Chapter 7
A/N: Inspiration for the location comes from this: englishrussia/2008/03/10/abandoned-wooden-miracles/. Just insert .com after englishrussia. Trust me it's worth it! If you consider Drachma's time parallel to our Russia, these houses would have been built in the late 16th century. Now, for more research into a parallel of Drachma's past politically. ;_; Why couldn't I have written this fic when I was in AP World History. Thank you again for all of your kind comments! Your reviews brighten my life!
He decided to move forward again, curiosity getting the better of him. They slipped between the patches of dark trees, this time sunken in the shadows, lights out, moving slowly in the night. He settled for the next gentle hill. It should be close enough for them to see what they assumed to be a temporary camp.
They sat for a few days, watching, taking notes. Edward found it mind numbing and did his best to avoid participating in surveillance. He contented himself with wandering the surrounding copses.
It was there that he found the gate. Or, so the dark, primal part of his mind told him, it's hair bristling and a cowl sweat forming on his neck. He had to remind himself that there was no whiteness here, only a high wrought iron fence surrounding the perimeter of some old property. The new growth of spring was climbing over old brown corpses that still clung to the posts.
His fingers closed shakily around the heavy iron handle and found his eyes tracing over the tree of knowledge, bursting into the sun, whatever "GOD" was. Inside the fence, the central building was just as elaborate despite it's stout and functional shape. The roofline was a matrix of masterful woodwork ranging from saw-toothed squares and seashells. The windows appeared to be framed with lace spreading out into dainty fans. The shutters were drawn in tight against the windows; the house slept with it's eyes shut. Ed imagined what it would've looked like in it's full painted splendor, but regardless it appeared to have held up well against the harsh Drachman winters.
An orchard stood in unnatural rows at the bottom of a gentle slope, small utility sheds crouched at random. He fixed on the barn with curiosity. There may be useful chemicals in there, worth commandeering. Excitedly his mind began putting together the prospects before him. There was better shelter available within the house for the camp than the thin tents, and as far as he knew they were equally safe distance from the enemy activity. But then he was at The Gate again. Why that design? Why here. The sleeping house called to him, what could possibly be inside.
Then Mustang was in his head. There was a war going on. It was getting dark out. Even Ed's recovered bravado whimpered at the thought of being alone in the dark without Al beside him. A group of birds stirred in the woods beside him, making him jump. He then did something he never hoped to do again. He walked back through The Gate again, and shut the doors squarely behind him.