❛ your parents are alchemists, too? wow!! sure would be nice to have more alchemists around!! ❜
he noted how his companion sat, as if he was unaccustomed to being dragged around by a lively child ( as if he’d expected something else, as if he’d come from somewhere else, seeking answers. as it seemed, atlas wasn’t exactly what this man thought he’d be )–– but, not many people were up for being dragged about by a child; surely the townspeople felt bad for the old alchemist whom the boy frequently visited ( even if that sorrow was more from the knowledge that the boy had no idea what was happening to that quiet little home of his, to his father–– atlas was a beloved child & the townspeople could not fault him for having that wonder & joy in his eyes. one day, they knew it would fade ).
at the enquiry, he shrugged; he’d not questioned the man’s arrival. alchemy worked differently depending on its source, so who was he to question that sort of thing? ❛ you … just showed up… but that’s okay!! dad tells me alchemy is different everywhere, so … i don’t expect to understand what you did, only that you did it. you’re here, that’s what matters, right? ❜ this man was offering to help & atlas handed him the book, that hopeful look still in his eyes. then, something seemed to click–– milos, this man was from milos!! ❛ you’re from milos? my mother was milosian, too–– ❜
❛ one day, i’ll go there & finish what she couldn’t, i’ll save the people of milos, like my mother wanted to. it’s her legacy–– dad says she started a group called the black bats with some friends when she was younger!! he doesn’t talk about her that much…. but he said that she wanted freedom for milos. she’s gone now… but i’ll make that dream come true!! it’s the promise i made to her–– ❜ but, he could not finish the sentence, for he stood in the pouring rain & left flowers by his mother’s grave & begged her forgiveness ( it’s all my fault that you died!! if it wasn’t for me, you’d be around to save milos… i’m sorry you died because of me… i promise, i’ll save milos instead!! i promise, you didn’t die in vain, i’ll make sure that i’m worthy of the world!! ). decades in the future, he would return to milos as he dreamed. he’d delude himself into thinking he was a hero & his blood would flow with the blood of others as testament to that. in the future, he’d stand before fire & death & he’d survive ( the world would make him into a survivor, just like his mother who refused to die on the battlefield ) –– in the future, he’d fall in love with a girl from milos & he’d forsake his bonds made in creta ( but that was a lifetime away; he’d have to die twice before that day ).
in the future, he’d be a hurricane sent to watch over a milosian family; he’d see the man in front of him as a child & there would be betrayal & death, but that time would not come for quite a while. for now, he was a boy who wished to save his father, who held the universe in his small body. for now, he had not yet burned away all of that potential within him; the tremendous event that would tear away his innocence was still on its way ( lightning & thunder require time, the light of the stars requires time, deeds require time even after they are done, before they can be seen & heard–– oh, but he heard his father’s voice in his head, he knew nights sitting there & listening to his father read aloud, horrid coughs breaking otherwise poetic phrases in that soothing voice ). your dad doesn’t want to lose you. atlas knew that, but it still hurt–– it hurt not knowing, not having guests over because his father forbade it. basil would never tell his son he was dying, but atlas didn’t need words to know. in the end, he knew in his heart & put on a brave face regardless of the future ( this tremendous event is still on its way ). your dad doesn’t want to lose you, as much as you don’t want to lose him. the man was right. ❛ … by the way, thanks for helping. my dad’s life means everything to me, so i need to do something for you in return!! ❜
His mother. The Black Bats. All his legacy laid out before Ashleigh, in ink and in voice, all of it like bell-toll revelation. “The Black Bats, hmm? Really? That’s your mother’s? I’ve got family involved with the resistance. They’re doing good work.” How could he say, I know how this will turn out? How could he say, Your mother’s legacy will lead Milos to liberation? That the only way to rise from the valley was on wings of their own design, every fighter an Icarus in their own right.
How could Ashleigh say that if his sister hadn’t become a soldier herself, Milos would have fallen beneath lava, the fire they worshiped become a tomb? Icarus saw only the beauty of the sun, and so did they reach forever for the sky. Without Julia’s fighter’s heart, fire-born, her people could never have clawed their way free.
With reverent fingers, Ashleigh turned through the pages, skimming the penmanship. It felt like the old handwritten Milosian journals deep half-organized stacks of books, pages yellowed and falling out, crinkling beneath curious fingers, all the unpronounceable, half-recognized characters of a language smothered by the alphabet of conquerors. Burnt out, the same fate of that old home, of generations collecting texts while Creta above crushed literacy. Why Julia’s work as a children’s teacher was as important as her role as rebellion leader; why she was the face not just of revolt, but of rebuilding. Julia Crichton, hope and light of Milos.
And every clue to Atlas’s future in this impassive scrawl, in worn, tabbed pages, in a single volume and the small body chattering away beside him, speaking of tragedy in the same golden-bell tones he spoke of alchemy and love.
“Valiant of you to make such a promise,” Ashleigh said. “Don’t forget it. Don’t ever forget it. The government and the military here, they’ll swallow you up before you know it. I mean. It did that to me.” A chuckle, hardly a laugh, soft and melancholy. How could he be undamaged for this child? But how could he let this child into the “Guess I’m just bitter, huh?” The stories came easily, the half-truths, like a gift bestowed by a world with enough mercy to compensate for the hell that was his lot in life, with talent. Or perhaps he had been too much from the start.
“My parents were alchemists,” Ashleigh repeated--as though he needed this child to know, somehow, this child who would someday be their demise ( who would someday be Ashleigh’s demise, too ), that they were gone. “But I know all their studies by heart. They were doctors. Not the sort you have here, exactly, but nonetheless.” He didn’t say: One day you, too, will bear Milos’s burden; the truth of my homeland upon my skin and yours. He didn’t say: you will fail to keep us safe, any of us.
Ashleigh scowled, shut his eyes for a long moment, pinched the bridge of his nose. Unbidden he reached to touch the great scar over his ribs, ugly even through fabric, while his automail hand continued flipping pages.
“You don’t have to do anything for me. Just consider me a resource. Show me what you have, what you’ve deciphered.”
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