Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist

A/N: Many apologies for the erratic update schedule, I had to grapple with this chapter like a wrestler fighting an elephant, added to which I have returned to uni, so such a scattered distribution of chapters may continue, for which I apologise in advance. Many thanks for your patience, dear readers.

Italics indicate an event that occurred in the past.


The low, continuous rumble of the volcano was a sound that Edward had grown accustomed to, during his time in Roy's keeping. However, with the complete, unnatural silence of the Dragon that met his last sentence, the Mage found, once again, that the growl of the mountain sounded loud and ominous in his ears. He kept his eyes fixed on his mismatched hands, awaiting verdict.

"You surprise me, Fullmetal One. I expected a far darker deed than that."

Edward nearly fell off the Dragon's claw in shock.

His appalled look at Roy was met by a laconic shrug. "What is a demon but an elemental force, lambasted by human society? Admittedly, the element they serve is chaos, and the black tales of their evil are entirely justified, but in basic substance and form, they are little different to we others who find ourselves on the receiving end of human wroth."

"But…demons steal men's souls to use as their playthings!"

"Nobody's perfect."

Edward continued to gape. The Dragon met his gaze coolly for about half a minute, before grinning widely. "I kid, of course. Those of demonic heritage are truly deserving of their reputation. Pray continue."

"O-of course," the Mage stammered, then marshalled his thoughts. He looked down again at his clenched fingers, twitching his metal fist open to stare at the smooth, shining palm. "It…makes little sense, as a tale, unless you know something of my upbringing. I was born twenty winters ago, in a small village within the King of Amestris' domain, called Risembul. It had a single, old Knight in residence to keep the peace and register the taxes, and its inhabitants were divided between those who frequented the Nag's Head and those who preferred the Black Bull."

Roy's ears twitched forwards. "It cannot have been so small a place, with two inns to water its people."

Edward had to smile. "But not big enough to warrant its own village healer. I think perhaps the ale served as a substitute for medicines. Luckily, Risembul possessed the services of a skilled a dedicated herbalist to tend to its wounds. My mother."

The Mage closed his eyes, summoning the beloved image from his memory. "I always remember her hands first," he said, wistfully, his voice soft with recollection. "They were unusually soft for a working mother, and ever-rich with the scents of nutmeg and rosemary, laurel and ginger. She had strong wrists from pounding and crushing and mixing herbs for her medicines, but her arms stayed thin. She was never a big woman, the men of the village towered over her, but she held their respect like the reins of a carriage horse. Her hair was the colour of ripe horse-chesnuts, and just a glossy. Her eyes were greyer than a frozen stream in midwinter. The back of her neck was always sun-burned from collecting ingredients, and I never saw her without a smile on her face. Even when she returned home from a stillbirth, she could smile for my brother and I. In fact, I remember one occasion when…"


"Edward! Edward! If you don't make an appearance in the next three seconds, I'm going to be incredibly cross with you, young man!"

Trisha of Elric had to struggle very hard to conceal her burgeoning smile as her scruffy eldest son obeyed with alacrity. Quick as a rabbit from the undergrowth, the five-year-old scrambled out from underneath the kitchen table and piled to a halt before her, blinking big golden eyes up at her. Eternally-wrinkled, Edward's bright tunic and trews were pale and dusty with white powder, and the little boy's round face and blond hair were ghostly-pale. His mother folded her arms, her lips twitching to escape the stern line she forced them into.

"Well?"

The boy continued to blink, innocent as a lamb, the effect only partially ruined when some of the powder that coated him caused him to sneeze, violently.

Trisha raised en eyebrow. "Edward, why are you, and the pantry, covered in flour?"

Edward looked down at himself, lifting a podgy hand up to examine it, his face comically twisted in an outrageously exaggerated pretence of surprise. He glanced up at her, his jaw hanging open in pantomimed shock.

She nodded, solemnly, inwardly applauding her little boy's intelligence and acting skill. "I suppose you were just playing in the corridor, like I asked, and you weren't even thinking about looking in the cookie jar, and then you just happened to fall into the pantry door, accidentally bang the shelf, and knock the cookie jar to the floor, which then, surprisingly, spilled flour over everything?"

Following the argument with grave nods of his head, Edward expressed his guileless surprise with a widening of his eyes to quite alarming proportions.

Trisha couldn't help it. She collapsed into helpless laughter, bending at the waist to scoop her son into her arms, cuddling him close as her shoulders shook, burying her face in his floury neck as he flung chubby arms about her. "Oh Edward," she laughed, uncaring of the whiteness that now coated her as well. "Oh, my little trickster, what would I do without you?"

The gold-eyed boy didn't reply, just smiled up at her, bright and charmingly roguish as ever. She kissed his cheek, chuckling again when he brushed the resulting flour from her lips. "Come along then. Let's go and find out if Alphonse is still guarding the real cookie jar from dangerous big-brother rapscallions."


Edward opened his eyes and focused on pearly orbs, which were regarding him with a kind of warm understanding. "She sounds quite remarkable," the Dragon murmured, low enough that his voice was guttural with a growl.

"She was."

Roy's head snaked closer along his tail as his whole body rippled with sudden movement. "'Was'?"

"She…she died." Edward had to swallow around the lump of misery that lodged in his throat with the words, no less hard and bitter for all the years that had passed. "She died when Alphonse and I were children."

"My condolences."

"Thank you. It was…far too soon. She deserved better than the disease that withered her from the inside out."

"Could nothing have been done?"

Edward sighed, blinked mourning from his eyes with stray tears, and met Roy's gaze squarely. "She never told anyone. Not even her husband. Nobody knew she was anything other then perfectly healthy until…one day, when I was ten, and Alphonse nine, she simply collapsed. The whole village came together to pay for a doctor for her from the nearest town, but it was too late. We could only make her comfortable and wait for her to pass on."

Roy lifted his scaly head. "None would envy you such hardship. The bleakness of life intruded upon a time where only innocence should have existed. How did you continue without her? You mentioned a husband- your father, I presume?"

"Him?" Edward spat, fiercely. "That man disappeared before Alphonse was privy-trained. Those who know his name speak of his fame, his intelligence, his kindness to even the lowliest people, but they do not tell of how he abandoned his family. He is renowned as one of the greatest magic users to have ever existed, but whilst his wife raised his children, she was dying without him. Not a day goes by that I do not curse the name 'Hohenheim'."

"Hohenheim, as in, Hohenheim the legendary Sorceror of Light?" the Dragon interrupted, one of his heavy brow-ridges lifting in question. "Even I know that name. He has not been seen upon this world for nigh-on a decade, so I believe. You are descended from magical royalty, Fullmetal."

"I would that I could purge his blood from my veins," the Mage swore, fervently. "There is nothing of him in me."

Roy sighed. "Indeed, the value of infamy is as weeds to roses compared to the value of fatherhood."

Edward twisted the hem of his robe in his fingers, needing to occupy his hands before he broke something. "We had no need of him. But…but Mother loved him," he spoke the words with furious confusion, baffled by the concept. "She loved him, and he handed her a lifetime of hardship and loneliness. After she died, we were taken in by the village Knight- Mother had no family who might have looked after us. She certainly had no relatives in or near Risembul; I have often pondered what reasons led her to settle there, what part my father played."

The Dragon seemed unconcerned by Edward's vitriolic viciousness towards the very mention of his father. "You think perhaps theirs was a union unapproved by your mother's family? That they had a runaway marriage?"

"I…suppose it possible. Whatever the reason, I cannot deny that my mother loved my father with devotion unmatched by any in this world. He repaid her with betrayal."

Both Mage and Dragon fell quiet at the last, damning statement. Edward focused on calming his rapid, angered breathing, and regaining his composure. Roy, with his languid, reptilian patience, waited still as a stone for him to continue.

Eventually, the Mage cleared his throat and carried on, unfisting his hands from his robe. "The year that followed our mother's death was the hardest that Alphonse and I ever experienced. We…were blind without her, lost, and the only light and comfort we found was in each other. Alphonse was…is my temperance, the steady rock to my raging seas, and whilst I held him at night when he cried, he dragged me from my books during the day, that I might see the sun once in a while."


"Big brother! Big brother! Sir Willoughby wants you to finish cleaning his greaves!"

Ten-year-old Alphonse Elric, later to become Sir Alphonse of Elric, People's Champion, pottered through the dusty, neglected corridors of what, until a year ago, had been his family home. He was, unsurprisingly, searching for his errant older brother. Edward had taken to sneaking away from Sir Willoughby's house and secreting himself in their father's old library for hours on end. Whilst the old Knight approved of the eldest's thirst for knowledge, the illicit methods employed by the boy did wear on the chivalrous Sir Willoughby's nerves, and more often than not, it was the duty of the more dutiful Alphonse to bring his brother back to heel.

"Big brother?" Alphonse called again, a tremulous not entering his tone. It was unlike his beloved sibling to ignore his calls. In fact, he had never been ignored by his brother. The silence that met his summons was portentous, to say the least.

To Alphonse, however, the ominous overtones of the situation mattered little. His lower lip began to tremble as he faltered his way through the strange-familiar halls, his hands clutched in the hem of his tunic, his sandals making tiny scuffling noises against the dusty floor. "Big brother, where are you?" His voice was growing more high-pitched in worry with every passing second.

Edward was Alphonse's world. It made no sense, that he should not reply. The world made no sense, without Edward's presence, his voice, the self-righteous blaze of his anger, the bark of his laughter.

The boy was seriously considering bursting into tears (an extreme measure, only to be taken in the gravest of emergencies) when a blond head peeked out into the corridor.

"Al!" came the excited (and completely guileless) cry. "Get in here, quick, I've found something brilliant!"

The little brother broke into a run, his heart pounding with relief. "Brother, that was mean!" he scolded, fear mutating with great haste into indignation. "Why didn't you answer? I was shouting for ages!"

"Yes, yes, sorry, but this is…it's just brilliant."

Wondering what could possibly be 'brilliant' enough to deafen Edward to his calls, Alphonse trotted obediently into the room, stopping dead in the doorway when he caught sight of what his brother had been up to. The old playroom was littered with books, every surface covered in half-unrolled scrolls, or carelessly-discarded parchment sheafs, and every page was swathed in line after line of cramped, slanting script, thick and splotchy with the writer's haste.

"Wh-what's all this?" Alphonse asked, his voice high with disbelief. He toed a book out of his path with excessive care and, using the spare inches of bare floor like stepping stones, gingerly made his way over to his brother.

"These are father's," Edward grinned, smugly, "And I can understand them. He can't be as clever as everyone says, if a boy can work his magic."

"Magic?" Alphonse's eyes grow wide and round as saucers. "Really, magic?"

Edward gave a big-brotherly, disdainful snort. "Of course." He lifted his hand into the air, posed with his legs apart, pointed at one of the books and declared, with dramatic flourish, "Faladras!"

The book shivered, as if chilled by the words, then, as Edward glared at it, going red with exertion, it lifted, inch by slow inch, into the air. It hung suspended for several heartbeats, then Edward let out a gasp, clapped his hand to his forehead, and collapsed to his knees at the same time as the book thudded back the floor.

"Brother!" Alphonse knelt, hurriedly, and grabbed the older boy's wrist. "Brother, are you well?"

The grimace of pain quickly morphed into a beaming grin and Edward raised his chin, proudly. "Al!" he exclaimed, excitedly, "I'm going to be a wizard!"


"I should have known that you would be precocious, Fullmetal."

"Precocious and foolhardy; I thought myself an adult, already, having read an old man's notes on his own speciality," Edward sighed, shaking his head as if in disapproval of his younger self. "I was so ignorant of magic, thinking only of the beautiful words and flashy effects I could achieve. I possessed much of the vanity of youth, and with only Alphonse to temper me, I grew wild in the ways of Light's magic."


The knocking at the big oak door went unanswered for some time.

Eventually, driven grumblingly to answer it himself by the inadequacies of his adopted pages, Sir Adelard Willoughby drew open the door, leaning heavily on his cane, with an apology already on his lips.

His visitor brushed aside the courtesies with a smile and offered him a polite bow. "My name is Izumi Curtis," the dark-haired woman said, bringing forth a scroll from the depths of her thick travelling cloak. She gestured to the hulking bear of a man beside her. "This is my husband, Sig. We seek the children of Light."

The old Knight's eyes widened at the credentials upon the scroll, and he hurriedly ushered his guests in, directing them to the cosy reception room and ringing his loudest bell to summon his mostly-deaf housekeeper, from whom he requested the finest refreshments in the pantries, and quickly.

By the time he had hobbled back to the sitting room, the pale woman was seated comfortably in an armchair, her husband declining to sit in favour of standing behind her chair, with his hands rested on its back. She was dressed simply, a white shift tied over tight black trews, but at her breast, she wore a brooch proclaiming her title, and the Knight was at pains to recollect his gallantry, not stare overmuch.

"I am afraid the boys are not answering my summons," Sir Willoughby began, as he lowered himself cautiously into a chair, "Though, indeed, you are welcome guests of my house for as long as you wish to stay."

The woman smiled, warmly, in response. "You are most gracious, Sir," she thanked him. "I fear that your duties in the village must not be neglected in our favour. One interview with the boys should be sufficient to ascertain the information we seek. If I may make so bold; Sir Willoughby, you appear to be greatly troubled with stiffness in your joints."

The arrival of the tea and cakes distracted all attention for a moment, but once all three were comfortable with their refreshments, the Knight answered the woman's shrewd observation.

"I was not always the doddering old man you see today," he said, brushing crumbs from his thick moustache. "Once upon a time, I was as valiant an ogre hunter as any; alas, too valiant, I think, one does suffer from battler wounds long after they have healed. The scars play up in the damp cold of spring and autumn, but they do not trouble me."

Izumi smiled. "I fear your courage outweighs your candour, Sir Knight. If you will permit me?"

At Sir Willoughby's nod, the woman set aside her cup and came to kneel before him, bowing her head and raising her arms, hands perpendicular to her arms, palms facing outwards toward the Knight. She murmured under her breath, a soft incantation, and her hands began to glow with gentle green light. The glow suffused through the air, curling into smoky tendrils as it sank slowly over the Knight, enveloping his stiff and aching limbs in soft warmth.

Sir Adelard could not suppress the relieved sight that escaped his lips, and the light gradually died away with the fading of the pain. Izumi sat up, her task completed, and regained her feet. "A small gift, to thank you for your hospitality," she said, with a bob of her head.

"You are too kind, Mistress Curtis."

"Not at all sir." As she spoke, her black eyes darted to the door, and she raised a hand briefly to her lips, giving the Knight a conspiratorial wink. "In fact, I fear I have not completely healed your ills."

The Knight grinned; her healing was complete, but he suspected she had a different purpose in mind, and required a cover for her actions.

Still standing, the woman raised her hands once more, tracing symbols in the air that glowed silver as her clever fingers traced them out. When five dissimilar sigils hung in the air before her, she whirled to face the door, wrenched her right arm back and then flung it forwards, as if she were casting a dagger.

Joint shrieks sounded from the hall as the silver symbols disappeared into the corridor and, seconds later, Sir Willoughby's mischievous charges were dragged unceremoniously into the room, struggling in the grip of Mistress Curtis' magic. Edward was particularly enthusiastic to be free, golden eyes narrowed in a glare at the strange woman.

"Let us go!" he demanded, "Let us go, or you'll regret it."

A feline smirk curved Izumi's lips, and she leaned her weight on one foot, nonchalantly resting a hand on her hip. "Shall I, indeed?"

The boy snarled, ignoring the warning chatter from his brother, and spat, "Lashka!"

Flames burst from the air before his mouth, scything towards the woman with a ferocity that brought both the Knight and Sig lurching upright. However, Izumi seemed merely amused by the assault. She waved a dismissive hand, dissipating the flames into nothing, as if they had never existed.

"Is that the extent of your power?" she asked, coolly mocking.

Edward's mouth hung open, pure shock written across his face, but he started at the insult and curled his fingers into a fist, his arms still bound by his side. "If my hands weren't tied-" he began.

With another wave of her hand, Izumi unravelled the bright cords that pinioned the boys, sending Alphonse to the floor with a thud. Edward staggered as he was set down, then hunched his shoulders, angrily. He pointed at the aggravating woman and shouted an incantation.

This time, a forked jet of lightning shimmered from his fingertips, and Izumi merely yawned, twirling her fingers enticingly. The bolt, never slowing, curled about her hand instead of striking her, and she blew lovingly on it, transforming it into a handful of ash that fluttered to the floor.

This exchange was repeated back and forth several times. With each unsuccessful attack, Edward grew more red-faced and weary until, halfway through an incantation, he stopped, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped to the floor.


"How…unorthodox."

The Mage couldn't help but laugh. Roy's voice contained nothing of the surprise that had lifted the Dragon's heavily-ridged brows, only dry amusement. "When I recovered my senses, I was laid upon the sofa, with Alphonse standing over me, talking to that infernal woman."

"And who is she, this 'Izumi'?"

Edward tapped the insignia engraved on the shoulder of his metal arm. "Her name sounds humble, but she is the High Mistress of the Quicksilver Order, leading intelligence and combat Mage of the Mercury Circle. She is the founder of that august hierarchy of magic-users, who seek out the brightest of gifted children to draw into their wizardly ranks. She had been seeking us for some time, drawn to the person who dared to use Light's keywords to cast silly, insignificant magics."

"Your father developed his own incantations?"

"Yes- he must have been good for something. But his magic tapped into the very blackness of the world's shadows, and Mistress Curtis was quick to drum that language from my brain. I was personally apprenticed to her, and she saw to it that my training was as vigorous as any Mage's."

The Dragon eyed the Mage, scrutinising the hard muscle of his arms, bulging in the thin material of his black breeches, and remembering, perhaps, the casual, nonchalant arrogance that accompanied his every casting. "She was a thorough master," he concluded, with the air of one giving high praise.

Edward bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. "She took me away, to her home in the wilderness, for a year, to complete my training. I was allowed no contact with the world beyond her domain for that entire time, except for the occasion of my brother's birthday."

"A hardship not to be borne."

The Mage shrugged, grown beyond the anguish of that bitter, lonely year. "As my skills grew, I was able to scry with increasingly accuracy upon Alphonse's life. And the strength of our love rendered communication childishly simple, once I mastered the spell; there is nothing to a communing of minds, when one's spirits are bound as tightly as ours."

"Remarkable. And when your gruelling year of slavery was done?" Roy smirked, teasing.

"I was released, a certified Quicksilver Mage of twelve years, free to return to my life. I do not believe that I was wiser- but now I had the power and skill to protect myself from my own stupidity and vanity."

"It is admirable in one so young to find such easy recognition of your shortcomings," Roy said, blandly, but before Edward could react, the paw he was sitting on twitched beneath him. "If you would excuse me, Fullmetal?"

The Mage hopped obligingly to his feet, surprised to find himself stiff. He stretched, easing tension out of his muscles, and was amused to see the Dragon doing the same thing.

Roy pushed his foreclaws forwards, his haunches rising into the air as he arched his back, stretching his front legs like a cat. With a rush of air, his wings snapped open as far as they could, and he drew himself upwards to stretch his back legs, blotting out the sun with his vastness. The wind from the Dragon's leisurely movement brought Edward's attention to the chill in the air- the sun was just beginning to drop in the sky, afternoon just beginning to consider shading through to early evening. Strange that but a few hours had passed, yet human and Dragon had shared so much of themselves.

Fading sunlight struck the Mage's eyes, causing him to blink and re-focus on the present. Roy had moved out of his eyeline, walking about him in a tight, clockwise circle, like a dog finding a spot to settle, his thick tail lashing the air. After a couple of dizzying circuits (Edward dare not move lest he step in the creature's path), the Dragon slid easily to the ground, curling up once again. A pearly eye cocked itself at Edward, and Roy gestured to his back paw, invitingly. The Mage scrambled up, with haste.

"Now that I know of your upbringing, Fullmetal, I pray you will not recoil from telling me how you, freshly-minted Mage, came to dabble in the darkest of arts."

"Of course." Edward paused a moment to marshal his thoughts, pondering how best to frame the tale. A queasy buzz set up in his stomach as the memories replayed in his mind, and he had to swallow hard to force the vile black bitterness back. "It really begins four years ago, with the day my brother was knighted…"


Gazing up into the craggy, dignified face frowning down at him, Alphonse couldn't help but suppress a shiver. The old Knight, possessor of no fewer than twelve title of the realm, had taken him as page merely as a favour to Sir Willoughby. Once his brother had left the village, Risembul held nothing but melancholy for the youngster, and their kindly benefactor had taken it upon himself to give the younger Elric a chance to prove himself as noble and worthy as his gifted brother.

As chance had had it, one of Sir Willoughby's old campaign mates had been passing through the village en route to his county seat, and the Knight had prevailed upon his friend to take the boy on, even if just to find him a training master, or teach him the ways of society.

It was Alphonse himself who asked the elderly lord to take him on as Squire, and train him in the chivalric code.

Lord Rynthas of Merredwin, Dragonslayer, Giantbane, Shadeblight, and many other titles beside, had lived a life of valour, danger and infamy, and he knew a pure spirit when he saw it. His life, so enriched with honour and fortitude, had led him down the most treacherous and perilous roads, a constant beacon of light and hope against the tides of evil and villainy. And with the fading of his torch, he had been fearfully awaiting the rise of another Champion to take his place. In Alphonse Elric, he had found it.

So the years had passed, as gruelling as his brother's rigorous magical tuition, long days and long nights, endless winding roads and blood. Hot, blackened blood, drenching his sword arm, crusting in is chainmail unless he set himself to cleaning it with furious zeal. When Edward's apprenticeship to Mistress Curtis ended, Alphonse had still been a wet-behind-the-ears pup, good for little but cleaning boots, grooming horses and carrying plates.

As his brother, the kingdom's youngest Mage, made his first move into the magical hierarchy with his enrolment at the capitol's university, Alphonse found himself just beginning to accept weapons training. The life of a Knight required patience, endurance, and a torturous, twisting path of moral instruction. The genius of his father, as sound and vibrant in his mind as in Edward's, could not serve to lighten his load as it had Edward's. The Squire must endure, that the Knight might stand firm.

And now, three years since his brother's qualification, it was the younger brother's turn to accept a title, in honour of his 'graduation'.

"Alphonse Elric," came the deep, gruff voice, as strong as the spirit of its owner, "do you hereby swear to uphold the code of chivalry that you have been taught?"

The Squire bowed his head, humbling himself. "I do." His own voice echoed in the vast hall- all Knighting ceremonies were observed by worthies of the realm, and this grand room in the heart of the palace was the designated holding-place on this day.

"Do you swear to lead a life of fealty to the weak, valour against the unjust, and fairness to all who approach you?"

"I do."

"Do you accept hardship, and agony, and the burden of blood and death, that others might be spared it?"

This was the easiest of questions. "I do." Alphonse's voice rang with complete certainty.

"Then arise, Sir Alphonse of Elric, and accept your sword."

His knees trembling just a little, causing his armour to emit tiny chiming sounds, the new Knight clambered to his feet, and accepted, with a slightly furrowed brow, a battle-scarred, leather-bound hilt. Sir Rynthas, amused by his consternation, let out a bark of laughter. "As my own wish, I give you a faithful servant of mine- the hilt of the sword that has served me most truly. It is at another's request, Sir Elric, that I have not granted you a blade."

The old Knight stepped aside, revealing…nothing. No, not nothing; as the nobles gathered to observe gasped and chattered amongst themselves, the space where Sir Rynthas had stood began to swirl, as the surface of a pond might swirl with the submerged activity of fish. A glow, soft as candlelight, diffused through the air, and gradually grew and spread into the form of a very familiar person.

Alphonse gasped, his mouth gaping. Edward gave him a wicked grin, shook off the last of the glowing remnants of his magic, and presented him with a shining sword blade. "Congratulations, little brother," he smirked, his voice thick with pride, "Congratulations."

"E-Edward?"

"Ah, I see all that brawling hasn't irreparably damaged our mind. You didn't think I'd miss your big day, did you? Have some faith, Al. And take this bloody thing will you?"

With nerveless hands, Alphonse accepted the blade, handling it carefully with his leather-gloved hands. "But how did you come to be here?" he asked, too astonished to examine the gift. "You wrote that your studies kept you occupied!"

"And my 'studies' helped me make that just in time for the ceremony! I did have a little help from an, er, interested third party, but I suspect you'll find out all about that in good time. Shall we go and have your sword finished, Sir Elric?"

Oblivious to the applause of the nobles, and the laughter of his Knight-Master, Alphonse followed his brother to the palace blacksmiths, absorbing wordlessly the excited babbling that spewed from Edward's mouth about the enchantments sewn through the blade, and the special abilities it possessed, and the hours of work that Edward had dedicated to the…

The younger Elric stopped dead, entranced, bewitched as suddenly as a summer shower, by a vision of perfection that drew his attention as surely as the flame draws the moth. Standing at the palace's main forge, her usual glorious raiment cast aside for the rough overalls of the blacksmith, was a beauty whose fame and loveliness were praised throughout Amestris. The Princess Winry, second daughter to the Amestrian King, puckish and pure and fairy-tale beautiful.

"Greetings, Sir Knight," she called to him, her voice, to his ears, chiming like the sweetest notes of bells, "Pray forgive my forwardness, but oft I have espied you about the palace, and many tales of your courage and skill have reached my ears. I begged an audience from your brother, and I see that the tales have not been exaggerated."

Edward snorted, abrupt and in direct contrast to the Princess' sweetness. "Begged? More like blackmailed, threatened and bullied."

A fire-iron, propelled with great force and accuracy, struck him in the forehead, and he toppled, screeching, to the ground. Alphonse, still entranced by the Princess, did not notice.

"Yo-your Majesty," he began, stuttering, but her laughter stopped him dead, and she beckoned him into the forge.

"'Winry', please, Sir Knight. If we are to be companions, then you must call me Winry."

Edward's darkly-muttered comments on the subject went completely unnoticed by the two, as did his loud grumbling about the treacherousness of little brothers who ought to respect and defend their older siblings, if they were as mighty and honourable as their Knighthood claimed.


"The Princess is a demon?"

"This is backstory."

"My apologies. Pray continue."

"Hmph. As I was saying, some weeks after the Princess and my brother began their…'acquaintance'…"


The world had not yet realised not to enrage Edward of Elric (if his brother was to be an 'of', he saw no reason why he should not). It did not yet know what shattering consequences might come about.

Deep-delved in study, the young Mage's brow bore a brooding furrow of fury. He had not left his room (a typically small and draughty affair, as was the wont of student accommodation) for at least three days now, and in all of that time, his face had not relaxed from its steely, enraged set.

Those who would call his brother an honourless nobody, and unworthy thief of the Princess's heart, would live to regret those words.

In the eyes of the nobility, and the royal family, Alphonse needed the infamy of a long career before he could even consider continuing his companionship with the Princess, and Edward knew enough of his brother to know that the scandal being raised in the higher echelons of society by the friendship was enough to quell the quiet youth's ardour. The younger Elric, as befitted a Knight, placed much faith in the traditions of hierarchy and precedence.

Edward thought such things to be antiquated and irrelevant methods of judging who should talk to whom. Meritocracy was, in his eyes, the only true judge of a man, but the world at large looked at his brother and saw a green, upstart Knight, a rogue and rapscallion seeking only ambition in his clumsy quest for the Princess's regard.

Therefore, the Mage had resolved, a lifetime of infamy must be gained in a single act, and he would give that gift to his brother.

The summoning of demons, a taboo subject in all of magical society, had long fascinated humanity, ever since the first Mage forged living magics from the raw stuff of the world. Every tragic, terrible tale that related the ill-fated outcome of tinkering with the Underworld was drummed into the heads of magical students, for those who teach magic know that a Mage's greatest curse is his own curiosity, and curiosity had been the downfall of almost every famous Mage who name solemnly decorated the books valued most highly by wizards.

Even Hohenheim, the Sorcerer of Light, paragon of purity and integrity, was rumoured, to have fallen to his own curiosity.

Edward of Elric had little time for the mistakes of other people.

The seal of the High Mistress of Quicksilver had granted him access to those most forbidden of tomes, and he had locked himself away to devote himself entirely to their study. Considering the damned and damning nature of the sinful act, the research and recording of demons and demonology was surprisingly advanced, coherent and concise. In all honesty, the young wizard ad expected sprawling tomes written entirely in wild fantasies of blank verse, signed in blood and countersigned in gold. The insanity that breeds genius all too often breeds hyperbole, after all.

He was pleasantly surprised, therefore, to find engagingly-written studies, precise and detailed, written as any Mage would write a record of their research and experimentation. That the experiments all too often involved the hideous torture of some poor innocent, or the copious usage of virgin blood, was almost excusable in the light of the remarkable intelligence and insight of the authors.

The reading and hypothesising had led him to certain conclusions; the demonic were of a nature inherently opposed to man; the demonic were completely and totally evil; the demonic would consume and destroy the world, were they granted but the smallest toehold in it; the most revered magical minds in all of human history had universally failed to capture and contain even the essence of the demonic.

Edward prepared to summon his demon.

The walls of the tiny chamber were completely covered with ink and chalk, scrawled sigils and incantations, written in so many different languages that Edward's brain had grown numb to the strangeness. He had combined the summoning methods of several illustrious Mages, hoping to negate the need for precious objects or sanctified blood by combining precisely the most potent words of power. Their exact positioning aligned them to generate and channel the most energy, and contain the evil of whatever he might summon. He had spent the day meditating, drawing on the vast well of energy within him and reaching out to borrow strength from the vast silent giant of nature itself, cementing himself in the longstanding magic of the University, burrowing his consciousness to absorb and be absorbed by the centuries old and centuries-strong force, enriched within the very stone of the buildings, and alive the countless scattered minds of its Mages.

Now he was ready. With this summoning, he would forever, indelibly stamp his name upon the annals of history, and give to his brother the reputation he needed to woo his lady.

Seated cross-legged upon the floor, dressed in his finest and surrounded by all of his books, on the basis that they served as good a protection as any other talisman, Edward began to cast.

Once he spoke the first words, in a guttural, croaking tongue entirely alien to his ears, he felt something in his mind loosen, and the sound began to flow as easy as oil from his lips, cascading in lilting chirrups and clicks, soaring like poetry, vibrant with a plenitude of multifaceted colours and fragrances, rich as an Eastern spice cargo. . The words, giving shape to his ambition, fluttered incandescent in the air, and he felt the pull begin on his reserves, language ripping energy from within him, feasting upon him as carrion birds feast upon the dead. With alarming speed, the full, intense richness of his mind drained into a hollow, echoing emptiness, and he spoke sharp, piercing words through numb lips, shivering as even his body's heat deserted him.

Hours passed, hours of spiralling, spinning spells, layer upon layer of magic, burning bright shadows, eerie flickering upon the surface of his mind and heart and vision. His very bones ached with the weight of his task, he felt as crippled and twisted as a haelstrom-rent oak, yet the casting continued.

He could not have stopped it now with all the strength in the world.

Edward no longer harnessed and shaped the enchantment. It possessed him.

Old magic, the magic that broke the back of the world and drew darkness from light as poison from a wound, to create shadows and stars, it now held the Mage immobile, using his lips to speak the spells, even as tears started to pour from his eyes, the tears of a prisoner bound inexorably to his task.

The first, cruel brush of a demon's mind against his sent him reeling, screaming, scratching at his eyes and face with hands hooked into claws. The stinking, festering taint of that demonic conscience broke him free of the spell's freezing crystal hold, but it was far, far too late.

Laughter rang, sick with black bile and the stench of gangrene, insane and breathless in his ears. The demon's eyes, white-blind and putrescent, held his gaze, pain lancing through his raw, bleeding eyeballs as the blighted creature fed greedily upon the power he had so foolishly given to it. It must have had a body- it must have, for it possessed those horrific eyes, but, anchored halfway between worlds, Edward could perceive nothing through a haze of agony but the wicked gleaming poison of its laughter, the hideous glee of its merciless intent.

Something of a voice hissed, a language that cracked like broken bones and spat like melting flesh, and Edward screamed again as his ear drums burst, curling in on himself, a helpless, tortured child before the darkest evil of the universe.

As the life ebbed slowly from his veins, a blackened claw, warped and perverse, touched his skin, smoking the kin to ash where it fell, and the plague of the creature's voice resolved into words.

"Such a generous feast you have provided, vainglorious and stupid human," the demon spoke, lovingly, searing Edward's mind with the bitter, joyful cruelty of its words. "Yet not enough to open the gate between our worlds. Weak, cretinous child, whose thought to play with we who use souls as playthings, I will grant you a boon in return for your gift."

The physical pain of his arm's removal, ripped from his body like the leg of a roasted chicken, was almost a welcome respite, compared to the sheer weight of mental and spiritual agony that the demon's very presence caused.

"A boon, to remember your foolishness."

The demon's voice was fading, even as its evil, cackling laughter branded Edward's jerking, spasming body.

Released, at last, at long blessed last, Edward slumped, helpless, broken, and nearly dead, into unconsciousness.