The Golden Sun: Chapter Nine: Hurtful Words
AN: I love how everyone is down for the Xerxians being dark-skinned and for Ed and Ling to meet as soon as possible (who isn't at this point?)
Denial might be a river in Egypt, but Roy swims in it every day.
Ling came to hazily. It was dark around him, just a few lanterns alight. The shades were pulled to give the allusions of night, but Ling couldn't be completely sure if it actually was night, it was impossible to tell.
He blinked twice more to clear his vision a bit, eyes shifting to the side to see Lanfan maintaining a silent vigil at his side.
Relief poured out of her entire being. "Young lord," she breathed, her shoulders sagging as she leaned closer. Even in the darkness she looked paler than usual, dark eyes watching him carefully.
Ling tried to remember what happened. He swallowed and it felt like his throat had something pulled tight around it and a startling fear flared up inside him, the memory flooding back, of the thin cord cutting into the soft flesh of his throat, the blood dripping from the wound.
He tried to claw his neck free of whatever was wrapped there, but Lanfan was quick to grab his hands. "Its just a bandage," she assured him, squeezing his wrists in a way that she clearly hoped was comforting. "The alkahestrists stitched you back together, but they wanted to make sure the skin was protected…you can take it off in a few days, okay?"
Ling probed the bandage around his throat with a cautious hand, feeling the thin material against his skin. His neck throbbed underneath it.
He opened his mouth, intending to speak, but Lanfan stalled him. "Its probably best that you not speak yet, Young lord. Let your throat heal."
Ling swallowed thickly, his eyes flicking towards hers.
"I'll stay," Lanfan promised and Ling settled back down onto the bed, relaxing against the cushions, trying not to think too hard about what had happened. He made a gesture with his hand that she took to mean that he wanted her to tell him what had happened after he'd passed out. "You were lucky, Young lord, that the alkahestrists are such good healers, a few moments longer and…" It was better to leave that unsaid. Lanfan cleared her throat and seemed to shake herself out of her own dark thoughts. "Grandfather dispatched your would-be-assassin before questioning him about whose orders he was following."
Ling bit the inside of his cheek. It was a tossup. Either it was the Emperor or it was one of his siblings…they would be the only ones that would care enough to assassinate him. Honestly, the heirs that were the safest in Xing were the ones with the least standing, like the Changs and the Wus. They weren't in any real position of power, being from the poorest regions in Xing.
Of all of the Emperors children, the most likely options apart from himself were the heirs of the Jiang, Ji, Ying, Si, Yun, Gui, and Ren clans. Xing Ying was the one vying for successor as the Emperor's first born son -and how pretentious did the Ying clan have to be to name their heir after their literal country?- and there were rumors that he had personally killed Yun Song, the Emperor's first born daughter. To be honest, Ling wouldn't have put it past him. Xing was older and crueler than most of Ling's half-siblings, and Ling had met Yun Song once, and though he didn't like to compliment his siblings much, Yun Song was honestly lovely and sweet and her singing had been beautiful.
Her funeral had been just as beautiful.
"The Qing heir has died."
Ling blinked. He'd barely known Tai Qing's name, but he wasn't of very high importance amongst the heirs and heiresses still living; his death was surprising.
What was the tally at now? Twenty-two sons and fifteen daughters? Was the Emperor hoping they'd all pick each other off until there was only one left? It wouldn't have surprised Ling all that much to find that out, if he was being perfectly honest.
His father was a rotten bastard.
Ling shut his eyes, trying to focus on Lanfan's chi. That was something easy to focus on, its fluctuating presence at his side easy to pinpoint.
He reached out a hand. Ling had always been a rather tactile person…probably making up for the lack of touch his mother had given him due to her sudden and unexplainable death, but he couldn't help but breathe easier when Lanfan's hand slid into his, warm and firm, giving his a squeeze.
Al had spent a lot of time in the Rockbells' basement. Time wasn't something he could really gauge very well now that his body was made of metal. Ed made it easier. He knew when it was too late or too early -at least, for him-, but sometimes he forced himself to stay awake, working on his research deep into the night and onto the next morning. His brother was an idiot like that sometimes. Al wanted to get their (emphasis on their because Ed so often liked to forget that he'd suffered a loss as well because all he saw when he looked at Al's metal body was a cage he'd forced his brother into) bodies back as much as Ed, but, luckily for him, he didn't have an off-switch like Ed did. Al could keep going long after Ed had fallen asleep.
Often Ed would just pass out in Al's lap while he read on by the light of lanterns, because he knew that it helped Al to feel the weight of his brother against him. Al couldn't feel the warmth of his touch or the texture of his coat…when Al was younger he'd always clung to the back of Ed's shirt, and he still didn't like it, how things were.
"I'm tired, Brother," he'd confided one night. "I just want to sleep again, smell flowers, feel the sun…"
Ed's shoulders had shook violently then. "I know," his voice had broken halfway.
But it was still new for both of them, having a support system in the Amestrian military. Ed could feign dislike of Musang all he wanted, but Al had seen the change, the spark of determination within his brother after their first meeting. Neither of them would've been where they were now without him. Mustang was the man that Ed could walk easily beside, step for step, that Ed didn't talk complete circles around in regards to alchemy. Hanging out at the office between missions wasn't nearly as much of a chore as Ed and Al both thought it would be and even though Al could often hear Ed and Mustang yelling at each other from inside Mustang's office, Havoc and Breda would be making jokes and treating Al like the kid he actually was.
Al wasn't really used to it, being treated like a kid…but he hadn't had a body to reflect his physical age in almost two years. People looked at the suit of armor and found him imposing, but Mustang's men looked at him and saw a kid; they'd never know just how much he appreciated it.
Ed threw himself into research so hard that Al's efforts seemed to pale in comparison. He knew he shouldn't feel like that, but he did. Ed was always working himself to the bone, and what was Al doing?
That was why Al was even in Resembool in the first place. There had to be something there, in the boxes, in the books…something that could help them.
But Al kept getting distracted by the other things that he'd thrown in the boxes with the books. There were so many pictures he hadn't realized he'd added. It was like walking back into the past. Most of the pictures were of him and Ed. Mom had always had a camera on hand, she'd wanted to capture everything for when Dad came back. There were a good few with them and her, but as Al looked through he found none of Dad.
Thinking of Dad always made Ed snap and snarl and rage, and, honestly, Al couldn't blame him for that. Al didn't think he even really liked Dad anymore, mostly he was disappointed. He didn't know what he'd do if one day he'd see him -though he was absolutely certain that Ed would clock him in the face or try to murder him, which one he went with would depend on his mood before seeing their father- and he didn't think he actually wanted to see him.
It was hard for him to admit that, but he'd been four when Van Hohenheim had left without a look back. Al hadn't seen his father or heard from him in almost eight years. If he'd cared, he would've stayed in contact.
Al looked at one of the pictures, of him and Ed arm-in-arm, beaming smiles on their faces, and then he pocketed it before finally moving onto the books.
There were a lot of them…this was going to take a while.
Ed awoke again at midday, feeling marginally better rested than the first time.
He blinked his eyes open blearily, staring at the ceiling, his fingers tracing over the mark that had been almost faded earlier. Ed didn't know if that was still the case but he was almost afraid to find out.
His soulmate had never been much of a priority for him, not with Al the way he was, but Ed had grown up with that mark on his throat. He didn't want to think about what it would be like to live in a world where he didn't have its constant presence.
Ed pressed a hand to his sweaty brow before pinching the bridge of his nose. It was easier when Al was with him, even if Ed never told his brother completely what was on his mind, his presence did a lot to ease the terrors of his mind.
A sudden fear gripped him. What if something had happened sometime between when Al had called him last and now? What if—?
Mustang would say that was just his mind blowing things out of proportion…though, knowing him, he'd throw in a good joke about Ed's proportions being on the short side. Even the Mustang inside his head was an ass, but it was good to know that some things didn't change.
Ed dragged himself out of bed and cautiously into the bathroom, preparing for the worst when he flicked on the light and stood in front of the mirror.
His legs felt like noodles. The mark was still there, and not as light as it had been before…that was a relief. It was a light grey, but Ed would take that over almost unseen.
Ed threw himself into the shower and pulled some clothes on -not his military uniform, obviously, Ed hated that thing and Mustang had told him to take the day off, right?- before checking the clock at his bedside. It was midday, so that had to mean that most of Mustang's men were at lunch, but Mustang didn't really go to the cafeteria all that much, even during lunch. The man might've been a slacker but he always seemed to work through lunch, like the cafeteria was the last place he wanted to be.
Ed didn't know why. The food wasn't too bad, and today and smelled like they were cooking something good.
He walked down the bare hallway to Mustang's office, opening the first door quietly, peering inside and seeing that all his subordinates had gone, continued on to the door to Mustang's inner office. His hand tightened into a fist, like he was ready to raise it to knock, but knocking had never been Ed's style.
Ed threw open the door in time to see Mustang's face go bloodless and his whole body lurching towards the caste bin, his breakfast abruptly leaving his stomach.
Ed couldn't help but be startled. He didn't think he'd ever seen Mustang ill in any capacity, but he couldn't help but remember one time when Fuery had decided to grab everyone lunch and Hawkeye had given him Mustang's order as well as her own.
"Absolutely no meat, Master-Sergeant," Hawkeye had said, "you know how the Colonel gets about cooked meat."
He stepped forward a bit cautiously as Mustang mopped his brow with his sleeve and Mustang looked up sharply when Ed extended a tissue to him carefully, crouching down slightly so that their heads were level.
Mustang took the tissue gratefully, settling onto the floor next to his desk and making a gesture for Ed to do the same, so Ed found himself with his back to the side of Mustang's desk, not saying anything to the man, just sitting beside him.
Ed didn't think he'd ever sat so close to Hohenheim, even back when he hadn't hated the very idea of him. Hohenheim never seemed to really know what to do with him or Al, either that, or something about them scared him. He always kept them at a distance and whenever he creaked Ed's bedroom door open to peer inside, Ed always pretended to be asleep…but Hohenheim never did anything and a minute later his door had been firmly shut. Ed had found that unnerving.
But here he sat next to Roy Mustang, their arms almost touching as he wiped at his mouth with the tissue.
"Cooking meat," Mustang said finally, tiredly, "smells a great deal like cooking flesh."
"Oh." Ed thought about waking up from nightmares, of that thing he and Al had made, and Ed had never been in a war before. "Was…was Ishval bad?"
Mustang made a quiet huffing sound. "Worse," he said hollowly, scrubbing his hands against his face.
Everyone dealt with trauma in different ways, Ed knew that well enough. Maybe the reason Mustang slept so much at the office was because he couldn't get any sleep at home. Maybe the reason he couldn't stomach cooked meat was because he had burned too many bodies to corpses.
Ed didn't like to think about that sort of thing. To him, Mustang was just his superior officer, the person that had forced meaning back into his life after they'd attempted Human Transmutation. He was a dork that thought he was suave and he always cowered at Hawkeye's quirked eyebrow. In Ed's mind he wasn't the Hero of Ishval, a man that had killed hundreds with the snap of his fingers, but he couldn't deny Mustang's past or even his own.
And Ed knew enough about trauma to know that sometimes the best thing was to remove the person from that harmful stimuli.
"Did you—" Ed faltered. He wasn't good at the whole being attentive and understanding thing. "Did you want to get something out for lunch?"
Mustang paused in his surprise, dark eyes flicking towards Ed's bright ones in surprise. It was the kind of kindness he'd've expected from Al, not Ed who was more prone to put his foot in his mouth than anything else.
"You like Xingese?" Mustang asked finally.
"Who doesn't like Xingese?" Ed scoffed, pushing himself up into a standing position and then debating offering a hand to Mustang, but then he was already standing, so Ed felt less awkward about it.
Ed waited in the outer office while Mustang cleaned out his waste bin, swinging his legs against the side of Falman's desk (his metal foot might've left a dent, but he wasn't going to be the one to tell Falman that).
Ed's stomach gave a rather loud gurgle of protest at Ed waiting so long to dump food into it.
"When was the last time you even ate, Fullmetal?" Mustang snorted and Ed couldn't help but scowl.
"I skipped breakfast." He'd been dead to the world for most of the morning. He wasn't in any position to get up and grab himself something to eat. Ed hopped off the desk and he could practically see a height joke forming somewhere behind Mustang's eyes. "Don't say it, don't you fucking say it, Mustang, or I'm kicking your ass so hard—"
"Was that a long drop for you?"
"I SWEAR TO—" Ed's rage echoed off the walls combined with Mustang's laughter and it did nothing to improve his mood, though he would never admit it was more relieving to hear Mustang's laughter than to see him turn positively white at the smell of cooking meat.
Al didn't think he'd ever appreciated just how many books his father had on alchemy. Obviously, they'd read some of them when they were first getting into alchemy, but he had to have every book on the subject, even obscure ones that went out of print centuries ago…the more he read, the less he felt he knew.
Al was smart, it wasn't arrogant for him to say that if it was true. True, Ed's technique was a bit more refined than Al's, but they were on the same level. Even if Ed got to the conclusion first, it didn't take much for Al to understand it. That was one of the good things about learning Xingese. It had been so simple to them, the symbols and how the words flowed easily off their tongues.
Mom had always been rather excited about when they did things easily, but it wasn't something that Dad seemed to notice all that much, and then he was gone.
Ed had been quieter, then. Al wasn't sure why Dad leaving really made Ed come out of his shell, but he remembered Ed being nervous and quiet whenever Dad got too close. Al didn't think Dad had ever hit Ed, but something about him had put Ed on edge and once he'd gone that unease had morphed into anger.
A folded up piece of paper fell out of the book he was flipping through and Al creased it open, holding it up to the light.
Its difficult for me to look at them, knowing they came from something so dark, so evil. They'll never be clean of me. I look at them and I see my Xerxian line continued, I see the golden hair and eyes, the skin that absorbs the sun best, I see potential for greatness. But those are thoughts of the man I once was, the man who grew from a slave without a name to a revered alchemist.
Nothing good has ever come from me, not even my love for Trisha, not even my boys are spared of that. And one day they'll have to understand that what I've done has been to keep them safe, despite what I am, despite what they are.
Then it trailed off into some alchemical notations and Al couldn't help but feel hollow, more hollow than he already was. He didn't know what to make of the words scrawled there…the idea that they were actually Xerxian was intriguing, the fact that their father had once been a slave was startling (was that even legal?), the fact that he thought nothing good would come from him, not even his own sons…it hurt Al, somewhere deep inside, where his heart should've been.
Fathers weren't supposed to say that.
Mustang was kinder than that, Al was surprised to note. He wasn't used to recognizing that, or comparing the two, but Mustang was the one that had given them purpose and way to reach their goal, the one that lectured them when they messed up. Al couldn't remember Van Hohenheim being very involved with their childhood, but Mustang had fallen asleep in Ed's hospital room when he was recovering from the assassination attempt, he patted Al's arm in a comforting gesture and let him speak plainly about things that bothered him.
Ed said "The Colonel Bastard is gonna be pissed" in the same kind of way someone might say "My dad is gonna kill me!"
Al wouldn't mind it, he realized, calling Mustang 'Dad', and the thought couldn't help but make him feel warm inside, even though there was nothing there. Al would have to settle for figurative warmth until he could actually feel it, but he would, one day, he was sure of it.
Roy Mustang lost ten years off his life when he stepped into his office one morning, precisely two weeks from the day Ed nearly had an apoplectic fit at his little brother taking a train to Resembool without telling him until the train was leaving.
He wasn't expecting it when he heard a "Colonel Mustang?"
Roy startled terribly with a loud "For the love of—Al?" The folders hit the ground, papers sliding against the floor.
"Sir?" Hawkeye was at the doorway instantly, her gun cocked only to realize what was going on. "…would you like me to shut the door, sir?"
Roy sighed, rubbing the back of his head, he could just feel the embarrassed flush working its way up his neck. "That would be helpful, yes, thank you, Lieutenant."
Her mouth twitched as she shut the door and Al stepped forward cautiously. "Sorry," he said sheepishly as Roy collected the papers into the right folders. "Lieutenant Hawkeye suggested I just wait in your office to talk with you…I didn't mean to startle you."
Al sounded a bit too regretful and Roy frowned curiously. "Ed doesn't like people sneaking up on him, either," Al explained and Roy's mouth formed an 'o' of understanding. Sometimes it seemed like the kid was just twitchy, but Roy could sympathize with not wanting anyone sneaking up on you…especially if that was how he'd almost been killed.
"When did you get in?" Roy asked instead, settling his chair and gesturing to Al to sit opposite him. "I don't think Ed's even awake yet, did you want me to—?"
"Oh, no!" Al said quickly, feverishly, waving his hands. "I wanted to talk to you first."
Roy arched an eyebrow. That was odd. If it was Ed, he would've shoved Roy out of the way to get to his brother.
Al held out a creased piece of paper to Roy without an explanation and he took it, unfolding it and reading its contents slowly and carefully once…and then again because he must've read something wrong. "Is…is this written by your father?" Roy asked finally, his tone just a touch bleak.
Al's armor creaked as he nodded.
Honestly, Roy couldn't imagine anyone could look at their children and think they weren't capable of good because of where they'd come from.
"I think Ed won't take it very well," Al heaved a sigh, his words heavy and ringing with exhaustion despite it being something beyond him, "or he'll pretend like it doesn't affect him…but no one wants to think their dad didn't want them."
Roy's whole expression softened. He'd once heard Ed tell Al loudly "Al, you're a goddamn treasure" and Roy knew the boy well enough to know that there was no one who possessed more love and kindness than Alphonse Elric.
"Did you want me to tell him?" Roy asked quietly, gently.
They could both hear his loud voice as he entered the outer office, complaining about something to do with Havoc, probably related to his smoking habits.
"Would you?" Al had never sounded so honestly relieved, turning his helmet towards the door, listening intently. "How has brother been? He wouldn't really say on the phone…"
That was so like him, not to talk about himself.
"Its mostly been smooth sailing, well, for his level of chaos, I suppose," Roy had to concede, "there was one incident the day after you left, though, that was when his soulmark was almost faded."
Al jolted in his seat, startled. "It was?"
"Don't worry," Roy assured him quickly. "The color's returned, so they might've been in an accident and were in the hospital like Ed was…and after today he'll be cleared for field work again, so things will quiet down a bit."
Al laughed, which caused the door to shoot open with a delighted "Al!"
The suit of armor stood up in time for a boy clothed in the blue Amestrian uniform collide with his chest plate, knocking him to the ground.
"Oof," Al said despite feeling nothing, watching as his brother sat up, patting carefully over the metal, looking for any indication that Al wasn't in the same condition he'd been when he'd left. "I'm all right, Brother, really."
Ed glowered doubtfully.
"You idiot, Al! Running off on your own, what were you thinking?"
Roy thought it best not to point out the amount of mothering Ed was displaying in regards to his little brother, or the level of hypocrisy.
"I thought I'd be like you for a change, Brother," Al said innocently enough that Roy found himself howling with laughter while Ed glared at him, his cheeks flooding with color.
"Fullmetal, why don't you get off Al?" Roy suggested. "I need to speak with you privately."
That made Ed's brow furrow in confusion and he looked to Al briefly, though his brother offered no help, forcing Ed to clamor off Al to allow him to leave quietly.
"If this is about keeping me off field work for another week—" Ed nearly growled, but Roy held up a hand to stall his words.
"It isn't," he promised, leaning against the side of his desk and holding out the paper Al had given him. "Al found this when he was researching…he wasn't sure how you'd react to it."
Ed's expression warped into befuddlement as he took it from Roy, his gaze sharpening and his teeth gritting when he recognized the handwriting. Roy could see precisely when he'd reached the part where nothing good came from Van Hohenheim, not even his children, because Ed's teeth sank down into his lip and he took in a deep shuddering breath.
Then he handed the paper back to Roy.
"Are you all right?" Roy asked him cautiously.
"He was a bastard before, now he's just a bastard that probably shouldn't've had kids, what's the difference?" Ed snapped.
He looked like he was fraying at the edges, like he was a bunch of wires that were short-circuiting.
Roy stood up and did probably something he should've done earlier but had been to stubborn to: he reached out and pulled Ed into a hug.
For a moment Ed just hung there, his face pressed against Roy's military jacket, but then he raised his hands and -surprising Roy more than he'd like to admit- balled them into the material at his back, his shoulders shaking.
Roy kept one arm secure around his shoulders, his small and young shoulders, the other running through Ed's hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.
He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, but somehow Roy knew that if Al had had his body, he'd be in a worse state.
At long last, Ed pulled himself back, hiccupping slightly, rubbing furiously at his red eyes. Roy was going to pretend that there wasn't a damp spot on the jacket where his face had been. Ed was a very quiet crier. Roy wondered if that was a habit he'd learned as a child or something he'd picked up.
"You and Al are great kids," Roy told him seriously and Ed gave a doubtful expression, sniffling faintly. "Maybe a bit rough around the edges for you, but everyone's got flaws. You do, I do, Hawkeye does, the Fuhrer does…no one's perfect, not even parents…but we can't be blamed for things outside of our control, like who our fathers are. And one day you both are going to completely outclass him, you know that? What's he going to be able to say when you hand him on his ass?"
That made Ed laugh, which was more than enough, and in the coming weeks Roy Mustang would find that Al had left a picture in one of his drawers, one of two boys with glowing grins to match their bright eyes, arm and arm. None of his subordinates commented on the sight of the new photograph on his desk, even if it amused them, and it certainly did.
Ed flushed in embarrassment the first time he saw it, but the exasperated smile he bore and the tiny giggles emanating from Al's helmet made it worth it.
"I hear the Elric Brothers are looking into Xerxes."
"Is that so?" A single eye sharpened. "Well, we'll have to do something about that."
AN: And that's the end of part one! I'm still iffy on how much of canon I want to keep, but I'm pretty sure Hohenheim's origin story is staying the same, just everything with the homunculi I'm less sure on…Ling and Ed might meet in the next chapter! We're doing a time skip a year forward, and they'll be meeting early into part two ;)
As always: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW!
