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batsutousaiTitle: Spirit's Fall
Series: The Blood Toll Saga
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood/manga
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Mature
Pairings: one-sided Edward Elric/Original Female Character
Warnings: Ed's potty mouth, Vampire!Edward Elric, blood, canon typical violence, questionable morality, character death
Summary: Born too early, Ed and Al don't manage to find a way to return Al to his body before his soul leaves the armour for good. Ed will do anything to save his brother, including making a deal with the closest thing to the devil he believes in. Can he keep his humanity long enough to save his brother, or are they both doomed to the separate hells that Ed's deal has trapped them within?
A/N: All the nods to Mere's glorious Second Chances, New Places for the idea of a band of Xerxesian survivors roaming the desert.
Chapter Two
-0-
"Alchemist," the white figure said, tone bland.
Ed didn't have time to figure out what that meant, before something – someone – tackled him from behind and a hauntingly familiar voice sobbed, "Brother!"
"Al," Ed recognised, let his crutch and bag both fall to the ground as he twisted to wrap his arm around his brother and press his face against a bare, too-skeletal shoulder. And he hated how thin Al was, how he shook like it was taking everything he had to keep standing. But, too, it was a relief. He was alive, had a body, and Ed could hug him. That alone was worth any cost the white freak might require in return for this visit.
"Human transmutation," said white figure announced, just a hint of irritation in its voice, "is not a revolving door to be used at your leisure."
Ed had no idea what a revolving door was – though he could make a couple guesses, and wondered why anyone would want to use such an oddity – but he did gather enough from the line to shoot back, "Shouldn't have mucked up the price for it, then."
"Brother," Al hissed, disapproving.
Ed huffed and squeezed him once, then pulled away enough to turn and look at where the figure was holding one of Hohenheim's books. "I can't figure out shit if I can't read his notes," he pointed out.
"It's not my job to hand you answers, Alchemist," the figure returned flatly, as Ed's stolen fingers flipped through the pages far too carelessly. "As I've already told you."
"And I don't want to waste another year wandering aimlessly around, hoping I get lucky," Ed shot back, and Al's hands on his arm and shoulder squeezed in silent warning. But Al didn't know the cost Ed was paying, had no idea about the blood already staining his hand; there was no way he could understand how much Ed could not keep on the way he had been. He desperately needed to be able to sit down and research in peace, without having to watch his back every second, wary of being attacked; not for the sake of his own safety, but for the life of his attacker. "Either you give me a hint, or I revolve the door until you get sick of me. Or whatever."
If the figure actually had a face, Ed was nearly certain it would be giving him the most disgusted look he'd ever seen. (Which was saying something; Ed'd been on the receiving end of many a disgusted look.) "You try my patience, Alchemist," it warned.
Ed couldn't stop from tightening his arm around Al's waist a bit, pulling him just that littlest bit closer, and he grit his teeth against any response he might make, reminded that there would always be a price he wasn't willing to pay: The figure had said it would return Al exactly as he was, but there was always the possibility that Ed could push it too far, and none of this would be worth it if Al returned to him as broken as Ed already was; one of them needed to make it through this mess whole.
The figure was absolutely still for a long moment, mouth in a long, thin line. Ed was near certain he was being stared at – weighed and measured – and he did his best to keep from fidgeting or letting out the spray of words knocking against the backs of his teeth.
And then the figure dropped the book back into Ed's bag and held out the strap with its hand of white absence. "In the desert, there are ruins. You'll find answers there, eventually."
"Thank you," Al said, before Ed could make a smart remark, and nudged Ed until he let go to take the bag.
The figure turned away from them, offering a bland, "Five minutes, Alchemists."
And Ed was left alone with his brother.
"I'm sorry," Al whispered.
"What do you have to be sorry about?" Ed demanded, turning to face his brother. "I'm the one who insisted we try to bring Mum back."
"But I agreed," Al snapped, and it was so unspeakably good to see him glaring, having actual facial expressions. "We made that choice together, Edward."
Ed grunted, because he knew Al'd had his doubts at the time, but Ed had just rushed over any attempts to mention them. But this wasn't the time to rehash that old argument. "Whatever," he muttered, before shaking his head. "Still, you getting stuck here, that's my fault, making deals with–" He stopped himself with a cough, wasn't certain it would be wise to insult the figure where it could hear.
See? He could totally learn how to think before speaking. (Mostly.)
"I'm sorry I can't be with you," Al insisted, head bowed. "I'm sitting here, safe, while you're out there, suffering–"
Ed forced out a laugh, hoped it didn't sound nearly as much a lie to his brother as it did to him. "I'm hardly suffering, Al, not like you are. I mean, you're the one stuck here with that one as company, and nothing to do all day."
Al's hand spasmed around Ed's arm and he looked up, his gaze so utterly heartbroken. "I know, Brother. I can watch you."
Watch him?
It was like someone had just dumped a bucketful of ice water over Ed's head, because Al knew. He'd watched Ed revert to animalistic violence, blood coating his mouth and chin and draining down his throat. Seen him throw up meagre meals that he didn't need because the taste of blood on his tongue turned his stomach, or because real food was too abhorrent when he was starved for ever more blood. He'd seen Ed curled up in the dark of the thickest woods, sobbing at the monster he'd become.
Al knew exactly how much blood coated the hand Ed had used to hug him.
Ed tore himself away from his brother, stumbling on too-shaky legs, and croaked, "Send me back."
"Brother!" Al called, and Ed could see it now, that he wasn't the only one who was breaking under the weight of this toll. But he couldn't–
"EDWARD!" Al screamed as the familiar black hands dragged Ed away.
The last thing Ed saw before the stone doors slammed shut, was the white freak's wide, satisfied grin.
Ed opened his eyes to the patch of woods he'd stopped to draw his array in, lying across the lines he'd scratched in the dirt. Golden light was just beginning to filter through the branches, and Ed closed his eyes against it, against everything.
Al knew. He knew exactly what Ed had become.
And then, with no warning, the hunger hit Ed all at once, and he couldn't stop a gasp, eyes flying open and too-sharp teeth catching the inside of his mouth, sparking a hint of pain, but no blood.
He felt like he'd just been killed, but a vaguely panicked look around him showed neither sign of human life, nor any spilt blood. There was a squirrel, though, holding still to the side of a trunk and staring at Ed like it was well aware its life was forfeit.
Ed had lunged across the empty space between them and had a hand around the squirrel before he could realise he was going to do so, and then blood bloomed across his tongue.
He drained the squirrel dry, then dropped the body to the ground and reached out to lean against the trunk of the tree. His hunger was eased just enough that he could think, and he knew it was temporary, that he would need a bloody bear if he wanted to get this under control for more than a handful of minutes, but–
For the moment, he could think, could step back and consider his next move.
He hadn't been anywhere near so bad before he'd activated the array. Even discounting the animal blood he'd had before going into that village, he'd been at an easily tolerable level, only really an issue because he'd needed to be able to keep food down for the sake of appearances. Which meant the cost of human transmutation, for him, was losing whatever blood he had.
He was so freaking glad he'd opted to do this as far from human civilisation as he could get in one night. Shit.
Well, he was going to need more animals to be trusted around humans so he could buy supplies for the desert. More to the point, he very probably needed human blood to survive the desert, since animals would be scarce out there.
So, he needed to kill more animals – brilliant – and then maybe find a criminal of some sort? Someone he could almost stomach killing for his own accursed survival.
It was for Al. All of this was for Al. And it didn't–
Fuck.
It mattered, okay. Al knew, and it mattered, and he probably hated Ed, hated what he'd stooped to, but Ed couldn't give up, not now, not as close as he was. He needed to get his brother out, free them both from this, this...curse. And maybe then – when the day came that Ed didn't have to manage his own blood levels for the safety of everyone around him – he could stop, could sit down and face Al's judgement, his disgust. Maybe then, he could try to make up for his crimes, instead of just continuing to drench his hand in the blood of others.
Ed took a deep breath, hated that he no longer choked on the taste/scent of blood, and pushed away from the tree trunk, wiping away the blood and fur on his face as he looked around for his crutch.
There was no sign of it.
"The hell?" Ed muttered, stepping carefully toward the array scratched into the ground. His bag of books was there, but there was no sign of crutch. Just like last time.
Ed frowned as he carefully made his way over to the bag most of his things were in, bracing his hand against the nearest trunk so he could crouch down without losing his balance in the process. Once he was steady, he pulled open the bag and took out the knife he kept in there, used it to carve away enough of the bark on the trunk next to him that he had space to draw an array, then took out some chalk to do so.
One quick transmutation later, Ed had a new crutch, and he slipped the chalk he'd used to draw the array away in the compartment for it, then collected all his things – switching the books back to his main bag – and the squirrel carcass to hopefully either trade, or use as bait for larger prey.
He took a moment to consider his array, then shook his head and turned away; it was unlikely anyone would find it before nature reclaimed it, and even less likely that the person who found it would know what it was for, given how rare alchemy knowledge was in the area. So he left it, picked a direction he was nearly certain was opposite the village Hohenheim had died in, and started walking.
He'd discovered, while asking around, that the place the white freak had meant was most likely the ruins of Xerxes, which had belonged to an advanced country that was destroyed in one night about three hundred years before, leaving only one survivor, the man known as the Philosopher of the East, who had brought the art of alchemy to the just-founded country of Amestris. Ed had actually liked the story as a child, had always been the one to ask Mum to tell it again – Al had preferred stories about princes saving the day – but it had never seemed real to him, had never been somewhere he thought he might go.
And yet.
It had taken him almost two months to supply up, find someone to give him useful directions, and make it out to the desert ruins. But, still, he managed it in one piece, and it had left him with a sense of accomplishment that felt all-too-rare, any more.
That said, the ruins were a depressing place, too quiet and empty, and Ed had felt like he was trespassing as he moved carefully through the broken stones, trying not to remember childhood stories and wonder about the truth behind them. (Because he knew, now, what death was, how it felt to slip into that cold embrace, too often without a chance to defend himself.) But it wasn't like he'd had any other choices for his quest, so he'd found himself a building near the centre of the city that wasn't too bad off, turned it into something off a home base, then went searching for whatever resources he could.
He'd had no luck with finding any books or scrolls or whatever they'd used to write things on back then, but he did find a couple of interior walls with painted-on writing preserved, and painstakingly copied it all over to study in his ruined home.
But, it seemed there wasn't a single thing to help him translate Hohenheim's books – save the proof that the strange scribbles he'd used were the same as the Xerxesians had, which was vaguely disturbing for a number of reasons – and Ed clung a bit desperately to the white figure's comment about finding a translation 'eventually'.
That eventually came fairly close to the winter solstice – Ed had a terrible time keeping up with the date, especially as he didn't need to sleep any more, but even he could notice the days getting shorter – when he woke from a nap to the sounds of human voices and rocks shifting.
He took a deep breath, considered his blood hunger for a moment – he'd taken a couple nasty spills over the course of his stay, but none so bad that he'd had to resort to hunting down lizards to keep functioning – then grabbed his crutch and carefully made his way out of his home, trying to sneak, in case they were bandits or something.
As luck would have it, they weren't bandits. In fact, Ed took one look at the small field of golden blond hair – he'd never seen that particular shade outside his own family – and stopped to stare.
It only took a minute for someone to spot Ed, and then he found himself faced with an unfamiliar language and a veritable sea of impossibly golden eyes. He shook his head, swallowed against the block in his throat, and managed a rusty, "I don't understand."
There was some uncertain whispering among the people – hells, his people; he'd never have thought to see another person outside his brother with his colouring, and yet, here stood at least two dozen – before one young man, who looked to be maybe five years older than Ed, stepped forward and said, "It is Amestrisan you have words?"
Ed was a bit thrown by the mangled sentence, but he nodded as soon as he'd sorted out what the other meant. "Yeah. Yes. Amestrisan."
The one who had spoken to him spoke briefly with some of the older men around him for a moment, then stepped closer to Ed and touched a hand to his own chest, giving a short, polite little bow as he said, "Behnam, son of Mas'ud and Shokufeh." Then he straightened and pointed at Ed, expression expectant.
Ed swallowed and replied, "I'm Ed, son of Trisha Elric and Van Hohenheim."
The watching crowd burst into sound at his father's name, and Ed couldn't quite keep from taking a step back.
Behnam shot him a quick apologetic look, then turned to say something into the crowd. An older man and woman – both with hair going white – quickly called out something in their language, and the crowd silenced at the sound of their voices. They both stepped forward to join Behnam, and he looked a little uncertain as he looked back at Ed again. "Mahdi," he said of the man, and, "Sanaz," of the woman, then added, "Masters?"
Ed frowned at that, uncertain. "Chiefs? Or leaders?" he guessed, because they didn't look like a band of servants watching over two people.
Behnam broke out into a smile, though, and he nodded. "Leaders!" He rattled something off in his own language, and the woman – Sanaz – responded, mentioning Hohenheim's name. Behnam nodded again, then turned back to Ed. "Van Hohenheim you father?"
Ed nodded. "Yes. He died a little over a year ago; I'm trying to translate some of his journals."
Behnam shook his head, frowning. "Too many. Words only some." He held up his finger and thumb to show the sort of 'very little' sign than Ed had seen many times in Amestris.
He frowned for a moment, trying to think how to explain, then rebalanced against his crutch and held up a finger. "Wait," he said, and Behnam nodded, so he went to collect one of Hohenheim's journals. When he brought it back to Behnam and the two leaders, he held it out, saying, "Hohenheim's. I can't read it. Uhm... No words?"
It was the man – Mahdi – who took the journal, while Behnam spoke in their language. He opened it and flipped through a couple pages, then closed it with a frown and replied to Behnam.
Behnam nodded and accepted the journal when Mahdi held it out to him, then turned back to Ed and said, "You have need our words."
"Yes," Ed agreed.
Behnam pointed a finger between the two of them a few times, saying, "Trade words?"
Ed couldn't quite stop a relieved laugh, and he shot Behnam a grateful smile as he agreed, "I'd like that very much."
Behnam grinned back, as wide and excited as Ed had ever seen, and he suspected he wasn't the only one who desperately wanted a teacher for another language.
Between drawing pictures in the sand, and Behnam's broken Amestrisan, Ed learnt the group were desert nomads, and they always spent the weeks around both the winter and summer solstices in the ruins. Ed was invited to join them for their celebrations, which he gladly accepted, though he did beg off the first night to go hunt what lizards he could, grimacing as he drank their blood, but it was better than either refusing, or throwing up whatever food they shared with him.
Over the course of the two weeks the tribe stayed in the ruins, Ed managed to pick up enough of their language – Xerxesian, Behnam had told him when he'd asked, answering a number of other questions Ed hadn't quite figured out how to ask – to be able to have an extremely basic conversation with anyone in the camp. Which was a relief, yet also infuriating, because he felt like he should know more than that, should be able to finally start translating Hohenheim's journals, even though learning their speech was nothing at all like learning their alphabet. (Especially since, Behnam warned him when Ed asked at one point, their alphabet didn't exactly match up with Amestris'.)
Some days, Ed really hated his father.
When it came time for the tribe to move out, Behnam came to him with Sanaz and – with some minor translation hiccups – she asked if he wanted to come with them.
Ed stared down at his lap for a moment, debating. On one hand, he desperately needed the continued teaching to be able to read Hohenheim's journals. On the other hand, he was a potential danger, should he get too badly hurt.
He sighed and shook his head at himself, because the choice wasn't hard; Al would always be more important, and he needed Xerxesian to free his brother. "I am...grateful," Ed said in his broken Xerxesian, nodding. "Yes."
Sanaz offered him a quick smile, then said something to Behnam that was a little too quick for Ed to follow, before leaving them in Ed's ruined home.
"Sanaz say, you have coup– No. One day to prepare. Leave with second sun."
So, in other words, Ed had about thirty-six hours to pack his things and find some more reptiles to, hopefully, tide him over for a few days.
He smiled and nodded in response, showing he understood, and Behnam smiled before leaving Ed to his packing.
Ed sighed as he looked around his home for the past couple months; he'd miss it.
Hiding his curse turned out to be remarkably easy when travelling with a large group, both because they were too big for the handful of bandits that made their homes in the desert to make a go at, and Ed was ordered to ride in a cart while they were moving, on account of his disability. Which, well, he was long resigned to getting around on his peg leg and crutch, but it was nice to not have to walk on it all the time. Even better, he could practise their language with whomever was close enough to chat with, without worrying about losing his breath trying to keep up with their easier steps.
The tribe travelled south after the winter solstice, skirting close to Aerugo's border and doing some trade with the villages there. They ended at the coast, where they spent the two weeks around the spring equinox, and Ed got his first taste of a beach, which proved to be quite the experience.
While at the beach, he'd also started to learn the Xerxesian alphabet, since it had been a little too bumpy to try it on the road, and everyone else was usually too tired once they'd struck camp for the night to help him any. He didn't start working on any of Hohenheim's journals then, however, far too busy just trying to learn the difference between the curling letters.
On their way back up toward the Xerxes ruins, they skirted the Xingan border, again doing trade with villages along their route. According to Behnam, who Ed had asked, after the summer solstice, they'd head up north, spending the autumn equinox at a small campground they had staked out just over the border from Drachma, and within about an hour's walk of a few smaller villages.
Behnam also explained that they'd sometimes pick up others interested in travel, who would then stay with them for a season or a year, rather like Ed was doing. Xingan was something of a second language for most of the Xerxesians, and a number also understood Aerugonian or Drachman, for use in trading, or because a native speaker had travelled with them for a while. But they'd never had anything really to do with Amestris, which was why only Behnam had known any Amestrisan. (He'd apparently picked it up from an Aerugonian who'd travelled with the tribe for a season.)
It was an interesting sort of life, Ed thought. Far more structured than his own travels over the past almost-decade had been, which felt at once both constraining and freeing.
When they returned to Xerxes for the summer solstice, Ed finally started on his father's journals. It was slow going, especially as his first choice seemed to be more about alchemical theories which, while certainly interesting, didn't really help Ed on his quest. They did, however, serve as an interesting talking point with the Xerxesian tribe; none of them were alchemists, though he was told that all of their ancestors had had the ability, meaning they almost certainly did as well.
When Ed asked why they didn't practise the art, Banu – the eldest of the tribe's leaders' children, and the closest they had to an historian – explained, "You know Xerxes was destroyed in a single night?"
Ed nodded. "So the tale goes."
She smiled. "The last records we have said it was to be a day of celebrations, for the king had discovered a way to make himself immortal through alchemy."
Ed scoffed, because he knew something of immortality. "That was a bad life choice," he commented.
"So it was," Banu agreed, her smile sad. "We have no explanation for how it happened, only that those who had been travelling returned to find naught but corpses on the streets, fallen in place as though suddenly struck with death."
Ed frowned at that, rubbing at his chin. "Alchemy can do that?"
"So it seems." Banu sighed. "It's in memory of our people and the harm alchemy can do, that we don't practise it."
Ed swallowed and rubbed his fingers together, staring down at his hand, at the chalk he could almost see there, though it had been a couple months since he'd actually used any alchemy; it simply hadn't been necessary while moving with the tribe. "Should I stop?"
Banu touched his shoulder, and he looked up to find her smiling at him, a little sad, but honest. "That's your choice, in the end. For all that you share our blood, you also share the blood of Amestris, and their history is a different one. We do not begrudge you the gift you've studied. And, too..." She trailed off for a moment and glanced around them, as though checking there wasn't anyone near enough to overhear. "I think," she continued quietly, "that there is sense in learning alchemy, if only to guard against it. I think, sometimes, that we fear alchemy so much for what it has done, we don't acknowledge what it may yet do."
Ed considered that for a moment, could see the sense in learning at least enough alchemy to know when it was about to put you in danger. "It sounds like, then," he said, "you could use a teacher."
So Ed had started to split his time between translating Hohenheim's journals and helping Behnam with Amestrisan a bit – he hadn't been nearly as quick a study as Ed, but he'd also only had Ed to practise with, while Ed could find others to talk to – and teaching Banu and her niece, Minoo – who was training to take on Banu's mantle as historian – about alchemy.
It kept him busy on the long days of travel and the the long nights – when the tribe slept and Ed couldn't for fear of nightmares – for which he was grateful. And he hated himself, some days, because finding the information he needed to free Al had turned into less of a priority. But, then, he also thought his brother would rather he have good relations with the Xerxesians, so they would be more likely to welcome Al in as family once all was said and done.
When they returned to Xerxes for the winter solstice, marking a year since Ed had joined the nomads, he pulled Banu aside and said, "When I first introduced myself, Hohenheim's name got a big reaction."
Banu nodded and motioned that they should both sit. "You've told me of your Xerxesian who survived the tragedy and taught Amestris alchemy."
Ed frowned and nodded, leaning forward a bit and wrapping his arm around his right leg. "Sure. The Philosopher of the East."
"They also have stories of a similar man in Xing, and they call him the Philosopher of the West."
Ed frowned at that. "Two men survived?" he guessed.
"So it seems," Banu agreed, her expression troubled. "I don't know if his name survives in Xing, any longer, but our histories have that the Philosopher of the West's name was Van Hohenheim."
Ed's breath caught and he felt his eyes going wide as connections started to form:
The Xerxesian king had been looking for a way to obtain immortality.
Hohenheim had, by many reports, been immortal. At least to a point.
Ed's own immortality required a sort of life to keep going: Human blood. (Animal blood worked in the short term, but human blood seemed to be the only thing that could cure his hunger.)
The entire city of Xerxes had died in one night, falling where they'd been standing, as though someone had simply ripped their souls out of their bodies. (Like what had happened to Al when his time in the armour had been up.)
So it followed, that Van Hohenheim had achieved immortality by killing all of the people of Xerxes.
"I think I am going to be sick," Ed whispered, rubbing at his mouth and trying to ignore the ghost-taste of blood on his tongue.
Banu cleared her throat. "I'm sure it's simply a name handed down through the centuries. I mean, it's been three hundred years; if anyone would have gained immortality that night, it would have been King Xerxes."
Ed forced a smile that ached and agreed, "Immortality is probably impossible, anyway, or every alchemist would be doing it."
"Exactly!" Banu agreed, and they turned to lighter topics, like her filling Ed in on the parts of the celebrations he'd missed out on last year because of the language barrier.
That night, though, after the camp had turned in for the night, Ed crept out of range of the night watch as sneakily as he could. Once alone, he looked up at the stars and snarled, "You bastard. They were your people! How could you do that to them?! How the hell could you sacrifice that many people? And for what?! Immortality?" He scoffed and looked down at his own hand, could almost see the shine of blood dripping off the ends of his fingers. "I hope it was worth it," he added quietly, feeling suddenly tired. Too old, too worn, too broken.
He laughed, then, and the sound cracked and broke against the stone around him. "Hells, I'm exactly like him, aren't I?" That was...disheartening.
Well, at least Ed had one thing up on his father: He hadn't killed an entire country for immortality.
En route to the coast again, Ed finally cracked open the journal that explained the downfall of Xerxes from Hohenheim's perspective:
His father had been born a slave, which had been disturbing to read, while also resulting in a surge of vindictive pleasure for Ed; after what his father had done, it seemed a fitting start for him.
His master, an accomplished alchemist and advisor to King Xerxes, had used his blood one day to create an intelligence, which he kept in a glass flask. The intelligence – which Hohenheim referred to as 'the Dwarf in the Flask, Homunculus', which was both intriguing and disturbing, because Ed had never heard of a successful attempt at creating a homunculus before – was the one to give Hohenheim his name, as well as teach him to read and write and do arithmetic. He'd also taught Hohenheim alchemy, and that last had bought Hohenheim his freedom.
According to Hohenheim, it was the Dwarf in the Flask to whom King Xerxes had turned when he'd wanted to become immortal. At the Dwarf in the Flask's direction, he'd had a large circle dug, then entire settlements wiped out at strategic points around the circle, soaking the land with blood.
Ed'd had to stop for a couple days after reading that, because he knew all too well, any more, the power of blood, and he didn't need it spelt out to understand that an array was being created. An array that would steal the souls from an entire country's population overnight.
And so it turned out to be, but it hadn't been Hohenheim with aspirations toward immortality, as Ed had once assumed. Rather, it had been the Dwarf in the Flask, who had also created a body for himself in Hohenheim's image.
Hohenheim had fled to the east, and been taken in by Xingans. In return for their kindness, he'd stayed and revolutionised their alchemy, until it became all too obvious he wasn't ageing. Then he'd gone travelling.
He'd known about the Xerxesian nomads, apparently, and had written this chronicle of events specifically to one day pass on to them, so they could understand the truth of their own history. Except he'd always been too afraid to approach them, so he'd kept his distance and just kept writing, because it had become familiar.
In time, during his travels, he'd heard about Amestris' Philosopher of the West, and had asked around to learn more about him, afraid it was the Dwarf in the Flask – a fear Ed had begun to share, sickened by how much he'd once so loved hearing the stories of the being.
In one of the villages he'd snooped around at, he'd met Ed's mum, and she'd doggedly followed him through three more villages, until he'd agreed to a single date, which had turned into–
Ed skipped a lot of that, making a face the whole while.
When he got to the part about his own birth, though, he had to shove the book back in his bag and ignore it for a few days, because he–
Fuck. Who knew believing yourself a monster – believing your sins would wear off on anyone too innocent that you accidentally touched – was genetic?
He did eventually make himself go back to the journal, reminding himself this was for Al, and it still hurt, a bit, because Hohenheim spared himself no kindness in describing his failures as a father: Too terrified to touch Ed, too afraid he'd drop and break him when Mum hadn't given him a choice, in turns terrified and awed when Ed's eyes had turned from blue to Xerxesian-gold, how desperately he'd wanted to be a good father, because Ed-the-baby had looked at him with so much trust. And when Ed-the-baby's first word was 'dada', Hohenheim had started wondering about ways to become mortal.
And that...that hurt. That Ed had been the one who, all unknowing, had given his father the push to leave and, eventually, commit suicide in the name of protecting others.
At least it hadn't been right away, he supposed, because Hohenheim went on to write about struggling the same way with Al, and stepping in a couple times because Ed had apparently been a massive brat. (He could almost hear Al's sarcastic, 'What a surprise, Brother.')
But he had left, and the two pages of regrets about not being able to say goodbye, about crying so much he'd ended up becoming dehydrated, made Ed want to punch something. Hohenheim, probably, if only because he'd been holding on to the memory of that cold back for so long, used it to stay angry through the loneliest nights, and to discover his father hadn't been giving him the cold shoulder, but suffering from a broken heart, was just...
Ed'd had to put the journal away again for a while, vacillating between heartbreak and rage, because he didn't need to feel bad for his father. He'd wanted to stay angry at him for forever, because then maybe he could bear the weight of whatever duty the man had left unfinished.
After a couple of days, Banu traded with her niece, who Ed had been riding in the cart with, and asked, "You've had such a storm cloud over your head these past few days, I keep expecting a sandstorm to chase us the rest of the way to the coast."
Ed scoffed, because that was ridiculous and not at all how nature worked.
Banu sighed and reached over to rap a knuckle against his forehead. "It'll never get better if you hold it inside to fester."
"Nothing says letting it out will help, either," Ed retorted.
Banu shot him an unimpressed look.
Ed sighed and drooped back against the wagon bench a bit. "I have always thought Hohenheim hated us, my brother and me. All I can remember of him is him turning his back on us and leaving. But, in his journal..."
"He loved you?" Banu guessed.
Ed hunched down in his seat a bit and nodded. "Turned his back so we would not know he was crying. He did not want to leave, I guess."
"I've never been a parent," Banu offered, "but I have watched enough others lose children to this life, either because the desert killed them, or they wished to settle down in stillness, and the parents always show such heartbreak, it hurts to watch; just because he was the one to do the leaving, doesn't make it any less true that it would hurt."
Ed considered that for a moment, before letting out an irritated huff and muttering, "I do not want to forgive him."
"So don't," Banu returned, like it was the simplest thing ever. "Just because you know why someone acted, doesn't mean you need to forgive them for the action itself."
Oh. That...actually made sense. Just because Hohenheim had hurt to leave, didn't mean that Ed had to forgive him for leaving in the first place. And Hohenheim claiming that Ed, himself, had been the inspiration behind his leaving to find a way to die, didn't in any way absolve him of the choice to put his own mortality before raising his sons.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Banu smiled and patted his leg. "Just helping with the storm cloud problem."
Ed snorted and twisted to get his bag out of the back, determined to find the duty his father had left unfinished before he gave up reading the bloody thing again.
Which, well, that turned out to be a bit of a failure, because the journal ended before Hohenheim made mention of any duties or quests he might have been on. Other than, you know, trying to find a way to use up the souls inside of himself and die. And avoiding any high-profile notice, in case the Dwarf in the Flask was looking for him; the last thing he'd wanted was to chance the other finding out he'd made a family and then try using them against him.
Disgusted, Ed tossed the journal back into his bag and pulled out another one of Hohenheim's alchemy journals, this one focussing on Xingan alchemy, which was plenty intriguing enough to make him forget all about the still-unknown duty.
Spirit's Fall Chapters:
One ||
Witness to a Shooting Star
Break Me ~ Al & Truth
Body's Struggle Chapters:
Unposted
Soul's Triumph Chapters:
Unposted
.