Disclaimer in previous chapter. Please see Author's Notes at the end.

- x -

A Stone.

A Philosopher's Stone.

Another one.

The idea of it rattled around inside his skull, as if looking for a way out. Who could have so quietly transmuted one? It took two dead armies to make the last one, most of one of them transmuted simultaneously. It would have taken more than that circle full of prisoners to catalyze the reaction with the incomplete Stone in Laboratory Five.

No one could transmute a Philosopher's Stone inside a cottage.

The house was really not much bigger than a standard village cottage, and pretty non-descript at that. It was fairly old, from what he could see, solidly built of the same rock that made up the surrounding hills and the slightly elevated, jagged rock peak that had given the town its name.

Not much of a mountain, but considering it had cropped up in the middle of what was otherwise a fairly flat plain, he supposed it was impressive enough to warrant the name.

Mount Vesper.

Vesper meant evening star. They'd heard a story on the train as they'd passed through the station there, that long ago, before Amestris was a nation, a man would sit atop the rocky peak with a fully built but unlit pyre beside him. If Creta had sent an army across the plain, he could spot them long before they arrived, and light the pyre. The light and smoke could be seen easily from the city that had fallen below Central, and it served as a sort of lighthouse, warning of impending attack.

Not that it had warned them of the dangers of a single alchemist.

Not that it would warn them if there was another on the way.

After all, Central was the only thing around that held the number of people necessary to transmute a Philosopher's Stone.

It was hard to believe that the Homunculus Pride would have located an alchemist to transmute a Stone that the other Homunculi had not paid any attention to. He couldn't recall Lust or Envy talking of any alchemists older than Tim Marcoh, the Crystal Alchemist. They had never mentioned any others working towards a Stone, never tried to manipulate him into working with them.

That alone made him think that somehow Mustang's assumption was wrong. That while this may well have been a plan of Bradley's, it wasn't dealing with a Stone. It was something else. Something useful, like another alchemic amplifier. Possibly even one not related to red water, like the Tringums were working on. Unfortunately, the note didn't really give them much in the way of information.

Fuehrer,

I hope the many moons that have passed since our last meeting find you well. I have tailored a substance to your specifications. Please bring the payment when you come to collect. Anyone included bears their own risk.

The short scrawl was in a very elegant hand, almost calligraphy. He'd read many volumes written in that style, though most of them had been over a hundred years old. The paper itself was thick, almost like fabric, and stained by time, wax, and spilled ink. Two-thirds of a 'classic' human transmutation circle had been hastily scribbled on the back at some point.

That was it. The envelope had been addressed correctly if the recipient's name was ignored, and whoever had sent it had been kind enough to put a return address on the missive.

It was obviously the last sentence, possibly more than the circle, that was troubling Mustang. It was likely the reason he'd decided to scout ahead, and why he'd attempted to go alone. He'd indicated in the car that he expected Hawkeye, Havoc, Breda, and Falman to be along within the hour, which made his actions slightly less stupid. Edward still considered the move irresponsible.

Going alone to meet an alchemist that might or might not have an alchemic amplifier of some kind at his disposal? What did Mustang think was going to happen when the alchemist realized the man that was to pay him was long dead, and his killer had appeared instead?

The classroom had proved that Mustang's skills hadn't deteriorated with disuse, but floating balloons for sport was not the same as fighting for your life. If Mustang disappeared the same way Bradley had, Central would fall into an uproar the likes of which had never been seen. People were just starting to have some confidence in the peace Amestris had been enjoying since his inauguration, and disturbing things now would just make it twice as hard to get the people to trust in that again.

And he knew damn well, from the five months Mustang had been leading Parliament, that the older man kept these things in the back of his mind every time he opened his mouth, every time he grasped a visiting dignitary's hand, every time he so much as looked at another human being. Which meant that he felt hiding a possible Philosopher's Stone was more important than his own life.

Unfortunately, he was probably right. Fear of his military knowledge kept their neighbors at bay; the Prime Minister was a decorated and talented military strategist, as Bradley had been before him. Fear of his alchemy came in a very distant second. But the idea of hostile Amestris being led by an alchemist bearing a Stone . . . their neighbors would overlook a thousand years of discord to form a joint military invasion. They couldn't create a more welcoming atmosphere for group cooperation against them if they tried.

But why go himself? Even if he didn't trust Armstrong or the Tringums with a possible Stone, why not just pull him and Al out of classes for a week and sent them?

Ed was afraid the answer to that question wasn't as readily apparent as the others.

He let his car door close, watching Mustang studying their destination. Almost like he was analyzing a battlefield the afternoon before the opposing army would arrive. His uniform was unrelated to the previous Fuehrer's, Parliament had made sure of that. They both had dark hair and the eyepatch, though Mustang's covered more than merely his eye. Bradley had been taller, and more muscular, while the Prime Minister's frame was a little narrower. From a distance it might be possible to confuse the two, but the moment they were within speaking distance of the message's author, it was going to be painfully obvious Mustang wasn't Pride.

"What do you make of that, Fullmetal?"

Ed circled the car, following Roy's gaze to the roof of the two-story cottage. It seemed like any other, though the shingles seemed fairly new and not in the old style. So it had been re-roofed recently, indicating someone still lived there. A large, grey stone chimney was putting forth obvious heat, making the sky behind it shimmer, but not a particularly large amount of soot -

That chimney was huge, actually. In comparison with the rest of the house, almost ridiculously so. Either the fireplace was inordinately large, or –

Or it was used as a vent for something else.

Or the house was bigger than it appeared.

Considering it was supposed to be the home of an alchemist that had transmuted a Philosopher's Stone, he was going to bet on all three. He could always just slightly transmute the ground beneath him to get a feel for the foundation of the house, but if they were dealing with another alchemist, it would probably be noticed.

"Venting for an underground laboratory?"

Mustang studied it a moment longer, then started forward. "Follow my lead. Do not speak unless spoken to."

Edward resisted the urge to make a face, following at an acceptable distance as Mustang walked calmly towards the front door. There was no doubt they'd already been observed; thick curtains choked the small windows of the cottage, but they'd been twitching almost as animatedly as an angry cat's tail. And the note had made it clear the author wanted to discourage an entourage. However, Roy was right; Bradley had rarely been without a driver. It shouldn't seem amiss that any important government official would have a retainer or butler. Considering his teaching clothes didn't have a single alchemic symbol displayed, despite his odd dress he could probably pass for an attendant of some kind.

By the time Mustang had mounted the four stairs to the rounded front door it opened as if by magic. A sliver of face peered around it, and it was a good deal younger than Edward had been expecting. He would guess the man was no older than his mid-twenties, with dark, unkempt hair that hung lank in his face. Rather than staring at them directly, his hazel eyes darted around them, finally settling on the Prime Minister's shoes.

Mustang regarded him, but when the man said nothing, he simply walked inside.

Edward took the stairs two at a time as the door began to close behind Mustang. He caught it with his right foot by stepping into the doorjamb, and received a positively scathing glare for his troubles. The second he met the man's eyes their 'host' dropped his, preferring to stare again at the ground. He kept the half-open door between himself and Edward until Ed had fully entered the odd, round lobby, and Ed kept him in his peripheral vision as the man shook his head, almost to himself, and meticulously closed the door.

That task done, still avoiding their direct gazes, he circled them, keeping almost pressed against the rounded walls before proceeding down the hallway that lay directly in front of him.

Once he had the strange man in direct line of sight Edward relaxed slightly, taking a look around the dimly lit cottage. His observations outside been right; the house was old. The floors were a thick, dark wood paneling that hadn't been in style for at least the last fifty years. The furniture in the two rooms adjoining the round receiving hall was antique, and reminded him of some of the old stuff Hohenheim had kept in the basement.

To his relief, there were no suits of armor in sight.

The few small windows visible from the outside were blanketed in excessively heavy curtains, allowing in almost no natural light, and it didn't appear that any electricity was in use at all. Gas flames flickered in their wallholders, the plaster walls badly yellowed in a column that ended with deep black soot at the joint of the wall and ceiling. The walls that were covered in paper had once been a cheery non-metallic gold, but they too had discolored with age.

Despite the condition of what he could see, the house didn't seem to have a musty or closed-up odor.

Their young host was slinking over to a large, dark wooden door that seemed to match the stain of the floor, and without ceremony or word he pulled it open, ducking behind it so that he had confined himself into the corner, with the door between him and them.

As though frightened of them.

Edward would have been inclined to give him a smile of encouragement if the memory of that glare wasn't still fresh in his mind. He was either neurotic, or unbelievably shy. Neither lent themselves to alchemy, where an alchemist had to have the courage to start a reaction and the confidence to control it.

So whoever had sent Mustang the letter obviously had retainers of his own.

Mustang accepted the abrupt invitation, passing through the doorway and down a staircase that turned every half-story at a sharp forty-five degree angle. Edward was half afraid the young man was going to try to slam this door in his face too, but instead, he waited until they'd reached the first landing before daring to follow them down. He kept at least half a story between them the entire distance, which ended up being several stories.

On what Ed counted as the sixth landing the stairs opened into a very large . . . cavern. Definitely an underground lab, and an old one indeed. The walls and floors had been smoothed, of course, and there was no doubt the structure had been created with alchemy. There was no place the stone could have gone; the channel that the stairway took was too narrow for such construction.

Mustang strode forward, allowing Edward room to fully enter the room. Like a good retainer, he remained behind the Prime Minister, but he could still see the vast majority of the chamber.

It was exactly what one would expect of an alchemist's laboratory. The walls had been modeled into bookcases when the area had been transmuted, and every shelf was a confused jumble of bound books, stacks of parchment, jars, vials, and rusting metal tools. Some glass held what looked like paintbrushes, while still others were the homes of startlingly white animal bones. A few of the skulls were recognizable, but the others were either animals he'd never before encountered, or the remains of chimeras.

The floors were covered in discarded papers and half-drawn transmutation circles, and there were at least a dozen drawing sticks leaning against available solid surfaces, pieces of chalk attached to one end. Firelight gleamed from a series of what appeared to be natural gas chandeliers, lighting the room surprisingly well.

One entire wall had been solely dedicated to large glass jars. Powders and liquids of every color lay inside, and from their color and texture Edward could identify many of them. They were all elements. Carbon. Sodium, soaking in mineral oils to prevent an unstable reaction. Fluoride. Lithium. Mercury.

The centerpiece of the chamber seemed to be an extremely large, circular hole surrounded by a stone ring about knee high. Edward initially took for a well until he realized it was also generating a significant amount of heat; as he approached he could feel the warmth on his face. Above it loomed a huge copper hood, that narrowed as it approached the ceiling.

And probably lead to the chimney above.

A wheeled cart to its right held a pile of faded rags, and beside that sat a small table, of light wood. It stood out sorely as the only thing out of place in the stony lab.

Their quiet, precipitous guide waited impatiently for them to enter the room fully, and as soon as he could safely scoot past Edward without brushing up against him he half-ran into a side chamber. Mustang watched him go, then strode unhurriedly to the nearest table and picked up a few pieces of paper, looking them over. Edward remained near the stairwell, standing with his back against one of the few solid walls not bearing embedded shelves.

And that was when the pile of rags started to speak.

"Why Bradley, did you bring me a gift?"

Mustang continued perusing the documents he'd picked up for several more seconds, obviously only feigning interest in them, before glancing at the – person, obviously, beneath the stone-colored, rumpled cloth. "That would depend on whether I get what I came for."

Edward shifted slightly to peer around Mustang, giving the wheeled cart a second look. It was actually more like an extremely low-backed wheelchair, now that he was studying it. He'd seen old medical equipment reminiscent of it during his stay in Germany. The form that perched in the flat wooden seat was ridiculously small, and it took him another few moments to sort out a face, shoulders, arms –

Something was missing.

"You will, you will," the rusty voice reassured him. It was rather high-pitched; Ed wasn't sure whether the ancient, gnarled man was affecting it for the purpose of sarcasm, or that was how he naturally sounded. He was leaning heavily on his left armrest, and his right hand was visible just beneath the hem of what Ed now knew to be an old, large grey cloak. It was moving in a circular motion, and Edward stared hard, trying to determine if the old man was casually drawing a transmutation circle –

No. He was just aimlessly tracing circles on his leg.

Only-

Only he didn't have a leg. Either of them. Not even knees. Barely any thigh was left at all.

That was why he looked so tiny.

The old man was idly toying with the barely visible, pale white stump of his thigh, cut only a few inches from his abdomen.

And he was staring directly at him, with empty white eyes.

Edward fought a reflexive recoil, locking eyes with the ancient man. When he threw back his head and cracked out a laugh, Ed realized it was no trick of the light.

His eyes were completely clouded over, with cataracts or worse.

The old man was blind. Yet when he finished laughing, those pearled eyes came right back to him, as though the old man could actually see him.

As if he was laughing at Edward's reaction.

Mustang took a step closer to the alchemist that had written the letter, cutting again into his line of sight, and Ed realized with a jolt that Roy was doing it on purpose. Trying to attract the old man's attention.

Trying to pull it away from him.

"Where is it?" His voice was slightly sharper, but no louder.

The old alchemist chuckled to himself a moment longer. "Always to the point, Bradley. It's a fault."

Motion, to his left. The young man that had let them in had appeared in the antechamber door.

Edward took a step closer to Mustang, shaking a drop of sweat out of his eyes, and the shy man scooted a foot further into the main chamber. It was hard to tell if he was preparing for something or just wanted to be able to hear.

Neither the old alchemist or Roy seemed to notice. "Perhaps," Mustang conceded. "In any case, I'd like to see what's taken such a renowned alchemist so long to prepare."

"It's in front of your eyes, my King. Or should I say eye."

Ed took a deep, slow breath, refusing to acknowledge the droplets of perspiration that were now running down his jaw. He couldn't have been that unsettled by the old man – could he? It wasn't the first time someone had looked at him like that. Predatorily. Envy came immediately to mind, though his motives had been murder and revenge. As far as he knew, he had never come across this alchemist, so he couldn't be responsible for the lack of legs . . .

Then again, hadn't Mustang just called him 'renown'? Had he recognized this shriveled lump? Or was he merely playing into the old man's delusion? How could anyone who could perceive so much through blind eyes continue to confuse Roy Mustang with the homunculus Pride? Their voices, even their manner of speaking, were unrelated. Mustang hadn't confirmed he was Bradley, but he hadn't denied it, either. Obviously he was just trying to figure out what Pride had had the old man transmute, but –

The young man took another slinking step into the room, and Edward glanced at him openly. For a split second, he again saw the man's eyes –

He was sneering. This time he was more bold, and held Ed's gaze a moment before turning to the shelf behind him, as if distracted by a sound or a settling jar.

Was he . . . jealous? That the old man would take an interest in Edward? There was no doubt in Ed's mind he was the 'gift' the old man had referred to when he'd made his presence known. And if he'd still been a child, he might have understood it, however disgusting he found it. But he was a grown man, and what value could an old cripple find in him?

There was an obvious answer, of course, one that also explained Roy's response. An old man, close to death. A human transmutation circle.

He could simply be thinking of binding his soul to another body. If not his 'assistant,' he'd need another. Already occupied or not.

Was that what Bradley had promised him? Transmute a Stone and escape his damaged body? Become like Dante and Hohenheim?

But then, he'd expect the old alchemist's servant to be relieved, not hateful.

It was significantly warmer closer to the vent in the floor, and Edward took another deep breath to ward off a slight dizziness as he watched Mustang approach the wooden table beside the old alchemist.

"I found it was easier to work with in a powdered form, but exposure to small amounts of water will cause it to crystallize," the old man murmured. "And as you observed, it has been a long time. Where is my payment?"

Edward took a step to the side, surprised when he nearly stumbled. His knees were beginning to feel fluid, and he curled his toes in the faux automail until he caught the lever. Unlike his real automail, which wouldn't necessarily weaken if he did, this armor would only give him support as long as he was able to hold up his own weight. It added strength and leverage to his movements, but in doing so it didn't limit his ability to manipulate it.

If his knees gave out, it wouldn't hold him upright.

Was it really that hot? Another glance at Mustang found the visible skin on the side of his face dry and not flushed. Ed was already finding it harder to breathe, yet the old man and his assistant didn't seem to be distressed, either.

He tried to focus on the substance on the table, but his vision was becoming blurred. He didn't see the color red, so he was fairly certain the old man hadn't powdered a Stone. It had to be something else, which was good, but what? What payment was he expecting?

"Ah, yes," Mustang agreed, a little vaguely. "How do you feel your delay should factor into the original cost?"

Another bark, but this time it was less like a laugh. "I had a feeling you would want to renegotiate, Bradley. Too proud, you are. Another fault."

Edward forced another deep breath, swallowing back a sudden wave of nausea. The old man's lackey was moving again, but he couldn't focus very well.

He needed to get out of here. Needed fresh air.

What the hell was wrong with him?

"This was needed several years ago," Mustang continued blandly. "You can't expect someone to pay the same amount for something of less value."

Ed blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the younger man, and was dimly startled to find he couldn't. He couldn't see much of anything.

"Don't think you've the higher ground, Fuehrer." The old man's voice barely cut through a sudden roar in his ears. "My blind eyes see more than they did clear. It only takes one move to topple what you've arranged."

The old man continued, but he didn't hear anymore. The world was reduced to lights and darks, and only a pop in his leg armor alerted him that he was falling. Somewhat distantly he felt dull pain in his knees, and the shock of hitting the ground lent strength to his body's urge to vomit. Even the spasms that drew up the contents of his stomach felt removed. There was pressure on his right forearm; he must have been leaning on it. The armor would keep him upright, but only just –

A dull tickling in his throat, or maybe a burning. He couldn't pay much attention, even as it traveled lower, deeper within his chest.

It felt like he needed to breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

- x -

Author's Notes: A relatively short chapter, I know. It's a crappy place to stop, but if I continued into the next scene this chapter would be crazy-long. Not much to say – I've looked for typos, and found a boat-load, which means there are undoubtedly more. (None as good as calling the Tringums the Fletchers, though. Whoops. ; ) I apologize in advance! Please point them out to me so I can remove them post-haste!