ILLUSORY

It's late again! I lost the document with this chapter and only recently stumbled on it—sorry to anyone still reading! Last chapter at last, thanks to all who made it this far :)

CHAPTER SIX • Understandings

"Mr Havoc, can I talk to you?" Winry stood in the doorway to the living room, somehow awkward in her own home. Her earlier hostility seemed vanished, overshadowed by the fatigue of the previous day. It was now almost dawn, though difficult to separate from night. No one save Edward was able to sleep.

Realising that he hadn't answered, and that Winry was growing more and more uncomfortable, Havoc stammered out a hasty permission.

She wasted no time in revealing her intentions, "Mr Havoc… I-I need to ask you something. It's about yesterday."

A numbing chill ran down his spine. "About…"

"Not Ed." She shook her head, staring deep into the fire. Aside from the crackling, it was deathly quiet. With Edward's injuries, 'deathly' was much too accurate a description. "It's about the military."

Jean paused a moment too long to laugh at the insinuation that he was involved—too late and too uncertain besides. Suddenly, the thought of Edward as a subject of conversation was almost comfortable. At least it wasn't interwoven with deceit.

"What about the military?" he finally asked. If questioned, he would claim that the hoarseness of his voice came from the smoke—his throat was still scratchy, you must understand—and had nothing whatsoever to do with the sudden tightening of his chest.

Winry turned her reddened, strong gaze on him, and he was cowed. There was no lying beneath those eyes. "Are you really a friend of the family? Granny never mentioned you. Not until you came."

"I—" he began, a reply tingling on his lips. It never went any further, trapped by clawing guilt. He looked away.

For several tense moments—an eternity encased in seconds—even the rain outside ceased. Silence was a tangible weight, churning his stomach and pounding in his head.

"Please just tell me. Where are you from?"

Havoc sighed and leant forward, pressing thumbs against the throbbing in his temples. Still hunched over, he spoke in a resigned tone, "I really am a country boy. Born and raised. It's just… There wasn't enough excitement out here for me."

"So you went to Central and became a soldier." There was no judgment in her voice, just a soft certainty.

He huffed out a laugh—it came out as weary as the rest of him. "Central? I wasn't good enough for Central. And… it would've been too much, I think, to go from, well, this—" he straightened up and gestured to the darkened window, imagining clear skies and luscious fields, "—to the biggest city in Amestris… It would've been impossible.

"I went to East City, and yes—things happened and I became a soldier."

"How did you get here?" she questioned. "Did Granny ask you?"

"She was running out of options."

All at once, Winry's bitterness was discernible in the way she said, "And you were the last option. Why you?"

"Winry, I—"

"It's not as if you helped. Ed only ended up in that fire 'cause you turned up and… and disrupted everything."

Havoc attempted a respectful retort, but was prevented by two things: first, his mind was blank. He had nothing to say—could not defend himself in the slightest. Secondly, Winry was already apologising.

"I'm sorry—I-I didn't mean to sound—"

"No, don't—you don't have anything to be sorry about, Miss Rockbell. Please."

Winry stared at him for a single, unnerving second, then away. "It's Winry," she muttered, shifting her feet. "And I… I don't want you to think that I hate you. I don't. That's the problem."

Havoc frowned, then thoughtlessly questioned, "Why don't you hate me?"

"Do you want me to?" A tiny smile broke on her face. "It's because… you… you aren't what I thought the military would be. I thought you'd be all—all orders and strict and… You were just nice. You played cards with us, and read us stories, and tried to help, even when…"

Havoc read the end of the sentence from her expression. Even when you were really making everything worse.

Her miserable face mirrored his own. "I wish I could blame you for this."

"You should." He shrugged at her surprise. "I know that I'll never forgive myself if anything… permanent happens to Ed. Those scars on his chest will probab—"

"There are scars on his chest?" Winry interrupted, her hands claws on the arms of her chair. Her complexion was pale, but there were bright splashes of colour across cheekbones, as if feverish. She appeared almost to hover above the seat, held up only by the force of her agitation. "There are scars? H-how—did he do it to himself?"

The flush of crimson spread—much as it must have spilled over Ed's skin as he carved that horrific, careful design—until the teal of her irises glowed in contrast. Sensing it a moment too late, Jean pitched forward in a vain attempt to halt her tears before they began. He wasn't fast enough. He wasn't fast enough to avoid her tears. He wasn't fast enough to catch her as she ran.

A theme was beginning to form.

He was too slow to catch either of these children. He was too slow to save them. Not properly.

XxX

When Edward awoke, it was to hear faint snoring on the pillow beside his head. Soft breath tickled his ear; he moved slowly and found Granny lying alongside him, one hand draped near his waist like she was afraid to touch the thick ring of bandages across his torso. It was constricting. His ribs felt tight around his pounding heart—and it was pounding. He couldn't stop it. A terrible fear had blurred the edges of his vision from the moment of his return to consciousness. A fear of what?

He wasn't sure.

He wasn't sure, but numerous possibilities crowded his mind. Maybe this was why he couldn't locate a cause? There wasn't one single reason, but rather a cauldron filled to the brim with his anxieties.

As clarity trickled back, it was easier to separate these worries into categories, sections, groups. There was fear of the darkness in the room—how could it be so murky while the clock read midday?; of disturbing Granny when he inevitably moved; of childhood monsters long forgotten—almost; of the injuries muffled beneath his bandages.

And, certainly, of Alphonse.

Why Alphonse? Why was he the most threatening shadow on Edward's heart? He wasn't even in the room! But, as Ed noticed this, he also noticed that this perturbation only increased his unease. Al's notable lack at his sickbed was worrisome to an extent where nausea bubbled under his skin.

He needed to move.

It was excruciating—Granny's proximity limited his speed and every second spent in this eerie room was feeding his queasiness. Bile burnt at the back of his throat. His eyes watered. His chest twinged. His breath was coming in smothered gasps—don't wake Granny!

Feet hanging off the edge of the bed—not touching; he wasn't quite tall enough yet—he paused, watching, waiting, and Granny snored. Her wrinkles deepened and her fingers flexed, as if searching for his warmth. Edward yearned for that warmth, but the desire to lie down, to let her comfort him, was diminished compared to the fear that… that… what?

No, he couldn't stay. That's all there was to it. The rear door that often served as his escape from household chores was locked.

But that never stopped an alchemist.

XxX

"Edward!"

Jean jolted forward, his boots slamming onto the rug with a thud! His back and neck ached from the odd position, and only the fatigue continuing to cling to his bones proved that he had been dead to the world mere moments before. Blinking, he considered the possibility that he still was asleep—especially as Mrs Rockbell, before this the living embodiment of dignity, stumbled stiffly into the living room, conducted a frenzied search with only her wild, panicked eyes, and, finding it empty save for Havoc, let out a worried whine. Then, hand over hand, she followed the wall into the kitchen, leaning heavily as if all of the strength had abandoned her legs; it had rushed forward, too impatient to carry her withered body alongside.

Havoc's jaw closed with a click, and the shock of the sound added to the shock of the scene before him. It forced him up, out of the armchair, into a dizzy vertical. Mrs Rockbell was searching the kitchen, moving pots and pans and throwing items out of the pantry at random—is Edward here?—in a savage desperation. Jean wasn't sure what she might do when she found her grandson: embrace him, or tie him to the bed as a precaution? The woman he had lived beside for the past few days was now even more of a stranger than the woman who approached him from the train.

They were no longer one and the same.

A combination of fears, much like the combination of surprise, forced him once again into action. Instinctively, his feet drew him away from the unknown bashing the oven open and closed, open and closed, wishing every time that it may open to reveal her disturbed grandchild—like a wonderful magician's trick! His feet ran him down the hall, past Winry's frightened questions, and towards the back of the house.

The back door.

Why the back door? Jean wasn't sure until he was crouched down, searching for the key that he knew Pinako had stashed behind the skirting. She had locked it after realising how Edward had escaped—escaped—escaped—escaped—he had done it again. He'd escaped again, covered in lacerations and lungs full of smoke—one leg the weight of half his body and more—he had escaped again.

Was it the same? Had he run out the same way? Maybe that was why Havoc's feet brought him here.

Follow.

His fingers brushed the key from its home and, shaking, forced it into the lock. But it didn't turn. The door opened, but the lock didn't turn.

It was already open.

XxX

The rain had ceased, but its taste was sharp on the air. Despite being midday, the ground was encased in twilight. Where was Al?

There he was, somewhere ahead. So far. But Edward had walked this path his whole life—more recently as of late. He knew where to go. Alphonse was leading him.

Edward had led him for so long, so far; it was only fair that he was allowed to relinquish the responsibility for just a moment. Just a moment. For just a moment, he would look to his younger, wiser, brother for guidance and something may go right. He had ruined so much, Edward had. Driven his father away; killed his mother as a result; convinced Alphonse that older equals wiser. No. No. Definitely not.

Definitely wrong.

He had ruined so much.

Rain fell, but not from the sky. The ground it nourished would not know the difference, save to remark—complain—that this rain was salty. Would the salt kill them just as it killed the weeds in Granny's garden? Should he feel guilty that his sorrow, regret, had destroyed even more? A sob ripped his chest apart and he stumbled. The soft ground caved beneath his weight; it couldn't fight back. The absence of blood was terrifyingly disappointing—why?

Just do it, Brother.

I thought you loved me!

"I do, Al," Ed insisted, but his voice was a whisper and his brother was far ahead. So far.

So far.

He was so far away! Even when his cold steel was pressed against Ed's cheek, or held to his fragile throat—don't you trust me, Brother?—Alphonse had been so far away. I won't hurt you, Brother. His body was gone, unravelled, worse than merely cold—not like you hurt me, Brother—it no longer existed…

Did it?

Edward was sitting in front of the gravestone.

Not his mother's—that lay one metre to his right—but in front of the blank, empty, eerie stone. He had seen one similar on that fateful night, surrounded by a white so bright and menacing just the memory of the placed caused a bolt of lightning to shoot across the sky. The illumination threw strange shadows onto the smooth grey rock. Shadows where there should not be shadows.

Where was Al?

Where?

Metal fingers clinked on the sacred Stone and a drop of cold water numbed the numb wrist and sent tingles up his unfeeling arm and shudders through his bandage-swaddled body and why and when and where did these letters come from?

Immediately, he became illiterate—

those letters don't exist if I can't read them—

but the rain was falling harder and with every heavy impact—

each as violent as the gunshots that took the lives of—

a letter returned until—

no no not yet don't show me—

the names and dates—

I don't wanna see—

Reappeared.

Alphonse Elric

1900–1910

XxX

Edward had been a difficult child, even when he lived more than a mile down the road from her front yard. He always ended up banging at the door at odd hours of the day—or even the night—with burning, impatient questions.

Can Winry come play?

Is Alphonse here?

Can you come look at Mother? I think she's sick.

Edward had often been pale-faced and frowning as he inquired about his missing brother's whereabouts, but never before, or after, had Pinako seen that particular shade of worry on his young face. It had turned his skin grey; his cheekbones and eyes were crimson. Pinako remembered wondering how he had run so far with those tears obstructing his vision and those knees knocking so painfully.

So far.

How did he make it?

How would she make it? He wasn't in his room, huddled against her side, swathed in bandages over bandages just so she wouldn't need to see those awful scars or how dreadfully frail he had become. He wasn't in the living room, thanking the condemnable soldier. He wasn't in the kitchen. He was outside. Somewhere.

How would she make it? Her legs shook; her vision swam. Never had she felt so old. Heavily, Pinako collapsed into the chair that Jean had forsaken, unable to distinguish between horrible past and deplorable present.

Winry cried as her parents left. Her grandmother doubted she knew why. A girl so small could never have fully understood war. Pinako hoped.

Her granddaughter cried as the letter was read. Did she know why? Pinako remembered receiving it—the postman had brought it special, just to offer her comfort in a grimace that showed his own fatigue. That sinking feeling in her soul had never truly stopped, no matter how she claimed to have healed since that moment. She was falling.

She was falling again.

The air was charged with electricity—the type that clouded the air when Edward and Alphonse performed their alchemy. It had been especially strong on that night. For a horrifying second, she was drawn back to that night—that basement—that blood. That suit of armour glowed in her memory; had it glowed such a horrible, unnatural blue in reality? She closed her eyes, and behind her closed lids, the lightning was vanished. Only the lightning. Was she sitting? If she hadn't been before, she was now. Everything was numb.

"Granny? What're you doing?"

She was in the kitchen—Pinako knew this much—but when Winry's voice drew her out of her thoughts, it was with great surprise that she found herself sitting on the floor. Now, the handles of the cupboard pressed hard against her back and her neck ached something wicked.

A cold hand rested against her forehead, Winry frowning down at her. It was at moments like these that Pinako could see her son and daughter-in-law in her granddaughter. She missed them.

"Win—" her voice broke and she couldn't continue. Not until her girl joined her on the ground, offering her warmth to counteract the cold of the floor. The action encouraged her to try again. "Winry." For the first time since their deaths, tears welled up in her exhausted eyes. "Thank you."

XxX

He felt… empty. He was alone—truly alone—for the first time in… how long? Alphonse had led him here, and left him here. He had supported Edward's poisoned dreams—he had studied with him night after night—and… for what? To die? Ed's earlier panic had receded as slowly as it began and now he was…

Empty.

What would he do without Alphonse?

What can we do without Mother?

Oh yes, he remembered uttering those words. He was perhaps two feet to the right of his current position, standing on wooden legs. Now he was kneeling on one of flesh, one of steel. Back then, there was only a single gravestone to occupy his attention, and it did. Even with Teacher, even at the Rockbell's, just a thought could transport him back to this place, and just that thought could assassinate any traitorous doubts. We'll bring her home, to us. We'll bring her home.

And Edward looked up again, and laid his steel hand against his brother's name. Carefully, daintily, one shiny, metal finger traced down the slope of an A, sketching the letter like a child learning to spell.

A.

L.

He hesitated at the P. There was a chip in the stone, a small blemish, inside its perfect loop. He touched it. It blushed crimson. The Stone was crying tears of blood.

At the H, he became aware of a low murmur and the movement of his lips; he was speaking, mumbling several phrases that, to anyone who could not hear, may have seemed a prayer. Edward listened, dragging his finger down the character so hard that his touch left an imprint, like a memory, blushing crimson against the grey.

He listened.

And what he heard was the past. He heard Al's uncertainty, his reassurances, those exchanges that lasted way into the night and now kept him from sleep. He heard his own voice, but behind it lurked the silence of the Gate, the crackling of befouled alchemy, hollow footsteps on dirt paths. His tone was reverent, and his expression was scared. But doesn't that make sense? Men and women who believed in faith above all else were no different than those who believed in anything other. He believed in his brother; he believed in his alchemical ability. But his alchemical ability had failed him; he had lost his brother. In a way, he had lost his faith.

He should bring it back.

Edward circled the O and imagined it was filled with intricate runes. He could do it again—the transmutation circle was fresh in his mind, even after so long. The ground was soft, he had another arm to give, he could bring him back.

Bring him back, please!

His automail was bleeding.

Staring dumbly, Ed raised the hand to his face. A drop of blood the size of a rice grain beaded at the tip of one digit and rolled into his palm. He blinked. The palm was flesh, soft, tan, scarlet. He blinked. It was cold steel and scuffed metal—no blood. He must have imagined it.

And yet he wasn't surprised when the letter N sent a sharp ache all the way up to his shoulder, where his automail was bolted tightly. He wasn't surprised, but intrigued. A firmer push caused more pain—pain that shouldn't have existed, not in an automail hand! It was fake! It was metal! It was a prosthesis! It had no nerve endings, no receptors, no blood. So he pushed harder, with two additional fingers, and pulled on the S as it to pry it from the Stone.

Snap!

A nail came loose and frigid air agonised the exposed wound—suddenly it was real. Panting heavier than he had realised, Ed tore off the dangling horror and spat it into the grass in front of his mother's grave. It lay above her heart.

Snap!

Everything made sense. He never gave up his arm to the Truth. He never saved his brother. The headstone before him was not merely a headstone, but a marker for his brother's final resting place. Ed glanced upwards. Alphonse nodded, and Ed wasn't able to distinguish between armour and boy. How he was there, and for how long, were questions that never entered Ed's mind. There was only one thought inside, and it soon greeted the air.

"I'm gonna bring you back." Alphonse's face didn't change, but disapproval seeped into Ed's veins. "No, no, it'll work this time, Al! I've been thinking, and isn't it so obvious? The materials we used—"

Water, 35 litres.

"—They were wrong! What if—"

Carbon, 20 kilograms.

"—What if they were wrong, I mean…"

Ammonia, 4 litres.

"We just threw ingredients in. That wasn't Mother." Ed deflated physically, but his determination simply flared. "What if she contained—"

Lime, 15 kilograms.

"—more carbon than the average human? Or she had—"

Phosphorus, 800 grams.

"—less iron?"

Salt, 250 grams.

"We gave our blood for the soul information; I thought that would work. Stupid."

Saltpeter, 100 grams.

"That wasn't her body—it wasn't even a good copy." The boy stood, and no one was there to witness his stumble back to earth. "There was no way her soul—"

Sulphur, 80 grams.

"—would bond to… to that." He began marking out the circle on his knees. It would be bigger than before, to compensate for the energy required to locate the corpse. Corpse?

Fluorine, 7.5 grams.

"But this time it'll be easy, Al! I already have the body." Grinning, he wobbled, and fixed a distortion in the circle's perimeter.

Silicon, 3 grams.

"I'm gonna bring you back, Al. Properly, this time." A sorrowful laugh rang across the cemetery. "We'll be a family again!

…and trace amounts of 15 other elements.

His pants were damaged beyond repair, saturated with water and muck, but their chill didn't reach him. Despite the lack of a real shirt—only bandages protected his frail body from the cold—he shivered not from the glacial wind. He shivered from a feverish fire blossoming deep within his bones, biting at the insides of his skin with an urgency that begged him to work faster work faster work faster! Al was waiting. Al was watching.

Al was his motivation. Always.

The outline was complete; it was perfect. It skimmed Mother's grave—one at a time, one at a time!—which meant that Alphonse didn't lie exactly in the centre of the circle, but of course that didn't matter. They had taken so much care to place the materials directly in the centre that first time, and what had that helped? What had that changed? Ed paused and sat back on his haunches, staring at the headstone dumbly. An idea had formed in his mind and, though it made bile rise to the back of his throat, it was tempting. He couldn't let it pass. He couldn't force it from his head. His fingers twitched. They touched. They rested against the ground.

Alchemical light and energy pushed Ed's sodden hair away from his face, and, for a moment, he thought the circle had activated. It was incomplete—no more than a sketch, lacking even the most essential details—there was no way it could be the source of this light.

And it wasn't. The brilliance shone from between Edward's spread fingers, running through the ground like veins, distorting the earth with giant hands. They were his hands; he controlled this—not mentally, but subconsciously. His were the hands that dug deeper, deeper, six feet down into the mud and rocks and dirt. The alchemy licked at his palms; he was a conduit. There was no need for a circle.

He was the circle.

Alphonse broke through the surface, encased in a plain wooden box. Half-rotted already, the lid skewed to the side and clods of mud fell like bombs. Lingering arcs of electricity fluttered over the casket as Ed scrambled towards it, reminiscent of the single fictional novel he had desperately consumed in case Frankenstein held any clues to human transmutation. Thunder growled, lightning flared, and Ed flung the coffin's lid as far as his trembling arms could manage.

The sight that greeted him had him sprinting after it, the contents of his stomach keen to escape. Tears burnt at his eyes; tears of disappointment, or from the fire of his throat? Rain pelted against his bandaged back, soothing the feverish shock and ripping him back into the present. It, blessedly, smothered the stench of vomit and washed his face and hands, but not his mind. Not his memory.

His brother once had such beautiful eyes.

Not now.

Not yet.

XxX

Jean leant heavily against the entrance to the graveyard, throwing up a silent prayer that the old timber might support his weight until such a time as he could support it himself. It wasn't exhaustion that stole all the strength from his legs—he was tired, certainly, and struggling pitifully for breath.

No

He was sure that he could have continued to run, right to Edward's side, had he not seen what was currently at Edward's side. Suddenly, even the encouragement of the wooden post at his back could prevent him from falling to his knees. He was going to throw up. He had to. Because maybe… maybe it could distract him enough to forget what he saw just for a moment!

A sob of disbelief bubbled from his lips, but that was all. That was all, and then he was aware of movement—would he faint?—as the ground rushed away. He rushed forward, a dreadful fear caressing his heart, just waiting for the chance to strike! It was dreadful in nature simply due to its familiarity; he had experienced this before less than one day previously. He rushed forward.

Edward glanced up at his name, screeched in a frantic manner that shocked Havoc as much as the boy. Jean was allowing himself to slow, to release some of that swollen terror, as Ed peered up at him as if he were a curiosity.

Why're you here?

He almost freed a laugh, as deserved as it may have been, of sheer relief, if not for the sheet of wavering blue light that abruptly flickered into life, then died. Pausing a moment, to explore several options—hallucination? real? dangerous?—the soldier found no other choice than to follow forwards.

The blue light shocked him; he staggered a few feet.

"Mr Havoc?" Ed questioned as soon as their exchange was unimpeded.

Jean shook his head, cleared his throat, and managed to croak a hoarse, "Yeah?"

"How'd you find me?"

That was purely Edward—no asking why, or what, but how. How does this work? How can I do that, too? How did you find me? I hid so well.

"I, uh…" He darted his eyes up to the child, the young prodigy, and immediately withdrew once more. That… That corpse, in his arms… Did he even realise? "I just… just thought you might be here. What're you doing here, chief?"

"Nothing."

"Really, chief?" Havoc attempted a casual smile and a laugh, hoping his stomach would settle soon. "Then if you're doing nothing, what do you say to coming home and drying off with me?"

Edward scowled; it was somehow audible. "I don't wanna go back yet. I'll come back soon, you don't have to wait."

"Your grandmother—"

"Tell her I have a surprise for her—she'll like it! Th-then she won't mind."

"She will mind if you're sick," Havoc said flatly. Edward wouldn't reply. "You're already weak from yesterday, with the fire and… whatever made those scars." He and Mrs Rockbell both knew only Edward could have made those scars. He still didn't speak, leaving Havoc with little alternative. "Does this surprise have anything to do with that, uh… in your arms?"

Ed was quiet for so long that Jean started to flounder for another question, anything, to keep the boy occupied until… something. But then he spoke.

"I learnt a lot today, Mr Havoc," he said in a voice so low it barely won against the rain. His body shivered and Havoc tried not to imagine the body following suit. "I learnt that…most of what I thought was true wa-wasn't true. My arm isn't automail; I n-never helped Al; and he n-never su-survived the transmutation. It's what Winry and Granny s-said all along, but I'm just stupid."

Jean opened his mouth to retort, though Ed charged on regardless of whatever protest he could have formed.

"But now that I kn-know that, I can fix it, Mr Havoc, I can! I've already told Al, an-and it's gonna work this time!"

"That's Alphonse in your arms, isn't it?" he asked, only realising after how little he desired an answer.

"It's not Al yet," Ed declared assuredly, his tone strong and confident. "It will be."

Havoc recognised his intent instantly and alarm raced through his limbs like an electric shock. He hammered on the barrier that separated him from his charge, yelling objections and pleas for Ed to stop and we'll talk about this later! This didn't need to be done now, of all times, in the rain—what a-a miserable day for… for…

A human transmutation.

In his shock, Jean was able to look directly into Ed's face as it morphed into hatred and anger. The, "Don't tell me what to do!" emerged as an enraged hiss and the boy's grip on his brother tightened until Jean feared for the integrity of the exposed bones.

There might have been more said. There might have been more chances to save him. But in that second, as Jean was pulling away from the alchemical ward, its energy leapt, malicious, searching, and flung him so far he lost a sense of time. This was his purgatory—the alchemy had stopped his heart; soon he would greet the afterlife, or whatever came beyond. His purgatory was a weightless, timeless void filled with naught but white noise and impatience.

Then he hit the ground, head angled towards Edward and his precious corpse, and he might have whispered no but what did a whisper matter? A whisper wouldn't slow Ed's sure actions—doesn't he need a circle? A whisper wouldn't force his hands apart—at least draw a circle! A whisper didn't matter.

The white noise of his purgatory broke beneath the weight of a child's scream.

That's how he knew there would be no Heaven waiting.

There was no question of why or what or how.

XxX

I guess this will be my last report. I'm coming back as soon as the next train passes; my bags are already packed. You won't be expecting me, I know, and it'll probably be a few days before I can deliver this diary to you. I need some time for myself—hopefully you'll understand.

I can't help but worry that it was my presence that caused all this to happen. Perhaps I should come speak to you. I trust you'd always tell the truth, no matter how hard it may be to hear. Honestly, I'd like to hear it from someone else—I'd like to hear anything, this house is so silent. I'm already being blamed by Mrs Rockbell and her granddaughter, though they'd never say it now. There's no way in hell that I grew as fond of Edward over less than one week than they have over so many years, and yet it was impossible not to grow fond of him at all. If circumstances had permitted, I would have loved to have him in our team. He was young, but knowledgeable in ways that I'll never understand. I don't even understand how I know he was knowledgeable—it was just the impression I got.

But I'm deviating, and I know why. I'm talking—or writing, really—about what could have been because I ruined the chances of it ever happening. I keep thinking about what I could have done—what I should have done—yet still I'm drawing a blank. This condition of his was serious, I know, and it would have eventually have resulted in something similar to this. At least, this is what I keep telling myself. One day, perhaps in a few months, perhaps in a few years, Edward would want to make a new friend, or maybe he'd find a nice girl. This… armour. I'm still not sure what it is, exactly. You know me, Mustang, I'm not much of a believer in the supernatural, but could the mind really be this powerful? Is it possible that this possessive armour thing could be completely mental? If it is, how can we know if any of our acquaintances are real?

Look at me, getting all philosophical! And I'm still not writing what I want to write. I think it's impossible, without the aid of some strong alcohol. But there's no time for drinking; the train should be coming any minute, and I don't want to miss it. If I do, I'll have to walk home. There's no way I can stay here.

I'll summarise quickly, since there isn't much time left. Edward was a wonderful boy, but he lost his future as soon as he performed that transmutation. I didn't know him that well.

I wish I did.