Discover Top Posts Tagged with #van hohenheim

your sins don't end with tears - chapter 3

AO3 Link

Summary:

“Tell me,” Ling began, voice deadly serious. His gaze was piercing, as though looking into Edward’s very soul. “How many people do you have inside of you?” -------- Edward was born earlier, to a much younger Hohenheim. Even with a much different start to life, one thing still holds true: he loves Alphonse more than anything, even if his beloved brother does stupid things like run off and join the military at age 11. ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 (here - 10.6k) | ch 4(tba)

“What was it you said that led you to be lost in the desert?”

“I never said. Thank you for all your help.”

Xing was beautiful. Edward had heard stories about it, of course; all his life there had been traders coming to Xerxes with talk of a world unlike the desert he had always known.

It was different seeing it in person. He stood out for once, gold in a sea of browns, auburns, and blacks.

It hurt to think about why.

Beautiful silks, vibrant flowers, and birds unfamiliar to him lined the market streets, colours mixing in his vision. The whispers in his mind mixed with words of a language he had only ever heard in passing before, leaving him disoriented.

His father kept Edward close. They had adjusted to their new lives slowly; the fatigue was more than bone deep. Edward’s body ached still—but the exhaustion was not all physical. Other than his limbs, his physical ills had been wiped clean, both their bodies back to their best.

Their minds were a different story.

Edward did not bare to voice it. He wanted to talk to Mayo or Ambroise or… or his mother. He wanted them to tell him it would be okay.

He wanted it to be okay.

Hohenheim had never been good at comforting him. Perhaps it was because he never had been comforted, being someone who was seen as a possession.

But Edward wished—begged—for that comfort all the same.

Their saviors, the Xingese traders who had found them in the desert, were kind enough to shelter them as they recovered. After that, father and son had taken up residence in an inn in the outskirt town of Taihao. The innkeepers had not been surprised to see Xerxians this far east. Conversations were short with the traders; neither spoke the other's language well enough, though the traders were far better at Xerxian than Hohenheim was at Xingese.

The novel wonders of Xing should have chased the melancholy away. Once, all Edward needed to lift his mood was a good distraction—be it alchemy or Ambroise's work, it didn't matter. Now, the emptiness inside him refused to be filled, no matter the number of souls rattling around in his chest.

Xing was beautiful. Edward could not bring himself to care.

He wondered if they had alchemy in Xing.

He had never thought to ask before.

---

“Teaching?” Edward echoed. He hadn’t done much since they came, but it wasn’t like he had become sedentary. He didn’t sulk, really! Instead, he took long walks through the Xingese market streets, talking in soft tones to the people in his head. It didn't fill the yawning void inside him but it made it less scary to stand on the edge. Made it feel like maybe someone would grab him, if he fell in.

Anyways, there were a lot of names to learn—and he had recently found himself with all the time in the world.

“Yes,” Hohenheim said, “I’ve had a few people interested in learning about alchemy after I helped fix some things for money. Would you be willing to be my assistant?”

“...maybe. I guess I could at least try to learn more Xingese,” Edward murmured, turning to look out the window. He pulled his knees to his chest.

“I think you’d enjoy it,” Hohenheim said, but his smile was strained.

“Maybe.”

“And we could look into different things Xing knows that we didn’t know back in Xerxes. I hear they know a lot about textiles and medicine,” he continued.

“....Maybe.”

Hohenheim sighed softly, leaving the two in silence—except for the everbuzzing of the souls inside them.

---

Some nights they’d talk about it. About what happened—or rather, what was in them now. The names. The faces. The stories. Inside them—not just known by how they themselves had known these people, but their very souls and minds. Their dreams, their memories… not fully belonging to them, and yet, theirs to use all the same.

---

“Mayo… I miss you. I miss your laugh, even though I hear it echoing in my mind….”

---

The sun descended over the bamboo buildings, washing the streets in gold. Edward was fond of taking evening walks; it was quiet, people winding down for the day, preparing for the night to come. Making dinner, finishing work, spending time with one another. The cicadas were out in force; a curious insect that Edward had never seen before. The sound was soothing, now. The first nights had felt ominous, like a prelude to more death.

Now, the insects' music was merely one half of the evening’s harmony—joining the chorus in Edward's mind.

The summer heat still hung in the humid air, but without the oppressive gaze of the sun, it was sweet on his skin.

(His stumps used to hurt when it was humid, when it rained.

They still did. He found himself glad. The pain grounded him.)

Xing’s evenings were a sharp contrast to those of Xerxes; with the sun went the heat, leaving a bitter chill to sweep through the desert. Edward remembered bundling up next to his parents, only to wake in a sweat when the morning’s heat awoke him if they slept in too late.

Sunset also meant the streets were mostly empty, allowing Edward to walk in peace. He liked being away from his father—the man was suffocating, clearly afraid of losing Edward too—and away from prying eyes of the innkeepers. They were kind, but had become nosy about Xerxes as soon as reports of mass death finally reached Xing.

Ed and his father acted oblivious. They had been travelling, lost in the desert. And even then, what could they do to an entire city state? They were only two mere men.

Of course—it only took one man to play god.

Only two men to create wings of wax and feathers.

And only one man’s pride to plummet down to earth.

(Everyone always forgot about the father who helped create the wings, who had lived but watched his son, the very son he wanted freedom for, die.)

Even still, despite their denials, the rumours of the entire city-state dying in the night were rampant. Theories could be heard constantly on the streets of Taihao, even if voices hushed when Hohenheim and Edward were near. Their gold eyes and hair told the story of their heritage in a way no new clothing could silence.

People were suspicious. Acting kind and teaching alchemy helped keep the accusations quieter. Edward felt he was quite terrible at both.

There could have been more survivors; Hohenheim liked to say he believed there was. Traders and the like, unaware they would be returning to an empty city. Ed didn’t like to think about it. So. Two. Just the two of them. No more, no less—and no thoughts of what weeks of hot sun would do the corpses.

(Or was it months? He had lost track of the time. He couldn’t even rely on his hair to help him keep track, for it did not grow unless he made it grow.)

Edward’s mind swirled with thoughts of a death he would never reach now.

Immortality.

What a fucking joke.

“<Goodnight, I’ll be back in two days to check your recovery, okay?>” a familiar voice said, cutting through Edward’s spiraling thoughts. Even in Xingese and its unfamiliar tones, Ed knew that voice. Knew it well, even within the foreign memories swirling in his mind.

Edward stopped in place, eyes landing on golden hair, sparkling under the low light. Xerxian. Another one. It made sense, there had to have been—been others outside the city walls at the time, but that voice—that voice—

“Ambroise?” he breathed. Ed’s tongue felt like lead, his eyes wide as he took in the woman in front of him. It was like seeing a ghost; but this one was so unlike the ghosts that haunted his dreams, the visions of pale corpses littering the streets.

Mayo’s honeyed laugh echoed in his mind.

Ambroise—for it had to be her, he knew that face, he knew that face and it was one without glassy eyes, without the inhumanly pale skin as livor mortis set in—turned towards Edward slowly. Her movements were aborted, cautious; a scared animal ready to run, unsure of what she was about to face.

For a moment, she seemed unsure, eyes wide, before she slowly began to relax. Not fully, he noted, her posture still speaking of a readiness to run. “Edward—I… it’s good to see you,” she said, slow, words unsure. Ambroise moved closer, stopping an arms length away. “You… you look… good. I see you're taking care of your arm and leg well,” she remarked. “Are you alone, or—”

“My father is with me,” he said curtly. “So this is where you ran off to?”

“N-no,” Ambroise said, taking a step back. She didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ve… I have done some travelling. Learning about Xingese medicine—it varies in different areas, different clans—but I came back here to check on some patients of mine. Long term illness, it comes and goes and—gets worse, gets better, and well. You know.”

No. He didn’t know.

Edward frowned. She was nervous—had she heard about what happened? Had she known? He felt anger bubbling in his throat, trying to force itself out. It was hot—burning compared to the cold emptiness he had become used to.

Even the joys of alchemy hadn’t chased that away.

But this had.

He wanted to hold onto that anger, to never let it go; to allow the wrath to warm his blood, to keep him feeling alive.

(Alive, unlike the souls trapped within him.)

“Maybe—where are you two staying? It would be… good to catch up,” she stammered on.

Edward dug his nails into the palm of his flesh and blood hand, his knuckles white. He grit his teeth, forcing down bitter words crawling up his throat. “Catch up?” he hissed. “Catch up? You want to catch up?!” “I—” Ambroise started. She took another step back, looking so fragile and so unlike the woman he had grown up around. Edward lunged forward, grabbing her arm. He ignored her scowl at his bruising grip. At least she had the dignity to look guilty, eyes wet, moving around anxiously—-eyes that were moving and alive—unlike everyone else, unlike Mayo, unlike Tony—It wasn’t! Fair!

“Edward, you’re hurting me,” she pleaded, staring at him like—like he was dangerous.

Edward let go, his only flesh hand suddenly feeling like it was touching melting wax. “Let’s go,” he said quickly. “To Hohenheim. To talk.”

He spun around, heading back where he came—and not once, did he look back. He didn’t dare.

He was scared of what he’d do. How he would react to what he saw in Ambroise’s eyes. Those moving, guilty eyes.

The anger in him burned ever bright. He found himself not caring if it consumed him. Neither of them spoke; only their footsteps answered the cicada’s cries.

---

“Edward—you’re back early—” There was a shattering sound, cutting through Edward’s rage-filled mind. “Am-Ambroise?” Hohenheim breathed, eyes wide.

Ugh, Edward thought, I am going to have to fix that bone china, aren’t I?

Funny how things changed. Once, he would have been so eager to do something as simple as a repair transmutation. Now, it felt like a burden. A reminder.

Edward expected… something to happen. Yelling. A reflection of the roiling emotions that begged to burst from his chest. Anything.

Hohenheim stared at Ambroise. The doctor stared back. Both seemed unsure in a way that didn’t match how Edward had remembered them before all this. They had always seemed so… unshakeable. That was never the truth, though, was it? They were just as human as he was, and he knew all too well what it was like to feel like you would break if you made the wrong move, after which you couldn’t be put back together again.

“...you look. Well,” Ambroise stammered.

“This is where you… after… I had thought, with the fire, that you hadn’t, but—” Hohenheim murmured, wringing his hands.

Edward only half listened to their words, staring intently at a ding on the wood of their tea table. His emotions boiled under the surface, as his mind wandered to the home he had lost in an instant. (Mayo, dead, laying sprawled on the ground. Gone, gone, gone just like this mother—)

He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Did you know?” he demanded, golden eyes locked with Ambroise’s.

“Edward—” Hohenheim began, clearly uncomfortable with this entire situation.

“Did you know?!” Edward snapped, nails digging into his skin hard enough to bleed. It healed before anyone else would have noticed.

“I—” Ambroise started.

Edward’s head snapped to his father. “And you? Did you know!?” he yelled. They had never talked about the specifics of the transmutation. Only about the souls inside them and what it meant. Before, Edward had let his questions go unasked, the wound still fresh and Edward himself unwilling to pick at the scab, but now… “You—you had to have known something! Since it was that bastard flask’s idea, and you helped! Both of you—you! You—”

“I… I knew the king had interest in immortality,” Hohenheim replied, hands up as if to placate Edward. As if he was a wild animal to be calmed. “But I had…. I had no idea what it would cost, or what he had planned with the homunculus. I was honestly out of the loop! If I had known… I… Edward…”

“There was nothing I could do—nothing we could do—” Ambroise begged. Guilt coloured her face.

(A face that was flushed, all her blood circulating, not being pulled down by gravity as it was pumped by a still-beating heart.)

“You knew,” Edward hissed. Ambroise went silent, her lips tight. “You knew that something was wrong, that the king was planning something dangerous—and, and you ran away like a coward and let people die! People who cared about you, like—Mayo, and, and, everyone else and—” He could feel tears now, hot enough to burn, streaming down his face. It was the first time Edward had cried since the city had disappeared from the horizon.

Ambroise winced at the mention of Mayo. “I tried to get them, to get Mayo, to come with me, but it was hard to do it without arousing too much suspicion. And… I was worried I was overreacting, that I was misreading the King’s intentions—”

“So you left them to die,” Edward sneered. The woman’s shoulders dropped, her gaze on her feet. He did not break glare towards her, winning their unspoken staring match with unbridled fury.

“I—what was I supposed to do?” she began, voice smaller than he had ever heard it. The figure of Ambroise from his memories did not match the sight in front of him; he could barely even remember why he had ever respected her so. “The king would have had me killed if I tried to do anything.”

“So, it’s better to run away with your tail between your legs and survive than to die with the people who loved you?” Edward asked. “To live with that guilt dragging behind you forever?”

“Edward—” Hohenheim interjected.

“I am talking to her, not you, old man,” Edward snapped, his body shaking.

“Edward—I, I…” Ambroise choked out. She sounded close to tears, and Edward felt a jolt of shame at making someone who he had cared about cry. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen her cry before. Not even when she lost a patient she fought tooth and nail for. Not even when it was Edward himself on what could have been his deathbed. “I knew he was willing to kill his own people,” she continued, “but I didn’t think he’d try to kill everyone—”

“What do you mean by that?” Edward asked, beating down his guilt before it could make itself known. His voice had lost its edge, he knew, as he fought to keep from sounding choked up from his own tears. “What did you know?”

“I… they asked me, because I was close with the king, because I was in charge of his health, and I—they spoke of great things, and I was intrigued. About what it could all mean!” she explained, voice shaking, calloused hands gesticulating wildly. “I knew little of alchemy, of course, but I had seen what it could do. I drew the blood that helped bring life into this word unlike any other! But… then I learned of the cost. A cost I didn’t want on my soul. That they’d need to saturate the sand with blood in order to create the transmutation circle needed.”

“What?” Edward said. He felt like his veins had been replaced with ice. And it started to click, the transmutation circle mural he had seen in the King's throne room… It needed sacrifices, at each of the ruby-red points. Points… points like where his mother’s family had lived. Blood in the sand and then the irrigation canals that the King had ordered, around the whole city and its satellite villages… It all made a sickening sort of sense—if you didn’t care about the lives you slaughtered. “You should—you could have—done anything!”

“Edward, please—” Edward didn’t know who spoke. He didn’t care.

“Shut up! You’re both—both complicit in their deaths! All of them! You knew, you knew and you didn’t—” he choked out, the tears flowing uncontrollably. Hohenheim reached out to grab Edward, who jumped back like he had been burned. “I hate you,” he hissed. With those venomous words, Edward stormed out of the building. He didn’t care if he was followed—-he didn’t look back, just wanting to just be alone. He took a sharp turn into an alley, uncaring of who he had to shove to get there.

There was someone behind him, just barely in his peripheral vision. “Go away,” Edward hissed, turning to face down his father—except it wasn’t his father.

Only strangers walked by in the dark.

Well. He had wanted to be alone, hadn’t he?

(He wanted his mother.)

Edward sighed, finding himself clambering up the side of a building. He had done it before, needing space from Hohenheim, but being unsure of where to go. Taihao wasn’t as big as Xerxes, and he didn’t dare try to navigate the forests or plateau outside it.

“Idiots,” he muttered as he climbed smooth bamboo, “both of them… All three of us.” As he was reaching the apex of the roof, his prosthetic foot lost its grip. He found himself tumbling down from his perch, sliding back down into the alleyway, and stupidly hitting the ground. Hard.

Something in his neck snapped. His skull rang, skin wet with blood.

That wasn’t good. He was dying.

And it hurt.

It hurt, as his bones popped into place. It hurt as his skin knit back together without a scar. It hurt, even as the physical pain ebbed and disappeared.

It hurt because he felt the chorus buzzing in his head becoming one voice smaller.

Used up. Nothing but energy disappearing. Someone’s child, another’s friend.

Gone forever.

(Had he even known their name?)

“I’m sorry—” he sobbed, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me, please—” He curled up in the dirt, burying his face into his knees as tears soaked into his clothes.

There was blood on the ground. It soaked into the earth, dried into his hair. He didn’t care.

No one noticed him. Perhaps they had decided this sad, pathetic child wasn’t worth any trouble.

Edward wasn’t angry anymore; the feeling had ebbed away into pure grief. It hadn’t really hit him, until then, what the hive in his mind meant. That he was immortal. He had known it in theory—after the words of the Homunculus, after surviving so long in the desert—but it hadn’t really clicked.

Until then—until a life was forcibly used up in order to keep his own.

Bitterly he knew it wasn’t even the first poor soul he had taken life force from. That he took and took and took from the people of Xerxes every time he broke the rules of alchemy. Every wound healed, every bit of energy used.

He had probably used others up already. More souls, gone before he could even learn their names.

What a monster he was.

…Would he even age? Was he stuck like this forever, a child just on the cusp of adulthood? A moth forever trapped in its pupa, begging to be free to live the few days of life it had been promised?

He had been working hard to familiarize himself with the buzzing in his brain. To learn their names, their faces—not just the ones he had known in life. But all of them. Every single soul living packed in his blood, every single person who kept his heart beating on time.

And now one was gone. Forever. All because he did something so childish, wanting to hide away until his daddy came to hug him.

And he didn’t even know who gave their life for his own.

It all made sense. He was a human philosopher’s stone; like he had read about in his father’s texts. But… no one had known if the stone was even real, let alone how it broke the rules of equivalent exchange.

But that wasn’t true either, was it? Laws of science couldn’t be broken. Something cannot come from nothing. The stone wasn’t a miracle bringer, in the end. It just seemed like it broke the laws, because after all—what measured up to the worth of a human soul?

He let out a hollow laugh as tears dried on his cheeks.

---

Ambroise was still there when Edward returned, the moon bright behind him. Edward glared at the woman. She did not meet his eyes. He held his tongue. The emptiness had settled in his chest once more, but it at least made it easier to think. Hohenheim was pretending to read a book— Edward could tell when he was feigning interest in the words.

Neither she nor his father spoke. She just stared out into the streets, watching the buzzing of lightning bugs

Edward stood in the doorway, unsure. What could they even do now? Without the anger pushing him forward, he felt listless. Even his father’s renewed interest in teaching didn’t entice him anymore than it had weeks ago.

Edward moved towards Ambroise. “...they’re really all gone, aren’t they?” she spoke as Edwards uneven gait came to a stop behind her.

“Yes,” he said.

“...I… I never thought this would be the outcome. I knew people would die but… the entire city?” she murmured, her face coming to rest in her hands. “I had no idea that… that alchemy could even do something like that, let alone anyone would be so willing to do it. To become an immortal king to nothing but a graveyard… I cannot say I pity the king for his fate, being tricked like that. But you two, caught up in it…” She sighed, trailing off as she met his eyes.

Edward didn’t reply. What else was there to say?

Ambroise bowed deep—a Xingese bow, the type Edward was beginning to become accustomed to. “I’m sorry, Edward, Hohenheim,” she said. “Deeply and truly sorry. You’re right; I acted cowardly. I should have tried to help other people rather than myself, even with the risk to my own life. I’m a doctor, and before I took on my role for the king, I was a battlefield doctor. Putting myself in danger to help other is what I used to always do; when I was younger I would have not shied away from the risk, and for my foolishness, so many people have perished—”

“It’s not your fault—” Hohenheim began.

“I know,” she said. “I know, and it’s not your fault either. We are all victims to men who did not care about us, left to pick up the pieces. But I still should have stayed, and tried to do something. Maybe there’d be more of us left.” She sat back up, but kept her head bowed. Her usually cropped hair was starting to grow out now, hanging down to cover her eyes.

Golden eyes, just like Mayo’s—cold, dead—

Edward felt exhausted. The gnawing hole in his chest persisted, swallowing up any grief or hatred he had left. A victim, she had said. It was true, but it didn’t change anything. He sat down beside Ambroise, silent for a moment. “Thank you,” he said softly.

He wasn’t sure if he meant it, but he found himself not wanting to hate her all the same.

“And thank you, Edward.” She lifted her head, a new fire burning in her eyes. “I’ve become too comfortable, I think, after so many years of working for royalty. I cannot undo the choices I made, nor can I likely atone, but… I have at least an idea of what I can try.”

Edward blinked at her, titling his head.

“I’m going back to the battlefield,” she explained, thumping her fist on her palm. “There’s been conflicts brewing out west and I am sure I could help people with my knowledge. Plus, Xing’s Emperor, I hear, is far more interested in your alchemy than my medical knowledge these days.” She gave a laugh. No wonder she hadn’t been that surprised at their presence. “But just in case… here, all the journals I took with me from Xerxes, and some new ones too.”

Edward stared at the worn cloth bag she deposited in his hand. “Won’t you need these?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I can make copies, I have it all up here,” Ambroise replied, tapping her temple. “But they might still come in handy. If not for you, then for the people of Xing. Anyways, I need the room they take up to take Xingese medical texts with me instead. It’s fascinating stuff; so many things I had never considered—I’ve already learned a lot from them from our trading, so I’m excited to dive even deeper than before. If those books interest you, then I recommend you read up on the Xingest texts as well.”

Edward gave a nod, thumbing through her neat notes. Hohenheim already seemed to be considering her words, mumbling about finding a place to get the books.

(Edward couldn’t read Xingese yet. But he had time. If he had nothing, he had time.)

“When are you leaving?” Hohenheim asked, approaching Edward’s left side slowly, like he was worried the boy would bite him.

(He only had once since they came to Taihao, thank you.)

“I’m not sure. Before I go… I don’t think I’ll be able to rest easy if I don’t at least help with recovering things from Xerxes and bringing them back to Xing,” she admitted. “I am sure there’s something left untouched by any graverobbers I can make use of. Plus, they may need me to help with the proper funeral rites. I don’t doubt we’ll find at least some bodies.” Or bones; the scavengers were probably well fed. “After that, I plan on leaving Xing for good.”

Edward nodded slowly, sitting the books aside. “It’s going to be a long journey out west.”

“I’m thinking of taking the sea route, to Aerugo or Galena, so hopefully it won’t be so bad,” she said. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again, Edward; on better terms. All of us.”

“I hope so, Ambroise,” he said, words almost like a promise.

It was one of many promises he would fail to keep.

---

“Goodbye, Edward, Van Hohenheim. I’ll see you when the sun favours us once more!”

“Safe travels!”

---

Ambroise died in her sleep.

Despite the war that raged around her, despite her brushes with illness and death, what killed her was merely her old age. It had been decades since Xerxes; Edward and his father were still settling into their new life when word reached them.

Edward remembered that day well. It was a cold winter morning—uncharacteristically so in Aerugo—as they buried her in the earth. There was a large crowd—glints of metal and the smell of leather telling their connection to Ambroise easily.

It was hard to be angry at the dead. Harder still, when the dead still had tried to help people as she always had, even with her failure to stop what had happened in Xerxes.

Edward wondered if she really would have been able to do anything to stop what had happened. The cynical part of him wanted to say no—what could one person do against authority like that? Authority willing to kill anyone, everyone, for absolute power? If she had gotten help, perhaps… but…

He wished he knew the answer.

————-

Travelling became their life. They had stayed in Xing for a while, but once their immortality became obvious… It came time to move on, lest anyone pry a little too hard into the how. It was for the best, for everyone, and they had very little left to teach.

“Edward, don’t heckle the storyteller. You aren’t a child anymore.”

“Ugh, you know I hate that stupid sage story. It gives me the creeps!”

—————-

1864

Amestris

Edward awoke with a start. “It hurts,” he murmured, rubbing at his shoulder. He could feel it, the phantom pain tingling along his nerves, the aching of his joints. “Even after all these years, it still hurts.” He sighed, leaning against the hardwood of the wagon as the horse trotted down uneven country roads.

Hohenheim glanced over, closing his battered book. “Well, maybe this automail will help with that,” he suggested. Edward wasn’t sure, but it would be nice to have better motor control of his right hand. He was left handed now, but that had not been the case when he first learned to write.

He could fix it, he knew. Be fully flesh and blood. But he didn’t dare. The cost was too great for something so selfish, something that could be fixed another way.

(And anyways, it would be like spitting in the face of Ambroise’s memory, softened with time as it was. He still missed her; anger long since washed away and replaced with nostalgia.)

“We’re here,” said the farmer, who had been kind enough to take them from the train station to their destination. “Pinako’s workshop is just up this road here. Careful,” he laughed, “she’s a real spitfire, let me tell ya. Take ya for all yer worth!”

Edward sighed, stretching his limbs and cracking his joints. He got up, grabbed his stuff and hopped out, wobbling on his old prosthetic. (Not Ambroise’s work; that had been worn away with time. But it was based on her design notes all the same).

It was time for a new one—and he was already feeling the odd mix of anxiety and excitement over this new technology he had heard so much about. Automail. Advanced prosthetics that could attach right to the nerves. It wouldn’t be a perfect recreation of a flesh and blood limb, but goddamn, it would be close.

And it’d close without using someone’s literal life to better his own. He’d just have to focus on keeping himself from regenerating too fast (sparing more of his friends), and it’d be easier to focus without anesthetics. Which, luckily, automail did not use in order to attach the nerves.

(Man. How crazy did he sound to be happy he wasn’t going to be given anesthetic?)

Sometimes living forever had its perks. Edward was always fascinated by how things changed; how humans kept growing, learning. Certainly, there was negative growth—his father in particular tended to dwell on it, but Edward fought hard to not let it keep him down. There was good in the world, despite everything they had seen, he knew.

But it had been getting harder and harder to remind himself of that fact, as the years went on.

Amestris was a country soaked in blood, after all. The effect of which could still be felt no matter where they went in this corner of the world.

Edward speed walked as fast as he could on unsteady legs up the dirt path. His heart thrummed, body ready to shake from excitement. Hohenheim stayed behind to thank the man, talking in hushed tones, before joining his son’s side. It wasn’t hard—his father was tall, and Edward had been cursed to be short for the rest of his very long life.

He hated it.

(Admitting he was short was hard. It had taken years to come to terms with. But just because he admitted it didn't mean he liked it when people pointed it out! So to anyone called him short: die!!!)

“Are you sure about this?” Hohenheim asked, the light glaring off his glasses.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Edward asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

“I’m just worried, I suppose, since the surgery is supposed to hurt a lot,” Hohenheim murmured, but said nothing more as they reached the door.

“I can handle pain, old man,” Edward muttered. While he still looked like a child, he hadn’t been one in a long, long time. His relationship with his father had shifted; he was still ‘dad’, sure, but he wasn’t that much older than Edward anymore, relatively speaking. At least his father had the sense not to lament the loss of respect over the long years they were stuck with each other.

Edward had barely even knocked on the door when a young woman came barreling over. “What, what, I’m coming—” she muttered, yanking open the door. Her clothes were grease-stained and patched, while her brown hair was slipping out from an uneven bun. A pipe sat in her mouth, smoking lazily.

She paused to stare at them. Edward knew they made quite a sight wherever they went; their unnaturally golden hair, the striking yellow of their eyes—but Edward had long since gotten used to the weird looks.

Even with other survivors, the golden hair and eyes had been lost to time, drowned out in the gene pool.

The woman looked Edward up and down, eyes calculating. “New customers, eh?” she remarked, eyeing Edward’s prosthetic right hand as she blew out smoke. “Come in. This’ll be interesting...”

She eyed Edward’s limping gait with a smirk, like a cat catching a canary. It made sense, after all—automail wasn’t cheap, and someone who needed two? Talk about a pay day.

That was the first time Edward entered the threshold of what would become the Rockbell home, unaware of what it would mean to him decades later.

———-

“He’s a tough kid,” Pinako remarked as she took a deep inhale of her pipe. The night was cool now, the spring cries of the frogs filling the air. Light spilled out from her home, casting her face in shadow. Hohenheim leaned against the railing beside her. This was the first time she had seen him away from Edward’s bedside. The boy was recovering fast from the surgery, far faster than she had ever seen. And he took the pain in stride, even as he broke into a feverish sweat and bit back obscenities in a language she couldn’t recognize. Pinako liked him, though; he had spunk. But it was clear he was getting tired of his father’s mother henning.

Best to give the kid some space.

As for Hohenheim… She couldn’t figure the man out; his familiar relation to Edward was obvious, even if neither had elected to give her a surname. She didn’t press; nor did she press about their odd looks, their strange accents, or the look in their eyes that spoke of lifetimes of pain.

She had a job, and it was to get that damn kid some good automail—and she was going to do it and do it well regardless of the curiosity eating at her insides. The two were paying her well enough for some discretion.

“He is…” Hohenheim replied, warmth seeping into his tone. “He’s always been strong. Far stronger than me.”

“How old is he?” Pinako asked. She had tried to ask Edward, but well. He just got mad—though that was her fault for asking while insulting his height, she supposed. But really, he was the one who wanted to add heavy metallic limbs to an already stunted body! Did he want to be a pipsqueak forever?

“...” Hohenheim turned away, murmuring, “Fifteen. Or sixteen?”

Pinako frowned as she took another taste of her pipe, but she did not press. There was a story with these strangers, but it could wait until the boy was healed enough to walk on his own two feet. “You want a drink?” she asked instead.

Hohenheim looked at her in surprise. “...alright,” he agreed, a smile ghosting his lips, as the two headed back inside.

---

“There, kid. Clean bill of health, and a full range motion. Everything’s working as it should—-I’d say you’re completely recovered.”

“These are… amazing!”

---

They left as soon as they were able. Like always, there was no need to linger too long, to invite any prying questions. And yet… and yet they returned anyway, over the decades.

At first the excuse had been maintenance; automail were intricate, delicate machinery after all, and Edward could only do so much on his own. (He had tried reading up on it, really! He understood the basics but well… he was an alchemist, not a gearhead. Even his medical knowledge wasn’t up to modern snuff, and he had practically memorized Ambroise’s notes!)

Then it was Pinako’s wedding. Couldn’t miss that, could they? They were hardly the only of her patients to show up and congratulate her. Then it was the birth of Pinako’s son. Little Yuriy was just too cute to pass up meeting! Plus, Pinako had missed her old drinking buddy while she had been pregnant! Who were they to deny her that after a hard labour?

And if Pinako Rockbell and her family joked about how Edward and Hohenheim seemed to never age a day, well… it was just a joke, after all. The two were always welcome faces in Resembool.

——————————————-

Edward watched his father move awkwardly around the fire. He wasn’t particularly coordinated, or anything but he seemed to be having fun. Edward wasn’t looking to embarrass himself, so he stayed on his log, enjoying from the sidelines and soaking in the heat of the bonfire. He was sure Yuriy was around somewhere with the girl he was courting. They were cute together, even if Sarah had once asked Yuriy if Edward was his (younger, shrimpier!!) half-brother. Ugh, Pinako and Hohenheim? Yuck, he coulda thrown up at the thought of that.

“Oh,” Pinako said, snorting against the glass of her bottle. Her brown hair had long turned to gray. Edward found he liked it; he had never gotten to see so many other friends' hair gray. It was beautiful in a way.

Perhaps it was a perspective only one who would never know aging’s embrace could have. After all, everyone else seemed to fear the passage of time.

Even kings.

Edward glanced over at her, eyebrow raised. She merely pointed at Hohenheim in response—the oaf was trying to dance with the girl who had invited him over, and somehow failing at it even harder than before. His face was flushed red.

Edward wasn’t sure he had seen his father smile like that in years.

(Edward recognized the brunette; she was Resembool born and raised. She had once asked his father to dance when she was a child. He had refused, then. Now, it seemed she had blossomed into a young woman.)

“I think he’s got a crush,” Pinako said, taking a swig.

“Wh-what—” Edward choked. Hohenheim couldn’t like someone—not some young woman from some backwoods village! His father loved his mother, with her beautiful garden and her beautiful braids and—His mother, who was buried in the sand thousands of miles away, forgotten by everyone except him and Hohenheim. His mother, who died four hundred years ago.

The spark of rage in him died to nothing. No… no it was fair; it had been so long, Hohenheim was allowed to move on.

Edward was allowed to move on.

That thought was the most freeing thing Edward had ever experienced.

---

“Dad, I need to talk to you,” Edward began, marching like a man on a mission. Hohenheim was sitting in the sun, one of Pinako’s novels on his lap. He had often taken to reading outside while Edward was checked over by Pinako to ensure he was maintaining his automail.

(She made it very clear the consequences were dire if he didn’t—and not just for his limbs. Ouch.)

“Ah,” Hohenheim said, closing it shut. “I was hoping to talk to you about something too.”

Despite all their book smarts, neither son nor father were particularly good when it came to people. So, they both assumed the other would speak second:

“I think—”

“—we should stay—”

“—I’m in love—”

Edward and Hohenheim stared at each other, their words overlapping in a mess. It took Edward a moment to parse what had been said, and he was sure Hohenheim was doing the same thing.

His father’s face turned into one of surprise. “You want to stay?” he said.

Edward nodded. “I know… I know I’m usually pushing for us to keep moving, but I think… It is a nice place here. Beautiful, and the people are nice, and Pinako could help me out and you really do seem to like that woman and—I thought maybe we could finally just. Try to live a normal life, for once. We don’t need to travel all the time to do our research.”

“People will ask, though. About us. About you,” Hohenheim warned.

“They will.” Edward stared straight into his father’s eyes. “What will you tell them?”

“...I’m not sure, yet,” Hohenheim replied, looking away. “I’m sure we’ll think of something. But… I want to stay too.”

They were silent for a moment, just listening to the coos of the mourning doves.

“I thought you’d be angry, honestly,” Hohenheim said. He had a lopsided smile on, like his son’s endless rage was funny to him. Bastard.

“I was, for a split second but then… I realised that it’s been so long and… that Mom and Mayo and Ambroise and everyone… they’d want us to move on, right? To be happy? And I like it here. And if she makes you happy… then I am too,” Edward murmured.

“Trisha,” Hohenheim said. “Her name is Trisha.”

----

“Thank you, really, Ed,” Trisha was saying, as they walked through the farmers’ market.

It was odd how familiar this felt even centuries later. The sights and sounds were different, but…. The ache in his heart was a sweet type of pain. “It’s no problem, Miss Elric,” he replied, adjusting her groceries in his grip. “I mean, you are feeding the old man and I, so it’s the least I could do.”

She gave a little chuckle, always endeared by Edward’s blasé attitude towards his father. “It’s really no burden,” she said, her warm eyes sparkling. Edward could see why his father adored her so; Trisha’s kindness was infectious. “I am always glad to have you two around. And, please, just Trisha is fine.”

Edward shrugged. He liked her, but it felt so strange to see her as… well, more than a friend, really. A step-mother? Not that his father had bothered to legally marry her, since he didn’t really exist on paper anywhere, but the two of them had practically already moved in.

He wanted to call her Trisha—or perhaps something more—but the taste of betrayal still sat on his tongue.

He felt freer than ever, and yet… but was his own mother holding him back, or…?

After all—neither Hohenheim nor Edward had broached the topic of their strange bodies, their history, yet. How to tell her. She deserved to know, didn’t she? Trisha wasn’t stupid—she surely would start to notice how Edward was frozen in time.

Everyone always noticed Edward’s lack of aging first. How could they not, when the baby fat never left his face, when the throes of adulthood only ever appeared in his eyes?

And yet… the two of them were such cowards. They never even told Pinako, even though she had long since noticed. But she had accepted them all the same, so why was it so damn hard to tell Trisha?!

---

“Darling, Ed, dinner. I made stew!”

“Have I ever told you that I think you are the most amazing person in the world?”

---

“I never did ask,” Trish began one evening, “where are you two from?”

“Out east,” Edward said, leaning on his arm as he glared at the glass of milk in front of him. He knew it was rude since he was technically a guest, but gross… who even drank milk like this? Definitely not Xerxians! Amestris was such a backwards place sometimes.

(He loved their alchemy though.)

Trisha frowned, titling her head and looking at Hohenheim. “Out east?” she pressed, lips thin.

Edward’s frown deepened, and he glanced at his father. “Yes,” Hohenheim said with a nod.

Trisha crossed her arms with a sigh. “You two… you don’t have to keep things from me, you know. I’m not fragile,” she said.

“We aren’t—” Ed started.

“I’ve known Pinako my whole life. I’ve seen her photo album,” Trisha cut in. Her voice was serious; authoritative—but not cruel. Not angry.

Edward and Hohenheim glanced at each other, sharing a long, intense look. They both knew this would have to be discussed eventually, ever since they decided to stay. It didn’t make it easy—and they hadn’t exactly discussed how to approach it.

“....Xerxes,” Hohenheim said, deflating as he turned back to Trisha. His glasses reflected the light, obscuring the gold of his eyes. “We’re from Xerxes.”

He said it like it was easy; a simple fact instead of a truth that held a heavy weight. Edward wished he could talk about his old life like that too, even if it was a façade of calm.

“...Xerxes?” Trisha gasped. Her brown eyes widened as the word sunk in. She may have been a country bumpkin in a small town, but the story of Xerxes was a popular myth even in Amestris. It appeared in many of Sarah’'s literary magazines she was so fond of—stories about secret groups of Xerxians living underground with an advanced society and daring adventurers trekking into the desert for lost treasures, the works. None of it was anywhere near the truth, of course, but it kept the story of the city that was destroyed in a single night alive.

“...We didn’t… we aren’t directly responsible for what happened, but,” Edward sighed, rubbing his head. It did look pretty bad, without context. “Well, if you saw the photos—annoying invention, by the way—you know that we’re both pretty old.”

“It’s… a long story,” Hohenheim said. “And not a happy one.”

“Tell me,” Trisha murmured, face serious. She leaned forward, the meal she had made them forgotten about. “Tell me everything. Please. I want to know.” She reached out, hands closing over Hohenheims, before she gave Edward a small smile.

Edward wanted to say she didn’t want to know, not really. That she would call them monsters. But in his mind’s eye, beneath the sounds of Xerxes inside him, he could only see her sweet smile telling them what idiots they were for thinking that.

(It reminded him of his mother. He wanted to cry.)

It was strange how easily some people accepted the surreal, the horrific—if it involved those they loved.

---

“Promise me, dear…”

“I do. I promise.”

---

“Thanks, mom,” Edward said absently, taking the dish from Trisha to dry.

“Oh,” Trisha replied, hand resting over her round belly. She was about 7 months along, according to the Rockbells.

“...what?” Edward asked, turning around to face her, one eye brow up.

“You called me mom,” she said, face softening, voice light.

Edward froze, his face burning red. “I—No—I did not!” he sputtered, hands flailing wildly.

“Yes you did,” Hohenheim replied, without even looking up from his newspaper.

“No—! It’s not! I didn’t!” He was older than she was! He looked at his father in desperation, but all his expression seemed to shoot back was a look that said ‘you may technically be older, but you don’t act it’.

“It’s okay!” Trisha said cheerily. Her grin was wide. “I don't care. In fact, I’d love it if you called me that.”

But I do care! It’s my dignity on the line! Edward thought. But how could he say no her, it was Trisha Elric!

—————-

“...You don’t all have to cry, you know,” Yuriy muttered as he washed his tools.

“Bu-but he’s so small!” Edward sobbed. He sat beside Trisha’s bed, arms splayed across her legs as she held her baby close to her chest. “Is he supposed to be that small?”

“Yes,” Sarah sighed. This was not the first time Edward had asked.

(It was easy to forget that Sarah had first met Edward when she was 13. He hadn't aged a day since, and often still acted like a teenager.)

Hohenheim wiped at his eyes, sitting in a chair on the other side. “Thank you,” he said to Sarah and Yuriy.

“Really, only Trisha should be the one crying, she’s the one who gave birth,” Pinako muttered as she carried out some towels. “I’m going to check on Winry.” The Rockbell’s only child was with the Seabrook’s for the night, still too young to be left on her own for long. And there had been no telling how long Trisha’s labour would have lasted.

“Thank you, Mama,” Yuriy sang. Edward had no idea how the man had so much energy, even with the dark circles under his eyes.

“Here,” Sarah said, setting down a pitcher of water and glasses. “You first, Trisha.”

“Thank you.”

The baby was quiet now; seemingly he had decided that Edward and his father had been crying enough all night that he didn’t need to anymore. Instead, he looked around curiously with bleary eyes.

“What are you going to name him?” Yuriy asked. The baby yawned, eyes falling shut as he fell into his first real sleep.

Trisha smiled down at her baby like she held the world in her arms. Edward was starting to think she really was. “We like Alphonse, right, dear?” she said.

Hohenheim replied with a loud sniffle.

“Alphoooooonse,” Edward cried, “even his name is so cute!”

(He would deny ever saying this if anyone but Alphonse ever asked).

---

“He’s not going to disappear if you look away, you know,” Trisha laughed as she folded her laundry. Edward and his father had been doing their best to help her around the house and with the baby, but well… neither had to do a lot of chores or childcare in what, 400 years? And well.. Edward wasn’t even sure he had spent more than an hour with a baby before in his life, even back in Xerxes. Not since he was one, anyways.

But Trisha was a lot like them—she hated not having something to do. So, here she was, folding laundry while she sat in the room Edward shared with Alphonse. Edward was on baby duty, which he was taking very seriously, thank you!

“I know,” Edward pouted. He leaned over Alphonse’s crib, the baby in question awake and alert inside, chewing on his fist happily. “He’s gotten so big so fast!”

“Yeah, he has,” Trisha laughed. “One day he’ll be taller than you I bet.”

“Don’t remind me,” Edward whined, looking over at her. He didn’t yell, like he would with anyone else—because, well, this was Trisha! She was too damn nice to yell at! It was like yelling at his own mother! Plus, yelling made Alphonse cry and he barely cried for a baby. “I got at least 15 years of being the older brother! And I’m gonna cherish them,” he huffed.

Trisha just chuckled as she went back to her laundry.

Edward’s pout got bigger. It wasn’t fair that Alphonse wouldn’t be small forever but… well, he was also glad for it. Growing up was a privilege after all; so many in Xerxes never got the chance either. “Anyways, I was thinking—ouch!”

“Edward?” Trisha was on her feet, hurrying over. “Are you—”

“Help,” Edward begged, tugging at his braid. The end of it was clasped in a tiny fist, curious gold eyes inspecting it. “Alphonse’s—he’s got me—why is he so strong—”

Trisha doubled over in laughter. Alphonse tugged harder, doing his best to stuff Edward’s hair into his little mouth. “Help me, mom!” Edward begged.

“S-so cute!”

“UGH—MY HAIIIIR!”

It soon became clear that Alphonse's very first obsession was not alchemy, but his older brother's braid. After the fifth incident, Edward haphazardly cropped his hair at his ears. Pinako had forced him to sit down so she could even it out.

Edward could make it grow back when Alphonse was older. It was… for the best.

(His hair… his beautiful golden hair…)

---

“...are you crying, old man? Way to ruin the photo.”

“Like you don’t have tears in your eyes too…”

---

“I hate this place,” Edward muttered, as he made his way through the rainy streets of Central City. He always felt nervous in large crowds, the sound making it hard to differentiate between the voices in his head and those around him. Not to mention, with Central Command in the middle of the city, Central was swarmed with military officers and MPs. Edward couldn’t say he was a fan, especially not with the pointless wars Amestris loved to wage.

But those wars brought with them the necessity for a whole industry around prosthetics, and that too led to the creation of automail. A silver lining buried in the blood and grime. Edward had to admit, as hard as the surgery and recovery had been—especially as he had forced himself to not use the stone’s power to heal right away—the freedom the automail gave was amazing.

Sure, his old prosthetics had worked fine to keep him walking and doing simple tasks, but with automail? With automail he could learn to write with his right hand again. It wasn’t easy, since he couldn’t feel it, but he had motor control in his hand and foot he couldn’t dream of before.

Still… he knew as nice as it was, he would gladly pick people not having to suffer over dealing with Ambroise’s old design. Really. But he had no control over the way the world turned. When one was basically immortal, finding the good wherever one could was pretty much a necessity to keep from going insane!

Whatever. He had promised to pick some things up in Central—and wanted some new alchemy books anyways—so he was going to keep that promise. Normally, East City was fine enough but of course, Hohenheim wanted something über specific, and who was Edward to say no to Yuriy and Sarah when she asked for some specialty tea and magazines they only sold in the Capital? No one could ever say Edward was a bad nephew! Maybe he’d get something for Al and little Winry too…

So, that was how he ended in the worst city known to man, a box of goodies tucked under his arm. Edward hummed to himself as he made his way through winding streets to his hotel. It was a song he had heard from Trisha—or was it from someone else’s memories? Sometimes they got mixed up, when he wasn’t careful. He had been picking apart each voice in his head for centuries, finding their name again, their past, but sometimes it wasn’t easy keeping everything separated from himself.

The crowds were thinning as the sun began to set. He should have been paying more attention, when he knew what sort of evils lurked out there but… centuries of relative peace and the quiet decades in Resembool had made him careless.

He felt it before he saw it. A chill ran through his veins. He should have sensed it long before—but he had felt off since he had come to Central City.

Edward should have known his unease wasn't because of the crowds, or the flicker of guns that could not really hurt him. It was something else entirely, something he could feel deep within his soul. A presence he couldn’t describe, pressing at him like a child against the glass of a candy shop.

Of course he could never escape his past, could he?

The shadows under the city’s gas and electric lamps stretched long, reaching out to graze his own.

Edward didn’t know who—or what—was hunting him. But he knew it was there now, like a hot breath against the nape of his neck. The bloodlust practically had a smell.

He wasn’t giving up easily.

Edward took off in a dead sprint. The winding alleys of Central were unfamiliar to him; that didn’t slow him, not when he didn’t need a circle to use alchemy. He took a hard right, making his own path through garden walls and empty schoolhouses.

He could hear the sound of the city in the distance. A cacophony of engines and sirens. The orchestra felt muffled, drowned out by the beating of his heart and the thrum in his head.

The shadows stretched further. They were unnaturally black; all light seemingly absorbed, leaving only a flat void of nothingness in their wake.

They were following him. He felt crazy even noting it, but they were. It was a waking nightmare; like out of one of Sarah’s stories, seemingly impossible, and yet…

Edward knew few things really were impossible. After all; he was a testament to what strange things humans could achieve when they sinned.

What was wrong with this city?

What was wrong with this country?

Edward backed into a dead end. He could have gone through it, of course. He had the kind of stamina few could match, and he had yet to break a sweat. But he didn’t wish to be hunted like an animal all night; sleep was not necessary, but it was still nice. He wanted to get some before the train home tomorrow.

The shadow encroached on him, swirling around him like a halo on the brick wall. Like those of a child, small hands inched towards him, up his leg and torso, caressing his skin.

He kept his breathing even. He kept thoughts of being torn apart by those hands, the pain, the whiteness, Xerxes—everyone dead clear from his mind. Panicking now could be problematic.

Deep breaths, just like Pinako had told him. Or had it been Ambroise?

“What do we have here?” a voice sang, layered and just-off enough to feel not quite human. Edward shivered. “A lost little child?”

Edward’s jaw clenched. He bit back insults that burned at the back of his throat. Golden eyes darted around, looking desperately for a source of the voice. There was no way just the shadows could be talking, right? Did they connect to someone? They seemed to be coming from one direction, and yet… he saw nothing but inky blackness ahead of him, the lights of Central snuffed out like the stars the city’s smog obscured.

Then at once, the stars returned, as eyes stared back at him from the dark. Many, many eyes.

Edward’s breath caught.

All he could think of was him.

But that wasn’t his voice, not the one he had in the flask nor that of the body he had made himself.

So then…. who?

“You’re a long way from Xerxes,” the voice continued, Edward’s heart constricting. He should have known he’d come back, he should have known he’d come back—”Where’s Van Hohenheim?”

“You—” he started. “Homunculus.” For that’s what this creature had to be. He did not dare assume anything else.

The homunculus laughed. “I am,” they said, swirling their shape around. Their spectral hands patted his head mockingly (like his parents and Ambroise used to do—) “But not the one you’re thinking of, I imagine, Edward.”

“I figured that much out,” he hissed, trying not to betray his fear. Edward felt like a rabbit, backed into a corner by a wicked fox. The dark around him seemed endless. He schooled his face—but, well… Pinako always said he had a piss-poor poker face. “I doubt that bastard would have wanted to go back to being just eyes and an annoying voice.”

The shadows laughed at him. They seemed to be drinking his fear in with such joy. “My name is Pride,” they continued. “The Homunculous you knew—that would be our Father, who created us from his stone. He told us about you and Van Hohenheim, briefly. I hadn’t expected to see you here, after so long.”

“....he—he what?” He stuttered. Edward was… well, that hadn’t been what he had expected. “He made kids?!” Kids, plural—there were more. Not good.

Or… maybe the homunculus was just playing house and having a normal life, like them?

Ha. If only.

Still—he could buy the Homunculous making more companions like himself, but calling them his children? Having them call him father? What the fuck. What the fuck? What the fuck!

The shadow… rolled their eyes. Huh. For a moment, Edward felt less like he was talking with a monster and more like he was talking to a rather petulant young child. “Yes, he created children,” Pride sneered. “Not like with you humans, of course, all small and useless at the start. But better, stronger, and gifted. Is that so hard to imagine?”

This was… a lot. Children? The homunculus… children?! Sure, he had wanted to be free of his flask, sure, but otherwise never seemed all that interested in being human. Towards Edward he had been… “I got the distinct impression he hated children based on my childhood,” Edward replied, most of the fear draining from him in an instant. For one, the shadows made no move to hurt him—not that it’d matter much, if they were both powered by the souls of Xerxes.

(Edward knew this Pride would run out of power before him, if push came to shove, if they were only one of who knows how many split from ‘Father’s’ stone.)

“Which is why he created us to be better than you ants,” Pride replied. “Why are you here?” Pride sounded… suspicious. Odd.

“Didn’t realise you were the Fürher,” Edward muttered, wishing he had anywhere he could run to easily. The shadows seemed to stretch all around him, but there had to be a limitation somewhere—

“Pride, stop playing with him unnecessarily,” another voice cut into the night, tones deep and feminine.

The shadows receded near the mouth of the alleyway, revealing a pale woman in a low cut dress, her dark hair cascading around her. A tattoo of an Ouroborus sat upon her chest, red as blood; immortality.

“I take it you’re another one of them?” Edward said, lips twitching.

“Lust, you dare order me around?” Pride hissed, their remaining shadows swirling in agitation. “I am the eldest, do not forget that.”

“I am just merely making sure you don’t start any unneeded confrontations,” Lust replied. “I’ve been following him fine on my own. Don’t you have your own mission to focus on?”

Great, he apparently had a stalker the entire time. He was getting too lax in his old age. “...I don’t want anything to do with that bastard in the flask,” he replied, noting the look of anger that flashed in Pride’s many eyes. “I didn’t even know he was here or apparently decided to copy Hohenheim in more than just looks and play house with some kids too.”

“You—” Pride snapped.

“Piss off,” Edward glared. “I—” I have people I don’t want to lose again. “We—I don’t even want to know what you are doing. I’ve had my life messed with by enough people. You won’t be seeing me again.” He took a step back, transmuting a door in the wall behind him. Now that Pride was farther back, escape was easy.

(He had felt the shadows touch his flesh. He wasn’t going to risk anyone’s soul that Pride could do more than just touch.)

Lust chuckled at him. “We’ll see about that, little Edward.”

Oh, if he met her again, he was going to punch her. He had no qualms about fighting women if they had it coming.

Note to self, avoid Central City forever. It sucks.

Edward’s first mistake was telling Hohenheim about his encounter.

If he hadn’t, perhaps Alphonse would have grown up with a father.

(If he hadn’t, would they have died alongside the rest of Amestris, blissfully unaware? Or would they have figured it out anyways, on their quest to be rid of their own immortality?

Answers never seemed to come to him.)

#van hohenheim

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#van hohenheim