"Chris! Hey, Christopher! Wait up a minute!"
That was him.
The chime of a bicycle bell sounded in the autumn air, as Chris pulled
hard to a stop, turning one wheel to the side. He put the kickstand
down and glanced over his shoulder, looking for the source of the call.
Two of his classmates jogged down the street towards him, one waving as
he came.
"What's up?" he asked casually as they came up to him, panting for
breath. "I was on my way home. I promised Laurie I'd take her out to
the park."
"I know, I know. I can hear that lame bell from a mile," one of them
replied, giving his shoulder a friendly shove. "I keep saying you ought
to rip that thing off and just mow people down."
He just smiled at them, as the other straightened up, regaining his
wind. "Chris wouldn't do that, he's too nice," he said firmly. "Go on,
Gabe, ask him."
"Oh, yeah. Did you get the algebra assignment?" Gabe asked, looking a
little annoyed to be reminded.
"Of course." He smiled, and shrugged casually. "You guys need the
numbers?"
A sidelong glance, and an elbow to the ribs. "Actually," the boy said,
clearing his throat, "we were hoping you could give it to us after you
did it."
He grinned, even as his brow crinkled and he shook his head. "No way!"
he said. "If you don't do the work yourself, you'll never learn."
"Oh, c'mon!" He wasn't going to let it go that easily. "Look, Chris,
this stuff is a breeze to you! You're a genius, super-smart..."
"I am not 'super smart.'" He knew he was blushing, and tried to stop
it, but he didn't ride off, either. "You could do just as well if you
worked at it."
"That's not true," his friend protested. "You're the same year as the
rest of us, but you're already studying all these advanced subjects
that aren't even in the normal curriculum — physics, Drachmian history,
military law and stuff —"
"He just wants to get out of this dump and attend university in Central
with the rest of the hotshots," Gabe jeered good-naturedly, and Chris
felt the blush coming back. "What d'you want to study there that you
can't study here?"
"None of your business," he said firmly. "Look, if you want help with
algebra, go talk to Mr. Centine, he used to give me help."
"Is that him over there?" his friend asked, jerking his chin over
behind Chris. "We could talk to him now."
Both other boys turned to follow his gaze, the bike bell chiming
faintly as he twisted around to look. It took a moment for Chris to
pick out the man in question; he almost blended in with the dusty lot
behind the road.
"What are you talking about, idiot?" Gabe demanded. "That's not our
teacher, that's a bum."
"Oh," the boy said. "Guess you're right."
He didn't look a thing like their math teacher, aside from the hair
color. For one thing, he was older; even from this distance he could
pick out the lines on the man's face. But this man was nothing like the
usual well-dressed businessmen and tidy teachers of Andenfeld; he
looked shabby, grimy, and tattered. His blond hair was shaggy and
unkempt, sticking up in spikes and hanging in an uneven line around the
back of his neck. His coat was a dusty tan color, looking threadbare
and worn even from this distance.
The man didn't seem to be going anywhere; he was just standing there,
watching them, in a way that sent an uneasy chill down Chris' spine.
"Who is that?" he said.
"I dunno," Gabe shrugged. "I've never seen him before. I don't think he
lives around here. Maybe he really is a bum."
"Or an Ishvar vet," his friend suggested. "A lot of them wander around
like that, I hear."
"Maybe he's an escaped convict," Gabe snickered. "He sure does look
like something your dog dragged through the gutter, doesn't he? Chris?"
"Are you sure you have no idea who he is?" he said, frowning. "I didn't
think there was anyone in Andenfeld we didn't know."
His classmates looked at each other, then shrugged. "Positive," Gabe
said. "Never seen him before in my life. What about you, Chris?"
"No," he said. "No idea."
"Are you sure?" Gabe persisted. "Ever seen him before? Maybe a few
years ago?"
His shoulders stiffened, hands gripping the handlebars. "I've got no
idea," he said, voice tight.
"Well for all you know, you could have seen him once and then forgot —
Ow! What the hell?"
His friend elbowed him hard hard, then glared. "Gabe," he hissed.
"No. It's okay," he said, but he didn't look at either of them as he
climbed back onto his bike. "I gotta go."
"Yeah," the boy said, subdued. "You promised your sister, right?"
"Right."
He stepped hard on the pedals, and pushed off down the street. He felt
eyes on his back all the way until he turned the corner, but he didn't
look to see whether it was his friends, or the strange man. Instead, he
struggled with his own turbulent thoughts.
It's not my fault I'm weird, he thought angrily, head lowered
and pedaling hard. It's not my fault I can't remember.
He'd hardly pulled up in front of his house before the sound of excited
barking hit him; he made quick work of tying his bike safely up before
the front door banged open and he was assaulted by two small, excitable
beagle puppies and one not-so-small girl. "Brother!" she shrieked, and
years of practice allowed him to catch her and not lose his balance
when she flung herself at him and caught her arms around his neck.
"Welcome home!"
It was impossible not to be infected by her enthusiasm, and he laughed
as he swung her around, before setting her down on her feet and
smoothing back her dark curls. "Hey, Laurie," he said. "I'm sorry I'm
late. Do you want to go right out to the park, or wait a bit?"
"Right away!" She nodded once, fiercely enough to throw her hair into
her eyes. Chris chuckled again, kneeling to pat the head of the puppy
that was leaping up on his legs. "Well, you'll let me put my books
down, right?" he said. He straightened up, gathering the puppy against
his side, and headed into the house.
Her father was seated at the dining table, newspaper open in front of
him as was usual; the radio was also on, droning in the background.
"Dad?" he said. The newspaper dipped, revealing a large, heavyset man
in his fifties, with dark hair the same color as his daughter's. Her
mother's was much the same, with a tight curl that loosened to ringlets
in the little girl; the family resemblance among the three was easy to
see.
He, of course, didn't look like any of them. Nobody in his family had
light brown hair, or eyes that shaded between brown and green. But that
was only to be expected. He shrugged off his books, setting them on the
edge of the table.
"Welcome back, Chris," his father said distractedly. "You're a little
late."
"I'm sorry. I was talking to my friends and it slowed me down," he
apologized. "We're going to head out again in a minute."
His father frowned, and flipped down the newspaper, tossing it across
the table. "You can't go out today," he said. "There's some kind of
military criminal wandering around in our town, and I don't want Laurie
exposed to that kind of danger."
Laurie gave a cry of disappointment, even as Chris' eyes went wide, and
he grabbed the paper. "A military criminal?" he asked, incredulous. "So
he was an escaped convict!"
"No, boy, it's nothing that dramatic. He was in prison all right, but
they let him out free as a bird two weeks ago," his father snorted.
"The military might have wanted to keep it quiet, but there's no way
we're going to let a dangerous man wander our city without warning
everyone about him!"
"He's not really dangerous, is he?" Laurie wanted to know, face
clouding over. "We can still go, right?"
"No, you may not," he said firmly. "They won't confirm anything, but
the rumors say all sorts of things; everything from insubordination,
treason, to murder. One thing they all agree on — he was involved in
Lior; that's about the time he was put in prison."
Laurie gasped, eyes going wide. Chris didn't blame her. It was before
her time -- before his time either, really, but every Amestrian child
new about the disaster at Lior, the military's most spectacular failure
in over thirty years.
The bloody Ishvar struggle had killed and injured many, and dragged on
indefinitely, but Lior had killed more Amestrian citizens in a day than
Ishvar had managed in a year. Bad enough that the military had been
provoking conflict with the natives, but then the entire city turned
into a trap that killed almost a thousand men. Even aside from the
deaths and material losses, the blow to pride and morale had been
devastating.
"Lior?" Chris asked skeptically, scanning down the paper. "That's
impossible. How could he be out so soon if it were something that
serious?"
"Apparently called in a few favors with the military brass," his father
grunted, reaching for the newspaper back. "That's the way it goes in
the military, favors traded for favors. Can't trust any of'em. And they
wonder why we make such a fuss when they let one of their mad dogs into
our town!"
Chris shook his head, handing the newspaper back, but didn't argue. His
father was too much of a cynic sometimes.
"When is he going to go?" Laurie wanted to know. "This is our city,
they should make him leave! It's not fair to make us stay inside!"
The radio murmured on in the background, a constant static. His father
unfolded the newspaper again, turning back to the article he'd been
reading before Chris came in. "With any luck, his parole will run out
and they'll throw him back in prison where he belongs."
He found himself staring at the back of the newspaper his father held,
the sparse print of the announcement. There were no photos, so he found
himself thinking back to the haggard figure in the park. A strange
feeling like nausea filled him, and he pushed away from the table.
"Excuse me," he said. "I don't feel well. I'm going up to my room."
"Brother?" Laurie trailed after him, to the foot of the stairs. "We
aren't going out?"
He shook his head, then managed a smile. "Probably not today, Laurie.
With someone like that wandering around, it's better safe than sorry.
Keep that in mind, too — don't go out without an adult until he's gone,
right?"
"Oh." She looked dismayed, and no wonder — Andenfeld was a quiet
neighborhood, a good place for kids, and never in her eight years had
she been warned against going outside. She surprised him by adding, "Is
everything okay? Are you afraid?"
He sighed, and came back down the stairs to tousle her hair again.
"I'll be fine, Laurie. I just want a nap."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay, Brother." She surprised him by
leaning up on her tiptoes, hand on his arm, and kissing him on the
cheek. It warmed him straight through. "Feel better."
Stupid. He flung himself down on his bed, looking up at the ceiling,
and then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Stupid, stupid,
stupid, to waste time evolving theories about strange men he'd probably
never met before and never meet again. He couldn't help it; his mind
played tricks on him, fixating on every new face, some suppressed part
of him wondering and wishing if maybe he knew him or her from long ago.
Once upon a time; a time he'd lost.
He rolled over on his side, looking towards the wall with the dresser
and the door; his eye fell on a small leather book perched at the back
of the desk. The latest Doctor had suggested that he keep a dream
journal, in the hopes that some of his lost memories would surface
during his sleep. But all Christopher ever had to record was dreams of
a light and empty space, void of ground or sky, with only flat echoes
rippling away into nothingness.
Why couldn't he remember anything? Everything, absolutely
everything before that day was just a blank slate, a void. Ten missing
years out of his life. He must have had a real family, once; a real
father, a mother who looked like him, who'd raised him. People didn't
just pop out of the ground, did they? They couldn't just spring into
existence at ten years and wander on like normal people. Somewhere,
sometime there must have been a family, and a childhood, that were
missing from his memory.
His memory began, sharp and clear, coming out of an alley into a street
in Central, surrounded by the chaos of the riots that had devastated
whole city blocks. He'd been swept up hastily by a rescuer along with a
dozen other children, all orphans like him; bundled out of the
dangerous city into Andenfeld just like them, placed in the orphanage
and eventually adopted, just like the rest of them.
But he wasn't just like the rest of them, was he? He had some friends,
but he wasn't wildly popular, either; everyone at school knew that
Christopher Abert was a little strange, even if they didn't know why. Even
if that's not my real name. Not the name I was born with...
Two walls of his room were lined with bookcases, stuffed to bursting;
he rarely spent his allowance on anything besides books. Some of them
weren't his, but on semi-permanent loan from teachers, or friends, or
the library. Most of his schoolmates thought it was weird, to read
anything besides the boys' adventure novels that were so popular, much
less such a bizarre variety of different subjects. Just like Gabe had
jibed him, everything from physics to poetry to Drachmian history.
Nobody knew that he studied all those different subjects so long and
hard, reading every book he could get his hands on, because he was
trying to fill up the empty place in his head. Nobody that he was so
unfailingly nice to everyone, no matter if they were nice to him,
because there was a cold and aching hole in his heart that he was
always, always trying to fill.
He got up, and went over to the dresser to pick up his little book, the
only one set apart from the rest. The Doctor had made his parents
promise not to look in it, for the sake of confidentiality; he said, Chris
needs to worry about nothing else besides the past when he's dreaming,
he will need a safe place to write it in. He had no dreams to
report, but the book wasn't empty. Instead, he filled it with daydreams
and fantasies, made-up days and weeks and years, long complicated
storylines that grew as fast as he could dream them up. For all he
knew, they might be true.
The little book was his guilty secret. His parents would be terribly
disappointed if they found it; his father would be angry, and call him
ungrateful, and his mother would cry, and they would both wonder what
they did wrong, if they didn't love him enough. And that wasn't true at
all; he loved them both, and his little sister more than anything, but
it wasn't always enough.
It wasn't ever enough. The hole inside of him had gotten smaller, over
the years — or maybe he'd gotten bigger — but it never really went away.
He picked up his book, and brought it back with him to his bed, digging
out a small pencil from under the mattress. He flipped the book open to
a new page, a fresh start, instead of going back to continue any of the
stories he'd started before. Turning to a new leaf, he took a breath,
closing his eyes, and wondered how to begin this time.
Six years ago. Six years ago, Lior went up in a burst of light, killing
a thousand men and women in a matter of minutes. Hundreds of orphans
had been created that day. It was only a few weeks later that a boy
with no memory appeared on the streets of Central. Could he be one of
those war orphans? Might his parents have been soldiers in Lior? There
was no way to confirm it, no way to know.
But he could pretend. Just for a little while, he could pretend.
Letting out his breath, he began to write. My parents were in
Lior...
The next morning, he walked Laurie to school.
It made him late — her school started well after his did anyway — but
he had a note tucked in his pocket to give to the teacher. Not that Mr.
Centine would have likely given him grief over it, once he explained,
but it was nice to have that crackling little gesture of concern riding
with him. The change of routine was nice; walking his bike through the
cool morning air, listening to Laurie's happy chatter and giving her
the right answers when she pestered him for one.
It all felt so... normal. A good life. A life anyone would be grateful
for, would envy. Why, then, did he feel so... empty? Ungrounded?
He dropped her off at her school building, three-story brick with too
many windows, and turned his bike down the smooth-paved street towards
his own school. The wind picked up a few dead leaves, skittering them
over the stones. He left the schoolhouse behind, and the noise of the
shouting, laughing children died away behind him. Nobody else was on
the streets; all his classmates were already at school, the classroom
bell must have rung.
His mind wasn't on school, though. Instead he was thinking about the
Andenfeld library — technically attached to the high school, but
sponsored by some retired general to serve the whole town. He could go
there today, after school — look up Lior, there would surely be —
He stopped dead, nearly thrown from his bike as he hit the brakes hard.
The school was just ahead, at the end of the next block. Between him
and it stood the stranger, the ex-prisoner. There was nobody on the
street but the two of them.
For a moment Chris stood frozen, heart lumping in his chest. The first
time he'd seen this man, his shabby coat and lined face had inspired
curiosity, maybe some sympathy. Now — knowing what he knew — he only
wished that someone else was around, or that there was some other route
he could take to get to the school.
But what did he know, really?
Light-headed, he found himself walking his bike forward, further
towards the school. The stranger just watched him, hands in his
pockets, not making a move. Chris stopped several feet away, close
enough to speak, far enough that he thought he could mount his bike and
get away if the man moved suddenly. He cleared his throat. "Hello," he
managed after a minute.
The man tilted his head to the side, looking at him gravely, and
answered, "Hello."
"Um." He had to clear his throat again. The eyes staring in his
direction were an odd color; almost, Chris thought, as yellow as the
neighbor's lazy old cat. "Excuse me, but you're in my way."
"Am I?" The man's voice went a little flat, unfathomable. "I'm sorry.
Go on, then, I'll try not to block the road."
He looked away, then took a few steps towards the side of the road.
There was enough room for him to ride by, if he wanted, to, but --
somehow he was unwilling to let it go just like that.
Well — he wasn't really in any hurry. Chris took a deep breath, gripped
his bike handles, and turned towards the stranger with a smile. "Let me
introduce myself," he said. "My name is —"
"I know what your name is."
That took Chris aback, and his mouth hung open for a minute, not
knowing how to take that or how to respond. Before he could gather his
wits together, the stranger went on. "That girl," he said, "the one you
dropped off at school. Is she your little sister?"
"Yes," Chris said, the answer startled out of him. Had this man been
following him? How else would he have seen Laurie?
"Her name was Laurie, wasn't it?"
He didn't answer, this time. The man's gaze sharpened on him. "How old
is she now?" he asked.
"That's none of your business," Chris replied, voice tight. "Why are
you asking questions about my little sister? What do you want?"
"I — nothing." The stranger dropped his eyes, looking suddenly weary.
"She — reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago, that's all."
Caution struggled with curiosity, and for a time, lost. Chris bit his
lip, then offered, "Do you have a little sister?" he asked.
For some reason, that made the stranger laugh. It was rusty and dry,
and sounded almost painful. "No," the stranger said. "No, I never had a
little sister."
Chris shifted uneasily. "What are you doing here, anyway?" he blurted
out, before he could stop himself.
"Oh," the stranger said vaguely, tilting his head back to look up at
the sky. His hair brushed the edge of his collar when he did that,
dirty blond against dusty tan. "You might say I'm attending to some
old... unfinished business."
"No, that wasn't what I meant," Chris said, and the man shifted his
gaze down to blink at him, startled. Chris stared back, eyes hard.
"What are you doing out of prison at all?" he asked, and once he'd
started, he felt he had to go on, before his courage failed him. He
tensed, asking that question, already anticipating that he would have
to kick his bike into motion and get away. The expected burst of
motion, though, didn't come.
The stranger looked taken aback at his forwardness, no less so surely
than Chris himself. "So you've heard something, at least," he said, and
he seemed to almost be talking to himself. "I guess everyone's heard
about me by now, although I thought the media would have better things
to think about."
"They said you were involved in Lior," Chris dared, and the man
flinched, as though the word were a physical blow. "Is it true?"
"Ha. They would," the man snorted. He gave Chris an unfathomable,
sideways glance. "If you want to know the truth, though, you're looking
in the wrong newspaper."
The wrong newspaper? What did he mean by that? "If it is true,"
he said, grasping onto what he understood, "then what are you doing
out?"
"Apparently, it's called parole," he said, softly enough that Chris
could barely catch the words. "I'm not the only change the Fuhrer made
when he took power, although I was one of the first."
"The Fuhrer?" Chris repeated, shaken. This man, whoever he was, had
connections that far up? That important, that — dangerous? It was one
thing to hear a rumor that he might have been involved in Lior, and
another thing to hear it right from his own lips. Chris swallowed, and
asked with a dry mouth, "How did you get the new Fuhrer to owe you a
favor?"
One side of the man's mouth turned up in a smile; it didn't seem to be
an accustomed expression, judging by the way it turned the lines
crooked. "We were both State Alchemists, for a time," he explained, to
Chris' shock. He studied the pavement, now, seeming to finding it
fascinating. "Apparently he thought that counted for something."
"If you used to be a State Alchemist — if you even know the Fuhrer —"
Chris choked out, through a haze of shock and half-grown fear, "—then
what could you possibly want in a nowhere town like this?"
The stranger looked up again, his eyes meeting Chris' directly for the
first time. There was a look in them that frightened him more
profoundly than anything the man had done or said, something — fierce —
that seemed, inexplicably, to focus on him. Without even realizing it,
he'd begun to back away.
"I, I have to go," he babbled. One shaking foot reached the pedal of
his bike, and dug in. "I'm late --"
With a lurching movement, he was away from the man, cycling hard down
the street. Even though no footsteps chased him, he didn't dare to slow
down; even though he didn't look back, he could feel those eyes
watching him until he escaped around the corner.
The library, after school hours. It was one of Chris' favorite places;
quiet, soothing, redolent with a faint smell of leather and ink. An
open space on the first floor, a long wooden table surrounded by
comfortable armchairs, made an excellent meeting space; Chris often
came there with Gabe, or some of his other friends, to study.
He'd spent hours and hours here, when he was younger, tutored by the
teachers and the librarians. Back then, it hadn't been so much of a
choice as a necessity; he'd entered schools years behind all the other
students his age, and he'd had to study hard to catch up. Once he had
caught up, he was too in the habit of studying to stop. He could spend
hours browsing the bookshelves in the back of the first floor, both the
fiction and nonfiction alike.
He loved books for the feel of them, the smell, the neat look of black
ink on white pages or the venerable feel of crackling old paper. Most
of all, he loved books because he could lose himself in them; for a
while he could ground himself, following some story or some argument on
theory from beginning to end, and when he was done, he'd feel a little
less empty inside.
Today, though, he was not looking for a place to study, nor for
entertainment. He went up to the second floor, nervously, feeling the
empty air press in around him.
Up here was the old General's private collection; students weren't
allowed up here, normally, unless doing research directly on a project
under the supervision of a teacher. None of the students ever bothered
to come up this way, though, and there was no guard posted or even a
librarian. Just a dusty velvet rope barring the top of the stairs,
which Chris climbed carefully over, terrified of making too much noise.
Apart from him, the library was completely deserted. Still, he found
his ears straining for the slightest sound, and his carpet-muffled
footsteps sounded far too loud as he searched through the shelves,
among the desks, for the one case he was looking for.
"Found it," he whispered at last, kneeling in front of the
glass-fronted case. He pulled on the ornate metal handle; it didn't
budge. Locked?
Nervously, Chris looked around him; still nobody. He gave the handle a
harsh, sudden tug and it gave way, the hinges creaking as the front of
the case tipped forward.
With light fingers, Chris leafed quickly through the newspapers, eyes
scanning the dates at the top. This case seemed to start from twenty
years ago; he moved from row to row, checking the dates as he went,
until he finally came to Continental Year 1912. The year of the Lior
invasion — and the year that his memories began.
He shook his head sharply, and pulled out the stack of old newspapers.
Starting with the headline decrying 900 LOST IN LIOR, he went forward
several months to be sure he'd get the right one. Then, with his
rustling armful of suspects, he made his way to the little table and
chair at the back of the library.
Part of him stayed on a hair-trigger, listening for sounds of any
approaching librarian, but the rest of him quickly became absorbed in
his new task. This wasn't the first time he'd done research, but never
before in a military newspaper. It didn't take him long to figure out
the layout they seemed to use, and before long he was able to leaf
quickly through the stack, keeping an eye out for the keyword he
wanted.
He stopped his hand at the first Trial, then stopped
completely, flummoxed. Through everything that had happened, he had
never heard the strange man's name, nor had he thought to ask.
A moment's thought, and he carefully set aside his bundle, and tip-toed
to the front of the library. Sure enough, there were a few of the later
newspapers lying on the table overlooking the balcony; it was only the
work of a moment to search through them until he found the right one,
the bold-printed notice across the bottom of the front page. He pulled
off the front sheet, and took it back with him.
Edward Elric, that was the man's name, and Chris checked the
terse description provided. Yes, that seemed to be him. This newspaper,
being military, included more details in its bulletin than the civilian
newspaper their family read. They listed the man's prisoner number, as
well as where he'd been held — Third Prison, in Central — and a summary
of his information. Birthplace, birthdate; Chris noted with a distant
shock that the man was only twenty-two. From the lines on his face, he
would have guessed him to be at least ten years older.
He'd been telling the truth about one thing — he was currently out on
parole, his case suddenly up for a re-hearing at the special request of
the new-appointed Fuhrer King Mustang. The article included a few
pointed comments about that, with a dark hint of special interests at
work, but said nothing about on what charges Elric had been brought up
in the first place.
He turned back to the old newspapers. Six years back — it gave Chris
another unpleasant shock, this time closer to home, to do the math and
realize that Elric had been only sixteen at the time of his trial and
conviction. Same age as me...
He skipped quickly over the formal details of the trial, only noting
with some interest that the whole thing was in a single article; it
must have convened and dismissed within the same day. He ignored that;
he was only interested in one part of the report.
Forgetting secrecy for the moment, he whispered the words aloud, eyes
moving rapidly over the page. " — hereby find Edward Elric, the
Fullmetal Alchemist, guilty of betraying the trust of state and people,
as he has abused the authority and power invested in him as an
Alchemist and an officer, in violation of the following crimes:
Insubordination and gross insubordination towards higher ranking
officers; disobedience of direct orders, resulting in major casualties,
as pertains to the Lior maneuver; incompetence in assigned duties,
resulting in major casualties, complicity in the death of a senior
officer and Alchemist.
"To all these crimes we find no answer, neither to the discovery of
illegal human transmutations performed some five years prior and held
in secret until this investigation; we also find Edward Elric guilty of
the following crimes: illegal human transmutation and murder of mother,
illegal human transmutation and murder of brother —"
Voices on the floor below startled Chris out of his half-trance.
Horrified, he recognized the voice of two of the librarians, returning
from some coffee break. Keeping as quiet as he could, he scrabbled
after the rest of the newspapers, shuffling them together in the best
order he could. Some of them weren't quite right — May and June ended
up somewhere around January — but at least when he was finished the
stack looked as it has when he started.
Heart pounding, he tiptoed as quickly as he could to return the
newspapers to their case. He shut the glass front, but didn't dare push
it into place, lest the librarians hear. Creeping to the top of the
stairs, he peeked down to the first floor, and listened; right now,
they seemed to be in the office at the back. This would likely be his
only chance.
He ran down the stairs as quietly as he could, but his foot snagged on
the bottom step and he caught his balance with a thump. The voices in
the back office abruptly changed tone, and Chris abandoned stealth for
speed, breaking into a run and banging out the library door. He was
only grateful that he hadn't tied his bike, out by the road, and made
his getaway.
Once the library vanished from his sight, hidden by the other buildings
on the street, did Chris let himself relax and slow his pace a little.
He began to feel a little foolish, for panicking like he had; while
what he'd been doing was against the rules, certainly, it wasn't like
he was breaking the law. At most, he would have gotten a scolding, and
a call home to his parents.
Still in all, he thought as he turned for home, he was grateful that he
wouldn't have to explain to anyone just why he was suddenly so
interested in old military criminal records. Especially since it was an
interest he, himself, didn't quite understand.
That brought the criminal — Elric — to mind again, and Chris found
himself looking hard at the scenery he passed, hunching and ducking
down a little towards his handlebars as if it would help him pass
unnoticed. The thought that Elric might be hanging around, watching him
like yesterday, was just too creepy to contemplate. The more he learned
about this man, the more dangerous he seemed.
He had to think about this some more, and he wished he hadn't bolted
out of the library like that; there were some things he wanted to
research. The date of the trial still nagged at him. He was no lawyer,
but he was pretty certain that it was unusual for any judicial case to
convene and dismiss so quickly. Military justice tended to be brisker,
if only because the case was decided by a court of officers and not a
court of civilians, but there were still an unholy amount of
technicalities to work through.
And then there was the matter of his pardon, so suddenly on the heels
of the new Fuhrer's appointment. Something else had to be going
on there; he just wished he had some idea of what. A cover-up? For
what? A more serious crime? He could hardly imagine one more serious
than the charges which had been piled up against him, like weights on a
chain.
The only one that came to mind was treason, but he didn't see, if that
was the case, why they hadn't just executed him and gotten it over
with. The Fuhrer's influence? Some State Alchemist matter? He wished he
knew more about the subject, but there were no books on alchemy in
Andenfeld.
The breeze picked up as he approached the house, a stiff, cold wind
that blew Chris' hair in his eyes and dead leaves into the spokes of
his wheel. Overhead, the sky was still blue and clear, but when Chris
looked over there was a dark smudge at the horizon; the wind was
blowing in some bad weather, it looked like.
He turned onto his home street, and nearly crashed his bike with
startlement. His mother, his father, and Laurie were all crowded out on
the front lawn, talking with someone; Chris recognized Officer Murka,
one of the patrolmen who watched over his neighborhood. Their front
door was hanging wide open.
After nearly crashing a second time, Chris stopped himself and climbed
off his bike, walking it the rest of the way. "Dad?" he called out as
he got near. "Mom?"
"Brother!" Laurie cried, and launched herself at his midsection. He
caught her as her arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, and looked
up at his parents, bewildered.
"Chris!" His mother looked like she might burst into tears with
dismayed relief. "Thank God you're safe! Where were you?"
"I, I was at the library," he stammered out. "Dad, what happened?"
His father's face was thunderous, more ominous than the still-distant
clouds. "Somebody broke into our house," he said shortly.
"What?" He looked from his father to Officer Murka, bewildered.
"When, how? What'd they take?"
"This afternoon," the police officer replied, stepping forward. "While
your mother stepped out with little Laurie to do the shopping, it looks
like. Lucky they weren't home when the thief forced his way in."
"How did he get in? Did he break a window?" Chris asked. He pulled
Laurie's arms from around him with some difficulty, then stooped a
little to pick her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck instead,
willingly enough, and he buried one hand in her curls, taking comfort
in her safety.
The policeman shook his head. "I don't quite understand, myself," he
said. "You can take a look at it, but don't touch. Somehow, he forced
the lock off the door, but I've never seen anything like it. My best
guess is that it was somehow melted off, but there's no sign of
scorching --"
"Then how'd it happen?" his father barked. Chris inched forward,
bending in to examine the lock as the officer turned away.
—illegal transmutation of—
Chris straightened up again, trying to hide the shaking, and backed
quickly away. He'd never seen it himself, so he couldn't speak his
suspicion aloud; but there was only one way he knew of to force a lock
that cleanly and easily. It could only be done by an alchemist.
But there aren't any Alchemists in Andenfeld...
No -- there was one.
The adults were still talking, his father railing about thieves while
his mother catalogued aloud all the things that could have been stolen.
The policeman looked increasingly grim. "Mister Abert, if it's all
right with you, I'd like to use your phone," he said. "There's
something I'll need to confirm."
"Of course," his father said immediately. "But what about us? Is it
safe to go into our house?"
"It should be, sir. The thief would have to be a fool to linger. Just
to be safe, though, I'll check the place out before I place my call.
While I'm using the phone, please check your belongings to find out
what might have been stolen; but don't touch or move anything until the
detectives arrive."
With Murka leading the way, his parents hesitantly went back into the
house. Chris, carrying Laurie, trailed behind. He felt a sinking
sensation, as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, and
Laurie's weight almost made his knees buckle.
Even after Murka reported the house completely empty, and gone to make
his call, Laurie was reluctant to leave Chris' side. At her request, he
stayed close by as she ventured into her room, gravely assuring her
that he was both willing and able to "kick the teeth out" of any
intruders.
He hadn't expected anything to really be out of place — after all, what
would a thief and and alchemist want with a little girl's books and
toys? So it was a frightening moment when Laurie turned to him and
said, far too calmly, "Someone's been in my room, Brother."
He grabbed her hand. "How do you know, Laurie?" he managed, sounding
almost as calm. "It looks like everything's here."
"Nothing's missing," she said, with a slight tremble in her lip. She
pointed to her dresser, to the row of stuffed animals parading across
the back. "But somebody moved my stuff and didn't put it back. See,
Cliffy and Ralph are in the wrong places." She picked up the stuffed
horse, lying on the edge of the dresser, to show him.
"Oh." Chris felt dizzy, with the revelation. His first thought, that
Laurie was just nervous and mistaken, was just wishful thinking; Laurie
always knew exactly where she'd left any of her toys. But the
alternative, that an ex-convict and alchemist would break into their
house, go into Laurie's room and pick up a stuffed toy, only to put it
back again, was just too bizarre to contemplate. "Laurie, I think you
should put that back where it was when you came in, and then we should
go tell Officer Murka, okay?"
"Okay," she gulped. As soon as her other hand was free, she grabbed
onto his with both hands, and they headed back out to the rest of the
house.
His parents were just emerging from the kitchen, a baffled look on his
father's face. "Nothing's missing," he said. "I can't make it out. The
radio, the silverware, your mother's jewelry — everything's just as it
should be."
"Not everything," Chris told them, and looked down at his sister. "He
was in Laurie's room, and moved some of her stuff."
His mother gasped, but before they could respond more, the policeman
hung up the phone and joined their conversation. He looked more grim
than ever. "It's not good news, I'm afraid," he said. "Our boy didn't
come home last night — he's missed the last two checks with his parole
officers within the last 24 hours. They're searching for him now, but
there's no sign of him. It's quite likely he's the one who broke into
your house today."
"What do you mean, they can't find him?" his father exclaimed. "This is
an outrage! How can they let a dangerous criminal wander around freely
like that?"
Officer Murka fiddled with the brim of his hat, brow knotted slightly.
"Mister Abert, they're doing all they can to get hold of him," he told
him. "He can't have gone far, and he's broken parole. Once they do find
him, he'll be on his way back to the prison in Central."
"I should hope so!"
"Have you checked all the rooms in the house?" Murka asked, directing
the question at the rest of the family.
Chris looked at Laurie, then up at his mother. "I looked in all the
downstairs rooms," she said, fluttering her hands nervously. "Chris?"
"I didn't look in my room yet," he said, "but what would he want from
there?"
"Who knows what this maniac wants?" his father said, still fuming.
"Chris, go look in your room."
"All right, already." With some regret, he let go of Laurie's hand, and
climbed the stairs to his room. Nervous excitement tingled in his
hands, as it had been since he first rounded the corner and saw the
police in front of his house.
This is stupid, he thought. There's no reason Elric would
have singled me out of everyone. But would it be any better if it
were Laurie he was after?
When he did open the door, it felt like his stomach abruptly hit
bottom. His bookshelves were in complete disarray, their contents
scattered over his bed and floor. He stared, trying to make sense of
the mess. He must have yelped, or made some noise, because his mother
called out in concern, "Chris? What is it?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He couldn't think of a single good
reason why the thief would want to raid his books, and the half a dozen
bad ones that came to mind were too ridiculous to entertain. He
couldn't help but notice, though, that the books weren't just thrown on
the floor. All the books were closed and intact, piled haphazardly on
top of one another; obviously each one had been handled, then
discarded. But why would he be looking for --
A sinking sensation overtook him, and he strode over to his dresser and
yanked open the drawer there. Empty. Gone. His dream diary, the
one full of his hopes and fears and made-up lies, was the only thing in
the room -- in the whole house? -- that was gone.
Why?
"Chris!"
Numbly, like a sleepwalker, he turned and walked out of his room,
leaning against the stair banister. What was he supposed to tell them?
They wouldn't understand the significance of this one book, nothing
more than a diary for recording dreams. How could he explain what it
really was without exposing his secrets, spilling out their
disappointments?
"Chris?" His mother stood at the foot of the stairs, face a white blur
turned anxiously towards him. He took a deep breath.
"All my books are on the floor," he said. "I haven't checked, but I
think they're all --"
He stopped. His mother picked up, "They're all there? Nothing's gone?"
He looked down at her. "No," he said at last. "Nothing's gone."
The rest of the day was a blur to him, barely reacting to anyone else,
body going through the motions of normal life. There was dinner, barely
tasted, and then noise and commotion as some men came over to fix the
lock on the door. For all the good that would do, Chris observed
detachedly. It was obvious the lock would hardly slow Elric down, if he
was determined to get in.
Elric.
Chris thought he might work up some good anger for the man, if he could
get past the shock dulling his senses. Stupid, he thought with an
effort. There was no reason why the loss of a book, especially a book
filled with silly daydreams, should be so devastating. If anything, he
ought to be angry, or embarrassed at the thought of some stranger
poring over his secret fantasy life. But all he could really manage was
a sense of loss.
He hadn't thought about the missing pieces for a while now; managed to
mostly forget their absence. Now, it was like the hole had been ripped
inside him all over again.
Why? What did Elric want from them? From him?
He didn't particularly care, other than feeling an ache of frustration.
It wasn't his business to play amateur detective, anyway. He devoutly
wished he hadn't gone to the library today; it had seemed exciting and
adventurous at the time, but if only he'd been home, then maybe he
could have kept the theft from happening. Maybe. Or maybe Elric would
have just killed him to get him out of the way.
...transmutation and murder of mother. The phrase kept looping
through his head. He wished he'd never touched those damn newspapers. Transmutation
and murder of brother...
The next day there was no school. Normally, this would be a time to
gather with his friends; to hang out in the park or the library and
play games or just talk. Chris sat by the window, watching the storm
clouds roll in, and sighed; nobody would be going out today.
Almost nobody. His parents were standing by the entrance, putting on
their coats. "Remember," his mother said for the fourth time, "Don't
open the door for anybody. If someone tries to force their way in, call
the police; do you remember the number?"
"Yes, mother," he and his sister chorused obediently. Laurie added,
plaintively, "Do you have to go out?"
"Damn straight we do," his father said grimly. "The police are useless.
The military garrison is worse — bah, that's if they're not actively
helping him! He used to be one of theirs, after all. No, it's up to us
in the neighborhood to decide what needs to be done about this
criminal."
"We'll be back before dark," his mother assured them. "The police have
sent a patrol car, it comes around this block every fifteen minutes, so
you should be fine."
"Hah! They can spare a car to patrol the area and look impressive..."
His father trailed off into grumbling, buttoning up his coat. The front
door open, blowing in a gust of cold air, and out they went.
Laurie watched them go, hand pressed flat against the front window.
"Brother, do you think they'll be okay?" she asked, anxiously.
Chris sighed, and ruffled her curls affectionately. "Probably," he
said. "Dad's big and strong, after all. Nobody smart would go after
him. Besides, this guy hasn't hurt anyone yet, has he?"
—transmutation and murder—
Laurie's face scrunched up, and she made a doubtful noise, but didn't
argue.
He wasn't in the mood to argue. He wanted to brood. The missing diary
preyed on his mind; it was a small thing, in absolute terms, but it
carried so much emotional weight that without it, he felt adrift,
unanchored. He shouldn't feel that way, he knew, but he did; they might
be fake, but they were the only memories he had.
He sat down on the sofa, staring out the window at the lowering
overcast. Why was that? All his Doctors seemed convinced that his
memories were just suppressed; only buried, never lost. That memories
could never truly be lost, only hidden, and with careful work,
recovered again.
Six years of doctors and dream diaries and hypnosis and he'd yet to
recover one single scrap of memory. What if there was nothing to
recover? If every human being had memories, and no human memory was
ever truly lost, then what did that say about him?
The orphanage doctor had said that it wasn't unheard of for people to
lose their memories after some traumatic event; but she hadn't been
able to find any injury on his body — anywhere — that might account for
it. No scars, no bruises, no hidden illnesses in his blood, nothing
that would explain it. Nothing at all, in fact; none of the
tiny little scars and deformations that other kids his age had, the
sort of things that a child collected growing up.
He rolled onto his elbows, and stared down at his hands. Unless he'd
never been a child. It was a ridiculous thought, but no less a
terrifying one. Was he even really human at all?
The bang of the door startled him out of his thoughts, and he jerked
upright on the sofa. It was Laurie; she was holding the doorknob with
one hand while she struggled into her rain boots with the other.
"Laurie, what are you doing?" he said.
She looked over her shoulder at him, and as he came off the couch, he
saw the leashes she tugged along with her. "Pins and Needles have to go
out," she said, stomping into her boots. "Mommy didn't take them out
before they left, so they have to go to the bathroom."
"We're not supposed to go out," he reminded her, but he got up anyway.
"I'm not going out, I'm just going to the yard. It's got a fence." She
scrambled through the door, the puppies excitedly leading the way. "I
won't go out of sight of the window, I promise."
"Laurie —" He gave up on speech and just followed after her, grabbing
his jacket and tugging it on as he stepped outside. It wasn't raining
yet, but given the way the wind drove the cold air ahead of it, that
was only a matter of time. He left the front door open behind him,
sitting on the front porch as he watched the girl and the puppies nose
about the yard.
He glanced over at the street; the patrol car his mother had mentioned
should be coming around soon. He was just about to call Laurie back,
puppy bathroom or no bathroom, when both the dogs suddenly began
barking excitedly and straining at the leashes, faces pointed off to
the back of the lot behind the fence.
"Pins! Needles! Come back here!" he called, standing up quickly, but he
didn't think his voice carried over the wind. The excitable dogs
ignored him, pulling hard against Laurie's hold on them.
The little girl lost her grip, stumbling, and one of the puppies yanked
the leash out of her hand and went bounding forward. He paused for a
minute at the fence — five feet high, Chris could just see over it to
the back lot — then gathered his legs under him and leaped over it.
"Pins!" Laurie shrieked, and went scrabbling along the fence for the
gate. "Wait, Pins!"
"Laurie, no! Get back here!" Chris yelled; when had the wind gotten so
loud? A few drops or rain splattered on the porch around him.
Either she didn't hear him, or she was too frightened for her puppy to
listen; either way, she fumbled along the gate catch until she could
swing open the gate, and went running after the lost puppy.
"Laurie, no!" He wavered for a moment on the porch, casting an
indecisive glance at the road; then, slamming one hand into the
doorframe in frustration, he took off after her. He could take care of
himself, but he had to protect his little sister; had to protect her
from anything that might seek to harm her, stray dogs or bullies or
strange men with cat-yellow eyes. That's what older brothers did, damn
it.
The gate creaked and clattered behind him; at least the wind wasn't so
loud. He glanced from side to side, but didn't immediately spot his
sister in the overcast gloom. He heard the sound of a dog barking,
though, off to his left, and followed it, whistling as he went.
Crashing through a hedge, he found himself in a neighbor's yard, the
house dark and unoccupied. He whistled again, and was rewarded with a
rustling in the brush, not too far away. "Here, boy!" he called,
starting towards the noise. "Pins, come here!"
A familiar bark answered him, and as he got closer, he spotted the
familiar form of Pins under the bush. He didn't come, though, and after
a minute Chris saw why; he'd gotten his free-dangling leash caught in
the branches. Chris sighed, and started forward to retrieve him. A
light was beginning to grow over the hedge, though he wasn't sure of
its source. "Silly dog. Where'd Laurie go?"
All at once, something crashed into him from behind. It didn't hurt —
at least, he didn't feel it hurt — but it knocked the wind out of him,
and he found himself on his stomach in the brush, with something heavy
lying on top of him. The light in his eyes grew nearly blinding, and he
blinked through tears to suddenly identify the headlights of a car,
just turning onto the road ahead of him — out of sight, now, through
the low brush.
He struggled to get up, go and find them, tell him about his sister,
but only succeeded in crashing around. It wasn't until he opened his
mouth to call that he realized there was a hard hand clamped over the
lower half of his face.
"Be quiet," a voice hissed in his ear.
Chris froze — not so much in compliance as in sheer terror. The bright
light seemed to crawl in his eyes, and thoughts bounced around inside
his head until he couldn't make sense of them. The criminal, that was
Elric's voice, that was Elric on top of him, harsh breathing hitting
the side of his neck, and that was the patrol car ahead of him, making
their round of the block, that light was so bright, didn't they see
them?
It seemed not; the headlights crawled past, then abruptly faded, and
the car was out of sight around the bend of the road. Elric hissed a
curse, too indistinct to make out even at this close range, then sat
up, cautiously raising his head. His weight still pressed Chris into
the ground, a heavy, angry heat in contrast to the cold wet of the
dirt. His hand over Chris' mouth was making it hard to breathe, and he
struggled to get up on one elbow, get the leverage to push him away.
"All right, the coast is clear," Elric said, loosening his hold. Chris
took a grateful breath, and then filled his lungs to yell, but a hard
hand instead locked around his elbow and yanked him to his feet with
such speed that he lost the breath he'd been gathering. He stumbled,
trying to find his feet on uneven ground.
From somewhere to his left, he heard a puppy whining, a rising
intonation that he knew was leading up to a bark. "They'll hear him,"
Elric muttered, and yanked sharply on Chris' arm again. He set off
through the dark brush at a fast pace, dragging Chris behind him; he
didn't seem to have any trouble with his footing in the dimness, Chris
noticed in a flash of indignation.
They passed in an unreal daze through three lots, before Chris
recovered his wits. What was he doing, going calmly along with this man
like a lamb to the slaughter? He began to struggle, digging in his
heels and dragging against the older man's unyielding grip. "Let me go,
you bastard!" he cried, saying the word with real feeling for the first
time in living memory. "What do you want with me? Let go!"
Elric jerked around, pulled to a stop by Chris' sudden resistance, and
faced him for the first time. Chris found himself transfixed by those
cat-yellow eyes, like a mouse under the gaze of a snake. He looked, for
a moment, like he was going to say something, but in the end could not
find the words; his shoulders slumped under the ratty coat, and he
shook his head, and began pulling Chris along.
Sick of being treated like a piece of luggage, Chris dug in his heels
again. He twisted in Elric's grasp, pulling hard against the juncture
of thumb and fingers until he managed to yank free. They stumbled a few
steps apart, recovering from the movement, and for a fleeting moment
Chris thought of running. But the memory of a heavy weight knocking him
down from behind, pinning him to the ground, was still too strong; he
wouldn't get far if he tried. And even if he did, what would Elric do
then -- would he turn his attention to the other sibling, to Laurie?
Instead he put his fists up, backing away from Elric without taking his
eyes off the man. "I won't make this easy for you," he said, making his
shaky voice as firm as he possibly could. He was strong for his age; he
knew he was in shape, and nobody could keep him down in a tussle for
long. He could, at the least, make a lot of trouble for Elric, too much
to drag him anywhere. "I'll fight you!"
"You really want to?" A strange expression took over Elric's face, one
that sent a warning chill down Chris' spine. "Fine, then."
Elric moved, almost faster than Chris' eyes could follow — he lurched
forward, trying to connect with his fist, but the older man twisted to
one side of the blow, catching it effortlessly on one arm and
deflecting the force. His arm turned easily and caught Chris' wrist,
and then suddenly he was behind him, twisting Chris' arm behind his
back.
Chris panicked, nearly breaking his arm in an attempt to break forward;
he couldn't dislodge Elric's hold on his arm, though, and the older man
easily popped Chris' knees, sending him sprawling almost onto his face
in the dirt. Chris had to catch himself with one hand, and felt a heavy
weight nearly fall on his back, easily and solidly pinning him down.
"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that," Elric told
him; through the blood thundering in his ears, Chris thought that he
didn't even sound winded.
For a moment longer he struggled, pulling at his captured arm and
trying to push himself up, but there was no give in the hold on his
arm. "Get off of me," he said again, fighting back a haze of tears.
"Let go, murderer!"
Elric went completely still above him, and Chris caught his breath,
afraid that he might have pushed him too far. If this was a man who
could cold-bloodedly use his own family members as experiments — and
then callously murder them afterwards — how difficult would it be for
him to murder Chris, too? Or was he safe until Elric got what he
wanted? What did he want, anyway?
"You won't get away with this," he said, tentatively. "Everyone's on
the lookout for you. You'll be caught before long anyway, and if you
hurt me, you'll get in even more trouble."
"I don't want to hurt you." Without any warning, the weight abruptly
lifted from his back, and then he found himself hauled to his feet. The
hand stayed tightly closed around his wrist, though, and another hard
grip encircled Chris' left elbow. "Let's go."
Chris found himself steered helplessly forward, caught in that
unyielding grip. He had a new appreciation for the man's iron strength,
now, and had a fearful suspicion that further struggle — or flight —
would get him nowhere. The best he could do was to drag his feet as
much as possible, to slow them down and to leave a clear trail for...
for whoever would find it and follow it. Surely someone would — after
all, weren't all the police on the lookout for this man? It couldn't
take them that long to find him, trace them to wherever they were going.
"Wherever" turned out to be the park, to Chris' confusion. In the
corner of the park away from the public roads, set out of sight from
passersby, stood the caretaker's shed; the storage place for all the
tools to maintain the park through the seasons. Elric dragged them into
the shed, and released Chris to stumble in the dark, before slamming
the door shut behind them, cutting out the sound of the wind.
Before Chris could grope through the dark to find a wall, much less an
exit, there was a flare of light, and he turned to see Elric setting a
light in a glass globe on the wall. A gas light, he recognized it, but
what was it doing out here? Surely this shack wouldn't be equipped with
a line for advanced lighting —
His train of thought chopped off, suddenly, as the light grew to
illuminate the room. He'd never been into the shed before, but there
was more than any ordinary gardener's tools in here. The center of the
room had been carefully cleared, all the junk pushed back and piled
against the walls.
Among the clutter of tools and seeds were items Chris didn't recognize
at all, and their very alienness sent a cold ache through his chest.
He'd never seen them, but he'd heard them described, in chemistry
textbooks and — a few places — in his history books. Stills and
burners, huge unfamiliar books, compass and plumb and chalk. Alchemical
paraphernalia. That explained the gas light, anyway —
Dominating the center of the room was a large circle inscribed on the
floor in chalk. It was a double line, filled in with angles and runes
and symbols that he couldn't even guess the meanings of. A smaller
circle sat at the center of the ring, and in the small circle sat a
chair.
—transmutation and murder—
He did not like this. He did not like this at all.
"Do you recognize anything?" A voice came from behind him, filtering in
through ears almost too numb to recognize the words. He didn't turn
around; a creeping chill was working its way outward through his limbs,
and his legs had enough trouble just holding him up, even without
moving.
Elric walked around him, stopping at the edge of the circle to survey
its contents, then turning back to Chris. "You shouldn't," he said,
when Chris didn't answer. "I made sure of that."
"Wh — what —" Run away, the rational part of his brain still
cried. Run for the door, you're closer to it than he is; knock the
light out, that will slow him down. Pick up the chair and hit him with
it, rub out the chalk lines, anything, don't just stand there, don't
just stand there...
Elric stepped closer, and his face was like a mask. His voice had gone
as quiet, now, as that conversation yesterday — only yesterday? — in
the sunshine of the street. "I made sure of that when I made you," he
said, softly, but the words hit Chris like hammers.
"You — made me?" he whispered, though his tongue felt like a block of
wood in his mouth. Everything was crashing down on him, and he wanted
to walk away from this, he wanted to run, but he couldn't make
himself move, any more than he could stop the shaking.
"Six years ago," Elric said softly, and his eyes slid away, back to
study the lines of chalk. "But I made you incomplete."
A pair of hands were on him, pushing him — not roughly, but firmly —
into the circle. One step, then two, and the chair hit his legs and he
fell into it, as collapsed as a puppet with its strings cut. A strange
light was beginning to suffuse his vision, something silver-blue to the
dusty gold of the lamp light.
A voice was saying something to him, from somewhere far-off, but he
couldn't listen to it. The light grew brighter, almost painfully so,
and he closed his eyes against it.
Everything went to white.
...morning and he doesn't want to wake up, he's warm and cozy but
the sun comes in at just the right angle to light up the room and
there's the smell of cooking oatmeal, a warm shadow that bends over him
and shakes his shoulder, "Wake up..." — mother? — ...mother's
washing the dishes and singing, brown hair tumbling in a braid down her
back, and he wants something but doesn't want to ask her...
...tears in his eyes because his hand hurts, and mother takes it
gently and kisses it better, smiles and says "Don't cry, Alphonse."
— Alphonse, that was his name — not Christopher (not my name!) but
Alphonse — ...puts his head in his arms and cries, and cries,
because the doctor said mother is sick and never going to get better...
...holds the book carefully because it's important, it's Father's,
even if he can't remember what Father looked like he likes to look at
the name on the inside cover: El-ric... — Elric, he remembered now,
he remembered everything, his head — ...sitting by the river
hugging his knees, with bruises that sting but the sunset on the water
helps... — was filled to bursting, the new images came pouring in
so fast — ...sitting by the river and he doesn't feel anything at
all, but the sunset on the water helps...
...there's a kitten and it likes him, but Mother says no...— not
new, not new at all, because he knew them — ...there's a kitten and
it's cold and wet, he picks it up carefully and puts it inside him
(inside? how?) and hopes it won't make too much noise... — they
are his, they are him, Alphonse Elric, the past he'd been missing, ten
years — ...an island and he's hungry, so hungry he can hardly feel
his stomach any more...
...on a train and everyone's staring at him, he tries to make
himself small, but it's impossible... — no, fifteen years,
that was right, ten years as a child and five as — ...on the roof
of the hospital and he wants so bad to cry, but he can't, can't cry,
can't move, can't do anything but sit and watch the clouds go by...
— as a living suit of armor, a miracle, a walking sin, an act of
desperation — ...morning and Winry is staring at him with huge
eyes, poking and prodding, and he doesn't blame her, he must look so
strange...
...Fullmetal Alchemist, somebody says, but they're mistaken, it's
not him, it's...
...waking up to darkness and choking smoke, and his body feels so
strange, and the floor is spattered with blood, but not his, there's
nothing left of his body... — that nobody thought was possible, to
affix a living soul to an inanimate object with alchemy — ...the
study full of books, all over the floor, and he's lying on his stomach
reading aloud from one, working out a problem with... — alchemy he
studied all his life, worked to bring back Mother, worked — ...the
river is overflowing, the village is in trouble, so he takes his copy
of the array and follows...
....I'm hungry, I'm cold, let's go home...
...running up the hill laughing, his arms full of groceries, racing
his — to save his life — his mother rocks him, huge and blurry
and warm, whispers "This is Alphonse," and holds him out to — it
was something he could never have done — endless train rides,
rocking and swaying motions, the scenery is all the same, he wishes he
could sleep like — would never have been able to do — men have
them surrounded, but he's not worried; they're not even alchemists,
they're no match for him and his — something only his brother
could do —
...standing in the alley in front of the stain of blood, and his
brother is crying, and he only wishes he could too...
— the one who loves him —
...sunset on the river, footsteps behind him on the bank and he's
there...
— fights for him —
...mother is dying and he cries, and then there are small chubby
arms around his shoulders and he's there...
— looks out for him —
...so cold on the island at night, but he turns over on the leaves
and he's there...
— the one who is always there, his —
...lonely on the roof of the hospital, the door scrapes open and
he's there...
— older brother only brother friend companion protector —
...he's helpless on the ground and the killer walks away, towards
his brother and he isn't running, why isn't he running, why won't he
save himself?...
"Al."
That's him.
...running through the rain to Winry's with a body in his arms so
small, water dripping down his metal face like tears, praying with
everything he has that his brother will live...
"Do you hate me?"
...another night awake, watching his brother in the next bed,
tossing and turning and murmuring in his sleep, loving him so much that
if anything were to happen to him, he'd surely die...
No.
The light died; it was silent again. Slowly, Al opened his eyes — they
felt strange, almost numb, as though they didn't want to feed him any
more sensation. It was the same for the rest of him, he noticed
distantly; a tingling numbness, although it was already fading, as
things settled into place again.
And there he was, not five feet away, head bowed and hands planted;
Edward Elric, his crazy, reckless, stupid older brother. Al twitched
his lips, had to swallow to moisten his mouth enough for speech. Even
then, his voice was distant, flat in his own ringing ears. "What did
you do?"
Ed sat back on his heels, still looking down at the floor, and brushed
off his dusty hands on his coat. It left smears of chalk behind.
"Memories are nothing but information," he said, in that soft tone that
was at once familiar and alien. Familiar, because he'd heard it more
than once over the last few days, and alien, because this was Ed, this
was Ed, and he didn't talk like that, quiet and timid and
deferential —
"Like any other information, it can be written," Ed continued. "Or it
can be erased, or it can be copied, and stored. When I built that body
six years ago, I chose not to write that information. I kept it with
me, instead, to keep it safe. To keep you safe. But there you have it.
It's done now."
He trailed off, still staring at the floor. Al pushed himself out of
the chair, unsteadily, and tested his balance for a minute. Good
enough; it would do. He could at least feel his legs enough to take the
few steps to the edge of the circle. He found himself staring down at
the top of his brother's head, and felt a moment of near-nausea; this
view, at least, was familiar. "Why?" he said at last.
Ed looked up at him, eyes widening in shock. "Why? Isn't it obvious? To
protect you, Al. Without your memories, you were anonymous, safe. They
would have no reason to go after you. I did it to keep you sa —"
Al punched him in the jaw.
"You moron!" he shouted, clenching his aching right fist. It had been a
while, and Ed's head was hard. His arm was shaking from the
effort of the swing, and he felt it traveling up through his shoulder,
infecting the rest of him. "You, you blithering fool! Inconsiderate
idiot! How could you even think of doing something like this without my
consent?"
Ed pushed himself up on his elbow, from where Al's punch had sent him
sprawling. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and reached up to
gingerly feel his aching jaw. "You would rather have stayed the way you
were, wouldn't you?" he mumbled, still avoiding Al's eyes. "You looked
so peaceful, so happy, I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to
remind you of everything that happened... give you all that pain... but
when I read your diary, I thought —"
"That's not what I'm talking about at all!" Al grabbed Ed's shoulders,
forcing his startled brother to meet his eyes. "Why did you decide on
such a stupid plan without asking me? Maybe I didn't want to be kept
safe this way! You didn't even stop to think about what I wanted!"
"Al, you... it was the only way," Ed faltered. "I had to make it look
like you were dead, or else they would have brought you into their labs
to dissect you! Not just one, but two transmutations — you would have
become their lab rat, Al!"
"So you thought it was better to become my scapegoat?!" Al felt tears
building behind his eyes, and fought to keep them back. If he got
started now, he wasn't sure he'd ever stop. "Or maybe you just knew
that if I remembered anything at all, if I had any idea of who I was
and who you were, there was no way you could have kept me from your
side when they came to arrest you!"
Ed wouldn't meet his eyes, jaw working. That was fine; Al didn't need
an answer. His brother was too predictable sometimes. He had to let go
of Ed's shoulders in order to press his hands against his eyes. "You
idiot," he whispered again, and let his knees give out, slumping to
kneel on the floor.
He felt a tentative grip on his arm, and looked up to see Ed's blurry,
worried face through his tears. "Are you all right?" he asked
cautiously, voice anxious. "I thought — I had everything worked out
perfectly — there should be no side effects, are there?"
"No. I'm fine." Fine, that was, except that his head was so stuffed
full of new memories, it ached constantly, leaving his vision fuzzy and
his ears ringing. Fine except that the cold and empty place in his
heart had been filled, so suddenly and violently, that he felt
stretched and full near to bursting.
Fine except that as everything jostled for space inside his head,
crashing around as the old memories and the new ones fell into place,
he was suddenly sick at his own appalling ignorance. While he'd lived a
normal life in Andenfeld — believing himself to be an ordinary young
boy, brooding incessantly over the mystery of his missing past — Edward
had stood in the fire for his sake.
To keep him ignorant, and safe, and happy, Edward had let them catch
him, convict him, and imprison him, going willingly along with the
farce that the military called justice — Al sat bolt upright as
something occurred to him. "How did they find out about the
transmutations we performed, Brother?" he exclaimed. "I mean, obviously
they knew, but where did they find the evidence? Surely even they
couldn't make the charges stick without something —"
"Mustang testified." Ed was back to avoiding Al's eyes, and he felt
another surge of sick fury when he wondered who had taught his brother
to do that. "He didn't have a choice, Al. It was him or me, and they'd
get me anyway. Besides, he kept his promise, even though I didn't
expect him to. As soon as he had the power, he got me out."
"That son of a bitch." He sat back and wiped his cheeks of tears.
Although the words were said without heat, Al had never felt them more
sincerely in his living memory.
Speaking of memory, as his own from this evening caught up with him —
"You have to run!" Al grabbed at his brother's arm in a panic. "They're
looking for you, you broke your parole, you broke into my parents' house
— what the hell were you thinking, anyway —"
"I know." Ed took hold of his wrist, and smiled at Al, tired and sad.
"But it's okay. I finished what I had to do. I don't care what happens
next."
"Well, I care!" Al snapped, but his mind was racing. So much more new
information, so many things to think about... one thing, at least,
required no thought. "I'm coming back with you."
"What?" That shocked Ed out of his determined resignation. "Are you
nuts? Your family — they're probably going to put me back in prison,
Mustang or — everybody thinks you're dead, Al!"
"Yes, and they're blaming you for my murder!" Al glared at him. "Since
I'm not even dead, that's unforgivable. And as for — for the other
charge," he said, faltering, "I'm as much to blame for it as you are.
If they punish you for it, they'll punish me too."
"I don't want you to be involved!" Ed said sharply. He pushed back away
from Al, shaking off his hands. "You're staying where it's safe, with
your family, and that's final!"
"No, I am not!" Al surged forward, grabbing hold of Ed's shoulders
again. "I'll miss my parents and Laurie, it's true, but they're not my
real family. You are, Edward, and there is absolutely no way I am going
to let you separate us ever again! Do you hear me? You'll have to knock
me out and tie me up to keep me from following you, and even then I'll
come as soon as I wake up, unless you take away my memories again!"
Ed just stared at him, shocked out of resistance. Al stared intently
into his face, memorizing the new lines, the new thinness of flesh over
bones, and it only fueled his new determination. "I've been cold
inside, Brother, here —" he reached to touch Ed's chest, above his
heart — "for six years, and I didn't know why. I always knew something
was missing, but I didn't know what.
"I thought it was my memories, my past, but it wasn't just that.
Memories are only information — you have it or you don't, you don't
feel the lack. I was missing you, Brother. You're a part of my spirit,
and when you're gone, I feel it, I miss you without even knowing why."
He was crying again — it was as hard to stop as he feared it would be —
and couldn't see what expression was on Ed's face. Nor did he really
care. He slid his hand along the rough cloth of Ed's dirty coat until
he could lean forward and hug his brother fiercely, burying his face in
his shoulder. He could feel Ed's arm — still steel, still cold hard
automail — trapped between his chest and Ed's, but he didn't mind at
all. He was only glad when, a minute later, Ed's left arm slid
tentatively over his back, carefully returning the embrace. He felt
Ed's chest shudder a sigh of relief, and suddenly he was clinging to Al
just as fiercely as Al was clinging to him.
~fin
::epilogue::
The hotel room was narrow, shabby, and not entirely clean -- but it was
cheap. With the money his parents had insisted on giving him, before he
left, Al could have stayed at a nicer place -- but he wanted to be
careful with that money, with no idea how long he would have to make it
last. He'd saved some money by choosing only one bed, instead of two
half-sizes, and at least there would be running water in their bathroom.
Ed didn't complain, nor did he have any money to help pay the bill.
Thinking of the shabby gardening shack from the park, Al rather
suspected it had been a while since Ed had slept in a real bed at all.
Three days, at least, and possibly more. And that was a reminder...
"I've been wondering, Brother," Al said, hefting his suitcase up onto
the small dresser and flipping open the locks. "What happened to your
parole officer?"
"Damn, it's good to get off my feet," Ed groaned, plopping down on the
bed; then he squinted up at Al. "What was that?"
"You said you were on parole, but you broke it. You stopped checking
in," Al said. "Where did your parole officer go? I'm surprised he
didn't stop you from traveling with me."
"Oh," Ed said, and turned a dull red. "Sergeant Harp. I, er, expect
we'll see him again when we get back to Central. I kind of, uh,
mentioned that I would be returning there, without saying when or how."
Al sighed, and shook his head. "You can't just go around ducking the
rules like that," he grumbled. "Not when you're already in so much
trouble. I'm sure what you said is true and Mustang will support you,
and if so, the re-trial will go in your favor... but it won't look good
for you or him if you do things like this."
Ed's mouth twisted up in a smile. "Al, when did you turn into a
lawyer?" he said, amused.
Al turned a dull red. "N- I'm not!" he said indignantly. "I've read a
lot about contemporary military law, that's all. There was a whole
section back in the library -- it was fascinating."
He turned to face his brother, expression serious. "It's tricky, but
the law's on your side, Brother," he said earnestly. "Half of the
crimes held against you are falsified, and the other half took place
when you were a minor. You never should have been charged with them in
the first place, if they'd given you a decent trial instead of a
mockery of justice!"
Ed just looked down at his hands, resting in his lap, and Al sighed,
getting up to unpack their meager suitcase. "This time you'll be fine,
I swear," he said. "Just so long as this time's Fuhrer is halfway to
fair -- although I can't be sure," he added darkly. "He sure played his
part in last time's farce."
Ed blew out a breath, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then went back
to working on his bootlaces. "Al, don't take this out on Mustang. It
isn't his fault."
"He testified, Brother," Al returned, voice sharp. "He helped put you
in jail. Why shouldn't I be angry?"
"All he did was tell the truth." Ed pulled off one of his boots, and
shucked it into the corner. Al scowled and looked away, staring down
into the depths of the suitcase.
"He kept silent for as long as he could, but then with Lior... and the
Stone..." his brow pinched again. "It got too big. It was taken out of
his hands. That's why I had to do what I did to keep you safe, Al.
Mustang couldn't protect you any more from the consequences of my
actions."
"You mean our actions."
Ed didn't answer. Al got up, crossed in front of him, and snapped his
fingers in front of Ed's nose; Ed jerked back, startled. "Ours, Ed, ours.
There's this little thing called the first person plural, please try
and remember it."
"Yeah, yeah." Ed waved Al away, then used his hand to cover a yawn.
"Are you gonna shower, Al? I'm tired."
"Yes, I think I will," Al said, gracefully allowing Ed to change the
subject. No point in pressing the question now. "What about you?"
"Eh, I'll shower in the morning." Ed looked up at Al, and flicked a
quick smirk at him. "Hope you don't mind sharing the bed with someone
who stinks."
Al chuckled a little. "No, I don't really mind," he said. "If it really
bothers me, I'll kick you out to go shower."
"You can try. Once my head hits the pillow I'll be dead to the world."
He shed the second boot, then began to peel off his socks. Al shrugged,
and dug through the suitcase for a towel; this hotel wasn't nice enough
to provide towels, and he wouldn't trust them even if they did.
Pulling out towels and a change to sleep in -- and blessing his
forethought in packing soap -- Al began to strip out of his clothes,
packing them away in the suitcase rather than letting them sit on the
dirty floor. Across the room, Ed was also preparing for bed, and it
took Al a few moments to realize that Ed was surreptitiously watching
him as he did.
He had a moment of confused, paranoid panic, before insight flashed
into his mind. Oh. This body, he created it. It was ridiculous
to feel self-conscious in front of Ed's eyes, as much as a child about
his parents. But a lot has changed since then.
Watching Ed out of the corner of his eye, he soon found himself
fascinated in turn, as Ed pulled the shirt over his head, leaving him
in his black undershirt. Ed, too, had changed. Al hadn't really seen
the changes before now -- at first he had only seen Ed as alien, with
nothing to compare him with, and afterwards he'd been blinded with the
familiar. But Ed was no longer the teenage boy that Al had known.
For one, he'd grown. He would never be a tall man -- even now he
lingered at a height notably below average -- but he'd added enough
inches that his size was no longer the most distinctive thing about
him. His hair was shorter, for another; messy ragged strands falling to
the bottom of his jaw, but no further. His shoulders had widened, his
chest broadened -- but Al realized with a start that under the flat
muscles, he could count Ed's ribs.
That shocked him enough that he abandoned all pretense, and turned to
look at Ed full-on, still holding the towel in one hand. Not just his
ribs, but also his shoulder and arm were bony and thin -- much more so
than he remembered, even when Ed was just a skinny little kid. There
was the familiar automail, and the scars from it, but there was another
discolored streak of skin over his left shoulder, that topped his
shoulder and disappeared under the black tank top. An unfamiliar scar.
A new scar?
He realized he was staring, unabashedly, and flushed, but Ed didn't
object. In fact, he was in turn looking at Al's body -- his smooth,
soft, entirely unmarked body -- with an oddly pensive expression on his
face. Comparing, maybe. That was nothing new, it was something they'd
done all their lives, although it felt much stranger now; now that Al
was left seven years behind, instead of the usual one. Or maybe it
would be better to say he was left seven years ahead.
That scar bothered him. He padded across the room, wearing only his
pants, to get a closer look. "Brother, where did this come from?" he
asked, reaching out to trace it gently. It started out as a narrow line
at the top of his shoulder, and widened as it traced down, the other
end hidden under the shirt. This close, he could see others, of
different colors and textures, tracing across Ed's skin.
Ed pulled away from his hand, then frowned at him. "I thought you were
going to shower," he challenged.
"I am. In a minute." He rested his hand on Ed's shoulder, gripping just
hard enough that he couldn't easily be brushed aside. "Please answer
me. I want to know..."
"Well, I don't want to tell you," Ed said brusquely. He stood up,
shrugging Al away again, and picked up his discarded shirt.
"Brother!" Al let steel creep in and stiffen his tone, the same way as
when they were younger and Ed didn't want to drink his milk or take a
shot. "Sit down and take your shirt off."
Ed did. Not grudgingly, but immediately; like a soldier snapping to
obey a command, or a dog trained to do tricks. Al stared as Ed
complied, pulling the black undershirt over his head, then looked up at
him expectantly.
"Brother..." He struggled to find a way to put into words, just what
was bothering him. "Why did you do that?"
"Huh?" Ed blinked up at him, scowling, and Al shook his head. Never
mind. Never mind that now.
He sat on the bed beside Ed, sitting sideways to study him more
closely. After a minute, he directed Ed to turn sideways, presenting
his back to the dim light that the room provided.
"How did you get these?" he said softly, tracing his fingers lightly
down a long ridge running crosswise down his shoulder blade. He saw
Ed's back stiffen, and the line of his jaw set.
"Got in a few fights," he said tersely.
"That's all?" Al asked, dubiously, splaying his palm on the hollow
between the shoulder blades. There were too many of them for that, he
thought. And too many of them were too regular. There was a whole set
of parallel lines running horizontally along his lower back, all
approximately the same size and texture. Another, a line of small
notches that Al couldn't quite fathom, marched up one side of his spine.
That spine twisted, as Ed turned to glare at Al over his shoulder.
"What, you want a play-by-play?" he said tersely. "For God's sake, Al,
I can't be expected to remember every stupid little scrape I've gotten
for the last six years. It doesn't matter, all right?"
"Brother," Al said softly. "Don't lie to me."
Ed turned his head straight again, and Al heard him swallow. "I'm not,"
he said after a minute. "I got in a few fights. That's all."
Al thought about that, feeling the rough and smooth patches of skin
alternate under his fingers. Thought about a life of constant battle,
where you were under threat all day, every day, without a moment or a
safe place to rest; until finally resistance gave out, and defenses
caved, and you couldn't fight any longer. And you got up the next day
and kept on fighting, and the next, and the next, because there was no
other choice.
"Tell me about your life," Ed said suddenly. "Tell me about... your
family. Your friends. What you've been doing. How you've been doing."
Al flushed, his earlier discomfort returning doubled. The contrast was
painful and shameful, between his own perfect skin and Ed's, between
his own idyllic, spoiled life and Ed's. "I'm not sure what you want me
to say," he said uncomfortably.
"I don't know. Whatever. Say that you've been happy. That you've been
well. That... something good came out of six years ago." Ed's breath
was beginning to come a little faster, Al noticed. "Say that... that
for the first time in my life, I didn't completely fuck up and ruin
yours. Say that -- say that there was some point to... to all of this."
Hesitantly, Al began to talk. At first he just talked about general
things, a one-moment status snapshot of how his life had been just
before his brother reappeared in it. School. Studies. Friends.
Arguments with his parents. Then, remembering Ed's wistful interest in
Laurie -- remembering Nina -- he began to talk about his little sister.
About her games stuffed animal collections and tantrums and birthday
parties with friends, about their spot under the tree in the park. Her
delight at getting a pair of puppies for Christmas. The smell of dog
fur and grass stains when she hugged him.
All the while he talked about his old life, though, his fingertips kept
tracing lightly over the scars on Ed's back, as if by some sympathetic
magic he could heal them just by touching each one. At least, all those
he could see. All those that could be touched.
Ed stayed quiet, and still, for a long time. Finally, Al faltered, and
trailed off, daunted by the lack of reaction. He leaned forward, to try
and get a sense of his brother's expression.
He was shocked to see that Ed's eyes were closed, and he was crying.
Without fanfare or noise, just silent, steady tears spilling from under
his eyelashes and over his cheeks. Worried, Al put his arms around his
brother's chest and hugged him from behind, tight, feeling the sharp
press of backbone against his chest. "Brother," he said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." It came out a little choked, and Ed opened his eyes, still
awash with tears. "I'm just... glad. So glad."
What did he mean by that, Al wondered. Glad that Al's life had been
happy? That Al had chosen to give up his life, no matter how happy, to
follow him? That he, himself, was free of his old life? Glad that Al
was still willing to touch him, scarred as he was? Glad that they were
here, together, for as long as it lasted?
It didn't matter which. Al tightened his arms, and leaned forward to
place a kiss on his brother's cheek. "So am I," he said, and tasted
salt on his lips.
~end