On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me

Four Calling Birds

The younger brother trudged up the stairs, flashlight in hand.

The older brother trudged down the sidewalk, hands shoved in his pockets for warmth.

There was a light under the door, and Al wondered briefly if he had left it on earlier.

There were lights in every window, including, he saw, his own.

He didn't think she would remember; she was so old now.

He didn't think he could remember; it hadn't been long but he was terrified of forgetting.

"Oh," Al said in surprise. There was someone in the upstairs room after all.

She turned, her eyes wide and round, and shining. She had been crying, and that was enough to send him over the edge as well. She held out her arm and he went at once into her embrace, burying his face in her soft shirt.

When they had both calmed, she looked down and saw that he still clutched the flashlight in his small hands. "It's okay, Al," she said, softly, soothingly. "I've had the light on for him all night."

And then, since they were alone, since they had no one to be strong for except each other and that illusion had already been dashed, they engaged in a fresh round of tears.

The younger brother was a scientist, just like the older one.

The older brother was an optimist, just like the younger one.

Al knew, that if he did not know where his brother was, there was no way he could reach him. There was no way to send him a message. His thoughts, no matter how desperate, would never reach him. Writing a letter and then burning it, as many had suggested he do, would produce only ash; was only a one-way correspondence.

Ed knew that laws were not laws and rules were not rules. There had to be a way back; he had only to discover it. It wasn't possible that he would be stranded in this world forever, because that would mean he was giving up, and he had come too far for that now.

Ed had pushed one of the hard wooden chairs against the wall, and sat, his elbow on the window sill and his chin in his hand, staring. The little flame from the candle danced in front of his face, a tiny cloud of warmth in the poorly insulated window frame. He could feel the chill from the glass competing with the heat from the tiny fire. He could see his own reflection, looking more pale and gaunt than he really was, all shadows and orange highlights from the candle, but where the light did not reach his image faded into the one on the other side of the glass, the London streets.

He saw the old man get out of the cab, pull his coat closer in the brief chill before reaching the door, and he saw him disappear into the building. He heard his footsteps in the hall, heard his key in the door, but still jerked when he felt a soft, heavy hand on his flesh shoulder. "You didn't come to dinner," said the low voice.

Edward pushed the chair back with his foot, making it scrape across the floor, knocking it over as he stood up unsteadily and limped across the room. "So what," he muttered.

"You were invited. They were expecting you," his father said calmly.

"I wanted to be alone," Ed snapped, and in the low light his face looked much like his reflection in the window had.

Hohenheim sighed, righting the chair and looking at his son. "It's Christmas Eve. It's a time to spend with friends and family."

"Exactly. I wanted to be alone."

The father turned away then, unable to look at the wraith who existed purely to torment him. When Ed began to speak again, he did not turn around.

"Why do we put candles in the windows?" he asked, and Hohenheim knew the answer would somehow be turned around and flung in his face, so he did not provide it.

Ed, however, had expected that. "They say its so people can find their way home. Soldiers coming home from war; children who have lost their way."

"Edward," the dead man said harshly. "This is your home now. Either accept that and move forward, or be quiet. I can't listen to your accusations, not tonight."

To his surprise, his son had no reply, and the man and the boy were plunged into darkness as the younger man blew out the candle with a puff of breath, fogging the window and flinging wax onto the sill.

Three French hens

Two turtledoves

And a partridge in a pear tree