"To obtain, something of equal value must be lost..."

We lost much, far too much for equivalency. What we ourselves did not lose was stolen from us. But I couldn't say we lost everything, for in the end, we kept safe and sacred the solitary thing worth anything - each other.

~ ~ ~

I was ten years old when life as I knew it first began to irrevocably change. My brother Edward was one year older. Before then, our lives were happy. We were loved and cared for by our mother Trisha. Our father Hohenheim, though frequently away on business, had been an excellent provider and a strong, guiding, if not fleeting presence.

Our mother was gentle and kind, and she nurtured any talent she saw in us. Through our father we learned the art of Alchemy and even now, I can picture the pride in her eyes whenever we presented to her a trinket made from transmutation. She encouraged us, praised us, and we practiced incessantly.

Ed and I would pore over Father's Alchemy texts, sprawled out on the bare wooden floor in his dimly lit study. Tome upon tome and page after page we tried to absorb as much knowledge and instruction as we could and when our brains could at last hold no more, Mom would call us to the dinner table.

When we weren't busy studying, we were enjoying the bucolic, pastoral landscape of our homestead. We lifted our faces to the sun, splashed our feet in the lazy current of the creek, and dozed on the plush lawn. At times we bickered, as siblings do. But more than any squabbling, I remember the laughter, the play, and the intense bond we had, for only one trip around the sun was between us.

One ordinary summer afternoon, Ed and I charged in the house, our bellies empty and demanding, only to find Mom collapsed in a heap on the entryway floor, the apples plucked for a future pie scattered and rolling around her unmoving form.

We shouted for her, and Father, having heard our shrill cries from the depths of the house, came barreling in, quickly scooping her in his arms and whisking her to the bedroom.

"What happened to her?" Ed asked as I stood meekly behind him just outside the doorway. Father was speaking quietly on the telephone to someone, presumably a doctor, in somber, hushed tones throwing words about like "plague" and "for some time." He soon set the receiver back onto its cradle. The fog glazing over Father's eyes told us that her prognosis was dire.

I clung to Ed's arm and we stepped slowly into the room and approached Mom laying on the bed. We each laid a hand on hers, perfectly still at her side. Her flesh was cold and clammy. Her once rosy complexion had been replaced with a gray pallor. Chestnut strands were clumped together with sweat against her forehead.

She lolled her head to the side and looked at us with half-lidded eyes.

"Mom, are you going to be okay?" I asked, gently giving her hand a squeeze.

"My boys, my sweet, special boys," she breathed weakly, "take care of each other."

Desperate for an answer, for reassurance, for one bit of hope I looked from her to Ed, whose eyes were shining wetly, tears silently cascading down his cheeks.

Father took a seat in the chair beside her bed and grasped her other hand.

Her head rolled to the center of the pillow. As the light faded from her eyes and her lids lowered, she offered one last sentiment.

"I love you."

And she was gone.

Still clutching her hand, we shouted for her, as if the volume of our cries were to ring out loud enough, they could part the heavens themselves and return her to us.

Father said nothing, and moved as a quick shadow from the room.

. . . . . .

We laid her to rest inside the grassy hill beyond the house. The scenic view was in stark contrast to the persistant melancholy that hung over her grave like a storm cloud.

Ed and I would sit by her grave for hours. Our suffering dampened our want for play, even lessened our appetites. Mostly we mourned in silence. Though Ed tried hard to stay strong, sometimes I would catch a tear forming in his eye, but only for a split second before he blinked it away. We would lay our plucked wildflowers at the base of her tombstone and return to the house as the peach and lilac of twilight curtained the West.

Father, being the sole caretaker, would do the best he could to cook our meals. He found domesticity a challenge. Through a mire of both grief and inexperience, more often than not our meals were cold or burnt. The loving care and expertise of our mother's culinary prowess, though never taken for granted, was now sorely missed.

We existed in a fugue state for a while, and mourned our mother in lapses of quiet moments; as we awoke each morning, when we all sat down at the dining table, before we tucked in at night. We tried our best to carry on as normal the rest of the day. Ed and I continued practicing alchemy. As we grew and found instances where our grief could not be contained, we took to playfully sparring as a release. Father still had adult obligations, to earn money, to feed us, and so he traveled away from home sometimes, leaving Ed and I as the men of the house until his return.

I had taken into practice what I learned from watching Mom cook, and steadily became more confidant in the kitchen. While I certainly wasn't a gourmet chef, I had enough knowledge so that Ed and I wouldn't starve in Father's absense.

"This is pretty good, Al," Ed complimented my first experimental stew, as if surprised it wasn't inedible. It couldn't have been terrible because he ate two bowls' worth.

I set my spoon in my empty bowl with a soft clang. "Maybe some day I'll be able to make an apple pie as good as Mom's."

Ed's eyebrows furrowed, as they often did when her name was mentioned. "Don't count on it," he scoffed.

I gave him a shove on the shoulder and gathered up the dishware before we both retired to Father's study, setting an array of candles alight about the room as we each grabbed a book.

This became our routine for the next three years. We had no way of knowing that soon we would be wrenched away from that peaceful cycle, away from all we knew, from everything we held dear, from childhood as we knew it.

It was a muggy July evening when Father returned home from a week-long absence. We heard the creak of the front door, the thud of his belongings dropping against the floor, and we ran to greet him.

Though the expression on his face was stoic, his eyes seemed to contain a whirl of mania. They were wide behind his spectacles and flitting about the room.

"Welcome back, Father! How was your trip?" I asked, happy to see him but covertly attempting to study his gaze.

He seemed far away, and my greeting fell on deaf ears.

"Come here, boys." His voice was low as he lead us to sit at the dining table. I took a seat to his left, Ed sat down across from him.

As we settled in, he continued in that low, gruff tone. "Edward, Alphonse, I know things have been tough lately and I've left you alone more than I would like to. I'm sorry I'm gone away so much."

"We can take care of ourselves," Ed replied as if offended by the implication that he was still a child. At fourteen, he had taken great strides in cementing his role as man of the house, learning the life skills necessary to ensure him and his younger ward were safe and that the house wouldn't crumble around us.

If Father agreed, he made no show of it. He continued on. "I've arranged for us to stay with an associate of mine. I won't have to leave you alone for so long, and you will be well cared for."

I whipped my head toward Brother, feeling a flutter of unease ripple its way through my chest, and I needed to see if he felt the same.

He had his hands balled into fists atop the table. "But we're fine here!" he shouted.

Father sighed and tipped his chin toward his chest. "I know you've both done a good job of caring for yourselves, but you shouldn't have to. You're still young, and there are certain situations you may not be able to handle on your own."

"I'll be in the employ of my associate Dante, and working for her I can earn my keep and still be able to watch over you two."

I whimpered. I didn't want to leave our home! The thought of leaving it, and all the memories made here behind, wrenched my heart so painfully.

Father continued. "While we are there, Dante will be taking me under her wing, where she will teach me all she knows about alchemy." He paused to carefully measure his next words.

"I intend to learn human transmutation to bring your mother back."

I blanched, and looked to Ed whose astonishment contorted his face; brows creased, eyes bulging, lips downturned. "Y-you can't!" he stammered. "That's forbidden alchemy!"

I felt tears stinging my eyes, my forehead dampening with beads of perspiration. My mouth hung open but I was unable to utter a single syllable.

"Dante is extremely knowledgable in the ways of alchemy. If there is a way to perform human transmutation, she will know it and teach me."

A loaded, heavy silence blanketed the room. For as long as Ed and I had been studying alchemy, never once have we read an account of a successful human transmutation. It seemed a fool's errand at best, at worst an extremely dangerous endeavor.

Father stood abruptly from his chair, its legs squeaking against the floorboards as it slid away from him. "Pack a suitcase each of some clothing and what you hold most dear. We must leave tonight."

Ed's head hung down, hands still balled up. His knuckles went white for a moment before he shot up out of his chair and took off running to our room. I was quick to follow, tears falling over my cheeks.

I carefully crossed the threshold. Ed was sitting on the floor against the side of our bed, knees drawn to his chest, arms curled around his shins.

I sat beside him and mirrored his pose. I looked to him, my cheek resting atop my knee. "Brother, I'm scared. I don't want to leave our house! What if Dante is mean? What if Father tries to bring Mom back and something bad happens?" A litany of what-ifs was tumbling through my head, sending my heart into rapid palpitations.

Ed had a look on his face that I couldn't decipher. His golden eyes burned with a peculiar ire I had never seen him display before. He was boring a hole into the floor with those eyes, but spoke softly to me.

"I don't know, Al. But from this day forward, I hate our Father."

It felt to me the impulsive disavowment by a petulent child. Sure, we could feel upset at Father, even angry, but to hate? I philosophized that the way of adults was mysterious, and that they surely knew best even if their plans seemed unreasonable.

We set about packing our things, tossing our rumpled garments into our suitcases until we had to sit all our weight on them to shut the lids. As for sentimental items, I grabbed the small clay creature I had made for Mom when I had learned to transmute. It had an amalgamous form, as it was my first ever attempt, but I remember the way her eyes lit up when I presented it to her. The corners of her eyes crinkled and the apples of her cheeks were round and bright.

Ed carefully tucked into his suitcase a photograph of himself, me and Mom. I supposed anger still clouded his judgement, for he bypassed each one that featured all four of us.

We flopped on our backs beside each other onto our bed. Ed had his hands clasped thoughtfully atop his chest. He was gazing at the ceiling in rapt concentration. "Whatever happens, I'll keep you safe, Al," he said, and the look of determination on his face made him look much older than his fourteen years.

Just before midnight, we departed our beloved home. With each step away I took, a memory would flash behind my eyes. Out the green front door, where we always greeted Father when he returned, past the wooden swing strung up in the tree where Ed and I would push each other ever higher to see who could reach the moon first, down the dirt path we chased each other on, racing back inside when Mom shone the light to beckon us to dinner.

I lugged my suitcase in one hand, and brought the other to my face to wipe away a tear I didn't want Ed to see. If he was so insistant on being strong, then I would be too.

The three of us boarded a train set to head East. A gray-haired man with a paunchy belly accepted our tickets, and told Father we would be at our destination in an hour. And so I had an hour to ask Father all the questions that were piling up in my head.

I began bombarding him with questions, one after another, forgetting to give him pause to answer, until I was breathless.

He didn't reveal much, and I watched his jaw clench each time I spoke. "You'll see when we get there, Alphonse," he told me and smiled, but I could see from his face that he was deep in thought. Ed sat across from me, arms folded, a deep frown pulling his lips.

"Now boys, before we arrive," he began, paused, and it seemed for him a great difficulty to continue. "Dante does not know I have children."

I gawked at him confused, but did not interrupt.

"A long time ago, Dante and I were together. We didn't part ways on the best of terms, and I eventually met your mother. I haven't seen her since, so she doesn't know that I started a family. I fear she will be upset, so much so that she will refuse to teach me the alchemy I need to know."

I found it funny how your parents are only, and have only ever been your parents, and not autonomous entities with a past and a story seperate from your own.

I tried to absorb this revelation as best I could. Ed seemed in a similar state of shock. Father continued with a warning.

"We must take care to be quiet when we get there. You boys will have your own room to stay in, but you must remain in that room, at least for tonight. I will explain everything to Dante, and then we can all be together."

The train came to a stop and Father quickly grabbed our suitcases from the overhead rack. We followed obediently, though Ed lagged back, arms still crossed.

Father lead us to a parked automobile just beyond the platform. A young woman stood beside it, hands clasped together in front of her. She wore her black hair blunt-cut and to her chin with a white frilled band across her head. The garment she wore was as jet as her hair, with lines of white piping and an apron about her middle. We approached and she bowed her head to Father.

She said nothing to us, but opened the door to the backseat. Father handed us our luggage and circled to the passenger side.

The lamp posts cast a warm, yellow glow as we rode through the empty streets. Eventually we began heading up a hill away from the city proper, and came upon a grand estate.

It's immensity was imposing, but it was surrounded by a welcoming aura, even in the ungodly hour. The landscaping at its base was impeccable. Gladiolas, zinnias and tulips of the loveliest citrus hues shot out from chocolate brown soil. The grass of the front yard was a bright kelly green, plush and well-manicured.

The exterior stone walls seemed to rise to the clouds. I counted four stories, each with several shuttered windows.

We skirted the front entrance and made our way toward the back of the house. The structure seemed to stretch for a mile from front to back! The young woman in the maid attire lead the way in front. As we approached the less grandiose back door, she turned to speak to Father.

"Madame is asleep. She will greet you in the morning." With that, she turned the knob and stepped aside to let us in. But Father knelt down in front of us. He spoke quietly.

"You both must promise to be quiet. We do not want to wake our hostess."

I nodded in assent. Ed wasn't about to speak, anyway, still hanging back looking disgruntled.

Father crossed the threshold first with us behind. The maid was the last in and shut the door quietly. She picked up a burning candle off of a small corner table to light our way, and assumed the lead again.

We weaved through the kitchen. In the darkness, I could just make out a large stone fireplace and hearth, hung in its recesses a large iron cauldron.

This room lead to a hallway, doors on either wall, and exited into a grand ballroom. Wall sconces held torches aloft, faintly illuminating the wide room with a honey glow. Large vertical windows almost reached the apex of the cathedral ceiling. We crossed the expanse to a maroon-carpeted staircase toward the far wall.

I tried my best to assess the path along the way, but the solitary candle flame held by the maid offered little to help me see.

We took another set of stairs to a third level. It was so very still and quiet, and combined with the darkness it eminated a lonely, haunted aura.

The maid opened a door at the end of the hall at the back of the house. A candleabra of worn matte gold sat on a wide oak dresser along the right wall. There were two small beds, their smooth, starched sheets looking very much unused. Beside the bed nearest the door was a bathroom, its porcelain clawfoot tub shining pristine. The room had only a single window, oriented toward the side yard.

Father set down his burden of all our luggage. "Edward, Alphonse, this will be your room," he said. "Until I can speak to Dante, you must stay in here. And please don't make too much noise."

"We'll be quiet, Father," I assured him, though an ominous fluttering passed through my stomach. He placed his large hand on top of my head and gave my hair a ruffle.

He strode to Ed, who was leaning against the wall beside the door, head bowed. "Take care of your brother," said Father. Ed didn't respond.

Before leaving the room, he cast one last glance on each of us, then shut the door.

Ed unceremeniously hurled himself onto one of the beds, folding his arms under his head. "I wanna go home! Who is Dante anyway? Why is she so great?" He seemed to be spewing out all the questions he had held in during our trip here.

"It won't be so bad," I offered. "We only have to be up here one night." I took a seat on the edge of the other bed.

After volleying questions between each other for a while, we changed into our night clothes and settled into bed. The full moon cast a bright, if not eerie glow through the opened window. The air was stagnant, and the wildlife outside was ominously still.

We said goodnight, eager to leave the day's trauma behind us.