Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ The Sinner Repents ❯ Prologue ( Prologue )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: White Mage Koorii 
Chapter Warnings: Small amount of violence.
Teaser: The black figure crossed his arms over his chest and, with a great deal of fake and mocking awe, said, “Congratulations, gentlemen. I'm impressed.”
Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters that appear in this story, if you recognize it, it's likely from the Fullmetal Alchemist series.
The poem at the beginning of this chapter belongs to William Blake.
Anime/Manga: Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Drama / Adventure / Action | Type: Shounen-ai | Uploaded On: 07.12.2009 | Updated On: 07.12.2009 | Pages: 3 | Words: 4.0K | Visits: 287 | Status: Work In Progress
Chapter Warnings: Small amount of violence.
Teaser: The black figure crossed his arms over his chest and, with a great deal of fake and mocking awe, said, “Congratulations, gentlemen. I'm impressed.”
Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters that appear in this story, if you recognize it, it's likely from the Fullmetal Alchemist series.
The poem at the beginning of this chapter belongs to William Blake.
Anime/Manga: Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Drama / Adventure / Action | Type: Shounen-ai | Uploaded On: 07.12.2009 | Updated On: 07.12.2009 | Pages: 3 | Words: 4.0K | Visits: 287 | Status: Work In Progress
Oh for a voice like thunder, and a tongue to drown the voice of war,
When the soul is driven to madness,
Who can stand?When the soul is driven to madness,
When the souls of the oppressed fight in the troubled air that rages,
Who can stand?When the whirlwind of fury comes from the throne of God,
Who can stand?
When the frowns of his countenance drive the nations together,
Who can stand?
When sin claps his broad wings over the battle, and sails rejoicing in the flood of death,
when the souls are torn to everlasting fire, and fiends of Hell rejoice upon the slain,
Oh who can stand? Oh who hath caused this?
Oh who can answer at the throne of God?
The Kings and the Nobles of the land have done it!
Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it!
–
William Blake
It was a surprisingly clear night and the sky was thick with stars. Glastonbury Tor rose up like a giant's shoulder from the rolling English countryside that surrounded it. At the pinnacle St. Michael's Tower stood like an ageless sentry overlooking all that was lain out around it. The air was warm, though not oppressively so that night, and many windows in the little hamlet nestled against the Tor's base were cracked open to coax the faint puffs of a breeze in. Up higher on the Tor itself the breeze blew hard enough to make the short grass and various other clumps of vegetation rustle.All in all it seemed a sleepily placid night. Most people were well abed by now as a moonless sky served as a distant observer. However all was not as still as it seemed on this night for there, moving near the top of the Tor, a light bobbed along suspended in midair. Perhaps to a sleepy child it would seem as if the ghost of King Arthur was drifting along like St. Elmo's fire, or maybe that Gwyn ap Nudd was out for a little constitutional. The truth wasn't nearly as fantastical as any of that.
A group of five men made their way along the long path toward the Tower. The one at the front of the group was carrying a lantern as their only source of illumination. Their ages seemed to range from nearly sixty to mid twenties between them, and two of them carried heavy satchels made of sturdy thick cloth and leather. One satchel hung empty, flapping listlessly, at its bearers side; the other clinked quietly with every motion of the man who carried it as the metallic instruments inside shifted.
To a man they were dressed in dark clothing, the soles of the heavy boots they wore treading soundlessly over the pathway. They moved like men who didn't want to be discovered; aware of every movement their bodies made and the potential for sound. Not once did they make the brittle, spindly grass that arched to either side of the pathway crackle and rustle. Only the sound of the wind was with them, and on it it carried a whisper and a whistle like fairy song. Tonight was a night of fairy tales and folk lore. To a man, they were wary.
As they crested the top of the hill they could all hear the whispers gathering. It sounded in their ears and all around them like a gala was in full swing. They were utterly alone. St. Michael's Tower loomed above them its imposing stone facade silent and unyielding. Pale in daylight the stone was turned dark by the night and the alcoves on its face like a multitude of eyeless sockets, or portals to some demonic hideaway. The stars shown around the crenelated top like a jeweled halo that made them stand out starkly, the light like a silvering frost or gilding on their edges, while the normally abrupt corners of the Tower's design were softened.
The youngest of the group shifted uneasily, shying away from the open arched doorway into the interior of the Tower.
No crickets fiddled here, nor was there the sawing chk-chk-chrrrr of cicadas. No bat haunted the premises, and no mosquitoes pricked them. As annoying as the thought of insects could prove, here, now, they're aggravating presence would have been a reassurance. The youngest man was no longer the only uneasy one.A group of five men made their way along the long path toward the Tower. The one at the front of the group was carrying a lantern as their only source of illumination. Their ages seemed to range from nearly sixty to mid twenties between them, and two of them carried heavy satchels made of sturdy thick cloth and leather. One satchel hung empty, flapping listlessly, at its bearers side; the other clinked quietly with every motion of the man who carried it as the metallic instruments inside shifted.
To a man they were dressed in dark clothing, the soles of the heavy boots they wore treading soundlessly over the pathway. They moved like men who didn't want to be discovered; aware of every movement their bodies made and the potential for sound. Not once did they make the brittle, spindly grass that arched to either side of the pathway crackle and rustle. Only the sound of the wind was with them, and on it it carried a whisper and a whistle like fairy song. Tonight was a night of fairy tales and folk lore. To a man, they were wary.
As they crested the top of the hill they could all hear the whispers gathering. It sounded in their ears and all around them like a gala was in full swing. They were utterly alone. St. Michael's Tower loomed above them its imposing stone facade silent and unyielding. Pale in daylight the stone was turned dark by the night and the alcoves on its face like a multitude of eyeless sockets, or portals to some demonic hideaway. The stars shown around the crenelated top like a jeweled halo that made them stand out starkly, the light like a silvering frost or gilding on their edges, while the normally abrupt corners of the Tower's design were softened.
The youngest of the group shifted uneasily, shying away from the open arched doorway into the interior of the Tower.
The group of men crowded into the space beneath the Tower where the wind hissed like a seething mass of snakes, and unintelligible phrases were as thick in the corners as the shadows were. Their boots scuffed against the hewn stone floor, a sound that was over loud; a sound that grated on their nerves and inflamed their agitation to new heights.
“Johnson, Sir?” The youngest man hissed, the words barely more than a breath through his teeth.
The oldest man, Johnson, looked toward him where he lingered in the arched threshold, “Give it no mind, Harrison. Let us finish this so we can be away.”
Harrison gave a jerky nod and skittered fully within the shadowed alcove, “Yes, Sir.”
Johnson observed the other three men then lifted a hand with a finger crooked, “Moore, Hunt, you two can aid me. Powell stand there and watch that side; Harrison set that up and watch the other.”
There was an immediate sound of shuffling boots as the other men complied with their leader's instructions. Johnson, Moore, and Hunt moved toward the low stone bench like protrusion where Johnson immediately kneeled down and pulled the strap of the satchel he carried over his head. Letting it drop to the ground the assortment of metal objects inside clanked against the stone floor and one another.
Harrison squatted down tugging off the heavier, sturdier, leather satchel he bore and set it down. Undoing the flap he flipped it open then reached into the thickly padded interior and smoothed the bottom out so it rested, standing, where he put it. That done, Harrison stood and dusted his hands on his thighs as he moved to his lookout point.
Johnson reached into his own bag and pulled fourth several hammers and chisels. One of each went to Moore and Hunt while Johnson kept the third set. Hunt set the lantern down on the flat stone surface. The three men crouched down to inspect the underside of the overhanging ledge of the thick, dark stone top. It was a roughly cut piece of work, looking broken and fractured around the edges while the top was smooth and worn. Time had certainly worked its ceaselessness on it.
Lantern light flickered off of Johnson's thick bifocals as the man squinted through them. With a sharp nod from Johnson the three men set to work; putting the tips of their chisels against the masonry holding the top stone in place and added the chink-chink of metal on metal, and metal on stone to the gossip of ghosts and earth sprites.Harrison gave a jerky nod and skittered fully within the shadowed alcove, “Yes, Sir.”
Johnson observed the other three men then lifted a hand with a finger crooked, “Moore, Hunt, you two can aid me. Powell stand there and watch that side; Harrison set that up and watch the other.”
There was an immediate sound of shuffling boots as the other men complied with their leader's instructions. Johnson, Moore, and Hunt moved toward the low stone bench like protrusion where Johnson immediately kneeled down and pulled the strap of the satchel he carried over his head. Letting it drop to the ground the assortment of metal objects inside clanked against the stone floor and one another.
Harrison squatted down tugging off the heavier, sturdier, leather satchel he bore and set it down. Undoing the flap he flipped it open then reached into the thickly padded interior and smoothed the bottom out so it rested, standing, where he put it. That done, Harrison stood and dusted his hands on his thighs as he moved to his lookout point.
Johnson reached into his own bag and pulled fourth several hammers and chisels. One of each went to Moore and Hunt while Johnson kept the third set. Hunt set the lantern down on the flat stone surface. The three men crouched down to inspect the underside of the overhanging ledge of the thick, dark stone top. It was a roughly cut piece of work, looking broken and fractured around the edges while the top was smooth and worn. Time had certainly worked its ceaselessness on it.
Time, the night, and superstition wore on their nerves, and the repetitive sound of the working trio certainly made no improvement. This was Glastonbury Tor, after all, the Veil was very thin here. Harrison fidgeted at his post, boots scuffing against the stone. Somewhere behind him he heard a sharp scrape of another person's sole and whirled, heart pounding. Powell had made the sound and was craning at the shadowy threshold of the archway.
“What is it?” Harrison hissed nervously.
Powell shook his head slightly, “Just jumping at shadows. Thought I saw someone creeping around out there.”
Harrison turned back around, not at all convinced that they weren't about to be ambushed by all manner of ghoul and demon. Wringing his hands nervously he squinted through the night and wished it didn't turn everything so difficult to see. The silver cast by the stars only highlighted the most sharp edges, the rest blurred together into a blue-gray and black mass. Every time the breeze rustled the stringy grass it flickered silver, and for a moment he was sure that a huge demonic snake from beyond the Veil was being sent to devour them. Every time one of the three men clustered near the lantern shifted and their shadow stretched he was sure it was a ghost rising to steal their life.
“That's it. Powell, come give us a hand.” Johnson's voice growled.Harrison turned back around, not at all convinced that they weren't about to be ambushed by all manner of ghoul and demon. Wringing his hands nervously he squinted through the night and wished it didn't turn everything so difficult to see. The silver cast by the stars only highlighted the most sharp edges, the rest blurred together into a blue-gray and black mass. Every time the breeze rustled the stringy grass it flickered silver, and for a moment he was sure that a huge demonic snake from beyond the Veil was being sent to devour them. Every time one of the three men clustered near the lantern shifted and their shadow stretched he was sure it was a ghost rising to steal their life.
Harrison turned, craning his neck to see the old man smoothing his mustache; his eyes glittered with triumph behind his round spectacles. A scrape, and the sound of a bit of rock hitting the ground, had Harrison whirling back around again. He thought he saw a bit of something whipping up beyond the conical peak of the archway. He could certainly see the dislodged bit of rock sitting less than a foot outside the doorway where the path along the Tor they'd used slithered away like a long pale snake. A chill crawled up his spine.
“Johnson...” He breathed.“Harrison. Come hold the bloody lantern.” Johnson's voice growled across whatever Harrison had meant to say.
Meekly, Harrison complied. Powell, Hunt, and Moore gathered around the stone bench; Hunt and Moore gripped the corners at each end whilst Powell fished a crowbar out of the tool satchel and set it under the heavy thing where the masonry had been done away with. The dust and chunks of masonry that littered the ground around the benches base were much too new looking to have been there in ages gone. It was as if someone had done the same thing they just had and fixed it to rights again.
Ignoring his grunting companions Harrison leaned closer to Johnson and whispered, “I think we should leave. We are not alone.”
Johnson's hawk like stare watched the other three critically as the stone gave way with a thick, grating scrape, “Nonsense, my boy.”
Hunt and Moore carefully let the stone top tip and slide down so it rested against floor and its former resting place at an angle. Johnson stepped forward, waving Harrison with him, and they all leaned over the gaping black hole that they had revealed. Harrison lifted the lantern and brought it closer to hover above the opening.
The lantern light glanced off a spherical metal object contained therein revealing the deep maroon, bronze, and brassy exterior. The main sphere of it was topped by a valve like handle and its base had several short knobs sticking out. The band around its center where it was held together protruded like a tiny bolted ledge all the way around it's circumference. The uranium bomb almost looked harmless.Ignoring his grunting companions Harrison leaned closer to Johnson and whispered, “I think we should leave. We are not alone.”
Johnson's hawk like stare watched the other three critically as the stone gave way with a thick, grating scrape, “Nonsense, my boy.”
Hunt and Moore carefully let the stone top tip and slide down so it rested against floor and its former resting place at an angle. Johnson stepped forward, waving Harrison with him, and they all leaned over the gaping black hole that they had revealed. Harrison lifted the lantern and brought it closer to hover above the opening.
Johnson carefully reached in, clasped the valve, and pulled it out with a bit of puffing. Turning slightly, the soles of his shoes grinding against the floor, he deposited it into the padded leather satchel with great care.
“That's it?” Hunt asked, sounding a mixture between awe and disappointment.
No one got to answer, nor make another comment, for it was then that the quiet was interrupted by the sharp sound of someone clapping. The heads of the five men swiveled in accord, like a group of marionette's at the whim of their master. There, reclining against the side of the back archway of the Tower, was a figure dressed head to toe in black. The hood of the calf length black jacket he wore was up, shadowing his face but for the lower portion which was stretched into a fang filled grin.
The black figure crossed his arms over his chest and, with a great deal of fake and mocking awe, said, “Congratulations, gentlemen. I'm impressed.”
“Who the hell are you?” Moore barked, jerking back a step.
The figure laughed derisively, “Oh man, I knew it was too good to be true... Here I was thinking that that Knitting Society of yours actually had some brains. Look, just hand over the bomb and we can all go our separate ways.”
Johnson moved faster than one would think he'd be able to. He reached into the satchel that had held all the tools and pulled a revolver from its depths. The old man was immediately on his feet with the gun trained on the dark figure's chest.
“I'm afraid I can't do that. I'm also afraid that I'm going to have to kill you now. We can't have people running about with this kind of knowledge, you understand?”
The figure heaved a sigh and pushed off the archway. Johnson tracked his every move, the barrel of the gun never wavered.
“Looks like you've got me there.” The hooded man said, but there was a tint of mocking to his voice still that didn't ring true with his words, nor sit right with his supposedly perilous position. “I mean... Here I am, alone and unarmed against five guys and a gun...”The man in black raised his arms, lifting his white gloved hands above his head in a classical show of surrender.
Johnson grunted in satisfaction, “Don't move. You've a bit to live so I suggest you start thinking of your last words.” Johnson well knew his bosses would want this man; they would want to know why and how he knew about the bomb. Not bothering to look at his cohorts he waved his free hand at them. “Grab the bomb and start moving.”The other four men did as told, quickly shoving the tools back into their satchel while Powell closed the flap on the one with the bomb in it and hefted it over his shoulder. They didn't get much further, for as they made for the archway at the front of the Tower another shadowy figure dropped down from above and landed partially crouched before straightening and turning to face them. This one was clad similarly to the first, but in a shade of gunmetal gray that made him blend in with the night background until he seemed transparent; like an eerie gray ghost.
“Oh, wait... That's right! I'm not here alone am I?” The taunting voice of the black figure jeered.
The gray figure tilted his head to the side and a small smile curved his lips almost benignly; then, he gave a little heh-heh laugh.
Harrison gave a whimper, the lantern rattling as his hands trembled with sudden fear, “I told you.” he rasped, voice gone hoarse. “It's too thin here and now they've come from the Other Side. We're all dead.”
The breeze whistled through the narrow archways, weaving around the black figure and making the trailing end of his jacket flap around his calves. It continued on exiting around the gray one and billowing his own gunmetal gray coat like a cape. No one moved. No one said a word.Johnson pulled down on the hammer. The sound of it was loud in the small space and the dark of the night. Almost as if it were a cue, or the pair were working with some sort of silent communication, the gray clad figure rushed forward just as the black clad one did. They both cleared the short distance with ease. The black one caught Johnson by the wrist, fingers wrapping around from inner arm to the edges.
The gun discharged, slicing a graze along the figure's cheek and cutting through his hood before pinging off the stone work somewhere behind him. The hood fell away to reveal a sharply angled face beset by wild gold eyes; eyes that were eerily reminiscent of those that belonged to the great lions of Africa. A coruscating fall of aureate hair framed those fierce eyes, falling loose in the bangs and pulled back in high ponytail at the back of his skill. A bead of blood skimmed down the golden eyed man's cheek, thinning as it went.
Johnson's wrist was twisted hard to the side until the joint began to protest in pain. His hand gave a spasmodic twitch, releasing the revolver to fall to the ground with a clatter. With a single sharp tug Johnson was pulled forward and bent over the man's left leg. All his breath rushed out of him in a gigantic whoosh. World spinning, he it the ground with a thud.
The gray figure dropped to the ground before any of the others could form any cognizant plan of action. Bracing his palms against the stone the one in gray swept Moore's legs out from under him. Moore dropped and hit the ground, backside down, with a wheeze. Popping back up nimbly the gray clad figure turned toward Harrison, lips tightening into another smile.
Harrison trembled.
The gray figure leaned in closer and breathed a single word, “Boo.”
Harrison gave an unmanly squeak of terror and dropped the lantern. It wobbled precariously on the edge of its base for a moment before falling over onto its side; the light wavered and crawled over the walls from the sudden changes. It made all the shadows in the close space twist and deform in hideous demons that clawed for freedom. Harrison fainted dead away, toppling to the ground without further sound.
The golden haired man stepped over Johnson's downed form and advanced toward Hunt. Hunt backed away, eyes swinging from side to side as he looked for an escape route. He had no courage without his partners to back him up.
The one in gray moved toward Powell and extended his hand, gesturing toward the satchel the man carried slung over one shoulder, “Give that to me, please.”
Powell hesitated, clutching at the strap of the bag with a spasmodic grip. His face was pale and damp with sweat.
“It would be best for you to.” The gray clad figure said kindly. “Things will go a lot better if you cooperate.”The gun discharged, slicing a graze along the figure's cheek and cutting through his hood before pinging off the stone work somewhere behind him. The hood fell away to reveal a sharply angled face beset by wild gold eyes; eyes that were eerily reminiscent of those that belonged to the great lions of Africa. A coruscating fall of aureate hair framed those fierce eyes, falling loose in the bangs and pulled back in high ponytail at the back of his skill. A bead of blood skimmed down the golden eyed man's cheek, thinning as it went.
Johnson's wrist was twisted hard to the side until the joint began to protest in pain. His hand gave a spasmodic twitch, releasing the revolver to fall to the ground with a clatter. With a single sharp tug Johnson was pulled forward and bent over the man's left leg. All his breath rushed out of him in a gigantic whoosh. World spinning, he it the ground with a thud.
The gray figure dropped to the ground before any of the others could form any cognizant plan of action. Bracing his palms against the stone the one in gray swept Moore's legs out from under him. Moore dropped and hit the ground, backside down, with a wheeze. Popping back up nimbly the gray clad figure turned toward Harrison, lips tightening into another smile.
Harrison trembled.
The gray figure leaned in closer and breathed a single word, “Boo.”
Harrison gave an unmanly squeak of terror and dropped the lantern. It wobbled precariously on the edge of its base for a moment before falling over onto its side; the light wavered and crawled over the walls from the sudden changes. It made all the shadows in the close space twist and deform in hideous demons that clawed for freedom. Harrison fainted dead away, toppling to the ground without further sound.
The golden haired man stepped over Johnson's downed form and advanced toward Hunt. Hunt backed away, eyes swinging from side to side as he looked for an escape route. He had no courage without his partners to back him up.
The one in gray moved toward Powell and extended his hand, gesturing toward the satchel the man carried slung over one shoulder, “Give that to me, please.”
Powell hesitated, clutching at the strap of the bag with a spasmodic grip. His face was pale and damp with sweat.
Hunt made a break for it, attempting to dart past the fierce golden eyed man. The man in black caught Hunt by the scruff of his jacket, jerking him backward forcefully and slamming him into the nearby wall.
“Why don't you just sit down and relax?” The golden one growled.Powell, sweating profusely now, handed the satchel over to the boy in gray.
“Thank you.”The golden haired man stepped over to his partner's side, and dropped a heavy hand on top of his hooded head which he proceeded to ruffle. The gray clad one ducked to the side, swatting at the other one with a sound of annoyance.
There came a lull then as the two seemed to celebrate their easy victory with brotherly cheer. It was interrupted, detonated, by the crack of gunfire. There was a sound of metal pinging off metal.
Johnson had managed to get his breath back and had grabbed the gun. The man stood, trembling, in the moonlight by one of the archways.
The black garbed one turned his head, fierce gold eyes narrowed into a lion's glare. Johnson wasn't given the leisure to react before the blond man was on him, a fist thrown forward and pressing into the old man's face between on breath and the next. Glass shattered and metal twisted beneath the force over the crunch of breaking bone. Johnson was thrown backward. He tottered on his feet for an instance before collapsing in an unconscious pile, half in and half out of the doorway.
Flexing his fingers absently the golden haired man turned back toward his cohort, “Let's get these idiots settled and get out of here. I'm sick of this place already.”
The one in gray sighed in exasperation and let a rope slither from somewhere in the confines of his coat as he set the satchel with the bomb down carefully out of the way. The black clad man grabbed one of Johnson's feet and dragged him unceremoniously into the middle of the small room. His next target was Harrison who he nudged over with his foot. That done he pulled the two unconscious men up and set them back to back, a hand on their shoulders to keep them from toppling.
Golden eyes glared at the other three men who hadn't moved an inch and a low growl issued forth, “Do I have to knock you out and then truss you up, or are you going to cooperate?”
The three hurried to obey. At the very least they could buy time, and hope there would be a flaw in the bindings. They soon found themselves proven wrong as the two rapidly and adeptly bound the five together. There was no wiggle room, nor could they get their hands into a decent or helpful position.
The golden haired man moved over to the side and hoisted the satchel up and over his head, taking no notice of how the thick leather strap dug into his shoulder and chest.
“Come on, let's get out of here.”There came a lull then as the two seemed to celebrate their easy victory with brotherly cheer. It was interrupted, detonated, by the crack of gunfire. There was a sound of metal pinging off metal.
Johnson had managed to get his breath back and had grabbed the gun. The man stood, trembling, in the moonlight by one of the archways.
The black garbed one turned his head, fierce gold eyes narrowed into a lion's glare. Johnson wasn't given the leisure to react before the blond man was on him, a fist thrown forward and pressing into the old man's face between on breath and the next. Glass shattered and metal twisted beneath the force over the crunch of breaking bone. Johnson was thrown backward. He tottered on his feet for an instance before collapsing in an unconscious pile, half in and half out of the doorway.
Flexing his fingers absently the golden haired man turned back toward his cohort, “Let's get these idiots settled and get out of here. I'm sick of this place already.”
The one in gray sighed in exasperation and let a rope slither from somewhere in the confines of his coat as he set the satchel with the bomb down carefully out of the way. The black clad man grabbed one of Johnson's feet and dragged him unceremoniously into the middle of the small room. His next target was Harrison who he nudged over with his foot. That done he pulled the two unconscious men up and set them back to back, a hand on their shoulders to keep them from toppling.
Golden eyes glared at the other three men who hadn't moved an inch and a low growl issued forth, “Do I have to knock you out and then truss you up, or are you going to cooperate?”
The three hurried to obey. At the very least they could buy time, and hope there would be a flaw in the bindings. They soon found themselves proven wrong as the two rapidly and adeptly bound the five together. There was no wiggle room, nor could they get their hands into a decent or helpful position.
The golden haired man moved over to the side and hoisted the satchel up and over his head, taking no notice of how the thick leather strap dug into his shoulder and chest.
“Coming, Brother!”
The gray clad one jogged over to join his already departing sibling and slung an arm around his brother's neck, pulling him into a loose headlock before taking off down the path. The shorter of the two swung his fist through the air in faked menace and gave chase with his black jacket fluttering around his legs.
Soon Glastonbury Tor and St. Michael's Tower settled back into the late night quiet. Almost as though testing the atmosphere a cricket began to chirp. When nothing happened the night began to return to normal almost as though the confrontation had never occurred.
The following morning an early bird tourist found the five men just where the brothers had left them and reported them to the local constables office. The papers that evening would have the headline splashed loud and clear:
Soon Glastonbury Tor and St. Michael's Tower settled back into the late night quiet. Almost as though testing the atmosphere a cricket began to chirp. When nothing happened the night began to return to normal almost as though the confrontation had never occurred.
The following morning an early bird tourist found the five men just where the brothers had left them and reported them to the local constables office. The papers that evening would have the headline splashed loud and clear:
Group of Five Defaces St. Michael's Tower
Secret Compartment Found!
Five men were found tied up in the middle of St. Michael's tower this morning. It soon became clear that they were searching for something. Their endeavors revealed a secret compartment! Unfortunately the compartment was empty, and the real question remains... Who, or what, put a stop to their actions?
Sources say that...
One of them was heard to say...
Fairies...
Ghosts...
The fair folk are said...
Golden hair....
One man was later escorted out...
Mental institute...
Rumors of affiliation with the German Thule Society and Nazism...
Miles away Edward and Alphonse Elric knew nothing of the stir they'd left behind. They probably wouldn't have noticed even if they had been aware, nor cared. They were used to it after all.
One of them was heard to say...
Fairies...
Ghosts...
The fair folk are said...
Golden hair....
One man was later escorted out...
Mental institute...
Rumors of affiliation with the German Thule Society and Nazism...
Miles away Edward and Alphonse Elric knew nothing of the stir they'd left behind. They probably wouldn't have noticed even if they had been aware, nor cared. They were used to it after all.