Water ran down the inside of the walls into the smaller of two bedrooms in the Elrics' farmhouse, and seeped through the ceiling to drip onto pots, pans and bowls laid out across the kitchen floor. Still, the rain fell heavy outside, and a blustering wind whipped the trees and slammed the shutters.
A skinny, fair-haired boy watched with concern from the centre of the damp bedroom, as a girl in overalls passed a rope around his waist, between his legs, over his shoulders, across his back. Securing it with a deft series of knots, she asked;
"Are you sure about this, Ed? You could wait until the storm has died down a little, you know."
He gestured to the affected wall, down which grimy white water ran, carrying the lime and mortar away with it, exposing the stones beneath.
"I can't take the chance that the wall will crumble and the roof come down. Anyway, you won't let me plummet to my death."
"Some days more than others," the girl muttered, leaning out of the open window to feed the rope through a set of pulleys, and dropped the long end to the ground. She strapped around his waist a broad leather belt with a hammer, nails and a saw.
"You don't want the solder for the lead?" she tried again.
"Nope. I can do this."
"Wait for my signal, then lean carefully out to test the tension. If you fall too far, it's going to be difficult for Al and me to heave you back up again. You're short, but you're dense."
He gestured with the hammer, as though to take it to her head, but she was already hurrying through the door, pulling up the hood of her oversized raincoat - a hand-me-down from her mother - and running out into the streaming wet, sliding in the mud as she rounded the house. A smaller, wide-eyed boy joined her from the chicken coop, struggling to lift his huge wellington boots, which more often than not remained stuck in the thick mud, leaving his bare feet to squelch into the wet.
"They're scared by the thunder and lightning," he reported, concerned, "I don't know how to say 'It's okay' in chicken language."
She took a moment in the midst of the commotion to feel some compassion for the boy, smiling and taking his hand.
"They know you're looking out for them, Al. The fear will be gone in the morning. Now are you going to help me keep your insane brother from falling off the roof?"
He nodded, and they lifted the thick rope from out of the mud. Winry tied it around her own waist first, and then around the smaller boy's. She tugged on the engaged end to check that there was sufficient slack to allow Ed to reach the damaged area of the roof, without making it possible for him to hit the ground.
"Right, Ed!" she waved her arms and yelled, her voice almost lost in the howling wind, thundering rain and lashing tree branches.
With scarcely a moment's hesitation, the boy, sitting on the windowsill, leaned backwards, supporting himself with his arms at first, and then giving more and more trust to the rope. In spite of some alarming pulling and creaking, and the sudden jolt on the pair on the ground, it held. Straining, they dug their booted feet into the mud, pulling away from the house to keep their friend aloft. While his weight was supported, he used his arms to pull himself into a standing position, reaching above his head for the great stone guttering, and slowly, with massive effort, he lifted his shoulders, chest, belly, legs onto the steeply-pitched roof.
The wind hit him instantly, threatening to topple him, and he gripped on to the slippery slate roof tiles, scrabbling at first for purchase. The thought that this might have been a terrible mistake, the last he would ever make. Then he was on his hands and knees, weight pressing down through all four points to stabilise himself against the bluster. As his heart steadied, he laughed. Thunder ripped overhead, followed quickly by thunder. He was perfectly, electrically happy.
Hearing indistinct voices from below, he remembered his purpose, and crawled across the roof, looking for the warped timbers, rent solder and displaced tiles. Wood was the most difficult of these materials to work with, its complex fibrous structure was flexible, but incredibly strong. It was also resistant to melting and flowing. Instead, with his hands to the beams, he coaxed the long fibres to untwist, reconfigure, unbending the beams, while being aware of any internal tensions that could cause it to crack.
The lead solder softened, melted and flowed more easily, filling the gaps and binding the beams together. It glowed cherry-red and warmed his fingers. Over his patchwork, he replaced the slate tiles, knocking in new nails where they had corroded or fallen out. No way to know whether this had been successful, though the rain appeared to be running off, hissing and spitting as it cooled the molten lead.
His task completed, he crawled to the apex of the roof, and raised himself, first to his knees, then to his feet. The wind was ferocious, and the thunder sounded very near. The real danger made him feel paradoxically invincible; he had not fallen, so he could not fall. He looked around at the gently rolling, normally green landscape, darkened by the falling sun and the thick grey-purple clouds. Powerful lights flashed in the distance, from the railway bridge. Peering, he saw that the bridge struts were being battered by the swollen river beneath, causing the structure to sway and shiver.
He slid himself cautiously down the roof to the edge, and reversed the process by which he had climbed up. The rope took his weight once again, and then the tug was relieved. His fingers worked impatiently at the cluster of wet knots on his back.
On the ground, Winry was doing the same, unfastening herself and Al from the sodden rope. As they were pulling the house end carefully back through the pulley rings, Ed exploded through the door. Slithering in the mud and wet grass, he ran out of the garden, and down the path towards the road. Naturally, Al followed him, somewhat more slowly, and with some falls. With an exasperated sigh, Winry pursued.
Almost a mile away, the railway bridge over the swollen river was struggling. People from the town had come out, and set up red signals down the track in both directions. The rails began to vibrate, rhythmically, and to ring with the sound of metal on metal. The people scattered from the approaching train, which had seen the signs too late, and hurtled on over the bridge. For a few seconds, it appeared that the bridge might survive, but the pressure of the braking wheels, and the weight of the slowing locomotive, caused it to give way dramatically along two of the upstream piers. The structure gave one last sway downstream, and then lurched towards the water, the locomotive and three carriages plummeting with it.
Ed was certain he heard screaming, even over the rending metal and splintering wood, the immense splash of the heavy train, and the accelerating thunder of the full brown waters. He skid to a halt and reached his hands out pointlessly towards the river, watching the clouds of steam issued from the water, as the boiler rapidly heated the river, and extinguished. The electric lights in the carriages flickered out, as they were flooded. Then bodies - alive? dead? - floated up, along with suitcases, sacks of post, crates of goods, swept away quickly by the river. Through the morass a pair of white arms sliced, making for the shore. The crowd on the bank, watching anxiously, spotted this instantly, and cast a line. The figure struggled to grasp the rope against the tug of the current, but as soon as it appeared to be secure, the group on shore began to haul. In seconds, a woman was hauled, gasping, from the black water. Her thin dress was sodden, black hair clung to her shoulders and back. Her attention was fixed on the river, and no sooner was she on her feet again than she dropped to her knees, her hands planting in the mud of the river bank.
The river waters swirled and surged, its course disrupted by an eruption of mud and shale that slowed the flooded course. Onto this precarious dam, the woman stepped, running for the centre. As the figures of her passengers slipped past, she grabbed for them. Her muscles strained to lift them up to the relative safety of the mid-river bank. As soon as the townsfolk realised what was happening, they too ran for the centre of the river to assist her. Illuminated by lightning and feeble lamplight, sprayed by the relentless cold water, they worked to rescue as many of the living and the dead as they could. The woman manipulated the river bed to direct the last few drifting forms towards the rescue party.
From half a mile away, Ed recognised what was being done. He trembled with excitement, and before his fiends could catch up with him, he began to pelt down the slope towards the river bank. Rain water blinded him, and his feet faltered in the mire. He was ecstatic with happiness. An alchemist!
As he reached the riverside, the woman swayed on her feet. Her hands parted from the alluvial island floor, and the river began to overcome her. The townsfolk struck out, terrified, for the edges of the river, tugged far downstream by the current. One of the strongest among them slung the woman over his shoulder before he leapt from the collapsing island.
On the bank, a score of rescued souls, half of them alive and half dead, laid stretched out in the mud. The rain poured down on all, while drenched figures stood or sat by them, offering what assistance they could. At the fringes of the town, a public-house opened its doors, backed by firelight, and beckoned them inside. The bedraggled procession made for this sanctuary, and Ed strained his eyes for the pale figure of the woman who had raised the river bed. She was not difficult to identify, and he sprinted off again after her rescuer, Winry and Al trailing behind, to be welcomed into the warm, smokey interior where gasping and shivering, and motionless bodies were laid out on tables and on the straw-strewn floor.
He ignored these scenes, looking determinedly for just one figure. This one had been placed closest to the fire, an empty space around her for respect and superstition. He sighted a trail of frothy blood that trickled from her mouth, and erupted from her lips as she coughed dreadfully. Her fists slammed into the table, as she tried to force herself upright with a rattling sigh.
He raced to her side, and drew out his sodden handkerchief to wipe the mess from her face. Her eyes blinking and straining to open, she waved him aside.
"I am fine! There are people still in those waters! We must-"
Her sentence was cut off as she fainted, gasping for breath. Ed was alarmed at the rasping, gurgling noise of her lungs, but remained by her side, dabbing the bloody flecks from around her mouth.
There, Winry and Al found him. He felt briefly guilty to see his tiny brother, plastered with mud and his own ragged clothes like a forlorn scarecrow, and Winry's reproachful look from deep in the hood of her yellow raincoat.
"Idiot!" she exclaimed, as soon as he was within earshot, "The river was in flood, and you decided to run towards, not away from it!" with hardly a pause for breath, she gestured to the shivering, diminutive figure behind her, "Your brother is frightened out of his wits! You know how he hates lightning storms, and you brought him out into the middle of one! Edward, you are without a doubt the most inconsiderate boy in the world! Apologise to him immediately and then come home where it is safe!"
She reinforced her words by striking him across the face with her fist, but her arms were exhausted and her water-blinded aim was poor, so that she only grazed his ear. This did not alleviate her rage. Ed was affected, though, and opened his arms to his brother, who ran to them, pressing his face to his brother's chest and crying unabashedly.
Winry drew a deep breath and watched, conscious that Al's message was more effective than hers. Her curiosity turned to the sodden, blood-stained woman on the table by the fire.
"What did you follow her for?" she asked, unfurling her hood and rubbing her hands for warmth.
"She did something amazing," her friend replied, as he soothed his brother's wet blonde hair, "She made the mud from the river-bed into a sluice. That way, they were able to rescue most of the train passengers." he gestured around the room at the scattering of bodies, around which the townsfolk bustled with hot soup and blankets.
The girl nodded, understanding.
"She's like you."
"Not remotely. She's far better!" with gentle fingers, he wiped the tears from his brother's cheeks, addressing him directly, "we can learn from her."
Al shook his head, uncertain, frightened by the lean, muscular figure, streaked with red trails of blood.
"She's kind, Al," Ed continued, "She saved all those people from the water."
The trio assembled themselves around the fire at the legs of the table that supported their icon, steaming in the heat. The publican took pity on the bedraggled children, and brought them mugs of warm milk and thick wedges of bread and cheese. Having eaten his share, Al tumbled asleep, with his head in Winry's lap. She stroked his head as she looked across at her companion.
"Are you sure you can trust this woman, Ed? You don't know anything about her, except that she was on that train and she's an alchemist. Why doesn't she wear the uniform, or even carry the identification, of a State Alchemist? Perhaps she's a deserter!"
Ed knew better than to tread this ground with Winry. For all of their short lifetimes, they had been friends. He had been there when the telegram arrived to say that her parents had died together on the front-line. To her black-and-white mind, desertion was on a par with murder and bad craftsmanship.
"Let's examine the facts we have," he reasoned, "absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. She has lost everything in the crash. She has nothing but this dress and one shoe. All we know is that today she is a hero. Also, that she is an alchemist of exceptional talent - she performed complex reactions on volatile systems without a circle. Al and I can learn from her. And if she's bad news, we'll put her on the next train to Central, however long that might take."
The girl seemed placated, and leaned back against the table leg as far as she could without disturbing Al. As she appeared to be falling asleep, Ed allowed himself to dream that the woman might know where his father was, that he was alive. He unravelled a thread from his woollen jumper and tied it off, before securing one end to his wrist, and the other to the pale woman's finger, so that he might know when she woke. Then he laid himself out on the warm wooden planks of the floor before the glowing fire, positioning his body to protect Winry and his brother from any draughts that might sweep through from the door, and slept like the dead.