The next few days are flush with activity. Plans outlined. Bags packed. Tickets purchased. Appropriate attire unearthed from the back of the closet and taken in for alterations. He's lost weight, Winry's gained, and the kids have never been to a—

They've never needed these kinds of clothes before.

As things stand, he's been able to cocoon himself within a tolerable numbness. People and all their insipid conversations glide right past him without so much as a fingerprint to prove they were ever there. He observes the passage of time as if watching a silent film. People and places come and go, and he sits where he sits until Winry gently tugs at his arm to lead him to some new location.

He knows Sidi makes two house calls, asking questions and tutting over his lack of appetite. He knows he finally shaves, clumsily. He knows Winry removes his stitches because his own hands are still too shaky. He knows she reattaches his automail, perhaps the most gentle as she's ever been. He knows she opens the crate from Al in an effort to distract Maes and Nina with the toys and games packed carefully among the anniversary gifts he can't bear to touch. He knows she reads him the included letter in a damp voice when they're alone. He knows Al wrote that by happy coincidence the formal announcement of his betrothal to Mei was going to be on the same day as their own anniversary.

He knows there's a sound lodged in his throat he can't afford to let loose, because he won't be able to stop whatever it is if he does. So he doesn't. He swallows it down, bites his tongue, and does what needs doing.

He knows too, that he doesn't do enough. He tries. Honest, he does. But he'll pick up the phone in the showroom and end up staring blankly at the light glinting off an automail hand in its velvet-draped display case. He'll start making coffee and then his eyes find the teakettle that's gone untouched since he boiled the water inside with a touch. He'll try to answer the questions Maes and Nina ask in small, worried voices only to find his own voice has slunk off to hide when he wasn't paying attention.

Winry's as bad off as he is. Of course she is. She's hardly stopped crying since she read the telegram. She broke a cup at one point and cut her hand. Ed had sat with her on the couch to clean and bandage it, held her until they'd both stopped shaking, then gone to sweep the mess up. It was only after he'd thrown the glass out and put the dustpan back in the pantry that he remembered they could have avoided the last ten minutes if he'd just... clapped his hands.

He'd bitten his cheek bloody, swallowing the ugly noise that realization demanded.

They wouldn't have gotten anything done without Paninya and Garfiel's help. Garfiel had come upstairs that first day to welcome him back from the hospital and realized something had happened without them needing to say a word. He'd swept in, all smiles, bribed the kids to run off to get ice cream from the parlor down the street, then pulled Ed and Winry into a bone-cracking hug and promised to help however they needed. Paninya had done practically the same thing down to the letter, and she'd dragged the whole LeCoulte family into it for good measure. Benny, their oldest that Winry had delivered that stormy night so many years ago, reminds Ed uncomfortably of himself at that age. He tucks Maes and Nina into a corner, reads them stories and makes up games, keeps them occupied and out of the way so the adults can get things done.

The days are flush with activity. The nights are anything but. He spends those bleak hours staring up at the ceiling, Al's stupid cat glued to his side, Winry laying as restless as him. They don't speak. They can't speak.

If Ed sleeps, he doesn't dream.

He knows it's been three days since the telegram arrived, because he and Winry had to board the first north-bound train this morning. Paninya will be bringing the kids to Resembool directly a couple days from now. They're going to Ishval first, to meet with Mei per Ling's instruction. Mei will have answers. Mei will be bringing—

Ed can't finish that thought. He can't finish any thought regarding—

He can't.

This morning he boarded a train in Rush Valley. This afternoon he's awaiting the arrival of a different train in Kankawati. Sweat clings to him like a second skin. An oven-hot wind is rising, the threat of a sandstorm in the sting of fine dust in his eyes. There's a notable difference in the quality of desert found between the two cities, the two climes. Home is coarse and gritty, surrounded on all sides by plateau mountains being ground patiently down by wind, water, and time. There are about three weeks every year where Rush Valley is transformed by the spring rains into a green and flowering place, and then the river dries up and everything dies again. The desert in what little he's seen of Ishval, today and before today, is more of an ivory color than tan, and the sand has an almost paint-like quality to it. It drips and smears. It gets into every nook and cranny, dyes everything it touches.

He breathes in deeply, until his lungs are full of Ishval. He wonders how much of the fine dust in the air is ash, still stubbornly sticking around decades after the Extermination. He wonders how much of it Mustang's responsible for. Maybe it's better, not knowing. Maybe ignorance really is bliss.

He doesn't want the train to arrive. He doesn't want to see Mei. He doesn't want to see—

Winry's hand finds his thigh, rubbing away the tension near the seam of his automail. "There's a food cart over there," she whispers. She's not raised her voice once, since the telegram. "You should eat something."

It's an exhausting effort to shake his head, but it's Winry. He'd do anything, for her.

"Ed..." She sighs. "How 'bout some coffee?"

He breathes desert dust, in and out. "Okay."

He watches her stand without turning his head, watches her take that extra second to balance on account of the life growing in her belly, watches her go to the cart where an Ishvalan about their age smiles genially at her as if the past is something that has no bearing on any of them. Ed may have been a kid during the worst of the Extermination but he remembers the horror of it echoing out even all the way to sleepy little Resembool, even before the news of Winry's parents found them. Ed can hardly claim to have been more than grazed by those years. He can't even imagine what it was like to be here for it. He marvels at this other man's capacity to forgive.

From beyond a turn in the tracks that he can barely see from the wooden bench he's slouched on, a train whistle blows. He's running out of time. He'd give anything for Mei not to be on that train, but he knows better than to pray.

On his left, coming out of the shadows of the station entrance, he hears the clunky approach of jackboots strolling casually. A moment later, Mustang's voice calls out, dry with incomprehensible good humor. "Edward! I wish I could say it's a surprise to see you here."

Ed grunts.

Mustang and a near dozen cronies approach him, an unwelcome cluster of dusty blueberry uniforms glittering with gold accoutrements. "Führer Grumman received a discreet communiqué from Emperor Yao recently. I suppose I can't ever expect one Elric getting involved in State affairs without the other turning up, hm?"

Ed grunts.

Mustang cocks his head, his amusement gaining a fine patina of concern. "Good god, what did you do to your face this time?"

"Fell."

Funny, how easy it is to truncate events into a single syllable. The less said the better, as far as he's concerned. Anyone else would get the hint he's not interested in talking. Just his luck though, Mustang knows him almost as well as—

Well.

Mustang gives him a considering once-over. His concern doesn't deepen so much as focus. He's paying attention now, loosening the collar of his debonair hedonist skin-suit to let the decent person hiding inside peek out. Ed wishes he and all his cronies would just fuck off. "Rush Valley is still in one piece, last I heard. I suppose you jumped face-first into somebody else's business on your way here."

The train appears around the bend in a maddening squeal of metal as it brakes, slowing for a smooth stop at the end of the line. Ed breathes desert dust, in and out. He's happily turned most of his attention away from the military and all its administrative trappings in the years since he quit. He knows the Reconstruction effort is still going strong, that it's likely only doing so because Mustang traipses tirelessly across the country to rattle the necessary cages until more money falls out. Mustang wouldn't joke like this. Not if he knew. He must not have seen Ed's name in the paper, doesn't know he was hospitalized. That makes sense. What the hell does discreet communiqué mean anyway?

Ed clears his throat. "What'd the Führer tell you."

"That Princess Chang would be arriving today, and that I would adjust my schedule accordingly to escort her and her retinue as required. You know what the fuss is about, naturally."

The train finally stops, settling onto the tracks with a last explosive sigh of coal smoke. Hot metal ticks in the blistering heat. A scorched breeze hits the station, scattering dust across the concrete. A pebble pings off Ed's boot, heard more than felt. The nearest car creaks, rocking gently with the movements of the passengers inside. So, not likely Al's on that one.

"Naturally," he rasps.

"Wh—ah, Winry!" Ed can hear the flashbulb pop of the politician's smile Mustang gives her as she approaches, two paper cups of coffee in hand. He still hasn't figured out that it doesn't matter the caliber, Winry always knows when somebody's trying to dazzle her with bullshit. "How lovely to see you again. I haven't had the opportunity to congratulate you in person yet."

"What?"

"The baby, of course."

"O-oh. Right. Thank you."

"Do you know what it's going to be yet?"

"Ah—no. I have an appointment in a couple weeks to find out though."

"How wonderful. You both must be excited."

"I... yeah. We are."

"Congratulations," Hawkeye says from somewhere among the cronies. The rest dutifully echo her after a pause. She's probably giving them the gimlet eye while her hand creeps toward a holster.

Mustang continues to carry on a conversation practically with himself. "Will Princess Chang and Alphonse be staying in the country until the baby's due? I don't know how we'll keep the press out of your hair for that long if that's the case. They've gotten into the habit of rioting without a good bone to pick, and your husband's an old favorite of theirs."

Somebody wheezes like their solar plexus just met the business end of somebody's boot. It takes Ed a moment to recognize the sound as a deranged attempt at laughter. It takes him another to realize the sound came from him.

Hawkeye and the cronies all go wide-eyed and still. Their eyes are brands on his skin; all his limbs burn anew. It's not real, of course. Just his imagination. Psychosomatic. Residual pins and needles from his damn food poisoning. Like the cause really matters.

A hand curls against the back of the bench. Ed focuses on it instead of who it's attached to. He watches the rigid line of scar tissue on display; the way it lightens in some areas and darkens in others. It's strange, to see Mustang's hand without the pristine white glove, the flame array done in cherry red stitching. But that's stupid of Ed to expect to see it here in Ishval, the last place Mustang could ever stomach wearing his gloves. Hell, there are probably laws against it.

"What's wrong," Mustang asks quietly, genuine concern deepening his voice. Ed's earned his full attention at last; he chafes beneath its weight.

"Don't," Winry begs, her voice brittle. Ed wants to cover her mouth with both hands so he doesn't have to hear her speak so. It's not right for her to sound like that. He stays put. He keeps his eyes on the door of the train car in front of him. It's the easier thing to do.

"Something's happened," Mustang realizes. There's not nearly enough dread in his voice. Whatever he's imagined isn't even close to the truth.

Ha. Truth.

"Mister Mustang, please..."

The door rattles open and Ed's off like a shot. Behind him he hears Winry say, "Alphonse," and Mustang's stunned, "Oh, god." There are words between that, and after that too, but he doesn't want to hear them.

He almost doesn't recognize Mei when she steps out of the train car. She prefers loud dresses with a hundred secret pockets for all her knives, but today she's wearing a shapeless robe of undyed linen, a matching hood covering her hair. There are no elaborate braids peaking out, not a stitch of gold nor a single jade bead to denote her as royalty or as an alkahestrist. She looks exhausted, as shrunken as an old apple. When her dark eyes meet his they immediately well over with fresh tears.

"Edward," she tries, but her voice breaks. He grabs her by the shoulders when she sways, but he has no idea who's actually bracing who. His knees feel like jelly, his feet non-existent. He can't catch his breath.

"Mei," he forces out. "Mei. Tell me—what happened. Ling's—the telegram didn't say—how—"

"Alphonse," she hiccups, "He wasn't supposed to be alone that night. There have been threats, threats against both of us, but—we thought we knew which clans would—we thought we'd planned for everything, that we'd taken every precaution, but—but I was called away—it was urgent, I had to go, Edward, he wasn't supposed to be alone—"

Ed squeezes her arms. "What happened."

She shakes her head, tears streaming down her splotched face. "I—h-he was—"

A loud bang! from the next car down startles them both badly. It's less that Ed looks for the source of it as he finds his gaze reflexively following Mei's. The door of the next car has been flung open to allow several people in armored black uniforms and brightly colored masks to carry out—

"Oh," Mei exclaims, anguished, "Edward, wait—"

He ignores her. He has to. He staggers toward the Imperial Guards, relying on his right leg more than his left to get him there. His damn stump won't stop aching. There'd been a whole thing with Winry back home about it before they'd boarded the train this morning, about the practicality of bringing along a cane at least if he wouldn't use crutches. He'd won that argument, technically. Neither of them had been up for the heated bickering an actual argument would have warranted. He's kind of regretting not having something to steady himself against now. He can't help his heavy limp. He can't really care about it either.

The guards who aren't carrying the—

The guards who aren't carrying anything step back to let him pass. One of them, wearing a garish red mask, says something tersely in Xingese, too low for Ed to make out clearly. The guards stop in perfect unison, kneeling to carefully leverage the—

They set their burden down, then step back as well. They all give him ample space to see the—

They give him privacy to view what they've brought with them all the way from Dàdū.

He's able to look at it directly and feel nothing more than the passive interest of a museum patron viewing something beautiful and untouchable. It's a work of art, technically speaking. Its construction is geometrically perfect, its decoration artistically perfect too. Gleaming black lacquered wood, complex curlicues done in gold paint, a flamel detailed down to the snake's scales in mother of pearl. Al would have hated it. The fuss, the expense, the waste. He would've been too polite to say as much, though. It was a gift, after all.

And it's beautiful, really, as coffins go.

Ed's legs give out. He hits the concrete like a sack of flour, catching himself against it. He leaves streaking fingerprints across the lid immediately, of course. It's so, so easy to imagine Al chastising him for that. But the reality is: silence.

Silence, but for the rushing wind.

The sandstorm will pass by morning. They're short but brutal events here, sure to draw blood. Not like in the South. Back home the air gradually thickens over a sullen stretch of days until the smoke and dust make it too hazardous for the old or sickly to go outside. Ed supposes it's a good thing his leg's still not cooperating as it should be. He can't go stomping into the midst of a sandstorm when he's fresh off a ventilator himself. Not that he isn't tempted anyway.

They've somehow ended up in Scar's house of all places. It's appallingly domestic. Brightly-colored woven rugs decorate the red-tiled floor. Large Xingese paintings hang on the walls. There's a candlelit shrine to Ishvala in one corner, framed photographs of Mei and Al in another. Ed wants to crawl out of his own skin and sprint for the darkest, coldest corner of this newly rebuilt city until it's time to leave.

Winry, drawing from some hidden well of baffling strength, somehow stomachs bumping elbows with Scar and Brigadier General Miles as they prep dinner for a full house. There's a pass-through in the wall separating the kitchen and dining room; Ed finds some meager comfort in the occasional glimpse of her. Scar makes laps around the table at regular intervals, finding time to top off everyone's tea between all the glowering he does at Mustang. Ed's been more interested in watching his cup cool while other people talk at him than drinking it. Scar realized that early on, and wordlessly replaces his cup with a fresh one instead. It's nice of him. It's horrible. Ed has no idea how Winry can stand to be in the same city as Scar, much less the same room. He knows the two of them hashed things out one month while he was still traveling more than he wasn't, but he's never asked Winry for details. She'd tell him if he did, but it's always seemed too... private. Too bleak. He doesn't want to pry without her offering first.

Mei and Mustang are sitting at the dining table with him. Hawkeye's out elsewhere, putting the Amestrian cronies to roost so she can take care of whatever to-do list Mustang had whispered in her ear. She'd hugged Ed before she'd left, and he'd been horrified to see she was holding back tears as she strode away. It was the first time he's ever seen her cry. It left him feeling gutted.

Mustang's here because Mei requested he stay. She'd asked Ed if that was alright, considering—

Ed had said it was fine. It didn't matter what he really thought about it and they all knew it, so why pretend? So the three of them hunch over cups of tea while the others busy themselves in the kitchen, and Mei tells them what happened. She tries to break it gently, whispering when she isn't sniffling. She tries to make it make sense when she's clearly struggling with that herself. To Ed though, it's the how and where of it that are complicated, terrible, and ugly. The why is easy.

Politics is why.

Politics is always why, when it comes down to it.

Ed's been hearing about twelve different opinions on Xing's political scene for years, and up to this point has been happy to not have a dog in that shitshow of a race. How times change. There have been clans protesting every little thing Ling's been trying to do since day one. Some more, some less. Most have realized by now that it's better to at least pretend they're falling in line while they scheme behind the scenes. A few have openly resisted setting aside tradition for tradition's sake to the point of civil war. A few others have been clever in their resistance. It was one of these who had decided to act.

The Changs had been bottom of the barrel for generations, politically speaking; too poor and too few in number to throw their weight around and expect anything other than a Pyrrhic victory at best. That had changed after Ling became Emperor. First, the Yaos had taken the Changs under their wing as allies rather than as conquerors to the benefit of both. Then Ling took it a step further and declared Mei his successor, at least until he got around to siring some sprogs of his own. Course, Ling's time as a homunculus had a couple unexpected side effects that have decided to linger; he can't have kids apparently, not that he'll ever admit that publicly. Ed had laughed himself sick over the heavily ciphered but unmistakably whiny letter Ling had sent him when he'd found out. It doesn't seem all that funny anymore.

Mei being first in line for the Imperial Throne had caused uproar enough, sure, but then she'd gone and fallen in love with a foreign commoner. It didn't matter that Al was worth his weight in gold and sweet on her besides. It didn't matter that Ling had thrown his fancypants hat and all the authority it came with into Al's corner, or that Ling had happily thrown a pile of obnoxiously officious titles (and all the authority those came with) into Al's lap too. It didn't matter that Al had gone the extra mile and proved their old man and the Western Sage had been the same person. It didn't matter that their old man is still halfway deified in Xing, or that a direct descendant—and a son no less—practically demanded that same reverence simply by existing. Al hadn't done it for the reverence, of course; he was embarrassed by it, mostly. He'd done it because he wanted people to understand that their old man had been a person, not a god, and as infallible as anybody else. The position in the Imperial Court and the Secondborn Son shit had all just been good ways to get the protesting nobles off his dick.

Or so they'd all assumed. Fools all of them, Ed most of all.

When Mei had left Xing there'd still been no leads on which unhappy clan had decided to go a step above and beyond airing their grievances in the Court. The—

The assassin—

—had been skilled, and thorough besides. A half dozen of Ling's personal guards died the same night Alphonse was—

—poisoned.

Ed's mouth is dry, reluctant to open, but he has to ask. He knows the why. He needs to know— "How."

Mei doesn't want to tell him, of course. But he gets it out of her in the end. The assassin used knives and garrotes on the guards, saving their magnum opus for Al: an elixir that royalty and alkahestrists alike had once consumed in an attempt to purge the humanity right out of themselves. Immortality in a bottle, provided you survived drinking it. Loosely translated, the name of the elixir means golden. A direct insult to the self-proclaimed son of the Sage.

Gold. Arsenic. Mercury. Measured out and mixed up neatly in wine to make it smoother on the way down. It doesn't take much of any one to kill somebody, but the assassin hadn't taken any chances. They'd made sure Al finished the bottle.

Al should've been dead by the time Mei found him the next morning. He wasn't. The court alkahestrists, Mei included, worked day and night trying to save him. It wasn't enough. In the days before he finally slipped away Al never regained consciousness. For all that it began with betrayal and pain, it ended peacefully. Al's death was a quiet surrender in the dead of night.

Mei doesn't fall apart in the telling, not like she did at the first sight of Ed at the station. She's been scoured by her grief, made a hollow shell of the brilliant person she was—before. Mustang sits beside her, saying nothing, her left hand held in both of his. When she finally finishes he's got the same expression on his face he gets when his past grows too heavy; dead-eyed and carved from stone, weathering the storm because he doesn't have any other choice.

"Today," Ed tries, but has to pause to clear his throat. He tilts his head toward the pass-through, where Winry's pinned-up hair shines almost as pale as Scar's and Brigadier General Miles' in the overhead lights. They're still in their own little world over there, one of soft conversation, grilling meat, the chop of a knife against a cutting board. "Today's our anniversary."

Mei shrinks. "I know."

"You. You were gonna announce your betrothal today too. Make it nice and official."

A fresh tear escapes the miserable scrunch of her eyes. "Y-yes."

This information makes Mustang resemble less a headstone and more a man desperate for any excuse to bolt out of the room.

Ed's gaze lingers on his own hands, cupped around the warm curl of old Xiao Mei. He must really look pathetic; the little monster's barely gnawed on his fingers at all ever since Mei dumped her in his lap. He strokes the panda's soft face with one thumb, earning a sigh of contentment as she nuzzles him back. "I've been sick," he says. "Food poisoning. Didn't know it was possible for it to get as bad as it did. I got out of the hospital the same day Ling's telegram—"

Ed—

—breathes.

He doesn't want to say any of this. But the words spool out of him of their own accord, like laundry hung out to dry.

"I don't remember—much. Dreams, mostly, and those didn't make much sense, but. That's just dreams, right? But I get it now. That... connection he and I had, the one that kept his body alive in the Gate, it never really went away. We weren't ever sure, before, and neither of us wanted to go poking at it to find out. Just in case, y'know? But it wasn't food poisoning. I got sick when Al was—attacked. I was dying because—because he was. I would've died too, but he figured it out. He realized what was happening, so he did the only thing he could. He let me go."

Ed's known ever since the damn teakettle. The telegram had just been unnecessary confirmation. He'd talked Al out of looking for a way to get his leg back years ago, never mind his alchemy. He didn't need either to be happy. Or to feel whole, for that matter. Al got that. Al wouldn't have gone behind his back to retrieve either, not now. Not by choice.

Mei and Mustang have both gained new edges to their faces, something greater than concern but less terrible than understanding. Their dark eyes flicker toward each other, wordlessly asking which of them is better qualified to handle an Elric teetering near a dangerous ledge. It'd be funny, in other circumstances. Better circumstances. He knows Al would laugh too, if—

If.

Mustang moves first, letting Mei's hand go to weave his fingers together. The scars on the backs of his hands twist, raised and dark as river clay. It's easier to watch his hands than the hesitation furrowing his frown.

"Edward, I'm sorry. Truly I am. I can't begin to imagine—" A careful breath. "But you mustn't blame yourself for this. Your illness was—unfortunately timed, that's all. There was nothing you could have done to save Alphonse. Even if you'd been healthy, even if you'd been in Dàdū with him. He wouldn't want you to burden yourself like this. You know that."

Ed smiles. It feels artificial, like somebody else's amusement on display. He shifts Xiao Mei off his hands, sliding her onto the table so he can pick up his tea. There's still a trace of warmth to the little cup, a beautiful and delicate thing. Pure silver, at a glance. The full set must have cost a fortune. Definitely a gift from Mei. Did Al help pick it out?

He drains the cup, hardly tasting it, and sets it carefully back down. Then he claps his hands.

When the blue-white light dies down the cup has become a toy horse, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He considers it critically, cataloging each flaw. The scaling in the mane, the uneven flowers of the cup's original design, the broomstick puff of its tail. Still, not bad for a guy who hasn't done practical alchemy in years.

He looks up. Mei and Mustang's faces have been transmuted too. Their wary concern has become something akin to horror. In the kitchen, silence bellows.

"He let me go," Ed repeats.