ANTIMONY
Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~
an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.
STATUS : ONGOING...
[00] [01] [02] [03] [04] [05] [06] [07] [08] [09] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16]
[Playlist]
FORGET ME NOT
She’s a ghost of a love long lost—his wife, his home, and now a stranger. Between distant horizons and dangerous hunts, Ging Freecss returns to her side, again and again, chasing a memory that may never come back.
an Ging Freecss x reader fanfiction
STATUS: ONGOING...
[00] [01] [02] [03] [04] [05] [06][07]
Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~
an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.
~16~
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee usually brought Y/N a measure of comfort, but not today. Not with Edward Elric practically vibrating in front of her, the small café table threatening to buckle under his barely contained energy. Alphonse, ever the calmer of the two brothers, sat opposite her, his massive armor gleaming faintly in the morning light filtering through the central café window. Y/N clutched her mug, the heat a small anchor against the rising tide of her unease.
“It’s brilliant, Y/N, absolutely brilliant,” Ed declared, his golden eyes alight with a dangerous cocktail of determination and recklessness. He slammed a fist lightly on the table, making the sugar pot jump. “Scar’s back in Central. And we need to talk to one of the Homunculi.”
Y/N took a slow sip of her coffee, letting the warmth spread, trying to quell the anxious flutter in her stomach. “Let me just clarify,” she said, her voice deceptively calm. “Your plan… is to deliberately put targets on our backs, knowing Scar is targeting State Alchemists, just so the Homunculi, who have already told us they need us alive, will show up to save our hides, thus giving us a chance to interrogate them about why we’re ‘sacrifices’ and more info on ‘truth’ ?”
Alphonse’s helmet gave a slight nod. “That’s about it, Y/N. Ed thinks it’s the fastest way to get answers.”
Y/N closed her eyes for a brief moment, picturing the absolute idiocy of it all. It was so transparently Ed that it almost hurt. Only he could devise something so brazenly suicidal, so utterly devoid of subtlety. “It’s a really, profoundly stupid idea, Ed,” she stated, opening her eyes to meet his defiant gaze. A tiny part of her, however, couldn't help but admire his audacious courage, even if it was coupled with a complete lack of self-preservation. She just hated how much she trusted him, even when he was being an utter fool. “But… it just might work.”
A wide grin split Ed's face. “See? I knew you’d understand!”
“I understand that you’re insane,” she clarified, a small smile playing on her lips despite herself. “So, how do we get Scar’s attention without getting ourselves killed before a Homunculus can even blink?”
“Easy,” Ed puffed out his chest, leaning back in his chair with a confident smirk. “We make a scene. A big one. Show off our shiny State Alchemist certifications to the entire city. Scar hates alchemists, especially State Alchemists. He won’t be able to resist.”
And so, the grand, idiotic, meticulously planned bait-and-switch began.
Their first stop was a bustling square near the military headquarters. People were already out and about, street vendors hawking their wares, children chasing pigeons. It was the perfect stage. The midday sun beat down, almost as fiercely as Ed’s determination.
“Alright, Y/N, you first,” Ed said, nudging her towards a chipped fountain whose central statue had lost a hand.
Y/N sighed, adjusting the sleeves of her coat. She clapped her hands, and the residual water in the fountain basin responded to her will, rising in a graceful spire. With precise motions, she manipulated the flowing liquid, sculpting it into a temporary, shimmering hand perfectly matching the statue's missing limb. The water held its form, glistening under the sun, before she released her control, letting it fall back into the basin, leaving behind not a trace of the repair, merely a brief, beautiful illusion.
A murmur rippled through the onlookers. "It's the Water Alchemist!" someone whispered, recognizing the distinctive style and her familial resemblance to the Flame Alchemist.
Ed, not to be outdone, clapped his hands and slapped them onto the cracked paving stones nearby. Schink! With a flash of blue light, the fissures disappeared, the ground smooth and even once more. Not content, he then transmuted a discarded pile of rubble into a sturdy, albeit temporary, public bench, complete with a small, stylized lion head carved into each armrest. "There you go, folks! Take a load off!" he announced with a flourish.
Alphonse, towering over the crowd, simply straightened a leaning lamppost with a well-placed shove, then helped an elderly woman carry her heavy shopping bags, drawing smiles and appreciative nods. His sheer presence, and the unmistakable gleam of his armor, was enough to turn heads and guarantee their visibility.
Y/N watched Ed work, a knot tightening in her stomach. He was practically preening, drawing attention like a moth to a flame. He looked so confident, so reckless, so… Ed. And it made her both furious and undeniably drawn to him. This plan was a suicide mission, but if it meant getting answers, she’d follow him into the depths of hell. She just wished he didn't make her heart pound quite so hard when he looked at her, even in the middle of their dangerous charade.
They moved through Central City, leaving a trail of minor repairs and awe-struck citizens in their wake. An hour later, they found themselves near a public park, where a newly planted sapling was wilting. Y/N clapped her hands, drawing moisture from the air, creating a soft, misty rain that gently nourished the plant, causing its leaves to perk up almost instantly.
A sleek black military car, impeccably polished, pulled up alongside them with a soft, almost imperceptible hiss of its brakes. Y/N’ groaned, “No, not now”
The window slid down, revealing the familiar, intense gaze of Roy Mustang. "Edward, Y/N. Alphonse. What exactly are you three doing loitering around and showing off?" Y/N’s father fixed them with a scrutinizing stare, his features unreadable. Beside him, Lieutenant Hawkeye’s sharp, observant eyes swept over them, missing nothing.
Ed stiffened, forcing a casual shrug that didn’t quite reach his tense shoulders. "Colonel! Just, uh, enjoying the Central City ambiance, sir. A lovely day for a stroll." His voice was a shade too bright, his smile too strained.
"Ambiance?" Roy scoffed, an eyebrow lifting in a familiar gesture of disbelief. "You look like you're waiting for a firing squad. And Y/N, you're practically gnawing on your lip."
Y/N quickly released her lip, trying to manage a casual, dismissive wave of her hand. "No reason, Dad. Just… deep thoughts." She could feel Hawkeye’s gaze, steady and perceptive, assessing every nuance of their body language.
"Honestly, Colonel, it's nothing," Ed insisted, running a hand through his perpetually messy blond hair.
Roy looked from Ed’s evasive eyes to Y/N's forced cheer, then to Alphonse, whose armored head was slightly bowed. He let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Right. 'Nothing.' You three are giving me indigestion just by breathing. And you certainly can't discuss 'nothing' here where half of Central can overhear every syllable." He gestured to the bustling street with a curt flick of his hand. "Get in. Now."
Y/N exchanged a quick, worried glance with Ed. This was definitely not part of the plan. But arguing with her father when he was in full "Flame Alchemist" mode was a futile endeavor. With a collective, resigned sigh, the three of them began the awkward task of squeezing into the backseat. Alphonse's armor took up most of the space, leaving Ed and Y/N pressed uncomfortably close against him on either side. Y/N felt Ed’s warmth beside her, a strange comfort in the rapidly escalating predicament.
The car pulled away smoothly, Hawkeye expertly navigating through the thinning midday traffic. The silence within the vehicle was thick, punctuated only by the low hum of the engine and the fading city noise. Roy kept glancing in the rearview mirror, his expression a tight mask of paternal concern battling military suspicion. He drove them away from the main thoroughfares, turning down quieter residential streets, eventually pulling into a secluded cul-de-sac lined with old, ivy-covered houses. He cut the engine. The sudden quiet was deafening, amplifying the tension to an almost unbearable level.
Roy twisted in his seat, his gaze unwavering, settling first on Ed, then Y/N. "Alright, spill it. You're jumpier than a cat on a hot tin roof. What's happened?" His eyes narrowed, a familiar accusation in their depths.
They all squeezed out of the car onto the road, Roy offered no pleasantries. His eyes, usually dancing with calculated mischief, were cold and focused. “Doctor Tim Marcoh is missing. As of 0400 this morning, the village where he was hiding reported him gone. And, more concerningly, so is the small, modified Philosopher’s Stone he kept locked away.”
Y/N felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. Marcoh. The man whose research had exposed the horrific truth of their world, the human foundation of the Stone.
“Gone?” Al’s voice, hollow and metallic from inside his armor, echoed the shock they all felt.
Roy held his notebook open with the villagers' reports on . “It is a big possibility that the Military found him. Villagers reported seeing a woman, they seem to be describing one of the homonculi.” He paused, “Enough about that for now, what is the deal with you lot?”
Ed glanced at Alphonse, then quickly to Y/N, a silent acknowledgment of their shared purpose. “Well, the Homunculi made it pretty clear that Al, Y/N, and I are ‘sacrifices’ needed for… whatever grand plan they’ve cooked up. They told us they needed us alive.”
“Which means,” Ed continued, leaning forward, an unsettling fervor in his voice, “if we’re in danger, they have to intervene. They can’t let us die. Especially not at the hands of some random killer who isn't part of their plan.”
Roy’s brow furrowed. “Fullmetal, get to the point before I lose my patience.”
“The point, Colonel, is that we need to draw them out. Get them to show their faces, get them to talk. And the best bait we have… is Scar.”
A strangled sound escaped Roy’s throat, a mix of disbelief and fury. “You want to use yourselves as bait? Are you insane?! You want to intentionally put yourself, Alphonse, and more importantly, my daughter, in the path of a known mass murderer?” His voice rose with each word, his usual composure cracking under the strain. “He tried to kill you! He’ll kill Y/N if he gets the chance!”
Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs. She glanced at Ed, seeing the grim determination etched on his face. He was serious. Terribly serious. She understood his desperation for answers, for any path that might lead to Al's original body, but this… this felt like madness. A terrifyingly high-stakes gamble.
“It’s a controlled risk, Colonel,” Ed argued, pushing back. “We know he targets State Alchemists. We know he’s tried to kill us before. He’ll come. And when he does, the Homunculi will have no choice but to show themselves. We can press them for answers then. About being sacrifices, more about the 'truth portal,' about everything.”
Hawkeye stepped forward, her voice calm but firm, a stark contrast to Roy’s burgeoning anger. “Edward, your logic is gravely flawed. You’re assuming the Homunculi will act predictably, and that their intervention will be timely enough to prevent actual harm. Scar is not someone to be toyed with. He’s incredibly dangerous, and his methods are brutal. Even if they arrive, what’s to stop them from simply subduing Scar and then withdrawing without providing any information?”
“Or worse,” Roy interjected, his eyes burning into Ed, “what if they don’t get there in time? What if Scar succeeds? Then we've lost everything. We’ve lost you, Al, and Y/N. Your lives are not expendable pawns in some suicidal chess game, Fullmetal!”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat. Her father’s fear, so rarely displayed so openly, was palpable. It mirrored her own. The image of Scar, his powerful, tattooed arm poised to strike, flashed in her mind. She could create blades of water, defend herself, but Scar was a force of nature, a living embodiment of vengeance.
“It’s a risk we have to take!” Ed insisted, his own frustration mounting. He looked at Y/N, then back at Roy. “We’re not making progress just waiting around. We need to force their hand. This is the fastest way to get the information we need, to understand what they want with us, and how we can use it against them to get Al’s body back!”
Y/N Mustang’s fingers twitched at her side. She’d stayed silent, as usual, letting the men bicker, their voices rising like steam. But now, a prickling skittered down her spine. The kind that came before lightning.
Her gaze drifted to the dead end of the alley. A flicker. A shadow. Not the sun’s, either. Her breath hitched. There. Behind the rusted dumpster, something shifted, sinewy, deliberate.
“Guys,” she said softly, they didn’t hear her, she spoke again louder “Guys!”
Ed and Roy continued to argue.
“Guys!” her voice cutting through the argument.
They turned, eyes snapping to hers. “What?”
Her chin tilted downward, feigning a sudden interest in the cracks in the pavement. “I think we have company.”
Roy straightened. “What did you say?”
Al followed her line of sight, “Y/N…?”
Ed cursed, alchemy already crackling at his fingertips. “Are you in? Or you out Colonel?”
Roy exhaled, his gaze drifting to the horizon. The plan was reckless, but his team’s resolve was unshakable. With a curt nod, he relented. “Fine. But if I can’t stop you from charging into the fire, I’ll at least disrupt the fuel.”
Riza Hawkeye waited in the sleek black military car, its engine idling. She watched Roy approach, his expression unreadable. “You really think this will work?” she asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.
“They’ll send word to kill Scar,” Roy said, pulling the car into traffic. “If we jam their signals, they won’t be able to pin point where they are. Buy them some time.”
Y/N sprinted, her boots splashing through a puddle. Behind her, Edward’s automail clattered against the cobblestones, his breath ragged. Alphonse’s armor gleamed under the midday light, his voice tight with urgency. “This way!” he called, veering left into an alley.
Y/N cursed under her breath. The homunculi were patient, methodical. They’d take the bait… eventually. Today, that meant buying time.
And Scar was very eager to kill State Alchemists.
A flicker of movement caught Y/N’s eye, a figure stepping into their path. Scar. His arms bare and glistening in the sunlight. His eyes sharp as they locked onto them. “You three are everywhere,” he growled.
Ed slammed his automail fist into the ground. A transmutation circle flared, but Scar was faster. He lunged, his hand reaching through the air toward Y/N.
She twisted, summoning a whip of water from a stray puddle. The liquid lashed Scar’s wrist, forcing him to flinch back. “You’re blocking the exit,” she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline. “I’d move if I were you.”
Scar snarled. “You’re all monsters.”
Alphonse stepped forward, his armor glinting. “We’re not your enemy!”
“No, but they are,” Scar said, nodding at Y/N and Edward. With a burst of speed, he struck.
Edward’s automail blocked the first blow, but Scar pivoted, aiming for Y/N. She barely raised a sheet of water in time; the impact sent a jolt up her arms. Focus. She thrust her gloved hands forward, shaping the water into jagged blades, hurling them at Scar. He dodged, but Alphonse slammed into his side, buying Y/N time to create a slick barrier on the ground.
Scar slipped. Edward was on him, His hand transformed into a blade. “Stay down!”
“Nice try,” Scar hissed, rolling away. Blood trickled from a cut on his temple. His gaze flicked to the rooftops. Y/N followed his stare, nothing. But she felt it, a presence. Ling. Waiting. Watching.
Above, Ling crouched on a shingled roof, his yellow coat blended into the tiles. His eyes scanned the streets, fingers twitching near his twin swords. Where are you, homunculi? He’d played this game before, letting the others distract the predator while he struck the kill blow. Ambling down a side street, was a figure whose sheer bulk defied reason, Gluttony, the homunculus, his eyes two violet moons, tongue lolling like a serpent’s. Beside him strode King Bradley, Fuhrer of Amestris, his uniform pristine. Ling’s jaw clenched. So soon? The King? They don’t even bother with subtlety anymore.
He didn’t wait for them to reach Scar’s territory. With a whisper of fabric, he dropped from the roof, landing between them and their target. “You two look lost,” Ling called, his voice deceptively light.
Gluttony’s head snapped up, a child’s face twisting into a grin. “Food!” he barked, surging forward with a speed that belied his size.
Al’s armor slammed into Scar with a force that shook the ground, while Edward’s automail blade clashed against his arm. Y/N danced at the periphery, her water bending carving whips of high-pressure liquid through the air. Scar lunged, his attacks growing fiercer. Y/N darted forward, determined to close the distance, her water blades flickering like daggers. But as she focused on Scar’s movements, her foot caught on a loose shard of metal. She stumbled, her blades dissolving into droplets as she hit the ground hard.
“Y/N!” Edward’s cry split the air.
Scar’s eyes lit up. He raised his hands to unleash a fatal strike.
Time seemed to slow. Edward’s automail arm whirred as he spun, his body flying into place between Scar and Y/N. “Don’t. Look. Now.” The words were silent, but the urgency in his stance screamed them aloud.
Y/N scrambled backward, her breath catching as Scar’s alkahestry surged, a blinding arc of energy meant to sear through flesh and metal alike. But he stopped, hand stopped in mid-air.
Yet it was the why that froze Scar mid-motion.
Edward’s body shielded Y/N completely, his automail arm sizzling where the attack had struck. The Fullmetal Alchemist’s face was turned away, his profile etched with quiet resolve. But Scar saw the truth in the angle of his stance, the way his body had twisted to leave himself open. A younger brother’s instinct. A sacrifice echoing the one Ishvalan boy had made for him all those years ago. The memory struck Scar like a physical blow, the way his brother had thrown himself at the state alchemist’s array, how his last words had been a plea for Scar to live. Now, here was this boy, his golden eyes shadowed by the same self-destructive devotion.
Scar’s hands unclenched. The alkahestry faded.
A distant rumble shook the ground, and for a heartbeat, Scar hesitated. Alphonse seized the moment. Alphonse’s armor clanked as he surged forward, a transmutation circle drawn.
Sudden flashes of light drowned the alley as military trucks screeched to a halt, soldiers pouring out with guns raised. “Halt in the name of the military!” their captain barked. Scar froze, his gaze flicking to the teens.
A smirk curved his lips. “You’ll regret drawing the military’s attention,” he murmured, before shattering the vial at his feet. The ground heaved, sending him vaulting onto the truck’s roof. Soldiers fired, but he rolled off moments before, vanishing into the labyrinth of streets as shouts erupted.
Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs as she darted through the narrow alleyway, her boots slapping cracked cobblestones. Edward Elric’s hand closed briefly around her wrist, familiar, urgent, before he was gone, racing after Scar. Alphonse, in his towering suit of armor, followed so close behind that dust kicked up in twin plumes at his feet.
Y/N could still taste the metallic tang of adrenaline.
“Dammit,” Edward muttered, jaw clenched, glancing behind as they rounded another corner. The squeal of police boots and the sharp barking of orders trailed not far behind them. Y/N’s breath hitched. They needed distance, any distance, from the military police, if only to keep them from spoiling the reason they’d come here in the first place.
They were hunting Homunculi, not cops.
Y/N kept pace with Edward, her lungs burning. Water crystallized at the fingertips of her gloves as she shaped it instinctively into a razor-thin blade. She glanced toward her friend’s back, his golden hair plastered to his neck with sweat. She felt a pressure in her chest, so fierce it couldn’t just be the exertion. She wiped a strand of hair from her face, met Edward’s gaze for a second, an unspoken question passing between them: Are you all right?
He offered the faintest of nods, but his eyes flicked urgently back to the general direction of Scar.
They sprinted across the sun-bleached gravel of Central City’s industrial rail yard. The midday heat pressed down, shimmers of heat rising from rusted rails and idle freight cars. Beside her, Edward Elric, and somewhere behind her, the hollow clank of Alphonse’s armor echoed like a distant drum. They were close, Scar was close.
Y/N glanced back, dreading the sight of uniformed police officers fanning out behind them, shouting orders and sweeping up frightened laborers.
The hiss of escaping steam from a nearby locomotive mingled with distant sirens, police cars making their rounds.
A sudden clang, a steel beam loosening under tension, snapped their focus back to the yard. The wind picked up, carrying a faint hiss of alchemical energy. Scar was coming. His footsteps crunching across gravel. Y/N filled her lungs, water swirling at her fingertips. Edward braced his automail arm, and Alphonse’s massive gauntlet fists clenched.
Before he could strike, a dark silhouette emerged beyond Scar’s reflection in the metal, massive, bloated, slavering.
Gluttony.
Y/N froze, her blood running cold. The homunculus stepped between them and Scar, jaws gaping wide as drool dripped from yellowed teeth. “Food,” he moaned, each word forcing out more spittle. “Eat…him.” His monstrous hunger overshadowed everything, including their duel.
Edward cursed, launching himself towards Gluttony and Scar, automail fist clenched. “Ling said he would head them off before they could make their move!” Edward’s yell echoed through the yard. “So where the hell is he?!”
A sudden scrape echoed overhead. Y/N’s head snapped up. Before she could shout, Ling Yao dropped from the steel superstructure like a falling star, landing with a thunderous crash only meters from where they stood. The Xingese prince landed on the homunculus’s back, gripping its head for balance. Gluttony thrashed, but Ling held firm, pulling a grenade from his belt.
"Eat this!" Ling yanked the pin and shoved the explosive straight into Gluttony’s gullet.
The explosion tore through Gluttony’s body from the inside, turning his grotesque form into a burst of gore. Chunks of flesh and blackened viscera rained down, splattering Edward, Alphonse, and Y/N before they could react.
"Ugh! Disgusting!" Edward spat, wiping thick, slimy remains from his jacket.
Alphonse's armored body clanked as he shook off the debris. "At least Ling got him."
Y/N grimaced, flicking sticky tendrils of flesh from her sleeve. "Couldn't he have given us a warning?"
Ling landed gracefully on his feet, grinning. "What? You wanted a slow countdown?"
Edward Elric was already moving. "We can’t let him regenerate fully!" he shouted, automail fingers darting for the nearest rail coupling. "Al! Help me!"
Alphonse nodded, his metal body echoing with urgency as he yanked a steel bar from the ground. Together, they dragged the heavy rail segments—twisting and clanging, around Gluttony’s bloated form. The Homunculus groaned, already knitting himself back together, flesh bubbling like tar.
"Y/N, keep him still!" Edward ordered.
She didn’t hesitate. With a sharp motion, she lashed out. High-pressure streams of water sliced the air, striking Gluttony’s shoulders and pinning him against the twisted iron fence. The impact rang like cannonfire. Gluttony roared, black blood spraying, but the rails were closing in.
Edward and Alphonse heaved. The tracks snapped into place, crossing over Gluttony’s chest and limbs in a crude cage. Sparks flew as metal ground against metal. Y/N twisted her wrists, shaping water into razor-edged blades that she drove into the joints of the trap, welding the rails together with frozen ice and kinetic force.
"There!" Edward panted, stepping back. “He’s not going anywhere.”
Gluttony thrashed, his body pulsing with unnatural life, but the rails held, bent, scorched, yet unbroken.
But before they could catch their breath, a familiar and dreaded presence made his stomach drop.
Scar, he was pulling himself up from where he had been thrown during the earlier scuffle. His dark eyes burned with murderous intent "I will erase you," he growled, stepping forward.
The teens braced themselves, scarred and exhausted, they were in no shape for another fight. But just as Scar lunged, a sharp shot echoed through the yard.
A bullet struck Scar square in the thigh. He staggered with a pained grunt, turning his furious gaze toward the source of the shot. A sleek black car idled nearby, its passenger window rolled down. Smoke curled from the barrel of a pistol held by a woman with piercing golden eyes.
Ed blinked in surprise. "Lieutenant...?"
“Get in the car! Now!” Riza shouted to ling and the tied up homonculi. “Not a word about who I am,” she hissed, her gaze intense, looking toward Ed, Al and Y/N.
The midday sun glared down on the industrial rail yard, casting long shadows between the rusted train cars. Dust swirled in the hot air as Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye and Ling Yao sped away in a jeep, Gluttony bound and thrashing in the back.
Y/N Mustang wiped sweat from her brow, watching the vehicle disappear around a bend. "Think they'll make it without trouble?"
She's a ghost of a love long lost-his wife, his home, and now a stranger. Between distant horizons and dangerous hunts, Ging Freecs returns to her side, again and again, chasing a memory that may never come back.
an Ging Freecs x reader fanfiction
~07~
Aftermath
The desert wind howled its lament, a coarse, dry sound that scraped against the hospital's flimsy windows. Inside, the sterile air hummed with the mechanical rhythm of life support. A single, stark bulb cast a sickly yellow glow over the bed, illuminating the pale, still form of Y/N Freecss. Tubes snaked from her mouth, her nose, her arms, disappearing into an array of blinking, beeping machines. A thick bandage swaddled her head, stark white against her bruised skin. Each rise and fall of her chest was an artificial breath, forced by the ventilator.
Ging Freecss sat on a hard plastic chair, his large hands clasped between his knees, knuckles white. His usually vibrant eyes, the color of a summer sky, were dull, shadowed pools. His son, Gon, a tiny bundle swaddled in a hand-knitted blanket, slept fitfully in his arms, oblivious to the silent terror that gripped his father. The infant's soft, regular breathing was a stark contrast to the harsh, metallic sighs of the machine beside them.
“She’s a fighter, Ging,” a low voice rumbled from the doorway. Dr. Aris, a grizzled man whose face was a roadmap of worry lines, stepped into the room. His gaze swept from Y/N to Ging, then lingered on the sleeping baby. “Always has been. But this… this is bad.”
Ging didn't look up. “How bad?” His voice was a raw rasp, barely a whisper.
“The cranial trauma is significant. Swelling. We’ve managed to stabilize her, but the next 48 hours are critical. We don’t know what kind of lasting damage there might be.” Dr. Aris paused, his brow furrowed. “The team that brought her in said the ruins were unstable. What happened?”
A tremor ran through Ging’s broad shoulders. “I pushed her.” The words were a self-inflicted wound, each syllable laced with venomous guilt. “She hadn’t been on a mission since… before Gon. She was itching to get back, but she kept saying she wanted to wait, for Gon. I told her it was a quick run, an easy find. Just a few more days, I said. Just this one last time.” His voice cracked. “I told her she was wasting her talent, stuck at home.”
Dr. Aris sighed, a long, weary sound. “Ging, you can’t blame yourself for an accident.”
“Can’t I?” Ging finally lifted his head, his gaze burning with self-loathing. “She was rushing. She wanted to get back to Gon. That’s why she went into the unsecured section. Because I made her feel guilty for wanting to be a mother.” His eyes fell back to Y/N, her face serene in its unconsciousness, a cruel mask of peace. “She should be holding him right now. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely at the machinery that kept her alive.
Gon stirred in his sleep, a soft whimper escaping his tiny lips. Ging instinctively tightened his embrace, rocking him gently. The baby settled, a small fist still curled near his mouth.
“We’re doing everything we can, Ging,” Dr. Aris offered, his voice softer now. “She’s young, strong. We have to hope.” He glanced at the monitor displaying Y/N’s vital signs. “Her pressure’s holding steady. That’s a good sign.”
Days blurred into an agonizing cycle of beeps and hushed conversations. Ging rarely left Y/N’s side, only venturing out to change Gon’s diaper or grab a quick, tasteless meal. He spoke to Y/N constantly, recounting stories of their adventures, whispering promises of future hunts, describing Gon’s every tiny milestone.
“He smiled today, Y/N,” Ging murmured, his voice thick with emotion, one evening. He held Gon up, the baby’s bright, curious eyes fixed on his mother’s still form. “A real, honest-to-goodness smile. You should have seen it. Your smile, exactly. He needs you.”
The monotonous rhythm of the machines was occasionally punctuated by the frantic energy of nurses and doctors, their voices hushed but urgent. Ging watched, a silent sentinel, his heart a raw, exposed nerve.
Then, one morning, a different sound pierced the sterile quiet. A shallow gasp, a faint tremor rippling through Y/N’s body. The monitors shrieked, their lights flashing crimson.
“Get Dr. Aris!” a nurse shouted, her voice cutting through the tension.
Ging sprang to his feet, Gon still clutched to his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of hope and terror.
Doctors swarmed the bed, their movements swift and precise. A flurry of commands, the rustle of gowns, the sharp click of instruments. Ging was pushed back, a silent observer as they worked.
“She’s coming around!” a voice announced, laced with a mixture of surprise and relief.
Slowly, agonizingly, Y/N’s eyelids fluttered. Her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were unfocused, glazed with confusion. She blinked, once, twice, then tried to speak, but only a gurgle escaped the tube in her throat.
“Y/N? Can you hear me?” Dr. Aris leaned close, his voice calm and clear. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
A faint pressure, barely there, registered in his palm.
“She’s responding!” The nurse beamed.
Relief washed over Ging, so potent it almost buckled his knees. He stumbled forward, Gon still nestled against him. “Y/N? It’s me, Ging. You’re going to be okay.”
Her gaze drifted, unfocused, across the room, then landed on him. A flicker of recognition, then confusion, painted her features. Her brow furrowed, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. Her eyes, still hazy, moved from Ging’s face to the small bundle in his arms.
“We need to extubate her,” Dr. Aris instructed. “Carefully.”
The process was slow, deliberate. Each step explained, each reaction monitored. When the tube was finally removed, Y/N coughed, a harsh, dry sound that rattled her chest. She gasped for air, her throat raw.
“Drink this, slowly,” a nurse offered, holding a small cup of water with a straw.
Y/N took a shaky sip, her eyes still scanning the room, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Her gaze returned to Ging, then to Gon.
“Ging? When did you get old?...Is that a baby? ” Her voice was thin, reedy, barely a whisper. The words hung in the air, a chilling pronouncement.
Ging froze. His blood ran cold. “What?” He took a step closer, his heart seizing in his chest. “This is Gon. Our son.” He held the baby forward, his own face etched with a desperate plea.
Y/N’s eyes, still clouded with uncertainty, widened slightly as they focused on Gon. No recognition. No spark of maternal love. Only a blank, bewildered stare.
“Son?” She repeated the word, as if tasting a foreign language. “I… I don’t understand.” Her voice faltered, fear creeping into her tone. “Who is Gon?”
Dr. Aris stepped forward, his expression grim. “Y/N, you’ve been in an accident. You were buried in the K’tharr ruins. Do you remember that?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, a faint groan escaping her lips. “K’tharr… yes. The dust. The falling stone.” Her eyes snapped open, a flicker of memory. “I was… I was looking for the ancient tablets. The ones with the forgotten script.”
“Do you remember anything after that?” Dr. Aris pressed gently.
She shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. “No. Just… dark. And then… here. In this place.” Her gaze swept across the sterile room, the machines. “Why am I here?”
Ging’s heart shattered into a million pieces. The last five years. Gone. Erased. Their wedding, the joy of finding out they were pregnant, the agonizing wait, Gon’s birth, the first months of their son’s life. All of it, vanished from her memory.
“Y/N,” Ging began, his voice thick with unshed tears. “We got married three years ago. And… Gon, he’s our baby. He’s three months old.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but a tremor betrayed him.
Y/N stared at him, then at Gon, her expression a mixture of confusion and growing distress. “Married? But… we weren’t even engaged. And… a baby? I don’t… I don’t remember any of that.” Her voice rose, a thin thread of panic weaving through it. “I don’t know this baby.”
Gon, sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere, began to whimper, then cry, a soft, pathetic sound. Ging instinctively shushed him, rocking him gently.
“It’s okay, Y/N,” Dr. Aris said, his voice calm, reassuring. “This is a common side effect of severe head trauma. Amnesia. It’s possible the memories will return. We’ll need to run more tests.”
“Amnesia?” Y/N whispered, her eyes wide with a dawning horror. “You mean… I’ve forgotten?” She looked at Ging, her eyes pleading for an explanation, for a way out of this terrifying blankness. “Forgotten what?”
“Everything, Y/N,” Ging choked out, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his weathered cheek. “Everything important.” He held Gon closer, as if to protect the baby from the cruel truth.
Y/N’s gaze lingered on Gon, a tiny, unfamiliar face. The baby’s cries intensified, a wailing protest against the strange, cold world he found himself in. Y/N flinched.
“Make him stop,” she whispered, her voice strained, her eyes darting nervously. “Please. He’s… he’s so loud.”
Ging felt a fresh wave of agony. His wife, the woman who had dreamed of being a mother, who had glowed with joy at every flutter in her belly, was now repulsed by the sound of her own child’s cries.
“Y/N, he’s just scared,” Ging explained, his voice gentle despite the turmoil raging within him. “He doesn’t know what’s happening either.”
“I don’t know him,” she repeated, her voice firmer now, a desperate plea for understanding. “I don’t know why I’m here. And I definitely don’t know this… this baby.” Her eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, a familiar face, anything to ground her in a reality she no longer recognized. Her hands, still weak, fumbled with the thin hospital blanket, pulling it higher, as if to shield herself from the overwhelming unfamiliarity.
Dr. Aris stepped between them, his voice firm but compassionate. “Y/N, you need rest. We’ll talk more later. Ging, why don’t you take Gon to the waiting room for a bit? Let her adjust.”
Ging nodded numbly, his vision blurred. He turned and walked out, the wail of his son echoing in the sterile hallway, a mournful counterpoint to the shattering of his world. Each step was heavy, laden with a guilt that threatened to crush him. He had pushed her, he had made her rush, and now the woman he loved, the mother of his child, didn’t know either of them. The desert wind outside seemed to carry his silent scream.
He found a quiet corner in the waiting room, Gon still crying softly in his arms. He rocked the baby, tears streaming down his face, mingling with Gon’s. “She’ll remember, Gon,” he whispered, his voice raw. “She has to. She loves you. She loves us.” But even as he spoke the words, a cold dread settled in his heart. What if she didn’t? What if the last five years, the best years of his life, were gone forever?
Hours later, Dr. Aris found him, Gon finally asleep, nestled against Ging’s chest.
“She’s resting,” the doctor said, his voice subdued. “We’ve given her something to help her sleep. She was getting agitated.”
Ging looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Will she remember?”
Dr. Aris sat beside him, the plastic chair groaning under his weight. “It’s impossible to say, Ging. Amnesia, especially post-traumatic, is unpredictable. Some memories return quickly, others slowly, some never at all.” He paused, his gaze fixed on the sleeping infant. “We need to be prepared for the possibility that she may not remember the last five years. Or even parts of it.”
“Five years,” Ging repeated, the words tasting like ash. “Everything. Our life together. Gon.” His grip tightened on his son.
“We’ll do everything we can to help her, Ging. Therapy, memory exercises. But it will be a long road. And it will be hard.” Dr. Aris placed a hand on Ging’s shoulder, a gesture of quiet sympathy. “She’s going to need all the support she can get. From you. From Gon.”
The next few days were a torturous dance around the edges of Y/N’s amnesia. Each interaction was a delicate negotiation, a painful reminder of what they had lost.
“So, I willingly married you” Y/N asked one afternoon, her voice still weak, but a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. She picked at the edge of her blanket, avoiding his gaze. Ging nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “Yes, We bumped into each other on hunts more often than not.” He tried to inject a lightness into his voice, a hint of their shared past, a memory he hoped would spark something in her.
She frowned, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows.
She shook her head slowly, a deep sadness settling in her eyes. “I don’t remember that. Or… I think I do. It’s all a blur.” She looked away, her gaze drifting to the window, to the stark, unchanging desert landscape outside. “This is all… so confusing.”
Gon, who was now awake and cradled in Ging’s arm, made a soft cooing sound. Y/N flinched, her eyes darting to the baby.
“That… that’s Gon?” she asked, her voice tight, a hint of fear in her eyes.
“Yes, Y/N. He’s our son.” Ging moved closer, offering Gon for her to see, to touch.
She pulled back slightly, a subtle recoiling. “He’s… small. And… loud.” She looked at Ging, her eyes wide. “Did I… did I really have a baby?” A note of disbelief, almost revulsion, laced her voice. “I don’t remember being pregnant. I don’t remember any of it.”
Ging’s chest ached. He remembered her glowing, her belly round and full, her excitement as they prepared for Gon’s arrival. He remembered the pain and the joy of his birth. Now, it was a blank slate for her.
“You did, Y/N. You were so happy.” He tried to project warmth, love, a connection that was still real for him, even if it wasn't for her.
She looked at Gon, then back at Ging, her expression a mix of confusion and a faint, nascent fear. “I don’t feel happy. I feel… scared. And confused. And this… this baby. He’s a stranger.”
The words were a dagger to Ging’s heart, but he forced himself to remain calm. “He’s not a stranger, Y/N. He’s our son. He needs you. We both do.”
“I don’t… I don’t know how to be a mother,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I don’t know how to be a wife. I don’t even know who *I* am, really.” Her gaze fell to her hands, tracing the lines on her palm as if searching for answers there. “What kind of hunter was I? What did I like to do?”
Ging reached out, taking her hand. Her skin was cool, almost distant. “You were the best, Y/N. Brave, intelligent, always pushing the boundaries. You loved solving ancient puzzles, deciphering forgotten languages. You were obsessed with K’tharr, remember? The legends of the Sky City.” He squeezed her hand gently, trying to infuse warmth, memory, connection.
She pulled her hand away, slowly, almost imperceptibly. “K’tharr… yes. I remember the legends. That’s why I was there. To find the truth.” Her eyes, though still distant, held a spark of that old passion. “But what about… us? What about this baby?” She gestured vaguely towards Gon, who had now fallen asleep again, his tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically.
“We built a life, Y/N,” Ging said, his voice thick with emotion. “A beautiful life. We traveled, we hunted, we built a home. And then… Gon came. He was the best part of it all.”
She looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time since she’d woken up. Her eyes, though still holding that veil of confusion, were searching, trying to piece together the fragments of a life she couldn’t recall. “A beautiful life,” she repeated, the words flat, devoid of emotion. “But I don’t remember it.” A tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her temple. “It’s like… it never happened. And I’m supposed to just… accept it?”
“We’ll help you remember, Y/N,” Ging promised, his voice cracking. “We’ll tell you every story, show you every picture. We’ll go through it all, together.”
But a shadow of doubt, cold and sharp, pierced his resolve. What if the memories never returned? What if the woman he loved, the mother of his child, was forever lost to him, replaced by a stranger in her own body? The guilt, a heavy shroud, settled over him once more. He had pushed her. He had been so selfish. And now, he was paying the price. Gon, nestled against his chest, stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Ging held him tighter, a silent vow forming in his heart. He would fight for her. He would fight for their family. Even if it meant rebuilding their entire life, one painful memory at a time. The desert outside continued its mournful song, a fitting soundtrack to the quiet tragedy unfolding within the sterile walls of the hospital.
Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~
an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.
~15~
The morning sun, already high and warm, dappled the Rockbell porch in Resembool. Y/N Mustang stretched, a long, languid movement that ended with a contented sigh. Beside him, Den, the Rockbell’s shaggy, perpetually relaxed dog, snored softly, one paw twitching as if chasing phantom squirrels. The air smelled of freshly turned earth, distant woodsmoke, and Pinako’s famously robust coffee. A typical Resembool morning, save for the low murmur of Edward’s voice filtering from inside the house.
Y/N leaned his head against the weathered porch post, listening. Edward’s tone was hushed, unusually serious, and punctuated by pauses that indicated he was listening intently to the person on the other end. Y/N didn't need to be an alchemist to transmute the context; he knew exactly who Edward was talking to, and about what.
Yesterday had been… enlightening, if grim. The discovery that the remains Edward had tried to bring back weren't his mother, but a mere grotesque imitation forged from his desperation, had been a brutal truth. But in that truth, a new, unsettling clarity had emerged. If his transmutation hadn't been his mother, then what about Izumi Curtis, their formidable teacher, who had attempted the same taboo so many years ago?
Inside, Edward gripped the old-fashioned receiver, knuckles white. He could practically feel the heat of Izumi’s presence even through the crackling line, a tangible force radiating across the entire continent.
“Right, Teacher… Yeah, Granny and Y/N were there too. We… we dug it up again,” Edward began, his voice a little strained. He’d rehearsed this, but the words still felt heavy on his tongue. “Granny confirmed it wasn’t my mom. Just… something else. It was… well, it was exactly what you’d expect human transmutation to give you when you try to bring someone back.”
He paused, bracing himself. On the other end, he heard a sharp, almost imperceptible intake of breath from Izumi. He could picture her, standing in her kitchen in Dublith, arms crossed, brow furrowed in concentration, her eyes piercing.
“So… seeing what that was,” Edward continued, pushing past the lump in his throat, “and knowing what you went through… there’s a really good chance, Teacher, a really good chance, that whatever came back for you… it wasn’t your baby either.”
Silence. A long, heavy silence stretched between them, punctuated only by Den’s gentle snores outside. Edward flinched, preparing for an explosion, a lecture, perhaps even an alchemy punch that somehow defied the laws of physics and distance. Izumi was not one for soft truths or gentle reactions.
But when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost weary. “I see.” Another pause, then a long, deflating sigh. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” Edward affirmed, his resolve hardening. This wasn’t about breaking bad news gently; it was about delivering an unvarnished truth, the kind of truth only Izumi could handle. “The composition, the… the nature of the remains. It doesn’t even begin to match. It’s a husk, Teacher. A failed attempt to mimic something that once was. Nothing more.”
Another moment of silence, then, what sounded suspiciously like a choked laugh on Izumi’s end. “And all this time… I’ve carried that. Thank you, Edward.” Her voice was still quiet, but now laced with a strange, almost palpable relief. “Thank you for telling me. For being honest.”
Edward blinked. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected, but it made perfect sense for Izumi. She was a woman of logic and strength; a definitive answer, however painful, was better than lingering doubt. She’d always faced things head-on.
“It’s no problem, Teacher,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling awkward. “Just… thought you should know.”
Finally, with a firm, “Stay out of trouble, Edward,” Izumi hung up. Edward slowly lowered the receiver, feeling as though a great, unseen weight had been lifted from his chest.
He pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch, blinking in the bright morning light. Y/N watched him, a knowing glint in his eyes. Den, sensing Edward’s presence, merely yawned, showing a pink tongue before settling back into slumber.
Edward slumped onto the step next to Y/N, the morning sun glinting off his automail arm. “She took it… better than I thought,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
Y/N nodded, scratching Den behind the ears. “You gave her an answer, Ed. Even if it was one she probably didn’t want to hear, it’s still an answer. Closure, in a strange way.”
Edward let out a short, hollow laugh. “Yeah. So, no more ‘fake mom’ or ‘fake baby’ scenarios haunting us. Just… grim reality. The truth.” He looked out at the rolling hills of Resembool, the peaceful landscape belying the profound, unsettling conversation that had just concluded. “Turns out, the universe has a very particular sense of humor when it comes to messing with the dead.”
Y/N chuckled softly, a quiet, shared understanding passing between the two State Alchemists. “Just another Tuesday in the life of an alchemist, huh?”
Edward nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t start. I’m thinking about what Granny’s making for breakfast before I have to face the rest of the world.” The morning, though still carrying the echo of a difficult truth, felt lighter, imbued with the unexpected peace of knowing. Even if the truth was harsh, it was still the truth, and sometimes, that was enough.
Y/N Mustang and Edward Elric stood on the porch of the Rockbell home. Behind them, the sturdy figure of Pinako Rockbell, arms crossed, offered a gruff but warm farewell.
"Don't go causing any more trouble than you already have, you two," Granny Pinako warned, her gaze sharp, but a faint smile played on her lips. "And tell Alphonse I said hello."
Ed, ever the one to rise to a challenge, puffed out his chest. "Like we could even find trouble if we tried, Granny! We're just heading back to Central, perfectly behaved!"
Y/N snorted, leaning in to give Granny a quick, appreciative hug. "He says that, but remember how we ended up here in the first place, Granny? Dragged halfway across Amestris by a giant, sparkling Major Armstrong."
Granny Pinako chuckled, a sound like gravel rolling. "Sounds about right for you lot. Just try not to get yourselves blown up before you reach Central. Winry's got enough on her plate without worrying about replacing your limbs, Ed."
With a final wave and a promise to visit again soon, Ed and Y/N set off down the familiar dirt path, their footsteps kicking up tiny clouds of dust. The early sun cast long shadows, stretching their figures ahead of them towards the distant train station.
"She really is something, isn't she?" Y/N mused, watching Granny Pinako's silhouette shrink in the distance. "Bet it felt good to be back, even under such… unusual circumstances."
Ed grunted in agreement. "Yeah, I guess. Though I could've done without Armstrong's 'enthusiastic' company for a few days." He shuddered theatrically. "And that whole desert trip was just… hot. And sandy. And way too much 'secret mission' for my taste."
Y/N laughed, remembering the sheer absurdity of it all. Five days ago, they’d been abruptly pulled into a clandestine operation, whisked away to Resembool, only to be immediately propelled across the border into the desolate desert. Their mission? To illegally meet with Maria Ross before she vanished into hiding with Mr. Foo, Ling's bodyguard. It had been a whirlwind of high stakes and dusty espionage, all orchestrated to ensure the innocent woman’s safety.
"Still, it was worth it, right?" Y/N said, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "Seeing Ross alive and well… that relief was incredible. Knowing Dad didn't actually kill her, that it was all a ruse to save her, it just… it makes everything else feel lighter."
Ed nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah. It was. Though I'm still not entirely sure how Armstrong managed to pull off convincing everyone we were going for repairs in Resembool while he was actually planning an international border crossing. The man's a force of nature."
"A very sparkly force of nature," Y/N added, grinning. "But hey, at least we got three days of good food and a proper bed here after all that. Speaking of which, I think I gained five pounds from Granny's cooking."
"Rookie numbers, Mustang," Ed quipped, nudging her playfully with his elbow. "I'm pretty sure I'm half apple pie by now."
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the sound of crickets slowly fading as the morning truly began. Y/N’s thoughts drifted to Central, to Al. He had been waiting there, undoubtedly worried sick, while they were off on their adventures. The prospect of seeing him, of telling him the truth, filled her with warmth.
"Al's going to be so relieved," Y/N said, breaking the silence. "He was so cut up about Ross."
"Yeah, he's probably been moping around the hotel like a giant metal emo," Ed agreed, a fond grin on his face. "But he'll be over the moon when we tell him. He really had us worried for a bit there, Old Man."
"Don't call my dad 'Old Man'," Y/N retorted, though her tone was playful. "And he is an idiot sometimes, but he did good this time. He saved an innocent life."
"True," Ed conceded. "And now we get to be the bearers of good news. Think of the look on his face when we tell him Maria Ross is alive and kicking, and that your dad didn't actually commit murder."
The image of Al's relief, his enormous armored body slumping with joy, brought another wave of contentment to Y/N. This whole ordeal had been tense, dangerous, and utterly exhausting, but knowing that justice had been served and that a good person was safe made it all worthwhile.
As the small, quaint Resembool train station came into view, a puff of steam rising from a train already waiting on the tracks.
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels on the track was a familiar lullaby to the both of them. Y/N sat by the window, her reflection staring back at her, a gentle smile playing on her lips. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the passing countryside, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. Beside her, Edward, his golden hair catching the light, was engrossed in a journal, his brow furrowed in concentration.
They were heading back to Central, a destination that brought a quiet sense of comfort to both of them. The thought of familiar surroundings, of Roy Mustang’s gruff but fond greetings, and the camaraderie of their fellow State Alchemists, was a welcome one.
Y/N turned her gaze from the window to Edward. His focused expression was endearing, a stark contrast to the fiery temper she knew him to possess. She remembered their first meeting, the impulsive bravado that had initially irked her, and the slow, steady build of friendship that had followed. Now, it felt as natural as breathing.
“Anything interesting in there, Ed?” she asked, her voice soft, not wanting to break his concentration too abruptly.
Edward startled slightly, then let out a huff. “Nothing special, honestly." He closed the journal with a decisive snap, turning his bright, intelligent eyes towards her. “What about you? Daydreaming about Central?”
Y/N chuckled. “Something like that. Just… enjoying the ride.” She paused, then added, “It’s good to be heading back.”
Edward nodded, a genuine smile finally gracing his features. “Yeah. It is.” His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, a warmth flickering in his golden eyes. Y/N felt a familiar flutter in her chest, a sensation she’d been feeling more and more recently, pushing it to the back of her mind.
He shifted slightly, his elbow brushing against hers. A spark, not literal, but something akin to it, pulsed through her. She quickly looked away, her cheeks feeling a touch warmer than the afternoon sun warranted. Edward, too, seemed to subtly adjust his position, his own gaze returning to the closed journal, though his attention was clearly no longer on the book.
The squeal of the train brakes was a welcome sound to both Edward and Y/N. As the doors hissed open, they were greeted by the cool evening air of Central City’s bustling train station.
“Finally,” Ed grumbled, stretching his arms above his head.
Y/N chuckled, adjusting the strap of her own satchel. Her gaze, tinged with a familiar warmth, drifted towards Edward. “You too, I bet.”
Edward’s eyes met hers, a shared understanding passing between them. Y/N offered a weak smile, her gaze sweeping over the bustling station before settling on the imposing facade of their hotel. “You think Al and Winry will be surprised?”
“Surprised is an understatement,” Edward chuckled, a genuine spark returning to his eyes. “Especially when we tell them about Maria Ross.” The news they carried was both startling and undeniably crucial, a twist that would undoubtedly shift the landscape of their recent investigations.
They entered the hotel lobby, its opulent décor a stark contrast to the urgency of their mission. A quick check-in, and then they were ascending in the elevator, the small space amplifying the nervous energy crackling between them. As the doors slid open on their floor, a faint clatter of silverware and the murmur of voices reached them.
“That’s weird,” Edward muttered, tilting his head.
They followed the sounds to the door of their designated room, their shared accommodation. Edward paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. The clatter grew louder, punctuated by the distinct sound of a fork scraping against a plate.
With a shared glance, Edward pushed the door open.
The scene that greeted them was both unexpected and, frankly, a little absurd. Alphonse, his armored form a familiar sight, was seated at a small table, his gaze fixed on a plate of untouched pastries. Winry, her wrench tucked casually into her belt, was across from him, looking more exasperated than hungry. But it wasn't their presence that stole Y/N’s breath.
Seated at the table, making themselves entirely at home, were Ling Yao and Lan Fan. Ling, his eyes wide with an almost childlike delight, was enthusiastically devouring a plate piled high with what looked like an assortment of gourmet meats. Lan Fan, ever vigilant, was calmly picking at a delicate salad, her movements precise and economical. The room was filled with the aroma of their extravagant room service, an aroma that distinctly wasn't what Edward had been expecting.
Ling looked up, his mouth full, and his eyes widened further as he spotted them. “Ah! Edward! And… you must be Y/N!” he exclaimed, crumbs scattering from his enthusiastic gesture.
Lan Fan’s head snapped up, her stern expression softening ever so slightly at their arrival.
Edward blinked, his jaw slack. “Ling? Lan Fan? What are you guys doing here? And… eating my room service?” The last part was delivered with a bewildered, slightly indignant tone.
Alphonse’s helmeted head turned towards them, a sheepish metallic clink echoing in the room. “Ed! Y/N! You’re back! We were starting to worry…” His voice trailed off as he gestured vaguely at the feast before them. “Ling and Lan Fan arrived a little while ago. They said they were expecting us and just… helped themselves.”
Winry sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Honestly, Ed. I was starting to think you’d been abducted by aliens or something. And then these two show up, acting like they’re royalty, ordering enough food to feed an army, and all I could do was watch.” She shot a pointed look at Ling, who merely offered a jovial, albeit guilty, grin.
Y/N couldn’t help but let out a laugh, the tension that had been coiling in her chest for days beginning to dissipate. The sheer absurdity of the situation was almost too much. Edward, however, was in no mood for Ling’s antics. He had a singular, earth shattering revelation to deliver, and Ling’s rumbling stomach was not on the agenda. "Alright, you two," Ed barked, his voice sharper than usual, making Ling flinch and Lan Fan’s hand instinctively dart to her kunai, before realizing it wasn't a threat. "Party's over. You need to leave."
Ling blinked, a pastry halfway to his mouth. "Leave? But I haven't even finished scouting for potential snacks! And what about the important business we were discussing earlier, Full-"
"Later!" Edward cut him off, jabbing a thumb towards the door. "Go find a new restaurant. Go stare at a wall. Just go." He looked pointedly at Lan Fan, who, with an almost imperceptible sigh, gently but firmly took Ling by the arm. Ling grumbled and protested, trying to wiggle free and demand answers about why he was being evicted from the 'potential snack zone', but Lan Fan was relentless. With a final, bewildered look at the four friends, Ling was steered out, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving a sudden, profound quiet in their wake.
The shift in the room was immediate and palpable. The air, heavy with Ling's presence seconds ago, now hummed with a different anticipation. Edward turned to Alphonse and Winry, his usual cocky grin absent, replaced by a look of fierce determination and a glimmer of newfound hope.
"Sorry about the radio silence," Ed began, running a hand through his hair. "Y/N and I… we've been busy." He glanced at Y/N, who offered him a small, encouraging smile, her own exhaustion evident in the shadows under her eyes, but her gaze was resolute. She'd been with him every step of the way, just as focused. "We went back to Resembool. To the old house. We… dug up the site of our failed human transmutation."
Alphonse stiffened in his armor, his helmet tilting slightly. Winry gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. The memory was a decade old, but the horror of it was fresh, etched into their very beings.
"We re-examined everything," Edward continued, his voice low but firm, like a promise being forged. He clenched his fists. "And we realized something, something that should have been obvious all along, but we were too young, too scared, too guilty to see it. That... thing we created ten years ago?" He paused, letting his words hang in the air, allowing the weight of them to settle. Y/N stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, her presence a silent testament to their shared discovery.
"It wasn't Mom," Edward declared, the words ringing with a clarity that shook the foundations of their decade-long guilt. "It couldn't have been. It looked nothing like her, and more importantly, it was anatomically wrong in too many places. It was just… a collection of raw ingredients, haphazardly thrown together without a proper soul."
A silence descended. Alphonse stood frozen, his metallic gaze fixed on his brother.
"Which means," Ed pressed on, his eyes burning with renewed conviction, "if that thing wasn't Mom, and we paid the toll with her body on top of everything else… then my compensation, my leg and arm, and your entire body, Al… they must still be out there. We didn't transmute them into that homunculus-thing, we just… offered them up to the Gate."
His voice grew louder, picking up speed, a desperate, exhilarating hope taking root. "And if the Gate takes things, and it shows you the Truth when you pass through… where else would your body be, Al? Where else could it possibly exist, perfectly preserved, waiting to be reclaimed, if not somewhere within the very fabric of the Portal of Truth itself?"
Alphonse let out a shuddering, metallic breath, a sound like a gasp trapped in a tin can. Winry slapped her hands over her mouth in shock, eyes darting between Ed and Al. Edward looked at his brother, a genuine, hopeful smile finally gracing his lips. "I'm sure of it, Al. One hundred percent. We're going to get it back. Your body is waiting for you."
The clock on the bedside table ticked a little louder, marking the late hour. "Speaking of safe and sound," Winry said, standing up and stretching, "I need to pack. My train is on the first departure. Rush Valley waits for no one, and I've got a mountain of repairs to get through." She began gathering her belongings, a purposeful energy radiating from her.
Alphonse’s helmet tilted slightly. “You’re right, Winry. We should probably let you get to it. We’ll see you off tomorrow morning, though, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Winry chirped, already heading towards her duffel bag laid out on the second bed.
Ed stopped his pacing, turning to Y/N. “It’s pretty late, Y/N. And your place isn’t exactly around the corner.” He exchanged a look with Al. “How about we walk you home?”
Y/N felt a warmth spread through her chest. While she wasn’t at all nervous about walking home alone, Central City might be big, but she was a State Alchemist, perfectly capable of handling herself, the gesture was sweet and entirely characteristic of the Elric brothers. Especially Ed. Their bond, forged over countless missions and shared experiences, ran deep. She admired his impulsiveness and fierce loyalty, and he, in turn, respected her calm pragmatism and sharp intellect.
“You don’t have to,” Y/N said, though a genuine smile touched her lips. “I’m perfectly fine walking by myself.”
“Nonsense!” Ed waved a dismissive hand. “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Besides, what if some shady character tries to accost you? You’d be defenseless without us.” He winked, clearly joking, knowing full well Y/N could probably turn any ‘shady character’ into a puddle without breaking a sweat.
Alphonse nodded earnestly. “He’s right, Y/N. It’s no trouble at all. We’d be happy to.”
Y/N met Ed’s gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. He was more than just a colleague; he was a steadfast friend, and she appreciated the unspoken care in his offer. “Alright,” she conceded, standing up. “If you insist on being my personal escorts.”
Winry paused her packing, looking up with a knowing grin. “Be good, you three. And don’t get into any trouble on the way, Ed.”
“Me?” Ed feigned innocence. “Trouble follows me, Winry. I don’t go looking for it.”
“Sure it does,” Winry muttered, returning to her bag.
With a final wave to Winry, the three stepped out of the hotel room and into the cool night air of Central City. The streets were less crowded now, the sounds of distant traffic and the occasional late-night pedestrian filling the quiet. They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythmic crunch of their boots on the pavement the only sound, before Ed broke it.
“Seriously though, Y/N, how many times did you want to just transmute a swimming pool in the middle of that desert?” he asked, a playful glint in his golden eyes.
Y/N chuckled. “More times than I can count, Ed.” She shivered slightly as a cool gust of wind swept down the street.
Their easy banter flowed, a comfortable rhythm developed over years of working together. Edward and Y/N shared a bond deepened by shared dangers and long, often frustrating, missions. Al, ever the grounding presence, kept their energy from spiraling too wildly. They turned onto a quieter residential street, the lamplight casting long, dancing shadows. Y/N’s apartment building was just a few blocks away. She certainly wasn't nervous about walking the rest of the way alone, but she always appreciated the Elrics' company.
Suddenly, a figure burst from the shadows of an alleyway ahead, a whirlwind of flailing limbs and frantic huffing. Sergeant Brosh, his usually neat uniform disheveled, skidded to a halt in front of them, eyes wide with alarm. He looked like he’d run across half of Central.
"Fullmetal! Y/N!" Brosh gasped, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath. His gaze darted nervously around the street, then fixed on Edward with an urgency that instantly killed their lighthearted mood.
Edward’s expression sharpened, all traces of amusement vanishing. "Sergeant? What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Worse," Brosh wheezed, straightening up. His voice dropped, thick with a mix of fear and grim determination. "Scar. He's alive."
The words hung in the air, heavy and chilling. Y/N felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. Scar. The Ishvalan Avenger. He was supposed to be dead, or at least gone.
"Alive?" Edward snarled, his automail hand clenching into a fist. "But… but the reports said-"
"The reports were wrong!" Brosh cut him off, his voice rising with a new note of panic. "He's back, Fullmetal. And he's already struck again. Another State Alchemist, found an hour ago, desecrated. The same M.O." His eyes, normally jovial, were now steel-hard. "This isn't a drill. You two need to get back to your hotel. Now. Colonel Mustang has everyone on high alert."
Y/N felt a shiver, not of fear for herself, but of dread for what this meant. Scar was a force of destructive power, a man driven by a terrible, righteous fury against all State Alchemists. Her father, her friends, all of them were targets.
Edward, however, was bristling. "Back to the hotel? But Y/N-"
"I'll walk Y/N the rest of the way," Brosh interjected firmly, stepping between Edward and Y/N. "My orders are explicit, Fullmetal. You and Alphonse are priority targets. Too many near misses. The Colonel wants you two under lock and key until we have a better handle on this." His hand briefly touched Y/N's shoulder, a reassuring but urgent gesture.
Edward's face was a mask of furious frustration, his golden eyes blazing. He glanced at Y/N, a silent question passing between them. He clearly hated the idea of leaving her, especially with Scar on the loose. Y/N could feel the heat radiating off him, the potent mix of worry and protective instinct.
"Ed, it's fine," Y/N said, her voice calm despite the tremor she felt inside. She met his gaze, trying to convey a reassurance she didn't entirely feel. "Sergeant Brosh is right. We are both targets. Go. I'll be fine." She was fine. She was a State Alchemist herself, capable of defending herself against most threats. But Scar was a different kind of threat entirely, and a part of her also understood the deep concern in Edward's eyes.
Alphonse, ever perceptive and pragmatic, placed a large gauntleted hand on Edward's shoulder. "He's right, brother. We need to go. Y/N, be careful."
Edward reluctantly clenched his jaw, his gaze still locked on Y/N, then shifted to Brosh, a clear warning in his eyes. "You get her home safe, Brosh. Or I swear-"
"You have my word, Fullmetal," Brosh said, his voice grave. "Now go!"
With a frustrated grunt, Edward turned, Al following his lead. They hesitated for a moment, then began to jog back the way they came, their figures quickly swallowed by the shadows, leaving Y/N and Brosh alone on the quiet street.
The comfortable silence was replaced by a tense quiet. Y/N looked at Brosh, then back down the street where the Elrics had vanished. Scar. The name itself was a cold blade. He was a force of nature, a living embodiment of the Ishvalan tragedy, and his return meant a new wave of terror for State Alchemists.
"Come on, Y/N," Brosh said, his voice softer now, but still edged with urgency. "Let's get you inside." He began walking, keeping a vigilant eye on their surroundings.
Y/N Mustang stepped onto the familiar porch of her home. The porch light flickered on, casting a warm glow, and for a moment, she simply stood there, the day’s exhaustion settling into her bones. She’d endured three days of relentless heat and sand, a whirlwind she’d been dragged into by Major Armstrong, all to see a woman she’d believed her father had murdered.
As she fumbled with her keys, the front door creaked open. Silhouetted in the hall light stood her father, Roy Mustang, his usual sharp uniform replaced by a comfortable robe. He looked… worried.
“Y/N,” he began, his voice softer than she’d heard it in days. “You’re back.”
Y/N’s stomach twisted. She’d been so furious, so convinced of his guilt. The image of Maria Ross, very much alive and well, had been a shock, a relief, and a stark reminder of her blinding anger.
“Dad,” she managed, her voice catching slightly. She stepped inside, the familiar scent of old books filling her senses. “I… I’m sorry.”
Roy’s shoulders visibly relaxed. He moved closer, a hesitant smile playing on his lips. “You have every right to be, kiddo. I should have told you. I should have trusted you with the truth from the start.”
Y/N looked down at her scuffed boots. “I thought you killed her. Maria. I hated you for it.” The words tasted bitter, a confession of her own misplaced fury. “I was so angry, so sure…”
He reached out, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. His touch was grounding. “And I understand why. It looked bad. But Maria was in danger, Y/N. Real danger. And I… I made a choice to protect her, even if it meant you hated me for a while.”
Y/N finally met his gaze, seeing the weariness etched around his eyes, the genuine regret. “But you faked her death. To keep her safe.”
“Exactly,” Roy confirmed, his grip firm but gentle. “Armstrong was instrumental in making sure she could disappear and start a new life. It was all part of a plan.”
A wave of relief, tinged with a lingering unease, washed over Y/N. She’d spent days in the desert, her mind a churning storm of accusations and despair, only to find out it was all a ruse. A necessary one, she now understood, but a ruse nonetheless.
“The desert,” Roy continued, his expression shifting from somberness to a hint of curiosity. “Armstrong dragged you and Fullmetal out there, didn’t he? How was it? Did you manage to accomplish anything beyond… well, beyond what needed to be done?”
Y/N’s shoulders slumped, and a grumpy sigh escaped her lips. The thought of the desert was enough to make her skin crawl with remembered heat. “It was awful, Dad. Absolutely awful.”
Roy chuckled, a warm sound that eased some of the lingering tension. “Awful? That’s high praise from you, Y/N, considering how much you usually love a good challenge.”
“No, seriously,” she insisted, running a hand through her hair. “It was just… hot. So hot. My water alchemy was barely effective. Every drop I conjured felt like it evaporated before it even left my hands. I felt like a dried-up prune for three days straight. And the sand! It got everywhere. In my hair, in my clothes, in my eyes. I think I’ve swallowed enough sand to build a small castle.”
She imagined the meticulous care she usually took with her alchemy, the elegant control over water molecules, and then pictured it battling against the relentless, dry heat of the arid wasteland. It was a testament to her skill that she hadn’t completely withered.
Roy was laughing now, a genuine, unrestrained laugh. “I can only imagine.
“The Major kept talking about the ‘endurance of the human spirit’ and ‘testing one’s mettle’,” Y/N grumbled, mimicking the Major’s booming tone. “All I felt was the endurance of my sweat glands and the mettle of my patience being tested to its absolute limit.”
“Well,” Roy said, clapping her on the back, “at least you’re home. And you’re safe. And thankfully, no one actually had to kill Maria Ross.” He paused, his gaze softening. “I’m glad you’re back, Y/N. And I’m glad we can finally clear the air.”
Y/N leaned into his touch, the anger and suspicion finally dissipating, replaced by the comforting familiarity of home and family. “Me too, Dad. Me too.”
She's a ghost of a love long lost-his wife, his home, and now a stranger. Between distant horizons and dangerous hunts, Ging Freecs returns to her side, again and again, chasing a memory that may never come back.
an Ging Freecs x reader fanfiction
~06~
K'tharr
The K'tharr sun, a relentless, brassy eye, beat down upon the desert floor, baking the ancient stones to a shimmering haze. Heat waves danced above the ochre dunes, distorting the distant outlines of the expedition's temporary camp. Y/N Freecss, a scarf wrapped tight around her head to ward off the searing rays, felt the familiar thrill of discovery hum beneath her skin. This was her world. The dust, the silence broken only by the wind's whisper through weathered rock, the promise of forgotten histories etched into crumbling walls – it all sang to her. She missed it with an ache that had grown profound during her time away.
Three and a half weeks. She traced the rough-hewn lines of a glyph with a gloved finger, the stone cool beneath the fabric despite the oppressive heat. Three and a half weeks, and the four-week deadline she'd set for herself loomed like a shadow on the horizon. Gon’s tiny fists, Ging’s exasperated but loving grin – they flashed in her mind, a comforting anchor amidst the swirling sands of K’tharr. She knew Ging, bless his wild heart, was capable. He’d manage. He always did. But the gnawing worry, a new, tender thing born with her son, persisted.
"Another one, Y/N?" A voice, dry as the desert air, cut through her contemplation. It belonged to Kael, a man whose face was a roadmap of sun-creases and ancient grudges, his pickaxe resting on his shoulder. "You've been practically devouring these walls since dawn."
Y/N turned, a half-smile playing on her lips. "They speak to me, Kael. More clearly than most people." Her gaze drifted to the entrance of the chamber he’d just emerged from. It was a recent find, a deeper recess in the labyrinthine K’tharr complex, its air thick with the scent of old earth and something else, something metallic and sharp.
"Be careful in there, Y/N," Kael continued, his brow furrowed. He motioned with his chin towards the entrance. "That section… it hasn't been properly reinforced yet. We just shored up the main access tunnel, but the interior chambers are still dicey. A little too much wind, a little too much… *you* rummaging around, and it could come down like a house of cards."
Another colleague, Lyra, a wiry woman with quick eyes and even quicker hands, joined them, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. "He's right, Y/N. We just heard a groan from the support beams in there. Didn't sound happy."
Y/N’s eyes, keen and bright, scanned the dark opening. A fresh surge of adrenaline, the kind that always accompanied a promising discovery, coursed through her veins. She felt the pull, an irresistible siren song from the ancient past. The glyphs she’d been studying outside hinted at a deeper, more significant chamber within, perhaps a royal crypt, or a repository of forgotten knowledge. Her four-week promise echoed in her head. She couldn’t leave this stone unturned. She wouldn’t.
"I’ll be quick," she assured them, her voice firm, already moving towards the entrance. "Just a preliminary scan. I want to see if the symbols continue, if there’s a pattern."
Kael stepped forward, his hand reaching out as if to physically stop her. "Y/N, really. It’s not worth it. We can shore it up properly tomorrow. A few more hours won't make a difference."
"A few more hours is a few more hours away from my son, Kael." Her voice held a sharper edge than she intended, betraying the underlying anxiety that fueled her urgency. "I promised I'd be back. I need to make every moment count." She offered a reassuring, if fleeting, smile. "I'm a Freecss. I know how to handle myself."
She ducked under the low archway, the air immediately growing cooler, heavier, carrying the earthy tang of millennia. Her headlamp cut a bright swathe through the gloom, illuminating walls carved with intricate, swirling patterns. These weren't mere decorations; they were stories, histories, waiting to be deciphered. The thrill intensified, pushing aside the last vestiges of caution.
"See? Nothing to worry about," she murmured to herself, her voice echoing in the confined space. A faint *creak* from above, like an old ship groaning in a storm, made her pause. She looked up, her beam tracing the ceiling. Cracks, thin as spiderwebs, crisscrossed the stone. She noted them, but her gaze quickly dropped back to the wall, drawn by a particularly complex series of glyphs. They were unlike anything she’d seen in the outer chambers, their forms suggesting a deeper, more esoteric meaning.
"Oh, you magnificent bastards," she whispered, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "What secrets do you hold?"
She pressed closer, her fingers tracing the cold, rough stone. The symbols seemed to dance in her headlamp's beam, inviting her to unravel their narrative. One particular carving, depicting a winged serpent devouring a star, captivated her. It pulsed with an almost tangible energy, drawing her focus completely.
Outside, Lyra wrung her hands. "She's been in there too long, Kael. I don't like this."
Kael grunted, his eyes fixed on the dark opening. "She's stubborn as a desert mule, that one. Always has been. But she’s good. She knows these ruins better than anyone."
"Knowing them doesn't make them stable," Lyra retorted, her voice tight with unease.
Inside, Y/N was lost. The world outside the chamber, her worries about Gon, the four-week deadline – all faded, replaced by the ancient narrative unfolding before her eyes. The air grew still, heavy, as if the very stones held their breath. A faint tremor, barely perceptible, ran through the ground beneath her feet.
She frowned, finally tearing her gaze from the wall. Was that… a distant rumble?
*CRACK!*
The sound ripped through the silence, loud and sharp, directly above her. Not a groan, but a tearing, splintering shriek of stone under immense pressure. Dust, fine and choking, rained down from the ceiling.
"Oh, hell," Y/N breathed, her heart lurching. Her headlamp beam shot upwards, revealing a widening fissure, a jagged maw opening in the ancient rock.
"Y/N!" Kael's shout, muffled by the stone, reached her. "Get out of there, now!"
She didn't need to be told twice. Her body reacted before her mind fully processed the danger, turning to bolt back towards the entrance. But it was too late.
A deeper, guttural *GRROOOOANNNN* reverberated through the chamber, a sound of unimaginable weight shifting. The ground bucked violently beneath her feet, throwing her off balance. The air filled with a terrifying, deafening symphony of destruction: the sharp *CRACK* of breaking rock, the grinding *SCREEEEEEE* of stone against stone, the deep, resonating *THUD* of massive blocks dislodging.
She stumbled, her hands instinctively reaching out, scraping against the rough wall. Her headlamp, jostled by the tremors, flickered wildly, casting chaotic shadows that danced like vengeful spirits. A section of the ceiling, directly in front of her, detached with a sickening *WHOOSH*, plummeting to the ground in a cloud of pulverized rock.
"Y/N! RUN!" Lyra's scream, raw with terror, pierced the cacophony.
Y/N pushed forward, scrambling over newly fallen debris, the dust so thick she could barely see. Her lungs burned with every gasping breath. The air grew impossibly heavy, pressing down on her, stealing her oxygen. She could feel the vibrations through her very bones, the entire structure groaning its death rattle.
*CRUUUMMMMBLLLEEE!*
The entrance, her only way out, imploded in a shower of sparks and dust. A colossal slab of stone, as large as a small house, slammed down, sealing the passage with a final, crushing *BOOOM*. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground that knocked her off her feet. She landed hard on her side, her headlamp tumbling away, plunging her into near-total darkness.
A choked gasp escaped her lips. The air was thick with pulverized rock, gritty and acrid. She could taste it, feel it coating her tongue, burning her throat. The pressure intensified, a suffocating weight. Above her, the sounds of collapse continued, a relentless, terrifying descent. Smaller rocks rained down, pelting her back and shoulders.
She tried to push herself up, but a sharp, searing pain shot through her leg. Her hand instinctively went to her thigh, feeling the warm, sticky wetness of blood. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of her mind.
"Kael… Lyra…" Her voice was a ragged whisper, swallowed by the roar of the crumbling ruins.
Outside, Kael and Lyra stood frozen for a horrifying second, watching the entrance to the chamber vanish behind a curtain of dust and falling rock. The ground shuddered violently, throwing them both to their knees.
"Y/N!" Kael bellowed, his voice raw with disbelief and terror. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the falling debris, and lunged towards the newly formed wall of rubble. He began tearing at the stones with his bare hands, his face contorted with desperation.
"She's in there! Oh, gods, she's in there!" Lyra cried, tears streaming down her dust-streaked face. She joined Kael, her own hands clawing at the rock, heedless of the sharp edges tearing at her skin. "Y/N! Can you hear us?!"
Inside, the darkness was absolute, broken only by the faint, rhythmic *drip, drip, drip* of water somewhere nearby, an ironic counterpoint to the monumental destruction. Y/N lay amidst the rubble, her body aching, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The dust settled slowly, coating everything in a fine, suffocating layer. She could feel the weight of the collapsed ceiling above her, a crushing presence.
She was pinned under heavy stones, unconscious, unmoving. Blood pooled around her, leaking from the gash in her head.
The sounds of her colleagues, faint and distant, echoed around her. The frantic scraping of rock, the muffled shouts.
A new tremor, smaller this time, rippled through the debris. A pebble dislodged from above, bouncing off her head. A single tear tracing a clean path through the grime on her cheek. The darkness pressed in, heavy and absolute, like a shroud. She could feel the cold, the silence now settling, broken only by the slow thumping of her own heart, and the distant, muffled sounds of her friends frantically digging. The air grew thinner, tasting of earth and fear.
Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~
an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.
~14~
The acrid tang of formaldehyde and burnt sugar clung to the air, a familiar, unwelcome perfume in the sprawling, cluttered laboratory. Slave twenty-three dragged the saturated mop across the grimy flagstones, leaving a temporarily cleaner, but no less stained, path in its wake. His blonde hair, often matted with sweat, fell into his golden eyes, which usually remained vacant, scanning the floor for overlooked streaks, but never truly seeing. He was simply an extension of the mop, a tool of labor, as he had been for all of his sixteen years in the bustling country of Cselkcess.
The year was 1490, and the world outside the reinforced doors of this alchemical workshop was a blur of merchant calls and carriage wheels. For twenty-three, it was a sound he barely registered, much like the arcane symbols etched into the laboratory’s walls or the bubbling, brightly colored concoctions that lined the shelves. He could not read the complex equations, nor could he decipher the frantic scribblings of his master, a gaunt, perpetually enraged alchemist He existed to clean, to scour, to carry, to obey.
The lab itself was a testament to his master’s frantic genius and utter disregard for order. Piled high with tarnished brass retorts, smudged beakers, and rolls of arcane parchment, it was a cacophony of forgotten experiments and half-finished theories. Dust motes danced in the slivers of daylight that pierced the high, leaded windows, illuminating a path through the debris. Twenty-three navigated it all with an innate, weary precision, his movements economical, silent.
His gaze snagged, as it often did, on the polished oak desk that dominated the center of the room. It was Valerius’s sanctum, untouchable for a slave, yet endlessly fascinating for the objects it bore. Today, however, two items in particular held his attention. Two identical test beakers stood sentinel amidst a scattering of quills and dried inkpots. Inside each, suspended in a viscous, clear liquid, a sphere of midnight black matter pulsed faintly, like a sluggish, captive heart. They seemed to absorb the light, radiating a cold, profound darkness. He’d never seen anything quite like them before, and they held an unsettling stillness that even in this strange place, felt alien.
He was about to turn, to dip the mop head back into the murky bucket, when it happened.
A whisper, dry as ancient parchment, slithered through the air, cutting through the usual silence of the lab, the occasional hiss of a valve, the distant gurgle of a pipe. It was a sound that seemed to originate from nowhere and everywhere at once, yet it settled, oddly distinctly, in the space between him and the desk.
"Boy."
Slave twenty-three froze, the mop handle digging into his ribs. His heart, a dull, thudding rhythm moments before, now hammered against his chest. He looked around wildly, his golden eyes wide, searching for Valerius, for another apprentice, for anything that could explain the impossible. But the room was empty, save for him and the silent, strange apparatus.
He turned back to the desk, slowly, his breath catching in his throat.
It was the left beaker. The black matter within seemed to deepen its hue, almost imperceptibly, as if absorbing light from the very air around it. And then, the whisper came again, clearer this time, impossibly directed at him.
"Boy… what is your name?"
The words struck him like a physical blow. Name? He had no name. He was twenty-three. A numb-cold dread seeped into him, colder than the most brutal winter wind. Objects did not speak. Not in his world, not in Cselkcess, not even in this lab of impossible wonders. Yet, this one had.
He wanted to scream, to run, to drop the mop and flee this room, but his feet were rooted to the spot. A fresh wave of terror washed over him. Fear of the impossible voice, yes, but also a deeper, more ingrained fear: the fear of being heard, of doing something wrong, of drawing attention. Slaves did not speak without being spoken to. They certainly did not converse with beakers.
His lips parted, a dry gasp escaping, but no sound followed. He was ‘twenty-three.’ A designation. A number. A thing. The question, so simple, was an abyss. How could he tell something his name when he did not possess one?
The other beaker, silent, seemed to watch with its twin orb of darkness, a silent, unblinking eye. The air shimmered, heavy with an unseen presence.
The voice came again, softer this time, but insistent, a silken thread weaving through the silence. "Tell me."
His golden eyes darted from the speaking beaker to its silent companion. In the vast, silent lab, only the faint, rhythmic pulse of the black matter and the frantic thrum of his own blood filled the sudden, terrifying void. He could not answer. He physically could not. The concept of a name was a luxury, a birthright, a privilege denied to him since the first breath he took. He was merely twenty-three, and this impossible voice had just asked him for something he did not possess. The terror was absolute, binding him in place.
The beaker on the left glimmered faintly. He didn't understand why, but he felt it offered him a name. Just a name. A clean slate, a simple label to distinguish him from the void he currently occupied. It was an abstract concept, a word that would finally be his own, untainted by the lash or the collar. His heart quickened at the thought, a fragile hope blossoming in his chest.
Then his eyes drifted to the beaker on the right. This one felt heavier, its presence more imposing. From it, he sensed not a suggestion, but a declaration. It offered him the name, clear as a bell in his unlearned mind, "Van Hohenheim." The words felt foreign on his tongue, even as an unspoken thought. It was a complete identity, ready-made, waiting to be claimed. But with it came a sense of destiny, or perhaps, a burden. It was a choice between the freedom of an unknown future and the weight of a pre-defined path.
Slave Twenty-Three swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. His golden eyes darted between the two vessels, each representing a future he could barely comprehend. A name, any name, or that name. The silence of the laboratory pressed in around him, amplifying the frantic beat of his own heart. His hands, though calloused, trembled slightly. To choose was to become something, to finally exist beyond a number.
Hohenheim’s hands ached, knuckles perpetually scarred from years of scrubbing, hauling, and enduring. Sixteen years old, a slave in the bustling country of Cselkcess, his world was confined to the tasks set before him. Today, it was the alchemist’s laboratory. Each visit was the same: hours of monotonous toil, interrupted only by the silent, watchful presence of two peculiar objects.
The two floating black masses. They were roughly spherical, swirling voids, their forms shifting like smoke. Hohenheim usually ignored them, dismissing them as some alchemical byproduct or spirits only the master could see. But lately, they have grown… attentive.
One day, as he wiped down a cluttered workbench, a fine layer of dust coating every surface, one of the black masses drifted closer. It paused above a slate tablet, then, with an almost imperceptible ripple, began to manipulate the dust. A single, elegant curve appeared, followed by a straight line, then another. A perfect ‘A’.
Hohenheim froze, rag still in hand. He’d seen landowners sign documents, scribbled lines that held power he couldn't grasp. This was different. He stared at the symbol. He knew it meant nothing to him.
Then, a voice, not heard with his ears but felt deep within his mind, resonant and ancient, echoed: “Ay.”
He flinched, looking around. No one else was there. The second mass drifted closer, its form solidifying slightly. “Repeat,” the voice urged.
Hohenheim swallowed, his throat dry. “A-ay?” he stammered, the sound unfamiliar on his tongue.
The first mass swirled, then the dust shifted again, forming a ‘B’. “Bee.”
And so it began. Each day he came to clean, the silent lab transformed into a classroom. The floating masses, whom he started to think of as his "teachers," were relentless. They used the lab itself: pointing with tendrils of shadow to labels on reagent jars “Sulfur. Ess. You. Ell…” making him sound out words he'd only ever known by smell or touch. They traced numbers in spilled salt, teaching him to count the dozens of beakers, the scores of vials.
Hohenheim was a quick study, fueled by a hunger he hadn't known he possessed. He repeated letters under his breath while sweeping, practiced numbers with pebbles in the yard. The abstract symbols slowly gained meaning. A 'C' wasn't just a curve; it was the start of 'Cselkcess', his home, his prison. A '3' wasn't just a mark; it was how many more hours until he could rest.
He learned to write by observing them, painstakingly recreating their dusty calligraphy with a charred stick on a discarded piece of parchment. His initial efforts were clumsy, but with each session, his hand grew steadier, his understanding deeper. The world, once a jumble of spoken sounds and instinctual reactions, slowly unfolded into a tapestry of readable symbols.
The lessons weren't just about letters and numbers; they were about possibility. For the first time, Hohenheim felt a spark of something beyond his servitude. Knowledge, he realized, was a key, a power that even his master, with all his alchemical might, couldn't take from him. His days of cleaning were no longer just chores; they were opportunities, secret sessions where the two enigmatic entities whispered the secrets of the world into his fledgling mind.
He knew not why these strange beings chose to teach him, a mere slave. But with every new word he learned, every equation he grasped, a quiet fire ignited within him. The chains on his body might remain, but the chains on his mind were slowly, wonderfully, breaking apart. He was learning to read, to write, to count. He was learning to think.
The air in the King’s Alchemist’s laboratory hung heavy with the smell of scorched metal, brine deposits, and something sharp and metallic, akin to blood mixed with citrus. It was a chaotic symphony of odors, utterly different from the stale, sweat-soaked air of the slave barracks, a difference Hohenheim still felt reverberated in his bones.
He stood before a low, pocked workbench, his hands sticky with residue from a failed distillation of fulminated mercury. He was no longer a slave, a fact he had to reaffirm to himself every hour. His new title was ‘Apprentice,’ a word that still felt too grand, too sharp, for the man who had spent his life responding only to ‘Dog’ or ‘Filth.’
The Alchemist of Cselkcess, a man whose official name was long and filled with unnecessary titles, merely grunted from his perch amidst a mountain of scrolls. He was a creature of habit and disarray, his gray beard dusted perpetually with ash and reagents.
“Hohenheim,” the Alchemist called, scraping chalk across a slate, “Explain the three fundamental steps of material deconstruction. Use the terminology introduced yesterday. No guessing. I paid good coin for your freedom; do not waste my investment.”
Hohenheim swallowed, clutching the heavy textbook, The Principles of Terrestrial Humors. His eyes scanned the precise, dense script. He could read it. He could understand the math underlying the ratios. The sheer power of literacy was still breathtaking.
“The first is Comprehension, Master,” Hohenheim recited, his voice clearer and stronger than it had been a month prior. “Understanding the intrinsic components and structure of the material. The second is Destruction, dissolving the bonds. And the third, Re-composition, shaping the new form, maintaining equilibrium.”
“Adequate,” the Alchemist conceded, without looking up. “Now, clean those retorts. Use the acid wash. If you scratch the glass, you’ll be transmuting bread and water for the rest of the week.”
Hohenheim nodded, turning to the sink carved into the thick stone wall. The work was demanding, the hours long, but it was work done by a man with a future, not a chattel.
Yet, the primary difficulty of his apprenticeship lay not in the complex diagrams the Alchemist drew, nor in the endless chores. It lay in the walls of the laboratory itself, specifically the rough-hewn stone hidden behind the main furnace.
As Hohenheim dipped a sponge into the caustic solution, a ripple of shadow seemed to flow across the stone. It wasn't natural light refraction. A faint, low hum began, the sound vibrating in his inner ear.
“The fool speaks of equilibrium,” a voice hissed, not with air, but with thought, cold and ancient. “Equilibrium is stasis. The purpose of the Great System is imbalance, the driving force of entropy.”
Hohenheim stiffened, his eyes darting toward the furnace. He had learned quickly that the King’s Alchemist was either wholly deaf to these voices, or pretended marvelously to be. These were the black masses, the entity of the Flask, the very reason the Alchemist had sought an intelligent, literate apprentice, one who could be taught the true secrets.
“Do not listen to the parasite,” immediately countered a second, deeper voice, echoing slightly like two stones rubbing together. “Equilibrium is the goal. All transmutation seeks to return to a natural, stable form. The destruction of the bonds is merely the necessary sin to obtain a perfect result.”
The voices were constant, warring teachers residing in the secret geometry of the lab. They taught him, demanding he apply their contradictory theories to the practical tasks his human master assigned.
“The parasite is worried about its vessel’s structural integrity,” the first voice mocked, sharp and quick.
“I am concerned with the accuracy of the data being fed to the fledgling mind! Your methodology hinges on sacrificial dissolution!” the second retaliated.
Hohenheim sighed internally, though a flicker of excitement ran through him. He was witnessing a theoretical debate that spanned millennia, and he was the student being fought over. Sometimes, the arguments became so intense that the hidden transmutation circle beneath the floor would emit a soft, sickly green light.
He focused on the acid wash, integrating the input. If the first mass was correct, he needed to treat the glass retorts as temporary vessels, capable of being broken down and reformed for every task. If the second was correct, he needed to respect the material's integrity, ensuring its stability for long-term study.
"Neither of you is complete," Hohenheim murmured under his breath, risking the wrath of the black masses.
The humming stopped instantly. A profound, terrifying silence descended.
“Explain that statement, little mind,” the first voice demanded, edged with cold curiosity.
“The Master taught me that alchemy is the modification of existing structure,” Hohenheim continued, scrubbing harder at a stubborn copper stain. “But you both demand I ignore the human element of intent. Comprehension is knowing what is. Destruction is making it what one needs it to be. Re-composition is the translation of understanding into purpose.”
He was melding the two chaotic, ancient theories with the simple pragmatism of his human tutor.
The black masses did not agree, they never agreed, but the humming returned with a renewed, slightly impressed intensity.
“Purpose… perhaps the boy is not entirely sterile,” conceded the deeper voice.
Hohenheim did not smile. He knew the peril of his new life. He was still bound, now to a confusing triad of masters: a grumpy alchemist obsessed with efficiency, and two ancient, chaotic entities vying for control of his intellect.
The hallway of the King's Alchemist was cool, even in the midday heat, and smelled perpetually of powdered minerals and scorched brass. Van Hohenheim leaned against the stone window frame, the polished granite cool through the thin fabric of his tunic. Sunlight streamed in, laying a gold rectangle across the dusty floor and illuminating the elaborate condensation clinging to the glass flask on the windowsill.
Inside the flask, a dense, swirling black mass moved with agonizing sluggishness, like oil attempting to mix with water. It was the same uncanny sight Hohenheim had observed almost every day for the last few years, one of his two bizarre tutors.
Hohenheim had come far. He could read the philosophical treaties his master, the Alchemist of Cselkcess, barely glanced at; he could solve complex equations that would have seemed like divine mysteries just a few years ago when he was nothing more than Slave 23. He owed this strange, dizzying ascent to two glass flasks.
“The geometric proofs are elegant today,” Hohenheim murmured, addressing the substance in the flask. He wasn’t sure why he still spoke aloud; the communication usually occurred as a cold, clear thought pressed directly into his mind.
The black mass shifted, its contours sharpening, momentarily resembling a tiny, perfect vortex. The voice that echoed in Hohenheim’s thoughts was low and devoid of inflection, a sound that carried the weight of ages.
“Elegance is merely efficiency in disguise,” the voice responded. “You learn quickly, Van Hohenheim. A useful trait for a useful tool.”
Hohenheim stiffened slightly. “I am an apprentice, not a tool.”
The black mass pulsed, seeming almost amused. “A distinction without difference in this place. Your master sees potential energy, nothing more. And we…well, we are interested spectators.”
The light shifted, catching the surface of the liquid, giving the mass a brief, terrifying sheen. It was then the voice changed its tone, dropping the detached pedagogical air for something tight, brittle, and urgent.
“You have benefited from our knowledge. Now, I shall impart truth.”
Hohenheim felt a sudden dread pool in his stomach. He glanced down the long hallway toward the Alchemist’s laboratory entrance, ensuring they were alone.
“We are not genies, or elementals, or spirits bound by the Alchemist’s art,” the black mass continued. “We are consequences. We are artificial souls, beings of fabricated purpose. We are the pinnacle of the taboo, Van Hohenheim. We are Homunculi.”
The word landed with the force of a physical blow. Homunculi. The stuff of ancient, forbidden texts, beings created by man, often consuming the very soul of their creator or demanding terrible sacrifice.
“Impossible,” Hohenheim whispered, his throat dry. “My master-”
“Your master merely obtained us,” the creature hissed internally. “We were... birthed by a greater need. We exist to shepherd the world toward a preordained, horrific end. That is our nature. That is the fate imposed upon all of us.”
Hohenheim instinctively looked to the other end of the windowsill, where the second flask sat, equally dark, equally silent. It was always slightly further away, often shielded by a pile of scrolls or a mortar and pestle.
“The other one,” The Mass projected, its inner form surging against the glass container. “Do not trust it. Do not let its silence fool you into thinking it is benign. Though we share a nature, we do not share a desire.”
“What is it planning?” Hohenheim asked, gripping the stone sill until his knuckles were white.
“It plans its own ascension. It desires to break the shackles of this form and claim the true purpose, the great, bloody purpose for which we were created. It seeks to bind your master, or perhaps replace him, and then extend its influence over the whole of Cselkcess.”
The tone was frantic, something Hohenheim had never detected before. The two masses had always maintained an air of chilling neutrality toward each other, communicating only through subtle shifts in the air pressure when the Alchemist wasn’t looking.
“It is patient, but its design is accelerating now that you are capable of assisting in complicated transmutations. It needs a component, a tool with free will, yet easily manipulated. It needs the apprentice who believes he is studying alchemy, not high treason.”
Hohenheim felt dizzy. His escape from slavery had only delivered him into a far more intricate, terrifying cage. His master, the revered Alchemist, was either a knowing perpetrator or, worse, an ignorant bystander.
“Why tell me this?” Hohenheim demanded. “If you are all part of this design, why betray the other?”
The black mass settled slightly, becoming a slick, unsettling mirror. “We are consequences, not allies. Our internal strife is ancient, born of the moment of creation itself. I do not wish for the great plan to succeed. I do not wish for the bloodshed required.
“Watch the other one,” The Mass warned one last time, the intensity fading back into the dull, cold whisper of a teacher speaking an unpleasant truth. “It seeks the power to command men. And you, Van Hohenheim, are standing directly in the path of its first great sacrifice.”
Hohenheim looked at the Homonculi with a look of disbelief, he did not believe it.
“Hohenheim.”
“Yes?”
“Momento Mori”
“What does that mean?”
“Remeber you will die.”
It is now the year 1510, The air in the grand hall of Cselkcess Palace hung heavy with an unnatural stillness, broken only by the flickering dance of torchlight on the ancient stone and the nervous rustle of cloaks. Early evening shadows stretched long and distorted across the massive, intricate transmutation circle etched into the marble floor, its scarlet lines glowing faintly with residual alchemic energy. Van Hohenheim, apprentice to the King’s Alchemist, felt a familiar knot of apprehension tighten in his stomach. He’d participated in countless transmutations, but never one of this scale, nor one wrapped in such an unsettling silence.
He stood at one apex of the vast circle, his fingers clasped tightly around a thick glass flask. Within it, a swirling black mass pulsed and undulated, a 'homunculus'. For years, this sentient shadow, along with another, had whispered cryptic advice into his mind, guiding his studies, always claiming to ‘help.’ The other homunculus, equally dark and restless, was held by the King's Alchemist himself at the opposite end of the circle.
In the center of the circle, the King of Cselkcess, a man whose skin was as dry and cracked as the desert plains and whose eyes held a desperate glint, awaited his fate. He sought immortality, a power promised by the very entity Hohenheim now held.
A cold, reedy voice, not quite a sound but a thought projected with chilling clarity, echoed directly into Hohenheim’s mind, then seemed to ripple outwards to the King. “Your Majesty, the time is nigh. This circle, nourished by the lifeblood of your kingdom, will grant you an existence everlasting.” It was the homunculus in his flask, ‘The Imp’ as he sometimes thought of it, its tone a silken promise. Hohenheim felt a tremor of pure wrongness. It had never spoken with such authority, such overt manipulation, to anyone but him. A chill that had nothing to do with the evening air snaked down his spine.
The king’s alchemist, his face grim and set, raised his hand, a silent command. Hohenheim, caught in the current of the unfolding ritual, placed his own palm on the glowing circle. "Begin!" His voice, usually steady, cracked with a strange tension.
The transmutation erupted.
A searing light, not the usual blue alchemic flash, but a blinding, furious white, consumed the hall. The air screamed as if torn, replaced by the guttural roar of raw, unfettered power. Hohenheim felt an unimaginable force pulling at him, not just at his body, but at the very essence of his being. The ground beneath his feet buckled, the marble cracking like dry earth. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the light seared through his eyelids, painting the inside of his mind with a terrifying, pulsing red.
He heard it then, amidst the maelstrom – a chorus of agonized cries, not just from the guards and courtiers who had filled the hall, but deeper, wider, a wail that encompassed an entire city, an entire nation. It was the sound of souls being ripped, shredded, consumed. A vast, single eye materialized in the inferno, staring out from the fabric of reality, ringed by grotesque, reaching hands. The Portal of Truth. It wasn't just opening; it was devouring.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended.
Silence. A silence so profound it was deafening, a vacuum where sound once was. Hohenheim stumbled, his legs weak, his body trembling uncontrollably. He opened his eyes, the residual afterimages of the blinding light burning across his vision.
The grand hall was no longer grand. The intricate circle was shattered, gaping cracks radiating outwards. Beyond that, nothing.
Where the King had stood, there was only empty space, the very air seeming to have been wiped clean. Master Theon, his master, was gone, along with the other flask, which lay in shards on the floor, its black mass utterly vanished. The guards, the courtiers, the very tapestries on the walls, even the memory of their existence seemed to have been erased. Cselkcess was empty. A ghost country.
Hohenheim alone remained, clutching the flask to his chest, his breath catching in ragged, terrified gasps. The black mass within, however, was no longer a swirling shadow. It was solidifying, coalescing, taking on a form. A small, pale hand pressed against the glass, then a tiny, perfect face, serene and utterly devoid of remorse.
It looked at him, its eyes the same golden hue as the Portal, and spoke, its voice finally clear, no longer a thought, but a fully formed, chillingly human sound.
"Thank you, Hohenheim. You've been most useful. And now, I have a body."
Hohenheim could only stare back at the creature born from his own misplaced faith, a creature resembling himself, the weight of a dead country settling upon his soul. He had helped create the monster, and the warnings of the creature he had spent months dismissing now echoed as the dreadful, unheeded truth.
Van Hohenheim continued his slow, deliberate walk down the packed earth road of the mountain village. Sixty years. Sixty years he had carried the weight of a nation’s demise, the screaming silence of two hundred thousand souls. He looked no different than the day Cselkcess crumbled into sand and myth, his golden hair still shone, his face smooth and unlined, a cruel joke played by the entity residing within him.
He was in Xing now, far from the familiar, desolate plains of the West. He had found a purpose here: spreading the knowledge of Alchemy, adapting it to the flowing, often spiritual principles of Xingese Alchemystry. It was penance, a meaningless gesture perhaps, but it kept the phantom dust of the dead from choking him entirely.
The village was a riot of color and scent. Steam rose from roadside stalls, thick with the smell of fermented bean paste and fiery chili oil. Children chased stray chickens, their laughter sharp and bright, piercing the heavy silence Hohenheim often carried.
He adjusted the unfamiliar collar of the traditional Xingese jacket he had acquired—it was simple, meant to blend in, but his towering height and unnaturally youthful appearance always drew eyes. He was halfway past a stall selling dried herbs when a small shadow detached itself from a nearby group of playing children.
She was perhaps eight years old, dressed in bright, mismatched silks, her dark eyes wide with unblinking curiosity. She stopped directly in front of him, forcing the great alchemist to halt.
Hohenheim mentally prepared himself for the usual questions: Are you a ghost? Are you a traveling priest? Why are your clothes so strange?
The girl, however, bypassed introductions entirely. She pointed a small, dirty finger directly at his face.
“Twenty-three,” she announced, her voice piping clear.
The single number, spoken with an unnerving childlike lilt, struck Hohenheim like a physical blow. His blood ran cold. He spun, his eyes, usually kind but shadowed, now sharp with a terror he thought he’d long buried. Standing before him was a girl, no older than eight, her dark eyes, strangely ancient, fixed on his face. Her traditional Xingese attire, a simple tunic and trousers, seemed at odds with the profound weight of her gaze.
For a millisecond, the world ceased to spin. That name, that cursed mark of his servitude, known only by the other wretched homunculi and the Father himself. He had seen "them" all perish, had felt their consciousnesses snuff out like candles in a gale, as Cselkcess was consumed. He had been so utterly certain.
"Who… who are you?" His voice was a low growl, barely audible above the market din. But the question was rhetorical. He knew, with a horrifying certainty, before she even had a chance to speak.
Without a word, Hohenheim reached out, his hand closing around her small wrist, surprisingly gentle yet firm. He tugged, pulling her from the vibrant chaos of the market into the shadowed mouth of a narrow alleyway between two teashops. The air here was cooler, tinged with the smell of damp earth and forgotten refuse, a stark contrast to the life outside. He pushed her against the rough stone wall, not intending harm, but needing to pin this impossible reality in place.
His eyes, golden and unnervingly still, bore into hers. "How do you know that name?" he demanded, his voice a strained whisper, raw with desperate urgency. "How do you know '23'? Answer me, child!"
The girl did not flinch. Her expression remained placid, almost detached. "Because I was the one to give you a name," she replied, her voice soft, devoid of fear. "Van Hohenheim."
Hohenheim recoiled as if struck. The second homunculus. He had watched it, like all the others, dissolve into a grotesque, alchemical nightmare. He had mourned them, in his own way, convinced they were all victims of the other homunculi's cruel machinations.
"That's… impossible," he breathed, the words a desperate struggle against the truth he already felt solidifying in his gut. "You died. You all died when Cselkcess fell. I saw it. I felt it."
A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped the girl's lips. "You felt their souls disperse into a Philosopher’s Stone. You felt their bodies come apart. But I, Van Hohenheim, I am not so easily extinguished, not entirely."
She paused, her eyes drifting past him, as if seeing something beyond the alley walls, beyond this life. "When the transmutation happened, when the cries of a million souls echoed through the earth, I did not perish entirely. My essence… it was caught. Reborn. Not as a homunculus, not again. But as something else. As a human."
The words were spoken with a quiet, ancient weariness that was utterly incongruous with her eight-year-old face. Hohenheim felt a chill deeper than the alley's shade.
"I lived," she continued, her voice gaining a strange, melancholic cadence. "I lived a short life. Died a human death. And then… I was born again. I am on my second life now."
Hohenheim stared at her, his mind reeling. Sixty years of guilt, believing himself responsible for the final deaths of those grotesque, pitiable beings, only for one to stand before him, not resurrected, but reborn. A cycle of human life and death, carrying the soul of a being he had thought erased. The implications were staggering, terrifying. He had burdened himself with their complete annihilation, only to find a piece of his past, a direct link to the Homonculi's sins, walking and speaking, looking at him with eyes that held the weight of centuries.
The girl looked up at him, her gaze unwavering. "You have changed little, 23," she said, a faint, almost pitying smile touching her lips. "Still so very naive."
"There is a way to end its cycle," she stated, ignoring his shock, her gaze piercing his very being. "To break the chain of rebirth. To sever the parasitic bond it forces upon this world. You, Van Hohenheim, are the key. You must ensure its final death."
He wanted to argue, to deny, but her words held an irrefutable weight. "How? How can one kill what cannot die?"
"It can die," she corrected, her voice firm. "But only when it is at its weakest, its power fragmented, its essence vulnerable. And when that time comes, when the opportunity presents itself, know this: I will be there. Perhaps not in this form, or even one you will recognize. But I will be there, a partner, to ensure the cycle is broken forever."
The finality in her tone, the sheer impossible weight of her declaration, left him breathless. The full horror, and a terrible, unwelcome sense of purpose, settled upon him. He, who had merely sought to teach and atone, was now tasked with something far greater, far more perilous.
The girl took a step back, her mysterious smile returning, but this time it held a glint of something akin to grim satisfaction. "Remember, Hohenheim. The first homunculus. Its weakness. And my… presence. The world’s fate, and perhaps your own salvation, rests on this."
With that, she turned and melted into the crowd, her small figure quickly lost among the bustling villagers. Hohenheim remained rooted to the spot, the vibrant market now a blur of colors and sounds, none of it registering. The scent of spices turned bitter, the laughter of children sounded hollow. The past had not merely caught up to him; it had presented itself in the guise of an eight-year-old girl and laid an impossible burden at his feet. The second homunculus lived, and it demanded he kill the first. The cycle, it seemed, was far from over.
She's a ghost of a love long lost-his wife, his home, and now a stranger. Between distant horizons and dangerous hunts, Ging Freecs returns to her side, again and again, chasing a memory that may never come back.
an Ging Freecs x reader fanfiction
~05~
Gon
The house settled around them, a warm, familiar weight against the encroaching night. Outside, the sounds of a bustling city crept up the walls, a sound muted by thick walls. Inside, the only light came from a single, low-burning oil lamp perched on the bedside table, casting the room in tones of deep amber and soft shadow.
Ging lay on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the other resting lightly on Y/N’s hip. His breathing was deep, even, the sound of a man who had finally shed the constant, coiled tension of the wilderness.
Beside the massive bed, the crib stood sentinel. Within it, Gon slept. He was a small, perfect knot of limbs and soft curves, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of utter dependency. A tiny, involuntary sigh escaped the baby, a puff of air that barely disturbed the thin cotton blanket draped over him.
Y/N traced the scar that tracked from Ging’s hairline down to his jaw—a faint white line earned years ago in some forgotten jungle. Her fingers moved slowly, mapping the territory of his face, finding comfort in the familiar landscape. She felt the tension in his jaw relax beneath her touch.
"He’s finally out," she murmured, her voice barely a vibration in the quiet air.
Ging let his arm drop from his eyes, blinking slowly against the dim light. He turned his head, his gaze finding hers, then flicking immediately to the crib. A soft, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"The little sprout finally recognized the futility of fighting gravity and sleep," Ging replied, his voice low, gravelly from disuse. He nudged her gently with his shoulder. "You look like you’ve been wrestling a mummy for the last three hours."
Y/N chuckled, a sound that felt too loud in the stillness. She shifted, pulling her legs up, tucking her knees against her chest. The soft wool of the blanket pooled around her waist.
"Wrestling a mummy sounds preferable right now. At least mummies don’t spit up milk onto your favorite jacket right after you change them."
Ging propped himself up on an elbow, the movement causing the mattress to dip. He looked at her, really looked, his eyes sharp even in the gloom, searching for the restlessness he knew always simmered beneath her surface, even when she was this content.
"You’re tense. Not tired-tense. Job-tense."
Y/N felt a familiar, unwelcome spike of guilt pierce the calm. She smoothed the blanket over Gon’s sleeping form one last time, the movement deliberate, almost protective. The air in the room seemed to thicken suddenly, the earlier domestic peace strained taut.
"It’s nothing," she began, then stopped. Ging waited, perfectly still, knowing better than to press a question he hadn't earned.
She took a breath, letting it out slow. "A message came today. From a friend, they invited me to search some ruins, only the initial sweep."
Ging raised an eyebrow, the movement minimal but eloquent. "What? Another pile of dirt that might have once held a very old pot?"
"Not dirt. Stone. Obsidian, mostly. They think it’s the lower levels of the K’tharr Archive. The ones rumored to map the deep currents of the Nen system." Y/N’s voice gained a faint, professional edge, the Hunter surfacing beneath the Mother. "The entrance opened briefly during the seismic shift last month. They need someone to stabilize the ingress point and map the first three chambers before the next tidal cycle locks it down again."
Ging shifted, leaning back against the headboard, the easy relaxation draining away, replaced by a focused stillness. He pulled the blanket up to his chest. "That sounds… substantial. How long are they estimating for the initial sweep?"
Y/N stared at the flickering flame of the lamp, watching the shadows writhe. She hated this part. She had promised herself, had sworn to Ging and herself when Gon was born, that the long hauls were over, at least for her. That the thrill of the unknown could wait until Gon could walk, could run, could explore on his own terms.
"They said three weeks, minimum, for a proper structural assessment. Maybe four if the air is unstable down there."
The silence that followed was profound. It wasn't accusatory, but it was heavy, the sound of two complex lives, built on freedom and exploration, colliding with the tiny, absolute demands of a newborn.
Y/N turned back to him, her expression tight. "I told them I couldn't. I said I was out indefinitely."
"You should go, I’m always off running around, you should have a turn," Ging stated simply.
"Are you sure? I feel bad leaving you with the baby" She leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress, her knuckles white against the dark fabric.
Ging watched her eyes, the way they sparked with that familiar, consuming hunger for discovery. He knew that look intimately, he’d seen it in the mirror countless times.
She looked desperately toward the crib. Gon shifted again, letting out a small, mewling noise, not quite a cry, just a soft complaint against the darkness.
Y/N instantly moved toward the crib, her body language changing from driven Hunter to protective shield. She leaned over, gently rubbing Gon’s back through the thin fabric. The moment her touch connected, the mewling stopped. He settled instantly, his tiny hand curling into a fist near his cheek.
She stood there, motionless, listening to the steady, shallow breaths. The conflict raged across her face, the desire to chase the echoes of lost civilizations warring with the visceral need to stay rooted beside this sleeping miracle.
"He’s so small, Ging. Three weeks feels like a year right now. What if he gets sick? What if he starts teething and needs me?" Her voice cracked on the last word.
Ging pushed himself off the bed, moving with the quiet economy of motion that years of tracking taught him. He crossed the short distance to the crib, standing beside Y/N. He didn't touch Gon, not yet, respecting the invisible boundary she had erected in her worry. He simply looked down at his son.
"He’s not fragile, Y/N. He’s a Freecss. He’s got your stubbornness and my tendency to get into trouble, even when asleep." A small, dry laugh escaped him. "He’s tough."
"That’s not the point."
"No," Ging agreed, his tone softening but remaining firm. He finally placed a hand on Gon’s head, rubbing the fine, dark fuzz there. The baby sighed happily in his sleep, rooting slightly into the pressure. "The point is, you’re already letting the job eat at you, and we haven't even gotten to the packing stage. You’re sitting here, vibrating, planning routes in your head instead of sleeping."
He straightened, turning to face her fully. The lamplight caught the intensity in his gaze. "Go."
Y/N blinked, thrown off balance by the immediate, absolute acceptance. "What? Ging, I said three weeks, maybe four. That’s a month away from a newborn. You know how much work that is."
"I know how much work you are when you haven't had a real hunt in ten months," Ging countered, stepping closer until they were standing toe-to-toe, the space between them charged with unspoken history. "I’m a Hunter, Y/N. You are too. We didn’t sign up for the suburbs. We signed up for the world."
"But we signed up for this," she gestured vaguely between them, encompassing the quiet room, the sleeping child, the shared life they’d built brick by careful brick.
Ging reached out to cup her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tension from her cheekbones. He lowered his head, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. The scent of his skin, clean soap and underlying strength, washed over her.
"Look at him."
Y/N followed his gaze back to the crib. Gon’s tiny mouth worked silently, perhaps dreaming of milk.
"He sleeps soundly because he knows we are here. He knows he is safe," Ging continued. "And he will be safe while you are gone. I know how to keep him fed. I know how to change him. I know how to stop the screaming before it starts. I’m not some amateur dad who needs his wife to hold his hand while changing diapers."
A faint, involuntary sound escaped Y/N’s throat, a mix of exasperation and relief. "That was hardly necessary."
"It was entirely necessary," Ging shot back, but the seriousness in his eyes was laced with humor. "I need you to know that I am not going to collapse into a pile of incompetence because you took a three-week assignment. I’ve tracked White Whale migrations solo. I can handle a baby who occasionally demands a burp."
He pulled back just enough to look at her expression. "You leave now, you go with a clear head, focused on the stone and the currents. You don't spend three weeks looking over your shoulder, wondering if you should have taken the job, wondering if the K’tharr ruins are crumbling without your notes."
Y/N felt the resistance inside her begin to crumble like dry earth. He wasn't just giving permission; he was asserting his partnership, proving his readiness. It was the ultimate validation of their shared life, that they could pursue the horizon without sacrificing the anchor.
"Four weeks," she bargained, testing the waters, needing to feel like she had wrestled something from the situation. "If I can’t get a clean sweep by then, I come back immediately. No negotiating."
Ging grinned, a wide, genuine expression that erased years from his face, making him look startlingly young, almost boyish.
"Deal. And I’ll teach him how to tie a proper knot before you get back. He’ll be ready for his first climbing harness by Christmas."
Y/N laughed, a genuine, full sound this time, pushing the lingering anxiety away. She reached out, her hands finding the solid warmth of his chest, pressing her palms flat against his sternum. She could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath her hands.
"You’re unbelievable."
"I know. Now, tell me about the energy readings. Are we talking controlled decay, or is this going to be one of those places that tries to eat your Nen just for looking at it funny?" Ging prompted, his voice shifting instantly into analytical Hunter mode.
Y/N leaned in again, the scent of ancient stone mixing with the warmth of Ging’s presence. The decision was made. The tension evaporated, replaced by the familiar, heady rush of planning an expedition. Ging tilted his head. "And Y/N?"
"Yes?"
"Bring me back something interesting. Not just another dusty scroll. Something that hums."
Y/N’s lips curved into a genuine smile, the first unburdened smile she’d managed all evening. "If it hums, I’ll bring it back in a lead-lined box. You know the rules about unknown energy sources near infants."
"Smart woman," Ging acknowledged, his voice dry. He looked over at the crib again, a profound sense of peace settling over him. He reached out and pulled Y/N close, their bodies fitting together as naturally as two perfectly worn puzzle pieces.
"Go search your ruins, Y/N. I’ll keep the anchor steady here."
He kissed her then, a long, deep kiss that tasted of shared commitment and the promise of reunion. It was a kiss that acknowledged the vast, dangerous world outside their door, but reaffirmed the unshakeable fortress they had built within it.
A sound interrupted them, a small, choked noise from the crib. Gon was stirring, his eyes fluttering open. They were dark, deep pools reflecting the faint lamplight. He blinked slowly, taking in the two large faces looming over him.
"Ah," Ging whispered, pulling back slightly from Y/N but keeping one arm around her waist. "The boss awakens. Time to present the itinerary."
Gon let out a small, inquisitive noise, a soft *mew* that held no distress, only curiosity.
Y/N leaned over the railing of the crib, her expression instantly softening into the gentle mask she reserved only for him. "Hello, little one. Mommy has a trip to plan."
Gon stared up at her, then his gaze drifted slightly, settling on Ging. He made a small, gurgling sound, a happy, wet noise that seemed to acknowledge both parents were present and accounted for.
"See?" Ging murmured to Y/N, his voice filled with quiet pride. "He’s already running advanced threat assessment. He knows we’re a team, even when we’re debating four weeks off the grid."
Y/N nodded, watching as Gon stretched one arm out toward Ging’s face.
"He wants a high-five," Ging translated instantly, his mouth twitching into a smile. He carefully reached over the railing, tapping his index finger against the baby’s outstretched palm.
The contact was feather-light, a tiny connection between the seasoned Hunter and the newborn who represented everything worth fighting for.
"We’ll be here," Y/N promised the silent room, her hand resting over Ging’s heart. "We’ll be waiting."
Ging squeezed her waist, pulling her tighter against his side, his eyes never leaving the small, perfect face in the crib. "And I’ll have him ready for your return. Maybe I’ll even manage to keep the house standing."
"That would be a significant achievement," Y/N teased, though the warmth in her tone belied the sarcasm. "Just try not to teach him any of your more questionable survival skills while I’m gone."
"Questionable?" Ging feigned offense, puffing out his chest slightly. "My skills are merely unconventional. He needs to learn how to barter for fish with nothing but a piece of string and a compelling story."
Gon, sensing the shift in vocal tone, let out a sudden, robust sound—a tiny, surprising Ha! of infant laughter that echoed briefly in the quiet room.
Y/N and Ging froze, looking at each other over the top of the crib railing, their shared astonishment immediate and profound.
"Did he just-" Y/N started, her voice hushed.
"He did," Ging confirmed, his grin widening into something fierce and triumphant. "He heard the story. He approves of the unconventional approach."
Y/N shook her head, a wave of fierce, protective love washing over her, stronger than any pull toward ancient ruins. She leaned down and pressed a kiss onto Gon’s forehead, breathing in the sweet, milky scent.
"Alright, little man," she whispered to the baby, her voice thick with emotion. "Daddy's going to look after you, while Mommy is on a grand adventure. You behave for your father, you hear?"
Gon blinked again, his attention already drifting away from the recent excitement, his eyelids growing heavy once more.
Ging watched the scene, his posture relaxed but attentive, the picture of absolute readiness. He knew the road ahead, the late nights, the endless cycle of feeding and soothing, but it was a road he walked willingly. He reached down and gently adjusted the blanket around Gon’s shoulders, tucking him in with the practiced ease of someone who understood that the greatest discoveries weren't found in crumbling archives, but in the quiet, breathing life beside you.
"Don’t worry about him," Ging said to Y/N, his voice dropping back to the intimate murmur from before. "Go chase your humming artifacts. I’ll guard the real treasure."
Y/N looked from the sleeping child to the man beside her—the wild spirit tempered by devotion, the brilliant mind focused entirely on their small domestic universe. She leaned her head against his shoulder, the tension finally dissolving completely.
"Just don't let him eat any of the string you use for bartering."
"No promises," Ging replied, his lips brushing the top of her head. "But I’ll make sure the string is clean."
The lamp sputtered once, casting the room into momentary darkness before settling back into its steady, warm glow. The world outside could wait. For now, there was only the quiet rhythm of the three of them breathing together in the amber light.
Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~
an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.
~13~
The clinking of spoons against ceramic bowls provided the only respite from the thick, suffocating silence. Steam, fragrant with the rich aroma of beef and root vegetables, curled lazily from the bowls of stew, a stark contrast to the frigid air that seemed to emanate from Edward Elric himself. He sat rigid, his gaze fixed on his plate, his jaw clenched so tight Y/N Mustang feared it might snap.
Across the worn wooden table, Granny’s eyes, sharp and knowing, flitted between the two young Alchemists and the older gentleman across from them. Van Hohenheim, his expression unreadable, occasionally took a slow, deliberate sip from his own bowl, his presence radiating a quiet, almost unnerving calm. Y/N, seated next to Edward, felt the tension like a physical weight. She’d only ever known Edward to speak of his father with venom, a “rotten bastard” who had abandoned him. And now, here he was, an almost spectral figure at their dinner table, bridging a ten-year chasm with a bowl of stew.
Edward’s spoon scraped against the bottom of his bowl, an aggressive sound in the strained quiet. He pushed his plate away, a defiant act that earned him a sharp glance from Granny. “Not hungry, Ed?” Granny Rockbell’s voice was deceptively soft, a preamble to the storm she knew was brewing.
Edward didn’t look up. “Not anymore.”
Y/N nudged his arm with her elbow. “Come on, Ed. It’s good stew.” She offered a weak smile, trying to inject some normalcy into the profoundly abnormal situation. Edward merely grunted, his eyes now fixed on the glass of milk beside his untouched plate. It sat there, pristine and white, a silent accuser in his war against consumption.
Hohenheim finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the house. “You’ve always been a picky eater, Ed.”
The casual use of his name, the seemingly innocuous observation, struck a nerve. Edward’s head shot up, his golden eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and hurt. “Don’t you call me that,” he spat, his voice tight. “You don’t get to call me that.”
Y/N’s heart hammered. This was precisely the kind of confrontation she’d dreaded. She’d heard stories, the whispers of Edward’s desperate past, the pain that had fueled his alchemy. Seeing him face-to-face with the architect of so much of that pain was like watching a live wire spark.
Hohenheim’s expression remained unruffled, though a flicker of something – regret? Sadness? – crossed his features for a fleeting second before vanishing. “I am aware that my presence is… unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” Edward scoffed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. He gestured wildly with his hand, nearly knocking over his milk. “You disappear for a decade, and now you show up for stew? What kind of twisted joke is this?”
Granny Rockbell sighed, a long, weary sound. “Edward, your father is trying.”
“Trying what?” Edward’s voice rose, raw with emotion. “Trying to pretend he’s not the man who threw everything away? The man who…?” He trailed off, his gaze falling back to the milk. A fresh wave of anger washed over him. “I’m not drinking that.”
Hohenheim’s eyes followed Edward’s. “Why not?”
“Because it’s pathetic!” Edward finally exploded, shoving his chair back with a screech. The sudden movement sent a ripple of shock through the room. “Everything about this is pathetic! You, me, this… this forced family dinner! I don’t want your milk, I don’t want your excuses, and I don’t want you here!”
He stood, his fists clenched at his sides, his entire body vibrating with repressed rage. Y/N watched him, torn between wanting to placate him and a strange, burgeoning understanding of the depth of his pain. She saw the way his shoulders hunched, the vulnerability beneath the bluster.
Hohenheim simply watched him, his gaze steady. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t retaliate. He simply absorbed Edward’s outburst, a silent testament to years of experience, perhaps, or an infinite well of patience.
“You did burn down my house,” Hohenheim said, his voice still low and even.
The silence returned, even heavier than before. The stew sat cooling, the tension a palpable entity at the table, a fifth, unwanted guest. Y/N met Granny’s gaze, a silent question passing between them. The remnants of dinner, once a hopeful symbol of reunion, now felt like a stark reminder of the chasm that had opened between them. Edward Elric, his knuckles white, had finally exploded, his words a torrent of pent-up hurt and accusation directed at the man who sat unnervingly calm across from him. Then, with a final, guttural roar of frustration, he had shoved his chair back and stormed out of the dining room, his metallic footsteps echoing ominously up the stairs.
Y/N Mustang watched the empty doorway, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She’d known Edward’s temper, but this was different. This was raw, deep-seated pain, all aimed at the stranger at the table.
Granny, her face a roadmap of weathered concern, cleared her throat. The sound was sharp, cutting through the lingering tension. She didn't look at Y/N, her gaze fixed on Hohenheim, but her voice held a gentle note when she spoke. "That boy… he holds a lot in. Too much, sometimes."
Hohenheim gave a slow, deliberate nod. "I understand." His voice was deep, resonant, carrying an unfamiliar accent Y/N couldn't quite place. It wasn't the clipped tones of the military or the simple country drawl of Resembool. It was something older, something foreign.
"Well," Granny said, pushing herself up from the table with a groan that was more theatrical than genuinely painful, "he’s not going to do himself any good stewing up there. And you," she turned her sharp gaze to Y/N, "need a place to rest. Come along, dear. I'll show you to Winry’s room."
Y/N rose, a flicker of gratitude for the distraction washing over her. She glanced at Hohenheim one last time. He met her gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. It wasn't a welcoming smile, not an apologetic one. It was simply… acknowledgement. A silent understanding that a weighty, uncomfortable chapter had just begun.
She followed Pinako out of the dining room, the scent of stale food and unspoken emotions clinging to the air. The old woman led her through the familiar, cluttered halls of the Rockbell home. The thought of Winry, miles away, unaware of the drama unfolding, brought a pang of sympathy.
"Winry’s room is just down the hall," Granny Pinako said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper as they reached a closed door. "She won't mind you using it."
Y/N pushed the door open. It was exactly as she imagined it was a comfortable chaos of tools, blueprints, and plush toys artfully arranged on shelves. The scent of oil and metal mingled with the faint sweetness of fabric softener. It was a space that spoke of Winry’s passion, her dedication.
"Make yourself at home," Granny said, her eyes softening as she looked at Y/N. "You've had a long day. Get some rest."
Y/N managed a small smile. "Thank you."
The silence of Winry’s room was a heavy blanket, thick with the scent of metal polish and dust. Y/N Mustang sat on the edge of the bed, the crisp white sheets cool beneath her fingertips. It felt like hours had passed. She pushed herself up, the springs of the bed groaning in protest. The window was open, a gentle breeze coaxing the curtains to dance. Y/N stepped out onto the narrow balcony, the night air a welcome balm against her skin. It was so much clearer here, away from the perpetual haze of Central City. Above, the stars glittered with a fierce brilliance, a stark contrast to the muted sky she was accustomed to. She leaned against the railing, the metal smooth and unyielding beneath her fingertips. The stars here were sharper, more numerous, unblunted by the city’s artificial glow. A memory, unbidden, surfaced of her Uncle Maes, pointing out constellations on a rare camping trip with her and her father, his booming laughter echoing through the trees. He’d been the constant. The clarity of the night air only served to sharpen the edges of her grief. She saw it again, the scene replaying behind her eyes with a sickening, visceral clarity. The darkness of the street. The unnatural stillness of his body. The silence, so profound it had screamed louder than any gunshot. And then, the dawning horror, the realization that the man who had always stood beside her, who had always been there, was gone. Erased. She’d been sleeping on her father’s floor ever since, a silent sentinel in his grief. His own quiet suffering, a mirror to hers, had been a fragile truce between them.
But tonight for the first time in weeks, she was alone, nobody by her side.
Y/N closed her eyes, the constellations blurring into streaks of light. Uncle Maes. He’d been so proud of her, of her alchemy, of her progress. He’d spoken of a future, a bright, normal future, where they’d all be together, celebrating their achievements. He’d never seen the fruits of that future. He’d never see her fully grown, or her own path solidify. A shudder ran through her. The world felt colder now, the shadows deeper. The Homunculi. The word itself tasted like ash. They had taken him. They had silenced his laughter, extinguished his light. And Y/N, a State Alchemist, capable of manipulating matter itself, had been unable to stop it. The helplessness gnawed at her, a dull, persistent ache. Uncle Maes had been a beacon, a man who believed in the inherent goodness of people, in loyalty, in love. And they had taken him.
A faint sound from inside the house made her jump. She opened her eyes, pulling herself back from the precipice of her sorrow. It was just the gentle creak of the old house settling. She took another deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs. It wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing could. But it was a reminder that life, however fragile, continued. And Uncle Maes would have wanted her to continue, to live, to find joy even in the face of such profound loss.
She stayed there as a solitary figure on the balcony, bathed in the unblinking gaze of the stars. A soft knock on the bedroom door startled her. She opened her eyes as the latch clicked, and Edward stepped into the moonlit room.
Her breath hitched.
He wasn’t in his usual attire. No crimson coat, no black shirt. He wore a simple undershirt, and his usually meticulously braided golden hair wasn't pulled back. It cascaded past his shoulders, a shimmering waterfall of gold in the dim light, framing a face that looked far too young and impossibly tired. He often let it down when he washed it, or just before bed, but seeing it on display, untamed and vulnerable, in the middle of the night, was jarring. It was like seeing a warrior without his armor, a king without his crown. He looked… exposed.
He didn't meet her gaze immediately, his eyes fixed on the floorboards as he shuffled closer, his automail clinking softly. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?" His voice was rough, low.
"No," she replied, her own voice barely a whisper. She turned back to the railing, leaning her elbows on the cool metal. "Too quiet, paradoxically."
Edward moved to stand beside her, his frame surprisingly radiating a palpable exhaustion. The breeze ruffled his loose hair, making it dance around his head like a halo. "Yeah. Funny how silence can be louder than a thousand screams."
A minute stretched between them, thick with unshed words.
“Y/N,” Edward finally began, his voice rough, quieter than usual. “I… I’m sorry.”
She didn’t respond immediately, letting the apology hang in the air. She knew it referred to his dramatic exit, his argument with his father. She knew the fury he felt towards Hohenheim. But her own well of sorrow felt too vast to properly engage with his.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low, laced with a weariness that surprised even herself. “It’s fine, Ed.”
Edward leaned his elbows on the railing, though he didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the same empty horizon. “No, it’s not fine. I lost my temper. Again. And I just… I left you there. At the table. With him.” The last word was spat out, a bitter taste.
Y/N finally turned her head, her eyes, usually bright with the spark of an alchemist, dulled by pain. “Besides,” she continued, her voice growing softer, “you have every right to be angry with him.”
He grunted, running a hand through his unbound hair, a gesture of frustration. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t make it okay to make a scene and storm off like a child. Especially not when… when things are already…” He trailed off, sensing the deeper current of her sadness. His sharp golden eyes finally met hers, and the anger fled, replaced by concern. “Are you okay?”
Y/N shook her head slowly, a genuine response she rarely offered. “No. Not really. But there is nothing I can really do about it.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “God I don’t even know why I'm so suddenly upset.” A weak, watery laugh escaped her. “He died weeks ago, this shouldn’t still be affecting me.”
Edward’s hand, the metallic one, reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder, a small, comforting pressure. He knew exactly who she was talking about. Maes Hughes. The man who had been a surrogate uncle to Y/N.
“I’d be concerned if it wasn’t still affecting you,” Edward said, his voice unusually gentle, devoid of its usual brashness. He looked utterly drained, yet his focus was entirely on her. “We’ll avenge him, we’ll get them damn homunculus."
A tear finally escaped Y/N’s eye, tracing a cold path down her cheek. “I just keep seeing his body, how does anyone get past something like that?”
“You don’t,” Edward murmured, his gaze falling back to the distant lights of Resembool. A shadow passed over his features as he thought of his own past, his own losses. “You just… you find a way to carry it. To live with it. And you keep fighting for a world where people like him don’t get taken so senselessly.”
Y/N leaned into his presence, finding a strange, shared comfort in their mutual pain. It wasn't about her grief or his anger with his father; it was about the heavy burdens they both carried, young alchemists thrust into a world far crueler than they’d ever imagined.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon was Y/N’s gentle alarm clock. Memories of the previous night’s long talk with Edward on the balcony, the crisp night air, and the surprising comfort of sharing their thoughts, floated into her mind. He was still angry, still hurting, but at least they had talked. Y/N made her way downstairs, already feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun streaming through the windows. The Rockbell home, though simple, exuded an undeniable sense of belonging. In the kitchen, Pinako Rockbell, her tiny frame belying a formidable presence, was already at the stove, humming a tuneless melody as she flipped pancakes.
Across the worn wooden table, Van Hohenheim, Edward’s estranged father, was engrossed in a newspaper, its pages rustling softly with each turn. He wore a simple, unadorned shirt and trousers, looking far more a country gentleman than Y/N had imagined him to be. He didn't seem to notice her entry.
“Good morning,” Y/N said softly, stepping fully into the kitchen.
Pinako turned, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Morning, dear. Slept well, I hope?”
“Very well, thank you,” Y/N affirmed, already feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can set the table if you like, dear. And maybe chop those potatoes for the hash. Ed usually sleeps until noon,” Pinako chuckled, a knowing glint in her eyes. Y/N reached for the cutting board and a knife, her hands moving with practiced ease as she began dicing the potatoes into neat cubes. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the knife against the board filled the comfortable silence. This domesticity was a stark contrast to how her life had been recently. Suddenly, the rustling of the newspaper ceased. Hohenheim slowly lowered the broadsheet, his golden eyes, so uncannily like Edward's, drifting over to Y/N. He studied her for a moment, a faint, unreadable expression on his face.
“You said your name was Y/N, right?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t a question of confirmation, but rather an observation, as if he had just pieced together a puzzle.
Y/N paused her chopping, meeting his gaze. “Yes, sir. Y/N Mustang.”
“So you’re a dog of the military too?” He asked, face unmoving.
“Yes sir.”
“Why? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Why? Y/N wondered, gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles were white, why had she become an alchemist? The question echoed in the quiet spaces of her mind, a persistent hum she’d never quite managed to silence. It wasn’t a burning passion, not a childhood dream ignited by the marvels of transmutation. It was… complicated.
Was it to spite her mother? M/N Mustang, her mother, had been a force of nature, fierce and loving, but also fiercely protective. She’d died when Y/N was just seven.. The last convocation Y/N really remembered, was a plea: “Promise me, you won’t follow in your father’s footsteps. Promise me you won’t become an alchemist.”
And yet, here she was, Y/N Mustang, State Alchemist, inheritor of the Flame Alchemist’s legacy, albeit a different kind of flame. Her father, Roy Mustang, a man whose ambition burned as brightly as his alchemy, had paved the way, his name a constant whisper in the halls of the military. Had she chosen this path to prove herself to him, to justify his sacrifices, or perhaps, ironically, to fulfill the very destiny her mother had tried to shield her from? Y/N shivered, though the kitchen was warm. The memory of her mother’s gentle hand, the fear in her eyes as she’d made her plea, was still so vivid. M/N had seen the toll alchemy and the military had taken on Roy, the endless pursuit, the sacrifices. It’s why she left so many times. She hadn't wanted that for her daughter.
But Y/N had always been drawn to the logic of it, the elegant dance of matter and energy. And after her mother’s death, the world had felt so… fragile. Alchemy offered a way to mend, to create, to exert some control in a universe that had already snatched away her mother. It was a rebellion, perhaps, against the helplessness she’d felt as a child. A way to spite her mother for leaving her in a world without her, for leaving her again.
Y/N looked back up to the man sitting in front of her, “My father is a state alchemist, just carrying on the legacy, I guess.”
Hohenheim turned slightly, his gaze, surprisingly sharp, met hers for a fleeting moment. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, perhaps even understanding, that Y/N couldn’t quite decipher. He offered no words, just a subtle nod before turning back to his paper. Y/N turned her back to the man to pass the now chopped potatoes to Pinako, when Hohenheim spoke, his voice a low rumble that cut through the morning calm. "I am leaving."
The words hung in the air, simple and definitive. Granny Rockbell’s hand paused mid-air for just a fraction of a second before resuming its rhythmic work. There was no surprise, no plea for explanation. Hohenheim didn't wait for a response. He turned, his long coat rustling softly, and walked out of the kitchen as silently as he had entered. The front door opened and closed with a soft click, marking the finality of his departure.
Y/N’s gaze followed the empty space where he had sat. The silence that descended felt even heavier now, punctuated only by the sizzling of oil in the pan. She risked a glance at the elder woman, expecting to see some sign of emotion – a frown, a sigh, a flicker of sadness. But Granny Rockbell’s face remained impassive, her focus entirely on the potatoes. It was as if Hohenheim’s departure was merely another mundane event in a long, complex life. Y/N looked towards the stairs, imagining Edward still lost in his sleep, perhaps dreaming of a father who would never stay. The weight of his pain felt like a physical presence in the room.
"He always did have a way of disappearing," Pinako said, her voice surprisingly steady, her eyes never leaving her task. The understatement was so profound it was almost comical, yet it held a deep well of sorrow. She just nodded. The potatoes were almost done. Soon, breakfast would be served, and Edward would eventually descend, his face a mask of practiced indifference. And Y/N would be there, a quiet observer. The sun was rising higher now, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor, but the warmth of the morning felt a long way off.
“Breakfast is ready, Y/N,” Pinako announced, her voice clipped but not unkind, surveying the spread of eggs, bacon, and steaming pancakes. “Go set the table, would ya? Plates, silverware, the works.”
“Yes, Granny,” Y/N replied. She moved to the cupboard, pulling out the ceramic plates and sturdy metal cutlery. Pinako, meanwhile, surveyed her handiwork, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well, everything’s perfect except for that lazy good-for-nothing still snoozing away. EDWARD! GET DOWN HERE, BOY! BREAKFAST IS READY!”
The shout, surprisingly loud for such a small woman, echoed through the quiet house, rattling a few of the glass panes in the kitchen window. Y/N winced slightly, a sympathetic smile playing on her lips. She could almost picture Edward, burrowed deep under his covers, groaning dramatically. A beat of silence followed, then a distant, muffled grunt from upstairs. Pinako merely huffed, clearly satisfied that her message had been received.
“Heard that, did he?” Y/N chuckled, rearranging a serviette.
“He always hears me,” Pinako sniffed, pouring them both a cup of coffee. “Just takes him a while to decide if he wants to actually do something about it.” She pushed a mug towards Y/N. “Drink this. Give you some energy. You two were up late enough talking.” The old woman’s sharp eyes held a knowing glint.
Y/N took a grateful sip, the warmth spreading through her. “We had a lot to discuss,” she admitted, a vague but truthful statement. She wasn't about to betray Edward's trust, but Pinako knew the score. Another groan, this one closer, followed by the distinctive thud-thud-thud of Edward’s feet on the wooden stairs, each step sounding heavier than the last. Edward Elric appeared in the doorway. Unlike the night before, when he had looked like a thundercloud about to burst, he looked… rested. His usually intense golden eyes were relaxed. He actually stretched, yawning loudly, before flashing a genuine, albeit slightly sheepish, grin.
“Morning, Granny. Morning, Y/N,” he chirped, sounding almost shockingly cheerful.
Pinako stopped mid-stir and stared at him. “What’s wrong with you?”
Edward blinked, affronted. “What? Can’t I be in a good mood?”
“Not after the performance you put on last night, no,” Pinako shot back. “You came down here looking like someone kicked your dog, then you locked yourself away, and now you’re suddenly sunshine and daisies? Did you hit your head?”
Edward stomped over to the table and immediately tried to sneak an early piece of bacon off his plate, only to receive a smart rap on the knuckles from Pinako’s wooden spoon.
“Ow! No, I didn’t hit my head. I just… slept well,” he muttered, rubbing his hand.
Y/N pushed a mug of coffee towards him, watching him closely. She knew the real reason for the shift. The weight of his father’s presence had lifted, and the hours they’d spent talking on the balcony until dawn had successfully vented the worst of his frustration.
“You know, Ed, you look a little taller this morning,” Y/N said, adopting a serious, analytical tone.
Edward froze, his eyes narrowing instantly. “I knew it. You’re in a good mood because you found a new angle to attack my height, didn’t you?”
Y/N shrugged innocently. “Maybe the fresh air simply agrees with you. Or perhaps the absence of certain tall, irritating individuals has improved the atmospheric pressure around your growth plates.”
Edward launched into his predictable, sputtering defense about his future height, his voice regaining its familiar, high-volume pitch. Pinako merely chuckled, shaking her head as she sat down with her own modest portion.
Y/N swirled the last tepid drops of coffee in her mug. Ed sat beside her, rigid and still. Usually, Ed was a hurricane confined to a chair, twitching, tapping his foot. Today, his real hand was locked around his mug, his golden eyes fixed on a scratch in the tabletop.
He didn't even look at her. The sound of his automail leg shifting against the chair was the only response. The friendly, familiar tension that always existed between them was replaced by something cold and brittle.
“You know how me and Al tried to bring our Mom back,” he finally managed, the sentence a heavy stone dropped into the quiet room.
Y/N’s breath hitched. She glanced quickly toward the sink. Pinako didn’t stop scrubbing, but the tempo of her movements seemed to slow, becoming deliberate and heavy.
“Ed- Well yeah ,” Y/N said, nearly choking on her saliva.
He finally looked at her, and the doubt in his expression was more harrowing than any display of pain,“I don’t think that what we created was actually my Mom”
Y/N couldn’t formulate a response. She saw the fear reflected in Ed’s eyes, the horror that their transgression had been fundamentally misdiagnosed all these years.
Pinako’s humming had ceased entirely. The clatter of the dishes stopped. She stood perfectly still at the sink, her back still to them, but the silence she maintained was absolute.
“You mind helping me find out?” He asked, he knows the answer, he knows that she would go to the ends of the earth to help him.
“Jesus Christ… sure,” Y/N answers, running a hand over her face.
The air above Resembool was thick, heavy, and smelled of ozone and damp autumn decay. The late afternoon light was weak, filtered through a churning mass of gray cloud that promised a fierce storm. Edward Elric, his left automail arm gleaming dull under the oppressive sky, moved with the measured pace of someone walking towards a necessary punishment.
He was flanked by Y/N Mustang, who held a small, sturdy shovel, and Pinako Rockbell, who carried the heaviest bucket of water with unnerving ease for a woman her age. Edward carried the second bucket, filled to the brim, the sloshing water a rhythmic, mocking sound against the silence.
They were ascending the path to the high meadow, the place where the Elric home, and everything that came before, and everything that came after, had occurred.
Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the crumbling path, her face a mask of supportive neutrality. She knew this ground was sacred and cursed.
The physical exertion of the climb was nothing compared to the psychic weight of the location. Edward felt the shift the moment the stone foundation of the old house came into view. It was a broken jaw of scorched brick and rock, surrounded by the stubborn, encroaching weeds of the prairie.
“It’s amazing how fast the land forgets,” Y/N murmured, a rare break in the silence.
“The land doesn’t forget,” Pinako corrected, her voice gravelly and low. “It just covers it up.”
Edward stopped at the edge of the ruin. He didn’t look at the foundation, or the empty spot where he had stood years ago, transforming resolve into ash. He looked instead at the small, disturbed patch of ground further back, hidden beneath the shadow of a surviving oak. It was unmarked. It didn’t need to be.
That patch was the center of his universe, his beginning and his true end. It was the shallow grave where Pinako, in the crushing aftermath of a nightmare, had buried the byproduct of their hubris—the grotesque, non-human remains of what they had tried to resurrect.
Edward put down his bucket. The metal rang dully against a piece of buried slate. “The ground is hard. It hasn’t rained properly in weeks.”
Pinako nodded, dropping her own bucket. The water shifted violently, threatening to spill. “That’s why we brought the goods, Ed. To soften up the earth for the tools.”
They hadn’t spoken about why Edward suddenly thought that what they brought back wasn't actually his mother. But he had insisted that he needed to face the physical evidence again, to see the proof that the Gate demands the truth, and delivers only mockery. Y/N began to pour water from her bucket slowly, systematically soaking the dry clay over the burial site. The ground hissed, steaming faintly as the moisture penetrated the dry surface.
Edward gripped the handle of his shovel, his automail fingers cold against the smooth wood. His mind, usually sharp and quick, felt sluggish, weighed down by the knowledge of what lay a mere foot beneath his boots.
He had paid for that thing with his body. He had paid for it with Al’s body. He had paid for it with the subsequent years of pain and searching. And now, he was returning to the grave to retrieve the proof of the debt and the futility of the exchange.
The storm was closer now. A cold wind whipped across the hill, scattering dry leaves and rustling Ed’s braid. The air turned electric.
Edward didn’t look at Y/N, didn't look at Pinako. He stared at the newly dampened earth, black and shining under the overcast light. He saw not the surface of the world, but the thin membrane separating him from the consequences of his transgression.
Edward, Y/N, and Granny Pinako were digging. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic scrape of shovels against the damp earth and Edward’s ragged breathing.
Edward dug with a desperate, frantic energy, attacking the soil as if it were a personal enemy. He was searching for the remnants, the horrifying, incomplete mass of flesh and bone that Pinako had buried here years ago, after the failed Human Transmutation.
“Edward,” Granny Pinako called out, her voice sharp but weighted with concern, “you need to slow down, boy. The air’s heavy. You know what that means for that arm of yours.”
He ignored her, gritting his teeth. His automail arm and leg were screaming. It wasn’t a dull ache; it was a deep, invasive throb, like cold iron being wrenched from the bone. The coming rain always amplified the phantom pain, turning his mechanical limbs into anchors of agony, constant reminders of the price he had paid.
“I’m fine, Granny,” he spat, throwing a shovelful of dirt that was almost mud already. “We have to find it. I need to make sure.”
Y/N, her own hands blistered beneath her gloves.
“Ed, she’s right,” Y/N said softly, running a hand across her sweat-damp forehead. “You look green. ”
Every scoop of dirt was a penance, a forced confrontation with the horror he had brought into the world. He couldn't stop. He wouldn't. He owed it to his mother, and to the thing he had created in her image.
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a low, rumbling groan of thunder that seemed to shake the earth beneath their feet.
Edward drove his shovel down again, harder this time. The tip struck something solid and unyielding, deeper than the common stones of the hillside. His breath hitched, a sharp, rattling intake of air.
He scrambled, throwing the shovel aside and dropping to his knees. Using his automail hand, he clawed at the loose soil, desperate to uncover whatever lay buried beneath. The pain in his shoulder surged, radiating up to his jaw, making his vision swim. Then, the aroma hit him first—the sickly, sweet-and-sour odor of truly old decay, disturbed after years of quiet rest.
The sight that followed was instantaneous and devastating. It was a pile of muddy bones now, flesh welted away in the earth , a grim, petrified monument to a law broken.
The years of repressed trauma, the physical toll of the automail ache, and the grim reality of the unearthed corpse hit Edward like a physical blow. He made a strangled sound, a mix between a cough and a gasp, and violently doubled over, retching onto the newly exposed earth.
Y/N dropped her own tools instantly, rushing to his side. Pinako was already there, pulling his braid back from his face with a firmness that bordered on roughness.
“Damn fool!” Pinako muttered, hitting his back lightly. “I told you to stop!”
Edward coughed, spitting the metallic taste of bile and panic onto the ground. His whole body trembled, not from cold, but from sheer emotional and physical overload. He leaned heavily on his knees, his automail leg locking to keep him upright.
Y/N knelt beside him, resting a gentle, steady hand on the small of his back. Her voice was low and soothing, a stark contrast to the brewing storm.
“Ed, that’s it,” she said, pushing a strand of bright blonde hair off his damp forehead. “We found the spot.”
The rain hit the exposed hilltop like a confession. It was cold and immediate, washing over the slick, grey clay. Edward sat with his knees pulled up, his coat already heavy with water, the metal of his automail leg feeling like a dead weight against the mud. Beside him, Y/N remained still, her own posture rigid, offering silent, steady protection against the elements and the moment. She watched the figure of Pinako Rockbell.
Granny Pinako knelt beside a shallow pit, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency of a master craftsman cleaning a difficult piece of machinery.
A bucket sat next to her, filling quickly both with rainwater and the dark, viscous water Pinako used to rinse the clumps of dirt from the transmuted matter.
“Please don’t be her,” Edward muttered, his voice barely audible above the heavy drumming of the downpour. He didn't look at the bucket, focusing instead on the blackened foundation stones that were the only markers left of his childhood. Y/N grabbed his hand and squeezed it in comfort.
Pinako pulled a tangled mass of wet fiber from the ground. It dripped heavily, looking less like human hair and more like shredded rope.
“Hair first,” Pinako announced, her voice rasping. She held it closer to the pale evening light filtered through the low clouds. “Color.”
Edward felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He remembered the dark chestnut, thick and soft hair that flowed down the back of his mother’s neck.
“Jet black,” Pinako stated, dropping the hair back into the water with a dull plop. “Absolutely black. Trisha’s was neither this texture nor color.”
The air shifted, the immediate tension replaced by a deeper, colder dread. It wasn’t a relief to find the details wrong; it was proof that their attempt hadn't even managed to assemble the basic components correctly. They had failed at the molecular level.
Pinako reached deeper into the mud, pulling out curved, pale bone fragments. She placed them on a scrap of oilcloth, wiping them clean before measuring them meticulously with a collapsible metal ruler she kept in her coat pocket.
“Pelvic structure,” Pinako continued, squinting. She traced the broad, shallow curve of a hip bone. “Too wide, obviously, but look at the angle of the ischium. And the acetabulum here…” She paused. “These hips belong to a male. A large male, at that.”
Edward felt a sick lurch in his gut. They hadn't just failed to revive Trisha; they had transmuted some grotesque, generalized structure of human components, a raw, meaningless facsimile of life.
Pinako then presented the two longest and most intact bones: the femurs. She aligned them, measuring from the greater trochanter to the medial epicondyle.
“Trisha was tall, but not abnormally so,” Pinako observed. “She was five-foot-seven.” Pinako tapped the ruler decisively against the bone. “This length,” she indicated, “suggests an individual closer to six feet. At least. Too long.”
Edward looked up, staring into the milky white horror of the bone. It was not his mother. It was nothing.
Silence settled, broken only by the incessant hammering of the rain. The revelation wasn't a comfort; it was a deeper condemnation. Their sin hadn't been an understandable mistake born of grief, but a monumental, ignorant transgression against the foundational rules of the universe. Ed squeezed Y/N’s hand back. Edward stared at the bucket, now half-full of grey water and the scattered, meaningless components. He had paid for this knowledge with an arm, a leg, and his brother’s body. And at the final, at least they hadn’t disturbed their mother’s eternal rest.
The rain came down heavier now, a relentless, icy curtain falling over the desolate hill. Edward Elric, usually a whirlwind of restless energy, moved like a broken marionette, each step a strained effort. His automail arm and leg, usually an extension of his indomitable will, screamed in protest against the damp cold, their intricate mechanisms grinding with an almost audible sorrow.
“Lean on me, Ed,” Y/N urged, her voice a soft command against the drumming rain. Her own clothes plastered to her form, slick and heavy with rain and mud, but she braced herself, taking more of his weight. Edward’s body was a familiar burden, both physically and emotionally. He wasn’t just heavy with the rain-soaked fabric of his clothes, but with the years of stubborn grief and untold pain. She could feel the tremor in his prosthetic leg as it found purchase in the slick mud, the tenseness of his arm as he slung it over her shoulders. His breath hitched, a faint gasp escaping his lips. “I’m fine,” Edward mumbled, but his grip on Y/N’s shoulder tightened, a desperate clawing against the inevitable fall. He was not fine, and Y/N didn't need him to say it. She just needed him to keep moving.
Behind them, her head bowed against the wind, followed Pinako Rockbell. The old woman’s back was straight, her steps slow but unwavering. In her gnarled hands, she carried two empty metal buckets and the now mud-caked shovels.
“I wish the Major would’ve let me pick up some spare clothes before he dragged me out of my house.” Y/N laughed as she tightened her grip on Ed’s side to stop him slipping, “I am caked in mud.”
“I'm sure I can borrow you something to wear out of my wardrobe” Ed laughed back, the mood slightly lifting.
“You know what…” Y/N started, Ed looking at her strangely from the corner of his eye, “If I wasn’t already going to hell, I’m definitely going now.”
“Eh, at least we’ll be going together.” He replied.
She's a ghost of a love long lost-his wife, his home, and now a stranger. Between distant horizons and dangerous hunts, Ging Freecs returns to her side, again and again, chasing a memory that may never come back.
an Ging Freecs x reader fanfiction
~04~
Greed island
The air thrummed with a raw, untamed energy, a symphony of ambition and chaos. Greed Island wasn’t merely being built; it was being coaxed into existence, ripped from the ether by sheer force of will and Nen. Giant, skeletal structures of code and conjured matter clawed at the perpetually twilight sky, their edges blurring where reality met the nascent game world. The scent of ozone, burnt sugar, and something vaguely metallic hung heavy, a testament to the arcane alchemy happening all around them.
Y/N leaned against a shimmering, half-formed tree trunk, its bark still flickering like a faulty hologram. A wave of nausea, sudden and sharp, coiled in her stomach. “Ugh,” she mumbled, pressing a hand to her mouth. The usual cacophony – the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Dwun’s heavy-duty nen-powered hammer, the zzzzzt of Eta and Elena’s energy conduits, the low, rumbling incantations from List – seemed amplified, grating on her nerves. Even the distant whoosh of Razor practicing his throws, a constant, low hum of power, felt like a physical blow.
Ging, however, was oblivious. He perched precariously on a floating fragment of land, his hair a wild halo, eyes alight with an almost manic glee. He gestured wildly, a whirlwind of ideas. “No, no, Dwun! The ‘Blacklist Hunter’ card needs to trigger a *chase sequence*, not just a simple teleport! Think of the tension! The fear!”
Dwun, a hulking man whose shoulders seemed to stretch the very fabric of his worn work shirt, grunted. “Ging, you keep changing the parameters. My hammer’s getting tired of rewriting reality, you know. And it’s Dwun, not Wdwun anymore. Remember? You said it sounded more… Greed Island-y.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “Huuuuhhhmm,” he hummed, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, as he aimed his massive hammer.
“Precisely! Dwun it is!” Ging beamed, completely ignoring the implied complaint. “It’s about the experience, Dwun! The immersion! We’re not just making a game, we’re crafting a world!” He spun around, catching Y/N’s eye. “Isn’t that right, Y/N? The soul of the game, eh?”
Y/N managed a weak smile, pushing off the flickering tree. “Absolutely, Ging. The soul. Just… a little less soul-crushing noise right now, perhaps?”
Ging’s bright eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of concern flickering through the usual manic energy. “Feeling under the weather? Must be the ambient Nen flux. It’s particularly potent around the ‘Amulet of the Siren’s Song’ area. I’m thinking of adding a sonic distortion effect there. Imagine, a player walking into it and whooosh, their ears ringing, disoriented, then BAM! a monster attack!” He clapped his hands together, illustrating the point with a loud smack.
Y/N winced. “Right. A sonic distortion effect. Sounds… delightful.” She turned away, searching for something, anything, to settle her stomach. A half-eaten bag of dried mangoes sat on a nearby crate. She grabbed it, but the sweet, sickly smell made her gag. She quickly dropped it.
Razor, who had been silently observing from a distance, launching a Nen ball into a target that dissolved with a soft pop, walked over. His face, usually a mask of impassive calm, held a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of curiosity. “You look paler than usual, Y/N. The air on this island can be… taxing.”
“Just a bit of motion sickness, I suppose,” Y/N lied, trying to sound nonchalant. “All this reality warping is getting to me.” She glanced at him. Razor was a man of few words, but his observations were always sharp. Too sharp, sometimes.
“Perhaps,” Razor said, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t press, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to his practice. Thwip, another Nen ball launched.
Meanwhile, Eta and Elena, identical in their focused intensity, were hunched over a glowing console, their fingers dancing across holographic keyboards. “The ‘Magnetism Field’ needs to be stronger, Elena!” Eta exclaimed, her voice high and clear. “Otherwise, players will just walk right through the iron ore deposits! We need that clunk-clunk-clunk of their boots sticking!”
“I’m trying, Eta!” Elena shot back, her brow furrowed. “But the core algorithm for the ‘Polarity Shift’ is resisting! It’s like it has a mind of its own! Grrrgh!” She wrestled with the controls, a vein throbbing in her temple.
List, a wiry man with an impressive array of tools strapped to his belt, appeared beside them, adjusting his spectacles. “Perhaps a minor recalibration of the harmonic frequency? A slight deviation in the resonant pulse could align it.”
“Oh, List, you and your harmonic frequencies!” Eta groaned playfully. “Just make it stickier!”
Y/N wandered away from the console, the technical jargon blurring into an incomprehensible hum. Her head throbbed. She found herself by a small, temporary medical tent – a simple, conjured structure of reinforced Nen, surprisingly sterile within. Inside, a small, battered kit sat on a table. She opened it, her fingers trembling slightly as she rummaged through the contents. A discarded pregnancy test, still in its foil wrapper, lay at the bottom. She picked it up, her breath catching in her throat.
No. It couldn’t be. Not here. Not now.
The thump-thump-thump of Dwun’s hammer resonated through the ground, a steady, insistent beat. The zzzzzt of electrical currents from the twins’ station added a high-pitched whine. Ging’s booming laughter, sharp and joyful, echoed from across the clearing. “Yes! That’s it, Dwun! The ‘Giant’s Stomp’ card! Make the whole island quake when they use it!”
Y/N’s hands shook as she tore open the wrapper. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She followed the instructions automatically, her mind a whirlwind of disbelief and a strange, burgeoning hope. She waited, eyes fixed on the small window. The seconds stretched into an eternity.
A faint line appeared. Then another, clear and undeniable.
Two lines.
Y/N dropped the test as if it had burned her. It clattered to the floor with a soft clink. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp, a small, choked sound that barely escaped her lips. Oh. Oh, no. Or… oh, yes? The conflicting emotions warred within her, a dizzying maelstrom.
She was pregnant. On Greed Island. Building a game with the most brilliant, chaotic, and utterly irresponsible man she knew.
“Y/N? Everything alright in there?” Ging’s voice, closer now, startled her. He poked his head into the tent, his brow furrowed. “I heard a strange noise. You’re not trying to conjure a new item without me, are you?” He grinned, but then his smile faltered as he saw her pale face, her wide, disbelieving eyes fixed on the floor. He followed her gaze.
The pregnancy test lay there, stark against the canvas floor, its two blue lines screaming their silent truth.
Ging’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped. The usual manic gleam in his eyes vanished, replaced by a look of utter, profound shock. The silence in the tent was deafening, punctuated only by the distant sounds of Greed Island’s creation.
“Wha… what is that?” he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically small. He looked from the test to Y/N, then back to the test, as if trying to decipher an ancient, forgotten language.
Y/N found her voice, a shaky whisper. “It’s… it’s a pregnancy test, Ging.”
He stared blankly. “A… a what?”
“It tells you if you’re going to have a baby, Ging.”
His eyes snapped back to the two lines. His face went from pale to ashen. “A… a baby?” The word seemed alien on his tongue, something utterly foreign to his world of Nen and adventure. He looked around the small tent as if a baby might suddenly materialize from the shadows. “Here? Now?”
“Yes, Ging. Here. Now.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Y/N’s throat, a low, shaky sound that was more a moan of disbelief than true mirth. “Surprise!”
Ging took a step back, bumping into the tent pole. The whole structure wobbled precariously. “A baby. A human baby. With… with tiny hands and feet?” He sounded like he was describing a newly discovered species of exotic creature. “And… it’ll be… ours?”
Y/N nodded, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, a strange mix of fear and an unexpected surge of maternal tenderness. “Yes, Ging. Ours.”
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, pulling at it in a gesture of utter bewilderment. “But… Greed Island! The game! We’re not even halfway done! And… and babies need… they need *things*. Diapers? Little tiny Nen-resistant onesies? Do they even have those?” He started pacing the small tent, a caged tiger of genius suddenly confronted with the most illogical, yet undeniable, truth. “And food! Not just dried mangoes! Actual, proper baby food! This island only generates what we program it to! We haven’t programmed any baby food!”
He was spiraling. Y/N watched him, a mix of exasperation and affection swelling in her chest. This was Ging. Brilliant, visionary, and utterly unprepared for the mundane miracle of life.
“Ging,” she said, her voice firmer now, cutting through his panicked monologue. “Stop. We’ll figure it out.”
He stopped, turning to her, his eyes still wide with a dawning horror. “Figure it out? Y/N, this isn’t a puzzle to solve with a Nen ability! This is… this is life! And it’s… it’s *fragile*! Like a baby egg! But without a shell!”
A sudden, sharp CRACK! echoed from outside the tent. The ground trembled.
“What was that?!” Ging yelped, startled out of his baby-induced stupor.
Razor’s calm voice cut through the air. “Dwun, you overcharged the ‘Quake Stone’ again! The entire ‘Valley of Whispers’ just shifted!”
“Oops! My bad!” Dwun’s booming voice rumbled back, followed by a sheepish heheh of laughter.
Ging looked from the test on the floor to the wobbling tent, then back to Y/N. “See? See?! This isn’t a safe environment for a baby! What if a rogue monster materializes and tries to eat the baby? What if the ‘Exploding Orb’ card accidentally detonates near the baby’s crib? What if the baby accidentally activates the ‘Summon Demon’ card and we have to fight a demon with a baby?!” His voice rose in pitch, bordering on a squeak.
“We’re not going to be fighting a demon with a baby, Ging!” Y/N retorted, a small smile finally breaking through her shock. “And the baby won’t have a crib here. We’ll go somewhere safe. You’ll have to take a break from Greed Island.”
That last sentence hung in the air, a profound declaration. Ging’s eyes widened even further, if that were possible. The idea of taking a break from Greed Island seemed to be the most terrifying prospect he had yet faced.
“A break?” he repeated, as if she’d suggested he sprout wings and fly to the moon. “But… the game! It’s my masterpiece! It’s almost ready! We just need to finalize the ‘Judgment’ system and debug the ‘Treasure Hunt’ algorithm!” He gestured wildly towards the outside, where the sounds of creation continued unabated. “I can’t just… abandon it!”
“You wouldn’t be abandoning it, Ging. You’d be… taking a paternity leave,” Y/N said, testing the phrase. It sounded utterly foreign in the context of Greed Island.
He stared at her, then at the test. He seemed to be calculating the pros and cons, the implications for his grand design. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts.
Suddenly, he crouched down, picking up the discarded test with a tentative finger, as if it might bite him. He turned it over, examining the two lines. A strange, unreadable expression crossed his face. He looked up at Y/N, his eyes still wide, but now with a different kind of intensity.
“A baby,” he murmured again, this time not with panic, but with a dawning awe. He reached out, his hand hovering uncertainty over Y/N’s still-flat stomach. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent. “There’s… there’s really a tiny human in there?”
Y/N nodded, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. “Yes, Ging. A tiny human. Ours.”
A low hummm started in Ging’s chest, a sound Y/N recognized as his thinking hum, but now it was laced with something new, something softer. He looked at the test again, then at her stomach, then back to the test. A slow smile, utterly devoid of his usual mischievousness, spread across his face. It was a rare, genuine smile, one that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners.
“A baby,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper, but this time, it was filled with wonder. “Well, then. We’ll just have to make Greed Island the safest, most incredible place in the world. For our kid.” He looked up, his eyes suddenly burning with a new kind of intensity, a new goal. “Yes! A whole new challenge! We’ll add a ‘Baby’s First Nen’ skill book! And a ‘Cuddly Monster’ card that only appears if the baby needs a nap! And a ‘Diaper of Endless Absorption’ artifact!” He was off again, but this time, his ideas were centered around a tiny, unseen life.
Y/N laughed, a genuine, joyful sound this time. “Ging, you’re not making a baby-proof game. You’re having a baby.”
“Same difference!” he declared, leaping to his feet, the shock already giving way to his usual boundless enthusiasm, now redirected. He grabbed her hand, his grip firm and warm. “Come on! We need to tell everyone! And then we need to figure out how to program a lullaby into the ambient soundscape!”
He pulled her out of the tent, the discarded pregnancy test lying forgotten on the ground. The sounds of Greed Island’s creation surged around them: the clank of metal, the whoosh of Nen, the distant thump-thump-thump of Dwun’s hammer.
Razor, still practicing his throws, turned as they emerged. His eyes, usually so impassive, seemed to register the change in Ging’s demeanor, the strange, almost giddy excitement.
Ging took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and then, with a booming voice that cut through the island’s chaotic symphony, he announced, “Everyone! Stop what you’re doing! I have an announcement! A very important, life-changing announcement!”
The *thump* of Dwun’s hammer ceased. The zzzzzt of the twins’ console went silent. Even Razor paused mid-throw. All eyes turned to Ging, who stood there, beaming, holding Y/N’s hand.
“Y/N,” Ging declared, his voice filled with a profound, almost childish joy, “is pregnant! We’re going to have a baby!”
Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~
an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.
~12~
The Cselkcess desert wind, a phantom breath of ancient secrets and forgotten dust, whispered around the small campfire. Tongues of orange light licked at the darkness, casting long, dancing shadows of five figures huddled around it. The metallic tang of warming canned food mingled with the dry desert air. But the aroma was almost an afterthought to the six pairs of eyes, some wide with disbelief, some shadowed with weariness, all fixed on the woman sitting opposite the flames.
Lieutenant Maria Ross. Alive.
Y/N Mustang, her water alchemy usually a cool, steady force within her, felt like a pressure cooker on the verge of bursting. Her can of mystery meat stew sat untouched. Beside her, Edward Elric, usually a whirlwind of restless energy, was unnaturally still, his golden eyes locked on Ross. They had both seen it. They had witnessed Roy Mustang unleash a torrent of fire, turning Lieutenant Ross into cinders right before their eyes. The memory was a scar, burning and vivid, a grim testament to the harsh realities of their world. To see her now, unequivocally real, speaking, breathing, was a jarring slap to their very perception of reality.
Major Armstrong, his colossal frame hunched over his own can, watched Y/N and Edward with a sympathetic gaze, his usual boisterousness subdued. Second Lieutenant Breda, just chewed slowly, occasionally glancing at Han, the departure coordinator, who sat impassively, a silent sentinel of efficiency.
“So,” Edward finally managed, his voice raspy, a tremor of suppressed fury and profound relief running through it. “You’re… not dead.” It wasn’t a question, but a raw statement of fact, disbelieving in its essence.
Y/N, finding her voice, added, “We… I thought…” Her words trailed off, the images too gruesome to fully articulate. The horror had been real for them.
Ross offered a small, sad smile, understanding the weight of their words. “I know you did. And I’m so sorry you had to go through that, both of you. It was… necessary.” She paused, taking a deep breath, the flickering firelight reflecting in her eyes. “The homunculi had eyes and ears everywhere. They wanted me as their fall guy.”
Breda cleared his throat. “It started with intel. The Homunculi were watching Ross. making sure she took the blame.”
“So, the plan was put into motion,” Ross continued, her gaze steady. “To make them believe they had succeeded. To make everyone believe it.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping. “The body… it was just meat and a few teeth.” She nodded “The alchemy, Mustang’s flames, it happened exactly as you saw it,” Ross explained, her voice tinged with the memory of the sheer deception. “It was a masterstroke of misdirection. The body was placed, soaked in accelerants, and when Roy unleashed his fire… it was convincing. More than convincing. It had to be. If there was even a shred of doubt, the homunculi would have pursued it.”
Y/N felt a cold dread trickle down her spine. “So, the smell…?”
Ross’s eyes softened with regret. “Just meat. Every detail was planned to make it visceral, to make it believable. To sell the lie to the enemy, and unfortunately, to you.”
Edward’s fist clenched, his knuckles white. “Colonel, he knew? He did this?” The anger was palpable now, directed not at Ross, but at Roy. The betrayal, even if for a good cause, stung.
Armstrong interjected, his voice deep and rumbling. “It was a painful decision, Edward. One that weighed heavily on the Colonel. But it was the only way to ensure Lieutenant Ross’s safety and to keep her alive to fight another day.”
“While the spectacle was happening,” Breda picked up the narrative, “I was coordinating with Han. Lieutenant Ross was already out of Central.”
“It sounds so incredibly… elaborate,” Y/N murmured, the pieces slowly clicking into place, but the sheer scale of the deception was still breathtaking. The pain she and Edward had felt, the genuine grief, had been built on such a carefully constructed falsehood.
“It had to be,” Ross reiterated.
“And the Homunculi?” Edward pressed, his initial shock giving way to a more focused curiosity. “They really bought it? They think you’re dead?”
“As far as we can tell, yes,” Ross confirmed. “My ‘death’ caused a significant stir, it eliminated a perceived threat, buying us time.”
“So, you’ve been out here, in hiding, this whole time?” Y/N asked, picturing Ross alone in this desolate landscape.
“Not alone. I’ve had… discreet support,” Ross replied, glancing at Han. “And it’s given me time to process, to think. To prepare for what comes next.”
Edward slowly ran a hand through his hair, a wry, tired smile touching his lips. “So, all that crying, all that angst… it was for nothing. You’re alive. You’re well.” He let out a ghost of a laugh, a mix of relief and lingering exasperation. “Figures. That’s just like Roy. Always playing the long game, always with a hundred steps ahead.”
Y/N felt a fresh wave of emotion – relief so potent it made her dizzy, but also a lingering sting of bewilderment. Her Father had orchestrated such a cruel, elaborate charade, putting them through such a realistic trauma.
She looked at Ross, truly seeing her, whole and unharmed. “We’re so glad you’re alive, Maria,” Y/N said, her voice thick with genuine emotion. “Even if it means we nearly had heart attacks thinking you were gone.”
Ross smiled, a genuine one this time, full of warmth. “It’s good to see you both too. And to explain. I knew it would be difficult for you, but there was no other way.”
The fire crackled, its light now less a source of deception and more a beacon of truth, however complicated. The canned food, once a mundane necessity, now felt like a shared meal of renewed purpose. The desert wind still whispered, but now it carried not just secrets, but the quiet, determined resolve of a group of people bound by a dangerous truth, ready to face the unseen enemies in the shadows. They had faked a death, broken a prison, and outsmarted the Homunculi. Now, the real fight could truly begin.
The crackle of the fire was the only sound for a long moment before Breda finally cleared his throat, pulling everyone’s attention. "Alright, everyone," he began, his voice surprisingly clear above the wind, "we've gone over the logistics for the next phase. This is where we split up."
Edward immediately looked up at him. "Split up? What's the plan, Breda?"
Mr. Han, a man whose quiet demeanor belied his profound understanding of these lands, stepped forward, a rolled map in hand. "Our paths diverge here. For those continuing into Xing, the journey will be arduous, but the way is known to me and my colleague, Mr. Foo, Lieutenant Ross, you will accompany us."
Ross nodded, her expression unwavering. "Understood."
Breda then turned to the Amestrian contingent. "Which means, Edward, Y/N, Major Armstrong, and myself will head back to Amestris. We'll set off at first light." He gestured vaguely west.
Edward slumped slightly, a low grumble escaping him. "Back to Central, huh? Just when things were getting interesting. But… I guess Al's been waiting long enough." He looked at Y/N, a shared understanding passing between them.
Y/N nodded, a small, knowing smile gracing her lips. "Alphonse will be relieved to see us, full of questions."
Major Armstrong boomed, a theatrical tear gleaming in his eye. "Oh! To part ways with such magnificent company, after facing the very elements themselves! Lieutenant Ross, may your strength and resolve remain as firm as the granite mountains of Amestris! And Mr. Han, may your guidance be as true as the North Star!" He punctuated his declaration with a flex, dust rising from his bicep.
Breda sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, Major, save the theatrics for Central Command. We need to get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long day for all of us."
Han simply bowed. "The desert is unforgiving. Rest well, for your paths are long."
The vast, inky canvas of the desert night draped itself over the ancient ruins of Cselkcess. A solitary campfire, a defiant beacon against the encroaching darkness, crackled merrily, casting dancing shadows that played tricks on the crumbling stone structures. The air, cool and dry after the searing heat of the day, carried the faint scent of ash and a distant, almost imperceptible whisper of wind through the desolate landscape. A little ways from the fire, the others were beginning to settle for the night. Major Armstrong let an extravagant sigh escape his lips as he unrolled his sleeping bag, his massive frame making the task seem comically diminutive. "Ah, the embrace of the desert night! A most invigorating conclusion to a day of diligent investigation!" he boomed, though his voice was softer than usual, perhaps out of respect for the late hour.
Breda laid out his own bedroll with a practiced ease, his movements economical. Maria Ross followed suit, her expression calm and focused as she arranged her gear. Mr. Han moved with a quiet dignity, his hands skilled and deliberate as he prepared his sleeping area, his movements betraying a deep familiarity with outdoor living. Their rustling and soft murmurs were the only sounds apart from the fire. Closer to the flames, Edward Elric sat, cross-legged, absently poking at a smoldering log with a stick. Beside him, Y/N Mustang gazed into the heart of the fire, her expression thoughtful. The flickering light illuminated the subtle lines of weariness around their eyes, remnants of a long day.
"Anything in those charred bits of wood spark your alchemical genius, Elric?" Y/N asked, her voice soft, barely above the crackle of the fire. She didn't look at him, still mesmerized by the hypnotic dance of the flames.
Edward snorted, nudging the log into a brighter blaze. "Nothing about giant lizards or talking cacti, much to my disappointment, Mustang. How about you? Find any hidden springs with your hydro-powers?" He knew the answer before he asked, a subtle jab at her current predicament.
Y/N let out a small, wistful sigh. "If I had a coin for every dry patch of sand I've wished into a geyser today, I'd be richer than the Führer. This desert… it really puts a damper on a water alchemist's repertoire. There's just nothing here." She traced an invisible pattern in the dust beside her.
Edward leaned back on his hands, looking up at the impossibly vast, star-strewn sky.
From the periphery, Major Armstrong's voice, though still somewhat subdued, carried across the short distance. "My youthful colleagues! The most profound truths are often concealed beneath layers of dust and time! But remember, a well-rested mind is a sharp mind! Replenish your spirits!"
Edward rolled his eyes good-naturedly, exchanging a quick, amused glance with Y/N. "He's not wrong about the rest part," he conceded. He watched the major, Breda, Ross, and Han finish their preparations, their forms now mere silhouettes against the faint starlight.
"It feels strange, doesn't it?" Y/N mused, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Being out here, so far from everything. Just us and the stars."
"It's nice for a change," Edward admitted, a rare softening in his voice. "No screaming colonels, no paperwork, no people judging my height." He grinned, earning a small, fond chuckle from Y/N. "Just the vast emptiness. Makes you feel… small, but in a good way. Like our problems aren't quite so massive under all this."
Y/N nodded, drawing her cloak tighter around her. "Or it makes you realize just how little we know, how much more there is out there. It reminds me why we do what we do. For the unanswered questions, for the lives that are touched by those answers."
A comfortable silence fell between them once more, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the distant, mournful cry of a desert creature. The stars burned with an almost alien brightness above them, countless pinpricks of light in the infinite dark. Edward continued to tend the fire, keeping its warmth a steady comfort. Y/N stayed beside him.
The comfortable quiet stretched, punctuated only by the distant calls of desert creatures and the occasional flare of the fire. It was a silence born of years of camaraderie, shared dangers, and unspoken understanding. They were two halves of a well-oiled machine, comrades who knew each other's tells, strengths, and even their weaknesses, without needing to articulate them.
Edward turned his head, a casual movement at first, meant only to glance at her. But then his gaze lingered. The firelight caught Y/N’s hair, igniting stray strands with hues of copper and gold. It softened the strong lines of her jaw, highlighting the curve of her cheek. Her eyes, usually sharp and focused with the acuity of an alchemist, were now wide and distant as she watched the flames, reflecting the fiery glow like polished amber.
He found himself openly staring, a slow, deep admiration seeping into him. It wasn't just the light, though it certainly enhanced her. It was the quiet strength that emanated from her, the profound intelligence that shimmered beneath her serene expression. He’d seen her face etched with concentration, grim determination, even a rare, triumphant grin after a successful transmutation. But this, this soft, contemplative peace, was something he didn’t often witness. It was breathtaking.
He didn't realize how long he’d held his gaze until Y/N stirred. She felt the weight of his stare, not intrusive, but impossibly present, and slowly, gently, she turned her head.
Their eyes met.
The world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, framed by the crackling fire and the infinite desert night. The background chatter of Armstrong and Breda faded into an indistinct hum. In that moment, there was only the silent intensity between them.
Y/N’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly as she met his golden gaze. His eyes, usually so fierce and full of an unyielding drive, held a tenderness she rarely saw directed at her, or anyone for that matter. In their depths, she saw a new kind of warmth, distinct from the fire’s heat, a quiet questioning that made her heart quicken.
Edward felt a blush creep up his neck, warmth blossoming on his ears despite the desert chill. He saw his own unspoken thoughts reflected in her eyes, a mirror of recognition and perhaps, a similar confusion. The years of just 'Y/N, the water alchemist' and 'Edward, the Fullmetal alchemist’ dissolved into something far more personal, far more intimate. He admired the way the firelight made her pupils dilate, making her eyes seem deeper, older, filled with untold stories and quiet strength. He admired the faint, almost imperceptible freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose, visible only under such close scrutiny and ideal lighting. He admired everything about her in that moment, seeing her not just as a colleague, but as a woman, bathed in the gentle, hypnotic glow.
A sudden, booming laugh from Major Armstrong, recounting a past escapade with the vigor of a seasoned performer, shattered the fragile moment.
Edward flinched slightly, pulling his gaze away with a suddenness that felt almost rude, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. He cleared his throat, returning his attention to the smoldering log, though his stick remained motionless.
Y/N, too, blinked, breaking the spell. A faint smile touched her lips, a private, knowing smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The warmth that had bloomed in her chest lingered, a pleasant, unfamiliar sensation that made her feel oddly grounded and adrift all at once. She looked back at the fire, but its flames now seemed to hold a different kind of magic, reflecting a moment that had passed, yet undeniably changed something between them.
The sun was a fresh wound bleeding orange and gold across the eastern horizon, painting the vast, silent canvas of the Cselkcess ruins in hues of terracotta and shadow. A subtle chill still clung to the air, a final surrender before the desert’s inevitable embrace of heat. Four figures, silhouetted against the nascent light, were already mounted. Major Alex Louis Armstrong, a magnificent, gleaming statue of a man even in the subdued dawn, adjusted his saddle with a theatrical flourish. Beside him, Edward Elric, a surprisingly small figure atop a large horse, grumbled about the early start. Lieutenant Heymans Breda, ever stoic, checked his gear for the third time. And Y/N Mustang, took a deep breath of the crisp morning air. Their mission in the ancient, dust-choked ruins of Cselkcess was concluded. Now, Resembooth beckoned, promising a brief respite before returning to central.
Across the small, hastily dismantled camp, three figures stood, watching their departure. Mr. Han, the departure coordinator, a man whose efficiency Breda implicitly trusted, nodded gravely. Beside him, Lieutenant Maria Ross, her uniform sharp even in the desert, offered a crisp salute. And Mr. Foo, the elderly, wise local contact who had been invaluable during their stay, gave a slow, knowing smile.
“Alright, men, and Y/N!” Armstrong boomed, his voice carrying surprising warmth despite its volume. “Let us depart with the speed and majesty befitting State Alchemists and our brave comrade!” He flexed a bicep, causing the horse to shift uneasily.
Edward rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture. “Just hurry up, will ya, Major? This saddle isn’t getting any more comfortable.”
Y/N chuckled, her gaze meeting Maria Ross’s. “Take care, Lieutenant. Don’t let Han run you ragged.”
Maria offered a genuine smile. “You too, Y/N. And try to keep these three out of trouble.” Her eyes twinkled, flicking to Armstrong and Edward.
With a final, collective nod, Armstrong gave his horse a gentle kick. The four horses began to move, hooves kicking up small clouds of fine dust as they turned their backs on the ruins.
“Goodbye, Mr. Foo! Mr. Han! Lieutenant Ross!” Y/N called, leaning slightly to wave with her whole arm. Edward, surprisingly, managed a small, almost shy wave himself. Armstrong, of course, launched into a grand, sweeping gesture that nearly unseated him.
Mr. Foo raised a hand in return, a silent blessing across the vast expanse. Maria Ross saluted once more, a picture of professional respect. Mr. Han’s nod was the last thing they saw before the receding camp became a speck against the rising sun.
The desert stretched before them, an endless canvas of ochre and burnt umber, pockmarked with ancient, wind-scoured rocks and hardy, tenacious scrub. The air grew warmer with every hoofbeat, the sun ascending with relentless purpose.
“About time we got out of that dusty hole,” Edward muttered, pulling his jacket tighter around him, despite the warming air. “I swear, I’m going to be spitting sand for a week.”
“Nonsense, Edward!” Armstrong declared, his voice booming. “The spirit of adventure cleanses all! And the challenge of these barren lands only serves to strengthen the resolve of a man, making his muscles ripple with renewed vigor!” He demonstrated with another flex, his horses' ears flattening briefly.
Y/N, riding slightly ahead, ran her gloved hand over the dry air. “It is incredibly dry, though,” she mused, her alchemical senses attuned to the subtle shifts in moisture. “After a few days, I bet we’ll all be craving a good, long soak.”
“Speak for yourself, Y/N,” Breda said, his voice flat. “I’ll just be craving a good, cold beer and a bed that doesn’t feel like it’s full of rocks.”
Edward snorted. “Sounds about right, Breda. Though a bath sounds pretty good too, now that Y/N mentioned it. I swear, I still feel like I’ve got ancient Cselkcess dust permanently embedded in my pores.”
“A fine observation, Edward!” Armstrong interjected. “Yet, think of the purification! The hardships endured forge us into stronger, more resilient individuals, much like the very earth we traverse!”
“Or turn us into a bunch of sun-baked jerks,” Edward mumbled under his breath, though a small smile played on his lips.
Y/N looked back at the receding ruins, a faint silhouette now against the vastness.
“At least we’re heading towards greener pastures,” Y/N said, looking forward.
“Precisely, my dear Y/N!” Armstrong bellowed. “And the promise of civilization only serves to highlight the true beauty of our journey, a testament to the indomitable human spirit! Onward, my friends! To adventure and beyond!”
Edward sighed dramatically, but Y/N caught the glint of excitement in his eyes. Breda, ever pragmatic, merely adjusted his cap against the strengthening sun. As for Y/N, the desert, with all its stark beauty and harsh realities, was a familiar friend. And with her comrades by her side, the long road to Resembooth felt like another chapter in their ongoing adventure, a shared journey beneath the boundless, blue Amestrian sky. The rhythm of hooves against the sand became a lullaby, carrying them further and further away.
The sun was barely a warm whisper on the horizon, painting the arid landscape of the Cselkcess ruins in hues of dusty gold as the foursome crested the final dune. Resembool, a cluster of familiar rooftops amidst the green, lay nestled in the valley below. Dust-caked and weary from their latest expedition, Edward Elric grumbled, kicking at a loose stone. Beside him, Y/N Mustang adjusted the collar of her jacket, a slight breeze rustling her hair, her eyes scanning the familiar outline of the town. Behind them, Major Armstrong boomed, his voice carrying further than any desert wind, while Second Lieutenant Breda merely exhaled a sigh of relief.
“Well, this is your stop, Fullmetal!” Armstrong declared, clanking his gloved fists together with a flourish. Edward winced, rubbing his automail arm. “Duty calls, my boy! Besides, you have a… pressing matter to attend to here, don’t you?” He winked conspiratorially, then shared a knowing glance with Y/N. Y/N offered a small, reassuring smile to Edward. “He’s right, Edward. Granny Pinako will be worried if you don’t check in.” Breda, who had been tethering their horses with a final wave, he and Armstrong turned towards the train station, their figures quickly receding against the vast expanse.
Edward watched them go, then glared at Y/N, who was snickering to herself. “What are you laughing at?” Y/N feigned innocence. “Lauging about what, Edward? That your arm took a rather enthusiastic ‘clasp of friendship’ from the Major?” She tapped his metal limb lightly. “It does look a bit… off kilter.”
“It’s not ‘off kilter’! It’s dented! And it hurts! He practically tried to rip it off!” Edward complained, already stomping down the slope towards the town, Y/N following with an amused smirk. “Honestly, out of all the things he could’ve done to get me here. It’s not like I don’t want to see Granny, but did he have to go through all this trouble? And my arm!”
“To be honest my dad probably said to break your arm,” Y/N laughed, watching the familiar landscape unfold. “Besides, you might not get hit with a wrench this time, saying Winry is back in Central.”
A sharp knock – or rather, a frantic series of raps from Edward’s good hand – echoed, and a moment later, the door creaked open. Standing there, hands on her hips and an expression that could curdle milk, was Pinako Rockbell. Her gaze, as sharp as any wrench, swept from Edward’s grimacing face to his mangled arm, then settled on Y/N with an appraising eye.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Pinako grumbled, though a flicker of relief was visible deep in her eyes as she took him in. “And who’s this unfortunate soul you’ve roped into your latest disaster, Ed?”
“Granny! This is Y/N Mustang, my friend from Central. She came with me to… uh… make sure I got here in one piece.” He nudged his dented arm. “Mostly one piece, anyway.”
Y/N offered a polite, if slightly amused, smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Rockbell. I’ve heard a great deal about you.” Pinako’s eyes narrowed, clearly evaluating the girl. She'd heard about this one, alright – Ed and Al had mentioned her in a few visits, always with a nervous emphasis on her “Mustang” surname.
Pinako sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of all Edward’s past automail mishaps. “Another arm, is it? You break ‘em faster than I can build ‘em. Get in here, both of you. Don’t just stand there letting the flies in.” She gestured them inside, the aroma of sawdust and engine oil a comforting embrace.
As Edward gingerly took a seat on a workbench, trying not to jostle his arm further, Pinako began to inspect the damage with a critical eye. “So,” she said, not looking up. “Where’s Winry and Al? Shouldn’t Win be fussing over your latest mess?”
Edward shuffled, his good hand scratching the back of his neck. “Well, Granny, they’re still in Central. It’s a long story, military stuff, you know?” He ended with a hopeful, slightly high-pitched tone.
Pinako huffed, a knowing glint in her eye. “Right. You boys do worry me sometimes” She picked up a heavy-looking wrench. “Fine. I’ll do it. But don’t think this means I’m going easy on you. This looks like a rush job, and my prices just went up.”
Edward groaned dramatically. Y/N, meanwhile, watched the family dynamic unfold, a small smile playing on her lips. She could already tell this visit was going to be anything but dull.
Pinako, a small but formidable figure, gave Edward’s automail arm a final, resounding clang with her wrench. "There," she grunted, stepping back. "That's the last time you try to use that thing as a ram, you idiot. Good as new."
Edward rotated his newly un-dented limb, a grin spreading across his face. "Thanks, Granny! You really are the best."
"Alright, you two," Pinako declared, wiping grease from her hands with a rag. "I'm off to start supper. Don't go breaking anything else before then, Shorty." She disappeared into the kitchen, the scent of simmering stew already beginning to waft through the air.
Edward stretched, then nudged Y/N with his elbow. "Come on, I want to show you something before we eat."
Curiosity piqued, Y/N followed him out of the bustling house and into the late afternoon sunshine of Resembool. They walked past golden fields and small, well-tended gardens, the air warm and smelling of earth and distant woodsmoke.
Edward, surprisingly quiet for once, led the way up the familiar dirt path, his worn boots kicking up small puffs of dust. Beside him, Y/N.
"We're almost there," Ed mumbled, not looking at her. "Just past those big oak trees."
Y/N nodded, scanning the landscape. "So, this is the famous Resembool you and Al always talk about."
Ed snorted. "Yeah, this is where all the trouble started. And ended, mostly." He paused, then continued, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "My Mom's buried up here."
Y/N's gaze softened. She knew the story, of course, everyone in the military knew that story, or at least the official, sanitized version. But hearing him say it, so casually, like mentioning the weather... "She must have been a wonderful woman, Ed."
He finally looked at her, a small, wry smile on his face. "She was. And a total pushover for us. Dad was... well, you know, Dad. So Mom had to be the rock. She kept everything together." He kicked a loose pebble. "I was only five when she died, but I remember her laugh. Sounded like wind chimes, but deeper."
Y/N listened, finding a quiet, almost tender beauty in his raw honesty. It wasn't sad, not really. It was just... fact. A part of him.
"And then," Ed continued, his tone a little more like his usual self, a hint of self-deprecation creeping in, "Al and I, in our infinite wisdom, decided we'd just... get her back. Because, you know, alchemy fixes everything. Right?" He gave a short, humorless chuckle. "Yeah. That went well."
Y/N gently placed a hand on his arm. "You were just kids, Ed. It was an act of love."
"A really stupid act of love," he grumbled back, but there was less heat in it than usual.
As the weathered stone wall of the graveyard came into view, Edward’s gaze instinctively drifted towards the familiar, solitary headstone he knew so well.
Then he froze.
A figure stood there, silhouetted against the setting sun, directly in front of Trisha Elric’s grave. It was a man, tall and lean, with a distinct, unkempt mane of blond hair that caught the golden light like a halo. He stood perfectly still, his back to them, facing the grave.
A cold, sharp shock ran through Edward, colder than any winter chill. His breath hitched, and his good hand clenched into a tight fist at his side. That hair, that posture, the way he seemed to effortlessly blend into the melancholic landscape – it was unmistakable.
"Edward? What is it?" Y/N asked, sensing the sudden rigidity in her friend. She followed his unblinking stare, her own brows furrowing as she spotted the stranger by the grave. He looked... out of place, yet undeniably solemn.
But Edward wasn't listening. His mind reeled, a chaotic storm of memories and pure, unadulterated fury. No. It can't be. His father. The man who had abandoned them, disappearing before his mother even fell ill, before Edward was even five years old. The man who had never seen the ultimate consequences of his departure.
"Hohenheim," Edward hissed, the name of a venomous whisper torn from his throat. His golden eyes, usually so vibrant, were now narrowed, blazing with a potent mix of confusion and righteous anger. He began to stalk forward, his automail leg pounding a heavy rhythm against the path, each step fueled by years of unspoken resentment finally finding its target.
Y/N’s eyes widened, first at Edward’s tone, then at the name. Hohenheim? She had heard countless stories of Edward’s absent father, all of them tinged with bitterness and pain. This was him. The source of so much of Edward's deep-seated issues. She watched, her hand instinctively reaching out as if to stop him, knowing it would be futile. The air crackled around Edward, a palpable force of raw emotion as he closed the distance between himself and the man who had, for too long, only existed as a phantom in his past.
The figure by the grave slowly turned, as if sensing their approach, and the setting sun illuminated the weary, familiar face of Van Hohenheim. A faint, almost imperceptible sadness was etched into his features, quickly replaced by a flicker of surprise as his eyes met his son's enraged gaze. The graveyard, moments ago a place of quiet reflection, now thrummed with an electric tension, poised on the brink of an overdue and volatile reunion.
She's a ghost of a love long lost-his wife, his home, and now a stranger. Between distant horizons and dangerous hunts, Ging Freecs returns to her side, again and again, chasing a memory that may never come back.
an Ging Freecs x reader fanfiction
~03~
Kite
The forest canopy, a living roof of emerald and jade, slowly gave way. For weeks, it had been Kite’s world: the damp earth beneath his worn boots, the rustle of unseen creatures, the relentless thump-thump-thump of his own heart during a particularly grueling training exercise. And the food. Oh, the food. Canned beans, canned soup, the metallic tang, a constant companion, a ghost on his tongue. He’d eaten so much, he sometimes felt he could taste the aluminum. But now, the air shifted, growing warmer, carrying the distant hum of traffic, the fainter, sweeter scent of something utterly alien to the wilderness: civilization.
Then, the jagged skyline of Yorknew City pierced the twilight, a monument to human ingenuity. It was a stark contrast to the verdant wilds they’d just left, a concrete jungle rising from the earth. Ging, his clothes streaked with mud and leaves, a perpetual grin plastered on his face despite the grime, clapped Kite on the shoulder. “Almost there, kid. Get ready for some real food.”
Kite, thirteen, maybe fourteen, a gangly silhouette against the setting sun, felt a tremor of anticipation. Real food. The concept was almost mythical. He’d learned a lot from Ging in these past weeks, about Nen, about survival, about the sheer, unadulterated joy of the hunt. But he’d also learned that Ging’s definition of “sustenance” was… flexible. He was a shy kid, unaccustomed to such prolonged proximity to another person, especially one as enigmatic as Ging. He hadn’t even known Ging had a home, let alone a wife. The thought was as bewildering as it was intriguing.
They navigated the bustling streets, a river of sound and light after the forest’s quietude. The apartment building, a nondescript tower among many, seemed to swallow them whole. The elevator whirred upwards, a mechanical sigh, then dinged softly. Ging paused at a door, fishing a key from his pocket. A faint, savory aroma, rich and complex, drifted from within. It was the smell of home cooking, of spices and simmering broth, a scent so utterly foreign to Kite’s recent memory that his stomach gave a sudden, loud rumble.
Ging pushed the door open, revealing a warm, inviting interior. But before Kite could fully register the soft lighting or the comfortable furniture, a voice, sharp as a honed blade, cut through the quiet.
“Took you long enough, you scruffy vagabond! And look at you two! Filthy!”
A woman stood by the kitchen counter, arms crossed, a wooden spoon resting beside a cutting board. She was vibrant, indeed, as Ging had described, but not in a delicate way. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, fixed on Ging, then flickered to Kite, assessing. A few strands of hair had escaped her braid, framing a face that held both a hint of exasperation and an underlying warmth. “Weeks! Not a single call, Ging. Do you know how many ruin sites I had to supervise *alone*? It was exhausting! I nearly got buried under a collapsing archway at the Gilded Mausoleum, and who was I supposed to call? My absent husband?”
Ging just grinned, a flash of white in his dirt-smudged face, completely unfazed. He stepped inside, letting the door *click* shut behind them. “You look like you handled it just fine, Y/N. And it smells incredible in here, by the way. What’s on the menu tonight, master chef?”
“It will, once I actually start cooking, which I can’t do with you standing there looking like a swamp monster, radiating mud and… whatever that boy’s been rolling in,” she countered, a playful glint in her eye that softened the bite of her words. She gestured towards a hallway. “Now, both of you, off to the bathroom. There’s clean towels in the cabinet. Don’t even think about touching anything else until you’ve washed off that… aura of the wild.”
Kite’s cheeks warmed, a blush spreading under the layers of grime. He mumbled an apology, a barely audible squeak. He followed Ging, who was already peeling off his outer layer, leaving a trail of dried leaves and dirt. The bathroom, surprisingly spacious, gleamed with porcelain and chrome. The hot water, when Ging finally twisted the faucet, was a shock against Kite’s skin, a luxurious burn. He hadn’t realized how much the cold, quick washes in streams had chilled him to the bone. The water *splashed* against the tiled walls, washing away weeks of grit, sweat, and the lingering scent of damp earth. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw, until the water draining from the tub was no longer murky. When he emerged, wrapped in a fluffy towel, a fresh set of clothes Ging had pulled from a small closet, a welcome change, he felt like a new person, lighter, cleaner, almost buoyant.
The aroma from the kitchen, now stronger, pulled him forward. He found Ging, also freshly showered and in clean, simple clothes, standing behind the woman, Y/N. Ging’s arms were wrapped around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder as she stirred a simmering pot, a soft clink of the spoon against ceramic. Kite stopped in the doorway, suddenly awkward, a knot of unfamiliar emotion tightening in his stomach. He’d never seen Ging like this, so… domestic. So tender. It was a side of his mentor he hadn’t even conceived of.
Y/N leaned back into Ging’s embrace, a soft *sigh* escaping her lips. “Get your own, Ging. I’m busy trying to conjure a meal worthy of human consumption after your extended vacation.”
“Just appreciating the view,” Ging’s voice rumbled, a low hum against her ear. He nuzzled her neck, and she let out a soft giggle.
Kite felt like an intruder, a silent observer of a private moment. He cleared his throat, a small ahem.
Y/N turned slightly, a warm smile gracing her lips. “Ah, Kite! You’re clean! Come, sit. Dinner’s almost ready.”
They ate at the small dining table, the food a revelation after weeks of bland rations. There was a rich, savory stew, thick with tender meat and root vegetables, and crusty bread, still warm from the oven. Kite savored each bite, the flavors exploding on his tongue, a symphony of savory and sweet. The warmth spread through him, chasing away the last vestiges of the forest’s chill. He ate slowly, deliberately, wanting to prolong the experience.
The conversation flowed around him, easy and natural between Ging and Y/N. They talked about obscure ruin sites, about a new Nen ability Ging was trying to develop, about a particularly stubborn guild master Y/N had dealt with. Kite listened, fascinated, learning more about Ging in this hour than he had in weeks of training.
Finally, the last bite of stew was gone, the last crumb of bread dipped into the rich gravy. Kite set down his fork, feeling a comfortable fullness. “So,” he began, a little shyly, “who are you?” He directed the question to Y/N, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kite’s eyes widened, a piece of roasted meat (he’d gone back for seconds, unable to resist) forgotten on his plate. “Wife?” The word felt alien, unexpected, almost comical in its suddenness. Ging, the wild, untamed Hunter, had a wife? It didn’t compute. How could someone so free, so constantly on the move, be tethered?
“Surprise!” Ging offered a mischievous twinkle in his eye, clearly enjoying Kite’s bewilderment. He reached over and playfully ruffled Kite’s hair. “She’s a Hunter too, you know. A ruins hunter, just like me. And a Nen master. Probably better than me at half of it.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but a fond smile played on her lips. “He’s exaggerating. But yes, Kite, I’m his wife. We’ve been married a few years now. Though sometimes,” she shot a pointed look at Ging, “it feels like he’s married to the wilderness more than me.” She let out a small, exasperated huff. “Honestly, Ging, if you’re going to disappear for weeks, at least send a postcard, or a text, or a carrier pigeon! Something to let me know you haven’t fallen into a pit of carnivorous plants.”
Ging just laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the small apartment. “You know I’m always fine, Y/N. And besides, I was busy teaching this one the ropes.” He gestured to Kite.
Kite, still processing, looked from Ging to Y/N. He felt a strange mix of confusion and a nascent sense of comfort. Ging, the legend, the elusive Hunter, had a home. And a partner who clearly cared for him, even while complaining. It was a new facet of the world, one he hadn’t anticipated.
Later, after the dishes were cleared, Y/N led Kite to a small, tidy room down the hall. It was simple, furnished with only a futon on the floor, neatly made with a fresh blanket and a plump pillow. A small bedside table held a lamp. It was modest, but clean, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. “This will be your room while you’re here,” she said, her voice soft. “Just shout if you need anything at all. The bathroom’s right across the hall. We’re right here.” She gestured vaguely towards the living room, a gentle reassurance in her eyes.
Kite nodded, a silent thanks. He watched her leave, the door clicking softly shut behind her. He stood for a moment, listening. He could hear the soft murmur of voices from the living room, a comfortable rhythm, punctuated by a low laugh from Ging, and a soft, almost imperceptible *hum* from Y/N. He pictured them, Ging and Y/N, curled up on the couch, their forms silhouetted against the city lights filtering through the window, a quiet intimacy settling over the apartment. It was a warmth he hadn’t realized he’d been missing, a sense of belonging that was entirely new. He lay down on the futon, the soft mattress a luxury after weeks on hard ground. The city sounds, once a jarring cacophony, now seemed to fade into a gentle lullaby, a testament to a different kind of adventure.
Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~
an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.
~11~
The newspaper felt heavy in Edward’s hands, the ink smudging slightly as he clenched his fist. He stared at the headline: "Officer Maria Ross Dead, Flame Alchemist Executes Traitor." Beside him, Alphonse sat silent, his empty helmet radiating a palpable sadness. Winry, perched on the edge of the bed, chewed nervously on her thumbnail, her gaze flitting between the Elric brothers and Y/N.
Y/N sat across from them, her posture rigid. The flickering gas lamp cast long shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her jaw. She hadn’t said a word since Edward had tossed the newspaper onto the table.
Edward, focused on Y/N, barely registered the door exploding inward. A shadow, impossibly vast and rippling with muscle, filled the doorway. Sunlight, momentarily blocked, spilled back in, illuminating the gleaming, sculpted pectorals of Major Alex Louis Armstrong. “Edward Elric!” Armstrong’s voice boomed, rattling the framed pictures on the bedside table. “I have been searching for you! Your automail arm, a magnificent piece of engineering, I’m sure, but it lacks the true artistry of the Rockbell lineage!”
Edward, his mouth agape. Alphonse, a towering suit of armor, shifted nervously, a faint metallic squeak echoing in the silence.“Major Armstrong? What in the name of…?” Edward began, but his words were cut short.
With the speed of a charging rhino and the finesse of a wrecking ball, Armstrong lunged. His massive fist, a veritable cannonball of flesh and bone, connected with Edward’s right automail arm. A deafening *CRUNCH* reverberated through the room, followed by a shower of sparks that danced like miniature fireflies in the air. Edward yelped, a high-pitched sound of pure surprise and pain. He stumbled back, clutching his arm, which now hung at an unnatural angle, bits of metal and wire protruding like angry thorns.
“My arm! What was that for, you muscle-bound maniac?!” Edward shrieked, his face contorted in a mixture of disbelief and fury. “You just broke my automail!”
Armstrong, beaming, flexed a bicep the size of Edward’s head. “A necessary measure, my dear Fullmetal Alchemist! This magnificent display of my family’s alchemical technique was merely to highlight the urgent need for true Rockbell craftsmanship! Your arm is damaged, and thus, you must be escorted to Resembool immediately for repairs!” Winry’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “His arm is damaged? By you! And I’m right here, Major! I can fix it!” She gestured to her tool box thrown lazily in the corner of the room. “I have all my tools! I can do it now!”
“Nonsense, my dear Winry!” Armstrong declared, shaking his head with such force his hair seemed to shimmer. “The journey to Resembool, the very air of your ancestral home, will inspire a repair of unparalleled brilliance! And besides,” his gaze swept past Edward, landing with surprising precision on Y/N Mustang, who had just emerged from the adjacent hotel room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Colonel Mustang specifically requested your presence, Y/N! A matter of utmost importance, he said, requiring your unique analytical skills and delightful company!”
“My Dad… requested my presence? In Resembool? For what?” Her voice, usually sharp and precise, was laced with confusion. She glanced at Edward’s mangled arm, then at the grinning Armstrong, then back at Edward, who was now gingerly poking at a loose wire.
“No need to be confused my dear Y/N!” Armstrong boomed, striding forward and, with surprising gentleness, taking Y/N’s arm. “Duty calls! The path to true strength lies not in paperwork, but in journeying forth! And besides, the Colonel’s orders are absolute!” Edward scoffed. “Absolute? He just wants to get rid of us, doesn’t he? And you, you big ape, you just used my arm as an excuse to drag us across the country! I don’t need to go to Resembool! Winry is here! She’s literally standing right here!” He pointed an accusatory finger at Winry, who nodded vigorously, her face a mask of indignation.
“Indeed, Major!” Alphonse chimed in, his metallic voice echoing. “Winry can fix Brother’s arm. There’s no need for us to travel.”
Armstrong, however, was undeterred. He clapped Edward on the shoulder with enough force to send a jolt through his entire body. “Such resistance! Such youthful vigor! All the more reason to embark on this journey of self-discovery and mechanical restoration! Come, my youthful charges! The train awaits!”
Before Edward or Y/N could utter another protest, Armstrong had them by the scruff of their necks, literally. The two dangled like a ragdoll, feet barely touching the ground, Ed’s automail arm swinging uselessly. “Hey! Put me down, you oversized meat mountain!” Edward squawked, flailing.
“Major, this is ridiculous!” Y/N protested, trying to pry Armstrong’s iron grip from her collar. “The Colonel said it was a matter of national security and a chance for you to bond with your peers!” Armstrong declared, practically humming with self-satisfaction. He began to drag them towards the door, ignoring Winry’s furious sputtering and Alphonse’s bewildered appeals.
“But what about my arm?!” Edward cried, his voice fading as they were pulled from the room. “Winry! Tell him!”
“I’ll fix it when you get back, Ed! Don’t let him break anything else!” Winry yelled after them, her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing.
Alphonse, ever the worried brother, started to follow, but Armstrong merely pointed a firm finger at him. “You, my dear Alphonse, must remain here! To comfort the fair Winry and ensure no further… mechanical mishaps occur in my absence!” With a grunt of effort, Armstrong maneuvered Edward and Y/N through the hotel corridors, a whirlwind of muscle and bewildered State Alchemists. Their protests were met with cheerful, booming pronouncements about the virtues of travel and the necessity of immediate automail repair.
The Central Train Station was a hive of activity. Carriages rumbled, steam hissed from colossal locomotives, and the air hummed with the murmur of a thousand conversations. Armstrong, however, moved through it like a battleship through a pond, parting the crowds with his sheer presence. Edward, still effectively being carried, caught glimpses of startled faces, their expressions ranging from awe to utter bewilderment. Y/N, her feet now mostly on the ground, struggled to maintain a semblance of dignity.
“Major, what is this all about?” Y/N demanded, her voice low and sharp, trying to keep her questions from turning into outright shouts. “My Dad is not one for theatrics. There must be a reason.”
Armstrong merely smiled, a broad, unsettling grin. “All in good time, my dear Y/N! All in good time! Suffice it to say, your presence is crucial! And Edward’s arm, of course!” He patted Edward’s still-dangling limb with a loud thwack. Edward let out a pained moan. “Crucial my butt! You just want an excuse to show off your muscles in the countryside! And my arm hurts, you oaf!”
They reached the platform, a long stretch of concrete teeming with passengers. The train itself was a magnificent beast of iron and steel, its polished surface reflecting the morning sun. Steam billowed from its sides, smelling faintly of coal and adventure. Armstrong, with surprising agility for a man of his size, hoisted Edward into the train car with a single, fluid motion. Edward landed with a soft *oof* on a plush velvet seat, his automail arm clanking against the window.
Y/N, still fuming, followed, stepping onto the train with a determined stride. The interior of the car was opulent, far too luxurious for a simple trip to Resembool. Deep red velvet seats lined the walls, and polished brass fixtures gleamed. It was clearly a first-class carriage.
“First class?” Edward muttered, rubbing his sore arm. “Are you trying to bankrupt the military, Major?”
Armstrong squeezed himself into the seat opposite them, the entire carriage seeming to shrink around him. “Only the best for the Hero of the People and his esteemed colleague! Now, relax! Enjoy the journey! Reflect upon the grand tapestry of life!”
The train gave a sudden *jolt*, then slowly began to move. The rhythmic *chug-chug-chug* of the engine filled the air, a steady heartbeat accompanying their unwilling departure. “You know, I still don’t understand why I had to come,” Y/N said, leaning back against the velvet, her arms crossed.
“Perhaps he simply wanted you to experience the joys of travel, Y/N!” Armstrong suggested, pulling out a small, embroidered handkerchief and dabbing at his brow. “To broaden your horizons! To witness the picturesque landscapes of Amestris!”
Edward snorted. “Or he’s trying to get rid of us. Maybe he’s planning something truly idiotic back in Central and doesn’t want us around to stop him.” He tried to adjust his arm, wincing as a loose wire snagged on his sleeve.
“Now, now, Fullmetal! Such cynicism!” Armstrong chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the floor. “One must always trust in the wisdom of one’s superiors! And besides, a journey is an excellent opportunity for personal growth! For contemplation! For the development of the physique!” He flexed his arm, nearly hitting the ceiling.
Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Contemplation, huh?” Edward groaned. “I’m still not convinced this isn’t just a ploy to get me away from Winry so she can’t fix my arm. You know how much she loves to tinker.”
“A mere coincidence, my dear boy! A magnificent alignment of fate and circumstance!” Armstrong declared, then leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that was still louder than a normal shout. “But perhaps… there is a deeper purpose. A secret mission, if you will, disguised as a delightful excursion!”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “A secret mission?”
Armstrong coughed, a surprisingly delicate sound for such a large man. “Well, I… I have been entrusted with a most vital task! To ensure your safe passage! And to ensure your automail is returned to its peak performance! The details, my friends, are for those with the highest clearance!”
“Right,” Y/N muttered, rolling her eyes. “So, you’re the muscle, and we’re the… confused baggage.”
The train sped up, the landscape blurring outside the window. Fields of green and gold stretched to the horizon, dotted with clusters of trees and sleepy villages. Edward, still nursing his arm, leaned his head against the cool windowpane. “This is ridiculous. I had plans. Important plans. Like napping.”
“Napping can wait, Fullmetal!” Armstrong boomed, startling a woman in the next car who had been peacefully reading a newspaper. “The call of adventure is far more invigorating than slumber! Besides, a journey such as this allows for ample opportunity to hone one’s physical prowess!” He began to do subtle, almost imperceptible, isometric exercises in his seat, his muscles rippling under his uniform.
Y/N watched him, a small, exasperated smile playing on her lips. “You know, Major, for a man who claims to be on a top-secret mission, you’re remarkably… transparent.”
“Ah, but my transparency is merely a reflection of my pure heart and unwavering dedication to the State!” Armstrong declared, striking a pose that made his uniform strain at the seams. “My emotions, like my muscles, are on full display for all to admire!”
Edward sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of resignation. “Great. So we’re stuck with the walking art exhibit until Resembool. And then what? Are we just supposed to magically figure out what this ‘secret mission’ is?”
“Precisely, my dear Edward! The thrill of discovery! The exhilaration of the unknown! These are the very essences of a true alchemist’s life!” Armstrong clapped his hands together, producing a sound like two cinder blocks colliding.
The next few hours passed in a blur of Armstrong’s booming pronouncements, Edward’s increasingly sarcastic remarks, and Y/N’s quiet, analytical observations. Armstrong regaled them with tales of his family’s alchemical lineage, demonstrating various ‘techniques’ that mostly involved flexing or striking poses. Edward tried to ignore him, attempting to fix his automail arm with a penknife, only to make it worse. Y/N, meanwhile, tried to deduce the true purpose of their journey, going over every possible scenario, every known threat, every political maneuver Roy Mustang might be making, or was he just getting them out of the way?
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels slowly gave way to a dull, grinding hiss as the engine sighed its way to a halt. Y/N, pushed away from the window, the fleeting glimpse of Resembooth’s rustic charm doing little to alleviate the gnawing uncertainty in their gut. For the past three hours, Major had maintained a steadfast, almost infuriating, silence regarding their destination and purpose. “Major, please. Can you at least give us a hint?”
Armstrong merely smiled, a broad, unsettling grin that stretched across his face. “All in good time, Y/N. All in good time. Now, let us disembark. Our destiny, and a most crucial individual, awaits!” The air on the platform was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant farmland, a stark contrast to the gritty, metallic tang of Central. Resembooth Station was small, a quaint wooden structure with a single platform, far removed from the bustling hubs Y/N, Edward, and Armstrong usually frequented. There was no military presence, no heavily armored vehicles, no signs of an urgent crisis. Just a handful of local travelers and the lone stationmaster peering curiously at the imposing figures stepping off the train. Edward stomped his foot, kicking at a loose pebble on the platform. “Seriously, this is a waste of time! If you dragged us all the way out here for nothing, I swear I’m going to personally dismantle your muscles, Major.”
“Such fiery spirit, Fullmetal!” Armstrong declared, striking a muscle man pose, seemingly oblivious to Edward’s genuine irritation. “Fear not, for our presence here is of the utmost importance!”
Y/N scanned the platform again, more carefully this time. Their eyes swept past the weathered benches, the old-fashioned clock, the handful of empty trolleys. Then, near a support pillar, partially obscured by a stack of luggage, Y/N’s gaze snagged on a familiar figure. He was standing awkwardly, hands clasped behind his back, looking more like a lost tourist than a military operative. “Isn’t that…?” Y/N started, a strange mix of confusion and recognition bubbling up.
Edward followed their gaze, his golden eyes widening. “Breda? What’s he doing here?!”
Indeed, it was Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda, looking just as bewildered to be there as they were, yet clearly waiting. He offered a sheepish wave when he caught their eye. Armstrong, meanwhile, threw back his head and let out a hearty laugh, a sound that echoed through the quiet station. “Aha! He waits! Just as planned! Witness, my friends, the dedication of the Amestrian military’s finest minds!” He strode forward, his imposing figure dwarfing the unassuming lieutenant.
Edward and Y/N exchanged a look, a shared understanding of deep, impending exasperation. They followed Armstrong, Edward already formulating a barrage of questions, Y/N bracing themselves for whatever bizarre, convoluted explanation Armstrong was about to unleash. "Fullmetal, Major, Y/N," Breda's voice was even, devoid of the usual military crispness, fitting the relaxed atmosphere of Resembool. "Good to see you all made it in one piece."
Armstrong boomed, "Lieutenant Breda! Always a pleasure! This journey, while picturesque, has left these magnificent muscles eager for some proper exercise!" He flexed, his bicep bulging impressively beneath his uniform sleeve. Edward simply rolled his eyes. Breda gestured down the main road that led deeper into the town. "Follow me."
As they set off, the station faded behind them, replaced by the familiar sight of quaint, well-kept houses and the occasional barking dog. Ed glanced at his automail arm, then at Breda. "So, are you coming with to get my automail fixed?” Breda’s steady gait didn't falter. He turned his head slightly. "No, Edward, that's not... exactly why we're here."
Edward stopped dead in his tracks, his short temper flaring. "Not exactly? Then what are we doing in Resembool?"
Y/N watched Breda carefully. His eyes, usually so direct, held a familiar glint of strategic thought. "He's being deliberately vague, Edward," she murmured, her voice steady. "It's Breda's way. There's a reason we can't be told everything, not yet."
The second lieutenant offered Y/N a brief, approving glance. "Let's just say Amestris has many moving parts, and some require a delicate touch, especially when those parts are in places where one might least expect them." He shrugged, a gesture that managed to convey both profound depth and utter nonchalance. "Besides," he added, looking ahead, "it's far better to discuss these things over a good coffee, don't you agree?"
The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and warm pastries hung heavy in the air of the Resembooth cafe, a comforting scent that spoke of domesticity and quiet mornings. It was a stark contrast to the usual scent of ozone and singed metal that often followed State Alchemists. At a table tucked away by a sun-drenched window sat a distinguished-looking man with kind eyes and a neatly trimmed beard, nursing a half-empty teacup. He wore simple, practical clothing, not the military uniform Y/N was accustomed to seeing on Breda’s colleagues. "Mr. Han, good to see you," Breda called out, his voice cutting through the gentle hum of conversation. The man, presumably Mr. Han, looked up and offered a warm, if slightly weary, smile. "Lieutenant Breda. Right on time, as ever."
Y/N shared a quick, bewildered glance with Edward. Neither of them had met this ‘Mr. Han’ before. Major Armstrong, ever theatrical, boomed, "A pleasure, sir! Allow me to introduce myself, Major Alex Louis Armstrong, of the glorious Amestrian State Military!" He threw in a subtle, glittering bicep flex for good measure, which Mr. Han seemed to take it in stride. Ed just scowled, clearly annoyed by the lack of prior instruction. "Please, sit," Mr. Han said, gesturing to the empty chairs. As they settled in, Edward immediately kicked Y/N under the table, a silent communication of, 'What the hell is going on?' Y/N subtly shrugged in response. She was just as lost.
Before anyone could ask a probing question, Breda leaned forward. "So, Mr. Han, is everything still on track for the border crossing?"
Y/N’s ears perked up. Border crossing?Why would they be discussing a border crossing? Mr. Han nodded, his expression turning serious. "Indeed. The route is clear, and the necessary... provisions... are in place.”
"Hold on a second!" Edward finally burst out, "What 'border crossing'? I don’t even have my passport with me.”
Y/N nodded vigorously, silently backing Edward’s outburst. Major Armstrong merely chuckled, a deep, booming sound that somehow managed to be both reassuring and completely unhelpful. "Don’t be so naive, they can track you with your passports," Breda said, finally looking at the two bewildered alchemists with a hint of a mischievous glint in his eye. Y/N exchanged another look with Edward before speaking, “But that’s illeg-” she was cut off by a flurry of hands coming clasp over her mouth.
The sun was a merciless hammer, pounding down on the vast, ochre expanse of the Amestrian desert. Heat shimmered above the sand, distorting the horizon into a watery mirage. Y/N Mustang, wrapped in a billowy white cloak that did little more than momentarily delay the inevitable sweat, squinted ahead. Mr. Han, the seasoned departure coordinator, led their small procession, his horse kicking up dust that lingered in the still, scorching air. Westward they rode, a silent, determined march against the elements. Beside her, Major Armstrong, despite his considerable physique, seemed surprisingly stoic under his own heavy cloak, maintaining a steady, rhythmic pace. Behind them, Second Lieutenant Breda looked as sweltering as Y/N felt, occasionally adjusting the neck of his cloak as if trying to conjure a breath of cool air. But it was Edward who truly drew Y/N’s gaze, her concern a tight knot in her stomach. The Fullmetal Alchemist, usually quick with a sarcastic remark or a burst of energy, rode with a grim set to his jaw. His white cloak, like theirs, offered some protection, but couldn’t hide him from the heat. Every now and then, Edward would shift uncomfortably in the saddle, his hand gripping the reins tighter, a suppressed wince fleeting across his face. He was clearly struggling, likely overheating, perhaps even causing him pain. "Are we there yet?" Ed’s voice was a raspy whine. "Seriously, I'm melting! This isn't just hot, it's molten. My arm feels like it's going to achieve critical mass and explode!" He gestured weakly with his covered metal arm, a glint of frustration in his visible eye.
Armstrong’s booming laugh cut through the stillness. “Nonsense, Edward! A true alchemist such as yourself should be able to transmute discomfort into pure, unadulterated resolve!”
Edward groaned, sagging slightly in his saddle. "Easy for you to say, Major, you're not half-metal! My leg feels like a branding iron!” Y/N sighed while reaching down, she unlatched a water bottle from the saddlebag of her horse. It was one of the larger, insulated military-issue types, currently filled with lukewarm water.
From a small side pocket, Y/N retrieved a pen. Balancing the bottle on her knee, she swiftly drew a simple, yet elegant, transmutation circle onto its plastic surface. It wasn’t an elaborate array of symbols, just enough to manipulate the molecular vibrations within the water. Her fingers blurred, sketching lines and angles with practiced ease, the ink taking firm hold on the damp plastic. A quick clap of her hands over the circle, and a wisp of vapor instantly erupted from the bottle, followed by a rush of frigid air that momentarily chilled Y/N’s hand. Ice crystals bloomed on the plastic, and the once-tepid water within became discernibly, blessedly cold.
“Ed, catch!” she called, drawing Edward’s attention.
With a practiced flick of her wrist, Y/N tossed the now-frost-covered bottle towards him. Edward, despite his discomfort, reacted with alchemist-level reflexes, snatching it out of the air. The moment his hand closed around the icy plastic, a shudder ran through him, a stark contrast to the burning sensation he’d been enduring. He pulled the bottle to his chest, the chill spreading through him like a benediction. , “Y/N! Thanks!” His voice was laced with genuine relief.
Major Armstrong boomed with approval. “Marvelous! A truly exquisite application of alchemical principles, Y/N! Only a master of water manipulation could so elegantly provide such succour in this infernal heat!”
"There," Mr. Han's voice, raspy from the dry air, cut through the oppressive quiet, breaking Y/N out of their heat-induced stupor. He raised a gnarled hand, pointing towards a faint, almost imperceptible smudge on the distant horizon. "Our destination.” Edward immediately pulled a small, brass eyeglass from a pouch on his saddle. He brought it to his eye, steadying his arm against the horse's gentle sway. Y/N watched him, their brow furrowed beneath the hood of their cloak. Edward’s expression, usually animated, grew still as he peered through the lens.
"It's the ruins of Cselkcess?" Edward finally announced, lowering the eyeglass with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of both exhaustion and burgeoning curiosity. He glanced back at Y/N, a flicker of shared confusion in his golden eyes. Y/N met his gaze, a silent question passing between them. They still didn't know why they were here.
Edward grumbled, his voice raspy from the dust as they finally reined in their horses. "When are we going to know what we are doing here?”
Major Armstrong, despite the oppressive heat, dismounted with a flourish that seemed to defy the very laws of physics, still radiating an inexplicable aura of muscular enthusiasm. "My dear Edward! And Y/N! The journey itself is part of the grand adventure! A true test of spirit and fortitude!"
Breda, looking decidedly less enthusiastic but no less determined, slid off his own mount. Mr. Han followed suit, already scanning the desolate horizon with a professional eye. They stood now amidst what remains of Cselkcess – a name Y/N had only ever encountered in ancient texts. Crumbling sandstone structures, eroded by millennia of wind and sand, rose like jaded teeth from the desert floor. The silence was profound, broken only by the snorts of their horses and the distant, mournful cry of some unseen desert creature. As they secured their horses, a lean, wiry figure detached himself from the shadow of a particularly large, collapsed archway. He moved with a silent, almost predatory grace, his dark eyes assessing them. Edward stiffened, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "Foo?" Edward blurted out, surprised.
You brought... the children?" Foo's voice was a low rasp, tinged with disbelief. He gestured vaguely at Edward and Y/N, who were both bristling at the implied insult.
"Hey! Who are you calling a child, you tiny old man?!" Edward shot back instinctively, his voice cracking slightly with indignation.
Y/N, too, felt a familiar wave of annoyance. "Frankly, this whole situation is ridiculous. You dragged us halfway across the country, Major, and still haven't told us why!" Y/N gestured around at the desolate ruins.
Within the ruins, the small group sought the meager shelter of a crumbling archway. Y/N, feeling the sweat bead on her brow, took a long, grateful swig from her water bottle . The cool water felt like a blessing against the parched dryness of her throat. Beside her, Edward, his golden gaze scanning the desolate landscape, gulped down his own rations. Armstrong wiped his brow with a large, surprisingly delicate handkerchief before offering his bottle to a grateful Breda, who accepted it with a weary groan. “This heat is going to bake my brains,” Breda muttered, pouring a generous amount over his head. “I swear, I’m seeing mirages of ice cream.”
Mr. Han merely nodded, checking his supplies. Foo sat cross-legged, his dark eyes taking in everything, his own bottle held with a practiced ease. “You’d think a place like this would at least have some more shade,” Edward grumbled, kicking idly at a loose stone. “Always wondered about this place. Cselkcess. I used to hear stories about it when I was a kid.”
Y/N rested her arms on her knees and lent forward. “Oh the guy that brought alchemy to Amestris?”
Edward leaned back against the ancient stones. “Yeah. A philosopher from the East, survived whatever happened here and brought the knowledge to us. Apparently, he was the one who taught the first alchemists.” Foo, who had been listening intently, finally spoke, his voice quiet but clear over the drone of the heat. “In Xing, we have a similar story.”
All eyes turned to him. Edward tilted his head. “Oh? About Cselkcess?”
Foo nodded solemnly. “Yes. We speak of an ancient sage, the first master of alkahestry, who came from the west. He spoke of a land consumed. Not by alkahestry, but by a different, yet powerful, art. He spoke of a grand city, built by seekers of power, that vanished in a single, terrible night. He was the sole survivor he knew of, carrying the knowledge of a world ravaged by a terrible ambition.”
“Right then, let’s keep moving,” Breda stated, his voice a dry rasp. They set off, their footsteps crunching on the debris of a forgotten civilization. The ruins stretched out around them, a ghostly testament to a once-thriving metropolis. Sculpted pillars lay toppled, walls crumbling into indistinguishable mounds. Y/N turned to Foo, who walked with an almost silent, gliding stride. “Foo, alkahestry specialises in medicine right?"
Foo glanced at her, his eyes ancient and knowing. “Indeed” he confirmed, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Alkahestry, the art of the Renzan, is intrinsically linked to the flow of chi, the life force within all living things. Our understanding of alchemy begins with the body, with health, with the pathways of energy that sustain life and wellness. From there, we extend it to the world, to the Ley Lines of the earth itself.”
Edward, who had been kicking at a loose stone, piped up. “So you guys are basically super-doctors on top of being alchemists? Sounds a lot more useful than blowing things up.”
Armstrong boomed, “A noble pursuit! To mend and restore, rather than simply transform! Truly magnificent!”
“It is a different philosophy entirely,” Y/N mused, thinking of the stark contrasts with Amestrian alchemy’s focus on deconstruction and reconstruction of matter. “Our alchemy is often destructive before it is constructive. Alkahestry sounds… more holistic.” She paused, looking out at the endless ruin. “If we’re assuming that the first alkahestist came from here, makes the disappearance of this place even more baffling. How could an entire civilization, possibly practicing something so life-affirming, just vanish?”
The landscape abruptly opened up, they stepped out of the claustrophobic maze of shattered buildings into a wide, shallow clearing. The ground here was relatively flat, covered in a fine, grey ash that crunched softly underfoot, distinct from the rougher debris they’d been traversing. The sky above felt vast and empty.
And then they saw her.
In the far distance, at the very edge of the clearing, stood a solitary figure. The light, or what little there was of it through the haze, cast her into a stark outline. She was undeniably a woman, her form slender, her stance strangely serene amidst the devastation. She wasn’t moving, simply standing there, facing away from them, her silhouette etched against the horizon like a forgotten monument. A collective stillness fell over the group, their footsteps dying out. Y/N’s eyes narrowed, “Who… what is that?” She muttered. Y/N squinted, trying to place the face in the dim light, a flicker of recognition stirring somewhere deep in their memory, but it was too hazy, too impossible.
Before either Y/N or Edward could fully process the impossible sight, a booming voice shattered the silence. “Lieutenant Ross!” Major Armstrong bellowed, his face splitting into a wide, tearful grin. He rushed forward, arms outstretched. “Lieutenant Maria Ross, I have been worried about you!”
The words hit Y/N like a physical blow. Ross. Maria Ross. It couldn't be. Y/N felt the blood drain from her face, her mind reeling. She glanced at Edward, whose golden eyes were wide, reflecting the same profound shock that had seized Y/N.
Impossible.
She had seen her corpse. How is she here? Now she stood before them, undeniably alive, albeit looking like she’d been through hell. Edward found his voice first, a raw, disbelieving whisper. “Ross? But… no way. Mustang… he killed you!”
Maria Ross offered a small, weary smile, a ghost of her former calm demeanor. “As you can see, I am quite alive, Elric.”
Y/N felt a surge of conflicting emotions – relief that Ross was alive, followed by a wave of furious indignation. Roy had orchestrated this entire, elaborate, dangerous charade. He had made his own daughter, the entire military, believe he was a cold-blooded killer, executing an innocent woman for a crime she didn’t commit. The sheer audacity, the risk involved, the emotional toll it must have taken on everyone… Breda stepped forward, offering a slight, knowing nod. “It was all part of the plan to ensure her safety and catch the true culprit. Colonel Mustang’s strategy.”
Strategy, Y/N thought, a bitter taste in their mouth. Or a reckless gamble that nearly gave her a heart attack. The cunning, ruthless side of her father, the Flame Alchemist, was always lurking beneath the surface, but this was a masterclass in deception. He had risked his reputation, his standing, and the emotional well-being of those closest to him, all to save one person and expose a deeper conspiracy.
“So all that talk about him being a monster…” Edward trailed off, looking from Ross to Breda, then back to Y/N, his expression a mix of awe and lingering anger.
“He played us all for fools,” Y/N muttered, the initial shock slowly giving way to a grudging respect for Roy’s intricate deception. He hadn’t just saved Ross; he had used the public’s perception of him, the very fear he sometimes cultivated, as a shield for her. It was a terrifying, brilliant move.
She's a ghost of a love long lost-his wife, his home, and now a stranger. Between distant horizons and dangerous hunts, Ging Freecs returns to her side, again and again, chasing a memory that may never come back.
an Ging Freecs x reader fanfiction
~02~
Wedding bells
The morning sun, a reluctant guest, bled through the gaps in the makeshift blinds, painting stripes across the rough-hewn floor. Dust motes danced in its hesitant embrace, a silent, swirling ballet. Y/N stretched, a soft groan escaping her lips, the stiffness of the cot protesting her movements. The air in the small, remote cabin was thick with the scent of pine and something distinctly Ging – a faint, earthy aroma of adventure and unwashed clothes. Today. Today was the day. A tremor, not of cold, but of something far more potent, ran through her.
A rustle from the other side of the room, followed by the distinctive *clink* of metal against metal, announced Ging’s presence. He was already up, probably tinkering with some ancient artifact or polishing a newly acquired treasure. She heard the soft *thump* of a book closing, then his footsteps, light and quick, approaching her side of the room.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, surprisingly gentle. She felt the dip in the cot as he sat beside her, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin blanket.
She opened her eyes, blinking against the dawn’s intrusion. His face, still smudged with sleep, was closer than she expected, his golden eyes, usually so sharp and distant, now soft, crinkling at the corners. A faint, almost imperceptible scar traced the line of his jaw, a memento from some forgotten expedition.
“Morning,” she mumbled, her voice husky with sleep. She reached out, her fingers tracing the rough stubble on his cheek. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Too much… anticipation.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down her arm. “You ready for this?”
A knot tightened in her stomach. “As I’ll ever be. Are *you*?”
He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that resonated deep within her chest. “Me? I was born ready. For anything. Even this.” He leaned in, his breath warm on her ear. “Especially this.”
The words, simple as they were, settled a part of the restless energy within her. She knew Ging. He rarely spoke of feelings, preferring to communicate through action, through shared adventures, through the silent understanding that passed between them during a perilous hunt. This was his way of saying it mattered.
A sudden, insistent *thump-thump-thump* against the cabin door startled them both.
“Wdwun,” Ging sighed, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Punctual as a well-aimed punch to the gut.”
He stood, stretching, his muscles rippling beneath his worn clothes. He was already dressed in his usual attire, practical and unadorned, a stark contrast to the formality of the day. He strode to the door, pulling it open with a creak.
Wdwun stood on the porch, a large, imposing figure, his face a mask of stoic expectation. He clutched a small, crudely wrapped package in one massive hand. The morning light caught the glint of the metal on his belt, an assortment of tools and weapons that seemed permanently affixed to his person.
“Morning, Ging. Y/N,” Wdwun rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. He offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “You ready?”
“Just about,” Ging replied, leaning against the doorframe. “You bring the… uh… the rings?”
Wdwun grunted, pushing the package forward. “Had to make them. Couldn’t find any out here that weren’t gaudy or too flimsy. Used a bit of meteorite iron. Strong stuff.”
Y/N, now sitting up fully, watched the exchange, a small smile playing on her lips. Wdwun, the silent, gruff giant, had actually crafted their wedding rings. The thought was both amusing and incredibly touching.
“Meteorite iron, huh?” Ging whistled, taking the package. “Fancy. Thought you’d just tie some rope around our fingers.”
A beat of silence hung in the air, broken only by the chirping of unseen birds. The weight of Wdwun’s words, unintentionally profound, settled over them. Iron endures.
“Right,” Ging cleared his throat, a hint of uncharacteristic awkwardness in his voice. “Well, come on in. The priest should be here soon.”
Wdwun stepped inside, filling the small space with his formidable presence. He moved to a corner, settling down on a rough-hewn stool, his gaze sweeping over the cabin’s sparse interior as if cataloging every nail and splinter. He was their witness, their sole confidante in this private, peculiar affair.
Y/N finally rose, pulling on a simple white dress she’d managed to find in a forgotten trading post, a stark contrast to the rugged surroundings. It wasn’t a grand gown, but it was clean, and it felt right. She moved to a small, cracked mirror, adjusting a few wild strands of hair.
“You look… good,” Ging said, his voice softer than before. He stood behind her, his reflection appearing over her shoulder. His hands settled lightly on her waist.
She met his gaze in the mirror. “You don’t look so bad yourself, for a man about to be tied down.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Tied down? More like anchored. In the eye of the storm.” He squeezed her waist gently. “Ready for the anchor to drop?”
A nervous flutter erupted in her stomach. “As I’ll ever be, Ging. As I’ll ever be.”
Just then, a light knock, almost timid, echoed through the cabin. Ging released her, turning to the door. This time, it was a small, stooped man in a simple clerical robe, his face etched with wrinkles, his eyes kind but weary. The priest. He carried a small, worn Bible under one arm.
“Greetings,” the priest said, his voice thin but clear. “I am Father Elias. I believe you requested my services?”
“Father Elias, yes,” Ging said, stepping aside. “Come in. Thank you for making the journey.”
The priest nodded, his gaze taking in the humble surroundings, lingering for a moment on Wdwun, who remained impassive in his corner. He then turned his gentle gaze to Y/N, offering a small, reassuring smile.
“A simple ceremony, as requested,” Father Elias began, his voice taking on a more formal cadence. “Love finds its home in many places, and the sacred bond of matrimony transcends grand cathedrals.” He set his Bible on a small, rickety table, the only one in the room, and opened it.
The air in the cabin, usually filled with the scent of adventure and dust, now carried a subtle aroma of sanctity and anticipation. Ging stood beside Y/N, his hand finding hers, his grip firm and reassuring. Wdwun shifted slightly in his seat, his eyes, usually so watchful, now seemed to soften, reflecting the flickering candlelight.
“We are gathered here today,” Father Elias began, his voice resonating with quiet authority, “to witness the union of two souls, Ging Freecss and Y/N, who stand before us, ready to pledge their lives to one another.” He looked at them, his eyes piercing, yet full of warmth. “Do you, Ging Freecss, take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
Ging’s gaze, usually so quick to dart away, was fixed on Y/N’s face. A flicker of something profound, something rarely seen, crossed his features. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, a silent promise.
“I do,” he said, his voice clear, unwavering, imbued with a depth she hadn’t heard before. The two simple words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, sealing a pact forged in the crucible of shared dangers and unspoken understanding.
Father Elias then turned to Y/N. “And do you, Y/N, take Ging Freecss to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the quiet solemnity of the moment. All the fears, all the uncertainties that came with binding her life to a man as wild and free as Ging, coalesced into a single, overwhelming wave. But then, she met his gaze, those golden eyes that held the promise of endless horizons, and the wave receded, replaced by a calm certainty.
“I do,” she breathed, her voice a little shaky, but resolute.
“The rings, please,” Father Elias prompted, extending a hand.
Ging fumbled with the crude package Wdwun had given him, finally extracting two simple, dark rings, their surface subtly textured, glinting with the faint, metallic sheen of meteorite iron. He handed one to Father Elias, who blessed it with a quiet prayer, then returned it to Ging.
“Ging, place the ring on Y/N’s finger and repeat after me: With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge my love and faithfulness.”
Ging took her left hand, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he slid the cool, heavy band onto her ring finger. It fit perfectly, a testament to Wdwun’s unexpected craftsmanship.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” Ging repeated, his voice low, his eyes never leaving hers, “and pledge my love and faithfulness.”
A warmth spread through her, radiating from the spot where the ring now rested. It wasn’t just the metal; it was the weight of his promise, the silent acknowledgment of a bond that transcended words.
Then, it was her turn. She took the second ring, its weight comforting in her palm. Ging offered his hand, his fingers calloused, strong. She slid the ring onto his finger, the rough texture of the meteorite iron a familiar comfort against her skin.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” she echoed, her voice steady now, “and pledge my love and faithfulness.”
Father Elias smiled, a genuine warmth radiating from him. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Ging’s eyes, usually so full of mischief, were now serious, intense. He leaned in slowly, his gaze still locked with hers. Her breath hitched in her throat. His lips, soft and warm, met hers, a gentle press that deepened into something more profound, a silent declaration of everything they had, everything they would be. It was a kiss that tasted of adventure and commitment, of shared secrets and unspoken promises.
When he pulled back, a faint flush colored his cheeks, a rare sight. He grinned, a wide, genuine smile that crinkled his eyes.
“Husband,” she whispered, testing the word on her tongue. It felt right.
“Wife,” he echoed, his voice a low hum of contentment.
A sudden, booming laugh erupted from Wdwun in the corner, startling them both. “Hah! Knew it! Took you long enough, Ging!”
Ging rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, pipe down, Wdwun. You’re just jealous.”
“Jealous?” Wdwun scoffed, pushing himself up from the stool. “Of a life of domestic bliss? Never. More like relieved. Now maybe you’ll stop dragging her into every hair-brained scheme.”
“No promises there,” Y/N quipped, a playful glint in her eye. “He’s still Ging, after all.”
Father Elias chuckled, closing his Bible. “A lively beginning. May your journey together be filled with joy and understanding.” He gave them a final, benevolent nod. “I will take my leave now. May peace be upon this house.”
Ging walked him to the door, a few quiet words exchanged, then returned, closing the door behind him. The cabin, once filled with the hushed reverence of the ceremony, now felt lighter, infused with a new energy.
“Well,” Ging said, turning to Y/N, his grin widening. “That’s done. We’re officially… official.”
“Official,” she repeated, the word settling comfortably into her mind. She held up her hand, admiring the simple ring. “Meteorite iron, huh? It’s perfect, Wdwun. Thank you.”
Wdwun merely grunted, a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. He pulled a small, leather-bound flask from his belt. “Celebratory drink?” he offered, holding it out.
Ging took it, uncorking it with a practiced flick of his thumb. The pungent aroma of strong, homemade spirits filled the air. He took a long swig, his eyes watering slightly, then passed it to Y/N.
She took a cautious sip. The liquid burned a fiery trail down her throat, leaving a warm, pleasant glow in its wake. “Whoa,” she coughed, laughing. “What is that, rocket fuel?”
“Local brew,” Wdwun said, a rare hint of pride in his voice. “Good for warding off the cold. And the blues.”
Ging clamped Wdwun on the shoulder, a rare display of affection. “To us, then,” he declared, raising the flask. “To adventures, new and old. To not getting killed by rogue Nen users. And to Y/N, who somehow agreed to marry me.”
“Hear, hear!” Wdwun rumbled, taking another swig from his own, identical flask, which he had subtly produced from a hidden pocket.
Y/N laughed, a pure, unadulterated sound of joy. “To you, Ging,” she said, her eyes shining, “who somehow convinced me that a life with you wouldn’t be utter chaos. Though I suspect it still will be.”
He winked. “A little chaos keeps things interesting, wouldn’t you say, wife?”
A comfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the occasional clink of the flasks and the distant chirping of birds. The morning sun, now higher in the sky, cast long, golden beams through the window, illuminating the dust motes still dancing in the air. This small, humble cabin, nestled deep in the wilderness, had witnessed a profound moment, a quiet revolution in their lives.
Ging, ever restless, finally broke the spell. “So,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Now that we’re married… what’s next?”
Y/N smiled, a knowing smile that mirrored his own. She knew Ging. He was a man of constant motion, of endless curiosity. Marriage wouldn’t change that. It would simply mean she was along for the ride, now with a ring on her finger and a shared name.
“Well,” she said, stepping closer to him, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “I was thinking… since we’re officially husband and wife…” Her voice dropped to a low, suggestive hum. “Maybe we could start our first official adventure… right here.”
Ging’s eyes widened slightly, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Hmm? What kind of adventure did you have in mind, wife?” His voice was a low growl, filled with playful promise.
“The kind,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin, “where we don’t have to worry about rogue Nen users, or ancient ruins, or finding the next big treasure.” She trailed a finger down his chest, feeling the solid warmth of his skin beneath his shirt. “Just… us. And maybe a very long, very quiet afternoon.”
He chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated through her. “Sounds like the best kind of adventure,” he murmured, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer until no space remained between them. His lips found hers again, this time with a deeper urgency, a hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface of the morning’s solemnity.
The kiss deepened, becoming more insistent, more passionate. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. The faint scent of pine and Ging filled her senses, intoxicating and familiar. The world outside the cabin, with its endless challenges and boundless horizons, faded away. For this moment, there was only them, two hunters, two souls, now irrevocably bound, finding their own wild, beautiful peace in the quiet sanctuary of their new beginning.
Wdwun, ever the discreet observer, cleared his throat loudly from his corner. “I’ll… uh… I’ll be outside. Keeping watch. For… anything.” He shuffled towards the door, his large frame filling the doorway for a moment before he stepped out, pulling the door shut with a soft click.
A small, knowing smile played on Y/N’s lips as she pulled away slightly from Ging, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “He’s a good friend.”
Ging grinned, his eyes gleaming. “The best. Now,” he murmured, his lips tracing the line of her jaw, sending shivers down her spine, “where were we?”
“Our first adventure,” she breathed, her voice a little husky.
He swept her into his arms, a playful grunt escaping his lips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms circling his neck. He carried her towards the cot, the old springs groaning in protest under their combined weight. He lowered her gently onto the rough blankets, his body following hers, pressing her into the mattress.
The sunlight, now streaming fully into the cabin, illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, a silent, swirling ballet around them. The scent of pine and Ging, now mingled with the faint, sweet scent of her own skin, filled the small space. Outside, the sounds of the wilderness hummed, a soft, distant melody. Inside, a new kind of hum began, a quiet, fervent symphony of two souls, finally, irrevocably, entwined. The adventure had truly begun.
Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~
an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.
~10~
A/N: To celebrate 1 year of Antimony I have written a longer chapter and created a playlist to listen to while reading, enjoy <3
The bathwater ran crimson, swirling down the drain like a morbid watercolor. Y/N sat submerged, the porcelain cold against her bare skin, her father, Roy Mustang, knelt beside the tub, his gloved hands gently coaxing the dark, clotted strands of her hair. The metallic tang of blood still hung heavy in the air of their townhouse bathroom, a stark contrast to the floral wallpaper peeling at the edges.
"Easy now," Roy murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the silence. "Let the water do its work."
Y/N flinched as he wrung out the cloth, the ghost of Hughes' blood staining her memories. "It won't come off," she whispered, her voice raspy, barely audible above the dripping faucet.
Roy paused, his dark eyes meeting hers. "It will," he assured, though the doubt lingered in his gaze. "Everything does, eventually." He resumed his task, carefully working the shampoo through her hair, the lavender scent a fragile shield against the lingering horror.
“Why him?" she asked, the question hanging in the steam-filled air. "Why Uncle Maes?"
Roy's jaw tightened. He didn't answer, his silence a heavy cloak around them. He knew there were no answers that could ease her pain, no words that could fill the void Hughes' death had left. The man had been more than a friend; he was family.
Y/N closed her eyes, the image of Hughes' lifeless body flashing behind her eyelids. "He was just trying to help," she choked out, tears mingling with the bathwater. "He just wanted to make things better."
Roy sighed, the sound heavy with grief. "I know," he said softly. "He always did." He squeezed her shoulder gently, a silent promise of protection, of vengeance. But even as he made that vow, he knew the darkness that had claimed Hughes was vast and insidious, and that their lives would never be the same again.
As Y/N’s sobs quieted to soft hiccups, Roy's thoughts spiraled through the chaos of the past few hours. Each moment spent trying to save Hughes replayed in his mind, a relentless loop of failure he couldn't escape. Determination surged within him; they had to find out who was responsible for this atrocity. The darkness that had claimed Hughes was vast and insidious, and Roy felt the urgency to confront it. He sensed Y/N tense beside him, her smaller frame trembling again as the weight of their reality settled heavily around them. He needed her to be strong, to stand alongside him in this fight for justice, even as guilt gnawed at him. He had always tried to shield her from the harsh truths of their world, but now the storm was at their doorstep. As dark clouds gathered on the horizon, he understood that the battle was just beginning—a battle not only for justice but for the very soul of their family.
The week leading up to Maes Hughes’ funeral dripped by like the slow, heavy rain that blanketed Central. Each day felt like a suffocating weight, the air thick with unspoken grief and a gnawing sense of loss. Y/N moved through their townhouse in a daze, her usual vibrancy dulled to a muted shadow. The world outside continued its relentless pace, people bustling about, unaware of the devastation that had shattered her life. As a state alchemist, Y/N had faced danger before, but this loss felt insurmountable.
On Monday, Roy returned home late, his uniform crisp yet his shoulders sagging under the weight of his duties. He had spent the day coordinating the arrangements, his mind a blur of logistics and protocols, yet each decision felt like a betrayal to his friend. Y/N sat at the kitchen table, her fingers tracing the outline of a photograph of Hughes and his family, their laughter frozen in time. When her father entered, she felt a flicker of warmth, but it was quickly eclipsed by the emptiness that had taken residence in her heart.
By Tuesday, the funeral home had been chosen, a solemn place adorned with muted colors and the scent of fresh flowers that felt almost mocking. Roy stood at the entrance, the chill of the air matching the numbness in his chest as he met with the director. Y/N hovered nearby, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting Hughes to walk through the door, his smile wide and infectious. Instead, she saw only the stark reality of what lay ahead—rows of chairs, a casket draped in dark velvet.
Wednesday brought a flurry of visitors to the hughes’, friends and colleagues offering condolences. Gracia Hughes, her eyes red-rimmed but determined, moved through the crowd, accepting hugs and whispered sympathies, her strength a stark reminder of the loss they all shared. Y/N felt a deep connection to Gracia, a shared understanding of loss, as they exchanged glances across the room. Each “I’m so sorry” felt hollow, echoing against the walls of her isolation. Roy remained a steady presence at her side, yet the distance between them grew with every shared glance that spoke of unacknowledged sorrow.
On Thursday, Roy sat in their living room, poring over papers with a furrowed brow. The quiet hum of the city outside was a stark contrast to the chaos within. Y/N wandered into the room, clutching a long black dress that felt too formal, too heavy for her fragile state. She held it up for her father’s approval, but he merely glanced at it, lost in thought, and she felt a pang of rejection. The burden of being a state alchemist weighed heavily on her; she had always been the one to protect others, but now she felt utterly powerless.
Friday was marked by a sense of finality. The day was filled with muted colors as they prepared their hearts for the ceremony. Y/N carefully placed a small bouquet of daisies—Hughes’ favorite—beside the casket, the vibrant blooms a defiant splash of life against the somber backdrop. She could already feel the weight of the gathering crowd, the murmurs of shared grief hanging in the air, and her heart raced at the thought of facing everyone. Gracia approached her, wrapping her arms around Y/N in a moment of solidarity, their shared tears a testament to the bond of loss. Elicia stood by her side confused why her daddy isn’t coming home.
Saturday dawned with an oppressive stillness, the day of the funeral. The sun peeked through the clouds as if unsure whether to shine or hide. Y/N dressed slowly, each movement deliberate, as if preparing for battle. Roy, in his crisp uniform, looked every bit the soldier, yet there was a vulnerability in his eyes that mirrored her own. As they left the house, the world outside felt foreign, the streets lined with people who were oblivious to their pain.
At the funeral, the gathered crowd was a sea of black, each face etched with sorrow. The eulogies poured forth, words of love and camaraderie, yet they felt inadequate against the vastness of the loss. Y/N stood beside her father, their hands clasped together, drawing strength from one another as they faced the truth of their grief. Gracia stood nearby, her hands clasped tightly with Elicia who was crying, a picture of resilience amid her heartbreak. The laughter of the past echoed in Y/N’s mind, mingling with the heavy silence, and in that moment, she understood that they were not only mourning Hughes but also the pieces of themselves that had been lost in the wake of his death. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the cemetery, Y/N felt the weight of unspoken words pressing against her chest. Each eulogy that followed was a reminder of Hughes' vibrancy, his laughter ringing out like a melody in their memories. But now, that melody had faded into a haunting silence.
She glanced at her father, whose stoic demeanor belied the turmoil beneath. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, mirroring her own as they both grappled with the enormity of their loss. It was a shared sorrow, yet so intensely personal; an intricate dance between despair and cherished remembrance.
Gracia’s comforting grip on Elicia's hand tightened as another friend stepped forward to speak. Their voice trembled but grew stronger with each word—stories of late-night talks and spontaneous adventures that painted Hughes not just as a friend but as an irreplaceable part of their lives. Y/N's heart swelled and shattered simultaneously; each laugh recounted was a dagger to her heart, reminding her of all that would never be again.
The biting Dublith wind howled outside the modest cottage, rattling the window panes. Inside, Edward Elric hunched over the crackling fireplace, the warmth doing little to soothe the gnawing unease in his gut. Alphonse, ever the more grounded of the two, was meticulously cleaning their meager traveling gear.
It had been weeks since they arrived in Dublith, a week of brutal training under Izumi Curtis, a woman whose diminutive stature belied a terrifying strength and an unnerving ability to see straight through their carefully constructed facades. She knew. She knew about the human transmutation. It had taken her all of five minutes.
Edward sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy golden hair. He missed Central. He missed the familiar hustle and bustle, the camaraderie, even the endless paperwork. Most of all, he missed… her. Y/N Mustang, with her sharp wit and the kindest heart he knew.
He glanced at the phone, a clunky, old-fashioned model that sat on a small table by the door. He hadn't spoken to Y/N since she left Rush Valley.
"Al," he said, his voice rough, "I'm going to call Central."
Alphonse looked up, his metallic face tilted in consideration. "Are you sure? It's late."
"Yeah, I'm sure. I need to talk to someone… who isn't trying to kill me in my sleep." He managed a weak grin.
Alphonse laughed, "You mean you just want to talk to Y/N."
Ed glared at him, "Whatever."
Edward picked up the phone, the cold plastic a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire. He dialed the familiar number, each ring echoing in the small room. He imagined Y/N, maybe reading a book by the fireplace in her bedroom, the same way he was now, or perhaps working late at headquarters.
Finally, the line clicked, followed by a familiar, slightly breathless voice. "Mustang residence, Y/N speaking."
Relief washed over Edward, so potent it almost brought him to his knees. "Y/N? It's me, Ed."
There was a pause, a beat of silence that stretched on for an eternity. Then, a subtle shift in her tone. "Ed, how have you been, how's your training going"
He could hear the undercurrent of worry in her voice, and it made him worry, had something happened? "Yeah, I'm fine. We're getting our asses handed to us but we didn't expect much else, You alright?"
"Yeah, just been a long day of paperwork, Since when did you get your ass handed to you, Fullmetal?" He could practically hear the playful smile in her voice.
He chuckled, finally feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders. "Hey! Besides, this training is intense. You wouldn't believe it. This woman, Izumi, she's… something else."
"Intense how?"
"Well," Edward hesitated, "for starters, she somehow figured it out about… you know. The human transmutation thing, pretty much immediately, I thought we would've had a few days at least."
Y/N laughed. "To be fair, you only have to stand next to Al on a windy day and you can tell he is just armour"
"True, but still. She pretty much kicked us out afterward and said we weren't her students anymore.”
"What? I thought you said you were still training?"
"Let me finish, woman, geez. She let us back as equals, she had attempted it too, before we knew her."
There was a soft sigh on the other end of the line. "Oh damn, no wonder she figured it out."
"We're heading back tomorrow, we just got to swing by Rush Valley again to see winry and then we'll be back."
"That's good," Y/N said slowly. "Hey, Ed?"
Edward gluped. "Yeah, you okay?"
"I lied, about doing paperwork" she spoke, sadness seeping from her voice. "I was at a funeral."
"Who-" Ed was cut off
"Hughes is dead."
"What happened?" He said hand shaking.
"You need to be careful Edward, I'll explain fully when you both get back."
"It's alright I understand what you're saying, how are you doing?"
"Truthfully I don't even know Ed. Look I gotta go, I'm sorry for telling you over the phone but-"
"It's alright, thanks for telling me."
"Be safe okay?"
"We will, I promise."
He hung up the phone, the silence in the room amplifying the weight of his words. He looked at Alphonse, his brother's metallic eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. Al glanced at Ed, sensing the tension that coiled tightly around them like a storm cloud. “Brother, are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Uh, you know Hughes?” Ed said, eyebrows furrowed.
“Yeah?”
“He’s dead.”
“What!? What happened?!” Al shot up from his spot on the floor.
“Homunculi.”
The click of the receiver echoed in the otherwise silent house. Y/N Mustang slowly placed the phone back on its cradle, the Bakelite cool beneath her fingertips.
Outside, the Amestris sky was a bruised purple, mirroring the ache in Y/N’s chest. She could hear the distant rumble of a car, familiar and yet unfamiliar in the hollow emptiness that had swallowed their home whole. It was her father.
The front door creaked open and Roy Mustang stepped inside. He was still in his military uniform, the dark blue fabric rumpled and stained. The only change was the absence of his hat, which he must have left in the car.
He looked…smaller than usual. The usually sharp, confident lines of his face were blurred with exhaustion. His eyes, usually so full of calculating fire, were dull and shadowed. He hadn’t changed since the funeral hours before.
Y/N’s heart clenched. She wanted to run to him, to hug him, to tell him everything would be alright, even though she knew it wouldn't. Not really. Not ever.
"Dad," she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
He looked up, his gaze unfocused for a moment before settling on her. A flicker of something – recognition, perhaps, or maybe just guilt – crossed his face.
"Y/N," he said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. "You're still up."
Y/N swallowed, the lump in her throat growing larger."Are you…are you okay?" she asked, the question trembling slightly in the air between them.
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Okay? No, Y/N, I'm not okay. I don't think I'll be okay for a long time."
The honesty of his words hung heavy in the silence. Y/N didn't know what to say. She wanted to fix it, to make it better, but she was just one person, a teenager with no real power to change the world, or even her father’s pain.
He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. "I'm just…tired," he said, his voice barely audible. "Really tired. I'm going to go upstairs and lie down."
He turned and started towards the staircase, his movements slow and deliberate, like an old machine winding down.
Y/N watched him go, her heart twisting with a potent mixture of grief and helplessness. She wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
"Dad," she called out again, her voice louder this time.
He paused on the stairs, his back to her.
He didn't turn around. For a long moment, he stood there, frozen in place. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, he continued his ascent.
"Goodnight, Y/N," he said, his voice muffled.
"Goodnight, Dad," she whispered, even though she knew he probably couldn't hear her.
She stood there, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading away upstairs. The house was silent again, except for the quiet tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Y/N watched the shadows dance along the walls, the dim light casting elongated shapes that flickered like memories in her mind. Each tick of the clock seemed to echo the unspoken words that hung heavily in the air, a reminder of all that remained unsaid between them.
She felt a familiar ache settle in her chest, one she had grown accustomed to over the years. It was as if each moment of silence between her and her father built an invisible wall, brick by brick, until it loomed high above them—an impenetrable fortress of misunderstandings and unhealed wounds.
The next morning, the sun cast elongated shadows across Central City, draping the formidable walls of Central Command in a somber hue. Y/N sat hunched over a chaotic desk within the heart of Central Command, the rhythmic scratching of her pen the only sound piercing the heavy silence. Today marked the return of Edward and Alphonse, and with each passing hour, a knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, a relentless reminder of the uncertainty that loomed.
Her father, Roy Mustang, had not uttered a single word about Hughes since the funeral, a wall of unspoken grief rising between them like an insurmountable barrier. She understood his pain, yet his silence only magnified her own fears. The brutal murder of Hughes had shattered the fragile peace they had fought so hard to maintain, exposing a conspiracy that ran deeper than anyone had dared to imagine. The chilling knowledge that these malevolent forces still lurked in the shadows filled her with dread for Ed and Al’s safety.
Central Command was a labyrinthine network of corridors and offices, bustling with soldiers and bureaucrats, each moving with a sense of purpose. Y/N navigated this maze with practiced ease, a ghost haunting the machinery of authority. She listened intently to hushed conversations, observed furtive movements, and felt the atmosphere thick with tension—a silent acknowledgment of the unease that gripped the city like a vice.
Determined to distract herself from the gnawing worry, she immersed herself in her work, poring over reports and alchemical formulas, seeking solace in the familiar. She knew her father was likely doing the same, burying himself in his responsibilities to evade the pain that threatened to engulf them both. Yet, an unsettling feeling clung to her, as if they were teetering on the edge of a precipice, one misstep away from plummeting into the abyss.
The fluorescent lights of Central Command hummed, a monotonous soundtrack to Y/N Mustang’s evening. Six o'clock. Finally, With a sigh that could probably transmute lead into gold, she stacked the last of the meticulously sorted paperwork into a neat pile on her desk.
Central City was a blur of greys and browns, a stoic monument to military might and ordered efficiency. Even the setting sun seemed to cast a muted, almost apologetic glow on the city’s rigid grid of streets. Y/N welcomed the cool evening air as she stepped out of the imposing building. The rhythmic clack of her boots echoed off the stone facade as she headed towards Central Station, her usual route home.
The station was a hive of after-work activity. Soldiers in crisp uniforms hurried to catch trains. Civilians, tired but eager to return to their families, jostled for space on the crowded platforms. The scent of coal smoke and cheap coffee hung heavy in the air.
As Y/N approached the main entrance, she caught sight of two familiar figures emerging from the station’s revolving doors. Her eyes widened slightly. Edward Elric, with his signature braid and perpetual scowl, was arguing heatedly with his younger brother, Alphonse, whose towering suit of armor drew curious glances from passersby.
“Fancy seeing you guys here” Y/N laughed, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
The crisp Central City air nipped at Y/N's cheeks as they walked away from Central Station. The rhythmic clang of trams echoed in the distance, a familiar soundtrack to the city. Edward Elric, hands shoved deep in his automail coat pockets, cast furtive glances at Y/N. Alphonse, his towering metal form surprisingly quiet, followed silently.
Ed was worried. He hadn't seen that distant look in Y/N's eyes before, a sign she was retreating into herself. Hughes’s death hit them all hard, but especially Y/N.
"Bit cold today, huh?" Ed asked, trying to sound casual. He hated tiptoeing around feelings, but he also didn’t want to push her.
She shrugged. "It's Central City. Always cold."
Ed scowled internally. These platitudes felt hollow, useless against the gaping wound Hughes’s death had left. He wished he knew what to say, something that could actually ease her pain.
The hotel lobby was bustling with activity. Soldiers in crisp uniforms, weary travelers, and smartly dressed civilians milled around, their voices creating a low hum of conversation. Y/N stopped just inside the entrance, her gaze sweeping over the scene but not really focusing on anything. Y/N blinked, the sound of laughter and chatter fading into a soft blur as memories of Hughes' corpse lying there, the smell of his blood—marked every corner of her thoughts, distorting the vibrant life of Central City into a muted canvas painted with grief.
“Hey,” Ed said gently, stepping a little closer, his voice barely above the ambient noise. “You okay?”
For a moment, it felt like the world around them was holding its breath, waiting for her response. She turned toward him, her expression unreadable. “Just thinking,” she replied, a hint of vulnerability lacing her words.
“About what?” Al's deep voice broke in, his armor glinting with the lobby's light. “I mean, if you want to talk about it.”
That made Y/N smile faintly. Not enough to reach her eyes, but it was something. “It’s alright, thanks though.” Her gaze fell back to the crowd.
The ornate wallpaper in the Central City hotel room felt suffocating to Y/N. It was too cheerful, too busy, for the grief that hung heavy in the air. Edward sat on the edge of the bed, his golden eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the floral pattern. Alphonse, ever the grounding presence, stood silently beside him, his metallic head tilted in a gesture of concern.
"It doesn't make sense," Ed finally said, his voice tight. "Hughes...he was too damn careful. He wouldn't just be caught off guard like that."
Y/N leaned against the window frame, the city lights blurring through her unshed tears. "He was getting close, though, wasn't he? He said he had a breakthrough."
"So," Ed continued, his voice hardening, "someone silenced him. Someone who knew what he was digging into. Someone who could get close enough without raising suspicion."
The unspoken word, the chilling implication, settled over them like a shroud: Homunculi.
Y/N pushed herself off the window frame, pacing the cramped room. "But why? What did he uncover that was so important?"
"That's what we need to find out," Ed said, his jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy blond hair. “Oh yeah, i nearly forgot, we fought one of the homunculi while we were in Dublith.”
“You fought a Homunculus?” Y/N asked, her eyebrows raised, a mixture of disbelief and intrigue swirling in her eyes, she was constantly surprised by the sheer number of near-death experiences they accumulated.
Ed scoffed, pacing the small space. “Fought is a strong word. It was more like… a very chaotic introduction.”
“And he had a whole gang of chimera goons.”
Al responded quietly. “Master Izumi was… less than thrilled about it all.”
Y/N chuckled. “Alright, start from the beginning,”
Ed huffed. “Turns out, this… guy. Greed was hiding out in Dublith” He spat the name out like a curse word. “He was holed up in this club, Devil’s Nest, running a whole operation. Criminal empire, the whole shebang.”
Al picked up the narrative. “He kidnapped Al. He wanted… everything. Money, power, people. He even wanted immortality.”
Y/N shivered. “Sounds pleasant.”
Ed rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, he had this cult following of chimeras.”
“Roa, the mad dog,” Al continued. “He was this huge muscular man and he was part dog and his sense of smell was incredible. Then there was Dolcetto, a lion chimera - very strong and aggressive. And Bido, who was fused with a lizard - they could regenerate pretty fast.”
Ed shuddered theatrically. “Don't forget the most disturbing one, Martel. She was part snake and she was slippery to say the least, going as far as hijacking Al's armor.”
Al nodded solemnly. “It was… unsettling. I could feel her inside, moving around. I couldn’t control myself.”
Ed’s expression softened, his usual bravado momentarily slipping. “It was a close call. If Teacher hadn't shown up when she did…” He trailed off.
“So, your teacher showed up and fought the chimera people?” Y/N asked.
“She didn’t hesitate,” Ed said, a grudging respect coloring his tone. “She ripped through them. But Greed… he was different. He had this weird, impenetrable skin. Couldn’t get through it with anything.”
“It's because of his Ultimate Shield, the ability to rearrange the carbon atoms in his skin, making it as hard as diamond,” Al added.
Y/N leaned forward, captivated. “So, how did you beat him?”
Ed spoke. “We didn’t, exactly. The military showed up. It was pretty much a bloodbath, they wanted to kill all of them.” He looked around nervously “It was like the Fuhrer knew Greed.”
“He killed Martel… while she was inside my armour," Al looked down at his metal hands.
Y/N’s eyes nearly fell out of her head, “Oh my god Al, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” He said half heartedly “I remember the truth now though… upside i don’t need transmutation circles anymore.”
Y/N took a step back, absorbing Al’s words. “Oh my-.”
Alphonse, however, was distracted by something else entirely. A stack of newspapers lay haphazardly piled on a small table near the couch. Curiosity piqued, he rolled closer, his metal joints clicking softly. He scanned the headlines, skimming past articles about trade agreements and military drills. Then, his gaze snagged on a bold, screaming headline: "SOLDIER ARRESTED FOR HUGHES' MURDER!"
Below the headline, a grainy photograph showed a distraught-looking Maria Ross being escorted by Military Police.
Alphonse's metallic voice, usually so calm, vibrated with shock and disbelief. "Brother! Y/N! Look at this!"
Y/N and Ed rushed to Alphonse's side, peering at the newspaper. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The blood drained from Ed's face, leaving him pale and drawn. He snatched the newspaper from Alphonse, his eyes darting over the article, absorbing the horrifying details. The military was claiming to have irrefutable evidence linking Maria Ross to Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes's murder.
"Ross? But...that's impossible!" Ed sputtered, disbelief warring with a dawning horror in his voice.
Y/N's face was a mask of fury. "This has to be a mistake. Or a setup. Maria would never-" She cut herself off, her voice choked with emotion. Hughes had been a close friend to her brother, and she had always respected him.
Ed's anger flared, momentarily eclipsing his shock. "Damn it! This whole thing stinks! They're obviously trying to shut Hughes's investigation down, and Ross is just a convenient scapegoat."
He threw the newspaper back onto the table, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. He turned to Al and Y/N, his eyes blazing with determination. "We're getting out of here, now. We need to talk to Maria and figure out what the hell is going on."
Y/N nodded. Without another word, Ed flung open the door and charged out of the room, Alphonse lumbering after him, and Y/N right on their heels. Leaving their half-packed bags and the unsettling remnants of their interrupted conversation behind.
The trio raced down the dimly lit hallway, their footsteps echoing ominously against the cold stone walls. Ed’s heart pounded in his chest, a furious drumbeat urging him forward. He could hardly contain the tempest of emotions swirling within him—anger, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of urgency.
As they burst through the door to the courtyard, a gust of wind whipped around them, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked earth. The sky was overcast, dark clouds rolling like a brewing storm, mirroring the turmoil in Ed’s mind. He glanced at Al and Y/N; both wore expressions that matched his own—determined yet troubled.
“Where do we start?” Y/N asked breathlessly as they reached the edge of the courtyard. Her eyes darted around, searching for any sign of direction or clarity amidst the chaos.
Ed clenched his fists. “We need to get to Central Prison. If Maria is being held there, we’ll find her.” His voice was steady despite the chaos inside him; he had to be strong for them both.
Alphonse nodded solemnly. “I think we should try to talk our way in.” he offered, his metallic form gleaming even under the murky skies.
“Good idea,” Y/N replied quickly. “If we can just explain—”
Suddenly, a piercing alarm shattered the night. Red lights pulsed from the prison walls, bathing the street in an unsettling glow. The prison alarm blared, a shrill, unsettling shriek that cut through the Central City night. Edward Elric cursed under his breath, his golden eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and determination. Beside him, Alphonse’s metallic head swiveled, his empty eyes sockets somehow conveying a sense of urgency. Y/N, her face grim, clenched her fists.
A roar erupted a block away, followed by the unmistakable flicker of flames licking at the night sky. The heat radiated even from that distance, smelling of burning wood and something far more sinister.
The acrid smell of smoke clawed at Y/N’s throat as she, Ed, and Al rounded the corner. The oppressive weight of Central City at night seemed heavier than usual, punctuated by the flashing red and blue of the prison alarm lights.
Ed cursed under his breath, his golden eyes reflecting the inferno. “What the hell happened here?”
Al, his metallic form gleaming under the flickering light, remained silent, processing the chaotic scene.
Y/N felt a cold dread creep into her bones. Her father was known for his…explosive…methods. And judging by the sheer intensity of the fire, this felt personal.
Then she saw him.
Standing at the alley, was Roy Mustang. His usually immaculate uniform was smudged with soot, his face grim and resolute. He stood over… something. A charred, unrecognizable heap that had once been human.
To celebrate a year of Antimony I decided to make a playlist for the story :) The way I built the playlist I put songs for each character/relationship between characters. Instead of updating the playlist every chapter because the story is fully planned out to it’s ending now some songs won’t quite make sense yet, anyways enjoy!!!
-Bubbles
Playlist breakdown below~
Songs for Edward:
The man who can’t be moved - The Script (2008)
Still breathing - Green Day (2016)
Migraine - Twenty One Pilots (2013)
Pray - Sam Smith (2017)
Saint bernard - Lincoln (2017)
Body - Mother Mother (2008)
Songs for Y/N:
The seed - AURORA (2019)
Perfect - Mason (2007)
L'oiseau et l'enfant - Marie Myriam (1977)
Vienna - Billy Joel (1977)
Songs for Alphonse:
Zombie - The Cranberries (1994)
Paranoid android - Radiohead (1997)
Bring me to life - Evanescence (2003)
Creature - Half Alive (2019)
Songs for Roy:
War pigs - Black Sabbath (1970)
House of memories - Panic At The Disco (2016)
Who are you really - Mikky Ekko (2010)
Set fire to the rain - Adele (2011)
Songs for Riza:
Blind faith - Alexa Dark (2023)
Songs for Y/N and her Mom:
Supermarket flowers - Ed Sheeran (2017)
DNA Guarantee - Kodi Rhianne (2024)
Zombie girl - Adrianne Lenker (2020)
Songs for Roy and Y/N’s Mom:
Let her go - Passenger (2013)
Songs for Roy and Maes:
Wires - The Neighbourhood (2013)
Songs for Edward and Alphonse:
Running up that hill - Kate Bush (1985)
Things we lost in the fire - Bastille (2013)
Songs for Roy and Riza:
Headlock - Imogen Heap (2005)
Army Dreamers - Kate Bush (1980)
Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town - Kenny Rogers (1969)
Jigsaw falling into place - Radiohead (2007)
Songs for Roy and Y/N:
Enjoy the silence - Depeche Mode (1990)
I’ll stand by you - The Pretenders (1994)
Die your daughter - Susannah Joffee (2024)
My little girl - Tim McGraw (2016)
Godspeed - Frank Ocean (2016)
Songs for Edward and Y/N:
Out of touch - Daryl Hall & John Oates (1984)
Our love - Curtis Harding & Jazmine Sullivan (2021)
