Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Al is five years old when mom dies.

Too young to really grasp the implication, maybe, but old enough to remember her. Old enough to remember her kind smile, her loving embrace, the way she would gently brush her fingers through their hair as she gave each of them a gentle kiss on their foreheads each night before bed. 

And since he is old enough to remember her, he is old enough to miss her.

It's not surprising, then, that he goes along with his brother's plan of human transmutation so easily. It's lonely in their house now; quiet in a way that it never was before. They spend a lot of time with Winry and Granny Pinako, a lot of nights sleeping in their home, tucked up against his brother and Winry on the old ratty couch or a shared bed. It's nice, but it never lasts. They always return back to their too-quiet house, wrapped in memories of warmth that drag on him as he moves like a web.

But it's only a memory of warmth. The house feels as cold as ever.

They do their best to avoid dwelling on it. They spend most of their time these days in the study, surrounded by yellowing pages and their alchemical scrawlings. There's a surprising amount of research on human transmutation in their father's old study, and they put it to good use. It takes a while, at first, but they make progress. Slowly but surely, they learn about the long list of ingredients in a human body, though it takes a while. These books are meant for adults, with years of alchemical study behind them, something that neither he nor his brother have. 

Granny Pinako never asks why they spend so long inside every day. If she knew the reason, she would probably stop them. But Ed says that this research is their secret, so neither of them tell her.

~

Al is nine years old when they meet Teacher.

She's rough, in a way he's not used to, but she's still kind. She doesn't coddle them like everyone back in Resembool does, always fawning over them. Such an awful thing, they say, smiles lined with pity and words carefully placed, she was truly a lovely woman. We all miss her dearly. Al never says it, too polite to speak up, but they don't know. None of them understand, even if they say they do. Mom is gone, and whatever pleasantries and assurances they offer can't change that.

There's only one thing that can change that. Their alchemy.

But Teacher, she doesn't focus on that. She treats them like she would any student, pushing them to their limits and teaching them all they can learn about alchemy, regardless of their age. Sometimes it feels like too much, at least to Al. Ed doesn't seem to have as much trouble with yelling back at Teacher when she scolds them, though even he is cowed by her anger when she catches them doing something they're not meant to.

Aside from that, it's nice. They exchange regular letters with Winry and Granny Pinako, they help with chores and errands, and they learn to fight. Ed always acts grumpy when Al beats him at yet another sparring match, but Al can tell he's proud of him when he ends every match with a big grin on his face, cheeks smeared with dirt and dust.

His brother smiles more, now, than before. Ed seems to like living with Teacher too, though maybe not quite as much as Al does. He can tell that his brother is still as focused as ever on their plans to bring mom back, zoning out and taking little notes of plans where he knows Teacher won't see.

Privately, Al thinks it wouldn't be so bad to stay like this, to stay here, where they're happy. He doesn't voice these thoughts to Ed, though. He doesn't think his brother would like that.

~

Al is ten years old when they return to Resembool.

It's bittersweet; while he's missed Winry and Granny Pinako every single day since they left, he knows he's going to miss Teacher now, and Sig too. Teacher may yell a lot, and sometimes struggle to comfort and be emotionally open with them, but Al knows that she cares about them, in her own way.

She reminds him of Ed, in that regard.

Clambering off the train, fingers intertwined with Ed’s, he finally sees Resembool for the first time in a year. The air feels different than it does in Dublith, fresher with a hint of manure from fertiliser. It's maybe not a pleasant smell to some, but the smell of farming is the smell of home, to Al. 

It hasn't changed, really, Al notes as they make their way from the small, single-platform station towards town. The dirt tracks are still the same as ever, the same faces still mill about, exchanging idle pleasantries, and the picket fence outside the Carriel household still hasn't been mended from where a flock of sheep ran into it and broke it two years ago.

Al knows they're not going to spend that much time in town, though. Now that Teacher has deemed them fully educated, and they have a wealth of alchemical knowledge and skills that they didn't possess before, they might start to make some real progress on figuring out how to bring mom back. They already know all the ingredients they need — which won't be too hard to buy — and they've already gotten started on the basic shape their transmutation circle will take. 

Research and discussions become much more exciting and enjoyable, now that they're figuring everything out. It's been years since they started their research, but Al thinks this might be the real start.

It's only a matter of time, now, until they're reunited with mom again.

~

Al was five years old when mom died.

Old enough to remember her gentle, musical laughter, her guiding hands as she showed them how to help cook, the way her face lit up in barely-contained amusement when she caught them trying to transmute her a mother's day present out of the floorboards in the middle of the night.

Old enough to remember the hacking coughs she'd tried to hide, each morning and afternoon and night. The wet sound of them, the sound of retching and choking as she hunched over, handkerchief pressed against her mouth to muffle the sounds and hide the sight. The shaking of her shoulders afterwards, the way she would tremble in pain after each coughing fit, taking forced, slow breaths in and out as she swallowed roughly. The strained smile of everything-is-fine that she'd give them if it ever happened in front of him and his brother, the weak look in her eyes as she’d brush her hands through their hair and distract them with questions about their latest alchemy projects.

He remembers it all, so when Ed, hunched over a thick tome on transmutation circle construction, curls in on himself to let out a thick, strained cough, Al feels an icy fear settle in his stomach and crawl up his throat. It's just the dust, he says. Went up my nose. He laughs, before it breaks off into another cough. It happens again the next day. I must just have a cold or something. He brushes off. Seriously, Al, I’m fine. Quit worrying.  

But Al has seen this all play out before. It doesn’t go away the next day, or the day after that. His brother’s coughing fits get worse and worse, and every time, the dread that has settled inside of Al crawls further through him.

The final straw is when Ed lets another harsh cough out into the handkerchief he has taken to carrying around with him, and he glances at it a moment, eyes wide, before quickly stuffing it into his pocket.

But not quick enough for Al to miss the splatter of fresh, crimson red.

Al is eleven years old when everything starts to go wrong.

Chapter Text

“I’m really just not sure it’s a good idea.”

Al shifts slightly, pressing further against the door.

“We don’t know for sure whether it’s contagious, what he has,” Dr Madson explains patiently, voice muffled through the wall. “It's still possible that it’s a genetic disease of some kind, but we just can’t be certain.”

Granny sighs, and he hears the floorboards creak as she moves. “But from what I’ve seen, it’s pretty similar to what Trisha had when she—”

She cuts herself off, and Al squeezes his eyes shut at the reminder. Not just of mom, but the reminder of what could happen to his brother, too.

“Well, yes,” Dr Madson admits, “But if that were the case, I would expect it to affect him later in life. The fact that Trisha fell ill at a much later age than Edward has makes it more likely that it’s a contagious illness that they both caught, albeit at different times.”

Al hears the soft clink of a mug set down on the table, and he digs his dull, bitten fingernails into the soft wood of the door frame.

“But surely isolating him can’t be a good idea,” Granny presses, “Ed wouldn’t do well on his own, not without his brother. And Al, too. Those two boys need each others’ support right now, it surely won’t do well for either of their health to keep them apart.”

The doctor says something else, but Al doesn’t catch it. He pulls away from the door, unfurling himself from where he’s curled up on the floor. He doesn’t want to be here any more; doesn’t want to hear the doctor talk about his brother like he’s already a lost cause. He’s not. Ed’s a fighter, everyone knows that. They still have so much to do, they need to save mom and become famous alchemists and see the world. Ed’s not going to let some stupid cough stop him from doing all that.

He’s not.

Al pads down the hallway, his socks barely making a sound on the floorboards as he cracks open the door to his brother’s room. They had been sharing a room before, but now that they’re worried about Al falling ill too, Granny had gently suggested that they sleep in different rooms.

Not that it matters, anyway, because the only place Al sleeps these days is in the chair next to his brother’s bed. He moves to the bed in the spare room whenever Granny all but orders him to, or when Winry looks at him with her look that’s a mixture of worry and anger, but after a short while of tossing and turning he always ends up slipping back into Ed’s room. He doesn’t think he would be able to sleep without having his brother nearby, knowing that he was still there.

The room is dark when Al enters, the drawn curtains keeping out the early evening glow which shines through in a small sliver, casting just enough light on the bed. Ed is tucked under the covers, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and a peaceful look on his face. The sheets are pulled snugly up to his chin, covering all of him except a hand which peeks out from the corner. Al quickly makes his way over to the small armchair that takes its place by the head of the bed. Originally, it had been a simple wooden chair from the kitchen table, but when Granny and Winry realised just how much time he (and they, to a lesser extent) would spend sitting there, or sleeping there, they had quickly swapped it out for a more comfortable one.

He sits, tucking his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around them. From here, Al can watch the soft rise and fall of his brother’s chest under the sheets. It’s reassuring, but not nearly enough. Al clenches his jaw, resisting the urge to — to do something. He’s not sure what. Scream, maybe. Or cry. He hates the doctor, for not being able to help, for not suggesting anything they can do except to stay away . The only solution he can offer is to keep him away from his brother, and that’s not a solution for Ed. If it’s meant to be a solution for Al, it doesn’t feel like it. More than that, though, he hates himself. Maybe, if he’d said something sooner, they could’ve started treating him sooner, and he wouldn’t be suffering so much now. Maybe, if he’d studied more on medical alchemy instead of human transmutation, he’d be able to help instead of just sitting here uselessly. 

Maybe.

Ed’s always been the more talented one when it comes to alchemy. The only reason he hasn’t tried is because his lack of knowledge means he’d probably be more likely to kill his brother than do any good. But Ed’s going to survive this, he is, Al knows it. Because he can’t — he can’t just leave Al. Not like this. His brother’s going to get better from this, and then Al is going to punch him for worrying him so much and then he's going to hug him and everything will be okay. 

He’ll get better.

Ed’s next breath catches on a slight wheeze, and Al unwinds his arms from around himself, reaching out and gently taking his brother’s uncovered hand in his own. He runs his thumb over the back of his brother’s knuckles the way he knows mom always used to, hoping it will bring him the comfort he deserves.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed when he hears the door creak open. Time always feels a little blurry, when he’s sat here by his brother's side. Days pass like minutes and seconds pass like hours, the only constant being the rise and fall of his brother’s chest like the ticking of a clock. 

“Are you here to take me away?” He asks, not looking up. He means for it to sound defensive, maybe even bitter, but even to his own ears he only sounds numb and tired. He hears a sigh — it's Granny, like he thought — before a hand brushes against the back of his head.

“No.” She’s sounded older this past week than she ever has before. “We agreed it wasn’t completely necessary. But we’re going to have to take other precautions to make up for it. That means keeping the windows open for some fresh air, and washing your hands after coming in here.”

Al grinds his teeth, trying to ignore the crawling feeling in his throat. Leaving the window open will make Ed cold; he’s been shivering a lot lately, even under the blankets draped over his bed. Just another point on the long list that is his brother’s suffering right now. His toes curl tightly where they’re tucked under him, the thick wool of his socks digging into the underside of their joints. The idea of having to wash his hands every time he leaves his brother’s room — like he’s something dirty that has to be avoided, that his mere presence has to be physically scrubbed away — it’s not like he has a choice, he realises dully. It’s either this, or be taken away from his brother entirely.

“Fine.” He tightens his grip on his brother’s hand for a moment, almost hoping that his brother will squeeze back like before. He doesn’t. But that's fine. It’s fine because he’s going to get better.

He’s going to get better.

~

He doesn’t get better.

A week turns into weeks turns into a month and Ed's condition only gets worse. Gone is the peaceful expression when he sleeps, replaced by a pinched expression of pain, his eyebrows drawn in and tension in his muscles. His breathing has gotten worse, even while sleeping, and every breath he takes is a wheeze at best, rattling in his chest and throat. He’s in bed a lot more than he used to be, too. When it first started, he’d at least leave bed to shakily make his way to the kitchen for dinner, or to perch outside to feel the fresh breeze on his face, but not any more. Al brings all his meals to his room, and the only breeze that he gets to feel now comes through the window. 

Despite it all, Ed still has a weak grin on his face whenever he’s awake. Maybe it’s because of it all — he’s never liked having people worry about him, least of all Al. It’s hardly a reassurance, though, because these days his brother spends more time asleep, face pinched, with sweat-soaked strands of hair sticking to his forehead, than he does awake. And when he is awake, he spends a lot of that time letting out hacking, wet chest coughs into his continuous supply of handkerchiefs, permanently staining each and every one with blood.

Al is back in his own bed tonight, not that it’s doing him any good. After spending the past few nights curled up in the armchair by his brother’s bed, Granny had dragged him back in here and told him to get some proper sleep. He can’t sleep in here, though, so far away from his brother, even if it's only a wall that separates them. Eventually, he gives up, like he always does, and peels the covers back, gently setting his bare feet on the ground. He tiptoes down the corridor, gently pulling the door to his brother’s room open slowly to avoid excess noise. From here, he can already hear the unsteady sounds of Ed’s breaths.

Al curls up in his usual spot, taking his brother’s hand in his own and running his thumb over his knuckles as he always does. When his brother doesn’t stir, he gently reaches out with the other hand, pressing two fingers into the underside of his wrist. Al knows he’s okay; Ed’s not that ill, and even if he were, he can see the rising and falling of his chest, can hear his rough breaths. Still, it’s reassuring, feeling the slow but strong beating of his brother’s pulse under his fingers. 

Ed’s still there; he's still fighting.

Al runs his thumb over his brother’s knuckles a few more times as he releases his wrist. Ed lets out a sleepy murmur, his eyelashes fluttering for a moment as he tilts his head.

“Al?”

His voice is thick with sleep, and the corner of Al’s mouth twitches up slightly.

“Yeah.”

“Go back t’ bed, Al, ‘m fine.”

It’s sweet, that Ed is the one worrying about him in this situation, even though Al knows he’s been losing a lot of sleep. He knows his face has lost some colour, with prominent shadows under his eyes. Not that it matters, because Ed is far worse off than him right now. He’ll stay by his brother’s side as long as he needs to. He’ll be here until Ed recovers, and then he’ll get some sleep.

The last throes of consciousness leave Ed, and Al hopes his brother won’t be too mad about being ignored. He’s not going to go back to bed. It’s not like he’d get any sleep there, anyway. Al just curls tighter, gently brushing the back of his brother’s hand.

He hears a scratching noise at the door, and a moment later it creaks open. At first, he thinks it’s Granny coming to tell him to go back to bed, until he hears the soft thump of an automail paw on the floorboards, and the scratch of claws. He glances up as Den pads over, letting out a quiet whuff as she approaches. She pushes her nose under Al’s empty hand, and he absently reaches out to scratch behind her ears as he watches his brother.

He just — 

He doesn’t understand.

He doesn't understand why this is happening. Hasn’t the world been cruel enough? Ed doesn’t deserve to be lying here shivering and coughing and suffering like this. He was the one who was hit the hardest when mom died, the one who remembered her better, and missed her more. He’s always had to put on a brave face for Al, even when he’s suffering. Ed hasn’t cried in front of Al since he was five, but he knows that he does. Just not where Al can see.

Ed doesn’t deserve this.

How much longer will it last? How much longer until the pain finally passes, until he gets better? Al knows it will happen eventually, because — well, just because. Ed can’t just leave him; maybe it’s selfish, but he just can’t. It’s not even a thought he can entertain, because it’s always been the two of them together, against the world, and it always will be. Ed promised that, and Al trusts him.

Den whines, pushing her head up into Al’s hand for a moment before giving it a small lick. Al tries to muster a smile as he pats her.

“It’s okay, girl,” he whispers, careful not to wake his brother. “He’ll be fine.”

~

Al’s on lunch duty today, since Granny and Winry have to be working. He stirs the spoon, staring blankly into the bland, beige soup he’s made. It’s pretty much the only thing his brother can stomach these days. It’s the only thing Al can stomach, too, because everything he tries to eat tastes like ash in his mouth, makes his stomach roil. It makes him want to be sick, even if he knows it won’t help.

It's been months, now. At least, he thinks it has. He barely even leaves his brother’s room, let alone goes far enough to see town and find out what day it is. He’s gathered any books on medical alchemy he can find, to see if there’s something he can do to speed up his brother’s recovery, but the information he has is sparing. There’s nothing he can do but sit there. He’s never felt more useless.

He used to enjoy cooking, but now it feels like a chore. It’s not the same when he’s not doing it with Ed. Nothing is. 

Al’s hands shake as he lifts the spoon. He hasn’t been taking care of himself much, it doesn’t feel right when he should be taking care of his brother instead. The worse his brother’s condition gets, the more sleep he loses, the less he eats. He can barely even sleep by Ed’s side any more; he just sits there and watches him.

He sets the spoon to the side, pouring a decent portion that he knows his brother won’t finish. He doesn’t bother with a bowl for himself. It would only go to waste.

His feet drag on the floor as he trudges down the corridor, socks picking up even more grime. He’s not sure when he last took them off, but it hardly matters. He doesn’t have the energy to bother with washing them.

Gently nudging the door open, Al peers inside. His brother is asleep, as usual, the soft afternoon sun lighting up his peaceful face. It would be a nice sight — his brother rarely looks so peaceful these days — if not for the trickle of blood that trails down from the corner of his mouth. It's not an uncommon sight, but it never fails to make his heart seize. 

“Come on, brother, wake up. I made you some lunch.”

When Ed doesn’t stir, he moves closer. His eyes catch on the blood again, and on instinct he reaches out to wipe it away. 

The moment his fingers make contact with Ed’s cheek, he goes very, very still.

He’s cold.

Suddenly Al can’t breathe. He presses his entire palm against his brother’s face. Gone is his clammy, sweaty fever that Al has been desperately wishing away, the pink flush, replaced by an ashen chill. The bowl slips out of his hand, crashing to the ground, but he barely notices it. 

He glances down, away from his brother’s cold face to his chest.

It’s not moving.

His vision is blurring, but he frantically reaches up to press a hand against his (cold, cold, cold) neck. He jams two fingers under his jaw, desperately feeling for something, anything, please, no, not like this—

He hears a scream, blood curdling and terrified, and after a moment he distantly realises it's coming from his own mouth, but all he can think about is the broken mantra tearing though his mind, of no, no, please god, no, no, no—

This can’t be happening, this can’t be real , he was meant to recover, his brother can’t, he just can’t. Al frantically grabs his shoulders, shaking him.

“Brother! Brother, please, WAKE UP!” 

Ed only flops limply in his grasp. 

The door slams open behind him as he shakes his brother harder, tears carving rivers down his face. A pair of hands pull him off his brother, and he fights them, struggling to breathe through heaving sobs. He can only watch, shaking, as Granny steps in front of him, gently checking Ed. 

He can see the moment her eyes widen in horror, and she raises a hand to her face. He fights harder, and the hands finally drop him, letting his knees hit the floor hard. 

Tears run down the back of his throat, and Al retches as he chokes on them. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen, it wasn’t meant to go like this, his brother can’t die, he can’t leave Al, he can’t live without him he can’t leave he can’t die, not like this —

Al retches again, bile dribbling past his lips, the same way blood dripped past his brother’s. The thought makes him retch again, but there’s not enough in his stomach for anything but more bile to come up.

Hands drag him out of the room, and this time he doesn’t have the energy to fight them. He goes limply, just like his brother, and they set him on the couch. He feels Winry hug him, crying into his shoulder, but he can’t find it in himself to move, or comfort her. He can only sit there as the tears roll silently down his face.

~

They bury Ed on the hill overlooking town. It was always one of his and Al's favourite spots growing up. The wind rustling the leaves of the old oak tree and pushing at the grass in ripples always made the two of them feel at peace.

Hopefully it will help his brother be at peace now, too.

Al is barely even present as they bury him. He just stands there, staring blankly as they fill in the soft earth over his brother's body. This wasn't meant to happen. He and his brother were meant to grow up together, explore the world together. He was meant to see his brother make a life for himself and share his alchemy with the world. He was meant to watch his brother do everything he’d ever dreamed of, and instead he’s watching him disappear under heaps of earth.

Ed still had so much to do, and now he won’t get to do any of it. 

He barely leaves his room, after that. Everything feels like a chore, and what’s the point of it if his brother isn’t here? Even when Ed was ill, he hadn’t been able to comprehend the idea of a world without him. It just wasn’t possible. And now that his brother’s gone he barely knows how to function, like a well-oiled machine missing half its components. 

Granny does her best to look after him, Winry too, but there’s not a lot they can do other than make sure he eats and sleeps. He would feel bad about how much trouble he’s putting them through — they’re grieving too, after all — but all he can feel is the sickening hollowness that’s been festering inside him ever since. Days pass in a blur, a lot of them spent staring unseeingly at the nearest wall. Nights pass slower, a continuous cycle of fitful sleep interrupted by nightmares of his brother’s limp, cold body. 

Al gasps awake, like he does every night, and curls himself into a tight ball as the last dredges of his nightmare leave him. The hollow, numb feeling persists even now, even as the tears drip silently down his cheeks. He hates this, he hates that he's allowed to cry  when Ed isn’t. He hates that he's here, and Ed isn't. He hates that no matter how much he cries, the crushing pressure doesn't let up. He just wishes that the pain would stop, and he feels so, so awful for it. His brother is gone, and here he is wishing that he wasn't missing him so much.

Sometimes, the guilt hurts worse than the loss does. 

When the trembling of his shoulders begins to slow, Al shakily unfurls and pushes himself up. His throat feels dry and scratchy, and he’s not sure when the last time he had some water was, but it’s probably been a little while. The pads of his feet press against the cold floor as he stands, and his feet drag as he makes his way towards the kitchen, hand trailing against the wall.

Halfway down the corridor, he stops. There’s a door open. Not by much, but a draft of cold air flows through the crack. Al moves closer. It’s Ed’s room. He pushes the door further open, peering inside.

The sheets have been taken off the bed, and there’s a pile of things next to them. Al distantly remembers Granny saying something about staying out of this room until it didn’t have his brother’s illness in it, but based on the disturbed dust on the floor and the neat pile of objects, that time must have passed by now. His feet carry him forwards, into the room, and towards the bed. It’s his and Ed’s stuff, he realises, as he gets a better look at the things on the bed. The puzzle that his brother liked to fiddle with, Al’s sketchbook that he and his brother would take turns drawing little doodles on, and —

Al barely even realises what he’s doing as he picks it up. It’s the alchemy book that he brought in here, when he was trying to figure out if there was anything he could do to help. The one on medical alchemy.

Al feels like he’s been dunked in icy cold water; like he’s been asleep this whole time and has finally woken up. 

How could he be so stupid, of course there’s something he can do! He and his brother have been researching human transmutation for years now. Al has all the knowledge, the research, the materials to bring his brother back. No one has managed human transmutation before now, but he and his brother have been studying it for six years now; that's probably longer than anyone else has studied it, and he just knows that they were close to a breakthrough before all of this happened.

Al is going to see his brother again.

He almost feels faint with the idea, but he’s flooded with the adrenaline and urge to get started right now, to bring him one step closer to that future. He drops the book, and it thuds back onto the bed. He doesn’t hear it. He’s already out of the door, pausing just long enough to pull some shoes on before taking off down the road towards their house. 

He’s going to bring his brother back. He has to.

Chapter Text

Al throws himself into his research. He and his brother had been working hard before, but it was nothing compared to this. He barely comes up for food or sleep, just enough that Granny and Winry won’t worry enough to come down into the study. He doesn’t know what they would do if they found all his research. They want Ed back too, so maybe they’d support him, but after all these years he’s gotten used to keeping it their little secret. Or his little secret, now.

Some of the planning is a little hard to do on his own — his brother was always better at this stuff — but he makes it work. He tears through each book with a single-minded drive, eyes flicking between the texts and his own notes and sketches. He’s close, he knows it; he and his brother had already done most of the work before. He already has almost all the physical ingredients needed, save for a few that don’t keep well, and their transmutation circle was already designed most of the way before they stopped.

He does his best to spend at least a short while in the Rockbell home each day, even if he’s practically shaking with the need to get back to work whenever he leaves the study. Granny and Winry both seem relieved every time, but still wary and hesitant. Careful with their words. They both had to deal with him on the days when he felt such bone-deep exhaustion that he wouldn’t even leave bed. They’re probably worried about him slipping back into that state, but he won’t. He can’t afford to when he’s so close to getting his brother back.

All in all, it doesn’t take long for everything to come together. Once he’s run over his theory and sketches for what feels like the millionth time, he finally closes his hand around the chalk. It takes him the better part of a day to draw the whole circle out — it's by far the most complicated one he’s ever drawn, and he does his best to go slowly even though he wants to rush. Rushing would mean mistakes, and he can’t afford any of those. He checks over the circle a few times once he’s done, checking for any discrepancies or differences between the sketch, but once he’s satisfied he heads back upstairs.

He does his best to try and get some sleep, but it’s fitful at best. He’s running high on adrenaline and excitement, his brother so close within reach he can almost hear his laugh. He knows it's important to be well rested before attempting a transmutation this complicated, but he only ends up getting short bursts of sleep at a time. Eventually, some time in the early morning, he can’t handle the wait any more and jumps out of bed, racing downstairs. 

Water, 35 litres. Carbon, 20 kilograms. Ammonia, 4 litres. Al grins as he measures out each ingredient, pouring them carefully into the biggest metal basin he could find. He’s gone over this list so many times, he’s probably been reciting it in his sleep. 

Today is finally the day. It’s the day he brings his brother back, the day he finally gets to see him again after so long of being apart. He won’t let anything separate them, not again. He can learn about medical alchemy, so that something like this never happens again.

He can’t wait to see the look on Granny and Winry’s faces when they see Ed again.

He can’t wait to see Ed again. 

Lime, 1.5 kilograms. Phosphorus, 800 grams. Salt, 250 grams. Each ingredient is carefully stirred into the mixture, disappearing into the dark slurry that’s going to become his brother’s body. It’s going to be difficult to carry down to the study, but Al will manage as long as he's careful. It would have been easier to do with help, but since he’s the only one working on this now, he’ll just have to make do. 

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to push it out of his eyes. It’s grown, in the past few months. He hasn’t exactly been bothered enough to have it cut. He winces as his fingers catch on a knot. He’s never seen the appeal in growing his hair longer, that was always his brother’s dream. The reminder makes his lips twitch upwards, and he gets back to work. Maybe, once his brother comes back, he’ll finally make good on that dream to grow his hair out super long.

Saltpeter, 100 grams. Sulfur, 80 grams. Fluorine, 7.5 grams. He measures the ingredients carefully, weighing them on the scales, knowing that there’s a much smaller margin of error for these. He can’t afford to make any mistakes; his brother’s new body needs to be perfect . It’s the least Ed deserves.

Iron, 5 grams. Silicon, 3 grams. He squints, watching the scales with laser focus to ensure he’s gotten the weights exactly right, before he pours them in with the rest. Finally, the 15 other trace elements follow, and he’s done. He wraps his hands around the rim of the basin, dragging it across the floor and out of the kitchen. He knows it’s leaving a trail of long scratch marks, but he hardly cares about that. In the grand scheme, they’re unimportant, and he can always buff them out with some alchemy later on.

He hits a bit of an obstacle when he reaches the study, having to do his best to pull the basin into the centre of his intricate alchemical circle, but eventually resigns himself to just dragging it through the chalk. Once he has it settled firmly in the centre of the circle, Al makes quick work of redrawing the smudged details of the circle, walking around it a few times with his chalk in hand. Once he’s sure the circle is in perfect condition, he sets the chalk down and walks back out to the kitchen. 

The sound of the running tap is grounding as he washes his hands, doing his best to get the majority of the chalk and grime off of his palms. Glancing up at the mirror above the sink, Al grimaces — even he can see that he’s not looking great, and it would’ve been nice for his brother to see him in a better condition. The dark bags under his eyes have persisted, and his hair is outgrown and greasy, flopping in front of his eyes whenever he leans forward.

He looks away from the mirror, giving his hands a quick dry, before he reaches for the knife rack. The sound of the paring knife sliding out of the block is sharp, cutting through the air almost tangibly. It’s light in his hand, more so than he’d expect, and the light of the late morning sun catches on its smooth edge. 

Al’s heart begins to pound in his chest as he makes his way back to the study. This is really it. This is happening, and it’s happening now. 

He steps into the study, leaving the door ajar behind him. His footsteps echo on the cold stone floor of the study as he approaches the centre of the circle, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. His feet carry him forwards, almost against his own will, until he stands before the basin. 

One last ingredient.

He raises his free hand above the basin, taking a deep breath to calm himself as he presses the sharp edge of the knife against his palm. The knife slides almost effortlessly across his skin, a sharp, burning pain following its trail as blood wells up from the slice, running down his hand and wrist to drip off his forearm. He adjusts the angle of his arm, watching the blood steadily drip into the basin. Once he’s sure enough of his blood has joined the mixture, he tosses the knife to the side, hearing it clatter and skid along the floor. He presses the palm of his other hand to the cut, and hisses immediately at the spike in intensity of the pain. Stepping carefully out of the circle, he grabs a cloth wrap off the desk and does his best to wrap it tightly around his palm, gritting his teeth at the burning ache. 

His breath wants to come in quick bursts, but he doesn't let it. He needs to stay calm, keep a level head. Everything is in place; the basin in the centre contains every ingredient needed for a human body, as well as the soul data from his blood. The circle itself is perfectly drawn, but he still goes over it one last time to make sure nothing’s been smudged. Before he knows it, he’s standing at the edge of the circle again. A grin pulls at his face and he can feel a warm flush of excitement on his cheeks.

This is it. He’s getting his brother back.

He kneels down, giving the basin one last look before he musters all the alchemical energy he can, and he slams his hands down on the edge of the circle.

Power crackles around his hands and along the chalk lines in flashing tendrils of lightning that make each hair on his arms stand on end. His hands feel hot on the ground, almost burning, but he doesn’t dare move them. He watches with wide eyes as the alchemical energy follows each line in his perfectly constructed circle, closing in on the centre from all sides, the afterimage of each flash burning itself into his retinas. 

As the energy begins to brush against the sides of the basin, Al finally starts to feel it.

Something is wrong.

Every instinct in him screams at him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He has to see this through, get his brother back, and it's too late to back out now. If he interrupts this transmutation, the rebound will surely kill him.

All at once, the crackling energy disappears. The room suddenly grows cold, and as Al begins to lift his hands the room drops into darkness. In the centre of the circle, a swirling dark pool of wrongness bursts from the ground, and after a moment it opens, revealing a fleshy, wet eye, its gaze unerringly fixed on Al. He makes to jump away, but before he can move, dark, shadowy hands crawl out of the darkness and wrap around his arms, legs, neck, and he can barely even writhe, screaming, as they drag him into the centre of the circle, and the room disappears around him as he falls in.

~

Al is falling, falling, and then suddenly he isn’t. There is no moment where he hits the ground, or slows down. One moment he is falling, and the next he is not. When he opens his eyes (had he even closed them?) a vast expanse of nothingness surrounds him. A white void stretches in every direction except one, where a lone door towers over him, all cold stone and intricate carvings of alchemical symbols that Al cannot hope to decipher.

“Well, hello there, little alchemist.”

He spins around, taking a step back as the voice echoes through the void. There is a lone figure sitting there, reclined almost casually as it watches him. At least, he thinks it’s watching him. It has no eyes, or mouth, or features of any kind. Al’s not even sure it’s really there; its presence feels and looks more like a negative space, like there is simply an absence of the void there. 

“Who — who are you?” he asks, voice shaking and higher than normal. “And where am I?”

The being tilts its head at him. It almost seems amused, like this is some game that Al isn’t in on yet. 

“Your kind call me many names,” it answers, “I am the world. I am the universe.”

His eyes widen, breath catching in his throat. The being continues, heedless of his reaction.

“I am god. I am Truth.” 

Al can feel his hands shaking as he finally processes what it is that sits in front of him. 

“I am all. I am one. And I am also,” it raises a hand, pointing at Al. “You.”

Its blank face shifts, and Truth grins at him. It’s unnatural. It has far too many teeth.

“You have dared to knock on the door,” It mocks, its mean grin becoming impossibly wider. “Now, the door is open.”

Al opens his mouth to ask, but his blood runs cold at the heavy sound of the doors behind him opening. He looks behind himself, and sees the same watchful eye staring at him. He gets further, trying to run away, than last time, but the hands grab him all the same, dragging him through the door. He gets one last look at Truth before the doors slam in front of him.

He’s distantly aware that he’s floating, wherever he is, but all he can focus on is the onslaught of knowledge that tears through his mind. He tries to fight it, but no matter which way he turns the Truth forces its way into his mind. Tears stream down his face, and he thinks he might be begging for it to stop, but he can barely hear himself. The hands claw at his face, forcing his eyes open as millions of thoughts and memories flow through and past him at lightning speeds. 

It's more information than his human mind can process or withstand, and as it gets worse and worse he thinks that it might destroy him. The pressure builds and builds, but suddenly, all at once it makes sense. The Truth, about alchemy and the world and human transmutation. Through the tears that flow down his face, he can make out a blurry figure, reaching out to him, and he fights against the hands that hold him, desperately trying to reach an am out to him.

“Brother!” He cries, straining to reach his outstretched hand. “Brother, please!”

His brother reaches further, but the moment their fingers brush, he’s gone.

He hears the door slam behind him once more, and he’s standing in the void again, arm still outstretched, tears running freely down his face. His head hurts, and he can feel a fierce aching in his chest. He feels like someone has clawed him open, and taken a part of him with them, leaving a vast hollowness inside.

“Well? How was it?” Truth asks, still causally reclined as if nothing had happened. “You got what you wanted.”

Al lowers his arm, clenching his hands into fists.

“What? No! I didn’t want that!” He yells, glaring at Truth through the tears. “I didn’t want to see the truth! I just want my brother back!”

“I’ve given you all I can,” Truth says, standing, “for the toll that you have paid.”

Al frowns, fury and apprehension warring in his aching mind.

“Toll? What toll—”

A searing pain cuts him off, and he chokes on his words. It starts at his ankle, and he looks down in horror as his skin begins to unravel like threads. His knees buckle, and he crashes to the ground hard. More of his leg tears away, and he cries out at the fresh wave of pain it brings.

“Wh-what’s happening to me?!”

He tears his gaze away from his leg, and suddenly Truth is right there, crouched in front of him with its wide grin.

“It’s the law of equivalent exchange,” It crows gleefully as it looks down at him, “what else were you expecting, young alchemist?”

~

He’s back in the study. He’s not sure how, but he blinks and opens his eyes to the cold stone floor pressed against his cheek. An agony unlike anything he’s ever experienced radiates from the stump that is his left leg, and he grips it as pained tears roll down his face. Blood gushes from the wound, and the sight makes him want to be sick, but he forces his breath through his mouth, trying not to smell the iron stench of it. He pushes himself up onto his elbow, looking away from his leg and at the transmutation circle.

It’s empty.

It’s worse than empty; it's completely unchanged. Nothing has happened, the basin full of ingredients and blood is undisturbed in the centre. His transmutation didn’t even do anything. Everything he did, everything he gave, was for nothing.

Al isn’t an angry person by nature. He’s always been the patient one, the calm one, slow to anger compared to his hot-headed brother. But lying here, blood pouring out of his missing leg, with no brother to show for it, Al finds himself consumed by outraged, desperate fury.

No.

No, he’s not going to let that cruel excuse for a god keep him from his brother. If it's not going to give his brother back, then he will demand it.

He slams his hands back down on the circle, and watches, teeth bared and breath seething, as alchemical energy, even more powerful than before, flows around the circle in an exact imitation of before. This time, when the darkness descends and the hands reach for him, Al doesn’t fight them. He lets them drag him in, towards Truth and towards his brother.

~

This time, when Al lands in the void, Truth doesn’t look quite as amused. Its arms are crossed, and it exudes an air of irritation. It’s wearing his leg, too, which for some reason only fuels his anger. That’s his leg.

“Give him back.” he growls, glaring up at Truth. He can’t stand and face it like before, not without his leg, but he pushes himself up onto his arms anyway. “Give me back my brother!” 

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” It asks, staring down at him without eyes. “There is nothing for you here. I don’t have your brother.”

His stomach sinks, and the cold feeling that washes over him has nothing to do with blood loss. Still, his anger burns just as hot.

“What?” He clenches his fists, pushing himself up further. “No! You have to!”

“There is nothing more for me to give you,” it repeats, before its grin returns. “Well, other than another glimpse of the truth.”

It’s no less overwhelming than the first time. Knowledge is piled into his brain as he floats, like he's being deconstructed and reconstructed from the inside out. He grits his teeth, knowing that he can bear it, that he has to bear it. If this gets him a glimpse of his brother like the last time did, he knows that this time he won’t let his brother get away. He’s going to drag Ed out of here even if it kills him. But as the pressure in his mind reaches its breaking point, it's not his brother that reaches out. 

It’s mom. And he knows that he and his brother have been working for so many years to bring her back, but this isn’t what he wanted. He needs Ed. He misses mom, of course he does, but he can’t live without his brother. He reaches out, of course, but she and the truth disappear before their fingers can touch.

He crashes to the ground again in the void, breath heavy.

“You should count yourself lucky,” Truth says, standing over him, “very few mortals get even a glimpse of the truth. You’ve probably seen more of it than any of your kind.”

“I don’t want the truth!” he yells, tears pricking at his eyes. “I don’t want knowledge, or power! I just want my brother back!”

Truth rests its hands on its hips. “I’ve already told you; I don’t have your brother. I've given you everything you've come searching for, and yet still you knock at the door.”

It grins again, bearing its teeth like a predator cornering its prey.

“You have another toll to pay. And since you seem so insistent on knocking, I think I’ll make sure you can’t knock again.”

Al can’t hold back his scream as his arm unravels from his body, tearing off in pieces like it's being taken atom by atom. The pain is even worse than the first time, pulsing in unison with that of his leg. Truth’s grin is the last thing he sees before he’s back in the study, lying in a pool of his own blood.

He’s shaking, curled up on his side, as more blood flows from the fresh wound. He’s going to die here, he realises distantly. His wound hadn’t bled in the void, but here in the real world both his shoulder and leg bleed freely and quickly, the puddle around him growing fast. And with half his limbs missing, there’s no way he can find help in time. He pushes himself up on his only remaining arm and freezes.

The circle is no longer empty, no longer unchanged, and it’s far, far worse.

A horrible, twisted something writhes in the centre, and everything about it makes Al’s skin crawl with wrongness. It’s lanky and tall, contorted in on itself. Its thin, bony limbs bend in all the wrong ways, and its leathery black skin is tight in some places and hangs off of it in others. Stringy black hair drapes off its head in tendrils, with sunken cheeks and beady eyes set too far into its skull. It reaches a hand towards him, shaking, its bony fingers far too long and all different lengths. Its bones creak and shift inside the limb, pushing against its skin in bulges. The hand freezes and trembles, and the thing opens its mouth as a cascade of blood rushes out and drips down its chin. It gives one last twitch, one last breath, before it collapses, its lifeless, beady eyes fixed on Al.

He screams, trying to drag himself away from the creature with only one arm. He doesn't get very far. Blood loss is making his vision swim, and his mind feels light but his body feels so heavy. His hand slips in the blood, and his arm gives out under him. He crashes back to the floor, landing face first in his own blood. He can’t find the energy to push himself back up. 

He’ll just… lie here for a second.

His lungs aren’t pulling in enough oxygen, but he can’t do much about it. The cold feeling is creeping up his limbs, and he knows that's probably bad but he can’t find it in himself to be worried. 

He thinks he hears a scream, but it sounds distant. He feels hands on him, real ones, turning him over, but the world around him is already fading away.

At least he might get to see his brother now, after all.

Chapter Text

The first thing he feels when he wakes up is a heavy, oppressive weight surrounding him.

He instinctively tries to pull in a breath, but the moment he opens his mouth it fills with a foreign substance. He shifts experimentally, but the pushing weight around him restricts his movements. He’s under something, he realises. It takes him a moment to figure out which way is up, but once he does, he puts everything he can into pushing that way. He claws at his surroundings, and they shift, parting around him. It takes minutes, at least, but eventually he breaks the surface, and he bursts out, coughing. 

The foreign substance falls from his mouth, and when he looks down he realises that it’s dirt. It falls from his mouth and hair and off his body, and he is still waist deep in it. He strains his arms against the dirt and disturbed grass, pulling himself the rest of the way out. He sits there, catching his breath, as he stares down at the dirt. Was he in the ground? Why was he in the ground? As he stares down, a flickering catches his eye. It's coming from his chest, just under the muddy, torn shirt he’s wearing. Curious, he pulls the shirt off, staring down at himself.

His body is littered with open wounds, the flesh around each one rotten and tinted a yellowish green. Or, maybe they aren’t wounds, per se. But there are large chunks of his flesh missing, and through some of them he can see glimpses of exposed bone. A foul smell comes from him, and in a few spots he can see maggots of some kind wriggling in his flesh. His arms aren’t quite as bad, but his hands are missing several fingernails, the skin around them caked with slimy fluids and mud.

The flickering returns, and he looks back to his chest. One of the wounds flashes with a crackle of alchemical energy, blood red and far sharper than anything he’s seen. Has he seen this before? He’s not sure, and the fact that he’s not sure confuses him. The energy leaves his skin hot and tingling, and he watches as the flesh around it grows and sews itself together, and when the light fades, the skin is whole again, as if there were never anything wrong with it at all. As the process begins anew on a different wound, he looks up at his surroundings.

Dirt is scattered all around him, and he thinks it might have been relatively freshly settled, even before now. The bed of dirt is as long as he is tall, and at the head of it lies a large stone. It’s engraved with neat writing, but whatever it says, he can't understand it. Why can’t he understand it? The words look familiar, but when he tries to recall what any of the symbols mean he comes up blank. It should worry him, but he feels nothing. All he feels is a dull emptiness, a numbness that wraps tightly around his mind and chest. A bouquet of flowers rest at the base of the stone, but like him, they are rotten and decaying.

He twitches as he feels a fingernail grow back. It’s a sharp feeling, and one he decides he's not particularly fond of. As he looks back down at his hand, he notices something new. At least, he thinks it's new. There’s a strange mark on the outside of his arm, just below his shoulder, and he tilts his arm to examine it. It’s a deep, even red, shaped like a creature of some sort, like a worm or snake, twisted in on itself in a circular shape.

It’s not meant to be there. He’s not sure why he’s so certain of that, but he is. He reaches his other hand up to touch it, and drags a single finger across it. He misjudges the pressure, or maybe doesn’t expect the sharpness of his nail, and it slices easily through the skin, blood welling up in a trail following it. A flicker of red energy flashes along it, and the cut is gone. The strange mark remains. He tries again, with all his nails, pressing harder than before. It burns, the pain white-hot, and the nails cut much deeper than before, leaving four gouges across his upper arm. Blood gushes down his arm and drips onto the dirt, before the red light returns, sealing the cuts, the only evidence they were ever there being his bloodstained arm. 

The strange mark is still there, unaffected by his clawing.

His leg jumps slightly as flesh and muscles sow themselves back together, and he presses a hand against it, holding it down. He flexes his fingers as another fingernail grows back. Slowly, bit by bit, his body sews itself back together. It’s not a particularly pleasant sensation.

A gentle breeze blows against his skin, and it brushes his matted, muddy hair into his eyes. It’s pleasant, though; a nice distraction from whatever is happening to his body. He turns his head in the direction of the breeze, closing his eyes. It’s cool, compared to the warmth of his skin and the still air. It brushes strands of hair away from his face, and when he opens his eyes, it’s to the warm glow of the setting sun on the horizon. It casts a golden light on the fields of grass below, and he sees a few things that might be buildings of some sort, too. 

He’s on a hill, it seems, with lush green grass that ripples in the wind, and an old gnarly oak tree. Its leaves let the beams of sun through to the ground in a dappled pattern that dances on the grass below. A dirt path meanders down the hill in the direction of the buildings, but it doesn't seem well worn.

Wherever he is, he doesn’t recognise it.

He’s not sure if he should. There’s no feeling of familiarity, no memories of this place. There are no memories at all, he begins to realise. He knows there are certain things he should know, should remember, but there is nothing except a blank, empty feeling.

Where is he? Who is he? He’s meant to have a name, he thinks, but whatever it is he doesn’t know it. He’s not sure how he got here, or why he had to claw his way out of the ground. Despite it all, he feels… calm. He shouldn’t. That’s something that he knows, logically. He should be worried, scared, should be desperate to remember something, but he isn’t. There’s an aching emptiness in his chest and head and the numbness that accompanies it is the only thing he feels. He tries to reach for the feelings, for emotions of any kind, but they simply… aren’t there. Like they never have been. Maybe they haven't, he supposes. He has no memory of them, after all.

He feels the muscles in his abdomen twitch again as they heal themselves, but he does his best to ignore them. What now, then? Sitting here, in the soft grass and dirt of the hill, he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself. He shouldn’t stay here forever, probably, but where does he go? He doesn’t know what he’s meant to do, now that he’s here. He has no destination, no goal. 

It wouldn’t hurt to stay here a little longer, he supposes. He pulls his legs up to his chest, and decides to simply watch the sunset. It’s pretty, he thinks, and even though it starts to hurt his eyes he doesn’t look away. He watches until the sun disappears well below the horizon, and he doesn’t move. He stays there, staring at the horizon as the sky bleeds from red to blue to black and the stars fade in against the sky. The little buildings in the fields light up, their warm orange glow a weak imitation of the sunset’s. He sits there as the air grows cooler and the wind wraps around him like an embrace.

His body has long since finished mending itself, his skin perfectly unblemished save for the thick coating of mud and grime that covers his entire body. He tries to brush it off, but only succeeds in smudging it. It’s hard to see how bad the mud is, now that it’s night. The light of the moon does little to illuminate the hilltop.

The edges of the sky are beginning to tinge with pink when he finally moves. As nice as it is here, he doesn’t think he can sit on this hill forever. He stands, looking over the horizon once more. Where should he go? He doesn’t know what each direction has. Should he go to the nearest building, or away from them? Maybe he’ll just pick a random direction. He doesn’t have any reason not to, after all. 

He begins to step away, but he hesitates. He’s…made quite a mess, with so much dirt strewn everywhere. Should he leave it like that? He doesn’t think he should. After a moment’s deliberation, he steps closer, doing his best to smooth the dirt of the bed over. It doesn’t look particularly neat, but it’s better. Not like a wild animal has dug through it any more.

He turns away from it and begins walking down the hill. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but it’ll be somewhere. It’s only once he gets to the bottom of the hill that he realises he left the shirt up there. It’s probably back in the mud by now. He probably should have kept it, but it’s not that cold out. 

The colours of the sky continue to change as he walks. The sun is still far from rising, but the glow of the sky illuminates the swaying grasses of the field around him. The dew of the grass catches on his legs, seeping through the dirty shoes on his feet. They’re falling apart, and the moisture easily soaks them. Long grass changes to short grass, and he passes flocks of sheep sleeping in the fields. They look really fluffy, but he doesn’t try to touch them. He doesn’t want to disturb them.

The sun is nearly peeking over the horizon when he stumbles upon a building for the first time. He doesn’t remember what buildings are meant to look like, but this one looks weird. It’s missing a lot of walls, for one. It’s long and thin in shape, and it has a wide, slanting roof held up by beams and pillars. It has lots of signs, and what he thinks might be maps, too. He stares at them for a bit, but he can’t decipher them. He wanders over to the other side of the building, and stares down at what can only be tracks of some kind. They stretch far into the distance on both sides, two parallel metal beams. Where the tracks meet the horizon, he can just about make out an object of some kind. He squints at it, trying to figure out what it is. 

It’s getting closer. Whatever it is. He’s not certain of it at first, but the longer he watches it the bigger it gets. The ground starts to rumble, and he can hear the shuddering sound of it, too. It seems to be slowing down as it approaches. As it reaches the building, it comes to a stop, and he finally gets a better look at it.

It's big, is the first thing he thinks. Far longer than the building, with carriages and big metal wheels along its length. It lets out an ear piercing screech as it grinds to a stop, and a moment later doors all along its length open in unison. He can see a few people inside through the windows, but none of them make any move to get off. Curious, he wanders closer, until he’s standing in front of the doors. He tentatively steps inside. The few people that he can see inside appear to be asleep, or close to it. Maybe they’ve been in here overnight.

A whistling noise shakes him out of his own mind, and a moment later the door slams closed behind him. He stares at them. Are they going to open again?

Apparently not, as a moment later the whole room lurches under him, and he instinctively grabs for the nearest wall. The building begins to move out of sight as the countryside replaces it, and he realises they’re picking up speed, rolling further down the tracks.

This is faster than walking, at least. 

He wanders further into the carriage, and blinks at the rows upon rows of seats. Some of them are occupied, but most are not. He picks one at random, shuffling as close to the window as he can, and stares out of the window as the countryside flies past in a blur. They’re going a lot faster than he would’ve expected, and he doubts he could get off now, even if he wanted to. He could maybe jump out of the window, but that looks like it would hurt.

In the reflection of the glass, he can see one of the few people who isn’t asleep giving him a dirty look. He turns around to glance at her, but she quickly looks away. Weird. He stares at her for a moment, but when she doesn’t look back he turns away. The countryside is flying past, fields and forests passing in between blinks. He leans against the window, the glass cool against his cheek, and settles in to simply watch it pass.

~

Al floats in and out of consciousness for a while.

He's not sure how long. Even when he’s awake everything feels fuzzy, like he's underwater, and when he's asleep he sleeps heavily and without dreams. He sees blurry movements around him, but he can’t register what they are or where he is. The only thing that’s clear is the burning pain that seems to seep through his entire body.

Eventually, he comes to. He blinks sleep-encrusted eyes open, and the wooden planks of the ceiling above him come into focus. Everything still feels a little groggy as he stares blankly upwards. After a moment, he goes to sit up, but as soon as he moves a searing pain cuts through him, and he chokes on a gasp. He scrunches his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the sudden onslaught of pain. After a moment, when he doesn’t feel as though he’s about to be sick, he pries his eyes open once more and swallows. His throat is rough and dry, and the action feels as though he’s swallowed sandpaper.

So, moving is a no-go then. Al carefully tilts his head, and when it doesn’t send a new strike of pain through him, he turns his head fully to the side, examining the room.

He’s in the Rockbell home. He may not have spent that many nights in this room when Ed was ill, but he easily recognises the second guest room, the one he’d been staying in. Thin streams of light filter in through closed curtains, illuminating just enough of the room that Al can see a spread of medical supplies and bandages on the bedside table, as well as a glass of water.

He’s just about considering the pros and cons of trying to move again when the door creaks open. Light floods the room, and Al blinks as his eyes adjust. He hears soft footsteps, and he locks eyes with Winry as she comes to a stop in front of him.

“Al? You’re awake?” she asks, brow furrowed but an undeniably hopeful, relieved expression on her face. 

“Yeah,” he responds. 

Or, tries to at least. With how rough his throat is, it comes out as more of a dry croak. Winry quickly reaches for the water on the bedside, gently lifting his head and pressing the cool glass to his lips. Al takes a few greedy gulps, the cold water feeling heavenly on his throat, until Winry pulls the glass away.

“Thanks.” His voice comes out much clearer this time.

Winry nods. “Granny just sent me in here to take your temperature again. You had a pretty bad fever. Then you can go back to sleep.”

She reaches for the table, and Al stays diligently still as she checks it.

“38.5,” she reads out, sighing. She worries her lip between her teeth for a moment. “It’s better than before, at least.” She puts the thermometer back on the table, hesitating. “Do you think you’d be able to eat anything? You’ve been… out for a while. It would probably help.”

He doesn’t think so. The fever definitely explains why he’s feeling so clammy, and his stomach is roiling uncomfortably.

“I… maybe?”

Winry looks like she wants to say something else, but she only nods, lips pursed. A moment later she slips out of the room, pulling the door to behind her. Lying there, sweaty and feverish, Al can’t help but realise how eerily familiar this is. Only this time, he’s on the other side of the sheets.

What happened? Has he fallen ill like his brother did? The thought sends a stab of icy fear down his spine, but he doesn’t think that’s it. That doesn’t explain why his body is in so much pain. His mind still feels a little too foggy to figure it out, and it feels like no time at all before the door opens again, and Granny appears in the door, tailed by a nervous looking Winry carrying a steaming bowl.

“So, you’re awake.” Granny’s expression is as unreadable as ever as she makes her way over to him. “How are you feeling?”

Al grimaces as he tries to figure out what to say. He doesn’t want to worry them too much, and—

“And don’t lie.”

Granny raises an eyebrow at him, and he winces slightly at being so blatantly caught.

“Uh, kind of cold. And sick. And everything kinda hurts. But I’ll be okay.” As always, Granny seems to see right through his weak attempt at deflecting. He hesitates a moment, before asking, “What… happened?”

Granny and Winry both frown, and for once Granny looks almost hesitant. Unsure.

“You don’t remember?” She asks. When Al shakes his head slightly, she sighs. “Ah, well, son, you…”

“You lost your arm and leg.” Winry cuts her off bluntly.

When Granny snaps around to give her a scalding look, she snaps, “What? I’m just telling it how it is!” She puts the bowl down roughly on the table. “Whatever that alchemy you did was, it took half your limbs! You nearly bled out! What were you thinking, —”

“Winry,” Granny interrupts calmly, “How about you go and tidy up the kitchen?”

A flash of hurt crosses Winry’s face at the blatant dismissal, before she crosses her arms, and it’s gone.

“Fine.”

She turns on her heel, marching out of the room and slamming the door behind her.

Al remembers now. The transmutation, the truth, paying the toll. And it was all for nothing. Truth didn't even give him his brother back. Is it even possible? If he works hard enough, if he learns enough, if he gives enough, will he get his brother back? Or is he doomed to fail, no matter what? Years of work and half his limbs, and it only got him a single glimpse of his brother. The aching, torn-open feeling in his chest is even stronger now than it was that night, and it’s accompanied by something familiar — soul-crushing loneliness. 

Is his brother really beyond his reach?

Granny sighs, brushing a hand through his sweaty, greasy hair.

“She’s just worried,” she assures, as if that’s what’s causing the crushing feeling in his chest. “You know how she is. You really scared her, when she found you.”

Oh. Winry was the one who found him in the study. Probably lying in a pool of his own blood at that point. No wonder she’s as upset at him as she is. 

“I know,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Do you think you could eat something?” She asks, “You’ve been out for a good few days, and you’ve had a bad fever. You need something to replace all that energy.”

He hums noncommittally, and she pulls the covers down gently, easing him up to a sitting position to lean against the headboard. He looks down at himself.

It's… both better and worse than he expects. His shoulder is covered in bandages, each one sterile and white and meticulously wrapped. The bandages extend over the entirety of his shoulder, and wrap around his torso for support. And his arm is just… gone. He almost hadn’t believed Winry, despite remembering it happening, but seeing empty space where his right arm should be is jarring in a way that catches him incredibly off guard. It makes the rolling of his stomach worse, but at the same time, it seems such a small wound compared to the agony that radiates from his shoulder. Based on the similar burning pain that seems to come from his left leg, he guesses that it must be in a similar state.

Granny holds the bowl in front of him and encourages him to take the spoon from it. It’s oatmeal, warm and rich, with a drizzle of honey and the smell of home. The smell is not particularly appetizing now of all times, but he does his best to force as much of it down as possible.

It’s difficult, in that his coordination in his left hand is rather sloppy, and his exhaustion makes his weak muscles shake. Granny eventually takes the spoon from him and encourages him to eat some more, before his stomach turns and he pushes the spoon away.

She looks as though she wants to ask. To press for information on what happened. But after a moment, she only eases him back into bed and encourages him to get some more rest. It doesn’t take long before he falls back into unconsciousness.

~

The next time Al wakes up, the world feels a little clearer.

The pain definitely hasn’t lessened — far from it; if anything, now that he’s more awake he can only focus on it more — but at least the fog in his head has cleared somewhat. Fighting through the pain in his limbs, Al pulls himself into enough of a sitting position that he can reach the glass of water that’s on the table. It’s been refilled, meaning someone’s been in here. He’s not entirely certain how long it’s been since he last woke up. His hand shakes as he lifts the glass, and a fair bit of it spills over the table and bedsheets, but he manages to bring it close enough to down whatever else is left in the glass.

He drops the empty glass back onto the table, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. It does little to distract him from the inescapable, pulsing pain that claws at his stumps.

Tears sting at his eyes, and he squeezes them shut even tighter. What now? He’d been so fixated on getting his brother back and everything that would follow, that he hadn’t even stopped to consider the possibility that he would fail. He — he needs his brother, more than he needs water and oxygen. He doesn’t think he can accept the idea that he’s just gone. That he’ll always be gone, because Al isn’t capable of bringing him back.

But, no. That’s not true. Despite the fact that Al didn’t want to see the truth that day, he still saw it, still understood it. His and Ed’s theory wasn’t wrong, he knows it. It was just missing something. He didn’t see enough of the truth to know what , but he can figure it out. He has to. He can’t give up yet, not when he’s made so much progress. He’ll just — have to be a little more cautious this time. Take things slower. Each breath without his brother by his side is almost painful, but he can wait. He can be patient. He has to play the long game here, if he wants a serious shot at getting his brother back.

Just then, the door creaks open again, and Al opens his eyes to see that Winry’s back. She blinks, wide-eyed when she sees him upright, before sighing.

“I'm gonna go and get you some more food. Don't go back to sleep.” She orders, before slipping back out of the room.

The idea is tempting, but he thinks Winry will probably smack him awake if he falls asleep after she goes to the trouble of making him food.

He itches to start researching again, grinding his teeth at the knowledge that he can't. He knows the answer to finishing his human transmutation is out there, and after seeing the truth he understands it better now than he ever did before. He runs through the transmutation circle in his mind, trying desperately to search for any oversights that might have been missing parts, but he comes up with nothing. He's in the middle of running through the whole thing again when the door opens, and he flicks his eyes over to see Winry again, with another bowl of what is likely oatmeal.

She sets it down on the table, helping him sit up the rest of the way, before she holds it out for him. The air is tense, and Winry isn't looking him in the eyes. He feels uncertainty gnawing at him as he takes the spoon, carefully scooping food into his mouth. Winry’s hand is clenched tightly in her lap, and Al can see the set of her jaw. He swallows, opening his mouth hesitantly.

“Winry—”

Her head snaps up, cutting him off with a fierce glare. There's a fire in her eyes, hot and burning and furious, that he hasn't seen in a long time. Not since before… not since before. Before Ed fell ill, before they lost him.

“How could you?!”

She shoots up, and the bowl in her hand drops onto his lap. Her piercing eyes stare down at him, hands both clenched into fists at her sides.

“How could you do something so— so stupid?” She demands, glare intensifying. “You know how dangerous your dumb alchemy is, and you thought it was a good idea to do something that could kill you on your own?!” 

Her hands start to shake, and Al can see tears building at the corners of her eyes, which are rapidly turning shiny and glassy.

“You could've gotten yourself killed!” she cries, voice rising, “and for what? Just for some stupid—”

“I was trying to bring Ed back!”

Al’s shout echoes in the small room, and his chest heaves with ragged breaths. How dare she — how dare she say something like that, how dare she act like his brother will ever not be worth it. He glares up at her, jaw clenched. She stares back, eyes wide, mouth hanging open and hands unclenched. The tears that have been threatening to spill roll silently down her cheeks, and Al feels all of his anger leave him at once. He hates making Winry cry.

“I just wanted brother back.” he admits, far quieter this time, finding that he can't hold her gaze any longer. His eyes drop down to his lap, to the fingers of his hand clenched in the sheets.

A shaky breath. “Al…” she shifts, sitting. “Why would you do something like that?”

Al doesn't look up at her. “I had the research for it,” he argued softly. “I knew what I was doing.”

Winry huffs, and Al can hear that her voice is thick with tears. “Clearly you didn't,” she points out, and he scowls at the sheets, gripping them harder. He hears her shift again, and he thinks she might be curled up in the chair by now, hugging herself. 

“Look…” she hesitates, taking a shaky breath. “I know you miss Ed. We all do. But he's… Al, he's gone.” She reaches out, grabbing his hand, and he loosens his grip. Al can feel tears running down his own face, now. He doesn't have a hand to wipe them away. “You need to accept that. He wouldn't want you killing yourself trying to get him back!”

Al snatches his hand back, anger flaring.

“You don't know that!” He snaps, glaring at her. “You don't know what he would want!”

Winry glares back harder, tears falling faster. She shoots up from her chair again, shoulders tense.

“I don't know what he would want?!” She screams, gesturing wildly at him. “Look at you! What makes you think that this could possibly be what he would want?! You know that the last thing Ed would want would be you getting hurt! You're missing half your limbs, and you almost bled to death! I know you miss him, but at this rate you're going to join him!”

Before he can spit something back, Winry spins, running out of the room. The door slams harshly behind her, echoing, the only other sound being his sharp, quick breaths.

She doesn't — she's wrong. His brother wouldn't want to be dead, he wouldn't want Al to be on his own. He knows how much Al hates being on his own, how much Al will miss him if this continues. She doesn't know what she's talking about. 

A sob tears its way out of his throat. The bowl on his lap is not quite empty, but he grabs it, flinging it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud, and the action pulls at his wounds, setting them alight. The next noise he lets out is a mixture of grief and pain, and he presses the heel of his hand into his eye, fighting a losing battle of trying to stifle his sobs.

Chapter Text

The rumbling of the wheels under him is soothing, and as his journey has continued he’s let his eyes droop half-closed, cheek against the glass and body tucked tight into the corner. They’ve stopped at a few different places now, and each time the doors have opened, letting even more people on than before. The carriage has started to get quite full now, bustling with crowds and noise, but so far no one has taken the seat next to him. It's been hours, and the sun has moved steadily through the sky, already approaching the horizon again.

“Tickets, please!”

He blinks away from the window at the shout. There's a burly man in a strange outfit stepping into the carriage, nearing older age with lively eyes and a bushy moustache. He shouts again as he moves towards the nearest seats. All around him, people seem to be rummaging around in bags and pockets as they chatter idly. The man in the strange outfit — a uniform? — moves down the aisle, taking things from people and checking them, before handing them back. He glances over to the nearest family, and sees one of the adults holding some slips of paper.

As he peers closer, his vision is suddenly blocked by a mass of red fabric, and when he looks up he's greeted with the uniformed man’s face.

“Can I have your ticket please, son?”

Oh. Is that what those paper things are? He doesn't have one to give the man, so he only blinks at him.

“...Do you have your ticket?” The man asks again, and he shakes his head.

The man's eyebrows furrow as he stares down at him.

“Does your parent have your ticket?” He prods, voice gentler than before. “Where are they sitting?”

He shakes his head again. The man doesn't seem to be getting the message.

“Don't have one,” He says. It comes out quieter than he anticipates, and far rougher. It's the first time he's tested his voice since he woke up, he realises, and it's in a worse state than he thought. Is it damaged, like the rest of him was? Or is it simply raw from disuse?

The man's eyebrows furrow further, and his eyes flicker over him, filling with an expression he can't recognise. 

“You shouldn't be on this train without one,” he explains, and he's not entirely sure if he's referring to the ticket or the parent. “I'm going to have to take you to the police station, okay? They can figure out how to get you home and get someone to pay for your ticket.”

He didn't understand most of that sentence, but he nods anyway. The man continues to stare at him with what he's starting to think might be concern, before he moves back.

“Just stay here, alright? I need to make a call real quick.” 

He watches as the man moves to the end of the carriage before leaning back to the window to watch the passing landscape. The fields and trees have given way to buildings, far more densely packed than they were before. The roads are wide and bustling with vehicles and people.

A chiming noise rings through the carriage, and the crackling sound of the speaker system follows.

“We are now approaching Central City Station. Please ensure all belongings are taken off the train upon arrival.”

The speaker cuts out, and the people around him begin to move, lifting bags off racks and tucking away any stray objects. A few of them give him curious looks, eyes flicking to where the uniformed man must still be.

He can feel the moment they begin to slow down, a bustling platform of people appearing outside the window. Leaning back slightly at the sheer number of people, his eyes flick down to the window, which now has a big smear of dirt tracked across the glass where his cheek has been resting. He tries to rub it away, but only succeeds in smudging it.

He can hear the trampling of footsteps behind him, and he presses as far away from the aisle as he can as what must be every person on the carriage tramples past him. The bustling crowd makes his skin crawl slightly, though he's not sure why. He wraps his arms around himself, curling inwards slightly. 

He clamps his hands around his upper arms, and his nails dig in, sharp pain blossoming in pinprick points. He flinches slightly, but the persistent pain is something better to focus on, and he can almost ignore the crawling feeling.

As the crowd thins, the uniformed man comes back, standing a little further away from the seat than he had before. His eyes flick down to the iron grip that he has on his arms, but he doesn't comment.

“Come on, let's get you off this train, kid.”

He stares at the man for a moment, and since he's clearly expecting him to move, he pulls himself away from the window, uncurling and shuffling out of the seat. The man hovers slightly, but once he seems confident that he’s following, the man starts to lead him off the train.

The platform outside is noisier than he expects, and he can feel his shoulders rise instinctively. Thankfully, the man doesn’t try to push through the crowds, and they skirt around the edges of them instead.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

He flicks his eyes back up to the man, who’s looking down at him expectantly, a smile on his face that is probably meant to put him at ease. Frankly, it’s a question he’s been asking himself, one that he’d like an answer to too. He doesn’t have an answer though, so he just shrugs, looking back to the crowds.

“Mine’s Charles,” the man offers, and he nods absently, eyes not leaving the crowd as he picks at a flake of mud on his chest.

“Where are you from?” He tries. Another one he doesn’t have the answer to. 

He doesn’t bother reacting this time, following silently as they leave the building. The street outside is a little less busy, and a few people turn to stare at him, giving him openly dirty looks. He looks down at himself, and for the first time considers that maybe his appearance is the problem. Every person he’s seen milling around the station and the street has been dressed in fine clothing that looks soft and high quality. And, above all else, clean. He’s been wandering around half-dressed and coated in mud, caked on his skin and clothes and in his hair. Not to mention the rotting scent that he’s long since lost the ability to smell.

“How’d you get on that train?” That’s something he can answer.

“Walked.”

Charles nods to himself. “Not a station with ticket barriers then…” he mutters. 

He asks more questions as they walk, but most of them are ones he doesn’t know the answer to, so he mostly stays silent, shaking his head or shrugging his shoulders. The sun is beginning to set as they reach their destination, an otherwise ordinary looking building except for the signs outside the windows, and the emblem above the door.

The man ushers him in, and the inside is swarming with uniformed men and women, although they wear a completely different uniform to Charles. They pass him from person to person, until he eventually ends up sat on a small sofa, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and some kind of food in his hands. Whatever it is, it's sweet, and even though he doesn't feel any particular pull to eat, he nibbles on it as he watches the man from before talking quietly to a couple of men in blue uniforms.

“ —Don't know where he came from,” he catches over the chatter of the room, “But he doesn't have any adults with him, and I'm a little worried…” 

The noise around him picks up, and he strains his ears. 

“... Tattoo on his shoulder is? Why does he…”

He shifts the blanket, glancing back down at the strange mark in question. He's been wondering about that, too. The blood red symbol printed on his upper arm, twisted in on itself in a circle. He hadn't seen anyone else with anything similar when they were walking through the crowds earlier.

“...Think… safe? I don't know if… hurt…”

His eyes trail further down to the mud that is caked on his arm, coated in dried blood from where he’d clawed his shoulder open earlier. Is that why they're talking about him being hurt? He's not hurt any more though. Those cuts have long since healed.

“...Running from someone?” The noise dies down slightly as a passing group walks out of the door. “I mean, he sneaks onto a train, covered in mud and blood, and won’t say his name or where he came from? It doesn’t look good.”

The other man sighs. “I need to make some calls. Maybe if I can figure out what that tattoo is, we can figure out where he came from. Go talk to him, see if he'll tell you anything.” 

The first man nods sharply, stepping away. The conversation continues, but he tunes them out as he watches the man approach. He stops a little away, pulling up a chair and giving him a friendly, albeit rather awkward smile.

“Hey, kid,” he starts, “I'm Second Lieutenant Knightley. Can you tell me your name?”

~

Second Lieutenant asks a lot of questions, most of them the same ones that Charles asked. His name, where he’s from, how he got the mark on his arm, if he has anyone looking after him. Like before, he doesn’t have an answer to any of them, so he mostly just stays quiet. Second Lieutenant also explains some things to him, like the fact that his name isn’t actually Second Lieutenant. He doesn’t know why he said it was, but he’s starting to think these people are just weird. They tell him they want to help him, but he doesn’t get that. He doesn’t need any help, he’s perfectly fine right now.

Charles leaves after not too long, giving him a smile and a pat on the head and instructions to take care. He looks like he wants to stay, glancing over his shoulder as he walks out of the front door, but with one last sigh he disappears around the corner.

A couple other people come over to him, asking the same questions. He doesn’t answer them. One of them gives him another sweet snack, which is apparently a cookie. He’s just starting to consider wandering off and finding something else to do when the front door swings open again.

The man who steps through is in a blue uniform like the rest of the people here, though he notes immediately that it is not exactly the same. The shoulder pads are different. On all of the uniforms he’s seen so far, they’ve been blue, with thin gold stripes and little golden stars. This man has a uniform with almost solid gold shoulder pads. As the people around him glance over to the door, one by one he sees them stiffen and snap to attention, hands raised in salute.

“Lieutenant General! Sir!”

The man smiles, but it's not a gentle or kind smile this time. His smile has an edge to it. It’s lined with smugness and cold amusement.

“Who’s in charge here?” The man drawls, eyes roving the room. They linger on him, and he gets the distinct impression he’s being studied. The man is relatively ordinary looking — dark brown eyes edged with crows feet, closely cropped dark hair, and a hard, square face — but something about him seems… off. He doesn't know why, but something's scratching at the back of his mind. That glint in his eyes seems far too sharp.

The man's eyes break away from him as someone steps forward, saluting. 

“That would be me, sir. Captain Fletcher, at your service.”

“Lieutenant General Rynn. We got your call. My unit's going to be taking charge of the boy, now.”

Captain Fletcher falters slightly, eyes flicking back to him.

“Oh, uh, are you sure? I just — I wouldn't think this case would be big enough for that, sir.”

Lieutenant General Rynn raises an eyebrow.

“It's confidential, I'm afraid. I'm going to need any paperwork you've done, too.”

“R-right. Knightley, go and gather the paperwork.”

The Captain barks out a few more orders, and he sees people rushing around to follow him. He doesn't take his eyes off of Rynn.

“We don't have much on him, I'm afraid,” he catches the Captain explaining quietly, “he mostly just stays silent when we try and talk to him.” 

The two of them stop just in front of him, and he shrinks back slightly as Rynn peers down at him, eyes catching on the mark on his shoulder.

“Hey, kid.” Fletcher starts. He doesn't look at him, still staring back at Rynn. “This is Lieutenant General Rynn. He's going to take over looking after you now, okay?”

Rynn grins at him. It has too many teeth, and it reaches his eyes in a way that's unsettling.

“Nice to meet ya, kid,” Rynn leans slightly closer, and he leans back slightly. “Don't you worry, we'll take good care of you.”

Knightley comes back, handing over a small bundle of paper with a salute. Rynn takes it from him, flicking through it with a bored look on his face.

“This is everything?”

“Yes, sir. We haven't had time to file anything, and we don't have enough evidence to warrant more documents.”

“Hm.” Rynn folds the papers, tucking them into his pocket. “That's all I need. I'll head back to central command now, then. Come on, kid.”

He doesn't move, at first. His eyes flick between Rynn and the two other men, but they're all watching him expectantly. Waiting. Reluctantly, he uncurls himself, dropping the blanket from around his torso. 

The man gives him another sharp grin as he stands, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing it in what would be a comforting action, if not for the shiver that the contact sends down his spine. Something about him is wrong, and the skin-to-skin contact only makes him sense it more.

Rynn guides him outside with a firm force on his shoulder, and before he knows it they're outside again. It's dark out, now, and as he glances around he doesn't see anyone else out on the street. The only sound comes from their footsteps, and the occasional passing of cars. Now that they're alone, he can only focus on the goosebumps that are forming down his arms. It's not from the cold. Rynn's grip on his shoulder is harsher than before, fingers digging sharply into skin. They feel sharp, in the same way his own had.

He twitches his shoulder slightly, testing. The man's grip doesn't break. It grows tighter for a second, pulling him harshly back from where he's been drifting away.

“I wouldn't try that if I were you,” he advises, doing nothing to hide the malice in his voice like he had before. “You're coming with me one way or another, runt, and we both know I don't have to bring you back in one piece.”

It doesn't seem like an ideal situation, whatever this is, and he thinks he should probably be feeling something in response to it — fear, maybe, or panic. Something similar. Like before, whatever emotions he's meant to be feeling simply aren't there.

He settles for looking up at Rynn. The darkness of the street makes it difficult to make out details, but he can see the cruel smirk, baring sharp teeth, the menacing downturn of eyebrows. 

“The only evidence that you even exist,” he sneers, pulling the folded documents out of his pocket and waving them tauntingly in his face, “is right here. After all,” he leans forward slightly, towering over him, “who's going to take the word of those low rank soldiers compared to me? I could make you disappear, kid, and they would never find you.”

They pass under a street lamp, and he locks eyes with Rynn. Where his eyes had once been a dark, cool brown, they are now a sharp, acidic purple that pierces the darkness. He blinks. He should probably be running, or trying to, but instead he tilts his head curiously.

“Who are you?”

Rynn raises an eyebrow, smirk dropping slightly.

“Yeesh, you're not even going to act a little scared? It's no fun if you don't.”

“Oh… sorry.” He pauses. “Who are you?”

Rynn scowls down at him for a moment. His grip tightens on his shoulder. Suddenly, there's a flash of red alchemical light, and he startles. It's just like the kind he saw when he first woke up. It starts at Rynn's feet, and as it crackles around him he… changes. Military uniform replaced with black foot wraps, bare legs, a black skort and crop top and fingerless gloves. The light travels up his neck, and as it shifts around his face, a mass of long, stringy green hair flows down his back.

He blinks, confused, and Rynn's smirk returns.

“My name is Envy.” He's barely listening to him — them? as his eyes catch on the mark on their thigh. It's exactly the same one he has on his arm.

“Are you even listening to me?” They snap, and he looks back up at them. “Ugh, why do I bother.”

“What's that mark on your leg?” He asks.

Envy’s eyes flick down to it, then back to him.

“My Ouroboros tattoo?” They ask, an unimpressed frown on their face. “What's with the acting dumb all of a sudden? You're a homunculus, too.”

He blinks, paying rapt attention. Finally, some answers.

“A homunculus?”

Disbelief colours their face as they stare down at him.

“Do you… not know what you are?”

He tilts his head.

“What— when were you even made?”

Do they mean when he woke up? “Well, I woke up about a day ago.”

Dismay and irritation combine into a scowl on their face.

“Tch. Of course I'm stuck on babysitting of all things.” They sigh, looking rather put-upon. “Whatever. If you want answers so badly, I'm sure someone else will explain things to you when we get back. If you live long enough for that.”

Well. It's not like he has anywhere else to be.

Envy's grip is still tight on his shoulder, but this time, he makes no moves to break away. 

Chapter Text

The arching ceiling of the sewers above him echo back their footsteps in a chain reaction, each step overlapping. He can hear other noises, too; quiet, rasping whispers from the darkest corners and the edges of his vision. There are creatures living here, but every time he tries to look they slink further back into the darkness.

Envy walks ahead of him, unbothered. Once it became clear he wasn't a flight risk, they released his shoulder and now seem to be doing the best they can to pretend he isn't there. The whispering noises are growing steadily louder the further they go, and he quickens his pace to catch up with Envy.

“Where are we going?” He asks, eyes flicking down the sewer. It’s far too dark to see anything further down, no matter how hard he stares, but he still tries.

Envy huffs. “I'm taking you to Father. Then you're his issue, not mine.”

“Who's Father?”

“He's our creator.”

“Do I have a creator?”

They growl under their breath, glaring down at him.

“Do you ever shut up?” they snap. He stares back at them, and they roll their eyes, turning to face forward again.

It isn't long before they reach their destination. Smooth, unassuming stone doors set into the wall of the sewer. Envy's hair swirls around them as they pivot, pressing both hands against the doors. They shove hard, and both doors fly open, slamming into the walls. The impact rattles the floor, small chunks of debris falling from the ceiling.

They waltz in, arms stretching above their head, and after a moment he trails after them, with one last glance at the whispering shadows behind him.

The room he steps into is huge, with an arching roof so high he can barely see the top. Pipes and wires sprawl across the floor, all entangled and snaking over one another like a writhing mass of worms. He steps over one, and as his eyes follow its path he can see that they all converge at one point. In the centre of the room, each wire and pipe connects to an ornate throne, carved out of pale, rough stone.

A figure sits upon the throne, and another stands before it. As Envy approaches, both look over at them, their eyes sliding over to him after a moment.

The man on the throne is old, not necessarily in appearance, but in the atmosphere he exudes. Just looking at him is enough to unnerve him more than Envy had before, and the man's pale golden eyes bore into him with a mixture of boredom and curiosity, lanky gold hair shifting as he tilts his head slightly.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

The voice is teasing, and has a mocking lilt to it. His instincts tell him not to take his eyes off the blond man, but he ignores them. The speaker is a woman, with flowing black curls that shine in the low light and frame her soft jawline in tresses.

“I didn't know you were bringing in strays, Envy.”

Her painted red lips curve up in a cruel smirk, and her sharp red eyes pin him down like a bug. Between her collarbones, an Ouroboros tattoo lies, matching his and Envy’s.

Envy bares sharp teeth at her, crossing their arms.

“Better than being trailed after by Gluttony all day,” they snark, and the woman’s smirk drops to irritation. “He’s more of a mutt than any of those military dogs—”

She clenches her fists, taking a sharp step forward, and he thinks for a moment that she and Envy might be about to fight.

“Lust.” The man on the throne’s voice rings out as a warning, and it makes every muscle in his body tense, his insides squirming like a mass of insects all crawling over each other. The woman, Lust, freezes, sending Envy one last loathing look as she steps back.

The man on the throne rises, and he can only assume that this is Father. He folds his hands behind his back, each step measured and purposeful as he approaches. Loose strands of hair fall in front of his pale gold eyes, but they do nothing to break the intensity of his studying stare.

All of a sudden, he's reminded of a prey animal that has wandered into the den of predators. His whole body quivers, but his muscles lock up as he freezes in place, a twisted perversion of fight-or-flight. The urge to stay perfectly still in the hopes that whatever mean, hungry creature has its jaw around him won't notice him.

“I see you succeeded in locating the stray homunculus, Envy.”

He doesn't dare take his eyes off of Father, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Envy send Lust a smug look. She ignores them, staring at him with open shock and disgust.

“You mean this little rat is one of us?!”

Father hums in confirmation, stopping in front of him. He stares up at him, not certain that he could move even if he tried.

Lightning fast, Father's hand shoots out, grabbing his chin as he leans forward, peering down at him. He reacts on instinct, both hands scrabbling at Father's wrist, pulling and clawing, trying to dislodge his grip. Mud smears from his palms onto Father's arm, and his sharp nails catch in a few places, leaving fine lines of crimson red before they effortlessly heal. He writhes in a futile attempt to get away, but Father only tilts his hand, blinking down at him curiously.

“Hm. Interesting. For a homunculus, you're awfully weak.”

Father's grip on his face loosens slightly, and he pauses his wriggling to stare up at him.

“I didn't know it was possible for one to exist with so few souls within them. At the very least, I'd expect a functioning being like you to contain at least a few thousand. And yet…”

Abruptly, Father releases his face, and he stumbles backwards, almost hitting the floor before he finds his footing. Father turns away from him, walking back to his throne at the same relaxed pace as before. Now that he can see her again, he sees that Lust is staring him down with an unreadable expression, her arms crossed. Envy, meanwhile, is watching Father, a bored yet curious look on their face.

“How many souls does he have, then?” They ask, watching as Father reaches the throne, back to him. The man reaches for something, but whatever it is he can't see it from this angle.

“Not even two.” He responds, and both Envy and Lust’s eyes widen, looking at him in disbelief.

“It's curious,” he continues, heedless to their reactions, “that you contain one and a half souls. Not one, or two. I wonder,” he shifts, and over Father's shoulder he can see a glint of metal for a moment, “why do you contain half of a human’s soul?”

The silence hangs for a moment, and he gets the feeling that Father is waiting for an answer. His throat works for a moment, still slightly raw, before he answers.

“I don't know.” 

He doesn't even know what all this talk about souls is. If he has one and a half, does that mean the other soul is his? Or is the half soul his? He gets the feeling he's only meant to have one soul, but these people — homunculi, they said — seem to think he's missing something, or a lot of somethings.

Then again, he has felt like he's been missing something. He's fairly certain he's meant to have memories, for one. He's meant to have a name, he's sure. He's meant to remember why he woke up buried in the ground, but all that he can remember was that he was. 

And the empty feeling, the one that extends just beyond his lack of memory. The numb, apathetic feeling that blankets his every thought. Emotions just out of reach, leaving an empty chasm in his mind. Maybe, he thinks, that's just a side effect of whatever he is now. They keep saying he's a homunculus, like them. Maybe since he's not human, he doesn't get to feel human things. That, too, should make him feel something, but it doesn't.

“Well,” Father hums, “I suppose it doesn't matter. A vessel is still a vessel, after all.” 

“A vessel—” Envy splutters. “You can't be serious! He's just a weak runt! Why—”

“Pride’s abilities are a valuable asset,” Father interrupts. “Ever since his vessel was destroyed, our surveillance has become more limited. You may have managed a passable job at Pride's duties within Central, but your skills are lacking when it comes to his other jobs.”

Envy grits their teeth in a grimace, crossing their arms. He can see a pinch between their eyebrows, before they tilt their head down and away to stare at some empty point on the ground.

“Tch. Whatever. I'm just saying, why him?”

“He's far less effort than making a homunculus from scratch. His strength will hardly matter once Pride takes over.”

Father finally turns around, his face the same neutral mask as before, and he finally gets a good look at what he's carrying.

It's a needle.

A long, sharp, pointed metal needle connected to a syringe, filled with a glowing red mass that rolls and ripples as Father steps forward.

His body reacts on instinct, feet backpedalling and tripping over each other as he stumbles backwards as fast as he can, eyes fixed unerringly on the sharp gleam of the pointed tip.

“Envy, hold him still, would you?”

He pivots, taking off towards the exit, but Envy is faster. He only makes it a few strides before they lunge at him, tackling him to the floor and pinning him there. He writhes, trying to buck them off, but they wrench his arms behind his back, the action pulling harshly at his shoulders. A knee presses against his back, and their other hand grabs his hair, shoving his face roughly into the ground.

He can barely even squirm, now, but that doesn't stop him from trying. He's not entirely sure why it's only now that he's fighting to get away, but the sight of the needle alone is enough to fill him with the certainty that he needs to get away.

The approaching footsteps that echo in the room ring out like the tolling of bells, each louder and more damning than the last. A pair of sandaled feet appear in front of him, and he looks up to the face of Father, looming far above him. The metal of the needle gleams in the low light, and he gives one last tug of his arms. Envy's grip doesn't budge.

“Hold still,” Father orders, leaning down on one knee, “this will only take a moment.”

Father grabs his shoulder, and the syringe plunges into his upper arm. The sharp metal sinks deep into his flesh, and against his will it drags a pained gasp out of him. He twitches, trying to get away from the hot, sharp pain it brings, but the movement only makes it worse as the needle tears at the inside of his arm. He can feel his shoulders shaking slightly as the needle finally stops moving, and he thinks maybe the worst of it is now over.

And then he presses down the plunger.

He can feel the moment the foreign substance is forced into his bloodstream, and a moment later the point is lit up by pure agony. It spreads throughout his body, carried by the flow of blood, until his entire body is searing with more pain than he ever would have thought possible.

It's like he's being torn apart by a million sharp claws from the inside out. It's like his blood has been lit on fire, and the fuel that it's feeding on is his very essence. Every nerve ending is lighting up in tandem, and he can barely think beyond the pain-agony-burning-hurts-hurts-hurts—

That's when the voices start.

As the pain burns brighter and brighter, with it comes a crowd of overlapping voices. He's not sure if they're real, or if he's just in so much agony that he's hallucinating, but the sound is deafening. Some are whispering, some crying, some screaming, and all of them sound miserable. There are thousands and thousands of them, and paired with the burning of every point in his body, all he can do is tremble and wait for it to end.

The voices batter against his mind like they're trying to force their way inside, and for a moment it feels as though they are about to succeed. Before they can, though, something shifts. All of a sudden, it's as though there's a barrier between him and them. The voices still clamour within him, but he no longer feels as though he’s going to sink below the violent rapids that churn around whatever’s left inside that’s him.

They haven’t gone far. He can still hear them, feel them, but he won’t succumb to them. He’s not become a voice in the crowd like he might’ve had he been thrown into the sea of souls defenceless.

Slowly, the pain starts to lessen. The burning in his veins dims, and the voices in his head quieten. They are still there, listening, waiting, but their screams have reduced to an overlapping mass of whispers. He can feel his entire frame shaking, and he distantly registers the weight on top of him is gone.

His breath is coming in quick, sharp gasps, and when he swallows, his throat feels rougher, as though he's been screaming. 

Once the shaking of his body has lessened, he pushes himself up on a weak arm. There's a puddle of blood where his head was, and when he wipes a hand across his face it comes back bloody.

Now that the pain has passed, he does feel… stronger. The vast, empty feeling that's been clawing at his mind and chest is still just as bad as before, but he can feel the thrumming of power — of souls — just beneath his skin. His body, at least, feels whole, even if he doesn't.

His eyes flick up, and there's a pair of feet in front of him. He follows them up, and sees Father looking down at him, face calm and analysing. He quickly pushes himself the rest of the way up, standing on uneasy legs. Once he does, a small smile graces Father's lips, and he rests a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Welcome back, Pride.”

~

Father sends them away, not long after, ordering Envy to get him cleaned up and presentable. They grumble, like they had before, about babysitting, but they do as they were told, leading him down a few twisting corridors until they end up in a lift.

Their gaze, now, is far more assessing than before, and Pride shifts slightly at the feeling of their eyes on him. Any animosity towards him doesn't seem to have gone away, but at least they don't seem like they're going to break his legs if he makes any moves away from them.

The ride up the lift is silent. Envy doesn't seem particularly inclined to talk to him, and Pride doesn't really know what to say, so he doesn't say anything.

Before long, the doors open to a wide white corridor, the walls spotless and the air crisp and clean.

“Showers are third door on the left,” Envy instructs, not stepping out of the lift, “do us a favour and stay in there until you don't look like a mangy street dog. I'll go and find you some clothes that don't look like they've come out of a dumpster.”

The promise of a shower sounds good, so Pride steps out of the lift and wanders down the corridor. He can feel, more than hear the doors to the lift close behind him — feel the moment the shadows of the lift are cut off from the shadows of the corridor. It's strange, and he's not entirely sure why that's something he can feel, but the shadows feel familiar. The way they feel as though they curl around him makes him feel, now, as though there isn't so much different between them.

Pride pushes the door open, revealing a row of shower cubicles and sinks. The mechanism of the shower is rather confusing, and the water ends up a lot hotter than he thinks it probably should be, but he quickly takes the remainder of his muddy clothes off, leaving them outside the cubicle, and stepping in.

The water quickly runs dark with mud, and he makes quick work of scrubbing his skin, removing clumps of mud and flakes of blood. Another thing quickly becomes apparent as the mud washes away — the red mark, the Ouroboros tattoo, has spread. He can only assume it's a side effect of the souls he's absorbed, but where he once only had the red Ouroboros on his shoulder, crimson tattoos now run all over his body. Swirling patterns curl down both arms in slices, wrapping around his wrists and forearms like cuffs. The markings trail across and down his chest, torso and down his right leg.

They feel like a brand. They mark him as — as whatever he is. A homunculus. He stares blankly down at them, tracing the pattern with his eyes as the dirty water runs over them. He touches the marks on his stomach, and his teeth grit as he stares at them, even though no emotion accompanies it. It won't work, he knows it won't, but he digs his sharp, claw-like nails into the marks, scratching and tearing at the flesh. It tears easily into ribbons, and the muddy water quickly turns red with blood, swirling around the drain. It seems right, for a moment, before red energy crackles around the tear, sewing his flesh back together. It doesn't quite hurt as much as it did when he first woke up, probably because of how much stronger he is now.

The cuts seal, and the only evidence it happened at all is quickly washed down the shower drain.

He finishes the rest of his shower, though he finds himself not quite looking down for the rest of it. He works soap through his mud-crusted hair, and then does it a second time because the grime and grease feels as though it's taken deep roots. 

He's not sure how long it takes before the water runs clean, but by the time it does the drain is clogged with mud.

“Hey, runt, I'm back.”

Envy kicks the door open, and Pride can see that they're wearing the disguise of a new military officer this time, with shaggy blond hair and an undercut.

He shuts the shower off, reaching for the bundle of black cloth that they're holding, and Envy turns to face away as he steps out.

“What's with the new look?” Pride asks as he puts the clothes down on the counter. “Isn't everyone asleep by now?”

Envy shrugs, and their form ripples back to their usual.

“Just a precaution. It gets to be a hassle if I have to kill every human that sees too much.”

Pride doesn't think that's entirely true — they seem like they would enjoy killing random military people. 

“Do you get in trouble if you do that too much?” He asks curiously. That seems like the only explanation.

Envy twitches, getting halfway to turning around before they remember that Pride isn't dressed. 

“I'm not a fucking heeled dog,” they snarl at him, arms crossed, “that bastard doesn't control me. He just gets all pissy with me when I make a mess in his halls.”

Pride picks up one of the garments, peering at it.

“Father?”

“No, Wrath.”

He doesn't know who that is, and after a moment he decides to drop it, pulling on what appears to be a black skort. It's only once he's pulling on a black crop top — or, it's meant to be a crop top, except it's too big for him, and looks more like a tank top — that he peers down at the outfit in the mirror above the sink.

“Are these… your clothes?”

“Beggars can't be choosers, Pride,” they retort, voice smug.

He picks up the two fingerless gloves, dangling them in front of him and squinting.

“These aren't even the same length.”

“Then go and find your own clothes.”

He opens his mouth to argue back, but since no response comes to mind, he drops it, pulling the gloves on. One of them comes up to the midpoint of his forearm, while the other ends just below the Ouroboros tattoo on his shoulder. He tugs at it slightly, but it isn't long enough to cover the mark.

The last item is a pair of black ankle wraps, and Pride is beginning to think that Envy may have just dumped all their unused or worn clothes on him, because they don't even cover his feet at all. He considers going for the muddy shoes he's just taken off, but he thinks they may be too ragged for any more use.

He looks up at the mirror again. The outfit… it covers a lot of the red tattoos that are now inked into his skin, but his legs and arms display the marks almost proudly. Now that he's looking at his reflection, he can see that they stretch up his neck, too, curling just underneath his jaw.

At least it's not on his face.

“You done?” Envy glances over their shoulder, and their lips quirk up in amusement when they see him. “Great. I'll take you back to report back to Father, then I'm leaving. I have better things to do.”

With that, they shift back into their disguise, tuck their hands into their pockets and stroll casually out the door, leaving Pride to follow behind.