A/N: This chapter would not be possible without beta-ing from Sapphy and la' Chev. Bow before their mighty powerz of DOOM. Almost done with my WoLaS fics. YESSUH! Also, be warned. I have seen a total of 10 some episodes, the last one being 19. A/U-ness will undoubtedly occur.

Disclaimer: FMA does not belong to me. If it did…cackles

Warnings: Slash, slash, and more slash. Roy/Ed-ness and so forth. Though not in this chapter unfortunately. If you don't like it, run away now and spare yourself the horror that will be. That said, onward!

A Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to the lovely ShukiAi, who did such things as send me wonderful manga – the darling! – , and PlatonicTeddys, whose review made me sparkle and light up, then swamped me with a desire to write. Thank you both, you are most loverly.

Mortvi Non Mordant

By LCM

Ed woke to the feel of earthy moisture seeping up through concrete and blankets, settling to pull achingly down his curled form. It was an uncomfortable, damp sensation, and while ignorable in the scheme of things, sparked a soft tingling along restored limbs that was enough to send early morning muzzy-ness scuttling (with a sluggish resentment) from his mind. Something throbbed beneath his temples, and the part of him that was still snarking over its loss of sleep reflected that an extra arm and leg did little for hangovers.

He didn't, however, regret the champagne or the box of more-than-a-tad-squashed donuts. Last night's alchemy had left Edward bone-raw and shaking, Al's state so much worse as to have been all but inconceivable. Tired beyond all else – yet unable to drift into slumber for the sheer explosion of feeling – both brothers had welcomed the cheap shot of alcohol and sugar; a chance to ramble on over nothings, letting the rush of chemicals and babble burn off a good bit of the more immediate shock. Pulling himself up into a sitting position, Ed's mind flittered lightly over the events of the early morning post-transmutation whatever-it-was.

Al didn't know about Roy, – of that, the older Elric brother was certain – wasn't even aware that anything had gone wrong. Ed had asked him, somewhere near the bottom of the last bottle – there had only been two, but Ed had never had much tolerance (those with a death wish would blame it on his height) – but when Alphonse had responded with a long, puzzled look, he'd dropped the subject. Making sure his brother didn't suffer for this latest escapade included keeping him from the guilt he would feel over Mustang's apparent clandestine passion for heroics. Of all the dirty secrets…! Next, no doubt, he would learn that the Colonel had paraded about the city in long underwear; helping cats out of trees, old ladies cross the street, and hunting down evil-doers in the name of truth, justice, and mini-skirts for most (but not all, thank god) women. …Head larger than several melons, more ego than Armstrong has muscle, able to bed half the female population in a single bound, it's…Super Roy! Cue theme song. Ed wasn't sure if the image made him want to laugh or cry.

It was with an effort that he pulled his mind from that particular road, giving the angry murmurs of protest a vague promise of 'later'. There were other things to think about. Better things to think about. Like…like.... Like his hand for example. Ed chewed at his lip, knees pulled up to his chest, the warmth of flesh over flesh odd and intense for the fact that he had not felt it in years. His hand, Al's one disappointment. It clung to his right arm – from the wrist down – like a dead thing, and he waggled the cold metal fingers just to show that they worked. It had been what had first really anchored Alphonse into the world again, seeing the automail still part of his brother, and Ed could be grateful for that. He was not entirely sure he wasn't simply grateful for the hand in and of itself. The mechanism was familiar, almost comfortable in a way, and – he grinned – would continue to pack a surprisingly hard punch, despite his wide-spread reputation. Literally, the iron fist in the proverbial velvet glove… well, it was more like cotton, but still. Take that. The silence stretched on indefinitely, questioning just who it was that was meant to take.

/I said later./

A groan issued from across the root cellar – much sought for respite – and Ed looked up to find Al, all long teenage limbs and too-small cat-printed pajamas, blinking up at him groggily from under a veritable mountain of blankets.

"Niisan," he managed to croak, fixing Ed with a pained stare, "I'm dying." 'And it's all you fault,' his eyes seemed to say, though Al was too well mannered to ever voice such a thought.

Maybe the champagne had been a bad idea after all.

oOo.

The next few hours were far more difficult than waking up had ever been. The motion of merely breathing was uncomfortable enough for one who hadn't been doing it for a while, and Al's long lack of anything resembling hurt made the discomfort of a hangover beyond excruciating. His pain, at least, kept them both focused and able to work on the physical aspect of healing without mixing it in with the psychological. By noon they were both tired again – the better part of two liquor-induced headaches just beginning to lift – and it was with an excited start that Al look up from his nest of blankets and said with an awed sort of wonder,

"…I'm hungry."

His eyes widened, pondering the words, then – almost sparkling – he whooped out a repeat, "Niisan, I'm hungry!" Ed jumped up and Al followed suite – legs wobbling beneath him but not caring – and they were both practically skipping as they dug out Ed's bag, unpacking breakfast.

Nine muffins, five hard-boiled eggs, six pieces of toast, three oranges, one apple, four bowls of cereal, two leftover donuts, eight ninths of a pig (in bacon/sausage/sliced ham form), half a gallon of juice, three sandwiches and a chocolate mint: perhaps not the exact measurement of ingredients it took to fill up an average boy's body when said boy has been absent for several years, but at least enough to tide him through until lunch time. Not to say that Ed wasn't inhaling his food at record speed, but Al was….Well, there were really no words for it. Incredible, perhaps.

"Ish good!" the younger brother managed to pipe out around the last of the provisions that was to have been their dinner. Ed, so far behind, didn't even bother trying to answer.

.oOo.

Ed spent the rest of the morning and into the afternoon attempting to help Al get a feel for the new body. Neither of them were up to any long term thinking, so difficult rhythms of different combat drills were an ideal choice, shoring up their sense of selves to the point were they even attempted a little sparing. It was short-lived, as the cellar – while pleasantly cool – wasn't made for such things, and just a few seconds into the fight Al's stomach began rumbling.

"What've you got down there, a pit?" Edward questioned, eyebrows raised incredulously at his brother's middle, a smile tugging at his lips despite the words. Al, in turn, blushed – stuttering out an apology, while favoring the noisy organ with a disapproving scowl and a castigating prod. Laughing, Ed rescued his brother's abdomen from any further any further scrutiny, and smiled.

"Just a long as it doesn't start mewing, we'll be fine. Come on, let's scrounge some lunch."

.oOo.

As it turned out, there was nothing. Well, almost nothing. Just a single, mushy, half-eaten apple (already a dark brown-yellow color) that didn't, despite hunger pangs, interest either of them. Which became important, when – mere moments later – Ed subscribed to the bottomless-hole theory as well.

"I vaguely recall hearing someone tell us not to eat dirt." Edward proclaimed, one long metal finger jabbing at the crumbling clay walls of the basement. "But I can't seem to remember…was there a reason, or was it only on principle?"

Al – who rediscovering all over again that being hungry made him irritated – sighed. Sometimes, he wished his niisan had just a bit more common sense.

"Why don't you go down to the market and just get some more food?"

" –and I can swear I remember having heard a story where a bunch of military guys got together and had pebble stew. Or was it rock soup? Just like the military to– what did you say, Al?"

Breathe deep, slowly now, "Why don't you just go down to the market, and buy us more food?"

"Oh. Yeah. But what about you?"

"I'll be fine, niisan."

"…You're sure?"

Al grinned, the ripple of flesh across his cheekbones peculiar, but in a pleasant sense. "Yes, niisan."

The older Elric shot the younger a dubious look, but donned his red coat and grabbed his pack nonetheless.

"And niisan! Pick me up some new clothes, please… these are a little tight –"

Ed huffed. But mostly to himself, and in a pleased sort of fashion. Al, after all, was one of the few people he could trust not to throw an insinuation, and really couldn't help the fact that he…towered…so.

Still. Tall people.

Those pajamas fit him just fine.

.oOo.

The walk to the market was a long one, as walks to markets go, and Ed found that telling oneself not to think something is a lot easier then actually making one's mind follow through with the order. However, he did manage to make it to the first of the shops in under forty-five minutes, stopping only – once, mind you! – to bang his head against a wall. And even that didn't turn out so bad: the lady selling eggs gave him a strange look, hastily handed over a basket and – when he made an attempt at bartering – gifted him with a hefty discount. Yes, life was good.

Having picked up enough foodstuffs to stock his own private grocery store, Ed fished about the bags and pulled out a honey roll – still hot – to munch on the way back to the house. Around the fifth pastry, his stomach stopped its protest and he chewed lazily; eyes half lidded, enjoying the warmth of the sugary bun as it settled in his mouth. The streets were getting darker and more decrepit as he ventured farther into the poor district, but it didn't bother him: Edward was quite adept at defending himself and sweets made for one happy Elric. Content, and going on full, it seemed as good a time as any.

So. Roy. The images were fuzzy when allowed to surface: there was purple, darkness, being called short, seeing through Mustang's head, and…really, nothing else. Which didn't make any sense whatsoever. In the utmost seriousness, and to be perfectly, completely, terribly fair, he knew that the Colonel liked both him and his brother, in his own, manipulative, crazy-ass-bastard way. Ed would even confess to having an inkling of fondness for the man himself; at the very least it was something resembling trust. But that was besides the point. The point was that Roy – in all brutal truth – had some damn excellent reasons for living, and even better ones for becoming Fuhrer. Ed didn't know all of them, and some of what he 'knew' was just guess work, but the few he was sure of, miniskirts aside, were good. Very good. Had far more significance even – and here his chest tightened unpleasantly – than one alchemist's life, no matter how fond Mustang was of said person. Ed knew this, and – by simple default and the laws of the universe – knew the Colonel knew it too; was left, once again, to wonder what in the world Roy had thought he was doing. Which, of course, led to the question of how Mustang had found out about their illegal endeavor in the first place, how he had discovered the 'where' and 'when', and what he had done to break into the Array as he did, coming back at the why all over again.

Later, Ed would blame his failure to notice his pursuers on the questions playing ring-around-the-rosy in his head. Almost – absorbed as he was in his thoughts – there wasn't a later, despite the fact that the footsteps were less-than-subtle, and had the air of people who knew what to do but weren't particularly proficient at doing it. In the end, however, he did notice and when two silhouettes appeared at the alley's head – he would bet anything that there were at least more three to his back – he wasn't intolerably surprised. The shopping bags had made their way up onto his shoulder, and both hands were free as he scanned the figures before him: both were relatively tall, and both wore the patched, nondescript clothing common to the neighborhood. One was middle-aged, a balding gray, while the other was in his late twenties, with muddy green eyes and a tangle of mousy brown hair. They could easily be taken for the breed of thug not uncommon to the area, or a gang, out on its prowl. The younger of the two slipped out a sheet of paper, pressed it to the ground, and before Edward could finish the incredulous thought of isthatanarrayohshititis it had hit him – a sharp, shooting pain in his upper right shoulder that left him almost longing for his automail. Ed knew that it was always a bad idea to look, but it's hard not to notice when a three foot pole is sticking from your shoulder. The honey rolls suddenly turned to lead in his belly.

The attacks came hard and fast, with a nebulous feeling of unreality.

He fought, of course, but there is little that can be said of the proceedings, save that a flesh-and-blood arm puts a very different spin on a fight than one made of metal. There were a total of seven assailants, not the five he predicted, and four of them were alchemists. Of the remaining three, two had knives, and the last wielded a gun. Ed would be the first to admit he was good in a pinch but….

Three were down and all seven had sustained some form of minor injury by the time the time enemies one and six managed to get a hold on him, number five moving in to grab the pole still stuck through his collar bone, and pulling it out with a nauseating pop that sent him spinning into dizzy circles.

"Feisty little kid, isn't he?" Two spoke for the first time, and Ed would have kicked him, would have said something if he hadn't just recognized the man's voice. He rarely attended the annual ball held by the State for its alchemists, but he had attended just the year before, and been introduced to this man. It was a fleeting encounter, yet the particular tenor of the voice had stuck with Ed because it bore an eerie similarity to Winry's. He remembered having almost spewed punch across the room at the thought. Martin. The man's name was Martin… something. And this was bad. Unless these seven were a lone group of bad-apples… it meant that they'd been sent by the military. Which was a scary, scary thought indeed. Moreso even – if less immediate – then the pistol currently being leveled at his head.

Gold eyes widened as the finger around the trigger began to squeeze, then something surged and Ed snapped. Not in the crazy kind of way, but instead the finger-motion. He wasn't sure why or how but suddenly there was fire and screams and three parts of Edward all at once; the first himself, the second, the sacrifice, a pit that smiled at the shrieks in a way that made the first and true Ed sick, and the third – different, swiftly gone like a wisp of smoke, and not Ed at all. The inferno was dying as he drew himself back together, flames cauterizing his wounds and blackening the alley; when they finally burned themselves out, there was little left but charred stone and ashes.

.oOo.

Many miracles were attributed to the Fullmetal alchemist in his day, and many more after, but Ed considered one of his greatest feats to be the act of willpower which brought him to the house again. He was limping, shaky, exhausted, and in all logistics, it was one of the worst places he could go – if the military truly wanted him dead – but it was the only spot he could think (or reach for that matter) in his current state, and he made it. He was dripping salty trails of blood and sweat by the time he opened the door, and it was a tribute to the dismay he felt that he managed to feel anything at all at the sight: blue-coated figures, guns raised, in the hall, Al chained towards the back, and a General – what was his name…Havenstock? – looming up before all.

The rest of the encounter read as a nightmare.

"Edward Elric, you are under arrest for illegal alchemistic proceedings and the murder of military official Colonel Roy Mustang. You have the right to remain silent, anything you do or say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…"

Ed couldn't help it, and perhaps that made it easier: he fainted.

.oOo.

A/N: And for my next chapter: See Ed. See Ed angst. ANGST, Ed, ANGST. cackles ;; And thank you to all those who reviewed. You make me happy. Future reviews will keep me that way. ;P Love!

On a further note, to clear things up:

firedraygon97 and Omakase Shimasu: Sorry for the confusion! And to clear that up: Ed is being sucked into death and whatnot when Roy shows up, but Roy manages to pull him back into his body. The trippyness that Ed sees is Roy fading away into whatever place Ed was going before Roy saved him. O.o Um. I hope that makes sense. Further questions can be e-mailed to H e r m i o n e 8 8 1 4 0 6 5 4 c s . c o m, kill the spaces, of course.

A note for this chapter: I have noticed that the most common remark made for this chapter is: OMG. Roy is dead. Roy is dead. OMG. And then pitchforks are fetched. O.o …On that note, I would like once more to assure you: yes, it may look that our dear boyo is dead, BUT. This is a Roy/Ed fic! Even I, horrible, depraved person that I am, could not kill him and keep a plot going. It is very hard to write relationships when one of the parties is dead. Also, let me assure you again, there is no necrophilia involved. . Plot twists there be, yes, but people can look forward to seeing hints of Roy in the next chapter, so fear not. He is a snarky bastard, and he will livith or have my skull upon a platter. And I like it – my head that is – right where it is, thankyouverymuch.

Review, and I give you a heart shaped cookie. With Ed and Roy doodled over it in icing. So there. XD