Mebdo sits at the heart of a mountain bordering the East and the North. It is an hour's drive away from the nearest train station and accessible only by car through narrow roads that wind sharply through lush, wild greenery. Past the forested, rocky terrain that leads to it, the town welcomes visitors with its century-old houses made of hardwood and stone, backyard farms teeming with colorful vegetables, and a light, cool air unlike the humid warmth back in East City. A nondescript wooden sign at the side of the main road is all that identifies the town.

Roy and de Havilland arrive in a military car from Ohpihzeba, where they alighted the Amestris Premium Rail. The trip was spent in silence despite the rough drive, and de Havilland breaks it at last when he asks:

"Lieutenant Mustang, could you refresh my memory on the alchemist we will be meeting today?"

Roy has the document ready in his arm, a list of alchemists residing in Mebdo that the town's local officials mailed to him two weeks earlier. He lays it in his lap and reads the first profile: "Beatrice Alcott, 53 years old. A former science teacher living in the northwest portion of Upper Mebdo. She's traveled all over the East teaching basic alchemy to schoolchildren as young as eight years old."

de Havilland hums in thought, then chuckles. "Children as young as eight. Imagine that. Does she have any family living with her?"

"It says here that she never married or had children of her own."

"And she has been informed of our planned visit?"

"Yes. I took care of the arrangements."

Deeper they go into the town, past the bustling marketplace and the stately ancestral homes of the town's old rich, past the quaint storefronts indistinguishable from the local government offices. Faded old signposts point them higher up the mountain, where the dirt roads are unmarked and the houses are fields and groves apart from one another. They ask for directions twice before they get close to their destination.

On the third instance, they stop by an old woman walking along the side of the road, a wicker basket of vegetables in her hands. As Roy rolls down the window on his side, her eyes twinkle kindly as she greets them, "How may I help you fine men?"

"Good afternoon, ma'am," says Roy. "We're looking for the house of Beatrice Alcott in Upper Mebdo."

"Why, you're already in Upper Mebdo! Welcome to our humble village. How nice to see that dear Beatrice has new visitors!" The old woman points up at a thicket far ahead and past the end of the road. "You see those red pines? Just follow the bend all the way up, and you'll find her house right past them."

Roy nods at the old woman. "Thank you very much. Have a good day, ma'am."

"And you as well, young man!"

They come to a clearing beyond the pines, finding a handsome two-story cedar structure near the edge of a small cliff. Clean and simple lines, a sturdy shape, and a less weathered finish than those of the stone houses they had passed along the way—not out of newness, one would guess, but due to much greater upkeep that perhaps not all families might be able to afford. Roy's first impression of it is that it seems far too large for a well-traveled person living alone. Perhaps Beatrice Alcott has lived here the longest out of all the places she has been to, he thinks.

Their chauffeur remains with the car as Roy leads a cheerily humming de Havilland up the creaking steps of the house. Roy raps at the door thrice with its heavy brass knocker.

"Madame Alcott? We're here from the Amestris Military."

The door opens before he has even finished speaking. Beatrice Alcott is a beautiful woman, seemingly both vibrant and gracefully reserved. She seems aloof at first as well, but the wrinkles by her eyes and faint streaks of gray in her dark, waist-length hair appear to make her welcoming, almost familiar.

"I'm very glad you could make it," says Alcott warmly. Her lips barely part even as she speaks and offers them a smile. "Lieutenant Mustang, I presume?"

Roy bows his head. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Madame Alcott. I'm here with Brigadier General Dieter de Havilland, director of the State Alchemist program."

de Havilland removes his cap and holds it to his chest. "How do you do, Miss Alcott?"

"Very well, thank you." Alcott turns back to her house, and the two men follow her inside; the rich smell of brewing coffee fills the air. "I hope you've had a pleasant trip. It is rather inconvenient not being able to take the train here. Perhaps it's why we get very few visitors from other places."

de Havilland asks, his tone both carefully polite and amused, "Might that be why you have retired from teaching?"

"Yes, actually…"

The interiors have distracted Roy from their discussion. On his assignment with de Havilland, he has visited many lovely houses, some more grandiose than others, but this home appeals to him the most by far. It is every bit as inviting as it had appeared on the outside, from the wood paneled walls to the furniture swathed with woven drapery in a hundred different colors, from the delicate porcelain that adorns the cornices to the framed photographs on every surface.

At the mantelpiece, Roy finds himself staring at the bright, fresh faces of children sitting in neat rows, with Alcott standing behind them or at their side. He begins at a section where the photographs have faded, and as he goes along, they turn clearer and more brightly colored. Each one is labelled with the school where the photograph had been taken: East City Elementary School, New Optain Academy, Giribaz Preparatory School, and so on.

"... so it's been incredibly convenient having an assistant."

Alcott appears behind Roy and joins him in going over the photographs. "My students over the years," she explains affectionately. "I traveled all over the East throughout my teaching career. Thirty years of it, would you believe that? Officially, I taught general science. But I'm proud to say that some of them first learned alchemy under my teaching."

"Did they continue their alchemy education later on?" asks Roy.

"Quite a number of them did, yes. I can tell you all about them, and there are a few who live in this town. Are you also meeting other alchemists in Mebdo?"

"Yes."

"Then it would be my pleasure to introduce you to them. Shall we get settled?"

Alcott leads Roy and de Havilland to the kitchen, where the delicious aroma of coffee becomes tinged with the homegrown herbs in storage. The table in the center has already been set for three around a freshly baked loaf of bread, a butter dish, and a small assortment of jars. The men take their places as Alcott fetches the kettle sitting on her cast iron stove and pours them each a cup of local brew.

"All right, then," says Alcott as she sits across them. "How do we go about this?"

Roy retrieves his notebook and pen from a pocket in his coat. "As you already know, Madame Alcott, the purpose of this interview is to profile alchemists all over Amestris so we may keep ourselves up-to-date on their research interests and any progress in their work. We believe that maintaining an active network of alchemists will help us ensure everyone's safety amid the war here in the East. That said, we'd like to start this interview by discussing your earlier background on alchemy before we talk about your work as an alchemist."

"I see. Forgive me for asking, but was there any particular incident that led to this initiative? The war's been going on for nearly four years."

Roy glances sideways at de Havilland, who responds with a curt nod. "We don't mean to alarm you, but yes," Roy says, carefully. "We have reason to believe that alchemists who are pursuing sensitive research might be at risk. One such alchemist from Cameron was killed in his home four months ago, and we hope to prevent this from happening to anyone else."

The warmth gradually fades from Alcott's eyes, and her fingers flex tensely around her coffee. "Well, I see no reason to fear for my own life, Lieutenant. I've nothing to keep to myself after spending all these years passing down my knowledge of alchemy to my students. Helping them reach their potential, allowing each of them to deepen their relationship with what's around us. That is my vocation as both educator and alchemist," she emphasizes, setting her cup rather harshly down on her saucer, "and I only hope that other alchemists can say the same for themselves."

The sound of porcelain clanging rings harshly in Roy's ears, disorienting him nearly as much as her sudden hostility. They haven't yet dealt with someone who seemed to take offense to their intentions, but right away he changes his approach with the shadow of an apologetic smile. "Of course, there's no assumption that all alchemists are under the same level of threat, if at all. But the idea is to be able to work harmoniously with all alchemists in the country, beyond just ensuring their safety."

"As true alchemists should. And you've been successful in meeting this objective so far?"

Roy laughs a little. "It's been going rather well, and we'd like to continue that with you, Madame Alcott. Could you tell us about the kind of alchemy you practice?"

Alcott smiles again. "I deal with sensations in the human body. In particular, soothing physical pain. It's been very useful in dealing with young children, of course, but I like to think of it as a way of truly becoming one with the world."

"How so?"

"Allow me to draw from my experience coming from a family of alchemists. We've practiced alchemy for many generations, so naturally, I became interested in it myself. I was in secondary school when my father first taught me the fundamentals of alchemy. But he didn't impose a particular type of alchemy on me—no one in my family did. We're all free to learn alchemy as we deem fit for our skills, our interests. What we intend to use it for."

She exhales. "And yet, for all our mastery of alchemy, we still cannot truly say that we have mastered the world around us. Humans remain vulnerable and at the mercy of the world. And perhaps, as long as we are unable to grow past that, we will not truly gain an understanding of alchemy or ourselves. We must grow beyond ourselves and become truly equal with all things. This is why I believe that we must learn to control our vulnerabilities, including our human sensations, just as we do everything else. This is what alchemy is for."

Mastering the world. Equal with all things. Roy writes each word down with emphasis, the gears of his mind turning vigorously for the first time in a long while. He could almost hear Berthold himself saying these words, if not for the gradual change in the tone of Alcott's voice. Strong and certain, but with an unsettling sense of pride.

"Madame Alcott, is this the same kind of alchemy that you taught your students?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I simply taught them the basics. Most couldn't even form anything more than a shapeless lump out of mud, but it was enough to capture their interest. And as I mentioned earlier, many of my former students have gone on to become alchemists."

"But have you ever had any kind of involvement in how they choose to pursue advanced alchemy? Things like metallurgy, or medicine…" Roy pauses for a moment. "... or flame alchemy?"

A crash—

"WE DO NOT SPEAK OF SUCH THINGS IN THIS HOUSE!"

There are shards of porcelain on the floor, and Alcott towers over the two men, eyes flashing with fury. de Havilland remains still in his seat, his interlaced fingers suddenly rigid; Roy has shifted back as though repelled by her. Alcott's chest rises and falls with slow, heaving breaths. Hurried footsteps come from overhead, then downstairs, closer and closer.

Roy instinctively rises from his seat and begins gathering the shards that have fallen by his side of the table. There is a moment in which his senses, still heightened from shock, fail to quickly perceive the arrival of a new figure who quickly joins him in cleaning up the mess. Roy looks up, and the figure stops—freezes at the sight of him. He is staring back into alarmed brown eyes.

And then, the world seems to stop.

Riza had opened the front door for Roy Mustang when she first met him. He seemed to know how to dress and carry himself only as well as he knew alchemy, which, at the age of fourteen, he did not at all. He was born and raised in Central, and he came into their lives before she knew how she was supposed to cope without her mother, or the kind of comfort a father could offer.

She would never know that comfort, or affection, or any kind of closure from the grief she knew she shared with Berthold. His work became his life once again, and in a way, his place in Riza's life was filled by his new student, with whom he seemed to have more in common than his own daughter. Roy studied what her father did, but he was accessible to her. He would open the door when she came home from school; he would run errands for Berthold when she couldn't; he would politely ask her about the town and their neighbors and how she was doing.

He was no replacement for her father, but Riza accepted what little company she had.

Meanwhile, Berthold began to keep mostly to his room and his study. For a while, he still came down to the dining room for meals, but he would later stop joining Roy and Riza, opting to eat only in his personal spaces. She saw him less and less until the house felt emptier than it had ever been, and more so when Roy left at the age of eighteen to enter the military academy. She never knew, can never know now if Berthold's renewed distance was due to disinterest towards anything that wasn't alchemy, or the illness that slowly took hold of him as the years passed.

Since Berthold's death, the flames that killed him have also continually visited Riza's nightmares, so destructive and frightening that she is left to gather the pieces of her few real memories with Berthold each time. She hasn't realized that she never forgot Roy Mustang until she finds him face to face with her in Madame Alcott's kitchen, now more than a memory for the first time in two years.

In the brief second that their eyes meet, Riza is surprised that Roy's presence hasn't caused her as much fear as she often woke up to whenever she was reminded of Berthold. Perhaps it's the urgency of the situation that keeps her defenses at bay, or the way Madame Alcott looks—Riza has never seen her this furious before.

Perhaps it's her confusion over the fact that Roy Mustang is here in the first place.

The emotions reflected on his face run far deeper than her confusion. Dilated pupils, paper-white skin, the slightest catch in his breath, the trembling in his hands as he picks up the pieces of the cup. A thousand burning questions that she can hear before they are even asked.

Madame Alcott exhales as she comes down from her outburst. "Forgive me, I… I don't know what got into me."

Riza grabs the shards from Roy's suspended hand and rises to her feet, quickly depositing the shards onto the table in order to place a reassuring hand on Madame Alcott's arm. "Are you all right, madame?"

Madame Alcott grips Riza's hand. "Yes. Yes." Her tense shoulders come to rest. "These men are our visitors from the Amestrian Military. You recall that we were expecting them? They're here for an interview about my work in alchemy… and, as it would seem, other matters as well."

"How do you do?" The older of the two men rises from his seat and bows his head in Riza's direction. His eyes are bright, a refreshing contrast from the tension in the rest of the room. "Dieter de Havilland, of the Amestrian Military. Brigadier General." He chuckles at himself for having reduced his title to an afterthought.

Riza cannot help but smile in return. "Pleased to meet you, General de Havilland."

She turns to Roy, and there is a short, heavy silence. Riza wonders who might speak first, or if he will be able to speak at all. She swallows back the lump in her throat.

"Mr. Mustang."

His mouth gapes slightly for a moment, as though he were searching for his voice.

"Miss Hawkeye."

Madame Alcott blinks and looks at Riza, then at Roy, and back again. Then, it goes unnoticed by their two visitors, but from the periphery of her vision, Riza watches the controlled sense of calm disappear from the madame's eyes, catches the coldness in her tone that is so effectively masked as mild surprise.

"You knew Berthold Hawkeye," Madame Alcott says coolly to Roy.

He nods stiffly. "I lived with the Hawkeyes for a few years. To learn alchemy."

"I see. And is this your intention after all? To talk about Berthold Hawkeye in these complicated circumstances?"

There is a quiet struggle in Roy, reflected on his face. Carefully, he says, "I understand your concern, Madame Alcott. I'm sorry we may have failed to consider how sensitive this all is. But in the interest of your safety, we will need to discuss Berthold Hawkeye's death somehow."

Riza feels her insides twist uncomfortably, almost as if she were waking up from a nightmare again. "What do you know about my father's death?"

Roy takes a deep breath. "I found what was left of his body in the study. Burned to nearly nothing, and many of his books destroyed. Your home had been abandoned for a month when I came back."

It unnerves her how clearly she imagines the scene. Roy's words paint a picture to complement the one that lives in her head, easy to place herself into almost as if she were there herself. But it tells her nothing new. She has searched the scene for answers countless times before; each time, her mind is filled with fire, obscuring and disrupting everything she thinks she knows, and by now she has learned to fear it.

"Miss Hawkeye," Roy continues carefully, "Do you remember anything—"

"There's nothing to discuss, I'm afraid," says Madame Alcott. She places a firm hand on Riza's shoulder; only then does Riza realize how badly she is trembling. "Surely you understand that dear Riza is still in distress over her father's tragic fate. You can't imagine what it was like, seeing how helpless she was when she escaped that brutal scene. It was only fortunate that I happened to be visiting Cameron then, or she might not have had anyone else to turn to." The madame draws a sharp breath. "I have only one thing to say about Berthold Hawkeye. He was a brilliant alchemist, but he would have been a great man if he had been dedicated to progress for the people. Caught in his own lofty pursuits, but he never cared for his own daughter's growth as an alchemist. His ambitions were misplaced."

Riza winces, and Roy doesn't miss it—he quickly glances at her, the look on his face both defensive and apologetic. He presses on, "Madame Alcott, I'm sure he had his reasons—"

"Reasons to deny his own daughter an education in alchemy? I wanted to give her what he would not! She was a lovely child when I taught at her school. Always eager to learn and very intuitive. She showed great potential to learn alchemy. Riza would've become accomplished in it herself if not for her father's meddling. He forbade me from teaching her alchemy, did you know that?" The madame's eyes are full of disdain as she looks at Roy from head to toe. "And yet he took on a student of his own, no doubt hoping to appease his ego once he had finally perfected his alchemy that no one else could wield. Tell me, Lieutenant Mustang. Did he teach you everything he knew?"

Roy slowly shakes his head after a long silence. "No."

Madame Alcott's voice barely comes above a whisper. "It's true that no one could hold a candle to his dedication. Imagine how hard he worked to perfect flame alchemy until his last breath. But to what end? A sword that isn't brought into battle may as well not have been forged at all."

There is a disquiet that has been bubbling in Riza's chest, an ache that began without her notice, small pulses that seem to respond to Madame Alcott's words more than anything. It is a familiar feeling that accompanies familiar sentiments. Its roots run back to a simpler time, when Riza was much younger and the wounds to the madame's pride were fresh, and since then the madame has never made any secret of her honest opinion about Berthold. Of course, the madame has been restrained and sensitive when she needed to be. In the wake of Riza's grief, particularly, it remained mostly unspoken, hanging in a delicate balance Riza had no wish to breach, and which Madame Alcott had just enough heart not to.

Now, the disquiet reaches its boiling point. Swaying unsteadily, Riza reaches for the kitchen table and supports herself on it with both hands, then sinks into a seat, staring blankly at the shards of the cup before her. Her eyes are clouded by tears, but they don't fall.

It has been four months since she last wept in front of anyone, when she fled her home in terror and ran into Madame Alcott as the latter was preparing to leave Cameron. She cannot do so again, not even—especially not within full view of the madame's long-held resentment towards her father.

de Havilland gulps down the rest of his coffee and rises from his seat again. "This conversation has been disrupted long enough. Miss Alcott, please forgive us for causing you grief—and you as well, Miss Hawkeye."

"It's no trouble at all, General," Riza says quickly. She isn't sure she means it.

"I hope you are still willing to work with our cause, Miss Alcott. Questionable though some alchemists' methods may be, this does not change our mandate to work towards the safety of all. These are precarious times, after all, and we cannot afford to dawdle."

As de Havilland speaks, Riza hears the sound of paper being ripped, then the scribbling of a pen. She doesn't fully realize what is happening until the shards of porcelain are gathered and taken from their spot on the table. A hastily drawn alchemical array sits on the table before her; she glimpses it just before Roy places the shards onto it, and then in a flash of light, the cup is restored to perfect form.

"Please accept my apology, Madame Alcott," says Roy quietly. "Although I'm indebted to Master Hawkeye, I won't let it compromise our objective. Will you still be with us?"

Behind Riza, Madame Alcott draws a deep breath. She feels the madame rub the side of her head in comfort, another hand on her shoulder; Riza remains still although she wants to pull away. "I forgive you, Lieutenant Mustang," Madame Alcott finally says. "I realize that losing your teacher might have been difficult for you as well. You still have my cooperation, however this time I must absolutely insist that Berthold Hawkeye not be mentioned in front of me or my assistant. And as her caretaker since her father's death, I cannot allow you to compel her to speak about it. Do I make myself clear?"

Roy and de Havilland exchange looks. The general nods once.

"Understood," says Roy.

The madame's hands relax on Riza, and de Havilland clears his throat. "We appreciate this very much, Miss Alcott. I'm sure there is more we can discuss. Might I suggest that we take a moment to compose ourselves before we proceed?"

"Yes, I suppose we ought to," the madame affirms.

de Havilland turns to Riza. "You are welcome to join us if you wish, Miss Hawkeye."

Riza looks at the faces around the room. Despite the resolution of their argument, there is a chill she cannot shake off, a weight in her core that they couldn't possibly understand. They aren't Berthold Hawkeye's children; they don't bear grief that will not be eased by simply not mentioning him. They don't know the fear that she has lived with since that night, how close she is to bursting now, how—how much anger there truly is beneath that fear.

She rises suddenly from her seat. "Thank you, General de Havilland, but I'll have to decline. I've got work for the madame that I have to get back to now. Please let me know if you need anything."

Riza turns and leaves the kitchen, then rushes up the stairs as her knees tremble and buckle. She is filled with an overwhelming urge to run, not unlike the night the world burned all around her. But there isn't anywhere else to hide in this faraway town that was once her refuge from the ghosts of what she had lost. This town is no more than a place where the flames have caught up with her, no more than another place to burn.

Surely she must have realized it long ago, with the nightmares that never stopped coming and the mornings that kept bringing her agony. The frequent aching has never gotten easier; her daily reminder of who she is and what she has gone through is no less painful to hear now than it was the first time. Perhaps she has been running without rest for far too long, and yet…

And yet, she realizes, she may have never left the flames at all.