Alphonse walked quickly down the streets of Central, a piece of paper clutched in his massive metal hands as if his very life depended on it. In a sense, maybe it did.

It was mid-afternoon and the sky was threatening rain again. These morose, fickle days smack in between autumn and winter tended to be like this, as if the weather spent every moment intending to dump buckets of rain down upon the frigid earth, but then changed it's mind before a single drop could actually fall. Alphonse wished that the sky would stop thinking about raining and just do it already. Not that Al particularly liked rain—because he didn't—but rain was better than the anticipation of rain. It was like there was a raw sort of tension around him, as if something was about to happen, as if something in the universe was about to shift... and Al would much rather that it would just hurry up and happen rather than keep him trembling on the brink of it, waiting helplessly.

This is how Al had been feeling for seven days now, since that cold morning when he'd first heard that his brother had been found. When the rain came... when Al finally got to see his brother's face again (oh, but would it even look the same?) it was going to be terrible. He knew that. But the strain of waiting for that most anguishing of encounters was far worse. He was overjoyed and terrified that this long-awaited moment was going to happen soon...

Today...

Right now.

Alphonse looked down at the paper again, confirming the address that Mustang had dictated to him over the phone. This is it, he thought, looking up at the modest house in front of him, This is finally it.

He walked up the front steps, trying to calm himself even as his anxiety spiked higher. Mustang had said that Ed had been "doing well", but what did that even mean? Al couldn't even picture in his head what Ed must look like now, nor could he grasp Mustang's descriptions of his weakened mental state. He had tried to prepare himself for what was about to see, but how could he do that when part of him still couldn't believe that such terrible things had actually happened to his brother? It was so unreal.

Al raised his hand, the tension in his soul reaching some sort of cosmic pinnacle, and knocked on the door.

The door was tugged open almost immediately to reveal a very irritated-looking, very disheveled man with pale fibers of dog fur clinging to his black shirt.

"What took you so long?" Mustang demanded, brushing his untidy hair out of his face, "You brother is bugging the hell out of me. I made the mistake of telling him that you'd be here today and he won't leave me alone about it! Get inside."

The tension that Al had felt so overwhelmingly just seconds before was knocked into a startled kind of bemusement, broken by Mustang's appearance. He almost wanted to laugh. He didn't though. He didn't even move.

Mustang gave an annoyed little sigh and grabbed Alphonse's arm, forcibly dragging him over the threshold and closing the door behind him.

"He's in the bedroom," Mustang said, walking across the living room toward a dim hallway, "It's getting too hard for him to walk much, so he's stayed in bed a lot for the past day or so."

Al hesitated for a moment before following behind him meekly. He was so happy. He was so scared. If he'd had a stomach, he probably would have thrown up. It had been nearly five months since Al had seen his brother—his guardian, his best friend, his only reason for being alive—and his absence had been like an ache eating away at Al's insides... a cankerous void that desperately needed to be filled again. And now it would be. It would be fine. He and Mustang would fix Ed and then Al would take him back to Resembool to get his automail reinstalled, and then everything would be okay again. They were going to be together forever. This was nothing, right? Ed was going to be okay. He was alive, and as long as he was alive, the world could keep spinning... Nothing could keep Edward down. He was so strong, he was so strong, he was so...

Mustang looked at Al over his shoulder as they reached the bedroom door.

"Try not to get him too worked up," he said quietly, "He's still very weak."

Al nodded, wringing his hands as Mustang pushed open the door.

And then suddenly all thoughts were gone from his head. He looked upon his brother's corrupted body and felt nothing but the cool, penetrating buzz of numb shock. He hadn't been able to imagine it, but here it was before him... and it was horrifying.

Ed raised his head and, for one impossibly long moment, neither Elric brother could react to the other's presence.

Edward was lying on the bed on his side, his long, lean torso made skeletal by abuse and neglect. Mustang had warned him that Ed had lost a lot of weight and muscle-mass, but this... he looked like he shouldn't even be alive. Al could see each one of his ribs jutting out from under his thin, patchy fur and the sharp ridge of his spine looked almost reptilian in the watery gray light filtering in through the uncurtained window beside the bed. Ed's body was sickeningly misshapen—some lurching thing halfway between human and canine—and Al had known that before stepping in, but actually seeing his brother so deformed was even more unspeakable than he'd thought it could be. It was repulsive... absolutely grotesque.

But, oh, it was still so beautifully alive.

"...Al?" Ed asked breathlessly, his voice just as mutated as his body.

A deep sob echoed from within Al's armor and he ran to his brother, flinging his arms around him and scooping him up off the bed in a tight, anguished embrace. He clutched his brother to his chest and wept as he hadn't wept since his mother's funeral, since a time when he had actually been physically capable of shedding tears.

Ed wrapped his arm-like front leg around Alphonse as well as he could manage, pressing himself against his brother tightly and whimpering plaintively. He did not cry; he whimpered. Like a dog. Like a sad, scared, hurt dog. Alphonse never thought that such a sound could be so horrifying.

Another grating sob broke from him, "Oh, Ed, I'm so sorry... I tried so hard to f-find you. I really did. I'm so sorry that I c-couldn't protect you..."

"Al, Al, Al, Al..." Ed whimpered, his frail body trembling.

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Roy left the room the moment Alphonse started crying and neither of the Elric boys noticed his departure. He didn't need to witness this. This was a private meeting of shared grief between brothers and he had no place in it. They needed some time alone, time to cope with what was happening.

Above all things, Roy wanted to give them time. There might be very little of it left. There was only one more chance to change Edward back and it was happening today. If Al and Roy together could not get past the block, then there would be no getting past it at all without killing Edward. There was nothing in the books. No one alive seemed to know anything. This was it. The final trial.

It all depended on Al, now.

Roy didn't even want to hope. It was too painful to let his guard down, especially now, after he'd been preparing himself for days for what he might have to do to Edward. It would be easier to just lack hope entirely than to hope and be disappointed. But now his hope had been rekindled...

Damn Maes Hughes. Damn his contagious optimism. It was so dangerous to indulge in, but how could Roy completely reject hope when it kept being thrown in his face...?

He sighed and dropped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, resting his elbows on the wooden surface. He clasped his hands together and rested his forehead against his thumbs, closing his eyes as if in silent prayer.

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Alphonse stayed in Mustang's bedroom with Ed for what felt like only a few moments, but in that seemingly brief stretch of time the sun had rocketed itself toward the western horizon and hours passed without notice. It was early evening now and Ed was sleeping lightly on Alphonse's lap. Al didn't mind in the slightest.

They had attempted conversation earlier, but Al had trouble understanding a lot of what his brother said and so they lapsed into a sad, yet contented silence. Ed fell asleep not too long afterward, exhausted by his own emotions, but Al was more than happy to just sit with him in his arms. His brother was alive and they were together again... and that was all that mattered.

Al watched his brother critically as he slept, absorbing the lines of stitches on his forehead, the pallor of his once-tan skin, and the rail thinness of his tiny, bony wrists... He was just so thin, now... so frail and tired. Edward had always been small for his age, but Al was used to it and knew better than to make a big deal about it, but now he looked even smaller. He looked as fragile as a dead leaf: something withered and brittle and so easily destroyed. After Al's initial elation at seeing his brother alive, he had almost been afraid to touch him again, terrified of hurting him. After a while, though, he realized that if grabbing him up in a crushing embrace hadn't injured him, then just sitting with him quietly and stroking his golden head certainly wouldn't do any damage.

This was just so unreal. He had his brother in his lap, and yet Alphonse almost feared to believe that he was really there. It had been so long since he'd seen Ed... and now that they were together again, Ed had been made into some other creature that hardly even resembled Alphonse's big brother. Part of him didn't want to accept that this thing—this tortured animal—was really Edward Elric. Maybe there had been a mistake. Maybe Ed was still out there somewhere, waiting to be found... or worse, dead in a ditch with ravens squabbling over who got to eat his beautiful, perfect eyes out of his skull.

Al shook his head violently, dispelling that image from his mind. No. They'd found Ed. He was safe, now. Sick and transformed, but safe and Al and Mustang were going to fix him. Everything was going to be all right.

Ed moaned softly in his sleep, his brow furrowing as he started to stir.

"Brother?" Al crooned to him, running his fingers through his tangled hair.

Edward gave another pained moan and drew in on himself in discomfort. He raised his head and dragged himself to his feet unsteadily, hunching his back and hanging his head.

"Need pills, now..." he rasped tightly, gesturing toward the closed bedroom door with a tilt of his head, "Hurts bad."

"Oh. Of course," Al stumbled. Mustang had mentioned more than once that Ed was on a heavy cocktail of antibiotics and painkillers and they had been huddled together in the bedroom for so long that it was probably well past time for him to be re-dosed. No wonder he was in pain. "Do... um... do you need me to carry you?"

Ed stared at his brother for a few beats as if surprised by the question, but then he smirked darkly and nodded. Clearly, he needed to be carried since he only had two fully functioning limbs and even those were compromised by stiffness and pain. Al felt a little stupid for asking in retrospect, but the sardonic smirk that touched his brother's face was so joyously Ed-like that he didn't mind much.

And so, very carefully, Alphonse collected his brother in his arms. Ed shifted a little to get more comfortable in Al's metal embrace, but then settled as Al opened the door and carried him out into the front room.

Mustang was sitting in the adjacent kitchen, still as a statue, his elbow leaning on the table and his mouth pressed against his clenched fist as he stared off into space. When Al stepped out of the short hallway, he blinked as if torn from a deep meditation and raised his head. He glanced at Al briefly, then looked at Ed, then pushed himself up from the table and retrieved a small pill-bottle from the cabinet without needing to be asked.

"He needed these over an hour ago," Mustang said distantly, shaking a pill into his hand and approaching Ed with it, "I considered barging in and dosing him, but I didn't want to disturb you. I figured he'd let you know when he really needed it."

"That was very considerate of you. Thank you," Al told him sincerely, watching as Ed obediently opened his mouth and allowed Mustang to deposit the small while capsule on his tongue. Mustang shrugged in response to Al's thanks, not meeting his eyes.

"I'd like to get started on the transmutation, if you don't mind," Mustang said after a brief pause.

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

In Al's arms, Ed sighed unhappily but didn't give any other sign of protest. Mustang's dark eyes flicked over to look at him again and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he turned and exited the kitchen, beckoning for Al to follow.

Mustang led the way through a door and down a dim flight of stairs. Alphonse looked around, awed and a little surprised by all the scientific equipment and documents littering the room. Mustang had converted his cellar into an alchemy workroom—and an impressive one at that. It was hard to picture Colonel Mustang as a scientist—even though he obviously was, given his excellence in alchemy—and Al was abruptly forced to view the man a little differently. It was clear to see that Mustang had put a lot of effort into this workroom and used it frequently. He, like Ed and Al, was a man of science and learning and not just a soulless colonel in the military.

"I take it you approve?"

Mustang's wry voice shook Al from his wonderment and he ducked his head a little shyly. "This is a nice set-up you've got here," he mumbled, moving toward where Mustang was standing next to a ring of stone pillars.

Mustang smirked humorlessly, though he did seem a little pleased with Al's awe. Al would have loved to have a workroom like this and Mustang probably knew it. An organized, well-stocked workroom is like an alchemist's dream.

"Here," Mustang commanded, pulling open a rough wooden door that broke the ring of stone, "Put him inside."

Al did as he was told and only then did he notice the transmutation circle within. A tiny pinprick of horror touched him. The circle was so complicated. The detail in it was phenomenal, far beyond anything that Al had even attempted to draw. He'd known days ago that it was going to be some pretty heavy alchemy to change Ed back, but this was insane. So this is why Mustang had sounded so upset about the block... with alchemy this complicated, it could take forever to find out what was causing it if Al and Mustang's combined power couldn't break through it—if they could figure it out at all.

No sense worrying about it now, though. Al and Mustang needed to just try and get past the block on their own before trying anything else.

Mustang closed the little door after Al put Ed in the circle and got down on his knees. Al did the same, watching him for direction. Ed settled himself on the floor, clearly very familiar with the routine and just wanting to get it over with.

"Ready?" Mustang asked Alphonse, reaching in between the pillars and placing his hands on the circle.

"Ready," Al answered, mimicking Mustang's movements. Truth be told, the cage-like pillars made Alphonse a little uneasy... but he figured that Mustang had a good reason for placing them around the circle and didn't ask about it. Instead he pressed his palms to the ornate array and awaited instruction.

"Follow my lead," the colonel mumbled, closing his eyes and concentrating.

The circle started to glow and Al felt the gentle tug of Mustang's alchemy on his soul. He followed the pull and augmented it with his own alchemic skill, further brightening the circle as he allowed Mustang to take hold of his power and mold it for his own purposes. Al didn't mind Mustang taking control of the transmutation. The man did, after all, know this particular sequence much better than Al did, and Al even felt a little relieved to be getting so much guidance in such a difficult transmutation. He was a skilled alchemist... a very skilled alchemist... but this operation was delicate and he had never experienced anything quite like it before.

Just when Al was starting to get a feel for the alchemy, though, he was abruptly jolted by the appearance of the block. Ed yelped and his muscles tightened in pain, nearly moving Al to pull back from the circle.

"Don't even think about it," Mustang snapped, eyes still closed, "Stay focused, alright? We need to try and push through it."

Al steadied himself and tore his gaze away from Ed. Watching him shudder with agony would only be a distraction and Mustang was right: he needed to stay focused if this was going to work. Mustang's power tugged on him again like an insistent child and together he and Alphonse pushed hard against the block.

Ed shrieked, the sound seeming to reverberate within Al's armor, resonating something so terrible that Alphonse nearly drew back again, but Mustang forced him forward, ever forward, into the white heat of the transmutation. But still the block remained, deflecting their efforts without showing any sign of wear.

And then suddenly, the transmutation stopped. Mustang took his hands from the circle slowly and sat back on his heels.

"That's it, then," he said quietly.

Al frowned and looked back at his brother. Ed was pulling himself upright again, whimpering and muttering to himself.

"Hm. I was so sure that you and I could do it..." he mused, disappointed but still hopeful. "I guess we have some research to do."

Mustang turned his head to look at him silently. He just stared for several beats as if fighting some sort of internal battle, but then his expression went cold and he straightened himself.

"I suppose we do," he said gruffly, standing. "I'd like you to run over to Central Library and see what you can find. Perhaps there's something I missed."

Al almost protested. He didn't want to leave Edward again so soon, even if it was only for a few hours... but something about the way Mustang spoke made him think better of arguing. Besides, it looked as if Mustang had been taking good care of Ed all this time and Al owed him more than he could ever repay... At this point, he should be doing anything that Mustang asked of him without complaint.

"Yes, sir," Al agreed, straightening, "I'll do anything to help."

"...I know," the man replied, his eyes still on Ed, "And this will help me a great deal."

Al frowned inwardly, unsettled by the sudden emptiness in the colonel's voice.

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The telephone on the edge of Maes' desk rang and he answered it quickly. He'd been anticipating a certain call all day and each time the phone rang his heart started racing.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, here," Maes said into the phone, trying hard not to sound as anxious as he was.

"It's me," Roy answered quietly.

"Well... did it work?"

"...It was the same. Nothing happened."

"No..." Maes rasped, closing his eyes tightly and fighting to contain the sudden impulse to cry. He knew what that meant.

"I have to, Maes. You know I do."

"Do you w-want me to come over and... and help?" he asked, desperately not wanting to but feeling the need to offer.

There was a pause before he replied, as if he were thinking it over.

"...No," he said finally, his voice still so unbelievably, enviously emotionless and even, "I think that would just make it harder. For both of us. I gave Al my pocket watch and sent him to the library to do research. It will probably only take him an hour or so to realize that I already have all the texts on chimeras checked out. I'd appreciate it if you could go down there and keep him distracted for as long as you can. I'm... going to need some time."

Maes tried to give his friend an affirmative reply, but his throat closed and he could not make himself speak. Tears formed in his eyes and he didn't bother to brush them away. This was really the end. It was really over. They had lost the fight.

Edward was going to die and Roy was the executioner. Maes didn't know which of them he pitied more. Sure, poor Ed was going to be killed... but then his suffering would be over while Roy's pain was just beginning. What must it be like to have to kill a child? And not just any child, but a child that you loved with every part of you? What if it were Maes in Roy's position and he was forced to kill his sweet little Elysia... to murder her in cold blood? Maes wasn't sure if he'd be able to do it, no matter what terrible pain she was in... even if she was screaming in agony... even if...

He stopped himself, those thoughts becoming too terrible to entertain. Maes could not fall apart now. Roy needed him to be strong, needed him to keep Al away while he quietly killed his big brother... Maes had to keep himself together for that, at least. Roy needed him.

"...I'll do what I can," Maes finally managed to choke out, the tears spilling over and trailing down his cheeks.

"Thank you. I have to go."

"Okay."

There was a pause, then:

"...Maes?"

"Yeah, Roy?" Maes sniffed, wiping his face on his sleeve.

"...Please don't hate me for this."

And without even waiting for a reply, he hung up.

"I don't," Maes whispered to the dial tone.

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Roy took a long, deep breath, and let it out slowly.

He had done this before. He could do it again. His hands were already stained, no matter how many times he'd tried to cleanse them... what was one more life among the throng of others that he'd taken? This would be nothing. Nothing at all. He was a killer already. A murderer. Even his allies during the Ishbalan uprising had said as much behind his back, when they'd thought he wasn't listening.

"Murderer" wasn't even the worst of what they called him. He'd had so many nicknames. Some of them were more benign, like "The Sun" and "Major Flame". Others, though... they had stung. Names like "the Destroyer". Like "the Plague of Ishbal". Like "Baby-Burner" and "Satan's Soldier". So many names, many of which he would repeat to himself silently as he leveled cities and slaughtered the enemies of his country, trying to make himself believe that he really was as heartless as everyone thought he was. Because if he was heartless... if he really was this monstrous, evil thing... then perhaps he could keep committing the atrocities that he'd been ordered to commit instead of turning his weapons upon himself as something deep within him begged him to do.

And Roy wished he that was heartless. Oh, how he wished it. He wasn't, though. Not even close. The best he could do was delay his horror and self-hatred for a little while until he'd completed his mission, hiding behind those fucking names. They empowered him. They kept him driven.

Hellfire Mustang.

Mustang the Eradicator.

The Genocidal Alchemist.

Roy rolled his shoulders back and let the coldness wash over him. He could do this. Of course he could. He was Colonel Roy Mustang, a force to be reckoned with. Even his own people feared him. He had nearly annihilated and entire race of people, had ended more lives than he could even count. Putting this pathetic, whining chimera out of its misery would be nothing.

Nothing at all.

He pulled the little vial down from the cabinet and went into the bedroom where the chimera was waiting for him, lounging on its side as it attempted to sleep off the pain in its bones. Roy didn't even look up at it. Instead he opened the top drawer of his bureau and took out a thin box that he had acquired from the hospital days ago, when he had first started preparing himself for what he was about to do. He took the box over to the bed, flipped up the latch, and opened it.

There were three glass hypodermic syringes within the padded case, each one pristine and glistening in the rainy light floating in through the window.

"Colonel?" the chimera asked warily.

Roy ignored him, removing one of the syringes and sliding the needle into the vial of morphine that Maes had provided him with days ago. Roy silently swore to himself that he would never tell Maes how it was being used. He sucked the clear fluid into the syringe, filling it almost completely with the concentrated drug. It would be more than enough.

The chimera complained again quietly, saying something about not liking needles. It didn't matter what it was saying, really, so Roy continued to ignore it. Soon, it wouldn't say anything at all.

The Boiler

The Mad Dog

Bloodlust Mustang

He sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed the chimera by the scruff of its neck. It yelped and shied away, not liking the close proximity of the needle.

"Be still!" Roy barked at it, tightening his grip. The thing stilled a little at the curt order, but continued to whimper. God, what an irritating, grating noise that was. Roy tried to push it out of his mind and focused on the task at hand. The syringe was cold in his tensed fingers as he lifted it and jammed the needle into the side of the chimera's neck.

The thing yelped again, but didn't try to pull away. It just looked up at him with wide, confused eyes. Eyes that held fear and pain and a trust so boundless that it momentarily cracked Roy's resolve. How could he be so trusting...?

Roy shook himself, pushing away those thoughts. He had a job to do. He shifted his hand so that his thumb rested lightly on the plunger of the syringe. He clenched his jaw and steeled himself for the act.

The Military's Flamethrower.

The Grim Reaper.

Colonel Bastard.

That last one stopped him, jarring him from his forcedly stoic mindset. He could hear Ed calling him that in the back of his mind, the kid's voice raised in that disrespectful indignation that Roy had always found both comical and infuriating... This was the one nickname that he'd never really hated.

"...Colonel is mad again?" Ed asked quietly, his voice wavering.

"I'm not mad! Why do you keep asking that?" Roy snapped at him.

Ed jumped a little at the raw anger in Mustang's voice, and then cried out as the movement made the needle dig even deeper into the tender flesh of his neck.

"I told you to be still, damn it!" Roy scolded, unable to keep a tremor from his voice.

"Sorry..." Ed rasped, frightened, "Ed is sorry. Sorry..." He leaned forward a little—though his movements were limited by the needle in his neck—and rested his head against Roy's chest. "Don't be mad. Please. Sorry, sorry..."

Roy's heart tightened painfully as if attempting to curl in on itself like a wounded animal, trying to hide. The warmth of Edward's head against his chest was unbearable.

"I'm not mad," he finally forced himself to say again, though this time his voice was soft and gentle. "I just... I need to give you this shot. It will make you feel better. All of your pain will go away."

"...All of it?" Ed asked, pulling back a little to look up into Roy's face.

"Yes. All of it."

"...Okay..." he conceded unhappily, though the prospect of no pain was clearly appealing to him. He closed his eyes and just waited for Roy to depress the syringe, trusting him unconditionally.

How can you trust me? Roy wanted to shout at him, I'm going to kill you, and still you trust me! Are you really so stupid now, Edward? Are you really so lost?

Roy swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the syringe, tensing his thumb. His heart was pounding hard, the terrible beat making his hand tremble and his mouth go dry. He had to do this. He had to. He had to. He had to...

I can't.

In one swift motion, he tore the needle from Ed's neck and threw it hard across the room. It hit the far wall and shattered, sending a shower of glass and blessed poison raining down onto the floor. Ed stared at Roy, startled, not understanding and Roy didn't want to explain. He grabbed Ed and lifted him into his arms, running out of the room and down into the open door of the basement. He barreled down the flight of stairs, his heart and mind both racing. He yanked open the door to the stone cage and threw Ed inside roughly.

One more time. He would do it one more time.

He shut the door and stormed over to the desk in the corner, snatching up a gleaming silver blade from the cluttered surface. He ran back over to the cage and hit his knees in front of it, then dragged the blade across each of his palms, slicing his hands open before tossing it aside. He clenched his fists so that blood dribbled down onto the transmutation circle. It was a last-ditch effort that would probably do more harm than good, but the blood would give him an extra boost in his alchemy, a more intimate connection with the circle that might allow him to violently break through the block.

He was going to give this everything he had. Just one more transmutation. If Ed was going to die anyway, then he was going to die in the attempt of becoming human again. He would die trying! Roy wasn't going to hold back at all this time, no matter what it did to Ed. No matter what it did to Roy.

He slapped his blood-wet hands onto the red lines of the transmutation circle, reveling in the sting of his damaged flesh striking the painted stone. He deserved the pain. Give me more.

Edward was whimpering again, scared now to see his Colonel Bastard bleeding. Roy didn't want his pity. That was the last thing he wanted. He closed his eyes against the sight of that beautiful, caring boy, silently mouthed, "I love you, Edward," and threw himself violently into the transmutation.

The circle lit up immediately, not with the gentle glow that he associated with careful, delicate alchemy, but with a blazing, fiery roar that burned into Roy's eyes even from behind his closed lids. It sucked the breath from his lungs like a domineering, over-amorous lover and he welcomed the breathlessness. It was probably the only thing keeping him from screaming. He let his senses flow into the reaction, flying forward with no sense of caution to hold him back. He was beyond that, now, drunk and half mad with power and pain. Agony shot up his arms from the cuts on his hands, tugging on his veins as he pushed the alchemy outward from every cell of his body, putting every molecule of his being to work.

He reached the block quickly and rammed into it. Distantly, he heard Ed loose a sharp, howling cry. It seemed to come from very far away, though and Roy quickly lost interest, too concerned with battering himself against the block like a bird striking itself against its reflection in a window.

Break it down, BREAK IT DOWN! he ordered his alchemy, personified by tiny white hands in his reeling mind. Tear it apart. Tear HIM apart. Destroy and create, destroy and create!

The greedy little hands tore at the block, eating at it, banging on it with pale fists. The metaphorical wall buckled slightly under the onslaught and Roy gathered himself, reaching into every part of his mind and body for fuel to aid him in this one, final attack.

He dug his bloodied nails into the transmutation circle and gave it everything he had. The wall cracked and shattered and Roy's power shot past it like a torrent of water from a breeched dam. The forward momentum of the alchemy surged from Roy and into Ed, the displacement of power so intense that Roy's physical body pitched forward a little, striking his forehead against one of the rough pillars and momentarily distracting him from his meditations. He could suddenly hear Ed more clearly now, and he listened as the familiar shrieking howl he'd heard so many times slowly morphed into the ceaseless screaming of a child. A human child. And even worse than hearing that gut-wrenching, plaintive sound, was the silence when it suddenly stopped.

The sane, conservative alchemist in him pleaded him to try and pull back, but it was already too late and he knew it. The little white hands were already imbedding themselves into Ed's flesh and bone, gushing forward with more power than Roy could control, eroding both dog and boy more quickly than they were building him up again.

Destroy and create destroy and create destroy destroy destroy des—

Blackness.

Roy cracked his eyes open slowly, pain crawling over every inch of his body. He was lying on the floor, collapsed into a heap of cold exhaustion. That had been it. That was all he had to give. There was nothing left within him. He was empty. Hollow. And so very tired...

He turned his heavy head and looked at the body within the circle. Edward was sprawled on his back, his open eyes staring blindly upward. Roy pulled himself up onto his elbows and managed to fumble the door of the cage open dazedly. He reached in and grabbed Ed by his arm, dragging him out with his last bit of strength. Ed's remaining dog-limb detached and remained within the circle, pulpy and half-disintegrated by the reaction.

Roy leaned over him, examining him closely. Ed's nose and ears were bleeding sluggishly and the blood vessels in his eyes had ruptured, painting the white part the color of dark wine. A red foam of blood and saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth. His mindless body gasped in oxygen sharply, arrhythmically like a fish run ashore—dying, but not yet dead.

Oh, but it really was Ed's face... it was his mouth, his nose... his neck, his chest, his hand, almost all traces of the canine invasion banished. He wasn't quite human again entirely, but Roy had tried his best. Ed was far past being able to care about it anyway... but at least Roy had tried... at least Edward would look a little more like the boy that Roy had grown to care for when they finally put him in his coffin.

The colonel, weak with fatigue and knowing that there was nothing more he could do for him, cradled the boy close to his chest and curled around him, patiently waiting for his small, struggling heart to finally give up and fall still.

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((A/N: one more chapter and an epilogue to go. I intend to post them at the same time, so hopefully they'll be done by next weekend.))