THREE WISE MONKEYS
Last chapter! Thanks to all those who've read and reviewed—especially the three kind people (BlueIsTheColourOfOurPlanet, Guest, and TheHaloFreak) for commenting on a chapter that took almost three weeks to write. It means a lot that you cared to say something! So I apologise for the lateness of this chapter. School got in the way.
And if anyone's interested, I've posted a new story (Illusory). It's just one chapter at the moment, but will be a total of six chapters all together.
That said, enjoy the last chapter! Maybe those who've stayed silent might review?
CHAPTER NINETEEN • Epilogue
It was a cold day. The type of day that Ed would have hated—the type that turned his automail to ice and his loud voice to irate mutters. Clouds rolled through the sky, but not a single drop of the imminent rain had fallen. It was surely holding off until the burial.
Al shivered and clutched his jacket closer to himself, feeling the wind whip around his frail frame. The joys of discomfort had soon worn off after his return from the Gate; at first he had marvelled at every sensation—good or bad—but the novelty disappeared all too soon. When the cold seeped into his emancipated body, he experienced nothing but the cold. When his weak immune system made him sick, he was only sick. There was nothing good about feeling bad.
And although he had a face to smile, he had nothing to smile about. It was a waste, really—he should have been making use of the expressions his brother returned to him! But perhaps he had forgotten. It certainly felt as if he had. Not even Winry was about to coax a grin from him; it was as if his face was still shaped from metal, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He hadn't even cried. Not since that first night, the moment he appeared in the centre of Military Headquarters, naked and confused. The colonel had been there with an offered jacket and a sharp call for his men not to shoot. At the first touch, Alphonse had been unable to hide his flinch. It was nowhere near as amazing as he had imagined. He was sensitive to everything, and it just made him nauseous.
That was three weeks ago. Three weeks since he lost his older brother. Three weeks since he lost his family. Everything.
Al wasn't prone to swearing, but he would have if not for suffocating numbness hovering over him. Just like the sky, his mood was dark and threatening lightning at any moment. He was angry. It showed in the red flush over his sickly skin, in his clenched fists, and in the tautness of his shoulders.
He blinked hard, keeping his eyes closed for several unnecessary moments as he waited for the rage to pass. When he opened them again, Roy was staring at him in dulled curiosity, a question lurking behind his sorrowful visage.
'Are you okay?'
Everyone kept asking Alphonse if he was okay. Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you alright, Al? Alphonse? Alphonse Elric? Are you fucking okay? Because it's okay if you're not—Edward was your brother. No one will judge you for crying. It's okay.
No. It's not.
Risembool was starting to feel like less of a childhood home, and more like a dumping ground for his bad memories. His mother's death happened at the top of that empty hill, but of course there had been a house there at that time. A house that bore witness to the birth of a monster. A house that no longer existed, burned down in a warped symbol of what they claimed to be determination. 'There's no turning back now'. It wasn't determination. It was merely a childish act to erase their shame.
And the latest piece of crap to add to the pile: his brother.
There were only nine people at the funeral, set almost a full month after Ed's departure. Al wouldn't say 'death', because Edward never 'died'. He didn't have a word for what happened. Winter had set in rather quickly. The ground was hard already—it was lucky Al had no need to dig it himself. But as he clapped his hands together and placed them on the earth, he had been reluctant. It was only the eight in his expectant audience that spurred him onward. They thought they were there for him.
Oh, how wrong they were.
They weren't there for anyone. They were there for Ed. They all were. All nine of them—the only nine who didn't believe the newspapers. The only ones.
The only ones…
Even the coffin lying—empty—in the damp, gaping maw at his feet couldn't coax a single tear out of him. Al knew it was empty, and that was why his brother couldn't be dead. He was just missing. And with every minute—every second—Ed left Al alone, the younger felt more loss. He felt more hate. Towards what, he didn't know.
"Alphonse?" A hand settled on his upper arm and Al realised distantly that he had been keeling forward. His knees were shaky; his one crutch wasn't enough to keep him on his feet.
He met Winry's reddened gaze. "Yeah?"
"W-would you…" she had to break off, biting her fist as even more tears slipped from beneath closed lids. Taking in a shaky breath, Winry made the perfect picture of mourning. "Would you l-like to say… say a-a few words? For… E-E-Ed?"
Alphonse considered it. He really did. But there was nothing in the coffin. It was just a box, and nothing more. Edward wasn't inside, and it was worthless to pretend that he was.
"No," he said quietly, then shook his head in case she didn't hear. "I wanna get this over with."
Slowly, unsteadily, Al staggered to his knees. He was still so weak, despite the strict rehabilitation plan he followed each day. Just performing the simple transmutation to shift the dirt over the grave left him labouring for breath and unable to stand. Just that one, simple act.
Mustang took one of his arms, and Havoc took the other, but Alphonse shook them off before they could get a proper grip. "That's fine," he said, trying to infuse his dead voice with sincerity. "I can get back on my own."
"Al—" Winry began, and he cut her off, too.
"I'm fine, Winry." The smile he affixed to the end of that statement was fake, and obviously so. "I'll be there in a minute."
She sniffed softly and searched his face for any sign of a lie. "You will? Promise?"
At that last, desperate, word, Al was reminded of another promise. One that Al had allowed Ed to break.
'The next time I make you cry, they'll be tears of joy!'
Yeah. Right.
He nodded. "Promise. I just wanna visit Mum while I'm here."
Winry's expression fell once more, her lower lip trembling as she fought to keep her voice steady. "Please don't leave now, Al. G-Granny and I, we c-can—y-you can stay with us. Please. Please, Al."
Wobbling slightly, he relinquished his hold on his crutch to grasp both of her shoulders. He wanted it to be reassuring, but it only caused more tears. "We can talk about this later, Winry. Please, just go."
"Winry." Pinako gently steered her granddaughter away, towards the road where Roy and his team waited. "Let it rest for now."
Any retaliation she may have been preparing never left her lips. Instead, angrily, she scrubbed at her blotchy face and spun away. Pinako's arm slipped around her granddaughter's waist, and together they hurried away. Winry never even threw him a backwards glace, for which he was grateful. Whatever shadow of a smile he had forced into his expression had faded—Al was too practical to believe he could find it again.
And finally—at last!—he was alone. Just him and the ghosts.
Carefully, he hobbled away from the fresh grave and over to one much older. The stone was slightly worn, but still clearly legible. He knelt down before it, his sickly knees resting atop his mother's heart, and leant forward to trace his fingers over the carved words.
TRISHA ELRIC
1878 ~ 1904
Soon, a similar inscription would be dedicated to her eldest son.
Alphonse didn't know how to start. How could he tell his mother that he had lost his brother? Edward had never lost him—at least, never so far he couldn't be retrieved. Unbidden, an old memory assaulted him. Al, barely three years of age, had followed Ed and Winry to school. Somehow, he had wandered off and been unable to find his way back through the two or three roads in Risembool. Edward had stumbled upon his distraught form later that afternoon, given him an appraising glare, and then dragged him home by his dampened sleeve. He'd taken him home.
"Is he with you now, Mum?" Al asked, finally finding the words he so desperately wanted to say. "I-I mean, not in the ground… with you. I wanna know if he made it past the Truth. O-or if… if he even had a… a s-soul anymore! I know he's not here. We buried something, but it wasn't him. It wasn't Brother." Al rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes, laughing hollowly. "The colonel said only I-I came back. So… Mum? Can I ask you something?"
The first drop of many fell from the sky, staining Trisha's grave and rolling down in a shining pearl. It was soon followed by another, and another, and Al started to shiver as the temperature plummeted even further from comfort. He had decided fairly quickly that he didn't like the cold.
"I wanted to ask…" he continued. "No—I just wanted to… talk? I-I dunno. J-just… What would Brother do in my position? Because I feel so useless, Mum! Even after a-all we did… to you… I can't help but wanna do the same for him. I'm-I'm sure that if I just d-do more research, I could bring him back. I-I-I wanna hear why he did that!
"I wanna know what he was thinking!" Al's voice grew louder and louder, straining under the pressure and the anguish he forced into it. "And I know what you'd say, Mum, but it's not right! He didn't do this 'cause he loved me! I-I—he couldn't do this if he really cared at all! Was I just another challenge to him, Mum? First he-he wanted to bring you back, and then he does—does this! W-was I just another one of-of his… accomplishments? H-he wanted to see if he could bring me back—i-is that it?" Al took a deep, shuddering gasp and released it slowly. His clothes were soaked, the heavy layers clinging to him in a chilly embrace. "I don't know if I hate him, or love him, Mum. It's all… so confusing. I don't know what to do. I don't know… what to do. And I know you can't really help, but…" he smiled a crooked smile—the most genuine one he had given for years. "I guess this wasn't too hard."
He wavered to his feet, his shaking arms struggling to lift him onto his crutch. "Maybe I'll come back soon. If Winry ever lets me out, I mean. You know how she is, Mum—I'll have a problem when she sees me in the rain like this."
For a moment, Alphonse imagined that he heard his mother, laughing gently beneath the grumbles of the coming storm. But then that moment passed, and all he heard was water lashing himself and the earth around him. The world had descended into a dark, murky landscape, quite similar to those on the old camera he and Ed had once found. Everything was blurred, white, and grey.
But some of the rain felt warmer than the rest. The drops that hit his face lacked the frigid properties of their brothers and sisters—they were hot, stinging his eyes when they landed. He wasn't crying.
He couldn't.
XxX
Mustang tried his hardest not to say anything. Really—he did. Even when the boy arrived at the doorstep blue at the mouth and shivering so hard the movement had evolved into a vibration of sorts, he hadn't spoken a word. It wasn't his place.
Besides, it wasn't as if he was at all needed—Winry was more than enough, and much more adept than he could never be. What the hell could the great Flame alchemist do in the way of comfort? Slap him on the back and offer him a lie? No. No, he couldn't do that.
And that was what made his current predicament even worse.
"So, uh, Alphonse," Roy said, trying to keep the discomfort out of his tone. The teen that had once been a suit of armour hadn't even met his eye since arriving in Military Headquarters. It was unnerving. Even now they sat in near-silence, after Al requested they be left alone. But so far, almost ten minutes had passed without either of them uttering a single syllable.
"Don't." Al shifted on the couch, pulling his blankets tighter around his shoulders. His hair was damp, slightly darker than usual. "You don't have to say anything yet. I wanted to ask you something first."
Roy dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I know. So what is it?"
"Too many things." Al sighed, then shivered and inched closer to the small fireplace. "But I wanna get it over with tonight. You should understand."
Examining the red-rimmed eyes surrounded by dark shadows, Mustang found that Al was right—he did understand. Whether the boy knew it or not, he owned the eyes of a murderer, without ever having killed. Roy found himself almost wishing that Al was still encase in metal—at least, that way, he wouldn't be able to see such an expression on someone so young.
"It wasn't Brother, was it?" the younger started, once the silence began to stretch. "He didn't… It wasn't him that killed all those people… Right?"
Mustang attempted to conjure up a reassuring smile, but nothing happened. He couldn't do that any more than he could provide comfort. "Of course it wasn't, Alphonse. Even if that thing had been Ed, it was just a homunculus by then."
Al's knuckles stood out painfully as his grip tightened, and he shook his head. "That's not what I mean. It… was too neat to be Brother. A-and to have the l-last night at Headquarters was… too perfect. You thought it was a trap for us," at that, Al dared to meet Roy's slightly startled gaze, "But it was really a trap for him."
"And that was a Friday," Mustang continued where Al stopped, resisting the urge to run a hand through his black hair. "Exactly three weeks after that strange incident with the pub. He…" Roy threw a nervous glance at his companion. "Fullmetal told me once that… He told me it was him."
Al's lips tightened to a thin, white line. "A week ago," he said dryly, "I wouldn't have believed that. Now I'm… I'm not sure. I think… I think I believe it… now." And it was quiet, for quite a long time. Roy was readying himself to leave when his unwilling company spoke. "Why didn't you tell me what he said?"
Mustang groaned softly and bent forward, hiding his face behind his pristine gloves. He didn't want Alphonse to see his expression; he didn't want Alphonse to know just how much the memory affected him. "I don't know, Alphonse! He-he asked me not to, that stupid brat. And I… And I didn't know how to bring that up, besides."
"You could've stopped this," Al condemned him in a voice of tempered steel. The edge was so sharp that Mustang felt it sever his vocal cords, leaving him lost for words. "He told you 'cause he knew you could've stopped it. He was asking for your help, Mustang! Not for you to-to listen to him! You know he's—"
"Don't, Alphonse," the colonel warned. His voice came out muffled from between his tense fingers. "I know what he was like, but you weren't there. That wasn't your brother—" he leant backwards to meet the boy's angry golden eyes, "I thought he was gonna put his blade between my shoulders!"
"You let him leave."
"I let the homunculus leave."
Al's mouth curled into a snarl. "You started it. You made him go after that bastard."
"I know!" Roy's vision flashed a series of chaotic colours, and then he was on his feet. "I know that! I started this the moment I stepped through that door—" he gestured wildly to the front of the Rockbell's home, "—and offered your brother a position in the military! It was a stupid idea! A stupid, stupid idea! A-and now he's paying for it! He's the one being blamed for what I did to him! He's the one being blamed for over twelve deaths, and I can't even find evidence to-to prove his innocence! Fuck! I don't even know if he really is innocent!"
"Of course he is!" Alphonse snapped, fists trembling at his sides.
"There's no proof!"
Roy refused to let himself back down beneath Al's glare, no matter how intimidating it was. The boy possessed a face as gaunt as the dead, and an anger belonging only to those who have lived too long. It was difficult not to look away when the person owning those two qualities was no older than fourteen.
The standoff continued until the colour washed out of Alphonse's complexion and he wavered on his feet. As he started to fall, Mustang grabbed his upper arm and guided him down to the couch. Al let him; all of his will to fight had left, replaced with an emotion that had often graced his elder brother. It made sense. It made sense that Alphonse felt guilty.
"I, um," he said, unable to meet Roy's eyes. Not that that was a problem. "I never thought to ask."
Roy moved towards his previous armchair slowly, trying to gain control over the burning in his gut. If only it was as simple as clicking his fingers. "Thought to ask what?"
"What happened to Jeremy Colt."
"They're looking for a body." Mustang rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But I doubt they'll find one. I doubt there was ever a Jeremy Colt, aside for the one on paper."
Al frowned. "Then… Envy?"
"The shape shifter. And the girl—Lucy—she disappeared, too," Roy muttered. His body was heavy with fatigue, but he had to finish. "Officially, both Jeremy and Lucy have been pronounced missing, presumed dead."
Nodding, Alphonse stifled a yawn. "But they were both Envy, weren't they?"
"We can't say for sure," Mustang replied, then said in a quieter voice, "Is that all you wanted to ask?"
Immediately, Al shook his head, appearing awake and focused, despite the shadows beneath his eyes. "Just one more thing."
When Alphonse boldly, determinedly, set his gaze on Mustang, Roy couldn't help the flutter of apprehension running through his limbs. There was fire in those eyes—enough to send him back five years, to the first time he met his youngest subordinate. Roy was adept at recognising flames, though, and Al's were bordered by frost.
"Let me join the military."
Somehow, the demand came as no shock. "Alphonse—"
"Let me join the military," Al insisted. "I don't have to fight. I can do research—"
"To do what?" Roy interrupted sharply. "To bring your brother back?"
Inclining his head in recognition, Al said, "Yes."
Mustang watched, waiting, perhaps, for a sign of doubt. But, just like his brother, Alphonse was an Elric. There would be no deterring him—not when he had a goal. Edward had achieved his goal. Not even the loss of his life was too high a cost.
Roy's expression hardened. "Then I must refuse."
Al's face flew open in shock. "But wh—"
"I'm not having another dead Elric on my conscious!" Mustang ignored Al's flinch. "If you want to spend the rest of your life regretting Edward's decision, you can do that. But I'm not giving you military funding to do so."
Without a word, Alphonse reached down for his crutches and, slowly, limped his way out of the dining room. His frustration rested on Roy like a tangible being. It was only once he left that Mustang allowed his eyes to close, a large, silent sigh heaving out of his chest.
He really hated Risembool.
"Sir?"
Roy jumped, embarrassingly, and twisted towards the other door. Riza closed it behind her with a soft click and offered him a rare smile. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and instead of the usual blue uniform, she wore a pale green robe over sensible pyjamas.
"Did we wake you, Lieutenant?" Roy asked quietly, rubbing his eyes in tired irritation.
Her slippers tapped along the wooden floors, and she took the seat that Alphonse had vacated. "I think you woke everyone, sir."
Roy muttered a short apology, but aside from that, could find nothing else to say.
"You did the right thing, sir."
Mustang snorted. "Yeah?"
"Yes, sir."
"But…" He frowned into the shelter of his hand. "What if he can find some way—"
"And what if he can't?" Riza countered. Roy looked up into her dark brown eyes, and saw the same calm resolve that had become so familiar. "There's nothing to gain in walking in circles. Sir."
He let out a humourless laugh and fell into the soft embrace of the armchair. "I guess you're right, Lieutenant," Roy murmured, almost inaudibly. Riza didn't reply, so he gave another sigh and allowed an unpleasant smile to twist his lips. "What happens now?"
"Now, you try to sleep." Clothes rustled as the lieutenant stood and straightened her robe, beginning the short walk to her temporary bedroom. "Tomorrow, we go back to Central. And the day after that, we try to forget."
"Mm," Roy hummed in agreement. Though not even a proper word, it managed to sound bitter nonetheless. "Tomorrow's Monday."
Monday.
Monday.