Before entering the cafe, Ed could see Strauss with his narrow shoulders and his thinning hair sitting alone at a table through the plate glass window. He and Alfons stopped and peered through, watched Strauss take out his pocket watch and glance at it and put it away before frowning down at the cup of coffee and the pastry sitting uneaten in front of him. They shared a look before Ed pulled the heavy door open.

Strauss stood for them. It seemed to Ed that he was putting on a mocking courtliness as he shook both their hands, before nodding at the two empty dainty iron chairs gathered around the tiny table. Ed always felt awkward around such small furniture and took care to sit down without knocking anything over with his false limbs, while Alfons tried to find a place to comfortably put his long legs.

"Are we settled, then?" Strauss said impatiently, once they had stopped fidgeting with arranging their coats. Way to get off to a good start, Ed thought sourly. Strauss was just as patronizing as he had been on their first meeting. Given this, Ed wasn't going to waste any time getting to the point. He immediately reached into his vest pocket for the stone and put it on the table.

"What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

Strauss smiled, and Ed immediately noticed his pointy yellowed teeth, leading him to trust him even less than he already did.

"So, sending it to you had the desired effect," said Strauss, lifting his coffee cup and taking a sip. "We thought it would be the sure way to get you to come to us."

Ed glanced at Alfons before forging ahead. "How did you get it?"

Strauss replaced his cup on the saucer and looked intently at the stone before picking it up and holding it at eye level over the center of the table, so they could all look at it, the center of attention.

"Your father made it for us, Edward," said Strauss. "It's a perfect specimen, too, from what I've been told." He replaced it on the table. "Not that I'm an expert on these things."

But Ed's heart had begun racing at the mention of his father; his mouth became immediately dry. "He—he did?" Still overwhelmed with this information, Ed fixed his gaze on the stone and tried to process what he'd heard. "But…two weeks ago you said you didn't know where he was."

"Well, we found him," said Strauss. "And now he's working for us."

"I don't believe he made that for you," Ed said, anger beginning to replace his shock. "He would never---"

But he was stopped in mid-sentence by the smug look on Strauss's face. "We have access to the raw materials," Strauss said mildly, taking up his coffee again.

Ed glanced at Alfons, who looked pretty confused. Of course he did; he had no idea how a stone like that was made. Ed felt certain that Hohenheim would never had made a stone for them, would never have taken lives willingly; he wasn't even sure, of course, how they could have gotten alchemy to work to make the stone in the first place. But this stone was real, and he knew it.

"Where is he? I want to see him," Ed said, knowing full well that this was what Strauss—and whoever he worked for—wanted. He hated being manipulated, but he just had to see his father, he had to know how he made that stone, because obviously he had finally figured out a way to use alchemy.

Strauss nodded. "Of course, I knew you would. I have a car waiting." He reached into his pocket and tossed a few marks onto the table. "Let's go."

The car was new, and surprisingly roomy. Ed had never been in such a large car. Alfons slid in first, then Ed, after Strauss swept his arm aside for them to enter. The seat was so wide that none of them were touching as they sat on the bench seat. There were even little red curtains in the back windows. Strauss instructed the driver, sitting silently in front in his sharp hat, to get going.

"Where are we—"

"To Garching. It's not far, just a few miles outside of town. That's where our main laboratory is. It doesn't look like much but still, I think you'll be very impressed." Strauss rolled down the window on his side and took out a silver cigarette case. He snapped it open and offered it to Ed and Alfons, but they both politely declined. Ed wouldn't have minded a smoke, anything to distract him from the near-panic that had seized him from the moment Strauss had said that Hohenheim had made the stone for them. That meant one thing, Ed was pretty certain. This trip was predictably dangerous, and he was already regretting having taken Alfons with him. But when he glanced over at him, Alfons was looking serenely out the window he had just rolled down on his side, trying not to be too conspicuous about taking gulps of fresh air while the smoke from Strauss's cigarette rolled through the car.

"So, you've seen my father, personally?" Ed asked, as Strauss flicked the remainder of his cigarette out the window.

"I've met him briefly. He's been working hard in the short time he's been with us."

"So he's been staying there?" Ed asked, completely mystified. Hohenheim wouldn't have returned to Munich and not contacted him. It seemed strange.

"He'll tell you," said Strauss. He patted Ed's right knee briskly.

The car had left the paved streets and was now barreling down an unpaved road. It was bumpy going and Ed found himself bracing himself against the shocks by pressing down on the seat with his hands. Every bump jolted where his false limbs met his flesh. It was just the thing that was most painful. As the car made a sharp turn, Ed glanced over at Alfons, who looked a bit green. Alfons swallowed thickly and gave a smile of forbearance through gritted teeth.

Yeah, we're in great shape, Ed thought bitterly. Great shape to be walking into who knows what. He didn't have a clear picture in his mind of where they were going, and Strauss was intentionally being short on detail. Ed couldn't shake the feeling that something very bad was going on here, that seeing Hohenheim was going to make things worse, not better. He had taken the stone back off the little table in the café and once more he groped for it in his vest pocket. How many people's lives were sacrificed to make this, he wondered. The little stone was like condensed death; now he could barely believe that when he was younger he had once been willing to make one, had even contemplated taking lives so that he and his brother could have what they wanted. They had been so stupid, and so selfish. Hohenheim knew better now, too, he knew. At least, he thought he did.

After the better part of an hour, the car pulled into a tree-lined drive. Gravel and dirt pinged off the car's bottom and fenders as it car rambled down the narrow lane. Soon a huge, ancient house hove into a view. It was a rambling stone mansion, almost but not quite a castle. The house was surrounded by trees and high shrubbery that looked deliberately overgrown, and the grass was wildly overgrown, giving the outside of the building an abandoned look. The driver opened the door and Alfons and then Ed welcomed the gravel drive beneath their feet. It had been a painful ride. Ed walked a few feet, slowly adjusting his leg so that he could walk normally. He noticed Alfons stand still and take several deep breaths of air, watched his color return to a face that was drained almost white.

"Sorry about the ride, boys," said Strauss, not seeming at all sorry with that wry half-smile on his face, showing those yellow teeth. "That road is scheduled to be paved this summer." He gestured for them to follow him. Still a bit shaken, Ed took a quick look around—there were other cars parked in the circular drive; two large sheds could be seen off to the right, obscured by trees. Looking up, he noted that several of the tall, leaded glass windows were papered over from the inside, as if to keep out natural light.

He deliberately lagged behind Strauss in order to walk close to Alfons.

"You all right?" he asked.

Alfons nodded, but looked a bit dazed. As he blinked in the sunlight that shafted onto the stone steps at the entryway, Ed noticed that Alfons still looked ragged and pale. It had been a mistake to bring him out here, he thought, but it was too late now. They had to focus on what was to come. The door opened from the inside, and Ed braced himself before following Strauss's narrow form inside.

"Please wait here, gentlemen." Strauss tipped his head in unctuous graciousness, then walked quickly down the length of the hall and disappeared at a turn. Ed was tired of him and wish for new, less irritating company, less a public relations man and more a scientist. Ed and Alfons were left standing in the entryway, which became instantly gloomy when an unseen hand pushed the large doors closed behind them. A young man with lank brown hair dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, with a dingy yellow paper collar asked them if they'd like some water or other refreshment, in no way indicating what form this "other refreshment" might take.

"Water would be nice," Alfons rasped and Ed saw him press his fist to his mouth.

The man nodded and disappeared down the shadowy hallway. Alfons began to cough, first with restraint, but each time the cough sounded drier and deeper, and the sound of it made Ed's skin crawl.

"I should have made you stay home," Ed said, watching Alfons fretfully and anxious to have the water appear.

Alfons shook his head. "No!" he said between coughs. "I couldn't let you come here alone…how would I know where you were?" He coughed and choked again. "What if something happened to you?"

Ed felt stupid and helpless, able only to look down the hallway again, its perspective reaching into darkness, no idea where it led.

"Hey, hurry up with that water!" he shouted, not caring how rude he sounded.

Approaching footsteps signaled the return of the young man with the dirty collar. He had a glass and a whole pitcher of water, which he placed on the small table by the door.

"The Assistant Director apologizes for making you wait. He'll be up to retrieve you presently," he said. For the first time he seemed to notice Alfons was unwell. "Do you need to sit down?" This was more a statement than a question, and there was in any case no place to sit in this hallway. The boy looked annoyed.

Alfons shook his head stubbornly and frantically downed the glass of water. The young man disappeared again.

"This is ridiculous," Ed said, relieved that Alfons was finally quiet. "You told me that you were feeling better."

"I am!" Alfons hissed.

"You don't get it. This is the kind of situation that could end up getting fucked up real fast. What are we going to do if we have to make a run for it?"

Alfons bridled. "Suddenly we're in danger and it's all my fault? Seems to me they've been perfectly pleasant to us so far."

Ed sighed. "You can be really naïve sometimes—"

"Shut up," Alfons interrupted. He slammed the glass down onto the table. "I apologize for not being such an experienced international adventurer—"

"—I'm not saying—"

"Oh, excuse me, interplanetary adventurer!"

Alfons was now standing at his full height, his arms crossed rather haughtily across his chest, and he looked comically serious. Ed had to stop feeling annoyed and was almost moved to laugh, at least to smile. He would have hugged him right there; he felt bad for berating him about being ill. It wasn't his fault. But footsteps approached again, and a tall, trim figure emerged from the depths of the hallway, followed by a smaller, slighter one.

"Gentlemen." The two figures approached and stopped. A man, tall, slender, fair, middle aged and confident looking, dressed in a crisp casualness, dark suit, impeccably knotted tie, that suggested wealth bowed slightly toward them. The other was a woman, younger than her companion, with flashing dark eyes and olive skin, and dark hair pinned up, a suit that had a definite military cut to it, although Ed could see no national symbols anywhere.

"David Jamison." The man extended his hand and Ed and then Alfons shook it.

"An Englishman?" Ed said, surprised.

The man looked slightly offended. "Scot. And my colleague here, Galina Sukhova, is a Soviet citizen of the Russian persuasion." Sukhova dipped her head in greeting. She seemed very serious, dark eyes flashing, Ed thought he saw her bite her lip, even. She did not meet his eye, although Jamison seemed to hold his gaze more than was polite.

"We're an international operation here," said Jamison. "No national loyalties at all. We all work for the Director, all for one common cause."

"Which is what?" Alfons asked, his curiosity obviously trumping even his coughing fit. "What are you doing here?"

"You'll see." Jamison smiled again. "Our porter says that you aren't well, Mr. Heiderich. Why don't you go have a sit down in the parlor while I take Mr. Elric to see his father?"

"Why can't my father come down here?" Ed asked, suspicious. "If he knew I was here, he'd be here right now too."

Jamison dropped the solicitous tone he'd been using on Alfons. "He'll know you're here when we bring you to him."

Meanwhile, Alfons was pulling away from the arm that Sukhova had started to snake through his.

"No, thank you, I don't need to sit down."

"We'll be walking a bit through the house and down into the cellars," said Sukhova.

"That's all right. I'm fine." In one glance Ed saw Alfons looking stubborn again. He also noticed Sukhova and Jamison glance at each other as well. Well, then.

"Enough of this. Just let me see my father."

Jamison nodded, started off down the hall, and they all began to follow. It was a large house, but they were quickly to the end of the hallway and into the huge kitchens, where the porter was tending to several boiling pots that gave off an atrocious smell, causing Ed to wrinkle his nose, while Alfons coughed a bit. They followed their guides to the outside door to the kitchen and found themselves crossing a large stone courtyard facing the back section of the house. The courtyard was covered in old stone paving, cracked with weeds and grasses growing in between. There was nothing of great interest here, only a couple of rusted washtubs and a line with some linens covered with rusty stains hanging limply. As they passed one of the washtubs, Ed glanced down and instead of seeing the expected dirty water, a pile of what looked like grisly animal guts. He looked away quickly, although his heart started beating faster. When he glanced at Alfons, he noticed a sheen of sweat across his brow and a trickle of perspiration down the side of his face, which worried him. It wasn't all that hot, really. He gently touched Alfons's sleeve as the party made its way to a dark doorway.

"I'm fine," Alfons whispered hoarsely.

Ed sighed. It couldn't be more obvious that he wasn't "fine" but there was no way to address that now. Alfons was familiarly stubborn. Just what he needed; he had a bad feeling about this, and having Alfons along, obviously unwell, was just complicating things. Things could go horribly wrong. Not that he had the slightest idea what these things might be; never had he been so in the dark about something. He was fully cognizant of how careless he was being, coming here, following these people. The whole thing was shady.

But, the stone.

It all came down to that fucking stone again. He squeezed it in his left fist, inside his pocket. How much trouble it caused, again and again. The party stopped in front of the door—it was covered with peeling green paint, and had six panes of glass in the top panel, half of them cracked. Like the rest of the house, the doorway had a sinister, derelict aspect to it. Ed couldn't suppress a chill of discomfiture; perhaps this whole thing really wasn't wise. He looked up at the sky and pushed away the thought that it could be the last time, or the last time he would see it as he was. It was bright blue and cloudless, spotless. Bright.

Jamison put a key into the door and opened it with a creak.

"Gentlemen," he said, indicating with a sweep of his hand that they should go inside. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness. The darkness and the smell. Although they were still above ground, it already felt as if they were in a dungeon. The floor was cold stone, the walls too dark to see, a space that felt narrow and endless at once. The chilly space was filled with an odor of mustiness, damp, and a layer of something much, much worse. Ed shuddered for real this time. He looked up at Alfons, who was already shivering with the chill after being in the sunshine outdoors, and the warm, sunny courtyard.

They were led down a dark corridor, heels clacking against more stone flooring. This part of the house seemed ancient, the walls hung with tapestries so antiquated and filthy that their pictures could not longer discerned, only dull, muted colors and forms from centuries past. Ed noticed sconces in the walls made for holding torches, but the only light was a dim, familiar orange glow of gaslight at the far end of the hall. A lamp sat on the floor by another door, this one newer and made of iron. Ed could practically smell the new metals, iron and lead, of the polished door. Jamison began to pull it open, as Sukhova turned and faced him, and they exchanged a look. She then glanced at Ed, iwth an expression on her face that he immediately took to be pity. His heart sank.

"Is my father down there?" he asked. Jamison indicated solemnly that they start down the dark staircase. "Wait," Ed said, heart pounding. The stench that had lingered in the hallways was strong here, and a new layer, the smell of burning…something…ozone…flesh…alchemy…was making his eyes water.

Sukhova held out her hand. "Mister Heiderich, I think you should stay up here with me."

Alfons gave Ed a look that said "Stay here alone?" as if the idea were ludicrous. He shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, and firmly, too.

Ed did not want to be separated from Alfons, but at the same time, it did seem wiser that they not both go down there together, not to mention that what he was sensing indicated some very potent and dangerous alchemy.

Ed nodded at Alfons, and their eyes met. He pleaded with him silently. Please stay up here. Please save me if…

Alfons nodded, eyes firm and bright. Ed felt only slightly better as he followed Jamison down the stairs.

It was, basically, a dungeon, although Jamison took pains to mention that these were some of the Company's laboratories, but had originally been the manor house wine cellar and servants' quarters. The chambers they passed all had closed doors, with various signs "Keep Out" "Experiment in Progress" "Toxic Chemicals."

"This is where we do some of the more dangerous work," exposited Jamison like a grim tour guide. "We have some workrooms upstairs, as well. But, it's best to confine some of the more volatile activities to down here. When you see what your father has been working on, I'm sure you'll agree."

They were reaching the end of the corridor, and made a turn. The stench of burning-- ozone and flesh-- washed over Ed and he had to admit to himself that he was afraid. It was the same smell that had met him on the day when he and Al had transmuted their mother, the smell of loss and mistakes and terror. For a moment he considered turning and running, but he had no doubt that Jamison could just reach out and catch him by his collar. Not to mention, his father was there, somewhere. Ed felt a strange pull of familiarity, not something he expected with Hohenheim. He found himself surprised at how eager he was to see him.

They reach a turn in the corridor, and a door at the end of the narrow passage, the end of the line in this particularly depressing place. Jamison cleared his throat, turned to Ed to give him some final, meaningful look, with raised eyebrows, which did nothing to quell Ed's fears, and rapped on the door.

"Professor Hohenheim!" he said with his English-accented German. "This is Jamison, and I have a guest with me. Is it all right to enter?"

Ed waited, skin prickling, scalp crawling, to hear his father's voice. So, he wasn't dead. Part of him really had been expecting to be presented with a corpse, as a threat. He wasn't a fool, he could sense that this was the kind of Company that could keep him against his will. He had his left hand in the pocket, clutching the stone, feeling its heat against his skin. It was almost fortifying.

"Dad?" he said. "Dad—are you in there?"

The door opened, and there he was. He looked disheveled, dressed in only an untucked, stained shirt, cuffs rolled up, neck open, and filthy-looking trousers. Edward was shocked, that was so unlike him. His eyeglasses were askew on his face, as if they were broken, and he noticed, even in the dim light provided by the gaslamp at the end of the corridor, that there was a bruise on his face, and scratches on his hands. His fingernails were absolutely filthy.

"Edward….no..." His father said his name as if he regretted that he had ever been born, his voice cracking and on the edge of some agony. Clearly, seeing him here was the last thing in the world he wanted. He hadn't quite been expecting an embrace but to see his father so disordered was more than slightly disturbing.

Jamison suddenly gave Edward a not-so-gentle push into the room. Hohenheim reeled back and looked behind him frantically as if he had something to hide.

"No! I don't want for him to see this!" he protested, but it was too late, because Ed had seen it, and now it couldn't be unseen.

The remains of some monstrous creature surrounded Hohenheim, its shiny dark skin and ruby red meat mangled around bits of charred, pointed bone. It was huge, or would have been in life. There seemed to be meters of it, hacked up or eaten away, spread around the chamber. In the center of the floor was a huge array, inscribed, Ed had no doubt, in blood. The ceiling, too, hosted an array. He did not recognize either of them by sight, but from what he could see in the dimness, he had an idea as to their purpose, and they suggested Gate. Other arrays, sketches in chalk, covered the uneven walls all around them. Books and papers scattered on the floor, the few chairs present, a workbench against the far wall. Chemical distillation equipment was set up on the surface, and the fluid in most of the decanters was a familiar ruby red.

"What is this?" Ed asked, already panicked. He was beyond that, really. This was a horror that quickly evoked memories of other things he'd seen and wished he could excise from his memory forever…he couldn't imagine what this creature was, and what his father was doing with it.

"Its body fed the Gate eleven times," Hohenheim said, his voice strangely flat and defeated. "I kept it alive until the sixth time, but even after, when the blood was still fresh, the Gate opened for it."

Ed could see that the creature, whatever it had been, was now nothing but trash.

"Wh—what was it?" Ed asked, not able to take his eyes away from it.

"It was a serpent, from the Gate. It was…the Homunculus, Envy." Hohenheim's voice was faltering.

Ed closed his eyes. He had tried never to think about it, not to think about it, that Envy had been his father's child once. So…he had been experimenting on it? Even though it was a monster, that seemed cruel. Peering at Hohenheim now, he was a changed man from the last time he'd seen him, only a few weeks ago. Shadows under his redrimmed eyes, as if he hadn't been out of this dungeon for as long a time. Ed had never noticed how many wrinkles there were on his father's face, more than he had thought, etched deep around his eyes, his forehead. His hair was undone, and looked thin and straggly. If he had seen him on the street, he may not have known him.

"You shouldn't have brought him here," Hohenheim said, in his still-defeated tone, looking at Jamison.

"It wasn't my idea," said Jamison coolly.

"You see how young he is," Hohenheim said. "How could they think to get a boy involved in this horror?" He clutched at his hair with his fists. "I thought we had a deal!"

"And you thought they would honor it?" observed Jamison, sounding almost amused. "You should have known better than that."

Hohenheim suddenly came at Ed. He stepped back instinctively, but his father clutched his shoulders with his huge hands and squeezed. Hohenheim sought to hold his gaze, and after a moment's resistance, Ed let him. At this proximity, Hohenheim stank; his own degrading body, deprived of baths and perfume, plus the funk of the dungeon, working with the decomposing creature. Ed held his breath; his father smelled as if he were already dead.

"Don't do what they ask of you, Edward, whatever it is, I beg you." Hohenheim closed his eyes and a tear trickled down. "They'll make you promises but they will all be lies, believe me. You know nothing, anyway, you can't help them, you don't know enough to open the Gate, you're useless to them."

Ed understood that his father was not only making statements for Jamison's benefit, but coaching him on what he was to say if these people asked him to work for them again. And it was true, of course. He didn't know how to open a Gate. Except now he had the stone. He wondered whether he should show it to Hohenheim.

"Jamison." Hohenheim's voice was increasingly pleading, desperate, edged with misery. "My son knows nothing, he's not adept, and as you can see, he's just a boy. Please, let him go."

Jamison had his arms crossed, and he looked considerably less amused than before.

"That's not up to me, Hohenheim. You know that."

Hohenheim looked away from Jamison and intensifying his grip on Ed's shoulders, lowered his eyes to him again.

In a low voice he addressed him gently now, intimately, and Ed's heart began to flutter again. This would probably be the last time he would see him, he realized. There was no way Hohenheim was going to last long here, doing this, being kept like this. He felt the loss before it happened, it seemed like he was already gone. This frantic, desperate, filthy man wasn't the father he had come to know over the past year that they had spent together on this side of the Gate. For all his many faults and failures—which Ed could never truly forgive—Hohenheim had made good on some of them, had truly tried.

"How are you doing? Have you been all right?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," Ed said, embarrassed that his father was asking him how he was, given the circumstance he was in himself.

"Feeling well, everything working all right?" his father asked.

Ed nodded sharply. "Don't worry about me. We have to get you out of here."
Hohenheim lowered his voice further. "No. It's too late for me." He leaned in and began to whisper in Ed's ear. Ed winced at his father's fetid breath, feeling ashamed for it. "I've opened the Gate too many times. The next time will be my last, but I'll make sure they can't get to it."
"What are they trying to do?"

"They found the serpent, and they know about the stone. They want more, to make weapons of all kinds from it. They think that they can use it as a core for a bomb."

Ed's eyes widened. "A bomb?" His thoughts raced back to a sight he'd seen while in the Gate many years ago. A huge explosion, a cloud the shape of a mushroom, a tremendous canopy of destruction…the deaths that would yield.

But he understood now.

"I have to stop this," he said. "Somehow—"

Hohenheim squeezed yet harder, Ed winced but did not pull away.

"Yes, you must," Hohenheim said. "But not today. Trust me, you have to get out of here. Now." He stood up to his full height and released his hands. Ed looked up at him, Hohenheim looked down. It was ever thus, even grown up, he was still as a child next to his father, the towering alchemist. His father, who had carried him on his shoulders when he was just a tiny child, who had carried him in his arms when he had come through the Gate, helpless, he who had never lost patience and faith in him, Edward.

Ed had forgiven him, mostly.

"Dad, tell me…"

Hohenheim leaned forward again, and Ed could see that he had begun to cry.

"Did you make this stone?" He pulled it from his pocket, held it out. Hohenheim looked at it.

"Yes."

Ed swallowed. "And who…how many people died for it? How many lives did you use?"

Hohenheim lowered his gaze.

"One hundred and eighty residents of an insane asylum….the Company bought them all, brought them here, I did it here, right here, two weeks ago…" Hohenheim swept his arm across the room.

"But how…?" Ed still did not understand how the alchemy worked here, how he could activate the circles he had drawn.

"Don't you understand? The serpent, its blood. We bled it hundreds of times, it died by a thousand cuts…it thrashed a lot the first few days, and pushed its flesh through the chains. The guards pushed nails into it, tortured it. I listened to its screams for days on end. I was relieved when it finally died. When he died."

Hohenheim looked broken, beaten. He turned around, disoriented. He rolled up his tattered sleeve further and showed his arm to Ed. The flesh was so degraded Ed could see the glistening of muscle where the skin had been eaten away, and even a white flash of bone. The wounds were edged in black, rot.

"The proximity of the Gate energy has accelerated the deterioration of this body. They know this, and they are trying to squeeze every last drop out of me."

"Why don't you stop if you're dying anyway?" Ed asked, suddenly alarmed and challenging. Isn't that what he would have done?

"Because I wanted to open the Gate, for you. They promised me my freedom. I thought I could figure a way and then get away from them, but they watch me night and day."

Ed was horrified. "I wouldn't want you to kill a bunch of people to make stones, just for me."

Hohenheim nodded and even smiled. "I knew you'd say that. But your life is worth more to me that a hundred and eighty insane people, or the homeless wretches they swept in here last week so I could make another stone. You mean more to me that that beast—" here he glanced at the carcass again—"more than anything else in this world."

"That's crazy, Dad," Ed said, shaking his head.

Hohenheim gave a bitter laugh. "You'll see when you have children some day…" He laughed again, seemingly mad. "You're all that's left of me now…"

Ed thought about the chance he blew back in Laboratory 5 to trade dozens of lives to restore his brother, how close he'd come…he kind of understood. Still, the stone he now held in his hand seemed to have an even more sickening power over him. It was his.

"And I hope you will…" Hohenheim mused on, apparently talking to himself now. "You will live, that's all I want. Now get away from here."

Ed looked at Jamison, still standing before the door with his arms crossed. Jamison tipped his head to the side.

"If you've seen enough," he said. "Certainly."

Ed turned back to Hohenheim. They stood facing each other, and once again, Ed felt himself a child in the presence of this towering, mysterious man. This man who had been a phantom and a puzzle, and a betraying monster for most of Ed's life. Ed held out his left hand with the grimy white glove, and his father took it with his.

"Thank you," Ed said. Hohenheim looked so, so sad just then, the tears still silently trickling down a face that now seemed as old as the man claimed to be; Ed let himself be pulled into a quick embrace, then left the room quickly, pushing Jamison aside roughly, stalked down the corridor, never looking back.

Death had its fingers around his neck. It had happened so quickly he had no time to wonder what was coming at him. Sukhova had led him to a small, dark parlour. He had sat down on the chair she had indicated, and clouds of dust had spread up around him. No one had sat here for some time, apparently. It had started the coughing again, and before he knew it, he was gasping for air. Sukhova had pressed a handkerchief into his hands and it was stained with blood within moments. He panicked—for the moment he could hardly recall where he was or what he was doing, or whose voice this was asking him what he needed. Oxygen was getting hard to come by, and he was so tired, if he could just stop coughing, lie down, sleep….he'd be happy, that's all he wanted.

Still the coughing went on, his head began to ache horribly as each cough racked his neck, his head, his brain jostled in its fluids, his lungs full of needles, making him wish he could reach down his own throat and pull them out. The woman was hovering about him, then he heard her footsteps going away, and thought, She's leaving me here to die alone…where is Edward?

Sukhova gone, he tried to get his breath, hoping she was going to get help, but what help would there be here, wherever this was? The stench of the house had overwhelmed him, filled his lungs, stung his eyes, made his nose run. He covered his face with the handkerchief, and as the coughing subsided, he took stock of how much blood he had expectorated. It had felt like more, like buckets, but it was just a bit really, staining the white handkerchief. His head ached and felt sticky, and when he felt his forehead and hair, they were damp, as were his eyes. He took in a shuddering breath and stood up shakily. His knees trembled as he took a step, but he made it to the doorway and then held on to it for dear life. Breathe, breathe, he told himself. Better, thank God. Perhaps if he went outside….

He looked down the dark corridor, still surprised by his surroundings, still lightheaded and wondering what had brought him here. Then, footsteps, that woman, Sukhova. She hurried, and looked worried as she approached.

"They're looking for you," she said.

"Who? Who's looking for me?"

Footsteps. Sukhova shook her head. "Come with me." She took his arm insistently and started walking him down the hall, but footsteps from behind stopped them in their tracks.

"There he is." It was a familiar voice. Strauss. "It's not quite time for you to leave, Mister Heiderich. That won't do, you need a lie down, don't you."

It wasn't really framed as a question, but Alfons was too weak to argue.

It was a bedroom on the second floor of the house. Richly fitted out in the style of two or even three centuries ago, velvet curtained canopied bed, tapestries covered the walls, everything rich woven fabrics and brocades of centuries past, of wealth and privilege. Yet there was nothing luxuriant about being pressed down onto that bed by Strauss, met by an ancient, sagging mattress with no give, and, again, dusty coverlets and curtain sending puffs of stale dust into his face. He was so afraid of coughing again that he tried not to breathe in. Strauss pushed him down and held him there easily, while Sukhova came over and began to tie his hands together behind his back, and they both pushed him onto his side.

"What—what're you---" He was at a loss, total panic, and so puzzled. Perhaps he was just imagining this, having just been deprived of oxygen. He was just imagining this, that's what it was. His chest and head still hurt dreadfully. If only he could pass out deeply enough…and wake up in his own bed, with Edward beside him. He closed his eyes but was jerked up roughly by his shirt.

"Don't pass out yet, Heiderich. We need you awake." Strauss released him and started meticulously removing his jacket, then began to roll up his sleeves. "This is a horrible business, you know. Don't think I'm enjoying this. Poor lad." He looked at Sukhova, and Alfons just watched in horror as she crossed her arms and averted her eyes, looking angry and a little scared. What were they going to do with him?

What was this nightmare, really? Perhaps he had died and gone to hell. It seemed entirely possible.

He looked up at the canopy above him and tried to calm his heart, beating irregularly. He tried to keep his head raised to keep from coughing, until Sukhova noticed and gently placed a pillow there. He tried to smile gratefully at her but she only frowned.

There was some movement, and it sounded like more people had entered the room, although his vision was already clouded, his head swimming, splitting open with pain.

And then he heard his voice.

"Alfons!" Ed tried to bolt toward the bed, but was held back by the young man who had originally met them at the door. The porter was wiry and a lot stronger than he looked. Ed struggled to pull away from him. From where he stood, Alfons was lying on the bed in a strange position, his face turned toward him, but his eyelids were swollen and he looked half dead.

"What have you done to him?" Panicked, Ed kicked his captor in the shin and again tried to pull free.

Strauss stood by the bed in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, calmly smoking a cigarette. His little, weedy mustache, his smug expression, everything about him made Ed want to lunge at him and pound him down.

"Stay here with us, Edward, and we'll take good care of Mr. Heiderich here."

"You have him tied up?" Ed gasped when he realized why Alfons's hands were behind and under his back. "Let him go, dammit! Come on, this isn't fair, this has nothing to do with him! Just deal with me, and let him go!"

"Oh, we plan to deal with you. We thought it might be useful to have a pawn, though." Strauss looked down at Alfons, who was barely moving.

Ed felt a rush of panic. "Can't you see that he's sick?" he said. He couldn't excise the pleading from his voice if he tried. "Let him go."

Strauss found an ashtray on the small table beside the bed and took a deliberately long time to put his cigarette out. His air of manufactured calm was maddening.

"You stay here and work with us, continue your father's work to our satisfaction, we let him go," said Strauss.

"No deal," Ed said through clenched teeth. "He needs to go now. Besides, I don't know anything about what Hohenheim's been doing. I can't do alchemy, I don't know shit. Really." The pleading was coming back. "You have to believe me, I can't help you."

"You're lying," said Strauss in a sing-song voice. He began to pace. "I know you are adept at alchemy. How? I went through your papers at the University laboratory. I saw your chemistry notes, in which you were clearly trying to apply alchemical principles in the breakdown and reconstitution of matter. We're not fools, we've been watching you for months."

"I really don't know anything about what he's doing with the Gate…you don't understand, I've failed every time I've tried to use alchemy here—"

"We have philosophers stones, now…you have one in your pocket. Really, Edward, this feeble pleading is beneath you."

Ed looked over at Alfons. His face was now turned toward him, his eyes open at half-mast. They still looked glassy, and his face was covered with a sheen of sweat, and he was white as a sheet. If he didn't get him out of here soon…

Ed held his hands up, palms out, before him. "All right…listen, I have to get Alfons to hospital, then I'll come back here and try to get my dad to get me up to speed."

Strauss shook his head. "We don't have time for that. Your father, as you've seen, is on his last legs. It's maybe a matter of days…"

"It's a matter of days for him too!" Ed cried frantically, pointing at Alfons, "If you don't let me take him to the hospital. He's only seventeen---"

Strauss looked down at Alfons again. He gestured to the boy holding Ed, who let him go, and the two of them went to the bed, each taking an arm, and lifted Alfons up. He looked around blearily. For a moment, Ed was beginning to feel relief. They were going to let him take Alfons, they could get the hell out of here…

Instead, the two men dragged Alfons to the door of the bathroom. Ed bolted behind them. A spacious room covered with tiny white tiles, a huge bathtub, already filled with water….again Ed lunged forward.

"No—what are you doing?" It was only a moment before the two men had Alfons at the edge of the tub, pushed him down on his knees, and the porter's hand was gripping Alfons's hair.

Ed looked wildly around for the woman but she was gone. No help from that quarter, then.

"Will you stay?"

Ed quailed. He'd have to say yes—

"Not fast enough!" The porter pushed Alfons's head into the water with no resistance.

"STOP!" Ed screamed. He saw Alfons begin to struggle, but weakly. "STOP IT! I'll stay, I'll fucking stay, stop it!"

The boy looked up at Strauss first, who nodded, and then he pulled Alfons's head back, too far. Alfons spluttered and gasped for air, then vomited into the tub. It was almost all blood, and it began to stain the water red.

Strauss reached for a towel and tossed it over Alfons's head, while the porter undid his tied hands. Alfons was already on the floor, still retching, a trail of red coming from his mouth. He was reaching wildly at nothing, as if he couldn't see. Ed threw himself down and clasped his hands, feeling such panic he could barely breathe himself. This situation was so far out of his control, he felt like he was drowning too.

"I'm here, it's all right…"

And then there was a huge boom, the very floor and walls shook, and plaster began to rain down on them. It didn't stop, only grew louder and more violent, like an earthquake. Ed heard glass shattering. It felt as if the building was coming down around them. Ed flattened himself onto the floor, still grabbing at Alfons's hands. The others in the room hit the deck, too, and Ed squeezed his eyes tight, waiting for it to stop. The shaking turned to trembling, and then the house shuddered. Walls and hinges creaked, and he waited for everything to just fall…but it didn't.

Then it was quiet, aside from some residual creaking. Ed sniffed the air and knew the smell—ozone. A transmutation had rocked the building. His next thought was Hohenheim, and What has he done? But as Strauss and his henchman picked themselves off the floor dazedly, Ed still had to attend to Alfons. A bit of blood was trickling out of his nose, and his mouth, and his eyes looked glazed over, staring, half open. Ed was alarmed as he bent over him, pushing the wet hair away from his face.

"Alfons? Are you all right? Say something," he said fervently into his ear. He didn't care that he was so close, that he was sweeping his hand across Alfons's cheek with these other people present. He'd pay for that later, but now all he cared about was making sure he was all right. He slapped Alfons's cheek lightly, then harder, until Alfons spluttered and blinked. Ed struggled to help him sit up—he was so limp. Alfons sat up but slumped over, crossing his legs beneath him, and began to cough again.

Ed patted his back, grabbed a soiled towel off the floor and put it around Alfons's neck.

"What the fuck was that, an earthquake?" he heard the porter say to Strauss. He sounded suitably terrified.

Strauss grunted. "I don't know. I don't think it was natural, it came from downstairs. We should go see."

"What about them?" said the boy, and Ed felt the boy's boot dig into his hip.

"Look at the state of Heiderich, he's not going anywhere. Help get him onto the bed and we'll go down."

Ed grudgingly let the person who had put Alfons in his current state help him get him from the bathroom to the bed. Ed piled pillows behind Alfons's head and sat down next to him with the towel, feeling helpless as Alfons coughed and retched into it. He felt a hollow, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach; he'd never seen Alfons seem so sick before. Now he could believe that he might be dying, and that was just too much miserable news for one single day.

"Just, talk to me when you can, all right?" Ed pleaded, as Alfons struggled to regulate his labored breath. He kept trying to speak but no sound came out, then only a ragged gasp or wheeze, but Ed was hopeful that things would improve. He'd almost been drowned, for fuck's sake. While he was angry as hell about that, right now he was more worried than anything. More worried than scared about what was going to happen to them in this horrible house, about what had happened downstairs with Hohenheim. He couldn't leave Alfons in this state, but he couldn't bear to just sit there, either, while he heard running and pattering around downstairs, knowing something important had happened.

He put his ear against Alfons's chest and heard the shuddering, uneven breaths, the heart beating too fast. In a moment, Alfons's fingers were dug into his hair, nails strafing his scalp. Ed's heart sank; even that pressure against his chest was impeding his breathing. Alfons was in pain, and he couldn't do anything. He rose up quickly and caught Alfons's eyes, which looked frantic and afraid, hurt and scared. He grabbed Alfons's hand with his and squeezed. Alfons squeezed back, a bit feebly.

"It's all right, squeeze as hard as you want," Ed said. "Does it hurt?"

Alfons nodded slightly, closed his eyes.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry I brought you here," Ed said. "I didn't know it was going to get crazy like this…but maybe I should have."

Alfons shook his head and closed his eyes again.

"…s'not your fault," he whispered hoarsely. "I wouldn't have let you…"

Ed smiled in spite of himself. "Some bodyguard," he said.

"Don't tease me," Alfons rasped, a flicker of a smile crossing his lips.

"Did you see Strauss on the floor? He almost grabbed my hand when the place was shaking, he was shitting himself!"

Again Alfons began to smile, and gave a hoarse chuckle. "Bastard, don't make me laugh right now…"

"All right, sorry." Ed squeezed his hand again but he was feeling more relieved. Alfons was breathing more easily now; his chest was still rising and falling, maybe more dramatically than was normal, but it was more even now, less noisy…he didn't seem like he was dying anymore, and some of the panic in Ed's heart stilled. He could stomach the idea of the serpent, his father in the basement, even whatever his father had probably just done…any of it more than losing Alfons. Was it the idea of losing him here, losing him now, or losing him ever that disturbed him so deeply?

"Do you think you'll be able to get up soon?" Ed asked anxiously. "I have no idea what they're doing down there, but my dad said to get out of here as soon as possible."

Alfons looked at him, a bit sadly.

"I'm stuck here for now," he said, his voice still wrecked. "I'm pretty sure you don't share my perception that the room is spinning, huh?"

Ed chewed his lip. "If I can get you downstairs, I can steal one of the cars outside. It's not like we'd have to walk far."

Alfons lifted his arm and let his hand fall over his eyes. "I'll be better soon, I think…I just need to rest for a bit. It's dark out…it must be late…"

Ed noticed that while he had wiped the blood away from the corner of Alfons's mouth, it had begun to trickle a bit from his nose again. He picked up the towel and daubed it away, gently, but his heart hadn't felt so heavy in a long time. It reminded him of how it had been with his mother, back then…transported him there, she'd been the same, white and clammy and the blood from the nose. It meant nothing good.

He thought of his silly promise, made just a day ago, that he wouldn't let Alfons die. But who was he to say that? He didn't have any powers, not here, not even at home, to keep someone who was sick from dying. It was one of those inevitable characteristics of life's horrors. Still, the stone….

He removed it from his pocket and held it in his right hand, felt it become warm, almost hot against his skin.

"Here," he said, gently opening Alfons's free hand and placing the stone on his palm. "Just hold it. Maybe it'll help."

Alfons snorted gently but closed his fist around the stone and brought it to rest on his chest. Within a minute, he had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep, but was breathing easily enough for Ed to leave the room and confront whatever it was that had happened downstairs.

Not in the mood to be cautious, Ed pounded downstairs and traced his way back through the hallways, through the abandoned kitchen—where the pots were still inexplicably boiling away—and across the now-dark courtyard. The door to the back section of the house and the cellars was now flung open, as if nobody cared who came in. Heart pounding, Ed entered, and made his way down the dank hallway towards the door to the cellar. The smell of alchemy was so strong now it almost overtook him, with memories associated with alchemy, bad memories. It smelled like mistakes and stupidity and arrogance and it was all around him. Some of the lanterns hanging in the hallways had fallen to the floor and smashed, and it was darker than ever. He couldn't even see the door to the cellars until he was quite close, but as he approached he saw that it was open too, only askew and slightly bent off its hinges. He felt certain that the shaking of the house had had its genesis down here.

Voices, some shouting. It seemed that there were a lot more people down there than he had originally thought. The house had seemed so quiet and yet it sounded like there were dozens of people down there, voices raised and shouting at eachother. He recognized the tone of command, of someone saying, "You go!" and some scuffling. He took the steps, holding tight to the banister to keep from slipping in the dark. More light had been lost down here, too, and all he could see was the glow of some lanterns further down into the recesses of the cellar. Keeping the fingertips of his left hand against the wall as he went, he followed the corridor down to the end, knowing—but not wanting to know—that the source of all this commotion would be around that last bend, in the last room, where his father was working.

There weren't dozens of people at all, but still, about ten, crowded near the doorway when he approached. There was a dim light coming from the room, from what he could see over the bodies crowded in the entrance.

"Let me through!" Ed began to push through the bottleneck. Whatever was in there, these people wanted to be able to see it, but not be too close.

"It's the son!" said a voice, and there were murmurs, and the crowd separated to let him through. Suddenly everyone was silent, as if waiting to see what he would make of what he saw.

The Gate. It was there, in this cellar, just standing there, its dark door touching the ceiling. Ed remember it as being much larger, but he supposed it would fit in whatever space it was summoned to. Now it just fit, but although it was only about twelve feet high, it was its weight that made an impression, ponderous, it looked as if it were made of the densest, darkest metal conceivable. Its door was shut tight and no light came from it.

Everyone, including Ed, just stood now, silently watching it just be.

Then someone spoke. "It's never been shut before like that. Who would dare to open it?"

Ed felt a shove from behind. He looked over his shoulder: Jamison.

"You open it, boy. Go ahead."

"No!" The protestation seemed so creaky and ancient, pried from the lips of a dead man. It was Hohenheim, collapsed on the floor beside the Gate. He was on his hands and knees, and Ed could see even in the dim light that blood ran from his nose and mouth. His hands were shocking to see, clawlike, skeletal, and Ed's eyes widened as he tried to take in the sight. He went closer, although he was terrified, and saw, before his father even raised his head, that his flesh was nearly gone. His hair hung around his face, shielding him, Ed knew, from seeing the worst.

"Don't come closer, Edward!" Hohenheim commanded weakly. "Don't look. Don't open the Gate, don't…"

Ed spun around to face Jamison…and the others. He squinted in the dim light. There was Ostermann, finally, and Strauss, the small shape of Sukhova, all of them cowering by the doorway. He was also surprised to see Peters, before he remembered…Peters looked positively petrified, frozen against the farthest wall. Other people he didn't know.

"Somebody's going!" roared Jamison. "This is the last time we're getting this gate open so we've got to make the best use of it! Look at Hohenheim, he's through."

"You're insane!" Ed shouted. "What do you think you're doing? You have no idea what's in there, don't open it!" He turned to Hohenheim, but he had already collapsed entirely onto the floor. "You KILLED him!"

Jamison came forward a bit, but not all the way. "He knew what he was doing," he said, looking slightly frantic. "Or we thought he did. What do you know about it? How long will it stay here? Somebody open it, now!" He advanced at Ed, but Ed stepped back and moved as far away from the Gate as he could. He stood and looked at it. He could go through. That certainly made more sense than letting any of these idiots go through it. But, he had no control over what would happen. He could already feel the Gate's hands upon him. They'd tear him apart, as they liked to do every time he went through there.

Still, it was calling to him. The room was silent now, but for the breathing of the others, and Ed could almost hear it in his head. Come in, come in.

It was reaching for him. His heart began to pound in his head as he resisted it.

Come, it beckoned him, called him, in his mind's eye he could see the bright green grass, the azure blue skies of Amestris, he could see his brother's face and the voice telling him to come now was his, was Al's, and it was Al has he had known him before, before everything had happened, Al his little brother with the soft hair and the spirited laugh, that one, the real thing. He was there, on the other side.

Still, he thought of Alfons, upstairs somewhere, sick and afraid and waiting for him. If he disappeared now…

"Brother!" He heard it, Al's voice, as clear as day.

The Gate stood, the door between worlds, in the basement, dark and sinister, black twisted iron. He took a step forward, and now he heard the other voices in the room but they were as if filtered through a wall of water.

"Don't let him go alone!" he heard someone shout. "He'll close it for good!"

"Edward, don't!" That was Hohenheim. He looked to the floor to his right, and his father's now skeletal hand was reaching toward him, too. "Not this way…Edward, I—"

Suddenly he was shoved from the side. He fell over onto the stone floor, stopping himself with his artificial arm. It jarred his shoulder painfully enough to break the spell the Gate's pull had cast on him. The voices were loud now.

"Edward…" It was Hohenheim, still gasping. Ed scooted closer to him.

"Dad, what—"

"It's…whoever goes in won't get to our world, I made certain of that…" Hohenheim panted and took a breath. Ed could barely look at his face; it almost resembled a mummy, the flesh blackened and cracking, the lips gone. "It's a trap, to scare them into stopping. Don't go in." He opened his mouth as if to speak more, but it was obviously getting more difficult for him to get his mummifying body to perform human functions.

Ed came a bit closer, closed his eyes as he spoke, not wanting to see the monstrous creature his father had become.

"Edward, listen to me. You can't control the Gate, you can't pass through it again, I'm telling you…not without damaging both worlds…please….stop them."

Ed felt a boot in his ribs and looked up to see Jamison towering above him.

"Come on, kid, we're sending someone in. Since you'll be continuing your father's work, you should watch this."

Someone had pushed Peters forward.

"Not him!" snapped Jamison. "He's a skilled chemist, we need him." He paused a moment, looking around. "That one, send him in." He had pointed at the porter, the one who had shoved Alfons's head into the bathwater. Ed thought for a split second that if they were going to send anyone, it might as well be him.

Ed got to his knees and started to stand. He couldn't just sit by while they murdered him, though. "Stop it! He'll be killed! There's no way—"

"Shut up!" said Jamison. He gestured to the young man, whose eyes were now wide with terror. "Come on you. Open the Gate."

Someone shoved the guy and he staggered forward, took shaky steps toward the Gate.

"Go on," urged Jamison.

He reached for the solid door. There was no handle, but somehow it seemed to make sense that once someone touched it…it swung outwards, slowly, with a ponderous creak. Yellow light streamed into the cellar, causing Ed to squint to avoid its burning glare. Others threw their arms over their eyes. The young man hesitated, but, finally, took a step, then another, until his dark silhouette was seen framed in the doorway full of burning yellow light. The door shut behind him.

Ed half expected the Gate to disappear now—why wouldn't it?—but it stayed there. The group began to murmur. What's going to happen? Will this thing just stay here now? Is it safe? Ed rose to his feet and then bent over his father's form. The smell of decay had given way to dust. There was nothing left but a pile of bones and his clothes.

Hohenheim was dead. Ed did not quite know how to process this—it felt as if a safety net had been removed from beneath him. Just knowing that Hohenheim had been alive in this world was enough, even when he wasn't with him. Now, he was alone.

He thought of Alfons, upstairs, and wanted more than anything to run up and get him, and to leave here.

"Monsters," he said, mostly to himself, as he beheld what was left of his father. They had done it, had forced him. The same fate awaited him if he didn't get away.

He turned to take on Jamison, but something interrupted him. The Gate swung open again, this time with much less light, and ejected something into the room. Before they could even see what it was, it swung shut again and with a terrible rumble that shook the foundations of the house again, so that dirt and dust showered down from the ceiling, and it disappeared. Where it once had been, it now was not.

Ed stood, blinking at its absence, but in a moment everyone had crowded around the thing that had come out of the Gate.

It was the young man who had gone in. The Gate had turned him inside out, literally. Ed looked away from the mess.

"That did not go well," Jamison observed.

They all stood around, everyone a bit shocked and depleted. Two bodies on the floor had caused at least two of the men in the party to swoon to the floor. Ed stood near Hohenheim's remains, at a loss.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Sukhova. Her eyes were sad, but he couldn't say for what. Did she feel bad about what had happened that day, or just disappointed?

"I've been asked to take you upstairs," she said, her voice low and serious, and if Ed wasn't mistaken, a bit sorry.

"As a prisoner?" he asked sharply.

She looked away. "Just come with me," she said. "They know you won't leave your friend here."

"My father's remains," he said plainly.

"They'll be buried," she said. "I'll make sure."

Ed was spent. There wasn't much fight left in him tonight. He nodded and followed her. Before opening the door to the room upstairs, she said, "Don't bother trying to get away. They're guarding this room, and the house."

Ed took this in and tried to read Sukhova; she looked resigned and anxious.

"What the hell are you doing here, helping these people?" he said.

She fingered her throat and her eyes flashed. "I have my reasons. You'd do best to find yours. Goodnight."

Back up in the red, dusty room, Ed went to open the windows before taking off his jacket and crawling into the bed beside Alfons. Alfons hadn't even undressed yet, so Ed worked his damp shirt open and pressed his head to his chest, causing Alfons stirred and woke slowly.

His eyes opened, finally, and Ed burrowed into his side. He felt Alfons lift his prosthetic arm off his chest and lower it again.

"Hey," he said, his voice nearly back to its old timbre and tone. "Why haven't you taken this off?"

"We might have to make a run for it," Ed murmured into his shoulder.

"I was afraid you might say that," Alfons said. He sounded more lucid now, and Ed could feel that he was no longer as limp and exhausted as he had been, to his great relief. "So…do I really want to know what was down there?"

Ed buried his head in the space between Alfons's neck and shoulder.

"No." He raised his face and faced his lover in the room that was dark save for the single lamp on the bedside table. "Alfons…Hohenheim…my father's dead."

Alfons's eyes widened at the news and he gasped as he squeezed Edward. "Oh my God! So they lied--?"

"No," said Ed, feeling his jaw set in anger. "They didn't lie. He was alive when I first went down there…that explosion we heard, that rocked the house, that was Hohenheim summoning a Gate---a portal to our world…"

Ed stopped to look at Alfons, and how he was taking this news. In retrospect, it might have been helpful for him to have been down in the cellar to see the Gate, to understand what it was and what they were dealing with. What if he still refused to believe him? But there was nothing about his face that suggested doubt. Awe, maybe, in that his eyes were still the widest he'd ever seen them, and his lips were perpetually apart, but that was awe, not doubt.

"So, they were making him summon a Gate, repeatedly, trying to find a safe way to get through…but doing it so many times finally killed him."

"You saw this?"

Ed nodded.

"I'm so sorry," Alfons said, and he brushed Ed's cheek with the backs of his long slender fingers. "So these guys…"

"They're dangerous…they have just enough power to fuck with stuff they don't know how to control…it's bad." Ed paused for a moment to gather his thoughts about just how much he hated them. "I'm gonna kill someone for what they did to him…and to you. Just, I thought you should know that."

"I don't want you to kill anyone, Edward," Alfons said quietly. He was staring up at the ceiling now, and his voice was suddenly detached and far away.

"It doesn't matter," Ed said. "That guy who held you down is dead anyway. They pushed him into going into the Gate and…it turned him inside out."

Alfons now seemed detached, distracted, as he looked up at the canopy of red velvet above them. He still held his hand against Ed's cheek, but it seemed as if he was absent somehow.

"Hey," Ed said quietly. "Is this too much…? I feel terrible about getting you involved in this, for bringing you here."

"You didn't bring me here," said Alfons, but his voice was still flat, almost dream-like. "I came by my own free will. It's funny, but I feel like I dreamed this place, some time, in the past, like I've been here before, like I've always been meant to come here, isn't that strange?"

Ed felt a surge of worry and placed his hand on Alfons's brow. It was cool but damp again.

Alfons heard Edward's voice like it was speaking to him through a dream. What was real, anyway? Not this world, not this unreal day. Not since he had been given his death sentence did anything, anywhere, seem real, substantial, real.

"I've told you some things before…and you never believed me. Not really, I know you didn't," he said. "So why are you taking all this in stride all of a sudden?"

"I guess," began Alfons, pushing himself up on his elbows and turning to meet Ed's gaze face-on, despite a wave of dizziness. "The thing is…since I've been ill…I've been thinking, and I feel more open to things, my mind is open, I mean. I feel that a lot of things are possible that I didn't believe in before. I feel like my eyes have been opened, to a lot of things."

Edward looked skeptical. "Like what? Like God?"

Alfons paused as he cast about for ways to explain what he felt. "Maybe, a bit, with God and Heaven and all that…just because, you know, I wish it were true." Alfons tried to offset his slight embarrassment at that admission with a smile.

Edward tilted his head to the side and smiled himself, albeit a little sadly. "Yeah, sometimes I wish it were too. I bet everyone does."

"But you don't think it is, do you?" said Alfons. "Because you've seen that Gate thing?"

"Yeah," Edward said. "The Gate. I think it is what people here think God and heaven are. But it isn't like that, it isn't like how people want it to be." Suddenly he shook his head violently as if trying to rid himself of a thought. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be saying this to you."

"No, you should," Alfons said. "I want to hear what you really think, not what you think I want to hear."

Edward finally turned back to look at him. "But…I want to tell you what you want to hear," he said, looking so sweet and bewildered with his own honesty that Alfons had to laugh. "What did I say? Why is that funny?"

Alfons drew Edward's hand back toward himself and pressed it to his lips. When he looked up at Edward, he was regarding him with a strange, wide-eyed look on his face, and he seemed like he was just a child, overwhelmed, as Alfons was himself, with the events of the day.

Edward collapsed down onto his back and Alfons saw him squeeze his eyes shut.

"I can't believe he's gone…We have to get the fuck out of here. That's the first thing."

Alfons held out his hand over Edward's chest, opening his palm, ready to relinquish the stone again.

"We have this. Does that help?"

Edward didn't take it, only looked at it with narrowed eyes.

"I wish I'd never even heard of that fucking thing," he said bitterly.

Alfons put his arm around Edward and squeezed protectively with his minimized strength. "It's followed you across time and space," Alfons supplied helpfully. "You have to do something about it."

"Those idiots down there don't know what they're messing with. My father—" Alfons heard Edward's voice catch and then he took a steadying breath. "My father was trying to stop them by summoning unstable Gates, to make them give up on the idea. Now they're going to want me to keep doing it. I don't know if what they saw today scared them off or not."

Alfons could not quite picture this Gate, although it had now moved from the realm of the Mythical to that of the Real. He still couldn't stop picturing the pearly gates of heaven, but he was pretty sure that wasn't what had spit out a mangled corpse in the cellars.

What kind of insane business was he caught up in now? It was frightening but truth be told, Alfons was more than a little aroused by the menace and danger that he had suddenly fallen into. It certainly was more exciting than his previously anticipated plans: to spend the next few months of what might be the rest of his life in bed, or in hospital. Not to mention, Edward was here, and this all came along with him…it was worth it, he told himself, it was. It would be. Whatever happened.

Lying next to him in the moonlit room, Edward was obviously deep in thought, chewing his lip and scheming, and Alfons could smell sweat and dust, and dirty clothing, and his arousal was starting to shock himself. He curled his toes and flexed his feet, tried to take deep breaths but still felt that laceration in his lungs. I'm dying, there's no way around that, he thought, and the dust in the room threatened to choke him. If his mother could see him now, practical Gretchen with her starchy apron and that chiding voice, and the way she smelled of secret liquor every night since the day they had learned that his father had died, Gretchen in the arms of that seedy Linker, who had wanted Alfons gone from the day he had proposed to his mother. Gretchen wrote him letters now and then, but she truly had no idea what he was up to. If she only knew---this grand house, carnage in the cellar, his beautiful lover, the boy from another world with the long blond hair….Alfons was starting to fall asleep and rolled over onto his side, pressing his fist—still holding the stone—between his legs where he was starting, against the odds of exhaustion and sickness—to get hard.

He actually felt—pleasant, given the circumstance it was rather strange. He was lightheaded, sleepy, almost floating. Suddenly there was a light smack against his cheek, Edward's hand, then under his chin, thumb tracing his parted lips.

"If this was my last night on earth…" Alfons began drowsily "…this is exactly how I would want to spend it…"

"You are daft, you're half dreaming," said Edward softly, and, Alfons thought, fondly. Then theirs lips brushed, and Alfons heard himself whimper—how he hated when he did that—and pressed himself against Edward. He didn't feel like opening his eyes but Edward's body was compelling enough just by feel. The combination of soft and hard in surprising places, never failed to surprise Alfons at least. "Hey, I don't want to get you coughing again….not here," Edward said softly still but Alfons was not in the mood to stop, and pushed his knee hard into Edward's crotch, making him suppress a squeak.

Alfons nuzzled Edward's neck and received a rather aggressive kiss on the mouth in response, sudden urgency from Edward, panting. When Edward's cheek brushed against his, Alfons noticed that it was damp, but didn't want to talk anymore. What was there to say? The day had been too much, the night was theirs for now. They undressed without a word, their clothes sliding to the floor to become one with the dust.

It was hot in the room, even with the windows open and the lace curtains fluttering like ghosts into the dreary room whenever Alfons flicked open his eyes. Even the moonlight seemed too bright and he always quickly closed them, preferring instead to be blind tonight, to forget where they were, the sinister windows in the sinister house, the cellar and its horrid secrets beneath them. Edward climbed on top of him, squeezing his hips with his mismatched knees. It wasn't often they made love with Edward sporting four limbs, usually that seemed uncomfortable, and Alfons preferred soft, irregular Edward, but tonight was definitely different. Edward sat astride him and then bent over, fingers, even the false, clumsy ones, raking his sides, then lips and tongue against his nipples, teeth across them—horrible and amazing at once—and then sucking gently, first the left, then the right. This made Alfons draw up his knees so that he nearly knocked Edward forward, and then relax them again as his body uncoiled. When he opened his eyes, there was Edward, sitting on top of him, looking down, eyes shining darkly in the dark, looking at a point beyond beyond, inscrutable, lips a bit pouty, face smudged with soot.

Alfons loved him absolutely, at that moment he knew. He would trust him to the ends of the earth, and let him take him anywhere, he'd even follow him into that dreaded cellar and through the storied Gate and into another world. Into hell, if he had to.

"Hey, are you too tired to…?" Edward asked him.

"No," Alfons said, thinking that if this were his last night on earth, he wasn't going to waste it sleeping. Not yet, anyway. He reached out for Edward's left hand, laced his fingers with his. "I want you to."

Edward nodded solemnly as if he had just been invited to tea with the Queen of England. They didn't have anything with them to facilitate a proper communion, so Edward began to get busy by kissing his way down Alfons's back, then pressed himself between Alfons's thighs. It wasn't the same, but it felt all right, just to have Edward against him, pushing away, their flesh together. It was jarring but rhythmic enough for Alfons's exhausted self to start drifting away, and he hoped Edward wouldn't mind as he began to drift, and when Edward yelped and bit his ear, then stopped abruptly, panting, and draped himself across his back, his gentle breath against his ear, Alfons didn't mind at all as he slid gently out of consciousness, the Philosopher's Stone, as ever, tight in his palm. His last conscious feeling was of Edward gently sucking on the back of his neck.

Beneath them, the sinister house hummed with all its terrible secrets, but Alfons felt an odd stillness as he slipped into sleep.