Midnight

Alphonse didn't understand how he could feel both warm and cold at the same time. He was sharing his limited body heat with his big brother, who kept trying to push him away.

Why did he keep pushing him away?

Didn't he love him anymore?

He tried to say the words that would help him get answers to his questions, but he didn't know if what he was saying had any meaning at all. Was it better to remain silent and stay away from his brother?

Was he needed?

His hands raised themselves protectively to his head, and despite the pain that rocketed through his muscles and bones, he pressed his palms feebly against his skull to block out the chaos of the world around him. He could see people moving, and lights flashing and rifles gleaming and his brother trying to push him away like a repulsing magnet-

It was too much.

He cried and curled himself tightly into a ball, wishing that sleep would come. A tiny fraction of his soul was screaming at him to do something and help and communicate with the Colonel Mustang and the Lieutenant Colonel and their allies. But that was the old Al.

This Al didn't trust anybody except his brother. If someone tried to talk to him or touch him, he would let his muscles loosen (he still trembled) and waited for the contact to be over. He couldn't fight the monsters who took hold of his brother savagely in the fuck den they had made for themselves in the basement.

No don't hurt, Brother. Take me. Nononono-

His eyes glazed over, empty green-gold husks, emptier than the Alphonse who didn't possess a body. He had held onto the promise of hope throughout those long four years; he had something to strive for. However, now, when he was supposed to be protecting those he loved and he let his brother be raped, what was there that he could do?

He was an ignorant, silly, bad bad bad boy.

Was someone touching him?

He had just realized that he could feel the cold, steel-like grip of a hand pressing on his shoulder. He flinched and waited for the hand to move down down down and he wanted to scream but no matter how much noise he made he didn't know if anything was coming out. It was like seeing the world through a panel of thick dirty glass; he could not be sure what was real, and what was an illusion.

Just how it was like to be blind.

Brother.

"NO DON'T HURT HIM. DON'T HURT ME!" Alphonse screamed and when the pressure on his shoulder vanished instantly, his hands began to flail around wildly. He didn't know where the mob of dirty men had gone. They would be back in a moment. They could bring the alchemic voltage operator with them too. And then he would be gone gone gone for good-

Suddenly, the pressure returned, gently cupping his cheeks and they were a well for his tears to pool into. Al's eyes were lowered. He knew that as soon as he raised his head, and looked into the eyes of those men that he would start bawling. He had tried to be strong for so long but he had been all alone in the dark. He had been alone in the dark with nobody to talk to but a madman and then he had lost his hearing and he would only have the voices in his head for company. They would never leave him. They ensured that his world was never silent for too long.

-They've come back for you, boy.-

-They want you.-

-That's strange, who wants a worthless sack of bones, like you?-

The voices chattered amongst themselves and despite the fact that the world was silent around him, a world of bustling people and bright lights (and he didn't know what was happening), his brain felt like it was going to explode from the abundant noise that swelled and reverberated in his skull. His hands returned to their positions on the side of his head, and he felt his knuckles crack as he prepared to punch at his head then the voices would go away away away-

-We're never going away.-

-Those men are never going away.-

-Your brother loathes you.-

"Please s-s-stop," the younger Elric whimpered, and although he could not hear his voice, he knew that a pathetic sound must have released from his lips. The hands that were holding his cheeks lifted his head gently and Al told himself that this was it and he had to be prepared and he had to be brave. It would be over soon and he could sleep and there would be peace and quiet. Just like the calm summer evenings he had spent with Mama and Brother and Winry in Resembool…

The breath had just left his body when he finally made eye contact with the green-eyed man in front of him. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes was tearing up (he had never seen him cry before) and he made no effort to shield away the tears and pretend that they didn't exist because they did and there was nothing wrong with being weak or flawed and it was okay for him to weak now. He wanted to get better. He really did…

"O-okay?" he asked, his voice quivering.

Al read the slowly-enunciated words carefully. Lucidity was flooding back through his brain and it was one of the most elevating experiences he could imagine. After the gloomy and cold weeks trapped in the dark, witnessing human emotion (Maes was not the madman or mob men Al knew it – hold on hold on hold on, he was here at his cloud refuge and Hughes would not leave him behind) was liberating.

Al mustered the last ounces of his strength to push those demons into the back of head and secured the lock on the chest in which they dwelled and focused on reading the words that kept tumbling from Maes Hughes.

"Alphonse, you are more than okay. Please don't forget that. It's going to be hard. It's hard now, isn't it?" Maes rubbed the back of his head then, massaging the tense, knotted muscles, "you're at a safe location. This is the Armstrong Estate."

(Had Al been told this already? Did he know where he was? Time yawned in front of him and seemed to stretch back millennia; he couldn't remember.)

"I need you to stay here and look after Ed. Can you do that?"

Al nodded his head hesitantly.

"W-what's happening?" he was afraid of the answer he would receive. He was always afraid of the unknown. A part of him morbidly laughed at the changes that had come about his personality. That was what torture did to you, like a dance that bent the body in weird shapes but never ended.

"The Crimson Alchemist is staking an ambush against us. He is likely with the others who…kept you away from us," Al didn't have to hear Maes' tone to know that he was looking for the right word to sugar-coat what he was telling him. There were many words the Lieutenant Colonel could have used: captured, tortured, tormented, broke. And God the list was endless.

"This is my fault. Sorry," Al had attempted to snuffle and hold back the tears, but if he had learnt anything from the past six weeks, it was that what someone wanted and what they received were very different things.

"It's not your fault. Never. Please, help me," Hughes asked him. It was clear from the deep rings that surrounded his usually-bright eyes that caused Al to stiffen. If there was an alchemist out there, then he had to help. Especially if it was the Crimson Alchemist. Solf J. Kimblee was meant to be secured in Central City Prison. Al shook his head – he would not trust his judgement. His trust in others wavered at best, but it had diminished within his mind and soul. And only time would heal that (if it would heal at all).

"L-let me help. B-brother," Al moaned and his injuries suddenly wrapped him tightly in a deathly embrace. His heart started pounding faster as he was clutched by the phantom force that would never let him go-

It vanished. Al quivered, but refused to shut his eyes. Hughes was here and so was Brother so he had to try his best to abate his fear and keep moving forward. It never became easier to snap his mind out of its stupor. Perhaps…one day…

Or was that too much for him to ask for?

The face of Lieutenant Hawkeye appeared by Hughes' side. She had been the one to embrace him. Al was surprised that somebody could love the dirty teddy bear that he was – a toy that had been shut away and left to be eaten by time and dust and mites. Now that he had remerged from that closet and he had thought nobody would muster the strength to try and love him again.

But these were his allies. His friends. His family. That would never change (he hoped) and he allowed his heart to latch onto that hope that threatened to vanish in a blink of his bruised eyes.

She spoke some words to him and the Lieutenant Colonel started to speak too but their words were all jumbled. He couldn't work out what they were saying to him. His mind was so tired and it had been a long day. Nausea and fatigue were catching up with him faster than he expected.

He simply shook his head, "c-can't right now. But I'll t-try."

Two sets of hands pressed firmly against him after he had spoken and he wearily closed his eyes, wishing for sleep to send him into that peaceful realm where the nightmares and demons could not plague his soul. For a second, he thought that it was Brother and Mama squeezing him tightly. He was safe and warm. That was a lovely dream.

But the fire and ash that rained upon from outside. There would be no time for that.

He raised himself shakily to his feet, his weak body complaining wildly at the movements, his weak muscles pathetic and limp. However, he managed to stand on his own two feet, and the world awaited him.

Viola Cadence Armstrong donned her deep-green trench coat and stood surveying the lands that belonged to the estate. To her.

Michael, her right-hand, was with her, his sea-green eyes nearly opaque in the fathomless darkness. There was no end and no beginning to its shadowy touch. The dim lights in Turinene were a world away. This was their battle. And this was a battle she wouldn't lose. Victory and military ability had been passed down the Armstrong line for generations, and while she was not directly a member of the military, she was still an Armstrong and had a strong sense of oblique pride about her. It governed the way she walked (with long, confident strides) and the way she presented herself (head held high) and she would not change who she was.

She wouldn't even change the fact that she was related to Alex – irritating as he could be. She thought he would have learnt some discretion by having four sisters, including the likes of Olivier.

However, Michael came from a common dwelling. He was an orphan with no relatives to speak of, except a great-aunt who lived in a hospice down in South City. She was in no fit condition to look after the young Michael. So he had learnt how to work for his keep and left the orphanage as soon as he turned sixteen. He had aptitude and skill in the medicinal field, and had acquired a scholarship for a medical school in which Viola had been attending for two years already. She, the child from the rich and extravagant background, quickly befriended Michael, the child with no background at all.

She trusted him with her life and with lives (which held true on a daily basis as they saved the lives of their patients that walked through these halls). Few exchanges and words were shared between them – in theatre, the silence helped her to concentrate. As long as she knew that he would stay by her side and she would stay by his, then that was all that she needed.

Their attention was currently being occupied by the flashing beacon shining in front of them at the other end of the grounds. From a distance or due to the result of poor observation, it could be mistaken for a giant, bright moon.

"The staff are not trained for specialist combat," Michael commented, his hands gripping tightly to the bannister. His face was oddly pale, which Viola would have found amusing if this had been in a different context. He rarely expressed emotions and the two would often display serious demeanours even if they were off-duty and relaxing. It was the hard-worn expression of a surgeon, she was sure of that.

"They are the intimidation, not the weaponry," Viola mused, inspecting her trench coat for any signs of dust. She spotted a honeysuckle-coloured hair, the colour of a golden Labrador, and flicked it away without a second thought. Dogs were for young families with children. Her children were her scalpel and stitches. She didn't possess enough care in her for a 'second thought'.

"What have you planned?" Michael asked earnestly, adjusting his position so he was facing her. Despite him looking down at her, there was no doubt who was the superior figure here. She was the one who lead, and he was her right-hand. If he could not accept that, he would have left a long time ago, as many of her other colleagues had. But there was a difference with Michael Lyel. He remained. He was her constant.

Instead of answering directly, Viola Cadence Armstrong began to descend the sweeping stairs that would lead her directly to Alex's allies, her staff and the golden-haired boys that she had been able to save but would never be able to save. Despite her cold-hearted appearance, she felt the grief for their loss deeply in her chest. If death was a bitch, then torture was something far more twisted. "I am an Armstrong, Michael. Trust me."

Edward was cold. His body was shivering violently and the twisting in his gut ached his soul. He knew the aching in his gut – the continuous butterflies that whirled in a pit of anxiety – was caused by muscular contraction. He knew the pain was due to his body secreting adrenaline causing his abdominal blood vessels to constrict to deliver blood to organs enacting the fight or flight response. He knew his abdominal cells were starving because he was feeling perpetually on edge.

The scientist in him screamed to listen to the logic of the black and white answer. To him, science was the answer to any problem that confronted him. However, science had failed him. Alchemy had failed him. It hadn't been able to save Fuery. It hadn't been able to save Al.

It hadn't been able to save him.

Ed was bitterly cold. Instinctively, he was aware that it was late at night. He had learnt to tell when the night had come: it gradually became colder and colder. And then suddenly, the world was ice. Ed feared that his blood vessels would freeze over (that's not logical Edward that isn't the scientific explanation). And he could finally end this madness. He could enter a mindless oblivion with no noise. No Shadow. No Kimblee.

The voices around him chattered loudly (so loudly) around him; feeding information through his ears:

"Did you know that Dr Armstrong has a whole troop of private soldiers at her disposal?" one chattered happily.

(How could they be happy?)

"Apparently, they arrived less than half an hour after she summoned them!"

"That's ridiculous. How is that possible?"

"She's Viola Cadence. With her, anything is possible."

Ed was fucking cold but he smiled. Sometimes people had called him a monster that could perform miracles. But once, a long time ago, he had made the impossible possible and for one moment that actually made him smile genuinely.

His attention was so focused on catching the sounds from the furthest corners of the massive room that he had not been listening to his brother's melodic voice. He was not in touching distance of Al – he was dirty and an abomination and didn't deserve to touch the blood of angels – but as he leaned his back against the glass surface (it was light and felt like it could break under the slightest pressure). But Edward wasn't sure if it was glass. A scientist needed to be confidently cautious.

Confidence had been snapped out of him like electricity. It had shocked him and then he had been left numb numb numb. And this was a rare occasion where he wasn't catatonic. The lucid intervals lasted for minutes or hours, and even though he as in the most pain and couldn't imagine how he could draw in another breath through his infection-riddled chest, they had quickly become the best moments of his waking day. He knew where he was and what was happening. He knew…didn't he?

"c-can't right now. But I'll t-try," that was Al.

He heard indistinct croons and gentle words coming in response from Hughes as though he was talking to Elicia. He was looking after Al where he had not been.

If the Edward Elric from a year ago had seen himself now, being protected and looked after like a child, he would have scoffed at the notion. But now, Ed wasn't quite sure what to believe.

Roy Mustang was one to sit at his office for days on end being bullied by his team and Hawkeye to complete his paperwork. Even if he tried to escape for a quick break to the bathroom, Havoc threatened to start smoking and the Colonel would sigh and return to the office. He always returned to the mound of paperwork, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, like he was married to the damn thing. The team ensured that he suffered through the hours and days and weeks. As the days passed, the seasons gradually shifted outside of the window (his only chance for escape from the dreary office) before his eyes. The world was always changing and even though he was an alchemist, one responsible for the change of matter around him, this was beyond his control. It was as if everything was beyond his control these days. He really was useless.

And the more days he spent locked in the office, the more he forgot about who he was. He was the Flame Alchemist and he could burn a village alight with a few snaps of his fingers. All he needed to destroy lives was ignition cloth and a circle. That was all. Sometimes he forgot about the power that he could wield with a snap of his fingers. When he was in the office, the alchemist became the soldier; the Flame Alchemist, dog of the military, became Colonel Roy Mustang, whose suffering was limited to the cramps he experienced in his fingers after signing his name a hundred fucking times on identical looking documents.

But as Roy stepped out of the Armstrong mansion on that warm night, his military coat whipping in the breeze that also sent his hair flying into his eyes, he remembered who he was. He had been trained by that goddamn academy to shoot on sight. He could burn someone's brains out if they were standing in front of his face. He could incinerate the gastrointestinal tract and circle his victims with searing fire.

It was the same, whether he was in the office or at the front line of war. He couldn't save anyone. He was useless and that wasn't exclusive to the rain.

Why did they rely on him? Why did they look to him as their superior officer? Why was he called a 'hero' when he had killed so many?

He stared out at the makeshift battlefield. It was a strange thought that a field that could be full of sheep overlooking the town could become a battlefield. That was what he had thought when he had first set foot on the sands of Ishval. How could this desert wasteland cause such upheaval for Amestris and its military?

Because of its culture. Because of its people. That was what it was after all. The people and their actions that determined if someone followed them to the death or not. And he apparently had the particular traits required to be followed.

He was stubborn, if anything. Hopelessly, uselessly stubborn.

That was who he was. It was part of the answer to the self-identity crisis he had currently stacking up inside of his head. It could be so loud up there, even if all he could hear in the world was the wind singing and the jagged breaths he sucked into and out of lungs every few seconds.

As a habit, his hand slipped reassuringly into his pockets. The spare pair of ignition gloves was there. He rubbed them tentatively, marvelling that a small piece of clothing could be his most powerful element. Oh in Ishval had they been surprised when a man had fallen houses with a snap of his fingers, with neither gun nor grenade in sight…

He took a step forward and his leg cramped, like a spring coiling. He could be so foolish. Hawkeye did have to babysit him as she noted when she scolded him.

But it was too late for regrets. Roy couldn't see anything in the shrouding darkness and he resisted the temptation to light a small flame with his gloves. The enemy wouldn't benefit from a preliminary peek at his abilities which could put them at an advantage during a battle. That was one of the first rules that had been drilled into him at the academy: the battle rages on.

And most of the time, it was when the world was silent that the hardest battles were fought. Doubt and self-conflict were powerful motivators.

The birds had ceased their songs and were likely tucked up warm in their nests. If he had chosen a different path, would he be curled up in a bed now?

Too late for regrets. Too late for doubts.

He had reached the summit of the battlefield and his heart rate had reached its summit too. Dah dun dah dun dahdundundundundundun-

Roy heard footsteps. They were close; he could hear the crunch of shoes coming into contact with damp twigs. The ground squealed beneath them. He couldn't see anything.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the mighty Flame Alchemist, Roy Mustang? It has been a long time, has it not, my comrade!"

Roy froze. He recognised that voice. It sounded more like a hiss than a whisper. And he knew the owner of that voice. So much time had passed since he had heard that voice. The Colonel felt as though he was dreaming.

"Still as obnoxious as you were in the day, Flame?" Solf J. Kimblee said. The beacon suddenly flashed in Roy's direction, blinding him. The silhouette of the Crimson Alchemist stood as a shadow in stark comparison to the illuminated world around them. Kimblee licked his lips, teeth gleaming and he lifted his hands together, the tattoos that Mustang remembered so clearly burning his retinas. Before he could react, Kimblee clapped.

The earth rumbled as Kimblee slapped his hands to the ground. Grit and dust danced into the air as the transmutation worked its magic. Who needed explosives in the battlefield when an alchemist could generate them for you?

Solf J. Kimblee. The Crimson Alchemist.

Solf J. Kimblee. The Desert Devil.

Roy's eyes narrowed to avoid the debris landing in his eyes. His reflexes caused him to move swiftly to the side and snap. He sent a ring of flame around him in a circle. It was a defensive and offensive mechanism he used when vision was poor. As soon as he could determine where the enemy had positioned themselves, he would quickly transition to the offensive and end the fight as soon as he could.

"That's an old trick, Mustang!" Kimblee's voice was omnidirectional. It sounded like an echo. Roy turned his head from side to side but he couldn't damn pinpoint the location.

"Damn you, Crimson!" Roy muttered through gritted teeth but he was caught unawares by the clearing of the dust clouds. The beacon's light blazed and shone towards him, straight through the fire, piercing the flames like a spear and its tip landed in his eyes. Roy's eyes involuntarily closed for an instant-

"Up here," Kimblee greeted Roy as the Colonel rubbed his sore eyes. The Crimson Alchemist had created a ledge for himself out of stone that was several metres in height. The flames didn't even reach Kimblee's feet. The madman laughed and threw something into the air. His right hand made contact with the item and there was another bright flash.

Roy's body went into shock as numbing water drenched through his body. Damn Kimblee had brought a water bottle and caused the water molecules to disperse, rendering both his attacks and protective ring of flames useless.

Furious, Roy tugged off the gloves with a pull of his teeth. He lowered himself to the ground as though he was surrendering. With his free hand he quickly traced a transmutation circle into the dirt but Kimblee had reached his side before he could finish the cir-

Kick. Kimblee's foot landed squarely at its target: Roy's stomach. Winded, the Flame Alchemist niftily stuck out a foot that caused Kimblee to stumble, giving him precious seconds to stand up. His body protested but Roy had grown used to ignoring its complaints (he had much practice from ignoring Hughes fanatically wittering on about his daughter and wife…).

In that moment, Roy could dimly hear the chiming of a clock. Even though Turinene was a mini trek from the Armstrong residence, the prized clock tower could be heard distinctly. Roy didn't have to count the number of chimes to know what the time was. Intuitively, he knew it was the start of a new day. The adrenaline pouring through his veins…the anticipation…he couldn't help but feel invigorated. He couldn't ignore the determination flooding through his body, nourishing his aching soul with diminished hope. A new day was a new attempt. A new start. A way to move forward.

The time for new ideas…and as though his head had been buried underwater, he breathed deeply and returned from his momentary pause. His eyes glittered (evilly as Fullmetal would exclaim) as his brain compiled its plan.

Roy and Kimblee were positioned on a hill halfway between either camp. The explosives that Kimblee created did not reach near the mansion, which provided Roy with a meagre peace of mind. However, the intentions of the Crimson Alchemist were made clear as Kimblee stood up, coughed lightly into the sleeve of his white suit, and proceeded to take several steps towards the mansion.

Kimblee needed to get there. And Roy was the first (and likely the last) line of defence. However, Roy was not concerned. He pulled out a spare ignition glove from his pocket, and smirking, he created a small spark in the palm of his fingers. Like a greedy bug, the flame jumped from his fingers and began to travel in a circle – around the circle of flames he had created earlier. Even though the flames had distinguished, the ash remained, forming a perfect circle.

It was the perfect base for a large transmutation circle. Before Kimblee had left the threshold of the circle, the dot-to-dot ember had etched out a glowing amber transmutation circle which Roy activated while placing his foot on the circle. Alchemists channelled the power of the earth to wield their alchemy, so why couldn't the same apply to channelling power through their own bodies?

He was Roy Mustang. On its own, it was a name. But when he had people to protect, it became part of his identity. It was something he could fight for.

The transmutation flared to life and rock spikes, similar to that of Major Armstrong's, shot out from the ground. Kimblee's body coiled instinctively to protect his vulnerable organs, but that was never Roy's target. Out of the hundred rock missiles he created, a dozen pierced the transmutation tattoos on Crimson's palms. They were shaved off like wool from a sheep.

"Clever," Kimblee's eyes widened in surprise, but the man smirked again, "but not clever enough to defeat me!"

The man with the slick ponytail furled his bleeding palm into a fist and used it to smack against his abdomen. Roy saw a fiendish red light suddenly appear at the back of the man's throat and he knew what Kimblee was planning-

Bang.

Kimblee's leg bucked from where his Achilles' tendon had been shot through. The man gagged and the Philosopher's Stone fell on the ground. But they were fighting onto a hill, and the relief of the land quickly caused the Stone to begin to tumble downwards…straight in Roy's direction.

"It seemed like a good time for you to receive assistance, Sir," Hawkeye spoke to Roy from his side and the Colonel nodded, relieved for her appearance.

"Good timing, Lieutenant."

"Try not to be as dramatic next time though, Colonel. Your alchemic stunts may have caused permanent damage to these grasslands."

"Point taken. However, I believe this conversation can wait," Roy winced as he moved forward on his throbbing leg. His body was throbbing, especially his head.

"I would duck if I were you, Sir," and Hawkeye lowered herself to the ground and pushed Roy to the floor too. Suddenly a beam of light seemed to emit from the Armstrong mansion. It was a narrowed and focused beam. As Roy squinted, he noticed that the light's source came from that freakish beacon. Staff at the Armstrong mansion had set up mirrors to reflect the deadly source of light to bounce back where it came from. Kimblee groaned as he was momentarily blinded by the light.

But that was not all that Viola Cadence Armstrong had planned.

The next phase of her plan began immediately. Using the beam of light as a guide, multiple gunshots sounded through the night. They ricocheted off the buildings, following the beam of light. Their aim was one disheartened Crimson Alchemist. Kimblee couldn't help but howl in pain as wounds opened across his skin like gaping holes.

"Ha…"

Kimblee cackled softly, his face illuminated by the silvery light. He already looked like a ghost.

"Ha…"

But if anyone had learnt anything from Ishval, it was that the survivors were what the name implied: Survivors. They lived. They survived. And in the case of Kimblee, through any means necessary.

The brief flutter of hope and victory that had blossomed in Roy's chest faded as Kimblee laughed more fiercely than ever, and his hand hit the ground. The transmutation circle etched with his blood glowed. The ground beside Roy trembled and the earth suddenly shifted upwards, throwing Roy and Riza into a spiral of confusion. Riza fired, but her aim was blind. The Philosopher's Stone landed in the insane man's palms.

"Thank you for the performance, Mustang," Kimblee tipped his hat towards Roy, "but this is my stage. I'm here to perform solo!"

Hi. Yeah, that was a long hiatus. I've been applying for university with the joys of interviews and life in general being rather hectic. But I am still here and still writing (don't look at me like that Ed, your story hasn't finished yet). I'll need to get back into the creative flow again but we're already making progress! :D

I hope you enjoyed, and if you've stuck around for the ride, thank you for your patience! If there are any new readers, welcome to LBYL :)