the cloudiest and darkest of nights, there would always be something distinct to this existence of peace in an unsettled world that made it its own. It was intangible and indescribable, but the only description needed past the five o'clock hour would be 'Resembool's western horizon'; enough would be said.

And though the sun still shone down upon the township and countryside, the town watched with subdued relief at the billowing of grey clouds growing on the horizon. All came to know and accept that once the sun sank beyond the last reaches of the land, the horizon will have left them with a welcomed rain; a blissful and welcomed rain not seen in weeks.

"Mommy. How come over there the clouds are so big and there are none over here? How come they're grey on the bottom?"

Trisha started to giggle, "They're grey on the bottom because they were dipped in water."

"Mommy," little Alphonse shook his head before giving his most profound statement, "water is blue. The clouds are not blue."

In the clearing near to the slide and swings Alphonse and Winry had played in before Sarah took her daughter home, Trisha sat. Nestled into the long, cool grass to watch the remainder of the day slowly unfold, Trisha had wrapped her youngest son up in her care; content to enjoy the light breeze that teased their hair and the tallest tips of grass.

Time passed by without concern.

"Water in the sky is different," Trisha explained, pointing out to the unfolding event, "The sky is already blue, so the clouds have to be different colours so we can see them. That's why, when water is in the sky it's grey."

"Ohh…" the child's face squished up with curiosity, "how come all the cloud's not grey?"

"Ah," Trisha's arms enveloped her youngest son as he continued to interrogate a horizon he would someday come to learn was never to be questioned, simply enjoyed, "Alphonse, do you remember what happened to my dishcloth when I hung it out on the line?"

"Sorta…"

"Remember when we took it off the line, the bottom of the rag was wet but the top was dry?"

Al nodded slowly, saucer eyes and wide-open ears absorbing everything his mother had to say.

"That's why the cloud is only grey on the bottom, because the cloud is hanging from the clothes line in the sky. The bottom part of the cloud is still really wet like my rag, but the top is dry, so it's white like all the other clouds."

"Ohhh…" it was such simple enlightenment that explained so much of this unknown world.

Trisha's soft voice carried like the breeze; light weight and carefree, "and you know how if my rag is really soggy at the end it drips onto the grass? That's the same thing that happens to the cloud. When the cloud is really grey it drips onto the grass because it's soggy, and that's how it rains."

"Ohhhh…" for young Alphonse, the world made so much more sense today as he stared off into the skyline.

Trisha ran her fingers through his hair, pleased with herself that she'd unraveled one of life's many mysteries today.

"Mommy?"

The curious inquisition started again. Peace with her youngest son rarely existed; his mind ran circuits whenever the boy was given spare time to do so. Trisha would never mind allowing him the time and space to understand how the world managed itself, nor did she mind finding a way to answer, though Alphonse never seemed to understand the reasons behind his mother's amused giggles.

"Why does Brother sit in the hill when he's mad?"

Trisha's hand gave a final brush over Alphonse's hair as she re-wrapped her arms around him. She took a moment to realize the question's inspiration came from how they seemed to be perched upon Resembool's park hill, "Because he wants to make sure everyone knows that he's not happy with something. The hill is the highest place around, so everyone can see that he's sitting there."

"How come he doesn't go to the river anymore?"

"Because the last time he did that, he wandered up stream and your father couldn't find him for a long time," her chin came to rest in the downy softness of her young son's bed of hair, recalling an unsettling day, "he made it explicitly clear that Edward was to never go sulk at the river again after that."

"Really?"

"Mmhmm," the ensuing conclusion could only add a touch of laughter to her voice, "and now he sits in a spot where the whole township can see him glower over them."

The wide, silver eyes turned back towards a skyline slowly changing its colours. And as his mind found new ways to have his mother answer his dissection of the world, it was her voice that swept away all the important questions he considered asking.

"When I was a little girl, no taller than Winry…" Trisha's mind found itself wrapped up in the same early evening mystique that Alphonse created questions from, "… I use to live up stream," her eyes wandered up the river's path, watching it disappear around the curve of the mountain, "a day or so upstream. Our house was much closer to the river, though I was never curious like Edward so I never wandered too far. But, whenever the world wasn't right, or something went wrong, I use to sit out at the water's edge too."

"Did you like the water, Mommy?"

"There's something peaceful about the water's edge."

The scenery became just that, scenery; something to be left untouched and simply enjoyed as Alphonse snuggled into the security of his mother's arms.

"Water in the mountains is so clean and cool; it washes away all sorts of bad feelings. If you sit with the water long enough, you can understand how it feels to be free just like the river. It always relaxed me and 'washed away' all those things that upset me. I'd always feel better."

.

Verse VII – Toast to the Family

With her hand placed firmly at the edge of the frame, Trisha pushed the open window closed. The westerly wind was blowing the drizzle of the soggy cloud into her kitchen, and though the aroma of freshly fallen rain was a wonderful scent within the house, it was not a substance suitable for her kitchen counter tops.

"Daddy…" the little voice whined.

Hohenheim's hand held firm the tiny fingers that had found their way into the mashed potatoes, "Alphonse, wait for your mother to sit down, then use the spoon." Taking a napkin from the center of the dining table, the father dipped it in his glass of water, soaking the end just enough that once he'd squeezed the tissue in his hand, the entire square would be damp, "Dinner is not finger food."

Alphonse was unable to wiggle his hand away as his father wiped it down, then protested even further when Hohenheim amused himself by wiping down the pudgy face with the damp napkin as well.

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

"Mommy?"

Edward's call caught her attention.

"Didn't Winry's mom and dad already make 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?"

"Me too!"

Both parents gave a strong 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 red 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'."

Beyond the rim of the glass she sipped from, Trisha suddenly realized that her husband had placed his glass down; moments later the hallow echo of the plastic lid to Alphonse's cup bounced off the hardwood floor.

"Dammit," Hohenheim's hand snatched the napkins from the table and started to wipe the face of the child who howled in embarrassment of the red juice that had soaked him.

Trisha quickly placed her glass down, standing up sharply from where she sat, "Oh no. Edward, get a cloth from the sink, please."

As the elder of the two children moved at his mother's request, Hohenheim pushed up his sleeves as he lifted the sobbing child from the seat, "The lid wasn't on tight. I'm sorry Alphonse, that was my fault."

"Here," Trisha reached out for her crying son, "I'll get him cleaned up."

"It's fine Trisha," Hohenheim shifted Alphonse in his grasp, "I'll look after him. It's only juice; I'll have him cleaned up shortly. Finish your dinner before it gets cold," the husband leaned down and kissed the forehead of his protesting wife, still refusing to hand over the unsettled child.

Dropping the damp cloth on the wooden seat and a handful of paper towel over the spill on the floor, Edward looked up to his father and stopped in his tracks, "Daddy, you burned your arm!"

Frozen, Hohenheim's startled concern cast down upon the little boy whose hand reached up towards his left arm, "You said you'd be careful cooking this time!"

The child's brow, knit with scolding concern, directed up to his father; a silent, cautious eye locked over him. Rising to his feet with Alphonse in his arms, the sleeve in the arm cradling his son was pulled too high.

"Those things happen to master chefs Edward," Trisha's voice broke in where Hohenheim's could not, "they start tossing their food around like a professional does and bad things can happen. That's why I don't like you boys around when I'm cooking dinner, there's lots of sharp and hot things you can hurt yourself on."

"Skin turns black when you burn yourself?" Ed frowned at his own question.

"It might," Trisha's hand slid down her son's arm as she crouched down before him, taking him by the hand, "now, your father can take care of himself, why don't you he-"

She could hear the creaking of the wooden staircase, and Trisha turned her gaze over her shoulders. Without a word to each other, Trisha watched as her husband carried their other child up to their rooms. Her bottom lip caught in her teeth, she tried to clear the empathetic expression from her face, wishing Hohenheim had been able to find the courage to say something.

.

Verse VIII – Anticipated Apology

What could be heard for wind whistled in between the double panes of glass. The curtains waved softly as the sounds of a storm swept through the cracks. A faint flash of lightning withheld the distant roll of thunder for an eternity. Each flash that grew more prominent illuminated the shadows of the room; the shadow that stood behind him made every inch of his body quiver.

He sat, dumped in his couch, carrying a gaze out to the unlit fireplace, simply listening and waiting. Amidst the storm's rare silence, bare feet finally brushed along the floor; his eyes cast down into his lap. Sharp ears animated the movement, coloured the skin, drew the gown, streaked the hair, and highlighted the silhouette upon the wall with each flash of lightning

Without a word, Trisha picked up the candle from the holster upon the cloth-covered table. He couldn't help but look. It was curiosity more than it was anything else, and he watched as she moved from the table to the fireplace. The ends of soft brown hair swayed over her back, the white, silk gown hanging off her hips. With the unwavering sweep of her body's motion, Trisha placed the candle at the center of the fireplace mantle, in the space between her potted plants.

"I always thought the candles looked better on the mantle. The flowers have a whole different look in that light."

She turned the gentle gaze towards her husband in the chair, his eyes cast away, staring off into the excitement beyond the sheer curtain covering the window.

"And the boys can't reach them up there," her feet swept along the rug, moving towards him. The sound stood out above all else in Hohenheim's ears, he recognized the unspoken acknowledgement she gave for his solitude that evening and then did nothing to stop her from intruding.

Trisha sat down on his knee; Hohenheim's eye flickered over to her as she perched herself much like their children did.

"They went down before the storm broke, so hopefully it doesn't wake them up."

The man's cautious gaze watched her from beneath his brow; the soft, brown hair sliding over her shoulder as her hand held gently over his bristly jaw line and her lips rested softly against his forehead. Hohenheim's hands came up, sliding her touch away. His strong fingers wove into her hair as he put his forehead against her; his finger tips slipping down the back of her neck, brushing over her shoulder, and running down her arm until he found her hand. She laced her fingers through his and tucked herself into the niche at his neck that was all her own.

"I'm sorry."

Trisha's voice floated, "For what?"

"For all this."

"Is there something wrong with this?"

Some part of Hohenheim wished that she could find the same flaws he saw, the other part of him was thankful that she did not care to look for them or simply looked past them when present.

"I could see it again."

His hand again slipped into her hair, running his fingers through the length of her hair.

"You had that look in your eyes again when we were walking back to the house," even with how the storm rattled the house, the sound of his breathing was the clearest thing, "the first time you had that look, you told me that you thought you needed to leave."

The strong left hand that was woven into her hair strengthened as he held her against his chest.

"And then we never spoke of it again."

No, Hohenheim thought, he never spoke of it again. He only thought about it, and they both knew it. Trisha had a look in her eyes that would develop to match his for that cruel thought.

"It was worse this time," Trisha's cheek snuggled into the warmth of his bare skin at the crook in his neck, "most days when you have that look it's just wandering off in thought…"

"…Trisha…"

"But your distant look was so full of concern," her voice held strong through the urge to tremble, "and you didn't say a word along the path until the door closed behind you. You said nothing after putting Alphonse down."

"You just sat here, all evening long."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not mad at you," the quickness of the reply dampened Hohenheim's hopes that she would be boiling with frustration over the thoughts in his mind, "Haven't I told you before, it's not my place to pass judgement."

Some sinister part of his mind wished that she would scream at him, and then throw him into the cobblestone path for wanting to leave her this way for his own selfish reasoning. That would make not looking back a far simpler task. But that was not Trisha, not the woman he married.

"If you go, can you come back without that look in your eye. The one you're so afraid to share with me?"

That was wrong, he'd shared that story with her. His wife knew more than anyone ever had, she knew the source of his anguish and had told him that it was unnecessary for him to leave. She continued to read him like a book, knowing whenever he refrained and kept her from sharing his worries. It was the security of this family he enjoyed, knowing he did not always have to explain himself; there was so much that words could not describe.

"I won't come back until I can. I'll take these burdens away from your life until I've lost them again."

Trisha would create more than one way to stand by his side and give her husband a long abandoned sense of comfort for an unspoken lifestyle, "And I'll still be here for you when you come home."

The hand gripping into the fabric of his nightshirt tried to silence him, "I don't know-"

The roll of thunder that cascaded through the room drowned out the sound of Trisha's voice, a sound clearly conveyed to her husband by the strength held in a pair of blue eyes, passed on to their children.

.

Verse IX – Crying Sky

It was a brisk, sharp wind; taunting the shingles, whipping around the top of the chimney, rattling the windows just a little more with each gust. The pelting of raindrops on the glass and rooftop would intensify at each puff of wind blowing across the landscape, and then die off to the smooth downpour that slipped off each surface.

The lonely set of eyes, burdened with an unprecedented tale not to be shared, turned his attention once more to the door. He listened in silence as the wind whistled through the cracks of the door's seal.

Again he looked up the stairs, he did not want to go back up there. No, he wanted to go back up there more than anything else, but by this time he'd convinced himself that he could not. It would be easier if he buttoned the trench coat, took up his briefcase, and walked away. The storming world beyond the door welcomed him with all it's spite; he didn't deserve anything better on a list of irreparable sins he would continue to add to. A list and chain of events he never seemed to be able to stop.

It was a curse.

"Daddy?"

There had been very few moments in his life when his heart had stopped, but he could add this to the list.

"Edward," even if his voice did shake from the startle, it would never be known why, "go back to bed."

"The window keeps rattling," the quiet, little voice echoed in the darkness, the childish arms wrapped around his knees as he sat at the middle of the staircase, "and the tree keeps scratching the wall."

Hohenheim dumped his coat over the back of the kitchen chair. Of course he wouldn't get off that easily, the world wasn't done punishing him for his sins; it would never finish.

"Go sleep with Alphonse, his window doesn't rattle."

The voice whined softly at the suggestion, "I tried, but Al's sleeping in your bed…"

Hohenheim's eyebrows rose, Alphonse wasn't there when he'd gotten up; but it had been a while ago.

"… and the tree still scratches the wall in Al's room, it's scary."

It was that same strong grip by a gentle set of hands that had always slipped under Ed's arms and picked him up; this time from the darkness of the unlit household. He didn't even need to hear the squeaking sound in the voice, he could feel it by how the arms wrapped around his neck, how the legs clung around his body, and how the head tried to burry itself in the curve at his neck; the poor child was so overtired.

"The tree can't hurt you; there's nothing scary about the tree."

"Yes there is."

Some days Hohenheim believed he could make his money in fortune telling; right or wrong, no matter how far into the future he saw, he knew he would not end up winning this argument.

"Why don't you go sleep with your mother?" he only needed one hand to support him, while the other soothed over the matted pillow-hair.

"Al's sleeping with her already."

It was his house, he could have moved blindly through it; the darkness of the stormy night was as good as blindness. Hohenheim walked a slow course through the main floor of the house, never needing to watch where he was stepping.

"You two can't share?"

"… No…"

He couldn't help but give a chuckle to the stubbornness; it probably would have been impossible to detach him anyways. The father's left arm supported his child with ease while the right hand removed the candle from the living room mantle. Slowly, Hohenheim came to sit in the cushions of the wooden rocker, placing the candle down on the round end table at his side. He readjusted Edward, leaning into the corner of the chair as he tucked his boy into the basket of his curving elbow. The palms of old hands awkwardly touched, and the wick of the candle at his side flickered to life.

"Daddy…" the child's voice murmured while a hand swept through his hair, "…I'm tired."

"I know."

The little body shifted, the tiny left hand pulling at the shirt as Hohenheim leaned back in the rocker. Supported in the father's left arm, he rested against the broad chest as the rocker slowly lulled him to sleep in a far safer setting. The hand brushed over his head again as the clarity between the world around him and the world he would imagine began to blur.

But he could hear it, as distinct as his father's 'cologne', the heartbeat beneath the cotton shirt that carried a strong and steady rhythm. It was an unchanging and familiar constant; as secure as the arms that could embrace him, the comforting sound he would find in the chest moved with him while he swayed. The world was safer this way. It always was when he could hear it, even if the world drifted away in the process. Fingers, once wrapped tightly in the fabric, slipped from their hold, only to fall until the curled tips caught on the shirt pocket; a place they continued to hang undisturbed.

The poignant heartbeat drowned the world out until the breathing, the wind nor the rain existed anymore.

That final plea would not be answered; the one Hohenheim had made for himself. Standing up carefully from the chair, he would have to go upstairs one last time. Even with the extra weight in his arms, the father still had the ability to ascend the staircase without a sound; a technique mastered to catch young children.

.

Verse X – The Last Day of Resembool's Radiance.

He didn't want to look. He would pass down this hall and not look; he couldn't look.

The whimpering voice was stronger than his own selfishness. Looking into the room, the curled up ball of Alphonse next to peacefully sleeping body of his wife twitched and squeaked. Leaving Edward in the cushions of the bedroom chair, Hohenheim placed higher priority on calming the unsettled behaviour within the bed. He would have to walk paths to lull both children into security tonight, and he picked Alphonse up from the bed. His hand soothed over the child's back to calm him, the child's head burrowing into the soft spot at his handler's armpit.

Hohenheim's steps came without a sound, sliding his feet along the floor panels as he made his way down the hall. Standing in the doorway of the youngest child's room, the father concluded the son was to deep in his sleep to be woken by the sounds raging beyond his window. Cradled in a single arm, Alphonse lay silent as his father adjusted his boy's bed sheets and lay him down.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Hohenheim watched as Alphonse sprawled out on his back; tiny fists clenched tight, lips cracked open, head rolled to the side. His smile curled as his hand ran through the child's downy hair. He burned the image of the sleeping child into his mind before gently kissing him on the forehead.

"Good night."

Somehow, Hohenheim suddenly found himself standing in the doorway of his wife's bedroom once again, the eyes of an ancient looked in. If he'd only relax his arm, it would be able to tremble freely, but he could not have that happen. He simply watched, burning another memory into his mind; Trisha resting on her back, the fingers of her left hand mixed into the sheets that were pulled up around her chest, the right arm fallen across the bed where Alphonse had once been. He could see the movement beneath her eyelids and wondered what she could be dreaming about. Nothing bad he assumed, there wasn't a flicker of tension in her expression.

He didn't realize that he'd walked from the door to the bedside; but there he sat, his hand gently sweeping away the strands of brown hair from her neck. She must be dreaming something wonderful, he thought, or she would not have looked so at peace where she lay. The hope for her to remain with blissful dreams was the final wish given by the husband for his wife. His lips coming to rest softly on her forehead, he would remain like that, unable to pick himself up.

The touch finally slipped away, only so far as to allow his forehead to rest against hers. The left hand slowly stroked a path through the lengths of hair spread out over the bed, while the other simply held Trisha at her cheek. He loved how warm her skin would always be to his touch. There was no way he could even begin to ask for her forgiveness.

He'd breathe, a deeper breath each time, trying to push away the feeling in his chest so he could get up and walk away. The inhale he wished for finally came, though merely strong enough so he could pull away; he could not subdue the knot. The tips of his fingers slipped off her cheek; he stood up, held her in his eyes one last time before walking towards Edward.

This child slept like a rag doll, content no matter how his father would hold him. His ear against his father's chest, Hohenheim carried the other son to his room as well. It was not that Edward's room was as noisy as Alphonse's, only that he'd been awake more recently, and his eyes fluttered as Hohenheim lay him down.

"No…" the father's thumb smoothed over the child's cheek.

Perched at the side of the bed, he waited for the eyelids to fall motionless again. Brushing away the blonde hair fallen over the boy's face, Hohenheim kissed him on the forehead as well.

"Make sure you sleep well."

If the wind and rain had not died down for a few moments, or perhaps if he'd been more sound asleep, Edward would never have heard his father's movement's as the man made his way downstairs.

The tired eyes slipped open once again. Rolling onto his stomach, he slipped from the bedside to his feet. Careful not to make a sound as he crept across the wooden floor, Ed's tiny hand finally reached for the doorknob of his bedroom door and pulled it open just enough for his eyes to peer through. He listened, and though drowned out by the noise created by the storm, he could still make out the sound his father's shoes made on the floor. Thought it did not last long enough to be remembered, it did last long enough to give him cause to move; Edward could not recall his father having his shoes on before.

He crossed into the hall, crouching down in that magical spot both he and Al had discovered; the place at the top of the stairs where they could see down into the house as they were sheltered in the protective darkness to watch.

The old man opened the door; Edward's eyes narrowed as the porch light shone in. The gusts of wind and rain began to blow through the house, but nothing seemed disturbed by it. The silhouette of his father, darkened by the light, stood in the doorframe… looking back inside. No matter how hard he searched, Edward was unable to make out the expression on his face, or the look in his eyes. He hoped that his father would not look up and scold him for getting out of bed. The young boy received his reprieve when the figure turned away and moved outside; right hand trailing behind to pull the wooden door closed without a sound.

He had left.

Edward rose from his crouch, his face twisting as he yawned and rubbed the sleep in his eyes. His father's departure was unquestioned. He dragged his feet back into his bedroom, crawling up onto the soft mattress, blankets and pillows.

And he kept on crawling, dropping off the other side of his bed. Ed ducked his head behind the curtains as he stepped onto the toy box beneath his window. Both his hands wiped away the thin fog layer on the pane of glass.

Beyond the smudged streaks and fingerprints, beyond the distortion of blistering wind and rain, Ed's half conscious eyes watched his father cut through the torrent weather, moving along the damp gravel path. The black coat tails and ties flailed in the wind, the length of blonde ponytail snapped around at each gust. Edward continued to watch, wondering why his father would go out without an umbrella. Again, he wiped the window; his warm breath fogging it up.

Edward would wave, if only his father would look back.

No matter how many times the boy would wipe the window to keep his father's path in sight, the old man never turned back. But that, Edward figured, was because he was supposed to be in bed. Dad wouldn't turn back to wave at him if he didn't realize there was someone there for him to wave at.

And though Edward could still make out the path his father took away from the household, the eldest son pulled his head out from behind the hanging curtains, stepped down from the toy box without a sound, and walked away from the scene beyond the window. He slipped into bed with the intention of sleeping the rest of the night through; in the morning, he could tell his father that he'd slept through the storm.

Engulfed by the pillows and surrounded by the sheets, Edward's tired eyes stared up at the ceiling. He surrendered himself up to the sleep demon that would burry this night in the back of his mind; never realizing that 'the morning' he'd again speak to his father, would not be the next.

Resembool Verses - FIN

Chapter 18

October 19, 1921

He couldn't tell you how long he'd sat there in his living room and not actually existed in it. But, Hohenheim thought, he had to pull himself away or become lost in a memory forever.

He blew out the candle in the middle of his table. It wasn't as though the room turned to complete darkness, it simply faded into it – staying light enough for him to watch the light trail of residual smoke drift around him. He needed to go to bed; the moment felt almost delusional.

He'd meant to climb the stairs to his room, but he stopped abruptly. At the top of the stairs sat Edward; his hair down, night shirt not quite buttoned tight around his neck and the extra half pant leg dangling down one of the steps. It was an uncomfortable observation for his father to make, how out of sorts Edward looked sitting there. People sit in positions – arms crossed, propped up on elbows, legs crossed, the simple act of putting two feet on the same stair were all unbalanced, disproportionate and simply impossible stances for him.

"Edward…?"

The call of his name caused Ed's hand to scratch the back of his head, glancing away to the corner without a response.

Hohenheim hated that uncomfortable sensation Ed gave him some days, the one that would not allow him to read into his son's motives. Ascending the staircase, the elder man continued with caution, "You should get to bed-"

"When mom died we were sitting at her bedside."

Hohenheim stopped, not three steps from where he'd begun. The startling conflict of emotions he found himself dealing with kept him under the control of Edward's every word.

Ed had yet to pick up his eyes to look at whom he was speaking with. The emotionally drained voice tried to remain in the empty state; it was easier that way, "we sat there, we'd been like that for days. She got sick so quickly, there was nothing anyone could do for her except try to make her feel comfortable."

Brow tightening momentarily, Hohenheim wondered if Edward did in fact understand how London had started off being for them.

"She didn't say so, but she was in a lot of pain, you could tell by looking at her. She was really pale, sweating lots, breathing heavily; her eyes didn't focus well. Her fever got really high and Aunt Pinako called the doctor to come over again… I'm sure he knew what was about to happen. The whole time I'm thinking 'this is my mom, she can't die'."

His words formed a statement that continued to carry a terrible lesson learnt.

"I didn't understand… obviously."

If Hohenheim could stand in front of that bathroom mirror, he would curse himself. He was no better than his infuriating son, "Edward, you don't need-"

"Mom made a request with her last words," words from the son's mouth that stripped the father of active thought, "it wasn't some 'I love you', 'I never got to do this' or 'I'm sorry' sentiment. We knew mom loved us and we knew she didn't want us to be any sadder. So, she asked me to transmute some flowers for her. She died when she was making the request, so I transmuted the flowers I brought to her grave ever since."

The silence remained between the two in place where Hohenheim was supposed to have replied, but could not. Ed grabbed his hand firmly around the banister and came to stand once again. He hopped a couple steps to the top of the staircase, taking the crutch he'd left on the hall floor under his arm once more. Edward acknowledged his father's eyes watching him and turned face his gaze.

"Mom died and her last words were that she wanted me to transmute her some flowers. She smiled a bit, and said it was something you always did for her… and then she passed away."

The faint echo of the clock's tick passed through the silence Edward orchestrated.

"The last thing she was thinking about when she died was you."

Within the faint moonlit shadows created from beyond the bedroom windows at the ends of the hall, nothing could be sufficient in response.

"And that made her smile."

Neither of them would question, nor speak again, how the son got his father to bow his head.

"You're coming."

The hazy, golden eyes flickered up from above the rim of his glasses .

"I'm not going to London with just Winry. This was your bad idea, so you're coming too, or I'm not going," the pale hall light left only a faint reflection of colour to glow off the morose gaze, "I'm not dealing with all your friends by myself."

Linguistic gratitude is an insufficient device. He would not say a word; the ability to speak long since stripped from his possession.

"I'll find that crappy old suitcase in the morning. I'm going to bed," Edward's hair slipped off his shoulders as he turned away.

Remaining standing, third step from the bottom, Hohenheim absorbed what was left of the moment before discarding the notion of retiring to an empty bed. He'd instead returned to the darkened living room, where the resemblance of a family had slowly emerged. Wading through what remained of the lingering smoke, the old man took up the matches and relit his candle. He placed it on the fireplace mantle between the flowering potted plants that he maintained year round. Falling back into the comforts of his couch, his tired eyes watched the source of the unsteady flicker of light that barely lit the room. The yellow and orange hue flickered patterns off the petals and through the leaves of the flowers gracing the flame's sides. It was a display that did not carry the same radiance found in a Resembool household; though it was something his wife would have cared for nonetheless.

To Be Continued...

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