Pinako's waiting for them at the train station when they finally arrive in Resembool. There's a grim determination to the narrow set of her shoulders that Ed can pick out long before they come to a stop. She leans heavily on her cane; weary, but prepared once again to bury a loved one taken too soon.
What Ed would give for half her strength to carry him through this.
Mei's guards are first to disembark, bounding across the station's pointed rooftop, sure to scare the daylights out of the whole village in the name of security. Mustang's own team moves like molasses in comparison but they're just as absurd and as alien a sight as any of the masked shadows jabbing knives at anybody who gawks overlong. Commands are barked and a neat perimeter is drawn out in a great show of yessirs! and bodies rushing here and there. The next couple of days are shaping up to be a real goddamn clown show with the Elric brothers taking center stage as usual. Course, this time around Ed's stuck doing all the heavy lifting while Al gets to just lay back and look pretty. Lazy, that's what it is. No respect for his big brother at all.
Winry tugs on his arm, so he gathers his coat and both of their suitcases and follows everyone else off the train.
Pinako doesn't give him a pitying smile or any weak condolences. She's better than that. Always has been. She just opens her arms and lets him fall into them. Age has brittled her; he's careful in his hug, wary of fracturing her birdlike frame. But she hugs him so fiercely in turn that his bad shoulder yelps and something in his back pops. Arthritis be damned, she lets him know exactly how much she's grieving too without having to say a word.
Her eyes are damp when she finally lets go. That's all right. Ed's not sure he's stopped mimicking a leaky faucet since the damn telegram. He sniffs, a wet and rude sound, unable to scrub his face with his hands full. She pats his elbow, nodding.
"The Moskofians are taking care of everything," is the first thing she says to him, meaning the family that runs Resembool's funeral home. He hasn't had a reason to talk to them in years, not since he and Al had gone to thank them for handling Hohenheim's burial while they were recuperating in Central. Ed manages a wobbly expression that could be a kissing cousin to gratitude, if one were feeling generous. Lucky him, the old hag is happy to oblige him today.
Pinako takes a turn at tugging him along for a time. First out of the way of all the Imperial Guards maneuvering about at the behest of their red-masked captain, then out of the way of all those clomping boots and flapping cavalry skirts, then through the station and down Main Street as onlookers watch the solemn parade of outsiders go by. A few make to wave or call out when they spot Ed and Winry, but invariably shut their traps and look away once they catch sight of the reason for all the fanfare. Coffins are pretty unmistakable, as shapes go.
They escape Resembool proper with only the inevitable grinding of the gossip mill following them out. The whole village will know Al's—
Everybody will know come sundown. Rockbell Automail will be beset by gifts of wreaths, candles, and food over the next few days, and the deluge won't stop once Ed and Winry leave for home again for that matter. That's just the way of small towns. Everybody's close-knit, everybody owes somebody a favor, everybody cares.
Everybody had loved Al. He was easy to love.
The funeral home sits apart from the road south out of the village, neatly manicured in the way all home businesses tend to be regardless of the business kept inside. The only betrayal to the Moskofians' business, aside from a hand-painted sign hanging from the porch awning, is an old cross-stone in the front yard taller than Ed. Time has worn down the detailed carvings on it, eaten away entirely the name of whatever ancestor is buried beneath it. It's beautiful in a grim, old-fashioned kind of way. Ed's idea of beautiful, not Al's. Best not.
Ancellotta throws open the front door only a beat before the rolling barn-style doors on the side of the house rattle open too, Refosco calling for the Imperial Guard to come 'round. They walk in perfect formation despite the obvious weight of the coffin on their shoulders. Despite its contents too. They vanish inside and the rest of them are all swept up the porch and into the waiting room inside.
Or, Ed realizes once the door's shut behind him, there aren't nearly as many people that followed him here as he assumed. Most of their escort has split off, probably to terrorize the inn. Apart from him, Winry, Mei, and Pinako, there's only a lone sergeant that's tailed them. She takes an immediate post by the front door with the ease of someone long-practiced at keeping an unobtrusive guard. She's a wordless courtesy from Mustang, obviously; in case anything or anybody is needed, Ed can send her to do the fetching instead of having to go himself. Ed knows he ought to be rankled by yet another of Mustang's presumptive gestures, especially at the cost of somebody else's time. He would be, normally, but today is anything but. He's tired, is all, and he vaguely wishes this sergeant could be somebody else's problem.
He sighs and sets their suitcases down, squeezing Winry's arm reassuringly when she gives him a curious look while she's mid-conversation with Ancellotta. The sergeant doesn't spring to attention when he approaches her, thank fuck, but she does roll her shoulders like she's reminding herself not to. He barrels on before she can open her mouth. "I know that asshole told you to tail me, it's fine. I don't care what else he told you to do though, just—this is—we're gonna be here a while, and I don't wanna be thinkin' about you guarding the damn door all afternoon. So just—relax, okay?" He gestures at the canary yellow settee by the wide window, magazines fanned artfully on the glass coffee table in front of it. "Do a crossword, take a nap, whatever. I don't give a shit."
She twitches like she's trying not to gawk. Probably didn't join up until after he'd quit; he doesn't try to think about the crazy shit they say about Fullmetal these days if he can help it. "Thank you," she manages, then hesitates. "I... I'm sorry for your loss."
Fuck but he's already sick of hearing that. He nods anyway.
Resembool is, first and foremost, a village so small and so far out in the sticks that it shouldn't even be on most maps. It's only included at all because of the rail line, and the only reason the rail line made it all the way up here was because the military wanted wool and wanted it fast. Before him and Al came around Resembool's only claim to fame was a tag on the dress blues most people snipped off because of its tendency to itch like hell.
Point is, for all that modern amnesties manage to wash up here on occasion, it probably won't ever shake that old-fashioned small-town mentality. Traditions are foundational here, not simply humored as they are elsewhere. Things have been done the same way here for generations. Borders and fashions and languages change over time, but people don't. Not really. This stubborn insistence on doing things how they've always been done because that's the way they've always been done used to drive Ed up the wall, but he finds himself grateful for it now.
A perfect example: tradition dictates that it's the family that prepares the dead for burial, so he will. Alone.
"Are you sure?" Winry looks a very particular brand of miserable Ed's not sure there's an adequate word for in any of the languages he's halfway fluent in. Tired and hurting and wrung-out and angry and scared and dreading and relieved and guilty and—
And grief is complicated, unbearably so. They know that better than most people their age.
Ed holds her for a long, necessary moment. "Yeah," he breathes into her hair. "I want to."
She squeezes him gently before pulling away, red-rimmed eyes lingering, heavy with all she could say but chooses not to. She knows he doesn't mean want. She knows too, to let it be.
"Wait," Mei pipes up, waving her hands fretfully. Xiao Mei, perched on her shoulders as always, mirrors her perfectly. "That's—the Court Healers already prepared—they took care of everything after—!" She covers her mouth with her sleeve, muzzling herself before she can say something she'll regret.
Ancellota steps in smoothly, waving a thick folder stamped with Xingese characters to draw all eyes to her. "We're grateful for the consideration and care taken thus far, especially with the significant distance Mister Elric's remains needed to travel. We're grateful too for all the information you've provided as well, Princess Chang. However I must insist on deferring to the wishes of Mister Elric's remaining family."
Mei makes like she's going to protest further, but when Ed touches her arm she snaps her mouth shut so fast her teeth click. Her eyes are shiny again when she looks up at him. "Please," she implores. "Edward, I don't want you to see."
He pulls her, gently, and she sinks into him with a strangled, smothered keening. For all that she and Winry are nearly the same height Ed is astonished by how much smaller she is as he folds her close. He's not sure if he's ever hugged her before. They've never gotten along, not really. But they both loved Al, and so kept their natural inclination to bitch each other out over every little thing to a minimum for that shared love. And besides, a few months more and she would have been his sister-in-law. Family.
"It's okay," he tells her.
There are more discussions after that. The preparations done thus far, the scheduling of things to come, set costs, estimated costs, estimated guests, et fucking cetera. So long as Ed ignores the why for all the number wrangling the whole mess of paperwork is almost peaceful. They wrap it all up eventually, at least as much as things can be before the funeral itself, then Ancellotta escorts Winry, Mei, and Pinako out the front door. Her stoic façade melts away the moment they're more or less alone, the sergeant pretending not to exist behind a magazine in the corner. Ancellotta hugs Ed as readily as Pinako did, for all that they're not really anything more than acquaintances of unhappy circumstances.
"Oh, Edward," she says. Not overwrought, not melodramatic, in no way an attempt to be first in a long line of well-wishers and over-eager sympathizers. It's understanding. As simple as that. It's enough to set Ed off again just as he's finally gotten hold of himself.
It's the same routine with the rest of the Moskofians, a whole clan of good-hearted folk who've dedicated their lives and livelihoods to helping others through the practical and necessary aspects of saying goodbye. Gravediggers, coffin makers, and funeral directors the lot of them; the only things they outsource are the flowers and God, and Pastor Darbinian has already been notified that he won't be required to attend the funeral in a formal capacity. Al was as happy to keep religion at arm's length as Ed is, for all that he was nicer about saying so.
His shoulder's sore and his ribs bruised after all the firm handshakes and firmer hugs, but soon enough—far sooner than he'd like—he's taken down to the chilly preparation room where the coffin's been taken. Tradition and modernity are reluctant neighbors here, jostling for equal space. There's a round mirror on the wall covered by a gauzy black cloth; a bucket of water sat beneath it that's covered too. White candles cluster in available corners despite the bank of fluorescent lighting overhead. There are freshly woven wreaths hung on every door. The bare walls are whitewashed stone but every surface is shining chrome and the floor is the same easy to sanitize tile as Pinako's operating room.
Steuben offers to be an extra pair of hands. Ed declines. Perle offers to take measurements for a more traditional burial suit. Ed declines. Dafni offers to help with preparations for the viewing. Ed declines. Mavro offers a selection of more traditional coffins that would be easier to carry and easier to bury. Ed declines. Old Vitofska chases the rest of her family out and offers Ed a drink to steady his hands.
That one, he accepts.
Old Vitofska shares that drink with him, smiling without a tooth in her head and her cataracts all but lost in the folds of her myriad wrinkles. Ed can't remember if she's finally broken 100 or not; either way, she makes Pinako look positively spry in comparison. "He was a good boy," she says, patting his real knee. "You need anything, we're right outside, eh? You say everything you need to. You say your goodbyes."
Once she's tottered out of the preparation room Ed is finally, truly alone. That's fine. It's what he wanted, after all.
The coffin was sealed with alkahestry rather than nailed shut. Ed swears under his breath, pissed that he's got to make use of that sergeant after all and pissed off twice as much for needing to drag Mei back in here to open it—
—and then he remembers.
Right. Yeah. No need to bother anybody else at all, is there?
A clap of his hands and the sloped lid slides neatly off, more or less. He kind of regrets not taking Steuben up on his offer to be an extra pair of hands. The lid's heavy, sure, but it's more awkward for its size than anything else. Ah, well. He gets it settled on the floor without chipping a corner and only has to take a short breather. It's a win in his book.
He braces himself against the coffin's edge. Takes a steadying breath. Looks.
There's a terrible part of him that doesn't recognize his own fucking brother.
There's a smaller but infinitely worse part of him that wants to run away, leave this last duty to somebody else. It's wrong of him to want. Shameful. He stomps on that feeling until it goes away, then stomps on his disbelief for good measure. In the end, all he feels is... resignation.
Somebody combed Al's hair too neatly after they washed him, dressed him in blue and white robes, and laid him in the white silk interior of this ostentatious coffin. It makes him look wrong in a way that's tolerable, easy to fix. Al liked his hair falling into his eyes, just a bit. He was always good about getting it trimmed regularly but hardly ever bothered with product. Ed's not sure he even owned a comb, the animal. Ed carefully ruffles his hair until it looks right again. His fingers come away dusted with talcum powder.
It takes him too many attempts to speak. Even then his voice is a shadow of itself. He reaches for humor and flounders. "You know, last time it was just me and your body, it had the nerve to—to talk to me. So, h-how 'bout an encore?"
There's no answer, of course. No huff of amusement at Ed's expense. No irritation at Ed's melodrama. Not even a flicker of his eyelids or twitch of his fingers.
Al's gone, and that's all there is to it.
Hours later, the sergeant springs to attention the moment Ed reenters the waiting room. She's visibly relieved to see him and just as visibly guilty to feel that way. There are nearly a dozen Moskofians collected around her, tea and scones heaped galore, all of them chattering away with aggressive good cheer as she tries to pick her way past. Ed, belatedly, realizes he has no idea what her name is. Ah, well. No sense in asking it now. It's not like he's any good with names at the best of times.
She pastes an anemic smile on her face. "Mister Ro—"
Whatever room temperature drivel she wants to spill all over him, he doesn't want any part of it. "Did Mustang give you the night off or what?"
She blinks at him. "He—that is, the General asked that I escort you until—ah, until such time that you request I leave you alone."
Until he's sick of having her dogging his every footstep, more like. That's probably closer to what Mustang told her too. "Well then, I hope you're hungry, 'cuz you're stayin' for dinner."
"What? Oh, no, I couldn't—"
It hardly takes any glowering at her at all to shut her up. Jeez, Hawkeye usually vets people into the Ishval postings with a little more steel in their spines. She must be a linguist or something. Then again, the only people comfortable in funeral homes are the dead ones.
"Small town hospitality," he says. "We're gonna be up to our ears in meatloaf and koliva this time tomorrow. You're getting a free meal for putting up with me and that's final."
She flusters a bit, but concedes soon enough. "A-all right then. Thank you."
He turns for the door with a queasy smile pasted on his own face for the benefit of all the Moskofians waiting to bid him goodbye. Course, it's another 15 minutes of niceties before they actually escape. Ancellotta insists on one last hug on the porch, reassuring him all will be ready in time for the wake tonight. Another lingering tradition; wakes are two-night affairs of music, food, and misty-eyed storytelling. Ed doesn't know if he'll have the strength to speak his piece during any of it. Worse still, he knows nobody will fault him for it.
They don't even make it to the road before a voice calls out, "Edward."
The sergeant goes for her gun, not quite drawing it. Ed makes no such move for any of the knives he's gotten in the habit of carrying. He's too tired to be paranoid, least of all here in his hometown. He looks around instead and, after finding no one in sight, remembers there's something like 30 Imperial Guards that came here with them here on the train. He looks back to the roof of the funeral home. There's a lone figure up there—the captain of the lot in his bright red mask.
This is the first time Ed's paid him proper attention. His uniform is identical to the rest; glossy body armor over thick black clothes loose enough for all the acrobatics expected of them. With the distance between them now he can't make much of the captain's mask out; only the jarring red color and its large white fangs. It takes Ed a beat to recognize it. When he does it almost surprises a laugh out of him. Grief has made him inattentive. He doesn't think Ling will fault him for it.
"I'm not in the mood for your ninja bullshit," he calls out peaceably. "Get down here."
Ling does just that, leaping and landing in a graceful arc that suggests he impersonates his own guards on the regular. Now on ground level the details of his mask become clear. Darker red lines cut through the eye holes; the white fangs become exposed teeth framed by short tusks that glint when he looks at the sergeant. So the stupid mask isn't just for fun. Fair enough.
Ed jerks his head up the road. "Go on ahead, would ya? It's a straight shot from here. Y'can't miss it."
She balks. "I—I'm not sure that's wise, considering..."
Considering one Elric has already been keelhauled by some secretive Xingese fucker. "It's fine. I know the guy."
"Sir, he's wearing a mask—"
"Wow, so he is. Thank you for pointing that out, I definitely hadn't noticed—" He breaks off with an aggravated snarl, more at himself than at the sergeant. She's just doing her damn job. "Really, Sergeant. This is me requesting you to leave me alone now."
That does the trick, thankfully. She bids him goodbye after a pointed comment about letting Winry know he'll be along shortly and a glower at Ling, who just tilts his head in a way that promises a sunny grin behind the mask. He approaches Ed as the sergeant leaves, though Ed chews his cheek a moment longer. Once she's out of earshot he faces Ling directly, sighing his way into a deep bow—
But Ling catches him by the shoulders. His grip is bruising, his eyes tight behind the lacquered wood. "No," he says firmly. "Not today."
Ed shrugs him off, mouth pressed to a firm line.
"I'm sorry—" Ling laughs without any humor, dropping his hands. "No. An apology now is nothing more than an insult, isn't it. Edward, I... I can't begin to express what this mea—"
"What are you doing here."
"...Officially, I'm not here," he says after a pause, gesturing to the mask. "Unofficially, however, I couldn't bear to stay away."
So that's how it's going to be. He's not here as Emperor Yao, the most powerful man on the planet, but simply as a grieving friend. It would have taken weeks for the Emperor to make all the right demands and requests through the appropriate channels to come here, and it would be as much of a three-ring circus as it had been when he'd insisted on coming to Ed and Winry's wedding. Sneaking here as one of Mei's guards was the expedited option. "Then what are you doing, officially."
Another pause. "...The Emperor has gone into seclusion to mourn the passing of his dear friend and almost brother-in-law. The Emperor has permitted access to his person only to the commander of his personal guard, and has tasked her to be both his voice and his sword until the mourning period has passed. A full vetting of the entire Court is underway, from the youngest stable hand to the Empress Dowager, his own mother." The barest trace of humor dries his voice. "You can imagine how she felt about that."
Ed met the Empress Dowager once, technically, and exchanged all of two sentences with her before she'd given him a razor thin smile and ignored him for the rest of the feast. She'd reminded him sharply of General Armstrong; less that overt ruthlessness that had her threatening to to scalp anybody who mouthed off at her, more the time she'd pulled the wool over General Raven's eyes. Feigning sweetness for the doddering, arrogant men so convinced of their own greatness they don't realize they're dealing with a pit viper until she's slit them open from nose to navel. The Empress Dowager liked Al from what Ed had seen, but then, that could have just been an act too.
Ed's never had a head for politics. He's regretting it now.
"Lan Fan wanted to be here as well, but..." Ling taps his left shoulder. "A bit obvious, and difficult to replicate convincingly on such short notice. And besides, with a traitor hiding in my Court, she's the only one I trust to handle things in my absence."
"Hmph. She's probably running things better than you ever could."
That earns him a breath of laughter. "No question."
Ed starts walking up the road, Ling following a step behind. Dirt grinds underfoot. He was down in the preparation room longer than he'd realized. The sun's nearly set behind the mountains, the western sky burning a deep orange beginning to bruise. Most of the valley lies dim and still, all the afternoon shadows chased away. This high up it never gets half as hot as it does in Rush Valley. Ed shivers despite his coat.
"We will find who did this," Ling says abruptly. "All of them. Every single person who put this reprehensible scheme together. Every single person who knew of it and sat idly by. I promise you, Edward. They won't walk away from this."
"Pretty words," Ed sneers before he can help himself. He scrubs his stinging eyes with a stinging hand. "Shit. Just—seeking justice is one thing, but he…. Al wouldn't've wanted vengeance."
Greed's face tilts toward him; intent, calculating. "And what about you?"
Ed—
—breathes.
He knows they took precautions against this kind of—disaster. Probably more than even Ed was ever told of. Ling and Mei have been dealing with shadows coming after them in the night all their lives. They survived. Not all of their half-siblings were so lucky. This happens in Xing. He knows that. He knows they were more worried about attempts against Mei; not as a possibility but as an inevitability. Hell, there was one less than a year ago. Ed doesn't know the details, just that Al had been the only one to convince Mei to rest rather than go straight to tearing answers out of the assassin one fingernail at a time. This shit's expected there, and as such there are a dozen contingency plans in place for every threat, however improbable.
And besides, it was like Al wasn't—
—hadn't been—
—perfectly capable of defending himself. An outright attack would have all but guaranteed Al would have walked away whistling, just one more story to laugh about later. And there are alkahestrists in Dàdū whose sole duty is to test everything that goes in and out of the palace. Poisonings are attempted now and then, or so Ed's heard, but there's not been a death from one in almost 50 years. So either one of those alkahestrists betrayed the oath they'd sworn, or somebody else managed to slip a single bottle of doctored wine right under their noses. Even then, Al's gotten paranoid; the last time he visited Amestris he'd clapped his hands to check every meal. But—it wasn't like he'd been convinced somebody was gunning for him. It wasn't like he'd known his clock was going to get punched sooner than later. It was—habit. Like looking both ways before crossing the street. Sure you don't hear a car coming, but better safe than sorry, right?
Right.
Subterfuge, then. Betrayal. Somebody Al had known. Somebody he'd trusted. Maybe somebody he'd even considered a friend. Somebody Al wouldn't have thought twice about inviting into his private rooms at night and sharing a glass of wine, never mind the late hour. That won't narrow it down much. Al made friends wherever he went. He was always so goddamn nice.
There's been an anger growing in Ed ever since the telegram that's been slowly boiling away the numb disbelief he's been hiding behind. He knows there's no chance in hell of keeping this out of the papers. Al's work in Xing is half the reason they still can't go a month without the name Elric hitting the front page. He knows too that Amestris is a country built on bones, still inclined toward bloodshed rather than peace treaties. One day, maybe, it will be different, but if—this—isn't handled right by people with cool heads and open hands, war with Xing might well be inevitable. Nobody wants that, not really. Al would have hated that.
Still.
Still.
Ling hums. "Perhaps now is not the best time to have this conversation."
"No," Ed agrees, relieved. "Perhaps it's not."
They're quiet for a while after that. Ed expects Ling to slink off to wherever the rest of the guards are camping out for the night. But he stays. Rockbell Automail appears at the top of the hill, every window ablaze with lights. The smallest modicum of tension eases in Ed's chest at the familiar sight. He can breathe that little bit easier at the sight of home.
"You're limping," Ling observes.
Ed doesn't bother replying. He's aware, thanks.
"Mei... shared with me what you told her and General Mustang."
Ed huffs, suddenly finding himself at his wit's end, sick of people tripping over themselves trying not to pour salt in a wound. "Oh, for—you've been cooped up in the palace too long. Just spit it out already—or better yet, how about you shut the fuck up and come eat with us. It's been a while since you had a chance to flirt with my wife; you may as well get it out of your system while you've got an excuse to hide your face around people with an ounce of class. Keep the mask on or don't, I don't give a shit and neither should you. Nobody's gonna believe sergeant what's-her-name if she said she watched the Emperor of Xing eat his body weight in meatballs out in the sticks anyway."
"You—" Ling's shoulders are shaking with stifled laughter. "God. I let you get away with entirely too much, Ed."
"You don't let me get away with shit, and don't you forget that. Your disguise sucks, by the way. I can't believe you think combat pajamas and the tackiest death mask in the world is low profile."
"This, coming from the man who sent me a three-hundred pound gargoyle for my birthday."
Ed doesn't even bother retorting, just points at a peacock glowering at them from the low stone wall parallel to the road. That's the straw that breaks Ling's restraint; he laughs, loud and honest, and slings an arm over Ed's shoulders. For a moment, brief though it is, things are—not good, not painless, but... tolerable. For a moment he can stomach the weight, the absence, the grief. For a moment he can tread water without fear of drowning.
They reach the dusty yard, a broad square of spilled light in the deepening dark. Some of the windows are open. Ed can hear faint music and the clattering of dishes, catches the faint smell of freshly baked bread. The tension in his chest eases a little more. Dinner will be a subdued affair, more a steeling for the night to come. But at least he won't be alone for any of it.
"The world is dimmed terribly by his absence," Ling says quietly. The edge of his mask presses against Ed's cheek. "I'm sorry he's gone. Truly I am. But I'm glad you didn't die as well."
Ed swallows, shutting his eyes against the sting. "Too busy to die," he quips instead of what he really wants to say. It should've been me. If it had to be one of us, it should have been me.
Ling slips free then, tripping Ed to dash up the stairs while he's swearing to open the door with a theatrically deep bow. There's no way the idiot's not grinning behind the mask. Ed kicks him in the shin once he's close enough and drags him inside.
That night it seems like the entire village descends on the funeral home like a plague of well-meaning locusts. It's not remotely large enough for that many people, of course, but that's what all the surrounding acreage is for. By the time they come down from Pinako's, far from the first to arrive, the wake is already going all-out. Torches burn in regular intervals around the fenceline, bathing the trimmed grass in flickering orange light. An enormous white tent has been erected in one corner, fairy lights hung in drooping arcs inside. Musicians have gathered in a halfway organized group inside and dancers cavort around the bonfire just beginning to blaze in the center. The air is as warmed by the smell of grilling meat as it is by the sound of violins, drums, flutes, panpipes, and voices raised together in a doleful song.
Ed watches peafowl dip under the fence in ones and twos, strutting right into the crowd to demand scraps out of the hands of laughing children. Spoiled rotten, the whole flock. Or, no. That's not the right word for a group of these stupid birds. Is it pride, like lions? Ah, no, he remembers now. An ostentation, that's it. That's what this whole damn dog and pony show is, really. As ostentatious as that fucking coffin he's going to have stand next to most of the night. He's glad Pinako insisted they all eat beforehand; no way he's going to be able to stomach anything else tonight.
A peacock, iridescent as an oil spill, bobs up to him. Its beady eye glares in the firelight, daring him not to feed it. "Go away," he tells it, waving his empty hands. "I don't have anything. Go on, get."
It does so after another few seconds of affronted glaring, turning around with the slow self-assuredness of the enormous steamers that prowl the ports of the Great Sea. The train of its tail, six feet if it's an inch, skims against Ed's shins as it saunters off elsewhere, wholly confident that it'll find some stupid human to feed it eventually. Ed finds himself feeling vaguely jealous of a fucking decoration with legs and attitude. He decides the smart thing to do is to retreat inside the funeral home, never mind the way that idea makes his skin crawl.
Winry braves the crowd in short bursts, always the better between the two of them at dealing with people. Mostly though, she stays inside too. She talks with and thanks each of the Moskofians, even the youngest one Ed can't remember the name of. He can't be any older than Maes, and he stands in the waiting room directing people to and fro with all the seriousness of an MP handling crowd control at a car accident. Winry helps Ed lay out the white candles and embroidered handkerchiefs that they'll be passing out to guests as they cycle through the viewing room. She has her own private cry over Al when he and Mavro open up the coffin. Ed gives her some time alone, his stomach a hard knot and his throat closed up, then goes over and slips an arm around her waist. She sinks against him, head falling to rest against his shoulder as if she were so tired she could fall asleep right there.
"I... I don't know enough about..." She takes a shuddering breath, unable to say aloud the how of how Al died. There's no kind way to say heavy metal poisoning, and elixir is a cruel slap in the face of all the dreams he and Ed had shared before they'd learned the terrible truth of the Philosopher's Stone. "I just... I hope he wasn't in pain, at the end."
She's moved the unlit candle Ed had placed in Al's hand earlier so she can hold it, smoothing her thumb over his scarred knuckles. The sleeve of his robe has slipped, showing an incongruously dark bruise around his wrist. The difference between their skin tones is all wrong, all wrong. Ed can't help but mimic her shuddered breath. His lungs still ache, even now. "H-he wasn't. I'm sure of it."
"How? Did—could you... feel what he was feeling?"
"No. I mean—kinda, 'cuz I was sick, obviously, but..." He remembers an impossible place, beautiful scenery blurred to suggestions of shapes and colors now that he's awake. He remembers the rain and the relief, and Al laughing. He remembers laughing too. "I... he was in a lot of my dreams, in the hospital. Nonsensical shit, y'know. But some of it was real, I think. Or he was while the dreams weren't. I dunno."
He tells her what he can remember, which isn't much. A party they'd walked out of to talk. Al knowing something Ed didn't and telling him not to worry. Al taking Ed's drink and coaxing him to go back inside, reminding him that he owed Winry a dance.
She slips her hand out of Al's to scrub her face. "Better p-pay up, dummy."
He presses a kiss to her hairline. "Don't I always?"
The public viewing comes, sooner than Ed's ready for. He puts on a brave face as he stand with Winry beside the coffin, handing out handkerchiefs to the men and white candles to the women, switching it up now and then to spit in the eye of a tradition they both agree is pretty stupid. Everyone who approaches the coffin places a wreath of flowers at its base. Some only pause to say a short prayer, others to simply look. Some turn to face the gathered crowd with wet eyes and open hands as they tell a story about Al. Always a good one, a funny one, one to make people laugh. Ed's name comes up almost as frequently as Al's. "Joined at the hip from the moment Alphonse could walk into trouble alongside you," Francusa Cusbert jokes, and even Ed can crack a smile at that. It's true, after all.
All of the Xingese guards share stories. Ling too, though he pitches his voice almost as low as Greed once did to lessen the chances of anybody recognizing him. Most of what they all share is news to Ed, and half the stories they tell make him wish he could still grab Al by the stupid ties he liked to wear and demand to know what the fuck he'd been thinking to end up in that mess. All of them make him smile for different reasons. It's good, to hear the good Al did in Xing. To hear from the friends and allies he made, the people he protected with alchemy and healed with alkahestry. It's good, to hear the stories Al had been too humble to tell himself.
Mei retreats behind a mask of her own so she can speak without a hitch in her voice or tears in her eyes. She's the picture of poise in her roughspun robe and hood, as regal as the empress she might have been if the Promised Day had turned out a little differently. "I loved Alphonse from the moment I saw him, though perhaps it took me longer than that to realize it." She graces the gathered crowd with a wry smile, a subtle nod to those that know what she really means; the hulking armor Al's soul had once been bound to, and the emaciated boy too weak to stand on his own too. She loved Al not for his looks alone, once he'd healed and grown into them, but for his heart most of all.
She tells a story of the earliest times she tried to teach Al; huddled up in some frost-bitten slum up North years and years ago now, and how they'd shouted their mutual frustration at each other until she'd gone hoarse and he'd stomped off in a huff. She tells another story after that; of a time when Al could maybe string together a half dozen sentences in Xingese, and none of them any use in a crisis. There'd been a fire in a village they'd passed through in Chang territory; small and insular with hardly a literate among them. They'd regarded Al with suspicion until he'd clapped his hands and put the fire out with a clever bit of alchemy. After that the villagers had called him Shinito, a perfect being equal to the Western Sage. Al had blushed and blustered while Mei had laughed herself sick.
Mustang and Hawkeye arrive separately from the rest of their cronies. All of them are in their dress blues but there's a poise to how the two of them carry themselves the others lack; an unflappable confidence paired with a... fragility, perhaps, to their faces. They stand burdened. There's more gray in Mustang's hair than the last time Ed saw him with it slicked back. It's a shame Ed's not in the mood to make fun of him for it.
They place their wreaths atop the heaped pile and stand over the coffin for—a long time.
Hawkeye's the first to turn away; abruptly, like she can't stomach seeing Al so still a second longer. She doesn't share a story, which doesn't surprise Ed. She pulls him and Winry into a fierce hug, which does. Her mouth is pressed to a thin white line as she accepts a handkerchief from Winry. She nods at Ed; once, firmly. It's all she has to do to say, I'm with you, whatever you decide to do about this. He nods back, throat tight. Thank you.
Mustang faces the crowd. Abruptly Ed finds himself recalling the Promised Day, when he'd burned all those mannequin soldiers to so much greasy ash with a snap of his fingers. It had been the first time Ed had ever really seen the Hero of Ishval in action. Gone was the flirtatious layabout. Gone too was the good man Ed had learned Mustang to be. All his masks had been boxed up and hidden away in some private cellar, leaving only the unflinching tactician. A job needed doing, and Mustang would see it done.
There's that same cold fury in his eyes now.
"You all remember the eclipse," he says bluntly. This isn't the politician speaking. He has no patience for pretty words tonight. "It was the Elric brothers who uncovered that plot in time. We'd all be dead today if not for them. We owe them a debt that can never be repaid as it justly deserves."
Ed's jaw feels wired shut as he hands Mustang a candle. Their eyes meet briefly, and then Mustang turns on his heel and is gone. Another person takes his place before the coffin, and another, and another. The night grows long. Ed aches for silence, but what he gets is music and stories, laughter and song, good food and better company. It's an old-fashioned way of thinking, to demand joy from a funeral.
Al would have loved to see everyone so happy.
Few people stay the entire night, but more than Ed expected promise to return in the morning to keep vigil so he and Winry can get some sleep. When they finally leave the sky is just beginning to gray. Ed's so wrung out by small kindnesses he can only bob his head stupidly when Refosco claps his arm and assures him the gravesite will be finished that afternoon.
Pinako had hugged Ed, Winry, and Mei again before she'd left early too. Her bedroom window is dark when they get to her house but she'd left an oil lantern burning low on the dining table for them. Su, always happy for visitors, circles through their legs sniffing curiously. She leans against Ed's knees as he scratches her behind the ear, tail wagging gently as she looks up at him with her dark eyes too attentive. Even the damn dog knows something is all wrong, all wrong.
Mei retreats into Ed's old room without a word. He and Winry creep up the stairs to her old room, barely capable of shedding their clothes before collapsing into each other. Ed tries to sleep without much success. Winry seems to have better luck, only awake and staring once whenever he blinks out of his own restless doze. She's sleeping soundly when Ed gives up and gets up, which he's grateful for. Once Maes and Nina are added to the mix, two bundles of elbows and knees squeezed between them on this ancient mattress, they're sure not to manage any sleep at all.
He disentangles himself and gets dressed without more than a couple snuffles of almost-wakefulness from Winry. He smoothes the blanket over her and, shoes in hand, tiptoes down the stairs. He needs some air.
Pinako's awake and waiting for him at the dining table. There's a cup of coffee and a plate of fresh toast waiting for him. "Thought that was you clattering around up there," she says by way of greeting.
She joins him on the porch for her morning smoke, him sat on the top step and her swallowed up by the enormous squashy chair he'd hauled up the hill for her a few years back. Su noses Ed's arm now and then, hoping he'll share a bit of crust with her. She's not half as well-mannered as Den had been, but she's a sweet thing. He nurses his coffee, picking at his toast to make it look like he eats more of it than he does. Pinako inhales and sighs a couple of times behind him like she's got something she doesn't want to say but knows it needs saying. In the end the only thing she does say is, "Leave it on the railing, I'll get it," when he's finished and stood up, brushing the back of his trousers off.
He raises a curious eyebrow at her. She raises one right back.
"Give them my best, won't you? It's been a while since I've made it out to the cemetery."
"Witch," he replies agreeably. Whole family of mind readers, these Rockbell women. That, or he's gotten predictable in his old age.
The only flower shop in town is, predictably, a total madhouse when Ed walks in. For all that it looked like every flower in 20 kilometers had ended up in the funeral home last night, there's hardly room to walk in here now. No real surprise there. This is the biggest—event—that's happened in Resembool since his and Winry's wedding, and back then the Caddeos had needed to outsource from a couple shops up in Angren to meet demand.
He's relieved to see Rosarra at the counter. He's never liked dealing with Mrs. Caddeo and Mr. Caddeo doesn't seem to like dealing with him, but their daughter's all right. Her eyes are bruised with exhaustion and there's already an over-caffeinated jitter to her hands despite the early hour, but she's an honest type. She's pleased to see him, sorry for the reason he's here, and not the type to simper to him about any of it.
"Any of these not accounted for?" He jokes. Tries, anyway. It's weak even to his own ears.
She gives him a wane smile anyway. "No, but since they're all goin' to the same place I doubt anybody'd notice if you helped yourself. Already paid for and everything, how 'bout that?"
Yeah. She's alright in Ed's book.
She puts together his usual order and lends him a basket too, no hurry in returning it. She refuses payment since the flowers really are all already paid for, so he settles for tipping what they're worth and a little extra for her trouble. She waves him off without any best wishes or so sorrys, which he's grateful for. He's sick to death of all that already.
Izumi's waiting for him outside.
He stills at the sight of her. She's dressed for the mountain chill, all in black, the sleeves of her jacket straining as she crosses her arms and gives him a stony once-over. Her eyes linger on the week-old bruise on his face, the stippled slash from his automail still a raw and aching wound. Her jaw works like she's debating between chewing him out or simply tossing him ass over teakettle down the street. He's not sure which one he'd prefer. He knows he'd do anything not to see her cry too.
She sighs and holds out her arms in a wordless insistence. Ed thinks he should feel silly, hugging her right there in the street, but he's too busy trying not to break down yet a-fucking-gain to care about anybody seeing.
"You look like hell," she says by way of greeting. It's got the intended effect surprising a weak laugh out of him.
"Gee. W-wonder why."
She hums, letting go to brush his bangs aside for a better look at his face. Her mouth thins but she doesn't comment, nodding past him instead. "Sig went on ahead. We thought we'd handle dinner tonight."
There's a wagon kicking up dust down the road on its way out of town, loaded down with goods covered by a stretched tarp, two men perched on the back. Mason's one of them, most likely, and the other…. "Is that Havoc?"
"We ran into them on the train from Central. The rest of that lot should all be on the evening train."
Them? Ed squints, able to make out the slight form and dark curls of Rebecca sat next to Sig at the front of the wagon. Ah. Speaking of the evening train, though. "Thought you'd be on that one too, with Pan and the kids."
She cuffs him lightly on the back of the head, walking after the wagon. "Can't trust you on your own, now can I?"
He huffs, but doesn't dispute that.
The walk out of town is quiet after that, which suits Ed just fine. He didn't plan for company this early in the morning and he's fairly certain his capacity for chitchat didn't get out of bed with the rest of him. It's a nice morning, as most mornings are this time of year out here. Thin clouds scud across a cornflower blue sky. The craggy mountains and rolling fields are all shades of emerald green, purple and yellow wildflowers cheerful splashes of color here and there. A mild breeze is even in their favor; he can hardly catch a whiff of sheep shit. It's a nice walk. His stump hardly pains him at all.
Of course, the good morning sours once the cemetery comes into view. His heart crawls into his throat at the sight of two men crouched casually beside where he knows his parents' graves are. The men—Refosco's sons, their names escaping Ed now that he actually needs to remember them—spring to their feet like they've been caught napping on the job rather than taking a needed water break. Gravedigging is hardly an easy job, after all.
"Good morning!" Izumi calls out with convincing cheer. They greet her in kind. Ed doesn't bother. He wouldn't convince anybody he's cheerful of anything right now, and he's not interested in faking for civility's sake anyway. He hangs back, resting against the low fenceline, as Izumi strides off to effortlessly charm these two, all smiles and open body language. It never stops being weird when she pulls this friendly shit.
He tunes them out, eyes drifting past them to where the Rockbell plot is. He didn't buy enough flowers to leave any for Auntie Sara and Uncle Yuriy, but he'll be back with Winry to visit them at least once before they leave. He'll have to remember to bring Pinako's gardening tools; even from here he can tell their headstones need tending to.
He and Winry have been talking baby names again. Maes had been her idea, and her idea as well to ask Gracia and Elicia for permission. Nina had been his idea. There'd been no one left in her extended family to ask, nor a grave of her own to visit either. Brigadier General Hughes and the rest of his team had taken her twisted body back to Central, handed it over to one of the labs, and… who knows what happened after that. He's tried not to wonder. It eats at him still.
They'll find out in a couple weeks what the new baby's going to be. They both still like the idea of honoring people rather than simply picking something that sounds nice, and they've been talking about using one of their parents' names this time around. Ed had thrown his head back and cackled at the idea of saddling a kid with a name as ludicrous as Van Hohenheim, and he was first to admit that Trisha was still too loaded for him to put any serious consideration into either. Sara and Yuriy are good names, and Ed knows Pinako would approve in a heartbeat, but Winry's seemed a touch reluctant. Not that Ed blames her, considering. It's her decision. If she decides she's not comfortable with naming their baby after either of their parents, then that's fine.
Ed, briefly, considers naming the baby after Al if it turns out to be a boy, but….
He closes his eyes. Too soon. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Izumi raises her voice, drawing him back to the present. "A bit farther than that, if you don't mind." There's the clap and crackle of alchemy after that, and Ed watches the two men scramble back as the shallow hole they'd dug widens and deepens beneath tongues of bluewhite light, all the extra earth distributed elsewhere. Hours of backbreaking labor taken care of, just like that.
"Holy…." One of them breathes out.
"Incredible," the other agrees faintly.
"I think that should take care of things here, gentlemen," Izumi says, grinning wide. "It looks like the day is yours."
They take the hint and gather their equipment, thanking her profusely all the way. They pause to bow at Ed by the cemetery entrance, murmuring soft condolences. He nods back, trying to keep the grimace off his face. Still, he feels some ghost of amusement as he watches them go, their eyes agog every time they look back over their shoulders at Izumi. There's something akin to bone-deep satisfaction in witnessing a fine display of talent and skill. It doesn't matter what it is; you see something impressive, you want to take the time to appreciate it.
He kicks off the fence, going over to join Izumi. The fresh grave is beside his old man's. He can't remember if he decided that or if Pinako took the initiative. Either way it seems fitting, putting Al that little bit closer to Xing. "You know I'm still gonna have to pay them, right?"
"And here I thought you'd be grateful for a little peace and quiet."
He rolls his eyes. She's not wrong, after all.
It takes more effort than it should to kneel at the foot of his parents' graves. He's tired from walking already. He wonders how much of this is exhaustion and grief and how much of it is him still recovering from his fucking echo-copy of Al's poisoning. He wonders if it's possible he'll ever recover fully now that their connection is severed for good. You never realize how much you rely on one part of yourself until it's gone for good. Ask him how he knows.
He places a bouquet before each headstone; first Mom, then the old man. A couple of decades has been long enough that Mom's epitaph has begun to blur, exposure wearing away the words one Moskofian or another had once carved. Give it a few more years and the old man's will start to look the same. Anonymity claims everybody, in the end.
"Keep an eye on him for me 'til I get there, huh?" Fingers crossed that's still a long ways off, but hey, life's full of surprises. He thinks there should be more to say, but the yawning hole on his right seems adamant on swallowing his every thought. This time tomorrow they'll be putting Al to rest in there. Ed hasn't figured out what he wants to put on his headstone. He's trying not to think about that, if he's honest. Too many people in this family die too damn young.
Alphonse Elric. Too damn young.
Yeah. Might be too morbid to say it so frankly. Best not.
It takes even more effort to get to his feet. He nearly loses his balance, gasping through a shock of pain. He stands there; staring, catching his breath through slow, familiar prickles of pain. It will pass. It will pass. All things must pass.
Izumi's watching him too closely again when he turns, stern concern and a too-familiar grief etching fresh wounds in every inch of her. He can't bear to have the conversation she so clearly wants to have yet; he brushes past her out of the cemetery, up the road, all the way up the steep hill where their house had stood once upon a time. He knows she follows him, hears her footsteps grinding up the dirt road behind him, but she chooses to be kind. She says nothing. She gives him space to breathe.
The ruins of their old house astonish him every time he makes the trek all the way out here. It's been almost wholly devoured by overgrowth, only the barest shape of stone foundations left to suggest something had been built here once upon a time. The dead tree had fallen years ago and had been claimed by some neighbor or another for firewood one particularly cold winter. The garden's completely overgrown, a tangle of weeds and tomatoes and sunflowers. The land still belongs to him, technically. He and Winry have talked about doing something with it eventually. Selling it. Rebuilding the house. Something. It feels a waste to just let it remain as it is. But there have been distractions heaped upon distractions, and so it still remains—overgrown, ignored, a stain that can't be scrubbed clean.
Ed skirts the ruins, circling around the back until he comes to the familiar sight of the headstone he'd transmuted years and years ago now. He doesn't trust his own strength to kneel here too, unsure whether or not he'd be able to haul himself up again and unequivocally certain he's in no mood to ask Izumi for help either way. He ends up hunched in on himself, slouching as he struggles to catch his breath. He remembers a time not so long ago when this walk would have been inconsequential.
God, but he's so tired.
God, but there's still so much more to do.
He drops the last bouquet against the blank headstone. This too, is an old habit. The three of them would make their small pilgrimage to the cemetery every time at least one of them found themselves in Resembool, and he or Al would finish the trek all the way up here. This body was only ever half-formed, a thing of hope dashed to pieces against the Gate. It wouldn't have so much as twitched if Truth hadn't decided to claim Al's entire body as a toll.
"What's so funny?"
He blinks. It's only then he realizes he's been laughing under his breath. Whoops.
"S'just—funny, is all," he says, still chuckling weakly. "This—it's not the first time I'm gonna bury Alphonse, technically."
She hums. He doesn't have to say more than that. This isn't the first time she's seen this grave, after all. She knows the whole story. Al's the one who told her, after all.
"I can do alchemy again," he tells her.
She doesn't tense. She doesn't swivel to stare at him aghast. He feels her eyes burning him anyway.
"I dunno if it's a—fucking—refund, or if Al had the time to haggle with Truth, or what. But I can. That's how I knew he was…."
He shuts his eyes when her hand touches his back, pressing between his shoulder blades at the center of his flamel tattoo. He's wearing too many layers to feel the warmth of her hand, but the pressure is—comforting. A mute reminder of so many years ago.
It's okay to hurt.
He knows that. God, but he knows that. Doesn't stop the hurt from stealing his breath away though, does it?
She hums again. "Don't look now, but here comes trouble."
He looks anyway. There where the road thins to weeds he can see Mustang approaching, familiar in shape if not in apparel; he can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Mustang out of uniform. He seems narrower without it. Thinner, more human. Ed would shy away if there were anywhere left to run.
"Bet you he's gonna try and convince me not to try human transmutation again," he jokes.
"He knows?"
"Yeah."
She hums.
"I'm not gonna," he tells her. He knows better than that. Doesn't mean he wishes he didn't.
"I know that," she answers, like she'd hit him upside the head if they weren't stood before Al's first grave. "Good luck convincing him that."
It's gratifying, to hear her irritation. A relief. He laughs. It's a strained sound, forced out beneath the weight of everything else. But it's a start.
Her hand on his back reminds him anew. Yock Island. All that she'd taught them after; when they were kids, and countless times after that too. All is one, one is all. Maybe he has an idea of what he'll put on Al's headstone after all. Maybe not. He still has a couple days to decide.
He turns to face Mustang, smirking in the face of the other man's grim determination. It almost feels like old times.
The only thing he can do next is keep moving forward. For all that grief yawns within him, he's not alone in this; not now, not ever.
He can do this.
He can move forward, for Al's sake.
I woke up and I had a big idea
To buy a new soul at the start of every year
I paid up and it cost me pretty dear
Here's a hymn to those that disappear
A/N: Title comes from Porcupine Tree's "Buying New Soul." Thank you for reading.