III
Remembrance
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rewind
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As hard as she might try, Trisha knows she won't be getting any sleep tonight.
She doesn't know whether to be amazed or terrified, the way her boys have grown up. Edward looks so much like his father, with his long hair and piercing golden eyes...
(But he somehow seems so much older than fifteen. She doesn't know how she can tell, but...there's something in his eyes...)
And Alphonse. Her sweet, darling Alphonse with the wide eyes and the smile the lights up the room...why can he not take the armor off? Perhaps she is being selfish; perhaps it really will help them with their alchemy...but she wants to see her baby boy's face behind all that steel.
There are so many questions running through her mind, so many mysteries and worries and fears. She knows sleep will elude her until she has the answers she needs... Because there is something in Ed's eyes, in Al's body language, that she can't quite read; it scares her more than she wants to admit. But they both seem so happy to see her, to just be in her presence...she doesn't want to ruin that now. (Even if she wonders why, because no teenager she's ever met has been so attached to his mother.)
She's jarred out of her thoughts abruptly by a scream from across the hall. It's Edward's voice, she knows; she's out of bed and into their room before she can even think. Is something attacking him? Is he hurt? What—?
She can see him, now, thrashing in his sheets, his eyes shut tight and face contorted. Al is already by his side, half-blocking his brother from Trisha's view and shaking him, trying to wake him up.
"Brother! Brother! It's only a nightmare, it's over, nothing's wrong, you're fine—"
Trisha steps forward quickly, intending to help him, to offer what comfort she can once Edward wakes up. (What is he dreaming about? What has terrified her strong little boy so badly?) She makes to kneel down opposite Al, but he looks up at her, his eyes (eyes?) glowing eerily in the dark.
"No...you need to stay back—his nightmares...they're..."
She doesn't understand, but she's not about to leave when her son is in such pain. "What's wrong with him?" she asks, her voice tense, as she runs her fingers through his hair, trying to calm him down. He is still definitely asleep, with his teeth clenched in pain and sweat rolling down his forehead...
"He—he gets nightmares," Al says, and his voice is carefully controlled. She can't tell whether it's because he's worried or because he doesn't want to tell her. "Sometimes...he...he'll be okay, I promise...just...I'm the only one who can calm him down..."
"What?" Surely, her sons are close—she's seen the way they share glances when they think she isn't looking, the way they seem to know exactly what the other is thinking. But—"I'm his mother—can't I—"
She feels a sudden, horrible fear that maybe she isn't a good mother. Maybe she screws up, at some point in the future—maybe they hate her, ran away to live with this "Teacher" just to get away—
The possibilities are terrible and endless, and she almost physically buckles under their weight. What if I've failed my precious little boys?
Al recoils as if burned, and his voice is full of pain as he replies—"It's—it's not that—it's just—you might make it worse, because—"
Ed's eyes snap open, and he looks wild and disoriented for a moment as his gaze spins around the room. He pauses briefly to stare at Al, as if making sure he is still there, before he finally finds Trisha.
His eyes grow impossibly wider, and he tries to move backwards, scrambling away from her on unsteady limbs. The horror is so clear on his face, in his quick, short breaths and his shaking hands, that Trisha can hardly breathe.
He's terrified. Of her. What could she have possibly done to him to warrant this reaction?
(She's hating herself more and more with every passing moment.)
"Brother! Brother! Listen to me!" Al physically turns Ed's head toward him, though Trisha can see Edward's face as it stays frozen in fear, can hear Alphonse's armor clanking as they both tremble. "Remember? This is Mom—really Mom—it's 1904—nothing's happened—"
Something like recognition flashes across Edward's face, and he relaxes, though he is still shaking violently. (Trisha thinks she hears a strange sort of clicking noise...but she has no idea where it could be coming from.) "Right..." The pain on his face has not diminished in the slightest, though, and he doesn't seem to be able to meet Trisha's eyes as he mumbles, "Sorry...Mom..."
"There's nothing to be sorry for," she says immediately, hesitating for a moment before pulling him into a hug. Whatever she might have done in their past—her future—she has no idea what it could be...has no idea what has happened...but she will try to make up for it now...make up for whatever horrors she has incurred upon her boys. "Just remember, it's only a nightmare. Al and I are here...we won't let anything happen to you..."
Ed makes an odd sort of choking sound, as if he's tried to swallow back a sob and only partially succeeded. But, to Trisha's great relief, he returns the embrace, his arms gingerly surrounding her as he buries his face in her chest. "Thanks...really...thanks, Mom...Al..."
"You're very welcome," she says, and Al makes a small noise of agreement next to her. Even if she doesn't know what Edward was dreaming about, even if he's still shaking uncontrollably in her embrace, even if she can tell that something is horribly wrong...
They're a family, and they can get through this together. (It's her job as a mother to protect her sons with everything she has, and she is totally prepared to do so if need be.)
She doesn't know how long they are there like this, with Edward lying, now, in her lap and Alphonse sitting inches away... But eventually, Ed's breathing slows to a steady pace, and his lips curl up into a small smile as he falls asleep.
Alphonse has not moved from his silent vigil next to her, but Trisha knows that he is awake. "You should get some sleep, too," she says to him softly, laying Edward's head back on his pillow before turning. "It's been a long day—you must be exhausted..."
Al is silent for a moment before he replies, his voice barely audible—"I'm—I'm not really tired, actually..."
There is something off about his tone, she thinks...but it's late, and she's not thinking straight, and he's probably (hopefully) just shaken up by his brother's nightmares. So—"I don't think I'll be sleeping, either." She stands up, offering Al her hand with a smile. "How about we go out to the kitchen? I haven't had a chance to talk to you yet...you've grown up so much..."
Al is still and silent for a moment; the eerie red orbs that seem to represent his eyes stare up at her. (She doesn't want to admit it, but she has to force herself not to look away. Somehow, when she looks into those eye sockets, it doesn't seem like she's really talking to her son.) Eventually, he takes her hand, heaving himself up mostly under his own power, and follows her out the door.
He is silent as they make their way downstairs to the kitchen, as Trisha goes to make two cups of tea before remembering that Al can't drink it. It's cruel, really, to deprive a fourteen-year-old boy of eating... Even if he won't starve, just tasting the food has merit in and of itself.
(If she ever gets a hold of this Teacher woman, she'll definitely be giving her a piece of her mind.)
Al says he doesn't mind, says he's used to it...but that doesn't make it right. And it raises the question—how long has he been forced to wear it?
But Al seems upset now, is quieter than he ever was at four years old...and even though Edward can be overbearing, has always been louder than his younger brother, she doesn't think Alphonse has ever been so withdrawn. So she sits at the table, mug in hand, prepared to make sure he is all right (because, surely, it's her fault if he is not).
But he is the first to break the silence; his voice is small and frightened and full of pain. "Mom...are you all right...?"
It's such a surprising question, so similar to what she was about to ask, that she's thrown off for a moment. Is she all right? Al is the one wearing that bulky, restricting armor; Al is the one who must wake his brother from terrifying nightmares; Al is the one who has seemed so horribly upset... "Of course I am, honey," she assures him, smiling and reaching across the table to pat his hand. "I was going to ask you that...you've seemed so sad all day..."
He makes a distressed sound in the back of his throat. "I...well..." he shifts uncomfortably, not quite meeting her gaze. "It's just...weird...being here..."
She thinks she understands, that it's strange to be ten years in the past, where everything is surely different... But there's something in his voice, in the way he seems to shrink into his chair, that sends up warning flags in her mind. There's something else, something that's so very wrong...
(It's this terrible sense of foreboding she hasn't been able to shake all day. It's here—it's so close—why can't she grasp it?)
She says nothing about this, though, because Al clearly doesn't want to talk about it. And if it doesn't go away, if these mysteries continue to haunt her sons, she'll press them to let her help...but not now...not in the dead of night, when her younger son so clearly needs her comfort.
"Well, if there's ever anything wrong, you know you can tell me, all right?" she says, finding his eyes and smiling. (The anxiety the armor is causing her does not matter; all that matters right now is Alphonse's happiness.) "I don't care what it might be—we'll all work through it together."
Al doesn't seem to be able to answer immediately; he only nods slowly, his hands clenching into fists. Somehow, there is a faraway look to him, as if he's deep in thought, trying to make a decision...
She does not interrupt, and it is several seconds before he finally responds. "I saw your face...when I told you not to help wake Brother. You...you're upset with me, aren't you?" His head sinks lower, and his voice is defeated as he continues—"I was only trying...I thought it would be best..."
What? That is the last thing Trisha is expecting; she works to switch gears, to readjust, while Al looks more and more dejected.
"Alphonse, I'm not angry with you at all!" she says at last, causing his head to snap up. "You know better than I do about your brother...whatever I've done to you two...it must have been horrible. If you—"
But he interrupts with a huge clang of his armor, looking straight at her for the first time tonight, his rigid posture screaming incredulity and horror. "What—no—that's not it at all—you're the best Mom ever—"
He looks so, so desperate to tell her she's wrong, and she feels a huge weight fall off her shoulders, even as more questions surface. If that's not it, then why?
"He...well...Brother...his nightmares are about you," he continues slowly, answering the unasked question as if not sure he should. "But—it's not like that..."
He trails off for several seconds, looking to the side again. Trisha doesn't want to push him, doesn't want to hurt her little boy... But she's desperate to know what is haunting her son's worst nightmares, what had caused the unadulterated horror on Edward's face...
"A few years ago...when we were younger...you got really sick," he says quietly, jarring Trisha out of her thoughts. "Aunt and Uncle Rockbell couldn't do anything...you almost..."
The pain is clear in his voice as he trails off, and Trisha's stomach plummets in terror. But Al continues after a moment, still staring at the ground. "But we...we were able to find Dad. One of his contacts knew where he was... And he knew Xingese—Xingese alkahestry, and it healed you. But if he hadn't come home in time..."
He does not continue, but there is no need. A sick pit of dread is forming in her gut, completely overwhelming everything else. She had almost died? Left her sons all alone, motherless and lost? If Van hadn't come home...
"How old were you...?" Her voice cracks, the anxiety and pain and horror catching up to her all at once. She almost doesn't want to know, but...
"I was...I was five..."
Five. That's only a year away... She can't even imagine the sons with her now going through something like that. But even younger...the boys who somehow sent themselves to the future...
(Worry for them is still gnawing huge holes in her mind, in her lungs and heart and gut, but she must focus on these sons first—she must try to heal the wounds time has inflicted upon them.)
The horror in her is only compounding. How they were able to handle this, she will never know...because she knows she'd never be able to...
"Mom?" Al's voice is scared, and she realizes suddenly that she has not said anything in reply. "Mom—everything—everything turned out fine. Dad stayed home, even found us a teacher...she lives in Dublith...you're fine...his alkahestry completely healed you!"
His voice cracks—likely from worry, she reflects. "That's—that's good to hear," she says after a moment, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. "I'm just...I'm so sorry I put you through that..."
"It could have been worse," he says quietly, and his face is still turned away as he continues—"It—it could have been a lot worse..."
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Trisha doesn't know when she fell asleep at the kitchen table, keeping Al company through her shock...but when she wakes up, she is in her bed with blankets draped carefully over her.
(She supposes that the armor must be doing Al some good, if he was able to carry her all the way upstairs.)
She walks across the hall slowly, almost apprehensive to see her boys. She is still not over the shock of I could die in a year and what kind of mother does that to her children and what have they gone through, but she knows she has to put on a strong face for her boys. Edward's expression when he awoke from that nightmare...Alphonse's body language as he told her what happened...
Even though it's been nine years since it happened, they still feel every ounce of the pain it caused...and she's not sure she can blame them.
Ed and Al are not in their room, though, and she hears noise downstairs, so she goes down to the kitchen. Ed is in the same clothes he wore yesterday—he's wearing too many layers for this summer heat... She feels a brief moment of terror for her younger set of sons—what if they're alone, outside, freezing in the middle of winter—but then she remembers that these sons were staying with their Teacher. And if they had traded places...surely, she wouldn't let anything happen to them.
She makes her way to the stove, where a pot of sausages is boiling and eggs are sizzling in the skillet. She's surprised for a moment; neither of her sons has ever shown any interest in cooking...but, she supposes, a lot can change in ten years.
Her sons had stopped their conversation abruptly when she entered the room, and she wonders vaguely what they were talking about. Perhaps it was Edward's nightmare; perhaps it was the conversation she had with Alphonse last night. How her sons' lives were almost ruined...how their family had almost fallen apart...
She stirs the sausages without really thinking, wondering if she even wants to know any more of what has happened...even if Alphonse says everything is all right now.
(She realizes... Of course she does. They're her sons. By some miracle, they have come from the future, and she finds that she wants to know everything. Even if it will hurt her...even if it isn't the ideal future. She needs to know.)
But her boys clearly don't want to talk about any of it, are still shaken up about Ed's nightmare that so easily could have become reality... (She's jarred by it as well, but her sons have always counted on her to stay strong, and she's sure ten years have changed nothing.) So, she decides to avoid the subject altogether. She fills two plates with food (there should be three) and brings them to the table, sitting down next to Ed and smiling at them both. "Thank you for starting breakfast," she says as Edward smiles back a bit tiredly and begins to eat.
(He throws glances toward his little brother every so often; his eyes are full of something Trisha can only read as pain. And she realizes, suddenly, how terrible she feels for eating in front of her son. He's been deprived of this luxury, this thing that everyone takes for granted...)
Surprisingly, Alphonse is the one who answers her compliment, ducking his head in embarrassment—"It wasn't a problem. Since you stayed up with me, I figured I could do this..."
Ed reaches over, punching the breastplate of the armor. (It makes a strangely hollow, metallic sound. Trisha wonders, but does not ask.) "And your cooking's great as always. You guys always make the best food..."
Al makes a noise, somewhere between a thanks and an affirmation and a sob, and Trisha knows that something is going on here...something she can't understand yet. (Why can't she? What is this mystery just beyond her reach?)
She doesn't know, and she realizes that without this knowledge, she may go mad.
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(She doesn't consider that the answers she is seeking may push her over the edge as well.)
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The day is long and quiet, and she thinks her sons may be in better spirits than they have been since they arrived. She wants to bring up the circle their younger selves had used, the circle still inscribed on the floor of their father's study, because surely they belong in the future, while those in the future belong here, with her... And she's sure that, if they are really being tutored in alchemy, they will have no trouble deciphering it and finding their way back home.
But she doesn't ask, doesn't mention how they arrived at all, because there's something in the way they look at her that says they don't want to leave. She can't imagine why; surely, they have friends with whom they belong at home? Surely, their Teacher is worried about them; surely, they would be happier in their own time...
(She knows she worries about her four- and five-year-old sons without pause. Even if they have assured her—rather indirectly—that they are safe...she wants them home, if only to hold them in her arms once again.)
Why have they not mentioned returning to 1914 even once? Why have they not shared more information of what has happened in their lives? Have they started a business, like so many do in East City, where they fix things with alchemy for a small fee? Has Winry followed in her grandmother's footsteps and become an engineer, as she has so often mentioned? What has become of the country as a whole?
She has so many questions, no answers, and very little time to ask them, because who knows when this transmutation will reverse...
(But her sons, one who looks so much like his father and one whose face is masked to the world, seem too happy at the moment. She can't bring herself to ruin that now.)
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(The overcast skies that have been threatening them all day burst open, and the summer storms begin.)
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fastforward
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Nobody seems willing even to breathe in the seconds after Maes leaves with the Elrics.
The Elrics. To Roy, that phrase conjures up images of an offensively red coat, of the constant clanking of metal parts as either of them moves, of the intimidating armor that houses the soul of the kindest boy he's ever known...
He's never thought of them as children—not really. It's as if Al has always been in the armor, as if Ed has always had two automail limbs... And he knows, intellectually, that their father left when they were two and three—their mother died when they were five and six—they didn't attempt that damned transmutation until five years after that—but it still...
Seeing these boys so young, so small and scared and innocent...
(It's a little too strange for him right now.)
He's terrible at dealing with children; he has no idea what to do with them. He's sure his team is not much better...but they have to do their best. They are children—innocent—they don't know that their mother is dead, that their father never came home, that they have lost so much...
They can't find out. Roy knows such things tear apart their Elrics without pause, and for such small boys...
They cannot know what's happened.
He finally finds the file he is looking for: the Elrics' emergency contacts. There are a total of two numbers on the list—the Rockbells and the Curtises. He wonders briefly if he should call their teacher—maybe she could help them with the circle... If she was able to keep up with those boys—actually teach them things—surely, she is one of the best alchemists in the country.
But then he remembers the horror stories the Elrics have told them on occasion, remembers everything he's heard about Izumi Curtis...and thinks that he would like to keep his manly bits exactly where they are, thank you very much.
So he dials Pinako Rockbell instead, waiting impatiently for her to pick up. He's already running through the possibilities—the worst things that could happen in this situation. (There are far too many of them.) If he and Armstrong can't figure out the circle, he's decided, they'll have to call Mrs. Curtis. Surely, between the three of them, they'll be able to resolve it...
(He doubts their Elrics, on the other end, will be doing much.)
This thought stops him short. Their Elrics. In the past. The younger ones replaced them, fell in the same place they had been...
And five-year-old Ed had said they were at home...with their mother...
He is jerked from this horrifying train of thought by a voice on the other end of the line. "Rockbell Automail—Pinako speaking."
"Mrs. Rockbell, this is Colonel Mustang," he says quickly, and he's pleased to hear that his voice is relatively steady. "Does Winry have a telephone number that I can reach her at?"
There is a slight pause on the other end. "Did Ed break his automail again? Didn't he just get it fixed last week?"
"No, Ma'am, it's not that. We have a bit of a...situation, here, and we need your granddaughter to—"
"Are they all right?" Her tone is suddenly sharp, almost threatening as she immediately switches gears. "Are they hurt?"
"In all honesty, we don't know," he says, and he hears his voice betray a bit of anxiety as he continues quickly. "Have you—ever heard of time travel with alchemy?"
Silence. Then—"What are you implying, Mustang?"
"I'm implying that we have a pair of Elrics on our hands that are barely into school," he says, his tone turning hard with worry, "and who think their mother is still living in Resembool."
The pause is much longer this time. "And our Elrics are gone?"
"Yes," he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Back in 1904, most likely...with their mother."
"What did you tell them?" she asks after a moment, her voice heavy. Clearly, the gravity of this situation is not lost on her. "Did you tell them anything about...?"
"Just that they can't go to Resembool because there aren't any trains this week. But that won't last forever..."
"I'll call Winry," she says immediately, though her voice is carefully controlled. "Tell her to take the next train to Central. Where are they staying?"
"My friend Hughes is taking them in. Winry stayed with him last time she was here... He and Gracia are smart—they won't tell them anything..."
"Right. Make sure there's someone at the station to pick her up." She pauses for a moment, and Roy wonders whether she's going to hang up, but then she says, much more solemn—"I know you never knew them this young, but trust me when I say not to underestimate those boys. It won't even be a year before Ed starts coming up with theories for human transmutation...and Al is just as brilliant as he is." She sighs. "Don't do anything stupid, all right, Mustang?"
"I will do everything in my power, Ma'am," he says, and he means every word. "We're already working on reversing the circle. Since our Ed and Al probably won't be doing much on their end..."
The silence is heavy, full of anxiety and pain and other terrible emotions that have never been named. "Get them home, boy," she says, and though her tone is authoritative, there is a plea, a desperation behind her words. She hangs up before he can reply.
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The office is quieter than it has been in years. The image of those two little boys is seared into Roy's mind; Ed's eyes were scared yet defensive, prepared to protect his little brother no matter what. That, he supposes, hasn't changed...but everything else is entirely different. His hair is short; his eyes are bright, but it is with the hope of youth rather than that of desperation.
But as incredible as five-year-old Edward is...his younger brother is even more of a miracle. For all the years Roy has known them...while he realizes, intellectually, that Alphonse is the younger brother, taller than Edward even before he was confined to the armor—even though he's realized that Al has the same coloring as Edward but their mother's features...
Knowing and knowing are two entirely different things, and the chasm that separates them is miles wide. (He knows, now, and his world is falling to pieces.)
Alphonse can't eat; he can't sleep; he can't smell or feel or taste or do anything others take for granted. And, surely, that is horrible...but somehow, this realization is so much worse...
Because he's only a child, in the end. He was barely ten years old when his life was ripped away for good—that round face and the big, golden eyes and the small hands grasping for his brother's comfort are things of the past now. Surely, Roy has realized the Elrics' young age before this—he knows that it is a horrible tragedy to have children barely into puberty joining the military... But after seeing that (adorable) face, eyes welling up with tears...
He's seeing Alphonse Elric in a whole new way, now. It's the boy he really is; it's the way he's supposed to be...
(He truly understands, now, why Edward is so desperate to return his brother to his body.) To the rest of them, Alphonse has always been the towering suit of armor. His eyes have always been red bulbs of soulfire; his hair has always been that stretch of thread that falls far down his back. But now...
Now...
The two images of Alphonse—the so-familiar armor and the four-year-old boy desperate for his mother—are warring in his mind, fighting for dominance, because one is the Alphonse that he's always known and the other is the Alphonse that he should.
He feels a headache coming on from all of this, because it's complex and it's personal and it's essential that he gets it right. This isn't like war; this isn't even like alchemy; it's a person (he's just a boy) who deserves so much more than he's been dealt. Roy needs to help him as best he can.
(When he first met the Elrics, he was only really looking out for himself. But as the years have gone by...)
(And now this...)
He thinks that he would do anything—give up anything—if only he could make their lives right again.
The office is still and silent; everyone is lost in their own thoughts, trying to wrap their minds around all of this. It is so foreign, but they should have known it all along; it is so terrifying, but they aren't the ones who must live with it...
Or carry the guilt...
Roy wonders suddenly whether this is how Edward feels every second of his life, and then wonders how in Hell he has kept himself from going mad.