Game of Shadows- FMA: Brotherhood
PreludeThe nights in Amestris were getting colder.
He shivered and burrowed deeper into the cocoon of threadbare blankets and newspapers which was his home.
Thirty years of vagrancy had afforded him little in the way of monetary comforts, but he found the solitude suited him.
He had a name once, a home, a family. War in the South had taken them all; it was the beginnings of his journey across the vast land, Amestris.
He had settled here at length, enjoying what anonymity there was to be found in the slums and derelict structures scattered liberally about.
He stayed away from other homeless. He wanted no more connectedness with others, he had enough of such things to last him a lifetime.
The winds were sweeping down from the North, a conquering army. It slipped icily through the seams and crevices in his nest.
He shivered again. He would have to find something more to use for covering for his aged bones could not stand the harsh temperatures as once they did.
He heard, amongst the whistling of the breezes, a single step. And then again, closer this time: a single, methodical, step.
He peered into the darkness beyond his nest. His eyes could discern no shape in the wide maw of inky blackness.
Yet he could not deny the footfalls which came steadily closer.
He called out, certain that it was someone else in search of a shared bed.
No answer came back, but the feet marched with eerie monotony.
He called again, a pang of alarm checking his stomach. Still the feet came with no answer.
He reached out for the knife he carried with him, tucked inside a coat pocket and always close. He drew it and emerged from the swath of cloth and papers. The crinkling rustle covered the footsteps for a moment, and then both were gone from the chill night air.
He breathed, knowing more than seeing the fog which fled his mouth. For a time it was the only sound to challenge the wind.
He called out a third time, begging they show themselves, asking what they wanted.
This time he received an answer. There was no desire for comfort, or shared bed.
This answer froze the very marrow in his bones.
He screamed. Whether battle cry or mobile terror he himself did not know. But still he made to strike at his enemy.
And the darkness swallowed him whole.
Chapter 1Edward came awake with a jerk and a gasping breath. He floundered for a moment. Questions spiraled around his muggy brain, each clamoring for attention and answer. And then reality, cold and bitter as a winter storm swarmed thick through him.
She left him.
She didn't say goodbye.
She hadn't left anything of hers behind.
She took the children with her.
His children; this was what hurt the most. His children were a guilt which still pressed down on his chest like a leaden weight, even after the third day of mourning.
He'd sworn to them he would do it right. He was going to be a better father than his had been. He would be there while they grew up. And for a time he had. The same amount his own father had, in fact.
For five years he had loved his children, gloried in their victories, and guided them past their errors. He tried so hard to do this whole thing right.
But somehow, somewhere along the road, everything had changed: his job, his life, his marriage. Now he was left alone to wonder if this had all just been another mistake.
The couch was hard. He was tired of staring at the ceiling fan as it slowly revolved overhead. But he couldn't get off the couch anymore. So instead he shifted his arm to rest over his eyes. Ancient springs creaked and dug deeper into his spine. The sensation had stopped being painful several hours ago. His body was just catching up with his mind. All he felt was numb and guilt, always guilt.
He regretted so much. The guilt clung to him like a leech. That sensation was familiar at least. Regret and guilt were old friends; they were what he did best. The weight of the world was ever on his shoulders. If it wasn't Mom, it was Nina or, Heaven forbid, Al.
He wasn't angry, not yet anyway. That old comrade would visit later.
He had too much time to think. Whenever he thought about her leaving, there was too much temptation to hate. But he wouldn't…couldn't regret marrying Winry. He didn't regret loving her. Because he had, at one point, loved her.
He remembered was that was like, in the beginning. They had been happy once upon a time. But that time was distant; the memory of a dream, filmed over by arguments and misunderstandings and bitterness and eventually…apathy.
He didn't hate her for walking away. It wasn't her fault; it was his.
He'd made her cry again.
But his children…
He would never see them again. That's what the note said. Edward had enough faith left in Winry to believe it.
The single sheet of paper was clutched in his hands. The ink had smeared together through constant crumpling and smoothing over the last few days. The words were no longer legible, but the document she had laid underneath was clear enough without Winry's letter of angry explanation.
Divorce papers. She'd signed them and left.
For a long time he had just stood and stared down at them; lying innocently on the kitchen table. The implications had sunk in slowly. He'd searched the house for her that way: slowly. There was nothing to find and even though, somewhere in the lethargic haze of his mind he had known it, he looked anyway. She'd taken everything and left. And then, after the searching, he sat at the table, just staring at the papers, at his wife's signature.
That signature was the only evidence that she had ever existed.
He smiled bitterly at the irony.
He hadn't signed yet. He wasn't sure why.
He'd had plenty of time to think up crazy excuses over the last three days.
Maybe he was just waiting for the right time to let it all go. Maybe it was just because he had never been good with moving past painful events in his life. Maybe he couldn't because his marriage to Winry had been too big a portion of his life to simply write off as a poor choice.
He supposed that was as good an explanation as any. It made a sort of warped, stupid sense. Deep down inside, he hated the idea of pouring so many years into something and watching it crumble to ash in his fingers.
But that seemed to be something of a pattern in his life. No matter how much care was poured in, it wasn't enough. It hadn't been enough for his mother, or Nina or, in the end, Winry
There; he could feel the anger now. He wondered what had taken it so long.
Someone knocked on the door. The sharp contrast between it and the silence hurt Ed's ears. He didn't bother answering. He didn't want to see anyone. He was still working on getting off the couch.
"Brother," But of course, he hadn't considered it was Al. His younger brother would know he was here. And the man who had helped him stop 'Father' wouldn't let a door stand in his way.
He was being sat up. His muscles protested the sudden motion after so long stationary.
His brothers' help both pained and irked him. It reminded him of those awful months, when he had first lost his arm and leg, when he couldn't do anything for himself. Al had taken care of him then too. The only difference between now and then was now Al had real arms with which to coddle and baby him. It was times like these, when Ed was in shock that Al took over, cared and watched over him, almost like Al was the older sibling. Edward hated needing his brother to live. He wasn't weak. He just couldn't find it within himself to prove it.
"What do you want Al?" He brushed off his brother's hands, but stayed sitting.
"I came to check on you." The other man's voice was soft with concern. That compassion was something he had never understood in his brother: the ability to love everyone, to forgive everyone, especially those who didn't deserve it. Ed had only ever showed his quiet side, his tender underbelly, to his Mother, to Winry and Al. Now they were all gone. He was even trying to hide from his brother.
Al spoke, pausing often to pick his words. "Winry came over before…you got back and…We hadn't heard anything since…well, for a few days…May and I were getting worried." The cushion beside him shifted to bear his brother's weight.
Ed had nothing to say to his brother. He was still digesting that Winry had taken the time to say goodbye to his brother and sister-in-law, but not him: the man she'd consistently gotten naked with for five years, bar the last eight months.
Alphonse let the quiet linger long enough to start crowding in on them again.
Edward saw his brother turn to give him a hard look. He braced himself for the lecture he knew was coming. He remembered this, Al would let him fester for a time, let him think and stew, But once he believed Ed had had enough time he would start a fight, tell Ed that he was being stupid and he needed to just get over himself. Just like their first battle with Scar. Ed had yelled at him then, called him names, punched him and yelled some more. Because Edward had been stupid, he had needed to be punched and yelled at. Apparently he needed the same now.
"You can't do this to yourself every time something awful happens."
It was true. Al was good, always had been, at delivering cold, hard truth when you needed to hear it. But needing to hear something and wanting to hear it were two different things. Ed didn't want to hear this. The wounds were too fresh. Perhaps that too was part of the problem.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, whatever."
Al frowned, but remained silent. At least Alphonse could figure out when his tactics weren't working. He didn't just scream at the problem, hoping that it would fix itself for sheer fear of her…him. Al was a 'him'…a 'him' who didn't scream or hit people with wrenches…
"Come on Ed," Al was trying a different tactic. "You have to get up and, and…move on." Ed could tell it hurt his brother to say it. Once again, Ed had caused his brother pain. The guilt for that would kick in soon. Why not pile more on while he was at it? Al was still speaking.
"Why don't you come over and stay at our house? May would love to see you and it'll help to be around people. How long have you been out here by yourself?" Al was studying him and his words were slow, deliberate. "We need to get you fed and cleaned up. It looks like you haven't shaved in weeks. Unless you want to look like father, I don't know if you should keep it." Al was trying. Ed knew he should care a little more, but all he heard was a steady, energized flow of babble; until his brother's next words.
"Let's go home so we can get you back to 100% as soon as possible. You owe it to yourself and to Winry-" Al seemed to realize his mistake, but Ed was already on his feet, shaking with anger he didn't know where to direct.
"Shut up."
Al turned to his brother in surprised, guilty horror; surprised at his brother's sudden movement, guilty and horrified at his own thoughtlessness.
Edward's back was to Alphonse; his eyes on the floor, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.
"Brother-" Al started.
"You shut up. Just shut your mouth. Never say that again." He wasn't mad at Al. Al was only trying to help. He didn't want to be angry, but it was bubbling up, a rolling boil in his blood.
"I don't owe her anything. She left me. Don't you get that? She took away my children: My son, my daughter, your nephew, your niece. Don't you dare tell me that I owe her more than…that…"
Ed clapped a hand across his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, denying the tears that pooled at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall.
His voice emerged, a whisper. "I've already paid the toll."
"Ed…I didn't mean…" Al's hands were on his shoulders, comforting. His brother didn't mean it like that, Al was trying to explain. But the pity in his brother's voice hurt Ed, more than the thought of never seeing his children's beautiful faces again.
It was the pity which made him push Al away. It was his stubborn pride that dried the tears and marched his body out the door. Pack away the anger, the guilt, the pain. Pack it away so he couldn't hurt anyone else with it. Pack it away so no one else could see how empty and vulnerable he had become. Pack it away. Pack it away.
The bag was already full. It stood next to the door from when he had come home three days ago. He'd never quite gotten around to unpacking it.
It wasn't heavy, inside was everything he needed to survive.
Survive.
That was the new goal. It was one he'd held before, when he fought an immortal army, when he'd gone up against the first Homunculus, when he went head to head with the Truth. Somehow 'Survive' had worked for him up until this point.
"Brother, where are you going?"
Al was standing in the doorway. Ed stopped and spared a single glance, a single wave over his shoulder.
"I don't know."
Al wanted to run after his brother. He wanted more than anything to go with Edward; to help him during this quest to find self-renewal. But they weren't teenagers anymore. Al had his own responsibilities here, a home, a wife, a family, a life. He couldn't just up and leave. But it was more than that.
He had a feeling, brotherly intuition or some bull crap like that. This was something Ed had to work out for himself.
Al hadn't loved Winry, at least not the way his older brother had. But he knew the pain of a suddenly severed connection. His Mother's death was an awful memory even after the years had passed and he would always weep for Nina. Ed was forced to bear that severance again when Winry left him. Three times bearing such heart-wrenching loss in a single lifetime... For as long as he could remember, his brother carried more pain than Alphonse could know.
No, he decided. This journey was Edward's alone to make.
In the end Al could only watch as his sibling's darkened silhouette disappeared into the distance and hope Ed would find the peace he was looking for.
.:xXXx:.
It was raining.
Roy heard the constant 'pock' of droplets on the window even over the train's strident chugging. He stared out into the bleak night, at the objects streaking past. Looking but not seeing.
Grumman was dead.
He'd gotten the call that morning.
After seven years serving a war-stricken Amestris the man had died in his office; laid his head down to take a nap on his desk and never got around to lifting it back up again. His heart gave out the doctor said.
And now Roy Mustang was Fuehrer; rushing back to Central for the grandiose funeral they had arranged for tomorrow afternoon.
Riza sat, silent in the seat beside him. She was along for him. Though Grumman had been her grandfather, the two of them had never been close, Riza's anti-military father had seen to that. There was a little sadness, but only a little. How could you miss what you had never truly known?
And so Riza was here for Roy. Seven years had not diminished her loyalty or their friendship. It had broken no new ground, but it would also never fade.
Theirs was a love true and platonic: unwavering, unconditional, and unconsummated.
Roy could have quoted a hundred and one regulations against officer/subordinate liaisons. He couldn't honestly say he cared about any of them.
That wasn't why he hadn't touched her.
Seven years ago Roy Mustang was concerned about two things: Avenging the death of Maes Hues and climbing as high up the chain of command as he could as fast as he was able. During the chaos of wars and those political games of life and death, so little ground he walked was solid enough to hold him. However there were, even during the chaos of seven years ago, universal constants; truths he never questioned. Truths like: Riza Hawkeye was his queen. That truth still remained even whilst he battled Homunculi; when he watched her bleeding out in front of him; when he went back to Ishval…even when he attained the kingship of Amestris at last. The trouble was…he didn't know what that meant anymore.
There had been a time when Roy thought Riza could be the one. Once upon a time he harbored secret fantasies of a life and a family and little 'flame alchemists' drawing transmutation circles on the living room floor. But that life and that future weren't his; weren't Riza's.
In the last days of 'Father, the first Homunculi', Roy had begun to see his straight-edged lieutenant as something more than a chess piece to be moved and protected for the success of his ambitious scheming. She was always something more than that. But in those final days she became so much a living breathing woman with concerns and cares and worries and desires and pains and fears. For the first time since the War in Ishval she had let him see inside her. And in turn, she saw him weak, at his most venerable. She had been his eyes, guiding him and keeping him on target despite his blindness.
Roy didn't know if he expected that transfer of secrets to magically transform their relationship. He had slept with women with less relationship. But nothing came of their newfound intimacy.
He could blame it on his new position. The first years liaising between Ishval and Amestris was mired in post war trauma and suspicion between the civilian population and the military. Roy had to fight tooth and nail; just to keep Ishval in one piece. He slept little, ate less.
When the murmurs of secession and dissent finally ebbed, Roy found that the spark between Riza and himself had once again been smothered by the comfortable confines of military regulation formality.
In a way, the question of 'them' was answered in their actions during that long year. Mustang had a job to do, would always have a job to do. Riza simply fell into step like a good soldier, easily filling the role she'd previously occupied, as his queen.
He understood the desire he had for her would always be in the back of his mind, always niggling for recognition and release. But both, by some unspoken agreement; knew that to indulge in the moment would only cheapen the respect they held for one another.
And now life had changed again.
Roy was now the Fuehrer.
Riza was still his aide.
There was nothing more to be gained from pipe dreams and 'what if's'.
And in the end he still didn't know what sort of queen Riza was.
"Sir." Riza urged gently. "We're almost to East Station."
"Thank you, Major." Roy managed. But his mind was still outside, trying to make sense of the world. Everything he had ever wanted was his, not just a dream, or at his fingertips, but his. It had been dropped into his lap, willed to him upon the late leader's death.
He didn't know where to start untangling the thread of his thoughts and plans.
The future of Amestris; foreign policy, economic policy, social reform, military reform, trade, integrating Ishval back into Amestris. As he stared out the window, the tangled ball just seemed to get bigger.
He was going to give himself an ulcer before he got to Central.
The train screeched to a halt along the plain wooden platform. A single row of incandescent light bulbs lit the sign 'East Station'.
Roy gathered his coat and hat, the only luggage he'd brought from Ishval.
Riza didn't ask if he was alright. She knew better. Instead she stood after him and followed out of the passenger car.
Roy went to the schedule board. They had an hour before the train to Central arrived.
Riza would tell him to try and sleep a little.
But he wouldn't, or couldn't.
He didn't know which.
It didn't matter really. He could decide on the way to Central. Maybe he'd finish that ulcer too.