Still April 10th, 1964

The alchemist in front of him fell to his death with an undignified gurgle. Panting and hot – even up here it was almost warm in August, especially in wool uniforms – Edward paused to decide where to head next. He had taken down three enemy alchemists in quick succession on his own – dueling was not their strong point.
To his right he saw flying exploding projectiles that proved to be emanating from two distinctly familiar figures on the battle field. Old dogs and old tricks, but they still work, Ed snickered as he watched Roy Mustang and Alex Armstrong light up the area around them with fire and explosions. There was a rather wide swath of nothing but destruction around them now.

Not far behind, Russell and Fletcher Tringham dueled together against a pair of Drachman alchemists who seemed to not be particularly good fighters; their legs and arms tangled in plant roots. As Ed watched, both were strangled into insensibility and dropped. Dead or not, he couldn't tell from this distance. If they were, it would be Russell's doing first.

Ed felt before he heard someone charging towards him from behind. He spun, arms coming up as he jumped sideways –

- And missed being run over by Alphonse, who went pelting past him at all speed!

Ed blinked and turned, wondering at the look of murder on his brother's face. Then he saw him! They weren't far from the Drachman line itself now, its primary rank of gunmen decimated and the rest pulling back to protect what they could and stay out of the alchemists' ways.

Standing behind the milling soldiers near a rocky outcropping, looking over the scene like an artist might contemplate his own painting to decide if the composition was to his liking – stood Tamirov!

His stomach dropped as Ed realized what Al was about to do. Not that he cared if Tamirov died, especially not in a war, but what Al was after wasn't killing in defense, or merely taking out an enemy. The pure rage on his brother's face made sense now…

Al was out for bloody revenge, pure and simple.

Why the hell do we need that bastard alive? Tamirov was a Drachman General. That made him a valuable hostage. Ed would just prefer he died… but not like that! His decision made, he ran after Al as fast as he could sprint.

Al had too much of a head start, and Ed couldn't remember the last time he had seen his brother run like that. Al swiveled in and out of the battle as if the other combatants weren't even there. No alchemy, no gunfire, nothing touched him as he moved like a soccer player around the others, swiveling and moving towards his one goal, utterly mono-focused on Tamirov's location.

Tamirov did not seem to see him coming. Ed wasn't sure if that was a relief or not; or why he cared so much that Al might kill Tamirov. It wasn't Tamirov's death he cared about… but the way, the reasons…. Damn it, Al! Don't do something you'll regret. I'm coming!

He didn't beat Al to Tamirov, no matter how he tried. He felt his sides straining a little as Al leapt out of the crowd from Tamirov's left while the man was looking right, and grabbed him, pinning him forcefully against the stone wall behind him.

Ed heard the words as he struggled through the crowd – I'm not that short anymore, damn it! – and stumbled up to Al and Tamirov. The chaos behind them, no one was looking back. No one saw the General Alchemist trapped, one of Al's hands at his neck, the other pressed hard into his face. In his rage, Al had picked the man right up off the ground. His feet dangled a good inch from the rocks he was slammed against. "Do you remember me?" Al asked, cold anger in his eyes; colder even than the metal armor he had once been.

Tamirov's eyes bulged. "I…I…no…"

"Let me remind you," Al's grip on his neck tightened. Ed winced. "Amestrian Alchemists. You did unspeakable things to my wife."

Recognition dawned in that pathetically average face. "I…"

"You deserve to die." Al cut him off.

"No, Al! Don't do it! You'll regret it later." The words erupted from Ed's mouth as he staggered forward again, prepared to do whatever he needed to in order to keep his brother from making a mistake.

"I'm willing to live with the guilt," Alphonse replied, his face twisted in an expression of anguish and hatred such as Ed had never seen. His voice when he spoke was deliberate and firm; making his expression that much worse. "You're going to die. The only question that remains is how. There are so many other ways than the simple alchemy I've been using. With what I know of Xing alchemy and the human body, I could just stop your heart. Or I could do it the way Scar did; blowing your brains out by stopping in the middle of the transmutation."

Ed couldn't believe what he was hearing! He hoped his brother hadn't completely snapped.

"Please!" Tamirov begged, the sound strangled and muffled by Al's hands as he struggled in vain against Al's strength. They weren't that different in size, but Al's fury lent him added power. He would not let go. "Or maybe you deserve to be a Chimera like all the other people whose lives you ended and ruined in your hubris!"

"Damn it, Al," Ed tried to get closer. "Think reasonably!" It was so strange to have to say that to Alphonse of all people. "Think of Elicia!"

"I am," Al replied flatly. He pressed into Tamirov's body with his elbow. The man's arms were spread, he couldn't move or even attempt alchemy. It was clear he was no better a fighter than he had been when Ed and Tore had taken him on.

"Is this….your vengeance?" Tamirov snorted despite his obvious panic. His expression contorted into one more like disgust. "All about you?"

Al's grip tightened. "This is justice," he spat. "Vengeance too if you want to call it that, but not mine! This is for Elicia….and Nina; Marta, Tore's mother… for every person whose lives have been ruined by alchemists playing around with the forbidden!" He pulled his hand away from Tamirov's face as he began to draw a transmutation circle on the man's forehead using the blood on his fingers from his own cuts. " I've studied for years to try and find a way to help the people you and those like you have so carelessly used for your atrocities…and you know what I've found? Nothing! There's no way to turn truly turn them back without doing just as much harm! The only way to stop this from happening… is to stop the people doing it!" He was shouting now, though it came out as an angry snarl at the end. "And while I can't take them all on, I can deal with you. This… ends… now!"

What came next was anticlimactic except for the horror of it. Tamirov simply twitched, then fell limp in Alphonse's grasp, dead, and for a moment the world around them seemed silent despite the battle raging behind them.

From anyone else, Edward would have expected an explosion, spurting blood, something violently dramatic… but it took him several seconds to absorb the magnitude of what he had witnessed when Al's hand touched the circle on Tamirov's forehead and it had flared briefly blue. Whatever had been done, the man was dead… at his brother's hands.

Al stood, looking down at the body in silence, an unreadable expression on his face. "It's done," he said finally.

Ed shook himself back to his senses, knowing that what he was going to have to do was unpleasant. Tamirov was dead, and Ed had stood by, too shocked to do anything but watch. "And so are you, for now," he said firmly. "Alphonse, I'm relieving you of duty."

Al's head jerked and he stared at Ed, disbelieving. "What did you say?"

"I said you're relieved," Ed repeated more sternly, scowling. "You just murdered that man in cold blood. As much as he deserved to die, that didn't give you the right to do it."

"Execution and murder really are subjective aren't they?" Al frowned.

"And you're in no frame of mind to be arguing semantics with me," Ed retorted. That wasn't the reaction Ed had been hoping for. When Al killed, there was remorse, guilt… not this.

"I don't care how you did it; you just proved you've lost it. Get the hell out of here before I have to report you."

"You don't outrank me anymore," Al pointed out without budging an inch.

Ed felt his temper simmering. "Rank isn't required when an officer of the military forgets his duty and steps outside the bounds of the rules of warfare," he spat back. "You of all people should know that better than me. You're the diplomat; the reasoning one… not a cold-blooded killer. Yet here we are."

"Yes, here we are." Al continued to glower at him. There was still pain in his eyes, but a distance that made Ed fear for his brother's sanity. Had Al entirely snapped? His reaction bothered Ed a lot more than the death itself.

Ed tried a different tack. "Please go back to camp, Al. We'll talk about this later." At least Al hadn't accused him of pulling rank as big brother. Ed knew that less-than-a-year-and-a-half meant next to nothing at this point.

"I'm sure we will," Al snorted, but he turned and stalked away, leaving the body lying in the dirt without a visible wound on him, yet still he was as lifeless as a rock.

Ed shivered, and watched until Al vanished into the crowd. Whether his brother rejoined the fight or actually went back to the Amestrian line, he had no idea. He looked down at Tamirov's body, then bent down and ripped the man's insignia off his uniform – his bars, his pins, the mark that made him a general and a Drachman Alchemist, even his last name. That would be enough evidence that the man was dead for anyone. Carrying the body back wasn't necessary. Not unless the Drachmans left it in their retreat.

Ed dragged the body off to one side, just in case. Perhaps they wouldn't notice him missing for a minute or two in the chaos.

Then he turned and charged back into the fray. This wasn't over yet. But when it is, you and I really need to have a long talk, Al. How the heck did you get like this?

Within minutes, the Drachman alchemists fell into disorder and panic as the word reached them that Tamirov was missing. Then the rumor crossed the field that Tamirov was dead. Soon, it was that his body had been located, physically unharmed apparently but definitely dead, all identifying insignia torn from him disgracefully.
Edward's doing, Breda knew, because as he stood out of reach of Drachman fire behind the lines, watching the events and giving new orders, he had those items stuffed into his own pocket, delivered by the Fullmetal Alchemist himself with the simple report that Tamirov was dead and Alphonse got credit for the kill. Amestris can always count on the Elrics. Breda felt a slightly amusement at that fact. Still, it had become something even he could rely on. The expression on Ed's face had concerned him, but Ed had only said he would talk about it with him later, and charged back out onto the battlefield again.

Drachmans began to disengage, to flee. They seemed a mere few handfuls compared to the earlier mass, and he noticed that no Drachman soldiers had come to back up the alchemists after the first ranks of soldiers had been decimated. They were out of sight over the ridge and down the road almost assuredly. After failures lately, I bet they're not all that happy with Tamirov. The Drachman alchemists clearly weren't popular when they weren't doing their jobs.

Fortunately, the State Alchemists were. Finally, when it turned into an all-out rout, Breda passed the orders to pull back and let the rest go. The field in front of them was a bloody, blown up, scorched, flooded, ice patched, filthy mess. The solid rock walls were pockmarked from explosions and other damage. The Drachmans, he noticed, made little attempt to take anyone with them. The obviously living wounded they dragged, but the dead were left, abandoned.

He wondered if they would return in the night for them. In the meantime, there were other things to do. The Drachmans would lick their wounds, and the Amestrians would recover and press onward. They had claimed this ground; they wouldn't lose it now.

Breda didn't make it half way back to the command tent before he was bombarded with questions and several dozen reports involving several units and the battle overall. He barely heard half of it. It would all be written down; he didn't need to remember it all now; though half was quite a lot of information. Armstrong's unit had been nearly decimated; only the Strong Arm Alchemist and one other had survived. Wounded and fatality lists topped the pile of information he was getting.

General Larkin fell into step beside him. "So what would you call it?"

Breda sighed. "Technically it's a victory."

Larkin glanced past him at the field, and Breda knew they were thinking the same thing. It was an awfully costly victory. The numbers were toting up fast. Those he heard. Estimating over three quarters of the Drachman Alchemists dead, but at what cost? Another twenty or thirty State Alchemists dead, plenty of wounded, and several mission in action until they finished scouring the battlefield and counting bodies. He hoped they found more living. He would need to give a report to Rehnquist in the next couple of hours, and he really wanted that report to be more good news than bad.

Alyse felt relief when more family began to come through the Infirmary doors; all with minor hurts. She saw her father come through briefly, though he went straight through to Will's bed, and was gone before Alyse had a chance to talk to him. Uncle Edward came in to check on his injured men, check in with Aunt Winry, then vanished again as well; busy Generals. She knew Ethan was all right. He had come back already and gotten to work in his usual manner despite looking exhausted.

That left only one relative still out in the field, and Sara came in half an hour later with Marcus Kane and Maes Mustang, all of them to get patched up for relatively minor scrapes. More familiar faces filed in as she worked; family friends, passing acquaintances from the hallways of Central command, and plenty of people she didn't know. Even Tore dragged in, looking tired and beat up, but alive and well.

One face was not among them. The more time passed, the more fear clutched in her heart; she began to feel uncertain.

As she saw Sara and the rest of her unit – all that had survived she found out – start to leave, Alyse hurried over. "Sara!" She didn't bother with anything official. "Have you seen Calvin?"

"Fischer?" Sara's expression dropped into a frown. "No. I haven't. Tore will know, or the Emerald Alchemist. That's her unit."

Alyse felt foolish for not thinking to ask them first. "He just… I haven't seen him." He would have come here even if he wasn't hurt, right? He would have come to find her, and tell her he was okay. Or was she being foolish?

"Wait just a moment," Kane interrupted as someone hurried up with a handful of papers. "What is it, Sergeant?"

"Fatality reports sir," the man saluted and handed them over. "Injured, and accounted for remaining Alchemists as well.

Alyse felt like she was choking as Kane scanned the pages. Maes and Sara looked just as anxious.

Finally Kane looked up. "Twenty-four State Alchemist confirmed dead, another twenty wounded, seven unaccounted for."

"Whitewater?" Sara asked.

"Missing officially. There's an unconfirmed report that he was shot."

Alyse felt her feet carrying her towards the exit before she realized she had thought to move. She hadn't thought. She had to find him!

"Wait!" Firm hands on her shoulders, unyielding, stopped her. Alyse turned and looked at her cousin. "We're going back out to help locate wounded that are still alive on the field," Sara informed her. "If Cal's wounded out there, we'll find him."

If he was dead, they would still find him. Alyse fought back tears. Silly, stupid things. She had no proof that he was dead; just missing. She refused to believe he was dead. Had the Drachmans taken captives? That thought sent a horrible shudder through her. After what they had done to her mother…. "Oh, god!" She fell against Sara, hugging her tightly. This was just too much on top of everything else. "Find him! Please!"

"We will, whatever happened," Sara replied somberly. It struck Alyse that Sara was just as worried about Cal now as she was. They all were. However much Alyse loved him, they cared just as much in their own ways.

Maes and Kane, blessedly, seemed to be averting their eyes from her spectacle. "Right." She stepped back and stood upright; composure, she needed it. "Thank you," she said softly to Sara before hurrying back towards her duties. She just couldn't take it standing waiting. She would keep herself busy, and wait.

Upon his final return from the battlefield, Edward asked about Alphonse and, finding that his brother had apparently visited Will and then gone directly back to his tent, decided it might be best to leave him alone for a little bit to cool off. Besides, he was a little afraid of what Al would do if he pushed him right now.

After checking in with Winry, and his remaining unit members, and talking with Kane – not the most pleasant conversation even after winning the ground and dealing a heavy blow to Drachma – he decided he needed a way to kill more time before confronting Al again, or having that detailed discussion with Breda or Kane about his having technically relieved Al of duty. All he told Kane for the moment was that he thought Al needed some time to himself after taking out Elicia's tormentor for good. Kane had agreed readily. No one would bother Al while he composed himself. He would be needed later.

So Ed wandered, checking in on people he knew. He found Tore in camp, sprawled out in a folding chair, smoking a cigarette and chatting with Kieleigh. He looked up sharply when Ed walked into camp. "Any word?"

Ed didn't need to ask who he meant. He shook his head. "Not yet." No word on Cal Fischer. Two of the missing Alchemists had turned up among the dead on the battlefield so far. Five were still missing.

Alex Armstrong – unit decimated – was also in camp, quietly mourning the loss of his comrades, though Ed put up with a hugely embarrassing bear-crunch hug. He just smiled and hugged the Strong Arm Alchemist back. It was easier that way. He had gotten used to it over the years.

Before he left, Ed spotted Roy and Riza coming his direction. Riza, he noticed when they approached, smelled of gunpowder. He knew who she had been protecting today. Roy flashed him a cocky grin despite his own obvious fatigue. Well, obvious to Ed after so many years. "Nice to see you didn't die, Fullmetal."

"Same to you, Mustang," Ed couldn't help chuckling. Roy's tone was as playfully condescending as ever. There was comfort in familiar patterns. "I'm amazed they didn't drown you in a puddle."

"Or take you out with a magnet," Roy quipped in reply. "Or perhaps squash you under a shoe. That would be more effective wouldn't it?"

"Oh enough," Riza sighed and rolled her eyes, though there was the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "Will you two ever stop?"

"Never," they said in perfect unison.

"Have you seen Maes?" Roy asked then, dropping the banter.

"Seen and gone," Ed nodded. "Kane's unit is still sifting through the dead. I don't envy them the task."

Riza grimaced. "Unpleasant would be an understatement."

"We'll see him later then." Which, Roy meant to be an I'm extremely relieved my son is all right.

Ed understood and nodded; excusing himself and going on his way again as they headed for their tent to clean up and unwind. He finally made a turn through his own camp again, aware of the quiet. Where was Finn? He poked his head into the man's tent. He was there, lying flat on his stomach. He was about to ask what he had been up to when he realized that Finn wasn't unconscious. He was shaking. "What's wrong?"

Finn jumped, startled, and stared at him. Then anger crossed features marked with grief. "Polasky's dead."

He should have known the reason. That was Ed's first thought as he brought his mind back to something other than the battlefield and friends. In the West they'd lost Lordes. Now Polasky was dead. Both of Finn's best friends, and he hadn't been able to save either of them. "I heard," he replied simply.

"That all you've got to say?" Finn snapped.

"What do you want me to say?" Ed replied flatly, scowling. "It's a war, Finn. No matter we do we're going to lose friends, maybe family. It's the risk we've been taking this whole time. Polansky knew it. Lordes knew it. They were good guys. We'll mourn them, but not at the expense of losing the war they died fighting. Now accept it, and pull yourself together."

"What if I don't?"

Insubordination was not his plan this evening. "What makes you think you have a choice?"

"I followed my orders, and I didn't have a chance to save him. Why should I do it again?"

"You don't have to," Ed shrugged. "But if you don't, you'll be discharged and sent home. In fact, that might not be a bad idea."

"What?" Finn jolted to his feet unsteadily. If he was sober or drunk in his grief, Ed wasn't entirely sure. He wouldn't place bets either way. There was no question Finn was losing it.

"I don't want you to die out of stupidity," Ed pushed on with the discussion. He seemed to be doing a lot of disciplining lately. "You've got a girlfriend right?"

"Yeah," Finn nodded. "Sandy."

"You gonna marry her?"

"I… I've thought about it," Finn replied. "What's that have to do with anything?"

"Everything," said Ed. "Think about what your dying would do to her. Think about going home, when we're done, and crying in her arms, and telling her how much she means to you, and how grateful you are she's safe. It's better than the alternative."

"Which would be?"

"Her getting a letter I had to write telling her you're dead and she's going to have to get over you."

That seemed to make the point. Finn slumped, and sat down again, one hand running roughly through already tousled hair. "I…. I'm sorry, Fullmetal."

Ed placed one hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. Rest, and stay sober or I'll kick your ass back to Central myself."

"Yes, Fullmetal Sir."

When Ed left Finn, the other alchemist seemed in a slightly better frame of mind, though he had no idea how long that would last. What he found in Fletcher's tent was no prettier a sight.

In all their lives, and random encounters and occasional visits over the years, Ed didn't think he had ever seen Russell Tringham drunk. But now, Fletcher stood beside his brother, who sat in a rickety chair, leaning against an equally rickety folding table, a bottle of something in hand potent enough Ed could smell it the moment he lifted the tent flap. Even rarer, Russell had clearly been crying until recently. No…he was still crying.

Ed looked sharply at Fletcher who, looking nearly as upset mouthed the word Derrick. A cold rock settled in Ed's stomach, along with an overwhelming sense of sympathetic sorrow. No one should ever have to lose a son.

"What am I going to tell Felicity?" Russell sobbed, apparently unaware of Ed's arrival. "I promised her…. I'd keep an eye on them…. That we'd all... Come home."

Fletcher pat his brother's shoulder. "He's a hero at least, Russ."

"He's dead!" Russell growled, drinking. "She'll never forgive me for letting him die!"

"It's not your fault," Fletcher continued to try and console him. "He's grown. He died for… for us."

Russell shook his head, his trademark lock of bangs hanging limp and floppy. Then he seemed to realize they weren't alone. He looked up at Ed, silver eyes bleary. "You heard?"

Ed nodded, throat tight. "I did. I'm sorry."

"S'not your fault," Russell shrugged. "It… was mine. I shouldn't have let them come…either of them."

"Felix is fine," Fletcher pointed out. "Lyssa said she just saw him helping out in the Infirmary."

"Does he know?" Russell asked.

Fletcher nodded. "He does," he replied sadly. "She said he told her he kept moving, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to."

Ed understood that feeling. "Good advice," he replied, swallowing. Talking was tough. Damn it, everyone had lost someone today. He was just grateful none of them had been his; though now he felt guilty for even feeling that much relief. "I've got to report," he said, even though it was half an excuse to get away again. He was invading here. This was a moment for brothers to share.

It was that thought that sent him out to look for the one person he still needed to talk things over with – the one he was worried about; his brother.