THREE WISE MONKEYS
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Not much time to write. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN • The Final Friday
It was Friday. Friday. Friday.
"Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday," Ed whispered it repeatedly, over and over, to drum it into his head. He couldn't afford to forget the day. He couldn't afford to forget the time. He couldn't afford to forget his goal.
"Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday."
The early morning breeze was cool against the bare skin of his back and chest, making him sensitive to the rough brick wall he crouched beside. His shirt—as damaged as it was—didn't survive long after his fight with Envy. It was barely holding on during his meeting with Mustang, and that was on Monday, Monday, Monday.
"Friday. Friday. Friday."
The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, but it was hidden behind Central's clutter. Only the slight brightening of the sky overhead alerted Ed to the time, and to the day. Another day meant another chance to find Envy. Another day meant ducking around corners to avoid the military. Another day meant three more deaths.
"Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday. Murder."
Ed was rocking back and forth, his eyes wide and unseeing. He was a moving corpse—a soulless doll—driven only by the day ahead of him. It was—
"Friday. Friday."
—taking too much time. He needed Envy dead now! Before the last remnants of his sanity trickled into the bottom of the hourglass and he was unable to truly savour the homunculus' passing. But he had to wait. Wait. Be patient. Be calm. He was calm. He was fine. He was absolutely fucking fine. Calm. Composed. Patient.
Without his realising it, Ed's left hand had risen to scratch at the dark blemish just beyond his hairline, as if he could rub it out. It felt no different to the rest of his skin, but there was a slight tingling beneath his touch whenever he pressed down. If his nails pierced it, blood would fill the grimy crescents, adding another layer to the filth caked all over his body. And then it would stop, heal, and increase his agitation.
"Friday. Friday. Friday."
He was waiting for the first sign. It was bound to come soon. It always came just before the sun, like clockwork. The first cry of alarm. Ed had heard it three times already—on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. The next one was due on,
"Friday. Friday. Fri—"
And there it was.
A quiet intake of breath, followed by a long pause and a shaky exhale. It was barely audible, but exactly what Ed was listening for. The previous day, a woman had found the victim. She had quickly alerted Ed with a loud shriek. It was too soon to know whether a man or a woman found the body—but if Ed was fast enough, he could find both them and Envy.
He lurched to his feet and staggered into a run, flying through the cold streets. The stone was so cool it felt like ice, and the air was only somewhat warmer. Wet puffs of condensation were stolen away from his mouth as soon as they emerged. It was an incredible feeling, to run at such a speed, but Edward paid it no mind at all. He was occupied with more important things.
Within seconds of hearing that subtle cue, he skidded around the last corner and into a wide street. The houses—none less than two storeys tall—were clean and well maintained. Every window had a row of flowers adorning its ledge, save for one. Beneath that one window laid a pile of dirt and crumpled tulips, scattered in what almost seemed a deliberate manner. Ed briefly spared a glance for the panicked businessman who stood, rigid, just a few doors down from his position, before deeming him useless. He had experienced momentary paralysis often enough to recognise it in another.
Ed skidded to a halt in the middle of the street, somehow managing to remain upright in spite of the sudden stop. Even from that distance, he could clearly see the killing wound, so similar to the ones before it. A single clean swipe across the victim's neck, as if by an automail blade. It really was difficult to believe anyone other than Ed had committed the crime; if such strong evidence had been placed before him when everything was normal, the Major Elric wouldn't have hesitated in declaring guilt.
Not for the first time, he wished that he had some sort of control over his ability. But it was only the fifth day since it surfaced. It was only—
"Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday."
—Friday, and he had plenty of time to perfect himself. To fix himself. To hide himself from the rest of the world. If he was able to turn himself invisible at will, he could conceal himself from the searching eyes he felt locked on his slender back.
When he turned—slowly—the man behind him flinched. As Ed had expected, he had been watching. With dark, shadowed, suspicious eyes, he had been watching. And at the time that their gazes joined, the businessman took a step back. It was almost as if he expected Edward to attack him next, and the monster he had become urged Ed to fulfil that expectation.
If it was any number of days earlier, that thought may have filled him with nausea and alarm. But all he felt was a cold sort of detachment. Nothing mattered past Envy. Not even Al, and the promise he'd broken. Not even the human in front of him, shaking and pale. Not even what passed as his own life.
"Ah-are you…?" the man asked hesitantly. Ed had to marvel at the bravery it took him to say those two words.
Shaking his head mutely, Ed attempted a smile. "No," he whispered. He couldn't raise his voice any higher than that, and immediately fell back into his rhythm of murmured 'Friday's.
And then he left.
XxX
Roy sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had always hated paperwork, but was starting to prefer it to his current assignment. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get those… images out of his head. A week ago, when he was forced to stare into that blank face and pretend that Edward was still behind it, he would have said that the situation couldn't possibly get any worse. But it could. And it had.
A homunculus.
As per Ed's parting request, Roy had kept that to himself. Though many times Alphonse had checked in at his office, the colonel hadn't breathed a word of his latest—and most important—information.
He wished he could say that he was truly doing it for his youngest subordinate, but late nights and good alcohol had forced him to confront the real reason—he was scared. Roy didn't want to be the one to tell Al that his brother was a monster. It wasn't his job! His obligation, perhaps, but not one that he was determined to fulfil. Ed's plea to keep silent was just an easy way out.
But that didn't make it easy in its entirety. Nothing ever was.
Roy felt, himself, like the serpent etched into Edward's skin. A serpent that was forever crawling in the one direction, swallowing up its tracks and all purpose in favour of moving forward. But was he genuinely moving forward if there were no signs of progress? Again, a week ago, his answer would have been very different.
"Sir."
They were looking for him. For Edward. The great Fullmetal alchemist, who had stooped so far as to murder. And Roy had no doubt that they'd find him. After all, the deaths were so predictable it was an embarrassment to have not caught him already.
One in the morning.
One in the afternoon.
One in the evening, just before dark.
Three generations of daylight. Three generations of a family. There was no doubt that that was planned, which begged the question:
Did Edward want to be found?
"Sir."
If so, it wouldn't be so hard. Alphonse, to the extent of Roy's knowledge, hadn't stopped searching since that pivotal Monday—the start of the next arc in what promised to be a wretched story. He came to Headquarters every night, knowing that all of Roy's team would still be there. They were always there, it seemed. And every night, Al would begin with:
"Have you heard anything?"
And Roy would answer with:
"No."
And then every night, Al would leave again.
Cigarette ash on his desk alerted Roy to Havoc's continued presence. By the time he had noticed, a considerable amount had formed a tiny pile and singed a small hole into whatever paperwork Mustang was ignoring. The cigarette threatened to topple out of his mouth as Havoc gave a grim smile.
"Sir," he said, to be sure he had the colonel's attention. "It's morning. We've had another report."
Roy took a moment to consider those words, then rubbed a hand down his face. It was morning? He hadn't slept at all. "Who is it this time?"
"Most of this comes from Breda." Havoc held out a thin stack of papers, talking even as Mustang flicked through them. "Martha Shlocks, mother to three, and grandmother to one. She lived in one of those big houses just north of here—you know the ones, Colonel?"
Roy just nodded. Maybe he should take up smoking—he'd heard that it had wonderful calming effects.
"Her daughter moved to a town near Dublith in 1909, but she's irrelevant. Jason Shlocks, the father of Mrs Shlocks' granddaughter, is most likely to be the next victim, though I suggest placing William Shlocks under watch as well. If we can detain him at that point, we can keep the girl out of it."
"Mm." Roy laid the papers down on his desk. "If you put half as much effort into all of your reports as you did that one, you'd be promoted before you knew it."
In any other circumstances, Havoc might have beamed at the praise. But a room filled with stressed and lethargic military personnel didn't provide much of a celebratory atmosphere.
"All of the second murders have been committed between twelve-hundred hours and fifteen-hundred hours."
"And what is it now?"
Jean checked his watch. "Half-past six, sir."
Roy hummed as if ascertaining something he had already suspected. "I thought so. It's too early to be awake."
Havoc was quiet for enough time to stir up the first feelings of trepidation in Roy. When finally his lips parted for more than another cigarette, Mustang knew he wouldn't want to hear what came out of them.
"Sir…" Jean avoided Roy's eyes just as much as Roy avoided his. "About… about the chief—"
"Get back to work, Second Lieutenant," Roy interrupted coldly. He had been right. "Hawkeye may not be here now, but that doesn't give you an excuse to be slacking. Organise someone to follow Mr Shlocks."
Havoc shot him a tired grin and a lazy salute. "Sir."
"And tell me when you've done it."
"Sure thing, boss."
But no matter what they did, Jason Shlocks would be dead by mid-afternoon.
XxX
Ed knew that he was being led on by Envy. He knew he was being framed. It was nearing dusk and already Friday's newspapers had been read and discarded. He sat beside one now, trying to avoid the thick, printed letters on the front page.
EDWARD ELRIC, FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST, SUSPECTED IN THIS MORNING'S TRAGEDY
The article was even more condemning.
Few papers had begun circulating since the afternoon casualty, but they would be everywhere by the time of the little girl's death. Yes, Ed had solved Envy's macabre riddle. On Wednesday, it had become apparent—and that only made it so much harder to corner the older homunculus. In the morning, before the new family was selected, Ed had the advantage. But even by afternoon, he had fallen far behind in the race. That was how long it took the military police to find the next victims, and at that time it was too late. Too many times, Edward had watched from afar as Envy—wearing Ed's face—tore into civilians and authority alike. There were rarely survivors, hence the 'suspected' in each headline.
But Ed was getting antsy. He wanted to do something! And why was he waiting at all? Why couldn't he jump into the fray and help? No, not even help—he just wanted Envy, and anyone else be damned.
He got to his feet stiffly, a strong foreboding weighing down his bones. He knew, somehow, that the coming fight would be different. It was almost time for it to begin, just as it did every other night. Just after sunset, a figure would approach the military personnel in custody of the child. It was a figure with golden hair, golden eyes, and silver limbs—it wasn't Edward, but they couldn't see that. There were never any reports afterwards.
It was decidedly a miracle that his ability had seemed to kick in right at the time that he wanted it. After all, he was a fugitive, wanted by the state, and there was no way a criminal like him would have been allowed to traverse the streets so casually. But when no one saw him, Ed was free to do as he pleased.
So he stood in the centre of the footpath, disturbed by none as they subconsciously avoided his prone form, and listened for the cries of a disturbed girl. It was always a girl, and she always asked the same questions of her protectors: "Where's Mummy? Where's Daddy?"
He heard them.
XxX
A new strategy.
That was what they needed, and that was what they did. It had only taken four attempts before it became apparent that their previous plan just didn't work.
Many ideas had been thrown around during the afternoon meeting. It had been held in one of the larger conference rooms—apparently the Fuhrer had just as much interest in apprehending their errant alchemist as Roy did—but even with the extra space, there weren't enough seats and many men had taken to leaning against the walls.
It was there that the new scheme had been birthed.
Mustang glanced out of his office window, spotting several snipers crouched on the fortress-like walls. Even though he was the leader of the little capture, he hadn't been able to persuade those men to stand down—not without revealing Ed's secret. And who would believe him anyway? It was a hesitation that would most likely endanger those men, but never had Ed's being a homunculus come up in his final speech. How could he tell so many people that they may not return to their beds that night?
No, that was ridiculous. A truly detrimental way of thinking. Yes, Edward was a homunculus, but that homunculus was also Edward. And there was no fucking way Ed would kill so many…
Roy gritted his teeth so hard they seemed ready to break. Even his mental justifications didn't work. Going along with the belief that the sixteen-year-old immortal wouldn't kill was stupid considering why they were there in the first place.
"Major," Roy called one of the men assigned to him over to the window. "I'm going down there to wait. They might need me."
The young major's voice wavered uncertainly when he said, "Sir? Why… Why would they need you?"
Mustang didn't reply to the nervous question. "Just tell anyone who asks where I'll be. And stay here."
"Yes, sir."
His boots beat a nice tempo on the polished floors. It was the only sound; the building was all but abandoned in caution, and by Roy's request. He was, essentially, in charge of controlling his subordinate, and Fuhrer King Bradley had respected his need to oversee the situation himself. Mustang hadn't mentioned that his gloves were probably the only sure way to eliminate the Fullmetal alchemist if things went wrong.
Fuck, he hoped they didn't.
From the ground floor, the snipers were all but invisible. Unless one had prior knowledge, there would have been no reaction save for, perhaps, a prickling on the back of the neck. Roy felt it as he walked over to the small group lying or sitting in the centre of one of the grassed areas. The girl stared up at him in wonder with large brown eyes and an innocent, if confused, expression. Mustang schooled his features into a warm smile, and knelt down beside her. Nothing had been explained to the child—to do that just seemed too cruel—and so she had no tears, no worries.
"What's your name?" Roy asked as a way to distract both him and her. The sun was going down; he expected the floodlights to appear at any minute.
"Lucy," the girl replied, a hand making its way into her mouth. "I'm four."
"Four?" He watched her nod. "You're very tall for your age."
"Daddy said," she continued, in that characteristic gasping-for-breath manner that all young children adopted, "that I'm gonna be a princess."
"If you're a princess, can I be your prince?"
Lucy giggled. "No! You're too old!"
"So I am," Roy agreed just as the lights came on. A strong dread settled in the pit of his stomach—if he couldn't stop it, Lucy would be dead before her carriage turned back into a pumpkin.
Her lips turned down slightly, and she looked away before speaking again. "Mr Policeman?"
"Yes?"
"Where's my daddy?"
Elicia had asked him the same thing not too long ago. But at least Elicia had a mother to go running to—how could he tell such a young kid that she was an orphan? She probably wouldn't understand.
"He's coming, sweetheart," Mustang lied. It wasn't quite worth it for the way her eyes lit up, no matter how happy she seemed. He didn't want to be there when she heard the truth.
"Mustang."
Instantly, the temperature dropped and a shiver ran down the colonel's spine. That word hadn't come out of Lucy's mouth, nor did it belong to any of the three soldiers assigned to babysit the girl. They were scanning the large courtyard for something they couldn't see. Something they wouldn't see.
"Mustang," Ed repeated. He was behind him, Roy realised, but no shadow save his own was cast. "You need to step away from it."
"It?" Roy echoed, sounding much braver than he felt. "She's not an object, Fullmetal."
"She's not human either, Colonel," he replied in a scornful fashion. "So I suggest you move before I move you."
Roy moulded his voice into steel. "And I suggest you leave her alone."
"Don't you remember Monday?" Ed threatened. "It wouldn't take much to kill you."
"But you won't." Roy waited, to see if he would get an answer. "Isn't that right, Fullmetal?"
Ed kept him in suspense for less than ten seconds. But those ten seconds, while not seeming much, felt like an eternity. Mustang couldn't help but fear that he'd soon have an automail blade between his shoulders.
"Those snipers…" Edward suddenly sounded very young, and very afraid. "They're for me, aren't they? Did you tell them—"
"No. And if you leave now, they won't have to shoot a single bullet." Roy didn't bother asking how Ed knew they were there.
Lucy watched the exchange with wide eyes. Roy wondered what she saw—could she see Ed, even though he didn't have a shadow? Uninvited, the memory of those cold minutes he spent leaning against the house Edward left him beside that Monday night broke into his thoughts. And it finally made sense—those footsteps of which he could hear, but not catch sight. Edward was a mons—homunculus—so he must have a trait similar to the others'.
Roy suspected that Ed's was—
"Invisibility, right?"
Ed hesitated. "What?"
"You're invisible right now. You don't have a shadow, that's how I know." Roy resisted the urge to turn around, knowing there was no point. He laughed, quietly. "Isn't that ironic?"
"… How?"
"It's you, the Fullmetal brat," Mustang said wryly. Lucy had started to back away, and if he was smart, he would too. "You're not really the type to hide."
"People change."
"You're not people anymore."
Roy stiffened, wondering if he would be able to signal Hawkeye before his head departed his neck. But nothing came.
XxX
Ed didn't know what to say. He wanted to protest, to disagree with what Roy had said, but he couldn't find anything to protest, nor anything to disagree with. Envy was still searching for him, but judging by the brown eyes that wandered all over his face—never truly settling—Ed wasn't yet visible. He knew that the little girl was Envy in the same way he had known Envy to be at Lab 5 earlier that week. It was almost instinct, but Ed baulked at calling it something so… normal. There was nothing normal about it.
There was nothing normal about him.
'You're not people anymore.'
And it seemed others knew that, too.
"Please, Roy," he tried begging. Mustang didn't know what he was getting into; he didn't know that the girl he was protecting wouldn't hesitate to slip a knife into his forehead. And if Ed mentioned that, he had no doubt that Envy would do such a thing. He just… He had to get Roy away before he became another casualty.
But how?
"Please, Mustang, just walk away."
"And what will you do if I leave?"
Mustang must have taken Ed's thoughtful silence to mean guilt, as his mouth tightened slightly and his shoulders tensed again. But no matter what excuse he used, Ed couldn't talk the colonel out of his mindset. If he didn't concentrate, Edward was afraid he might also fall into such traps. He almost had, several times.
'Friday. Friday. Friday.'
Don't say it aloud.
In Ed's moment of indecision, the colonel reached out a hand to the young girl. Perhaps he thought that by placing himself in front of her, he could keep her safe. Perhaps he thought he was doing her a favour.
Perhaps.
Ed would never know for certain.
It wasn't the first time blood stained the government land, and Ed wasn't naïve enough to believe it would be the last. Mustang looked up in shock from his sudden relocation to the ground, staring dumbly at the red discolouring the once-perfect lawn. It was grotesque—it didn't belong—it shouldn't have been there!
More splattered onto Roy's shiny black boots—bright on dark. It was a bit of a relief, Edward supposed, that it wasn't the colonel's blood leaking out of the man's lower abdomen, as his body wouldn't have healed.
Envy, still wearing the façade of a young girl, wasted no time in releasing a piercing shriek and leaping away; there was little chance of anyone blaming a four-year-old child—especially when they showed such a distressed reaction. Ed would be receiving all the blame. Even with the only scraps of shirt he wore soaked in crimson, he would be blamed for the injury.
The Fullmetal alchemist attacked the Flame alchemist.
The proof of his theory came in the form of a well-aimed bullet. It lodged itself in his lower calf with so much precision Ed had no choice but to admit that he was within the Hawkeye's sight. He was visible again.
Perfect timing.
The tiny ball of lead worked its way out of his leg and fell somewhere near Roy's ankle, instantly lost among the greenery. Two more—two that Ed hadn't even noticed—joined it soon after, and he began to hear the first whispers from atop the Headquarter's walls. They had hit him, right? Then why wasn't he in pain? Even the Hawkeye herself hadn't forced him to his knees.
It was exactly the type of situation Edward had been wanting to avoid—hell, he still wanted to avoid it, as impossible as that may be. He had wanted to leave before matters grew out of hand. Though he was a disgraced soldier after Envy's actions, at least they thought he was human. It was better for them to call him a monster, rather than him actually be one.
He met Roy's confused gaze for a moment, reading the struggle to understand occurring just beyond his eyes. Ed's stomach plummeted to his feet. Even after he had saved his fucking life, the colonel couldn't decide whether to trust him or not. And then, as clear as if he had heard it, Edward understood what was really going on in Mustang's head.
It wasn't a choice between trust and suspicion.
It was a choice between running away, and signalling his men to shoot.
It was a choice between risking Ed's escape, and risking his own life.
And knowing the colonel's guilt, the verdict would be an easy one.
It didn't really affect Edward. Not really. It wouldn't leave so much as a scratch on his physical body even if bullets were to tear him to shreds—and his mental health was teetering so close to the edge he wondered if he had not already reached the bottom. So why did he fear the snipers so much?
"Friday. Friday. Friday," he whispered the calming mantra so quietly that he barely heard it. He was once the Fullmetal alchemist, a child marvelled at for his quick thinking.
Child.
Envy.
Envy had reached the safety of the military building. His—or her—thin arms trembled as they clutched a soldier's leg with perhaps slightly more strength than could be expected from his delicate form. Edward couldn't reach her without the guns firing, and that couldn't happen. Mustang, struck by uncertainty, hadn't moved from the grass, and… and Ed wouldn't leave him there!
"Colonel," he spoke quickly, hyper-aware of the people surrounding them. He couldn't help but notice the slow and steady breaths of the gunmen, the tiny squeal of metal on metal when they adjusted their angle. "Colonel, you have to get out. If they shoot, they might hit you."
Mustang's features drew into a tense frown at the brusque concern, but he stood nonetheless. "And you? Are you going to disappear again, Fullmetal? Because we can't have a serial killer running around Central."
"I'm not a fucking serial killer!" Ed glared around warily when his declaration—though probably not the words themselves—earned him more attention from above. "I haven't killed anyone," he reiterated in a lower voice. "Not a single person. Not one single fucking person, and this is how you react?"
With a fierce emotion, one he couldn't describe, flowing through his veins, Ed found to his extreme annoyance that he was close to tears. But he wouldn't let them drop. He wouldn't let them show. That would have been too humiliating.
"I-I haven't done a-anything! I just wanted to go!" he told the bewildered colonel. "Did you know I was already past Edmiritbu when I heard what was going on? That's… That's, like, a hundred kilometres or something. Maybe more? I dunno. Fuck. I was going to Xerxes. I didn't wanna come back, for hell's sake."
Finally, Roy interrupted the monolog, much to Ed's relief. "What did you hear was going on?"
"What the hell do you think?" Ed hid his face beneath his automail, willing his eyes to dry. "I heard that I was in Central, killing old people and babies. Do you understand how fucked up that is?"
Roy's frown deepened. "There were reports—"
"O-ho!" the homunculus proclaimed sarcastically. "There were reports? Tell me: how do you get your head so far up your ass?"
"Watch what you say, Fullmetal," Roy snapped. His fingers looked ready to do the same.
"Or what?" Ed yelled in retaliation, ignoring the sting of a bullet the way one ignores a fly. His anger had flown to the surface, overshadowing all reason. "You'll court-martial me? You'll kill me? Fine! I'll help you!"
Roy, impressively, stood his ground as his charge brought his hands together and clapped. Ed barely noticed the increase in shots; he was too incensed to worry about Mustang's welfare. The man could take care of himself—that much was sure.
His traditional blade erupted from his forearm, but it was somehow sharper, longer, more intimidating. Good. That was what he wanted. Let it be big enough that the snipers wouldn't have to squint! Let it be so terrible it shone in their nightmares for years to come! When they wake up in the middle of the night, panting and covered in cold swear, let them remember the monster they tried to exterminate like a troublesome rat! Let them remember the silence! The sound of blood on grass, dirt, skin, metal! Let them remember the dark of night! The light of automail—of fresh crimson liquid the colour of a tainted Philosopher's stone!
Let them remember Edward Elric, the Fullmetal alchemist!
The People's alchemist!
The homunculus!
…No. He wanted them to forget.
He wanted them to forget, but his next actions ascertained that he would always be immortalised in their minds.
In a swift, yet uncannily accurate, downward motion, Ed drew the edge along the inside of his arm. The pain was dulled almost to the point of non-existence. Unlike that hellish week at 32 Seaview Road, the wound didn't send a line of fire streaking from his fingers to his shoulder—in fact, it was quite the opposite. The red sparks that immersed his forearm and cleaned away any remaining blood were warm and prickly, like an old and well-loved blanket. They left his skin tingling and faintly numb.
But it wasn't enough. It wasn't his arm that was suffering from the unwanted attention. It was his head, his stomach, his chest, his torso, his neck! His eyes! His ears! There were so many eyes on him! So many soldiers staring—at least two for every gun!—and nowhere to hide!
Thoughts of Envy and the pain Ed wanted to inflict on him were lost in the confusion. Edward tried clawing his eyes out—they grew back. He tried to rip out his throat—the high, keening screams still came. He tried to cut open his chest, to release the building pressure—it knit itself back together. No matter what he tried, it didn't work. It went past proving a point. His spectators obviously understood what he was attempting to portray, but Ed couldn't stop.
All of the thoughts he had lost after his time in the hospital came rushing into his head, accompanied by a howl of his own creation. Pulled from the air—from an almost infinite amount of space—they fought against being contained in the cramped vessel of his head, expanding and contracting, and condensing into a single remembered revelation.
He really wanted to die.
He really was going to die. That filled him with a deformed sort of relief and fear. Yet another chimera he couldn't separate—it would have to stay how it was.
His movements decreased. Slowed. They came close to stopping fully, but Edward resisted. He didn't want to stop—it wasn't him who clasped his arms captive! Not now—now that he'd finally found out where his hunger had gone.
Whatever held his wrists lifted him almost completely off of the ground; his toes only barely dragged against it. What had once been a luscious green lawn had suffered from a sudden transmutation, transforming it to a squelching, red mess. The squelches weren't the only noises Ed heard when he finally quietened his screams. There were his own small whines, like that of a dog denied a treat, and a solitary word, repeated again and again.
Shapes and colours returned as Edward's eyes reformed, gradually. First, he noticed the scarlet staining his bangs, and then his gaze moved beyond. And back. Because what he saw just wasn't possible.
Ed had never received a new name, not like the other homunculi. He wasn't christened after any of the seven deadly sins. He was just… Edward Elric. Fullmetal. Through a subconscious intention, pure laziness, or a simple disdain for the act of choosing a new one, he hadn't changed his name. It just didn't seem necessary, and it wasn't as if he could narrow himself into just one of the seven categories the other homunculi followed. He lusted after knowledge, was gluttonous in demanding and devouring the energy of those around him. He was prideful past the point of stupidity, slothful in his desire to understand others, and wrathful towards his unjust past. He envied those who were able to live quiet, calm, normal lives. But most of all, he was greedy. There was so much information he had yet to absorb—so many books that remained untouched by his mismatched hands—that even after resigning himself to an unusual death, he lamented the loss of that learning. His last thoughts were not of the brother he was abandoning, but of the research he never conducted.
Perhaps that was why Alphonse appeared before him. There was no other explanation—at least not one that Ed could find. He was somehow brought forward by Ed's chaotic thoughts. Or maybe it was a kind of familial telepathy?
The word, echoing as it passed Al's non-existent lips, repeated over and over: "Brother! Brother! Brother!" It grew more frantic as Ed stared into the glowing orbs in his helmet. He had never understood where that light was coming from.
The two brothers, reunited once more—whether the relief was mirrored in both of them was up to debate. There was a strange sort of irony at play in that moment; between them, they formed a complete being composed of both a body and a soul, but not a surplus of either. None of the souls in Ed's body counted as his own.
Alphonse's appearance had calmed down the entirety of the Headquarters—even the panicked people milling about inside had stilled to peer out windows—and the effect he had on Ed was even stronger. Ed felt as if he couldn't move, that he wasn't allowed to move, until his brother gave permission. It was his penance for failing him, and for making their situation a hundred times worse in the process.
Ed didn't realise he was speaking until his own words broke through the white noise in his head. "I'm sorry, Al. I'm sorry," he uttered the words without pause for breath, because of course, he had no need for it. The apologies rushed out of him—all of them, contained within those few simple whispers. There were too many to count.
But then he paused.
And he waited.
And he thought
And the answer came.
It was a bittersweet answer, one that would no doubt have Alphonse cursing his name and screaming murder at his memory. Ed knew his younger brother would hate him, but he was selfish. He was weary, and he had already decided that he was going to end himself even before Al jumped into the equation.
The way Edward saw it, it was a win-win. But Al wouldn't see it from the perspective of the monster—he'd see it from the side of the saint, and consequently fall further from the path of the virtuous.
Ed had been fast as a human, but Al was always faster, and his endurance level was consistently—boundlessly—higher. While Ed had never wanted their final spar to be conducted in the midst of a hostile audience—he'd never even imagined it!—he found he had no choice. Like many things.
It was faster, stronger, more brutal than any sparring session they'd ever done. No sooner had Al recovered from Ed's initial strike than Ed was there again, kicking his breastplate with enough strength to break his ankle and send the armour flying. He landed awkwardly, trying to compensate for the shattered joint as it pulled itself back together with a series of cracks. Al lay at the end of a rut carved into the previously immaculate lawns. Clods of dirt and grass fell to the ground as he took to his feet again, and Ed could sense the wariness radiating from his younger brother. Maybe he understood.
Alphonse raised his fists. He definitely understood. He was an Elric.
Ed leapt forward, a blur of gold and red and tanned skin and automail. That was all anyone could discern before he hit the suit of armour head-on. It released a mighty clang! that reverberated around Central and rattled people's windows for several long seconds—or at least, they seemed long to Edward. After the speed at which he'd prepared the reaction, it was taking forever to begin.
His hands rested in symmetrical dents on either side of Al's chest plate, and together they toppled to the earth. But they never made it all the way.
Familiar, calming, wonderful, damning blue lightning dimmed the brightness of the floodlights; a few shattered in a sea of orange sparks due to the intensity. Just as it had once brought the sun within reach, it now pushed the light away. Ed had no need for it, in any case. He would be gone soon.
In a flash that would leave many blinking for days, the Elric brothers disappeared.
XxX
Everything was white. It was a heavy white, pressing down on his armour until he had to struggle to raise his head. Everything—everywhere—was coated in a paleness more spectacular and empty than freshly fallen snow, as even freshly fallen snow contains imperfections. This, the well known void, was that awful perfection.
And that was what made it so horrible.
Alphonse had been there before. The memories came flooding in, curling around the leather of his gloves like ghosts, tugging the fingers away from each other. He couldn't feel it, and yet the sensation sent shudders running through his soul.
Then they dived in.
For a wonderful moment, nothing happened. He was beautifully empty—one could even go so far as to say calm—like in those brief minutes before the storm, when all the rain and hail vanishes and a treacherous bliss falls over the land. Ten seconds—no! Two seconds. That was how long Alphonse's bliss lasted.
And then came a great pressure.
It expanded within him, scrabbling at the smooth sheen of his body, glancing over the blood seal with too little care! The black hands waved at him from inside, outside, in front, behind. From the Gate—oh, how he didn't want to see it again—more were created. Formed. Born from the very depths of his personal hell.
A melody played, adding to the cacophony and bringing it to a deafening conclusion. But the song continued. The hands swayed, lazily, as if lulled into some sort of sleep. Alphonse didn't understand; he heard nothing soothing in the singer's voice. It was small and shaky—frail—and feeble. For a long while, he couldn't hear any words. But the tune! Oh, he'd heard it before, no doubt! He'd listened to its bastardised form, and recently, too. It was at the forefront of his memories—yet with all the added experiences gifted to him from the Gate, that forefront was more like a no-man's-land, stretching for miles and miles. In the hush, he fought to recognise it once more.
'Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…' the line broke off in a whisper, as if the vocalist had been singing for hours and his voice couldn't keep up. 'All the king's horses and all the king's men...'
Alphonse finished in a horrified murmur, "Couldn't put Humpty together again." He turned, suddenly having no trouble in finding the mystery songbird. "Is that right, Brother? You were humming it the other day."
'Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall… Humpty Dumpty had a—'
"Brother!" Al felt like he was going to explode. Even the stroking palms retreated, leaving him slightly empty. They had left, and so had the well of all that knowledge.
Edward sat in front of something large and grey. It was a giant slab of rock, suspended in mid-air. Intricate carvings detailed the surface—alchemy symbols so archaic their modern meanings were vague at best.
No one ever had any trouble believing that Alphonse existed in an unfeeling body, unable to experience even the slightest amount of pain. After all, metal had no nerve endings. He didn't have a nervous system.
But they couldn't be further from the truth.
He hurt. He hurt so badly. It had started as a dull ache, and had grown over the time of Ed's disappearance, until it felt like a shard of glass wedged inside his helmet. It wasn't a physical ache, and that was what made it so potent. It was mental; no matter what he tried, he couldn't get away.
And seeing his brother again—and like that—it was almost more than he could take.
"Brother," he repeated, softer and kinder than his earlier outburst. Ed kept his eyes trained on him, appearing attentive and much calmer. It was a startling contrast; different hues and tones of red clung to his skin and hair, but he looked completely unperturbed by his outward form. "Brother, please listen to me. Please tell me what's going on. Yo-you have a voice now! You can tell me… wh-whatever it is you have to tell me! Isn't that right, Brother?"
Ed answered in a slow nod. He seemed entranced, distracted. His eyes were darting about, as if he were searching for something. Al waited for as long as he thought possible, and then longer. A full total of ten seconds passed without so much as a single word between them. Finally, Edward's focus settled on a specific area, right behind Al. He took in a shaky breath, then let it out. Without looking away from the source of his discomfort, Ed spoke. "There it is. I was afraid I didn't have one anymore."
"Have one…?" Alphonse creaked around towards the endless empty space at his back.
But it wasn't empty anymore.
Once, the doorway might have been magnificent—a truly awe-inspiring piece of art in every sense of the word. Yet time has a way of changing even the most incredible structures into unimportant specks of dust, destined to be blown away by the passage of a new era. The crumbling stone Alphonse saw still held a small fraction of its integrity, but it was clear that it was merely waiting to crumble into a fine powder. Already, a copper stain—like rust—had spread over the top section of the monument, and complete sections were missing in obvious places: the highest right corner, where the tendril-like designs reached; the intricate script occupying the motif; the very centre, where the gap yawned open to display an unsettling black.
"That's my Gate," Ed told him matter-of-factly, as if its corroded façade was nothing to be worried about. "It's what lets us do alchemy. This one's yours."
And Al turned back to see Edward pointing at the proud doorway he had first seen. If he had a human body, he might have licked his lips nervously.
"Brother, I…" he began. Al had to clench his fists to quell their urge to fidget. "I don't understand. What happened to yours?"
Edward's mouth tightened infinitesimally. "Homunculi aren't supposed to have Gates. It's dying, and when it's all gone, I'll… I won't let it go to waste."
That was more like the Edward Elric Alphonse knew. He knew the prices, the costs, of power such as alchemy—after paying that price, he couldn't use just half. But his next words interrupted Al's thoughts with a violence that betrayed the calm voice they were spoken in.
"Is it like a dream?"
Oh, how Alphonse wished he could frown in confusion. "Huh?"
"Is it like being in a dream?" Edward repeated. His expression was open and curious, ready for new knowledge. "You can see everything, but you can't feel it. Is it like being in a dream?"
"You know I can't dream, Brother," Al reminded him gently. "I can't remember what it feels like."
The space between Ed's brows crinkled. "Are you sure?"
Alphonse nodded haltingly. "Fairly sure. A dream—"
"No. Nightmare."
"… Fine," he acquiesced. "A nightmare isn't like this."
A smile stole up Edward's face, slowly. He seemed pleased. "I'm gonna make a decision, Al," he said, quite sure of himself. "It could be my last one. But then it might not be. It's funny, thinking about that, isn't it?"
Al shook his head. "No. That's not funny at all, Brother."
"Yes, it is." Ed stood up gracefully and took a few steps forward, until there were only a few metres between them. "You'll see. You can't now, but you will eventually. Let me explain everything."
What could one say to that? Al didn't know. Though he was usually so adept at dealing with his brother, there was nothing he could say! The unsettling white had cut off all of his thoughts and left him even emptier than before.
"Let me…" Ed restated. "Let me explain what happened. To me. With Envy."
"Envy?"
"I-I didn't know it was him. I don't think it was him at first," he continued as if Al had never said anything. "H-he—a-and Colt—they… they killed me." Edward watched Alphonse, waiting for a response. It was eerie, creepy, that while his voice shook with emotion, Ed's eyes remained dry. "They killed me. Over and over. That… that blood in the room w-was all mine. Mustang wouldn't believe me, but then I don't believe Mustang either. There was a needle, Al, and i-it made me feel really… heavy. It fucking sucked, Al—I-I couldn't do anything! And-and-and it hurt really fucking bad! H-he said th-that I was like wine a-and… Al you scare me so much. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
Al stayed silent, hoping that Ed would continue. Hoping that Ed would explain why he was… afraid of him. But he was wearing that blank, unreadable expression again, and Al had to wonder if he was the only one hiding behind a helmet.
There was a sound like thunder behind him; more of the Gate was falling. It appeared to break Edward out of his reverie, and that tiny smile once again returned.
"I'm not supposed to have that," he said, pointing at the crumbling stone. "It was supposed to disappear when I became a monster. But Hohenheim let me keep it. His blood was the Philosopher's stone, and then we were. He really was a bastard."
"Brother." Alphonse tried to keep his attention from the deteriorating behemoth behind him. "Why are we here?"
Ed shrugged and stepped forward again. "The bastard colonel could've gotten shot."
"No." The helmet swung from side to side. "That's not true, Brother. I can tell when you're lying."
"I want to help you." Punctuating Ed's reply, more of his doorway collapsed. "I wanna finish this while I can. While I can. I'm not gonna jump, Al." He threw a fist out ahead of him, bumping Al's breastplate in their usual manner. "And I'm not gonna ask you to push me."
"Brother, what're you talking about?"
"The edge's falling to pieces under my feet." When the corners of Ed's lips lifted upwards, Al could see the thin trail of tears lining his eyes. His voice caught in his non-existent throat, and it was all the armour could do to keep standing. He wanted to repeat his earlier question: 'Brother, what're you talking about?' but nothing would come out. He wanted to move back, away from Ed's touch, but he couldn't. Edward just continued to talk, "I don't have to jump; there won't be anything left to stand on, soon. I can just fall, and isn't that easiest? Al… I'm so tired. And I'm…" Ed took a shaky breath, and came forward completely. His arms wrapped as far as they could around Al's resistant body. "I wish you could feel this. I'm so sorry."
"Brother?"
There was a loud cracking noise originating from the older Gate as strange vibrations started shuddering through Alphonse. The shaking increased in speed, faster and faster, until a pure, metallic note rang through the open space. Ed's grip never loosened—if anything, it grew tighter—and he pressed his face into Al's metal chest.
"B-Brother?" Alphonse asked, his voice shrill and unsettled. "What's going on?"
Ed strengthened his hold, and wonderfully—miraculously!—Al felt it. He felt the pressure of his brother's arms wrapped possessively around him. And it was amazing. It was the first physical sensation he'd experienced in more than four years—if he didn't know any better, he may have thought it imaginary, a mere wishful illusion. But he doubted that he could recreate such an exquisite sense just from memory.
He could feel warmth.
And it didn't faded. It grew. It grew until the warmth was no longer comfortable—until it hurt—and still Alphonse revelled in it. Because it was the first time he had been uncomfortable in years! His faux skin glowed and morphed slightly as if under some incredible heat, raising blisters along Ed's arms and cheek. And then, an odd tingling began in Al's hands—the first pins-and-needles for so long!—as well as a sound he couldn't identify.
Before he knew it, his arm was gone.
"E-Ed!" he cried as his knees buckled, the left one disappeared from below the joint. Edward didn't let go; he sank to the ground with his brother, a contented smile on his lips. "Brother—what's happening?"
Ed seemed to nuzzle into Al's dissolving body, as the Gate crashed to shards in the background. "I'm sorry, Alphonse. Please forget about this."
XxX
He was trapped yet again.
There were no walls surrounding him. No bloodied mattresses or tables. But nevertheless, Edward was trapped.
And he'd never felt so happy.
Their journey—their wonderful, terrible journey—was over at last! Despite the metal appendages weighing down his right shoulder and left leg, his non-existent soul was light. He could have flown away, if he'd had the will to do so.
But there was something more he needed to do.
His own Gate was nothing more than dust—no, less. It was more like a fine powder, and it disintegrated rapidly under his golden watch. The fragments were smaller than sand, and yet still shrinking. Ed walked over and crouched, marvelling at the display for a moment before he reached forward and gathered some of the dust into the palm of his hand. It reminded him of ash.
"You did it."
Edward nodded once and dipped a metal finger into what remained of his alchemy. His life. "I did."
The other's voice was easily distinguishable as inhuman, and yet Ed couldn't help but hear his little brother's high-pitched tone louder than the rest. The Gate seemed to talk in many dialects, genders, ages—while at the same time being just one.
"And what will you do now, homunculus?" it asked, and finally it revealed itself. Soundlessly, it pulled away from the void—out of nothing—and stood before Alphonse's doorway, as if to guard it. "You have no alchemy. You—"
"Have no way to get back, I know." Ed had known it even before his hands had joined, so many eons ago during his and Al's final spar. He had dragged them to the nothingness in order to fulfil his half of the promise, and consequently damned himself to an eternity in yet another place he didn't belong. But he had chosen it, and that fact alone brought him a sense of peace.
The Gatekeeper made a noise of amused curiosity, as if Ed were a child who had somehow stumbled onto the executioner's block. "Hmm? You knew that, and came regardless?"
"You're the 'Truth'," Ed replied with a small snort, "The 'All', right? Don't you know everything about me?"
That blinding grin—somehow even more blinding than their snowy backdrop—swung from side to side. "I belong to Alphonse Elric. His brother is of no importance to me. Your Truth has died along with you."
Edward nodded in understanding. A tiny, satisfied smile graced his lips. He might have failed in bringing the sin of Envy to a bloody, final end, but he had completed his oldest goal. "Please," he said, and straightened up as the last of his Gate vanished forever. "Can I see him? Can I see Alphonse?"
The Truth dipped its head slightly. "That's up to you. I will not help you, but nor will I hinder your progress. If you can find the path to your younger brother, you're welcome to take it."
"I already know the path." Edward scratched at some of the blood in his automail, glad it hadn't gummed up the mechanisms.
"Oh?" it answered with interest.
"There's only one way out." At that, he approached the humanoid light, which moved aside graciously. It was slightly taller than him, and incredibly sickly. Ed had no doubt that his thumb and finger would easily encircle the entirety of the being's arm—Al may have been out of the armour, but it seemed his body would always be against him.
Edward traced a flesh finger down the gap in the middle of his brother's Gate. It was roughly two inches in width, but he couldn't see anything through the space. It was as if everything just disappeared as soon as it crossed the stone threshold. As he would.
One hand laid on the left of the crack; another settled opposite. And together, they pulled apart. For a long, unsettling moment, nothing happened. The Gate didn't open. The Truth merely watched him struggle and curse. His muscles strained, harder and harder, until he was sure that his skin would split open. The scream that tore out of his throat didn't belong to any creature—animal, human, or homunculus. And the moment stretched on…
And on…
And on…
Until, finally, Ed won.
It opened with the screech of stone on stone and a thunderous rumble. Automail shoulder first, he forced his way through and ignored the way his skin and metal was being scratched away on the sides of the Gate. Vaguely, he wondered if Al could sense him there.
Then came the hands.
One, and then dozens. Hundreds. Thousands! Within seconds, he was covered from head to toe in black, sleek palms. They were simultaneously hot and cold, hard and soft, cruel and gentle. With so many of them, they could afford to be all those and more. They drew him into the darkness, then released him, suspended by only three or four pairs and his own surreal weightlessness.
Just like his first experience, the ribbons started almost instantly. Unlike his first experience, Edward remained calm. The bands—like strips of film, though much clearer and more colourful than any he had seen—didn't show his past. It showed Alphonse's.
Their childhood—the time Ed put a bull ant down his shirt.
The death—their mother's eyes slipping closed for the last time.
Their mistake—Ed had never understood just how different it was for his sibling.
And it went on, detailing Al's history in chronological order. There, the military. There, Lior. Each scene grew faster, sped up, until they were barely more than blurs. Already, he was at the time of his disappearance. Ed felt every worry, every fear, that went through his younger brother's mind. He had expected it to stop once he noticed the pure white that signified their arrival in the void.
But it didn't.
It continued: having a body, the welcome party, the return to Risembool, Ed's funeral, marriage, children, grandchildren, old age, death. All within the space of a second. His entire life—once so grand and important to Ed—just seemed so quick. So insignificant. And Al was to live to be well over sixty—how much faster must Ed's record have been?
He was being selfish again, and he knew that. But he was allowed that liberty—he was in his final moments. The Gate was a symbol of Alphonse and his life; Ed was no more than a virus that had taken up temporary residence inside Al's soul. It was breaking him apart, piece by piece, like the unimportant and minute blemish he resembled in Al's existence. Just fourteen years. They had known each other for just fourteen fucking years.
"It's Friday," Ed whispered brokenly. His voice cracked and a single tear rolled away, quickly stolen by the Gate. It was taking everything. He wanted more than fourteen years with his brother. He wanted a lifetime.
"Friday.
"F-Friday. Friday.
"Friday—"
But the Gate won.
So here is my favourite chapter. I hope you all liked it, too! Maybe leave a review?
Also, reading this again last night, I had to laugh at the name Martha Schlocks. I'm about 99% sure I got her from Marsaxlokk, in Malta, but I can't remember anymore :\
Next chapter's the epilogue!