Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ Balance of Power ❯ The Shadow Proves the Sunshine ( Chapter 28 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Crackbunny Syndrome 
Jean glanced over his shoulder to see Armstrong scrambling up the moist ramp of earth formed by the collapse, feet sinking in dirt almost to the ankles with each step. But immediately, Roy groaned, recapturing his attention. "So close...," the man whispered, "so close..."
"Don't try to talk, sir," Hawkeye admonished quickly. "We'll get you to safety first, and get medical help."
Anime/Manga: Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction | Genre(s): / Horror / Drama / Comedy / Adventure / Action | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 05.20.2008 | Pages: 12 | Words: 20.6K | Visits: 418 | Status: Work In Progress
Jean glanced over his shoulder to see Armstrong scrambling up the moist ramp of earth formed by the collapse, feet sinking in dirt almost to the ankles with each step. But immediately, Roy groaned, recapturing his attention. "So close...," the man whispered, "so close..."
"Don't try to talk, sir," Hawkeye admonished quickly. "We'll get you to safety first, and get medical help."
Anime/Manga: Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction | Genre(s): / Horror / Drama / Comedy / Adventure / Action | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 05.20.2008 | Pages: 12 | Words: 20.6K | Visits: 418 | Status: Work In Progress
"The Shadow Proves the Sunshine"
Arc One: Chapter 27
Balance of Power
Arc One: Chapter 27
Balance of Power
WARNING: Post Series, Post Movie, **SPOILER HEAVY** and just a bit AU
August 20, 2006
Central Oklahoma
Tony Redfeather removed his welding hood and dropped it onto the bench. He wasn't going to get anything useful done today. Not until this whole thing was over with. Stepping out of his workshop, into the bright, late morning sun, he shaded his eyes and peered into the far distance -- in the direction of the Gate and the sacred ground. Today the sky was brilliant blue and crystal clear -- in complete contrast to the gloomy, disturbed mood swirling within him. The place was too far away for him to see, but Redfeather sent a prayer to the ancestors to watch over them all for him.
Behind the old barn and the farmhouse, the woods had sprung up abruptly -- a screen of serenity from the rest of the world, shielding the property from the busy highway a quarter of a mile away, and insulating his home from all but the sounds of nature -- but in front, the prairie stretched out before him. As far as he could gaze, there wasn't a single barrier to block his view, so he had ample time to prepare himself when he saw the rapidly growing black spot come up over the horizon. He recognized the bird by the familiar call that had turned piercing with warning, and watched in horror as a wavefront of blinding light screamed behind the raven, catching him and overtaking him before he could reach the safety of the barn. The bird who had been his son's constant companion was flipped tail over beak in mid-air and tumbled to the ground in a flurry of shredded black feathers.
Redfeather barely had the time to throw a protective arm over his face before the wave crashed into him, lifting him off the ground and slamming him against the wall. It was a double wallop that stole his breath and turned his world black before he returned to earth. When he opened his eyes once more, it was to the sound of thunder beneath him and vibrating dust tickling his nose.
As the tremor faded, Redfeather calmly got to his feet, dusted himself off, and waited.
__________
"Brother!"
Tom crashed to his knees in front of Maes, on the other side of where Ed laid still and pale. “Do you know CPR?”
Maes shook his head, staring blankly at the older man.
“Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation?” Tom demanded. “Can you breathe for him while I keep his heart pumping?”
“Yes. Yes, of course!”
Tom nodded, then straddled Ed's hips and felt around the boy's chest. “Clear his airway and breathe when I tell you to.” When he found the spot he wanted, he crossed his hands, palms flat, and pressed.
Tilting Ed's head back, Maes used two fingers to scoop out a sticky, black substance with the consistency of molasses and smelling like a sewer. It rolled up over Ed's lips and dripped down his cheek in a thick trickle...
...and Al's voice grew shrill with terror as he called to his brother over and over.
Tom rhythmically pushed, counting softly, then said, “Breathe.”
Maes clamped his mouth over Ed's and forced air filled with fear-laced carbon dioxide down the boy's throat and into his lungs, then listened as Ed's chest fell and the air was exhaled. But he didn't inhale again, and Maes shook his head at Tom, who started chest compressions once more...
__________
August 20, 1919,
Risembool, Amestris
He was burning up, blind, racked with pain -- face, back, chest, arm -- dead? alive? His consciousness surged in and out (mostly out), and each time he surfaced -- minutes? seconds? -- the heat and pain rushed over and through him again. He found himself breathing, short gasps, each accompanied by a sharp, stabbing jolt in his right side. That meant he was alive, at least. But for how long? He barely had time for the thought to form before he felt the dark waters surge up yet again, trying to drown him.
"Roy! Are you all right? Say something! Roy!"
Riza's voice, dragging him up from the depths before he could sink further. He gasped again, gritting his teeth at the spasm of pain in his side. She might even be holding his hand, but he wasn't sure. His face hurt, the left cheek damp with hot liquid, as though molten lava flowed from his ruined eye. He was afraid to try to open his good one.
Yet he saw it all again, in a swift montage: the lying and kneeling boys, the Gates, the knife, the bomb. Then the searing flash, the heat, the force, the knives of pain ripping through his body. Knives...
Now Riza again, as though from a distance: "Find a way to get us out of here, Havoc!"
No! They couldn't take him away now, when he'd been so close! He tried to lift a hand in protest, but the pain that shot up the arm and across his chest swept him away yet again in a tidal wave of darkness.
Damn. So close, and then...
__________
Maes lost count of the number of times he'd breathed for Ed, or of how long Tom had been forcing the blood to pump through the kid's heart and into his brain, but his vision was beginning to tunnel and Tom was soaked from the effort. Over and over, Maes kept to the rhythm of breathing when Tom nodded, but each time, no spontaneous gasp would follow.
Behind him, Al sniffled. “Come back, Brother... please,” he murmured as Reilly stifled her own sobs and clung to the boy. Heist had finally struggled back to consciousness and cried openly while Ducky talked softly to her, an edge of grief in his own voice.
Maes wanted to reassure them that Ed would be fine in a minute. He was tough after all. He'd fought homunculi, dodged flying wrenches, bested Roy in battle, strutted through Hell, and lived to turn around and thumb his nose at all of it. Edward Elric was the Fullmetal Alchemist, and he was indestructible... he couldn't die... he wouldn't... he couldn't... “Oh god Ed, don't you dare die,” Maes whispered and breathed for him again.
The next breath will do it, he told himself every time he heard Ed's lungs deflate. The next one... the next one... Goddamn you sawed-off, mouthy little shit, breathe! He wasn't going to give up, not when the next time he breathed for Ed would be the one that brought him back.
Again, he heard the exhale, then silence... silence that stretched too long. He gazed up at Tom and didn't want to see the look of failure and grief on the older man's face. “Don't stop, dammit--”
“Maes,” Tom rasped, “he's gone.”
“Ed!” Al wailed. “No!”
Maes yanked Tom down to his level by the front of his sweat-soaked shirt and choked, “He's not! Don't fucking give up on him now!” He saw pity in the older man's eyes and shoved him back, disgusted. “Fine, you can quit. I'm not,” he snapped as he leaned down to breathe for Ed once more.
As he tilted his head to listen, Tom started pressing on Ed's chest again, counting softly.
Three more times Maes forced air into the boy's lungs; three more times Ed exhaled and didn't inhale again. Maes' vision swirled and blurred and the blackness at the edges grew, and he was beginning to come to the same realization as Tom. No amount of effort was going to bring Ed back this time -- the Fullmetal Alchemist was dead.
Once more, Maes thought as his throat tightened. One last time. He placed his mouth over Ed's cold, pliant lips, but that final breath refused to leave his lungs. Shaking, tears burning his eyes and splattering on the lenses of his glasses, he laid his forehead against Ed's and sobbed.
Somewhere in the distance he heard Al scream his brother's name and felt the boy fall against him...
...and he felt a twitch beneath his fingertips, then a gasp. The small body under his hands jerked and flailed weakly, and Maes sat up straight as Ed choked and gagged, and breathed.
"Get him on his side!” Tom yelled.
Maes snapped out of his shock to roll Ed over -- just in time for the boy to vomit out a mass of sticky, black tar onto the ground. Wrapping his arm around Ed's chest and holding his head, Maes made sure he didn't aspirate. When the spasms stopped and Ed was no longer heaving, he gently rolled him back and cradled him.
Ed's lashes lifted, gazing at Maes through gold eyes that were dazed and limpid. "What..."
He broke off to cough again. Al grabbed his brother's hand and the others milled around them, silent, waiting for Ed to speak again, to reassure themselves that he was, in fact, really alive.
"Hughes...?"
"I'm here, Ed." Maes shifted his friend in his arms. "We're here."
Ed slurred, "Wha' the hell... are you doing...?"
__________
Jean Havoc usually just followed good-naturedly as Roy Mustang led his subordinates through his odd adventures, but when the need arose, the first lieutenant was fully capable of taking charge. Hawkeye, kneeling at the general's side, yelled over her shoulder, "Find a way to get us out of here, Havoc!" but he had already grabbed some of the intact chunks from the upper floor and had begun leaning them against the cellar walls to create something he and the others could climb. The ground still rumbled from the blast and the Gate's disappearance, so he wedged the ends of the wooden chunks as hard as he could into the floor and wall. He only hoped the charred planks were still intact enough at the core to hold some serious weight.
Armstrong couldn't climb them, of course, but he'd get out somehow, bash footholds in the wall if he had to. But the shaking was getting worse -- verging on an actual earthquake, in fact -- and the walls down here were already unstable. They had to get Mustang out before the rest of the cellar collapsed on all of them.
"Good work, Jean." Now Hawkeye stood at his shoulder, as Armstrong carefully got to his feet behind her, cradling their boss against his chest.
Jean grabbed hold of the black wood with both hands. "If you and I go up first," he said briskly, "Armstrong can lift Roy up to us."
"Agreed."
The plank held, thank goodness. Jean skimmed up quickly, bracing his feet at the grassy edge of the hole and reaching a hand down to help Hawkeye up the last step. They both turned, then, toward Armstrong as he lifted Roy's body toward them. But the ground heaved under their feet, and Jean staggered, finally stumbling and going to one knee while Hawkeye crashed into him and would have fallen if she hadn't grabbed his shoulder.
"Riza!" he gasped. "If we kneel -- we can get him--"
She understood immediately, and together they went to their knees near the crumbling edge of the cellar hole. Armstrong spread his feet to buttress himself, and lifted Roy up to them as carefully as possible. They half-dragged, half-carried their superior away from the edge as it crumbled further, a huge chunk of the cellar wall collapsing where they'd knelt just a moment before.
Jean glanced over his shoulder to see Armstrong scrambling up the moist ramp of earth formed by the collapse, feet sinking in dirt almost to the ankles with each step. But immediately, Roy groaned, recapturing his attention. "So close...," the man whispered, "so close..."
"Don't try to talk, sir," Hawkeye admonished quickly. "We'll get you to safety first, and get medical help."
For the first time, Jean got a good look at his boss, his breath catching painfully at the sight of the scorch marks all down the front of Roy's uniform. The forearms were especially blackened, probably when the general managed to cover his face just as the blast -- whatever it had been -- threw him backwards. But even so, the large patch over his left eye had essentially disintegrated, leaving that side of his face bleeding through the tatters, and the ends of his hair singed.
The ground heaved again, a rolling subterranean rumble, and another section of cellar wall gave way with a heavy thump. "Better get out of here," Jean muttered.
"Can you take him?" Hawkeye demanded of Armstrong, who nodded, already bending and sliding his hands under Roy's shoulders and knees. The movement jarred the unconscious man's right arm and he gasped, his eye fluttering open briefly before his head sank back again. Hawkeye rose as Armstrong did, holding the general's arm against his chest to keep it from moving again.
Damn, Jean thought, maybe broken. I wonder what other injuries he's got? But there was no time to stop and check; all the walls of the cellar seemed to be collapsing at once, and the ground even a few feet away wasn't feeling very firm either. "Back to town?" Jean suggested crisply.
Armstrong, now on his feet, gazed over the heads of his companions and murmured, "Probably not, lieutenant. We seem to have help."
And there was Pinako coming across the field, sitting beside another man in a small wagon pulled by a single horse. As the wagon halted beside the tableau of military officers, the woman peered up at the figure in Armstrong's grasp and remarked, "Got himself in trouble, I see. I wondered if he might. You'd better put him in here and I'll have a look at him while we head back to the house. You three will have to walk alongside."
"We shouldn't impose--" Hawkeye began, but the diminutive woman cut her off.
"He'll get as good medical care from me as from any doctor in town, and I'm closer. Now, lie him down in the back."
__________
The sound of Ed's voice, weak as it was, spurred the group into action. Ducky watched with a curious detachment as the scene played out; surrounding noises sounded muted and everyone moved at a sluggish pace that he knew was deceiving, but perceived nonetheless. Tom and Maes huddled around Singer and began working out a plan to get everyone to a safer location. Al kept his brother talking and Reilly stayed close to them both. Ducky wondered if this was what an out-of-body experience felt like. He turned slowly -- so slowly, what is wrong with me? -- to ask Heist if she was feeling the same way.
Apparently, she wasn't. Not ten minutes after nearly dying and then waking up in the middle of an earthquake to Ducky's shouts that she needed to get up and move, she was attempting to do just that. With enough speed to jerk his own senses back where they should be, Heist frantically searched her pockets with her good hand, though she listed drunkenly to the side as she did so. Ducky threw an arm around her shoulders to steady her and when she didn't find what she was looking for, she faced him with tears of desperation welling in her eyes.
"Quick, I need your phone!"
Ducky absently pulled it from the cargo pocket of his pants, but paused before he actually handed it over. "Why?"
"There isn't time, Ducks!"
"Unless you're calling a doctor," Ducky swallowed thickly, his eyes darting between the still forms of Ed and Singer, "or a morgue, what could you possibly need a phone for?"
Heist just stared at him with the same look she always gave him when she thought he should know something. His brow knit together and they stood there for a few seconds while he tried to figure out what it was. And then everything clicked, and Ducky nodded once and yelled for Tom.
~`~`~`~
Al fought down his panic as the motion swirled about him: the Elders who had left them early this morning finally barreling into the clearing in trucks or 4x4's or on foot, carefully gathering up Singer's body, shepherding everyone else into other vehicles. He stood in the center of the noisy maelstrom, helpless to do anything useful, while Tony Redfeather slipped into the back of the nearest 4x4 with Ed held limply on his lap, and another barked quick orders into a cell phone. Al gathered that the man was calling ahead to his wife, or something, telling her to prepare a room for a very sick young man.
The door slammed shut. They were taking Ed away from him. And Al could only stand and watch, frozen. Useless to do anything.
And there was Singer -- friend and helper, even mentor -- being laid with gentle care on a blanket in the back of a truck, his chest and arms dark with blood. Two men climbed into the back, to crouch on either side of him and accompany his body on its journey to wherever he was being taken.
Sing well, my friend, the man had said to him. And then died.
Died.
Al pressed his clenched fists over his mouth as the two companions pulled up the gate at the back of the truck, and he lost sight of the dead man's body. The wave of relief that had swept over him when Ed finally started breathing hadn't subsided at all, but kept rushing through him until it had become a whirlwind of dizziness and nausea. As the ringing in his ears mingled with the surrounding tumult and the shouts of people taking charge and issuing instructions, he wondered if he might be about to collapse.
"Al." A strong arm slid around his shoulders, and he found Maes standing beside him, drawing him close. "Come on, Al, they want you in the Jeep with Ed. He needs you with him." He indicated the second door in the side of the vehicle, still sitting open, with one of last night's Elders motioning the young man to come forward.
"C-come with me," Al stammered, teeth beginning to chatter.
"Of course. Everything's going to be fine," the man reassured him. "Tom!" he called softly to the side. "Make sure Reilly and the kids are right behind us, okay?"
Al peered past Maes to see Tom nodding briskly and drawing Ducky and Heist toward the clearing where the Ninjavan waited. Ducky had an arm tightly around Heist's shoulders, probably to try to help her stabilize after she'd lost so much blood. But neither seemed entirely steady on their feet. Meanwhile, Reilly cast a reassuring smile back at Al and Maes before turning to follow the others.
Al climbed wordlessly into the Elder's vehicle, and anxiously leaned over the back of the seat as Maes slid in beside him. Ed's head lolled a bit on Redfeather's shoulder, but he did manage to force his eyes open, just for a moment, and focus on his brother's face. Recognition sparked briefly into his bleary eyes, and his black-streaked lips moved in the beginning of a smile, but then he was gone again, the breath rattling lightly in his chest as he sank into unconsciousness.
Al sagged back in his seat and pressed his hands over his face.
"He'll be all right, don't worry," Maes tried to reassure him.
But even Maes had given up hope of Ed's recovery, before his brother had miraculously come back to them. The sight had shaken Al almost as much as any of the other cataclysmic events of the day. "I hope you're right," the boy muttered wearily.
"What happened in there?" Maes asked. "Maybe if we knew that, it would help us know how to treat him. And when Llyn gets here, we can give him some direction."
"Llyn? He's coming? How?"
"Heist called him, just as the Elders found us. He'll be on his way shortly, if he isn't already."
"Oh thank goodness! Thank goodness. I didn't know what we were going to do, without being able to get Ed to a hospital."
"He's going to be taken care of, Al, don't worry. We'll get him through this. But now let's try to find some clues about how to help him. What happened when you went through that Gate? And... what happened to Bond?"
Al took a long, careful breath, and tried to take better hold of himself. He couldn't fall apart now, when Ed still needed him. "It's kind of complicated," he answered, marshaling his thoughts. "There were three Gates, and Bond got pulled into one of them. I don't know where he ended up. But before he went through, he managed to grab a panel from Ed's automail arm and make one of his bombs. And when it blew up, it threw us back here."
"Three. There were three Gates? Al," Maes asked eagerly, "did they all lead to home? Do we have that much of a chance to get back?"
Al saw his friend's enthusiasm and hope, and leaned forward, burying his head in his hands. "No," he answered, his voice breaking. "We don't have any chance at all. He blew them up, Maes -- all the Gates were connected and they've been destroyed. There's no way we can go home now."
He heard the stifled gasp of shock and alarm. "No... oh no... that can't be true... not after... all that we've..."
"And there was another thing." Al lifted his head and fixed sober grey eyes on Maes' face. Might as well tell him everything and get it over with. "Just before it blew up -- General Mustang came through one of the Gates. I yelled at him to get away, but he didn't even have time to turn around and run. The bomb -- it blew up right in front of him. I--I don't think he had a chance--" He broke off at the horror and disbelief in his friend's eyes.
"No! Not... Roy," Maes whispered, face ashen. "Roy? Dead...?"
"He might be. I'm so sorry, Maes. I'm sorry for everything." Al bowed his head, once again covering his face with his hands.
__________
Jean reflected that it wasn't often he saw Hawkeye defer to anyone, but she allowed Pinako to take charge of the general, even agreeing to walk beside the wagon rather than trying to get into the back, or oversee things from the seat beside the driver. Still, she wasn't exactly relaxed as they hurried back to the house; her hands clenched into fists at her sides, she continually cast fretful glances through the wagon slats, trying to guess what the older woman was doing. Jean didn't blame her, since he was doing exactly the same thing. Armstrong was luckier, walking on the other side of the wagon; he could easily look right down into it.
Even though the earthquake was finally dying down, the tremors coming less frequently and with less strength, the wagon still jolted now and then on the rough ground, and sometimes they could hear Roy moaning when it did.
At one point, they heard Pinako tell him gruffly, "We're almost there, and I'll get it splinted, so hold on."
Yep, Jean thought glumly. Broken arm.
By the time they arrived at the Rockbell place, Roy was fully conscious, and definitely in pain. He managed to push himself into a sitting position and, after Armstrong helped him out of the wagon, stood on his own feet in the yard in front of the house. But he swayed dangerously as he regarded the front steps looming in front of him, his left hand pressed to his bleeding face. Without a word, Hawkeye gently pulled his hand away and swung his arm around her shoulders to support him on that side, leaving his right arm to hang limply on the other side.
But even then, as he put a foot on the first step and tried to lift himself up, his legs gave out under him and he collapsed forward. If Hawkeye hadn't been there, he would have smashed his face on the upper steps, but even as she caught him, his right arm swung forward to bang into the stairs, and he couldn't prevent a sharp yelp of pain.
"This is ridiculous, sir," Armstrong said gently, stepping to his right side and pulling on his shoulder to lift him back up. "Allow me to take you in quickly, so you can be tended to."
"This is... so undignified," Roy muttered, but allowed himself to be picked up again, his head sagging against the big man's chest as Armstrong once again swept him up.
From that point on, he was taken care of quickly. Pinako directed Armstrong to install him in the room behind the living quarters on the main floor, where she usually worked on automail patients. She asked Jean to help her get the uniform off, and it was a sign of how hurt Roy was that even though he was mostly conscious, he barely objected to being disrobed by his lieutenant and an older woman with whom he was barely acquainted. Once they'd gotten him into a medical gown and into bed, the woman could finally examine him thoroughly.
When she had bound up his injured arm, bandaged his face, and sedated him, she made her report to his three colleagues now waiting anxiously in her kitchen. As she poured each of them a fresh cup of tea, Jean realized that it was still morning, not even close to noon. Hard to believe, he thought, that the whole enterprise today had only taken a couple hours at most. He dragged his attention firmly back to Pinako as she began to list the tally of the man's injuries: his right arm was broken, but not badly, and would heal fairly quickly. The shoulder had also been dislocated, but had been set in place again and taped up, and should be fine even though the muscles around the shoulder would be swollen and sore for a few days. He had at least two cracked ribs. The injuries on his face were relatively superficial; they just looked bad because the area around his left eye was already extra sensitive, and was prone to bleeding easily.
"I can't promise that there aren't internal injuries, especially with those ribs," Pinako added, setting down the teapot and taking her own chair at the table, "but I think it's unlikely. It looks like he shielded himself pretty well, but I'll need to observe him for a few days, to make sure. He'll probably suffer nothing else but some deep bruises. And probably a wrenched back, from the way Lieutenant Havoc told me he landed after the explosion."
"Thank you for doing this for him, Mrs. Rockbell," Hawkeye murmured, hands folded around her teacup. "It's very generous."
"Nonsense, young lady," retorted their host. "This is what I do. I wasn't about to let him suffer that wagon ride all the way into town, when I could help him here."
Jean took a sip of his own tea and shared a relieved glance with Armstrong, across the table from him. It seemed the general was very lucky. Given the force of the blast that had thrown him out of the Gate, Roy appeared to have escaped rather lightly.
And when he woke up, in an hour or two, hopefully he'd be able to tell them exactly what had happened when he was inside, that had produced such devastating results. Above all, Jean wanted very much to know why, all through the examination and bandaging, a half-conscious Roy had continuously whispered, "That knife... what was it doing there... what was that knife doing there?"
__________
Ed was breathing a bit better now that the oxygen mask had been affixed securely. Llyn pulled back the boy's lids, and was pleased to see the pupils dilate when he flashed them with his penlight. Putting the light away, he turned his head when he heard soft footsteps enter the room. Cue the younger brother, eh? Llyn wasn't surprised. He wasn't even surprised at the rest of the group surrounding the doorway, all of them expressing some sort of concern for the boy. Fear, sorrow, worry; they were all there, and most prominently in Al's and Reilly's eyes.
"Is... is he going to...?" The small teen's hesitant question brought Llyn's attention back to the second Elric. Al stood with his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he stared past the Welshman and at his brother.
"Aye, he'll be fine." Llyn graced Al with a tender smile and a bit of hair-ruffling. "He just needs some rest, s'all. Why don't y'sit by him while I get myself a bit o' coffee?"
Letting Al take his place by the bed, knowing how the teen wouldn't leave until he was dragged away, Llyn made a 'follow me' gesture to the adults in the group. He'd be sure to tell Al what his findings were as well, but he would do that later, privately. Let the kid be a little less worried about his brother, at least for a few moments.
__________
Alex stood with Havoc in the shadowed doorway of the sick room, watching the debate inside and wondering if he should discreetly disappear. The curtains had been pulled to shut out the late afternoon daylight, but despite the fact that the general should have been sleeping by now, he had summoned all three of his subordinates for some reason. But he wasn't doing very well, and Alex thought he might appreciate one fewer member in the audience.
"You need rest and sleep, Roy, you young fool!" Pinako admonished in exasperation as the general struggled, for the hundredth time, to sit up in the bed. The light of a small lamp on the nightstand created flat circles of light on her face where her glasses sat.
Roy groaned as his cracked ribs protested, then gasped sharply as he jarred his broken arm. Sinking back with a thump against the pillows, he snapped at his caregiver, gasping for breath, "Not that young -- and I've survived worse than this -- so don't go -- giving me orders--" He shut his eye wearily, gritting his teeth against the pain, his head tossing back and forth in the heat of his fever, black tangles of hair plastered to his damp forehead. Hawkeye, barely seated on the edge of her chair in the shadows on the other side of the bed, dug her fingers into the sheets, helpless to ease his distress.
"He looks awful, doesn't he?" Havoc muttered under his breath.
Alex made a noncommittal noise, though secretly he had to agree. Roy had been wandering in and out of delirium for the rest of the day since he'd been brought here, even though Pinako had administered a painkiller and sedative. The general's body had fought and continued to fight almost frantically against the sedative, and the fever wouldn't allow him any peace.
Now it appeared as though his most recent surge of lucidity was beginning to fade again. He sagged a little against the pillows, as a fresh sheen of sweat broke out on his face. He lifted his hand for a moment, vague fingers touching the bandage pad over his left eye, before the arm lost its strength and flopped back down on the blankets. The poor man, Alex thought, not for the first time in his life. He needs rest... and that's the one thing he never allows himself. But maybe the sedative was taking hold at last. He certainly needed to sleep. Even in the dim light it was clear that beneath the black fringe of his hair, his face was the color of ash.
But no -- yet again he forced his bleary eye open and flattened his good hand on the mattress, trying to force himself up. Why would he not allow himself to sleep??
"I swear," Pinako muttered, "you have got to be the worst patient I've ever treated."
"Roy," Hawkeye protested. "You have to sleep -- you can't keep doing this."
"Listen," he gasped. "Just let me -- let me tell -- Alex--"
As both Havoc and Hawkeye darted questioning eyes at him, Alex felt his stomach drop in apprehension. He was the reason the general was so agitated? No, not him specifically -- it was him as an alchemist. That was the only explanation. As he watched Roy struggle to get up, and fight to peer down the bed at him, he grew more certain that he'd guessed right.
"General Mustang," he ventured, moving closer to the circle of lamplight so his superior could see him better, "I'll remain here as long as you need me. Whatever you wish to tell me, surely you can do it when you wake up."
"No -- you don't understand--" Roy gasped. "In case I take a turn for the worse -- you have to hear this--"
"Sir, you're going to be fine," Hawkeye insisted.
But if this was what the sick man needed to allow himself to rest, then so be it. "Very well, general," Armstrong nodded. "Tell me quickly. I assume you saw something important within the Gate?"
"Yes. You have to know -- Stealthworks is alive."
Stealthworks! Bond? Alive??
Alex gaped at Roy, the breath violently constricting in his massive chest. It was a mistake. It had to be. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Havoc's jaw drop, and Hawkeye was staring at the sick man as though he'd gone insane.
"Sir, that's impossible," Alex countered. "We know he died in that explosion in the north." Of course he had. He had died, and so had... so had...
"No," Roy interrupted, shaking his head vehemently. He collapsed against the pillows again, too weak to hold himself up. But he persisted in his quick account of what he'd seen, as though he could sense his awareness beginning to slip away. "I found the boys... Ed was injured and Al was at his side... but I couldn't get to them... didn't have time..."
"Because of the explosion?" Hawkeye asked.
"Yes... There was a bomb... Alex... it was one of Bond's spider bombs..."
"General," Alex tried to make the point again, "we know he was caught in that explosion four years ago. Do you truly understand what you're saying?"
"Dammit, I know what I saw," Roy ground between clenched teeth. "I tell you, this isn't the fever talking. That's why I'm trying to explain while I can. I saw the spider bomb. I don't know anyone else who can create one. I know it sounds impossible, but he's got to be alive. That's the only explanation." Roy's eye widened and he tried yet again to sit up, continuing even more urgently, "And the bomb was in front of another Gate. Maybe he went through it -- maybe he's back in Amestris -- Alex -- you have to watch for him! Promise me!" His eye closed again as he groaned, head moving back and forth on the pillow. "So hot... so hot..."
"I'll watch for him, general," Alex murmured, hardly aware of what he was saying, so violently did his mind reel at this latest news and all its implications.
"This," Havoc muttered at his side, "could be very, very bad."
Alex lowered his gaze. The lieutenant didn't know the half of it. Because if Bond was alive even after that explosion four years ago, then...
Roy moaned as Hawkeye took his hand. "So hot," he whispered. He was beginning to mumble as, finally having delivered his crucial message, he succumbed at last to the delirium. "Danger... such danger... Bond... and I-- I just don't understand... the knife... and the bomb..."
"Armstrong. Buddy, are you all right?"
Alex stared at Havoc, speechless, for a long time before he realized how he was trembling. "Pardon me, lieutenant," he muttered. "Did you say something?"
Havoc lowered his voice. "He sure seems fixated on certain things, whenever his mind starts wandering. Don't you think?"
Alex stood stricken, the breath cut off in his throat. Finally he managed to stammer, "Ex-excuse me, lieutenant Havoc. I need to take some air. I need-- I need to contemplate what the general has said. Excuse me."
He pushed out of the room, fully aware that Havoc was staring after him in bewilderment, but he couldn't worry about that right now. He only hoped the lieutenant didn't decide to follow him. He felt he was going to suffocate if he stayed inside any longer. The Rockbell home was far, far too small to contain the huge problem that had suddenly loomed before his eyes with the general's words.
He stumbled out into the early evening air and the front yard. Hugging his arms across his chest, he gazed out across the road and over the rolling fields of Pinako's neighbors. The sun, beginning to lower itself behind the low hills in the distance, shone into his eyes and forced him to turn away and wander aimlessly around the side of the house toward the work sheds at the far end of the yard behind it. He clasped his hands behind his back, lowering his head as he contemplated what Roy had told him.
Alex had kept secrets from his fellow soldiers before. He had walked a very fine line when he'd been assigned to work with Lieutenant Colonel Archer, for example. He'd been required to keep silent about much of what he'd learned during Archer's investigations. He hadn't even been able to tell Roy the things he'd discovered, though he was trying to help him move forward after Maes Hughes' death.
Hughes' death...
Alex had wrestled with his conscience every day for a year, after the funeral. He had almost broken silence at the funeral itself, watching the grieving of Gracia Hughes and listening to the cries of young Elysia. He'd had to lie to those who loved Hughes the most -- Gracia, Elysia, Roy -- and never betray any hint that he knew the man's grave was empty. No one had suspected or questioned him; any misstep had been interpreted merely as another of his many odd quirks. And yet during the following year he'd stood a hundred times, trembling, on the brink of revelation as he'd observed the subtle, ongoing signs of grief. He had never felt so torn in his life as he had for that interminable year.
And then... the explosion just outside the military post in the Briggs Mountains. He knew Bond had been there, and he'd been absolutely certain that Hughes had been with him. There had been no chance of surviving the blast, for either of them. His fear was all but confirmed as time passed... and passed... and there had never again been any type of communication from Hughes.
Alex had been grief-stricken, and, even worse, had had to conceal his pain from everyone else, who had already lived through their own grief the year before and begun to come to terms with it. But he'd acknowledged, in the privacy of his own guilt, that at least his dilemma was now gone. Maes Hughes really was dead. And although there was still no body in the grave with his name on it, it had finally become a genuine memorial to a dead friend and a man of courage.
Except...
If Roy had interpreted properly the things he'd seen, then Bond was probably alive. Which might actually mean...
And the way Roy kept muttering about "the knife"...
For so many years, in any other context, there would have been only one way to interpret the idea that he found a knife so significant and troubling. One did not obsess over just any blade one saw lying around.
Could it truly be possible? After all this time?
Alex lifted his head and gazed at his own massive shadow, stretching in front of him along the side of the house, through the yard behind it, all the way to the service sheds at the far end. Although he didn't want to allow himself to hope, he just couldn't prevent the small glimmer that began to shine in the most private recesses of his heart.
It would resurrect the old dilemma, certainly. But that would be minor, be negligible, be bearable, if only...
Should he say something now? Was he still bound by the orders given years ago? Where did his loyalties lie?
And would Roy kill him for keeping his silence all this time?
__________
Llyn leaned against a buffet in the dining room just outside the guest bedroom, watching the others. Everyone but Ducky had followed him, settling themselves uneasily. The hacker seemed to prefer his silent vigil over the Elric boys. Whether Ducky was truly that worried about the pair, or just didn't want to hear the details about Ed's infirmities, Llyn wasn't certain, but was content to let it be.
Bringing his attention back to his audience, he noticed that Hughes and Tom had both chosen guarded positions which gave them a clear view of the door and windows, while Reilly and Helene claimed two of the chairs at the table. Rubbing his index finger across his brows, Llyn cleared his throat. "I have 'im stabilized for now, an' have 'im on oxygen. Gave him shots of antibiotics an' steroids, too. He seems to be breathing fairly well, but there's a few things that trouble me."
He sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair, looking at the four adults in the room. "The stuff y'say he vomited up, the black filth; it seems he aspirated on it. I can't say what'll 'appen without running a complete workup, but without better treatment, there's always a chance he could develop pneumonia. There is also another problem, though whether or no it's related I can't say." Llyn tugged on his earlobe, the spiderweb of scar tissue along his neck hidden by his hand. "He seems t' have developed a small infection at the points where his prosthetics connect t'his body. That's what th' antibiotics were for, but since I don't know what med allergies he has, I don't wanna overdo it on treatment."
Reilly drew up her shoulders tightly, her head dropping to her bunched fists. She seemed to be searching for words, but it was Tom who broke the silence. "What do we need to do for him? Bearing in mind a hospital is pretty much out of the question for numerous reasons."
Llyn nodded. "Well, you all know he'll need to rest, drink fluids, the like. Once he wakes, I'll better be able t'ascertain what other treatment he'll need. Probably a continued course of antibiotics -- I can write a scrip for cephalexin -- an' maybe even an inhaler, if he has trouble breathin' when he comes to. Shouldn't be anythin' too serious, though. I'm more worried about the infection than anything else."
There seemed nothing more to add to that. The group remained silent, despondent, as they looked anywhere but at each other. Llyn scratched the back of his head, casting about for reassurances. He sensed an atmosphere of helplessness that had nothing to do with the young man in the other room. He'd been given only the barest information when Helene (as much as she preferred to be called Heist, he couldn't force himself to think of her that way) had contacted him. Something of an accident and possible biological contamination... and an explosion. Certainly something had blown up, given the light scorching on both Ed and Al's clothing; not to mention what looked like mild sunburn on both their faces and hands. He sighed. Nothing about this was right... he was missing something extremely vital. More than the injuries to Ed... something fundamental was affecting the entire group.
There was a rustle of cloth, and Reilly stood. Wordlessly she exited the room, and Llyn had no doubt where she was headed. Almost imperceptibly, Tom and Hughes shared a look. The older man followed after Reilly, while Hughes took the spot he'd vacated by the window.
Helene was still hunched into herself, knees pressed together, cradling her bandaged arm. Nodding her way, Llyn approached. "Will you be lettin' me look after that now?" He asked softly, noting the way her cheeks dusted a light rose.
Glancing once more at Hughes as he remained on vigil, she allowed Llyn to help her stand. "It's not... it's probably just... they did a good job..."
Placing a finger over her stammered words, he led her to the bathroom, setting his bag down and ignoring her surprised yelp as he hoisted her onto the sink. "Stretch out your arm then." Tentatively she extended her wrist, flinching just slightly as his fingers caressed the base of her palm, easing back the stained cotton. They had wrapped it well, he noted, if hurriedly. Still, it was doubtful any stitches had been applied, and the risk of infection was high without a shot of antibiotics. Unwinding the bandage, one hand gently cradling the back of her wrist, he slowly revealed the damaged flesh. The edges of the wound were a livid red, swollen and inflamed. The injury itself was penetrating, but appeared to have missed severing the artery. Still, it was deep -- and clearly painful.
"You'll need a wee injection," he murmured, sliding his hand into his case and withdrawing the wrapped syringe. Using his teeth to remove the plastic, and then the cap, he pressed the small shaft against her skin and slid it forward, holding her steady as she whimpered at the minor sting. Spitting the cover from his mouth, withdrawing the needle, he kissed his fingers before pressing them over the small well of blood. "There now... and just one more for the pain." Taking hold of one more syringe, this one a numbing agent, he repeated the same process as before -- though she seemed better prepared this time around, and only winced before relaxing as the point slid out.
Letting her cradle her arm for a moment, Llyn returned to his kit, fishing around until he retrieved his stitching equipment, laying the elements beside him on the counter. Helene was tensing again, and he reached out soothingly, running one hand across her collarbone. "You'll barely feel it, I promise... Just pinch my shoulder if it becomes too much." She smiled a little, placing her free hand on his upper arm as he took her wrist in his fingers once more.
Threading the needle, he caught her eyes with his, waiting until she nodded in readiness. Then, bending over her arm, he gently thrust the needle into her flesh. Predictably, the hand gripping his bicep tightened, but not enough to injure. Not pausing in his work, he pulled the small length through to the other side before plunging it back in again, an endless performance as he gradually tightened the skin back together. It didn't take that long, but she was gasping as he reached the end. Pushing the tip in one last time, he finished the repair, reaching up to slide his thumb across her sweaty brow. "You did well lass." Putting away used equipment, he reached up and helped her down.
Standing close to him, between his body and the counter, she smiled slightly, then leaned in close... almost near enough that he thought she planned to kiss him. But her lips stopped just shy of his own, her breath beating against his cheek as she spoke.
"Thanks..."
Slowly easing back, she turned from him and walked out.
Realizing he'd done all he could for the night, and still pondering what, exactly, had just occurred, Llyn closed the door. If he was going to be staying here for the next several days, he wanted to start the adventure clean.
August 21, 2006
Central Oklahoma
Al strode along the dusty road with Maes, Reilly, Tom and Ducky as they followed the rest of the mourners who were either on foot or horseback. Llyn had chosen to remain back at Redfeather's house to watch over Ed, and Heist felt it best if she stayed with him, “In case he needs my help,” she'd explained, although Al noticed a distinctive blush cross her cheeks when she said that.
At the head of the procession, a single horse pulled the driverless wagon carrying Singer's body in a simple pine casket covered with the American flag. It was led by a man in denims, dusty boots and a feathered headdress -- also on horseback -- and the wagon was flanked by two other riders who were dressed similarly. Many others within the group were just as casual, but there were embellishments -- in hair, around necks, or as part of the clothing they wore -- though none quite as splendid as the three at the front wore. Tom had explained very softly, when Al had looked askance at him, that the three were tribal chiefs.
Riding in the wagon's wake, on a pale buckskin with eagle feathers tied to its harness, was Redfeather -- Singer's father. His face was painted black and his long hair had been cut short, and while he appeared stoic, the glistening trail of tears that left pale streaks down his cheeks spoke eloquently of his grief.
Directly behind Redfeather, five men and two women marched in slow formation -- rifles shouldered and held in crisp, white gloves. The uniforms, dark blue and trimmed in red, were immaculate. The metal buttons sparkled brightly with each measured step, the black boots polished to a high shine, and the bright, white hats, spotless. They issued orders in low tones that were blown away by the hot breeze before they reached Al's ears. "Marines," Redfeather had told the teen when they'd arrived at his house early that morning, and pride had gleamed in his dark eyes.
New arrivals joined the procession as it grew closer to the final destination -- traveling much the same as the rest; there were no motorized vehicles. Many came out of their homes and watched in respectful silence, or from the nearby hills or the side of the road as the line of mourners passed. The only sounds beyond the creaking of the wooden wheels of the wagon, and the clop-clop of hooves, was an occasional soft command from rider to horse in a strange language, or a respectful war whoop from an observer. Even the birds were silent today.
And always... always, an old paint, head hung low, reins dragging the ground and saddle empty, ambled at the very end of the procession.
The three mile journey ended at a low plateau in the middle of a grassy plain, and as the horse and wagon were led to a beam and hide structure in the center, Al marveled at the sheer numbers of people already there. "I never expected Singer to have so many friends," he whispered.
He hadn't noticed that Redfeather had hung back and dismounted, until he swiveled around and nearly slammed into him. The Elder's horse snorted and jerked on the reins, as though offended for his rider, but Redfeather's eyes sparked in amusement. Al, realizing that he'd been heard, stammered, "Uh... not that he wouldn't, but he always seemed like a lon-- er... uh..." At that, he just gave up and buried his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment. "That came out all wrong," he mumbled.
He felt a warm, strong hand squeeze his shoulder and gazed up to the Elder smiling down at him through his tears. "My son served his nation and was able to travel the world. He met a lot of interesting people and I guess he made quite a few friends along the way." He nodded toward the crowd and added, "But these people? They're family."
Al stared, agog. "That's... a pretty big family."
Redfeather chuckled softly. "You have no idea." Then he turned to catch up with the wagon.
Al felt a presence near him, and glanced over to see Tom, ever-observant, scanning the people who were still gathering on top of the plateau. "Did you have a chance to read anything on Native American culture when you were in Germany?" the older man asked without looking at Al.
"A little," the boy responded.
Tom nodded and said, "Forget everything you learned, son." And with that, he strolled off to join Reilly and Ducky and Maes in the crowd. Not entirely certain of what was expected of him, Al figured the safest bet was to follow Tom's lead...
...Except that a rather large young man, dressed in desert fatigues, blocked his way with one muscular arm. At Al's shocked stare, the soldier shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "This is not your place, Little Wolf."
"But..."
The man jutted his chin indicating the structure in the center of the flattened hilltop and said, "You're expected to join Redfeather at the tipi.”
As Al gazed across the wide, exposed space between the people and the tipi, a drumbeat began, and it felt like it was in sync with pounding of his heart. He couldn't imagine why he was supposed to sit next to Redfeather. He'd considered Singer a friend, true, but he'd only known the man for a few months, and not very well, at that. There were people here that the mysterious man had grown up with that surely were closer to him.
Hesitantly crossing the area, he watched as the Marines removed the casket from the wagon and placed it in front of the tipi, then two of the soldiers took their post on either end, beginning a shift that Al had been told would rotate through each soldier for the next two days.
When he reached Redfeather, the older man had already settled on the ground and had to gaze up at him.
"Sir," Al said, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, "I don't understand."
Redfeather gestured for Al to sit next to him, and said, "My son knew for years that there would come a time when he would be called on to serve. He'd spent his life preparing for that day."
"I'm not sure what this has to do with me, though," Al said, as he took the spot on the blanket next to Redfeather. "Shouldn't someone else be here, I mean? His brother, or wife? Someone close to him?"
The older man's lips trembled as he said, "He had no siblings, never married and doesn't have any children." He nodded at the reed flute poking out of Al's shirt pocket. "You're his legacy, Alphonse. Someone who can understand and sense the power that comes from the sacred grounds. He believed in your ability to be able to harness that power, too."
Al's hand automatically touched the flute and his vision started to blur. He hung his head and fought the tightness in his throat, as he whispered, "Then I failed him, sir. I didn't get a chance to learn what I could from him, and now... now... he's dead." Tears fell into his lap, staining the dust coating his jeans dark. "It was because of us that he died. Because Bond followed us and then he killed Singer. If he'd--" Al choked and the words fled him. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry, so sorry."
"My son died doing what he was meant to do, Alphonse. You didn't make the choice for him, he made it himself." Redfeather lifted Al's chin and said, "My son died bravely."
Al nodded. He knew Redfeather wasn't asking, but he felt it was important to confirm the truth. "Yes, sir. B-bond was the coward."
He gazed down at the flute again, slipping it from his pocket and running his thumb over the fetish of the playful wolf and butterfly on the end. Singer's legacy. How could Al measure up to that? Especially now that Singer was dead and so much important information was no longer available to him. He knew so little! How? How was the flute important? How was he ever going to be able to use it for something other than playing music once in awhile, and was the incident with the bonfire just a fluke? He had no idea how he'd transmuted the flames the way he had, and feared he'd never figure it out. And now? He wasn't even sure he would even be able to attempt it, not when every time he held the instrument to his lips, he'd see Singer's murder committed over and over again.
Al's grip tightened around the flute unconsciously, and a tanned, calloused hand covered his. "Singer showed you the door, Little Wolf," Redfeather said softly, "but you must make the choice to go through it."
Something tugged at the teen's memory... And then it hit him, and he scowled up at the Elder. "Does everyone in this world quote movies?"
"Sometimes the best advice comes from Hollywood," Redfeather said with a wink. Then, sobering, he added, "Singer wouldn't have taught you anything beyond what he has already. It's up to you to find your path."
"But--"
"If you don't continue to try," the Elder interrupted, "if you give up, then you will have failed him."
Al swallowed and nodded briskly. "Y-yes, sir."
The rest of the ceremony continued on with little else said between Al and Redfeather, except for the Elder explaining some of what the younger man was seeing. People approached the casket and left gifts -- beautiful hand-quilted star blankets, dream-catchers, and other things that held significance -- or spoke to the other mourners in a melodious language about Singer while Redfeather softly translated. Old men in uniforms -- some with red-tinted eagle feathers clipped to the backs of their caps -- iron-haired and gnarled, spoke about traditions and history.
And Al absorbed it all voraciously.
As the day wore on, the August heat became unbearable, and several people, dressed in the same desert fatigues as the man who'd sent Al to the tipi, erected tall poles and tied blue tarps to them to provide shade; others made sure that the mourners were given plenty of water.
And every thirty minutes there would be a softly uttered order and the marines would change shifts.
The sun settled low on the horizon and yet more people arrived and spoke, or left their gifts. A fire-pit was filled with wood and set ablaze, and torches around the perimeter were stuck into the ground and ignited, and people continued to arrive. Reilly and Tom and Ducky had eventually returned back to the house, and Maes followed an hour or so later. Al wondered about Brother, but trusted Llyn to send word if something untoward happened. It was merely a waiting game at this point, and he felt he had a duty to stay with Singer as long as he could...
...And still, the drums never silenced, and the marines always rotated on time, and people kept coming up to give their thoughts and wishes and gifts -- so many gifts -- and Al had nothing to give, and little to say.
Sing well, my friend.
He stared down at the flute once again. Maybe he did have something to offer, after all. "Mr. Redfeather," he asked softly, "would it be improper for me to play for Singer?"
He cast a cautious sideways glance at the Elder, but instead of the disapproval he feared he might receive, he saw something akin to a teacher gazing proudly at a pupil who'd just figured out a difficult equation.
Redfeather waved a hand at the quilts and miniature tipis and dream-catchers and said, "All of these things, the care and love that went into crafting them will travel with my son when his spirit goes to speak with the ancestors, but the things will be given to those who need them." He gazed down at the flute and placed a gentle hand on Al's shoulder. "The music you play, if it comes from your heart and soul, will be an honored and cherished gift that my son will carry with him." A sudden grin split his blackened face, bright white teeth in blinding contrast, as he added, "I'd wondered if you'd think of this."
Al's grin matched Redfeather's as he dipped his head and took a deep breath. He let his eyes slip closed and brought the instrument up to his lips, and let his heart make the music. He recalled the first night he met Singer, although he'd been too ill to realize the man was actually in his room. He thought about how Singer had always managed to frustrate Brother, and the music trilled as he tried to suppress a giggle...
...and as he let his fingers move over the flute, he felt himself slip into an almost dream-state. The drums had never hesitated and the voices of so many people speaking in their own language washed over him, and he hadn't even felt Redfeather shifting against him as he stood. It was only when the drums went silent that he noticed the Elder was now standing next to the casket.
Al stopped and lowered the flute out of respect, but Redfeather shook his head slightly. Understanding what the older man wanted, Al returned to playing, soft and low.
In English, Redfeather spoke: "Soon, my son will enter the spirit world and I would like to give him an Indian name, because this is how the ancestors will know him. His name is Wah-yahng Nah-zjee Wah-nah-ghee-yah-dah." The Elder gazed at Al and translated, "Stands-Watching-the-Spiritland. Guardian of the Sacred Doors. Even from the other side, he will continue to protect them." Then, Redfeather turned to the open casket and laid an eagle feather on Singer's chest.
And it was that moment that who Singer had been became clear to Al. He'd wondered why the man had seemed so interested in him and Brother. He thought he knew -- thought it was as a protector of them. While that was part of the truth, it wasn't all Singer was watching over -- he was duty-bound to protect his own world, and helping the two of them was a part of that.
Singer wasn't an ordinary soldier, but a warrior of the sort Al had only read about in myth. If he had been guarding the Gates, then he had to know where they were, and in order to know this, he had to be able to see and 'feel' them. Reilly had a similar sense, but she used maps and theories and computers to locate them -- Singer had used none of those things.
As Al continued to play, the marines moved his friend's casket into the tipi. The time was drawing near that his spirit would speak with the ancestors, the wake was nearly over. The mourners and friends and family would still speak and leave gifts, and soon they'd be given to the needy. Once the casket was placed inside the tipi, the marines emerged and took posts outside; their vigil would continue on.
The rich, somber notes from the flute seemed to reflect his new understanding without conscious effort on Al's part -- growing and swelling into something almost tangible as it rose into the warm summer night. It wove through the thinning crowd and caressed the marines standing watch over Singer's body, and told a story in a language without words, of the warrior who had given his life to protect three strangers and two worlds...
...and Al felt a part of his own soul carried up with the music -- to join Singer; to speak with the ancestors.
We celebrate his life, he thought he heard Redfeather say, although it sounded so far away. He was just visiting this world, like we all are, and now he is going home. The time to weep for him will soon pass, and the time to take joy in what he left for us all has come.
Al remained immersed in the music until he became aware of a sense of waiting, like the world had suddenly held its breath in anticipation. The very air around him tightened and pulled at him, yanking him back into his own body, and he slowly opened his eyes. A hushed murmur floated through the crowd, with everyone staring toward the tipi, rapt, and he heard one of the marines behind him whisper in awe, "Holy shit." Coming abruptly to his feet, Al twisted around to see what the subdued commotion was all about... and forgot how to breathe for a moment.
From the opening at the top of the thirty foot tall structure, sparkles of bright, indigo light rose up and swirled. Like a lazy cyclone, they spun and coalesced and then took a different form altogether. Two sparkling points, like the arms of a distant galaxy, emerged and grew and spread into wings. Other points, smaller than the first, appeared and became an obvious beak and tail-feathers. There was an eternity during which the ethereal raven seemed to just hover over the tipi, frozen in flight... then with a downward flap of its great wings, it soared up into the night, and disappeared.
Suddenly, time snapped back into place, and Al heard everyone chattering at once -- and Redfeather turned to stare at him in wonderment...
...and Al stared down at the flute.
Central Oklahoma
Al strode along the dusty road with Maes, Reilly, Tom and Ducky as they followed the rest of the mourners who were either on foot or horseback. Llyn had chosen to remain back at Redfeather's house to watch over Ed, and Heist felt it best if she stayed with him, “In case he needs my help,” she'd explained, although Al noticed a distinctive blush cross her cheeks when she said that.
At the head of the procession, a single horse pulled the driverless wagon carrying Singer's body in a simple pine casket covered with the American flag. It was led by a man in denims, dusty boots and a feathered headdress -- also on horseback -- and the wagon was flanked by two other riders who were dressed similarly. Many others within the group were just as casual, but there were embellishments -- in hair, around necks, or as part of the clothing they wore -- though none quite as splendid as the three at the front wore. Tom had explained very softly, when Al had looked askance at him, that the three were tribal chiefs.
Riding in the wagon's wake, on a pale buckskin with eagle feathers tied to its harness, was Redfeather -- Singer's father. His face was painted black and his long hair had been cut short, and while he appeared stoic, the glistening trail of tears that left pale streaks down his cheeks spoke eloquently of his grief.
Directly behind Redfeather, five men and two women marched in slow formation -- rifles shouldered and held in crisp, white gloves. The uniforms, dark blue and trimmed in red, were immaculate. The metal buttons sparkled brightly with each measured step, the black boots polished to a high shine, and the bright, white hats, spotless. They issued orders in low tones that were blown away by the hot breeze before they reached Al's ears. "Marines," Redfeather had told the teen when they'd arrived at his house early that morning, and pride had gleamed in his dark eyes.
New arrivals joined the procession as it grew closer to the final destination -- traveling much the same as the rest; there were no motorized vehicles. Many came out of their homes and watched in respectful silence, or from the nearby hills or the side of the road as the line of mourners passed. The only sounds beyond the creaking of the wooden wheels of the wagon, and the clop-clop of hooves, was an occasional soft command from rider to horse in a strange language, or a respectful war whoop from an observer. Even the birds were silent today.
And always... always, an old paint, head hung low, reins dragging the ground and saddle empty, ambled at the very end of the procession.
The three mile journey ended at a low plateau in the middle of a grassy plain, and as the horse and wagon were led to a beam and hide structure in the center, Al marveled at the sheer numbers of people already there. "I never expected Singer to have so many friends," he whispered.
He hadn't noticed that Redfeather had hung back and dismounted, until he swiveled around and nearly slammed into him. The Elder's horse snorted and jerked on the reins, as though offended for his rider, but Redfeather's eyes sparked in amusement. Al, realizing that he'd been heard, stammered, "Uh... not that he wouldn't, but he always seemed like a lon-- er... uh..." At that, he just gave up and buried his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment. "That came out all wrong," he mumbled.
He felt a warm, strong hand squeeze his shoulder and gazed up to the Elder smiling down at him through his tears. "My son served his nation and was able to travel the world. He met a lot of interesting people and I guess he made quite a few friends along the way." He nodded toward the crowd and added, "But these people? They're family."
Al stared, agog. "That's... a pretty big family."
Redfeather chuckled softly. "You have no idea." Then he turned to catch up with the wagon.
Al felt a presence near him, and glanced over to see Tom, ever-observant, scanning the people who were still gathering on top of the plateau. "Did you have a chance to read anything on Native American culture when you were in Germany?" the older man asked without looking at Al.
"A little," the boy responded.
Tom nodded and said, "Forget everything you learned, son." And with that, he strolled off to join Reilly and Ducky and Maes in the crowd. Not entirely certain of what was expected of him, Al figured the safest bet was to follow Tom's lead...
...Except that a rather large young man, dressed in desert fatigues, blocked his way with one muscular arm. At Al's shocked stare, the soldier shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "This is not your place, Little Wolf."
"But..."
The man jutted his chin indicating the structure in the center of the flattened hilltop and said, "You're expected to join Redfeather at the tipi.”
As Al gazed across the wide, exposed space between the people and the tipi, a drumbeat began, and it felt like it was in sync with pounding of his heart. He couldn't imagine why he was supposed to sit next to Redfeather. He'd considered Singer a friend, true, but he'd only known the man for a few months, and not very well, at that. There were people here that the mysterious man had grown up with that surely were closer to him.
Hesitantly crossing the area, he watched as the Marines removed the casket from the wagon and placed it in front of the tipi, then two of the soldiers took their post on either end, beginning a shift that Al had been told would rotate through each soldier for the next two days.
When he reached Redfeather, the older man had already settled on the ground and had to gaze up at him.
"Sir," Al said, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, "I don't understand."
Redfeather gestured for Al to sit next to him, and said, "My son knew for years that there would come a time when he would be called on to serve. He'd spent his life preparing for that day."
"I'm not sure what this has to do with me, though," Al said, as he took the spot on the blanket next to Redfeather. "Shouldn't someone else be here, I mean? His brother, or wife? Someone close to him?"
The older man's lips trembled as he said, "He had no siblings, never married and doesn't have any children." He nodded at the reed flute poking out of Al's shirt pocket. "You're his legacy, Alphonse. Someone who can understand and sense the power that comes from the sacred grounds. He believed in your ability to be able to harness that power, too."
Al's hand automatically touched the flute and his vision started to blur. He hung his head and fought the tightness in his throat, as he whispered, "Then I failed him, sir. I didn't get a chance to learn what I could from him, and now... now... he's dead." Tears fell into his lap, staining the dust coating his jeans dark. "It was because of us that he died. Because Bond followed us and then he killed Singer. If he'd--" Al choked and the words fled him. After a moment, he wiped his eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry, so sorry."
"My son died doing what he was meant to do, Alphonse. You didn't make the choice for him, he made it himself." Redfeather lifted Al's chin and said, "My son died bravely."
Al nodded. He knew Redfeather wasn't asking, but he felt it was important to confirm the truth. "Yes, sir. B-bond was the coward."
He gazed down at the flute again, slipping it from his pocket and running his thumb over the fetish of the playful wolf and butterfly on the end. Singer's legacy. How could Al measure up to that? Especially now that Singer was dead and so much important information was no longer available to him. He knew so little! How? How was the flute important? How was he ever going to be able to use it for something other than playing music once in awhile, and was the incident with the bonfire just a fluke? He had no idea how he'd transmuted the flames the way he had, and feared he'd never figure it out. And now? He wasn't even sure he would even be able to attempt it, not when every time he held the instrument to his lips, he'd see Singer's murder committed over and over again.
Al's grip tightened around the flute unconsciously, and a tanned, calloused hand covered his. "Singer showed you the door, Little Wolf," Redfeather said softly, "but you must make the choice to go through it."
Something tugged at the teen's memory... And then it hit him, and he scowled up at the Elder. "Does everyone in this world quote movies?"
"Sometimes the best advice comes from Hollywood," Redfeather said with a wink. Then, sobering, he added, "Singer wouldn't have taught you anything beyond what he has already. It's up to you to find your path."
"But--"
"If you don't continue to try," the Elder interrupted, "if you give up, then you will have failed him."
Al swallowed and nodded briskly. "Y-yes, sir."
The rest of the ceremony continued on with little else said between Al and Redfeather, except for the Elder explaining some of what the younger man was seeing. People approached the casket and left gifts -- beautiful hand-quilted star blankets, dream-catchers, and other things that held significance -- or spoke to the other mourners in a melodious language about Singer while Redfeather softly translated. Old men in uniforms -- some with red-tinted eagle feathers clipped to the backs of their caps -- iron-haired and gnarled, spoke about traditions and history.
And Al absorbed it all voraciously.
As the day wore on, the August heat became unbearable, and several people, dressed in the same desert fatigues as the man who'd sent Al to the tipi, erected tall poles and tied blue tarps to them to provide shade; others made sure that the mourners were given plenty of water.
And every thirty minutes there would be a softly uttered order and the marines would change shifts.
The sun settled low on the horizon and yet more people arrived and spoke, or left their gifts. A fire-pit was filled with wood and set ablaze, and torches around the perimeter were stuck into the ground and ignited, and people continued to arrive. Reilly and Tom and Ducky had eventually returned back to the house, and Maes followed an hour or so later. Al wondered about Brother, but trusted Llyn to send word if something untoward happened. It was merely a waiting game at this point, and he felt he had a duty to stay with Singer as long as he could...
...And still, the drums never silenced, and the marines always rotated on time, and people kept coming up to give their thoughts and wishes and gifts -- so many gifts -- and Al had nothing to give, and little to say.
Sing well, my friend.
He stared down at the flute once again. Maybe he did have something to offer, after all. "Mr. Redfeather," he asked softly, "would it be improper for me to play for Singer?"
He cast a cautious sideways glance at the Elder, but instead of the disapproval he feared he might receive, he saw something akin to a teacher gazing proudly at a pupil who'd just figured out a difficult equation.
Redfeather waved a hand at the quilts and miniature tipis and dream-catchers and said, "All of these things, the care and love that went into crafting them will travel with my son when his spirit goes to speak with the ancestors, but the things will be given to those who need them." He gazed down at the flute and placed a gentle hand on Al's shoulder. "The music you play, if it comes from your heart and soul, will be an honored and cherished gift that my son will carry with him." A sudden grin split his blackened face, bright white teeth in blinding contrast, as he added, "I'd wondered if you'd think of this."
Al's grin matched Redfeather's as he dipped his head and took a deep breath. He let his eyes slip closed and brought the instrument up to his lips, and let his heart make the music. He recalled the first night he met Singer, although he'd been too ill to realize the man was actually in his room. He thought about how Singer had always managed to frustrate Brother, and the music trilled as he tried to suppress a giggle...
...and as he let his fingers move over the flute, he felt himself slip into an almost dream-state. The drums had never hesitated and the voices of so many people speaking in their own language washed over him, and he hadn't even felt Redfeather shifting against him as he stood. It was only when the drums went silent that he noticed the Elder was now standing next to the casket.
Al stopped and lowered the flute out of respect, but Redfeather shook his head slightly. Understanding what the older man wanted, Al returned to playing, soft and low.
In English, Redfeather spoke: "Soon, my son will enter the spirit world and I would like to give him an Indian name, because this is how the ancestors will know him. His name is Wah-yahng Nah-zjee Wah-nah-ghee-yah-dah." The Elder gazed at Al and translated, "Stands-Watching-the-Spiritland. Guardian of the Sacred Doors. Even from the other side, he will continue to protect them." Then, Redfeather turned to the open casket and laid an eagle feather on Singer's chest.
And it was that moment that who Singer had been became clear to Al. He'd wondered why the man had seemed so interested in him and Brother. He thought he knew -- thought it was as a protector of them. While that was part of the truth, it wasn't all Singer was watching over -- he was duty-bound to protect his own world, and helping the two of them was a part of that.
Singer wasn't an ordinary soldier, but a warrior of the sort Al had only read about in myth. If he had been guarding the Gates, then he had to know where they were, and in order to know this, he had to be able to see and 'feel' them. Reilly had a similar sense, but she used maps and theories and computers to locate them -- Singer had used none of those things.
As Al continued to play, the marines moved his friend's casket into the tipi. The time was drawing near that his spirit would speak with the ancestors, the wake was nearly over. The mourners and friends and family would still speak and leave gifts, and soon they'd be given to the needy. Once the casket was placed inside the tipi, the marines emerged and took posts outside; their vigil would continue on.
The rich, somber notes from the flute seemed to reflect his new understanding without conscious effort on Al's part -- growing and swelling into something almost tangible as it rose into the warm summer night. It wove through the thinning crowd and caressed the marines standing watch over Singer's body, and told a story in a language without words, of the warrior who had given his life to protect three strangers and two worlds...
...and Al felt a part of his own soul carried up with the music -- to join Singer; to speak with the ancestors.
We celebrate his life, he thought he heard Redfeather say, although it sounded so far away. He was just visiting this world, like we all are, and now he is going home. The time to weep for him will soon pass, and the time to take joy in what he left for us all has come.
Al remained immersed in the music until he became aware of a sense of waiting, like the world had suddenly held its breath in anticipation. The very air around him tightened and pulled at him, yanking him back into his own body, and he slowly opened his eyes. A hushed murmur floated through the crowd, with everyone staring toward the tipi, rapt, and he heard one of the marines behind him whisper in awe, "Holy shit." Coming abruptly to his feet, Al twisted around to see what the subdued commotion was all about... and forgot how to breathe for a moment.
From the opening at the top of the thirty foot tall structure, sparkles of bright, indigo light rose up and swirled. Like a lazy cyclone, they spun and coalesced and then took a different form altogether. Two sparkling points, like the arms of a distant galaxy, emerged and grew and spread into wings. Other points, smaller than the first, appeared and became an obvious beak and tail-feathers. There was an eternity during which the ethereal raven seemed to just hover over the tipi, frozen in flight... then with a downward flap of its great wings, it soared up into the night, and disappeared.
Suddenly, time snapped back into place, and Al heard everyone chattering at once -- and Redfeather turned to stare at him in wonderment...
...and Al stared down at the flute.
__________
August 22, 1919
Risembool, Amestris
Jean stood in the doorway of the sick room, night robe hugged around himself as he shivered. The scene was eerily similar to what he'd seen the first day Roy had been brought here: the room in darkness except for the lamp on the nightstand, casting its light over Pinako, sitting on one side of the bed, bathing Roy's face with a damp cloth. Riza, again seated on the other side, held his clutching hand between her own. The pain had obviously broken through the painkillers, and his bandaged head tossed back and forth as he moaned in his delirium.
They'd heard him from upstairs, in the rooms Pinako had given them the day before yesterday to sleep in while they waited for the general to heal. (Riza had Winry's old room, and Jean presumed he'd been put in her parents' former bedroom. Armstrong slept in the family room, where two couches had been shoved together; they could hear him down the hall, snoring softly.) Jean and Riza had met in the upstairs hallway and rushed down to find Pinako already seated at Roy's bedside, trying to administer another sedative. But it wasn't until Riza sat on the bed beside him and slid an arm under his shoulders to lift him up that the older woman could get him to swallow a spoonful of the medicine. He had leaned against Riza, barely conscious, but had managed to take the spoon in his mouth and swallow the liquid.
Now they waited for it to take hold, and in the meantime, he couldn't seem to get comfortable. He'd been going in and out like this for almost two days now, sometimes lucid and coherent enough to tell them more of what he'd seen on the other side of the Gate, and at other times sinking into unconsciousness or even a delirium like this one.
"It's just a bit of light fever this time," Pinako murmured, squeezing the cloth once more over the bowl of water on the side table before smoothing it along Roy's cheek again. "He should calm down once the sedative takes effect."
But Jean wasn't entirely sure. Roy kept muttering under his breath, words slurring, and he frowned as his mind struggled against the peace promised by the sedative.
"I wish he could just rest," Riza fretted, biting her lip. "Just once in his life, let himself rest--"
The sick man cut her off with a strident cry, "No!" He emitted a sharp gasp and suddenly sat up, eye flying open as he stared at Jean, seeing something else entirely.
Jean stepped to the end of the bed. "Roy, calm down. What is it?"
But Roy was already sinking back against Riza as she put her arms around him and helped lower him back to the mattress. "He -- the bastard's dead," he whispered faintly. "I know he's dead. I just don't understand..."
Riza laid his head gently back on the pillow. "He's thinking of Bond," she frowned. "After seeing that spider bomb..."
But Jean wasn't so sure, watching Pinako stroking the boss's face yet again with the cool cloth, a little worm of doubt curled up tightly in his gut. He'd been staring Roy directly in the face as the man had jerked up, gazing internally at the thing that had robbed him of rest for two days. And Jean was certain that thinking of the Stealthworks Alchemist would never have brought tears into the boss's eye.
__________
August 23, 2006
Central Oklahoma
He started to stretch, and groaned when his neck muscle suddenly tightened in pain. He would have brought a hand up to massage the outraged tissue, but his arm refused to cooperate; and in confusion, he opened his eyes. He couldn't see. His breathing sped up for a second, until he saw the vague outline of a shape... the fluffy top of a head, cast in shadow and slumped over his left arm. Okay, the lights were off, it was night, and he wasn't paralyzed -- just a pillow. Good to have those immediate questions answered.
Of course, his neck still burned.
Rather than disturb Al, he opted for the next best appendage and tried to raise his right arm. That one wouldn't move either -- and this time there wasn't an unconscious teenager holding it hostage. Startled, Ed squinted towards the automail, shifting his body a little to try and pull it into the diffuse light barely filtering through the window. His arm was gone. Perfect. Did he pass out during the ceremony or something? Must have forgotten to reattach...
Ed gasped.
They'd been in the Gate... Bond... Hughes' knife... but... but what happened!? He looked around again, but the darkness obscured the features of the room he occupied. But he had to know...
"A...Al..." His voice sounded terrible! High-pitched and scratchy, it barely cleared his throat. But it was enough to rouse his younger brother.
The younger kid raised his head wearily, sending tingles of sensation rushing back through the limb his head had been resting on. As his eyes lifted, he appeared to waken suddenly. "Ed!" Al lunged forward, wrapping his brother in an awkward hug. Ed's single arm wasn't up to the task of movement yet, but he did manage to curl his fingers and tap at Al's side in the parody of a comforting embrace. After a moment, the younger brother sat back, one hand still resting on Ed's midsection. "Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need some water?"
The prattle of questions made him squeeze his eyes shut again. "Al..."
"Does your throat hurt? How about your chest? Can you breathe okay?"
"AL!" Okay, that did hurt. His throat burned at the sudden exclamation, but it did make Al grind to a stop, his eyes too wide... not in hurt or shock, but with something else, something... and Ed was overcome with sudden grief.
"We... we didn't make it. Did we?" It wasn't a question; the look in Al's eyes had been enough to confirm that without words. Rolling his body away from the room, Ed raised his still tingling arm to wrap it around his midsection, leaving Al to clutch his own hands in his lap, silent, and radiating the same sense of hopelessness.
August 25, 2006
Central Oklahoma
After Singer's ceremony, Ducky decided it was high time for a spring cleaning of the ninjavan. Redfeather had graciously offered a section of his workshop for him to store the mound of computer components, makeshift luggage, and unidentifiable detritus he'd unearthed from the van. For the most part, Ducky spent his free time there, sorting and organizing and who knew what else -- he didn't really know. He did know that if he stayed in the house with the rest of the group, all he'd end up doing would be worrying about Ed's health, Al's psyche, and Maes' sanity. Not that he didn't anyway, but it was slightly easier to pretend not to care when he wasn't looking directly at them. Either that or he would be endlessly teasing Heist and Llyn on principle, like he did with all of Heist's romantic interests. Somehow he didn't think that would go over well with the weight of the current situation.
Ducky resorted, then, to cranking the volume up on his most upbeat playlist -- the one nobody, not even Heist, knew about -- and letting the mind-numbing chore of testing the computers and other spare parts do its work. No one really bothered him, to his great relief; uninterrupted, he made great progress, and he was happy to discover the Rube Goldbergian case he'd installed under the back seat (using spare scraps from Redfeather's supplies) had done its job. The majority of the computer components, as well as the laptops, had survived the Gate-blast.
On his second day of sorting, the Elder entered the workshop with Al following close behind, looking as he normally did these days, small and alone. He was carrying Ed's automail. Redfeather showed him to an empty work table and rustled up a tool box and some clean towels. Ducky paused in his work, popping out his headphones to hear the quiet conversation at the other end of the room.
"Are you sure you don't need an extra hand, son?"
"Thank you, sir, but I've got it from here. I appreciate you letting me use your supplies."
"Of course."
The Elder left Al at the table, nodding at Ducky as he passed on his way out. Ducky replaced his headphones; the sounds of 'N Synch drowning out the rest of the world ("Might sound crazy, but it ain't no lie... Baby, bye, bye, bye...").
Kid's polite to a fault, he thought as he picked up his final unsorted box. No wonder Ed's so abrasive sometimes; his brother inherited all the charm.
When Ducky added the last box to the neat stack waiting to be loaded back into the van, the sky was darkening outside the workshop windows with the threat of an impending rainstorm. He turned off his mp3 player and pulled out his headphones with a satisfying flourish, only to hear the irregular sounds of suppressed crying.
Ducky picked his way through the garage, taking care not to bump any of the Elder's creations along the way, and managed to emerge by Al's table relatively quietly. Something must have caught the kid's attention anyway because he looked up from where he had buried his head in his hands. Al hastily wiped at his eyes; the action deposited a smear of black across his nose. When the Gate had kicked Ed and Al out, both had been covered with residue of what Al said had enveloped Bond and Ed. Soap and water and a little scrubbing took care of it on skin but, like the latex adhesive fiasco of so many months ago, releasing the slick stuff's hold on metal was proving to be anything but easy. It looked like Al had tried cleaning the shin plate of Ed's leg, but from the grimy state of the towels and his hands, and the still-black streaked metal, the endeavor had been unsuccessful.
"Hey, Ducky," Al greeted him unevenly.
"Hey, man. You want some company?"
Al regarded him for a moment before nodding. Ducky pulled an upended barrel over to sit on, and waited while Al controlled a few last sniffles.
"These are going to kill my brother," Al said flatly, gesturing to the limbs on the table. Seeing Ducky's startled expression, he amended quickly, "Oh! Not anytime soon... but automail's so hard on Ed, you know, the rest of him. We've been maintaining it as best we can, but we're not automail experts. He does a good job at hiding when it bothers him, though I can tell..." Al let his voice trail off as he rubbed at one of the shin plate's dirty spots.
"Winry built these for Ed when he went through the Gate the first time," he continued. "No measurements, no models -- she didn't even ask to measure me for reference. She just had them ready for when Ed came back." Al's eyes welled with a fresh wave of tears. "We took her for granted. She was always there back then. But she's not here, and we're not getting home and now Ed's arm is busted and his leg's not working right because of all this -- this Gate goo -- and I can't even get the stupid things clean enough to see if they can be fixed!"
And suddenly things got a little clearer. Ducky and the others had figured Al's recent low was due to how close they had been to losing Ed. Thanks to Llyn, that danger was over and yet Al's attitude had not rebounded. They had spent so long living day to day -- hour by hour -- it was hard to get out of that mindset. But Al had already been looking past his brother's current condition to some time further ahead when Ed had recovered. Recovered to face a quality of life that, judging from the state of the two precious pieces on the table, was going to be drastically lower than before.
Ducky rested a hand on Al's shoulder and the kid leaned into the touch, finding comfort in the gesture. Ducky decided then and there that he would bring Al's mood up before Ed saw him like this. "Well," he said lightly, "your brother doesn't need another reason to complain, so why don't we try to get these things cleaned up before he's well enough to use them?"
Al looked at him doubtfully.
"What? Ed didn't tell you that I helped fix his arm before we found you?"
"Yeah... and Reilly said you nearly threw up on her afterwards."
Ducky shrugged. He'd forgotten about that. Or, more likely, had suppressed it from his memory. "She interrupted the taming of my gag reflex."
At that, Al finally cracked a smile. It was a start, but he'd take it.
Central Oklahoma
After Singer's ceremony, Ducky decided it was high time for a spring cleaning of the ninjavan. Redfeather had graciously offered a section of his workshop for him to store the mound of computer components, makeshift luggage, and unidentifiable detritus he'd unearthed from the van. For the most part, Ducky spent his free time there, sorting and organizing and who knew what else -- he didn't really know. He did know that if he stayed in the house with the rest of the group, all he'd end up doing would be worrying about Ed's health, Al's psyche, and Maes' sanity. Not that he didn't anyway, but it was slightly easier to pretend not to care when he wasn't looking directly at them. Either that or he would be endlessly teasing Heist and Llyn on principle, like he did with all of Heist's romantic interests. Somehow he didn't think that would go over well with the weight of the current situation.
Ducky resorted, then, to cranking the volume up on his most upbeat playlist -- the one nobody, not even Heist, knew about -- and letting the mind-numbing chore of testing the computers and other spare parts do its work. No one really bothered him, to his great relief; uninterrupted, he made great progress, and he was happy to discover the Rube Goldbergian case he'd installed under the back seat (using spare scraps from Redfeather's supplies) had done its job. The majority of the computer components, as well as the laptops, had survived the Gate-blast.
On his second day of sorting, the Elder entered the workshop with Al following close behind, looking as he normally did these days, small and alone. He was carrying Ed's automail. Redfeather showed him to an empty work table and rustled up a tool box and some clean towels. Ducky paused in his work, popping out his headphones to hear the quiet conversation at the other end of the room.
"Are you sure you don't need an extra hand, son?"
"Thank you, sir, but I've got it from here. I appreciate you letting me use your supplies."
"Of course."
The Elder left Al at the table, nodding at Ducky as he passed on his way out. Ducky replaced his headphones; the sounds of 'N Synch drowning out the rest of the world ("Might sound crazy, but it ain't no lie... Baby, bye, bye, bye...").
Kid's polite to a fault, he thought as he picked up his final unsorted box. No wonder Ed's so abrasive sometimes; his brother inherited all the charm.
When Ducky added the last box to the neat stack waiting to be loaded back into the van, the sky was darkening outside the workshop windows with the threat of an impending rainstorm. He turned off his mp3 player and pulled out his headphones with a satisfying flourish, only to hear the irregular sounds of suppressed crying.
Ducky picked his way through the garage, taking care not to bump any of the Elder's creations along the way, and managed to emerge by Al's table relatively quietly. Something must have caught the kid's attention anyway because he looked up from where he had buried his head in his hands. Al hastily wiped at his eyes; the action deposited a smear of black across his nose. When the Gate had kicked Ed and Al out, both had been covered with residue of what Al said had enveloped Bond and Ed. Soap and water and a little scrubbing took care of it on skin but, like the latex adhesive fiasco of so many months ago, releasing the slick stuff's hold on metal was proving to be anything but easy. It looked like Al had tried cleaning the shin plate of Ed's leg, but from the grimy state of the towels and his hands, and the still-black streaked metal, the endeavor had been unsuccessful.
"Hey, Ducky," Al greeted him unevenly.
"Hey, man. You want some company?"
Al regarded him for a moment before nodding. Ducky pulled an upended barrel over to sit on, and waited while Al controlled a few last sniffles.
"These are going to kill my brother," Al said flatly, gesturing to the limbs on the table. Seeing Ducky's startled expression, he amended quickly, "Oh! Not anytime soon... but automail's so hard on Ed, you know, the rest of him. We've been maintaining it as best we can, but we're not automail experts. He does a good job at hiding when it bothers him, though I can tell..." Al let his voice trail off as he rubbed at one of the shin plate's dirty spots.
"Winry built these for Ed when he went through the Gate the first time," he continued. "No measurements, no models -- she didn't even ask to measure me for reference. She just had them ready for when Ed came back." Al's eyes welled with a fresh wave of tears. "We took her for granted. She was always there back then. But she's not here, and we're not getting home and now Ed's arm is busted and his leg's not working right because of all this -- this Gate goo -- and I can't even get the stupid things clean enough to see if they can be fixed!"
And suddenly things got a little clearer. Ducky and the others had figured Al's recent low was due to how close they had been to losing Ed. Thanks to Llyn, that danger was over and yet Al's attitude had not rebounded. They had spent so long living day to day -- hour by hour -- it was hard to get out of that mindset. But Al had already been looking past his brother's current condition to some time further ahead when Ed had recovered. Recovered to face a quality of life that, judging from the state of the two precious pieces on the table, was going to be drastically lower than before.
Ducky rested a hand on Al's shoulder and the kid leaned into the touch, finding comfort in the gesture. Ducky decided then and there that he would bring Al's mood up before Ed saw him like this. "Well," he said lightly, "your brother doesn't need another reason to complain, so why don't we try to get these things cleaned up before he's well enough to use them?"
Al looked at him doubtfully.
"What? Ed didn't tell you that I helped fix his arm before we found you?"
"Yeah... and Reilly said you nearly threw up on her afterwards."
Ducky shrugged. He'd forgotten about that. Or, more likely, had suppressed it from his memory. "She interrupted the taming of my gag reflex."
At that, Al finally cracked a smile. It was a start, but he'd take it.
~`~`~`~
Al left the garage in a better mood than he'd felt in a long while. Ed's automail was as clean as it was going to get for the time being, and he and Ducky had managed to get the major joints working smoother as well. Al offered to help Ducky repack his van afterwards, a small thanks that Ducky declared unnecessary, but he offered to introduce Al to Astaroth later, whoever that was.
Al didn't see any light under the crack of Ed's door when he went to return the automail, so he entered quietly so as not to wake him. Not that he had to worry; Ed was sitting up in his bed, headphones on, staring intently into the shadows.
"Brother?"
Caught completely unaware, Ed nearly jumped off the bed. He yanked off the headphones almost guiltily, the soothing sounds of a familiar abstract melody audible for a split second before he turned off the music player.
"Brother, you're supposed to be sleeping," Al chided, setting Ed's automail on the dresser.
"All I've done for the past few days is sleep," Ed muttered. "I'm going crazy here."
"Llyn said the more you rest, the faster you'll get better."
Grumbling, Ed rubbed at his exposed shoulder port a moment before flinging his arm wide. "What do you call this?"
"Not sleeping." Al had argued this topic more than he cared to think about, and it wasn't worth yet another discussion. He leaned over to fluff Ed's pillows and change the subject. "Good news. Ducky and I managed to clean up your automail."
"Ducky?" Ed snorted, leaning back once Al had finished. "How many times did he pass out?"
"None, actually, though I thought he was going to when we were working on your leg." Al sat on the edge of the bed and fiddled with the ends of Ed's hair. "He started telling me all these stories about his family. They sound just as crazy as him. You know, his grandfather doesn't live that far from here. He's thinking about stopping in for a visit." Al waited for some sort of response, but it didn't come. His brother once again had a faraway look in his eyes. "Ed?"
"Hmmm?"
"Were you even listening?"
Ed frowned. "Sorry, Al, I'm a little distracted."
"Distracted? About what?" Al whispered. There was only one thing he could be thinking about.
"About what happened. Why it didn't work." Ed pushed himself upright, an urgency creeping into his voice. "Al, what if Singer was right? What if we didn't need an array?"
"But you said--"
"Maybe I was wrong."
Al's jaw hung open until Ed gave him a little shove. "Oh, come on, Al. It wouldn't be the first time. Look, Singer said we didn't need an array. Arrays need blood -- they need sacrifice. If there's a way to bypass the array, it might also be possible to bypass the sacrifice."
"But alchemy without circles is nearly impossible here."
"Not alchemy. Something else."
"What?"
"I don't know yet... but Singer wouldn't have said that if he didn't mean for us to figure it out. Help me think about it, will ya?"
"Of course, Brother."
Ed yawned and flopped back on the bed. "Sleeping doesn't sound like a bad idea after all."
__________
August 28, 1919
Risembool, Amestris
Roy sat propped against a mound of pillows, left knee up, pressing a clipboard against it as he made awkward notes with his left hand. From time to time he consulted a couple of open books laid along his flat right leg and beside him on the mattress, his useless right arm hanging in its sling against his chest.
The curtains had been open all day, and after changing the sheets and letting him wash up a little, Pinako had propped the window open as well, to let in some fresh air. He'd managed to stagger into the front room to make a couple of calls to Central about four days ago, but his head had only really cleared for good, just yesterday. So he'd sent his subordinates to his lodgings in town to bring him all the materials he'd left there a week and a half ago. Once he'd settled back into bed this morning, he'd decided to go back over all the ground he'd already covered, to see if he'd missed something in his previous research. To see if there might be another way to accomplish what he'd been trying to do a few days ago in that crumbling cellar.
He'd been so close! And he'd been right -- the boys had been trying to get home, had gotten into the Gate from their side, into that no-place between worlds. If he could just have grabbed them at that moment, to drag them through his own Gate, they might be safe now. They'd be home. And it would be Ed in this bed, while Pinako took care of whatever had been wrong with him.
Instead... that bomb. That impossible, incredible bomb that couldn't possibly exist had wounded him, possibly killed the brothers, and destroyed whatever chance they'd had of getting home. At least... it might have killed the boys, but he just couldn't make himself believe it. He was sure, somehow, that they were still alive. Hence his continued study of this problem.
Roy let the clipboard slide to his lap as he set his elbow on the upraised knee and gingerly leaned his head against his hand. His fingers moved against the fabric that wrapped around his ruined eye and half-covered his head. One of Winry's old bandanas, as it turned out. He wondered what she'd think if she knew. He'd left his spares back in Central when he'd come here; he would certainly never do that again.
A brisk tapping at the door jerked his head back up, as Hawkeye stepped into the room with Havoc following close behind. Each of them carried a box, Havoc setting his unopened parcel on a chair while Hawkeye put her already-opened box on the small table beside the bed.
"Is that everything I asked for?" Roy questioned.
"It seems so," Havoc nodded. "Scieszka boxed it all up when the records people pulled it from the files, and when I called her she seemed to think everything was accounted for."
"I took the liberty of examining some of the contents, sir, while we were in the wagon," Hawkeye informed him, indicating the parcel she'd carried. "The records about the Stealthworks Alchemist's death are right at the top, in this box."
"His disappearance," Roy corrected her. "He was presumed dead in the explosion, wasn't he? But they never found a body?"
"That's right, sir. The explosion was so intense that the investigators concluded that no one could have survived. And his body would have been almost vaporized, which was why they never found it."
"Or they never found it because maybe there wasn't 'a body' at all," he mused, picking up his pen again and tapping it absently against his pursed lips.
Havoc pulled a second chair away from the wall and turned it around, straddling it with his chin resting on the back. "So you're sure that was one of his bombs you saw inside the Gate?"
"Perfectly sure," Roy nodded. "Once you see one of those spider contraptions of his, you don't forget. If it wasn't his work, it was created by someone who's a brilliant copyist."
"And yet," Hawkeye protested, "he was seen just south of the Briggs mountains, outside the military outpost, right in the vicinity of explosion just seconds before it happened. He couldn't possibly have survived; everyone who was there confirms that."
"Yes," Roy nodded again, still tapping. "I know." Another thought occurred to him. "Havoc. Did Scieszka have any other news to pass along?"
"Funny you should ask, boss. We already knew there'd been a few earthquakes in other parts of the country, at the same time as the one here. But she made a special point of asking me to tell you that there was another one we hadn't heard about, out in Rush Valley. It happened just a little later than all the others, and she thought it might interest you. She said to tell you it was because it was 'out of sync', and might be important."
Rush Valley!
Roy sat up straighter and leaned down, but couldn't quite reach his other pile of books at the very end of the bed. "Havoc, remind me to recommend a promotion for Scieszka. Now pass me the books -- no, actually, just that one in the middle, the thick one with the blue cover -- thanks." He let the clipboard slide to the mattress, and set the new book on his lap, quickly flipping through the pages with his left hand. "Rush Valley... Rush Valley...," he muttered. "I know it was mentioned... and it didn't synchronize with the others..."
"I see you're still not letting yourself rest properly," Pinako interrupted from the doorway.
Roy leaned back against his pillows and smiled. "Well," he defended himself, "it's not like I'm using my right arm. That's getting plenty of rest." He used his left hand to pat the arm, lightly, in emphasis.
"You'd use it if you could, whether it was healed or not," the diminutive woman retorted, a glimmer of humor in her eyes.
"You already know me better than I like," he chuckled.
"I have to admit, though," she added, coming closer until she stood at his side, "you've got better color in your cheeks than I've seen there in several days." She crossed her arms,examining his face with narrowed eyes.
Roy thoughtfully ran his hand over the bandana again. Winry's bandana. He smiled again, and remarked to her grandmother, "I do feel better, Pinako. I've just gotten some good news, and I feel better than I have ever since the Gate blew up."
__________
August 30, 2006
Central Oklahoma
Maes paused just outside the doorway of Ed's room, to find the two brothers sitting up in the bed, heads bent over one of the laptop computers. He'd found them this way more than a few times in the last couple of days, but they'd always put the top down and immediately engaged him in some meandering conversation before he could ask what they were doing.
He couldn't stand the looks on their faces, or the way everyone was tiptoeing around him since the failed attempt to go through the Gate. By now, they all knew that the Gates had been blown to bits by the monster's spider bomb. And every time Maes walked into a room, it seemed, they looked at him with pity. He'd almost bitten off Reilly's head this morning when she'd tried to commiserate with him. He felt like a complete jerk, and had apologized later, but he just couldn't stand the way everyone felt so bad for him.
Even more, he couldn't stand the fact that they had good reason to pity him. He'd done his part in the days since the disaster, helping to keep watch; from what Amber had said when Llyn had called her, the Feds were still very interested in them, so they had to be ceaselessly vigilant while Ed healed. That had given Maes something important to concentrate on. And of course, his spirits lifted somewhat with every day that Ed got better.
But nothing changed the fact that he had been so completely focused on getting home that now, when there was no more hope of it, he wasn't sure he could bear the sort of life that faced him instead. And then there was that other thing, that Al had told nobody but him. Roy...
The brothers hadn't seen him yet. Al straightened up, pulling the flute out of his pocket. "I just don't know, Ed," he grimaced. "It's right in the middle of nowhere, right inside that ravine. And even if we can get there, I don't know what we can do. I keep feeling like I'm forgetting something." He ran a hand possessively along the flute before putting it to his lips and wiggling his fingers on it to limber them up. His eyes half-closed, he seemed more relaxed than Maes had seen him for a long time.
Ed leaned back against his pillows, his flesh arm bent behind his head as he gazed in contemplation at the ceiling. He smiled a little as his brother began to play a few experimental strains.
"At least it's something, Al. We've found one Gate that wasn't connected to the others in the chain. We can figure out how to get there, somehow."
"That's just the first part of the problem," Al took a brief moment to remind him, before pursing his lips and starting to play again. At first the music was jerky and tentative, but as he closed his eyes completely, the tension almost visibly draining from him, it seemed to gain strength. The tune was nothing that Maes recognized, though, soft and high and a little bit wistful. He wondered which world it came from, or whether Al was discovering it as he went along.
Ed watched him for a few moments, distracted from his usual intense concentration, eyes softened as he regarded his brother's face. He smiled again. "Remember what happened at the party, Al? Back at the Branches' place?" At Al's questioning glance above the flute, he elaborated, "By the bonfire. Remember? What happened to the fire when you... played the flute and we... saw...?" His voice trailed off as Al stopped playing. Their eyes met in the silence.
Al lowered the instrument, holding it across his palms. "And at the wake...," he said, staring at it as though he'd never seen it before. "Singer...," he whispered. Again their eyes met. And this time, all the Elric intensity had returned, blazing from both sets of eyes, gold and grey.
Maes turned blindly away from the door and almost bumped into Llyn, who had come up behind to peer at the boys around his shoulder. Maes brushed past the younger man, but as he pushed his way down the hall and out a side door to a little porch, he wasn't surprised to be followed. He leaned his hands against the wooden railing, head bent. "What do you want?" he demanded wearily.
"What were the boys talkin' about in there?"
"What do you think? They're plotting. I had a feeling it had started again. I think they've convinced themselves they've found another Gate to try to go through."
"And you don't believe it'll work?" Llyn crossed his arms and turned to lean backwards against the rail, watching his companion curiously. Behind him, across the clearing in which the house stood, the shadows of the forest served as a backdrop to his casual pose.
Maes swallowed, closing his eyes. "I don't know what I believe," he murmured. "They're a little bit crazy, I think. They're exhausting. They just -- just never let it go. They never give up."
"And you have, then?"
For a long time, he couldn't answer. At last he sighed, "Isn't that the logical thing to do, at this point?"
"Logic. My friend, after what I've seen with those boys, and the stories I've heard the last few days, I'm thinkin' there's a bit more to the world -- mine or yours -- than just the logic."
"And if I hope again? And it turns out even worse?" Maes cast a sidelong glance at his companion, then turned away. There was that look again, dammit. But he couldn't stop himself, even so. "We've... already lost two people trying to go through a Gate, Llyn. And almost lost Ed. I don't know what I'll do if they try again and I lose them too. I... don't think I can take any more of this."
Llyn straightened up, hands falling to his sides. "Lost two people?" he repeated. "I know about Singer, but I'm thinkin' you can't mean that accursed Bond character is the other. Ye'd never look like this, from losin' him. Maes -- what happened? Who do you mean? Who else did you lose?"
Another long silence, until, "Al told me something that he hasn't mentioned to the others. Do you remember that friend I told you about, back home? Roy? Al said he was there. Inside the Gate. When the bomb went off." Maes removed his glasses with one hand, pressing the heel of the other to his forehead. The sting of tears burned under his eyelids. "He... he's probably dead."
His head jerked up at the rough grip on his shoulder, as Llyn pulled him roughly around to face him. "Maes -- my god, man, are ye totally daft?" the other cried, sounding an awful lot like his adopted father at that moment.
"What -- what do you mean?" Maes faltered, absently sliding his glasses back on.
"I mean ye can't go on not knowin' something that important. How can ye not try again, if it means knowin' for sure about your friend, one way or t'other?"
"You just don't understand. We could all be killed, going off on another insane--"
"Then be killed!" Llyn retorted. Maes gaped at him as he went on relentlessly, "Ye're walkin' in our world like a livin' corpse already. Isn't it better to die trying -- or maybe not die and actually make it back home -- than to stay here in y'r current state? Maes, you've got to try again, if the boys've really found a way. In fact, I think if you don't, I may shoot you myself, t'put you out of your misery."
The two men stared at each other for a long, intense moment, Llyn's dark, urgent eyes glaring into Maes's doubtful green ones as though trying to convince him by sheer force of will. For one wild moment, Maes felt as though some distant Mustang cousin had accosted him across worlds, threatening bodily harm if he refused to search for the truth about Roy's fate. In fact it was just the sort of threat, he thought, a little hysterically, that Roy himself might make at such a moment.
Maes pulled out of the other's grasp and leaned his hands once again on the rail. He couldn't prevent the laughter starting to bubble out of him. He felt as though an over-stretched membrane had suddenly snapped, leaving him a little giddy. "Llyn, ol' buddy," he remarked, "if Roy's alive, I'm going to tell him he's got a relative in this world who could give him a real run for his money in the stubbornness department."
"Then... you're going. You'll try it again?"
"I've got your gun to my head," Maes cast him a sideways smirk. "How could I dare not to?"
__________
September 3, 2006
"So what I think happened," Ed continued, "is that this Gate was probably spared in the explosion. Which means that if we can get it open, we have one more chance to go through."
Al smiled a little, watching him hold forth, sitting up against his pillows as though they were a throne, with the others gathered around the bed like courtiers. Under the covers, Ed's metal leg was bent up so he could clasp his hands around it on top of the blankets. If the pain of his infection still bothered him, it wasn't showing at the moment, so engrossed was he in his subject.
Al himself sat just to one side of the pillows, leaning an elbow on the massed pile, to his brother's left. Maes and Tom stood sentry at the bedroom door and window as usual, while Reilly claimed one corner of the bed, and Ducky and Heist had dragged in a couple of chairs from the kitchen. Llyn leaned against a wall beside Maes, hands in his pockets. Al had noticed him chatting with Maes rather a lot the last couple of days, actually. When he wasn't following Heist around, at least.
Reilly sat cross-legged, chin on hands, regarding Ed soberly. "You're sure about this?" she asked now. "Sorry to throw cold water on everything, but are you really sure this isn't just wishful thinking?"
Ed cast his brother a wry smile. "Not completely sure," he admitted. "But the map suggests that it was -- what did you call it, Ducky?"
"Off the grid," the other supplied. He stuck his feet on the edge of the bed and slowly lifted his chair's front legs off the ground, rocking absently back and forth. "And then," he added, "there's the earthquake data I looked up for you."
"Right," Ed nodded. "All the other leyline intersections experienced small earthquakes when our Gates exploded. But not this one. So we think we'd better give it a try, just in case."
Heist cleared her throat gingerly, and Llyn's eyes instantly flew to her face. Al smiled to himself. "Don't you still have a problem, though?" she ventured.
They all knew immediately what she meant. Ed hesitated, staring awkwardly at his hands. He still didn't quite know how to be, around her. Al saw Ducky's jaw clench, and decided to rescue his brother. "We think there's a way to get through it without a circle," he put in softly. "And definitely without a sacrifice."
Someone's cell began twittering, but even as half the people in the room sat up and started glancing around, wondering where they'd left their phones, Tom pulled his out of a hip pocket. "Relax," he told them as he flipped it open, leaving the window and heading for the door. "I'll just take this outside. Carry on."
As he departed, Maes automatically moved to replace him at the window, glancing cautiously out. Llyn, in his turn, moved to where Maes had been standing, just beside the door. He learned quickly, Al reflected.
"So you think you can cross over without a circle," Reilly picked up what Al had been saying before the interruption, "and even without a sacrifice. How do you propose to do that? You'll have to be very sure."
Wordlessly, Al pulled the flute from his pocket and held it up. The others stared at him in silence, skepticism and puzzlement mingling pretty much in equal quantities in all their expressions. But Llyn nodded slowly. "The music of the soul," he murmured. "I think y're on to somethin' there, my friend." He cast a quick glance out the bedroom door. The faint murmuring sound of Tom's voice floated into the room.
"I agree with Llyn," Maes nodded, "since you describe your alchemy as 'soul alchemy'. Though if it were anyone but the two of you, I'd say you were probably nuts."
Ed grinned at him. "We can be both nuts and right, Hughes. Remember that."
Al had expected skepticism, but to see it reflected most of all on Reilly's face surprised him. She frowned again, gazing at the flute as though trying to find some kind of mechanism she understood. "All right," she mused slowly, "you say the flute can help you open the Gate. But do you actually know how it will do that?"
Al hesitated, then finally had to admit, "No. Not yet." At her raised eyebrows, he lifted his chin his jaw setting. "But I'll find out. One way or another." He flashed his brother a sly grin. "If Ed will give me enough time to concentrate and learn how."
"I haven't been bothering you that much," Ed flashed back defensively.
Llyn was still distracted, head tilted toward the door as though he were trying to eavesdrop on Tom. And not just Tom; there seemed to be more than one voice now, out in the hallway.
Al couldn't tell if Heist was watching Llyn because of the voices, or for a different reason entirely.
"And anyway," Ed went on, drawing Al's attention back, "I'm not 'bothering' you, I'm trying to help you figure out how to use the flute. I need to understand how it works so I can open the--"
Suddenly he broke off, attention flying to the door, as Tom stepped back inside followed by Tony Redfeather, their host. Both men surveyed the gathering with sober eyes.
"What's happened?" Maes demanded immediately from the window.
Tom's eyes flickered to Llyn's face, and the younger man said softly, "That was Mam. Wasn't it?"
"I'm afraid so," Tom nodded. "The Feds are moving, and more quickly than we expected. They haven't narrowed it down yet to exactly this area, but they're getting close."
Maes said softly, "They've realized that Bond went missing somewhere around here."
The older man nodded again, grimly. He ran his gaze over his riveted audience. "I'm afraid we're going to have to move. Soon."
Al couldn't help the thrill of fear that jolted through him. He wasn't ready -- the flute -- he just wasn't ready for this!
"I don't think Ed's truly well enough to go anywhere," Llyn began in protest, but his patient broke in.
"I can do it," he said briskly, upraised leg flattening, both hands pressed to the mattress to lift himself straighter against the pillows. "Don't worry, Llyn, I can do whatever I have to. I've done it before."
"And we'll help," Redfeather finally spoke. "We know ways through the back woods that can help you disappear when you need to." His expression went devious as he added, "And Sheriff Tanner is an old friend of mine." His gaze settled on Al and Ed. "The Feds can't just storm onto Indian land without going through proper channels, and Tanner will do a damn fine job of tangling these spooks up in their own red tape. That should give you a few more days, at least."
"Are you sure about this?" Reilly frowned. "We've caused you enough problems already, and this could be a lot worse."
"Don't trouble yourselves about that," the man reassured her. "My son's work was important, and it's just as important to me to complete it now that he's gone." Redfeather's benevolent smile rested on Al's face, and the boy had to lower his gaze, heart still clenched in trepidation. Singer had said he could do this, but he wasn't sure there was enough time. He stared at the flute in his right hand, mind racing.
"Don't worry, Al, we'll figure this out," Ed said, resting a hand on his forearm. For some reason, this only brought the panic closer to the surface.
Ducky's chair legs came down on the floor with a loud clump. "If we're going to try another Gate," he announced, "I'm making a quick visit to Gramps first."
Reilly retorted in irritation, "Really, Ducky, this is hardly the time to take an excursion--"
"I'm going," he growled, staring her down with an uncharacteristic glare. "Now that I know how dangerous this could be -- and with the Feds on our heels -- I'm not passing up the chance to see him."
Heist grabbed one of her friend's hands, grimacing in commiseration. Reilly backed down a little, sighing. "I know, Ducky. I know. This is a mess. But do you really think you should do this? Especially with the danger involved? You could lead them right to him."
"He could handle them better than any of us," the young man muttered. "But it doesn't matter. I have to see him."
"Yes," Al agreed suddenly, and all eyes in the room turned to him in surprise. All except Redfeather's. They didn't seem surprised at all. There was a weird sort of deja vu about that. "Yes, Ducky," the boy repeated, "you should go. And you should take Ed with you."
"What?" Ed cried. "Don't be ridiculous, I'm not leaving you now. We've got work to do!"
"I have work to do," Al corrected him gently. He removed his brother's hand from his forearm and set it on the blankets as Ed stared in disbelief. "Listen. You can't help me with my soul alchemy, and you can't get into my head and figure out how this flute works. I'm the only one who can do that."
"But... Al..."
It broke his heart when that forlorn tone invaded Ed's voice, especially when he was the one who inflicted the pain. But this was too important, and Ed needed to understand. "You have to let me do this," Al insisted, "and you know you won't be able to keep yourself from trying to help. But you can't help this time." Earnest grey eyes met anxious gold ones in a plea for understanding. "Go with Ducky and take a break," the younger brother urged softly. "I'll be fine. I promise."
He worried that Ed would continue resisting; they'd had this sort of argument over and over again, for years. But there just wasn't time for it now. And Ed seemed to recognize that, finally closing his eyes, leaning back against his pillows. "All right, Al, you win," he sighed, all the fight gone out of him. "I'll go. I hope you know what you're doing."
"Right, then," Maes interjected briskly, pushing himself away from the window sill with both hands. "I guess we'd better start packing up to leave. What shall we do first?"
"The rest of you are welcome to stay here until Ducky and Edward return," Redfeather said. "And if we need to beat a hasty retreat, I can make sure to get everyone to the site."
"The van," Ducky said, leaping up from his chair. "I'd better put the rest of the gear in before we go."
The room was suddenly all action, as various people sprang into swift movement to make their preparations. Heist headed out after Ducky, though Llyn, already on his own cell phone, reached for her, their hands briefly touching, fingers trailing as she passed out of the room. Reilly, Hughes, and Tom followed the younger people, heads bent together as they conferred.
"Ed," Al murmured, "don't be upset. Okay? Everything will be fine." He set the flute down and took his brother's too-warm hand between both his own, pressing it against his cheek. His head turned to the side, he saw Redfeather move to the end of the bed, watching him, still smiling. He'd seen that calm encouragement on Singer's face too.
This was the right thing to do. He knew it. Not just for himself, but somehow, though he couldn't guess how, it was right for Ed too. They were going to be all right. He just knew it.
~`~`~`~
A/N -- Singer's wake was based on the Lakota Sioux culture, and although
fractured_chaos researched the subject as well as she could, any mistakes made are all hers. To get an idea of what a real Lakota wake is like, please read Wake for an Indian Warrior, by Jim Sheeler.
To anyone who is Lakota Sioux, or lives within the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma: We sincerely hope that no offense is taken from this chapter and the previous one. While some artistic license was taken in order to fit with the story, we made every attempt to portray this rich culture accurately, and with respect.
Finally, the Indian name Redfeather gives Singer was spelled out phonetically, rather than as it might be otherwise, because the pronunciation is more important.