Spoiler warning: this fanfic has spoilers for the Full Metal Alchemist anime, especially the later half of the series. Reader beware.
Prologue
The sun set on the vast rustic plain as the creature lay dying, alone. Winds licked at the tall blades of grass, rustling the fallen creature's fur. Choking on its lifeblood, it whined feebly, the noise lost in the relentless wind. From the underbrush, sparkling keen eyes of glimmering gold took in the wounded animal. Pupils narrowed, instinct focused, the predator stalked towards its prey, long limbs of sinewy muscle carrying it forward. Without a sound, the lion took its prey, lashing out tearing jaws strong enough to render a jugular in a single snap.
Scavengers came later, the announcement of the kill broadcast as far as the wind could carry the wafting scent of fresh meat. Packs of wild canines battled over the stringy scraps, sometimes amongst their own family. The lion and its family had passed long ago, gorged on the sweet meats of the antelope, sated until their next meal. The vultures would come last, eating the rotten parts not even the hyenas would dare touch.
Time would pass. Days, months, years. That lion would soon pass too, leaving a pile of meat and bones, no different than that antelope's carcass. Its body would wither, decaying into dust, in turn nurturing the earth. Roots would sprout from the soil, blossoming into grass and trees, feeding the descendents of other antelopes, perhaps even descendents of that first. And other lions, perhaps descendents of that one lion, would hunt them before inevitably returning to the ground themselves.
It was as old as time, this cycle of life. And it would be the most important lesson in alchemy.
Alchemy's Seeds
Anything referred to as "science" in those days was outlawed. Not so much by the government (as there was no central government), and not so much by the church (since there was no universal faith), but by the common will of the people. Any person found practicing or studying the sciences was to be arrested and tried, usually resulting in an execution, most commonly by immolation. Sibling would turn against sibling, wife against husband, child against parent. It was a hard time for progress; the land stuck in this morass of moral subjugation and policed ignorance.
Magic, on the other hand, was openly practiced, for it was interpreted as "God's Will". Oddly enough, critics of so-called "science" preached the tenets of magic freely, proclaiming it the nature of heaven on earth. With that said, it was rare that one would witness a true miracle of magic. Some charlatans used well-disguised sciences to wow crowds without fear of being called heretic, but there was always the risk of someone seeing something familiar and shouting accusations from the safety of the crowd. Those displays would end without arrest and trial, instead with a hanging or stoning.
Little did the people know, there were those in the higher echelon within the theological society that secretly financed the sciences, most notably medicine. When confronted with the sickly countenance of a loved one, it is no surprise that even those of the strongest faith found it shaken and seek whatever means necessary to ease that affliction.
In the course of human history, one case in particular stands out as the catalyst for that society's change. A beloved member of the Central Church's hierarchy, Father Hawthorne, a figure long admired by even those of the rival churches, confessed to nearly dying as a child from a grave disease. His stunned audience gasped, proclaiming his survival as one of "God's miracles". Letting the fervor in his cramped delegation build to a crescendo, he shook his head, the slight motion quieting the flock instantly.
"Perhaps it was God's will," he proclaimed. "But it was medical science that saved this physical body, and my father's courage to pursue that realm of knowledge."
Five hundred faces gaped at his words. Words that would have spurned intense violence had they been uttered by any other man were now met with actual consideration. Some nodded their heads quietly, having long suspected that progress was necessary, and that science was essential for progress. None raised arms in violence. Voices were quelled, madness long abated.
After Father Hawthorne had wrapped up his sermon preaching tolerance and progress, his delegation filed from their pews quietly, eyes distant, minds wrapping themselves around the ideas presented. Some took his words to heart, sharing his gospel in hushed whispers within their inner circles. A few others weren't so prone to new things, however, and gathered later that night under a jackal moon with only intolerance in their hearts.
Armed with pitchforks and torches, the fanatical mob marched upon Father Hawthorne's home, locked up tightly for the night. Denied at every corner, one normally quiet member of the delegation, an elderly schoolteacher, lost it completely. Foaming at the mouth with repressed rage, he pressed his torch to the nearest shutter, setting it ablaze. Like a dam bursting, what little sanity that remained in the mob escaped in a rush. Other torches were tossed at the doors, sealing Father Hawthorne and his family within the deadly flames. He was given no chance to recant his words, his wife and young children no choice at all. They perished for his beliefs, his sermon.
All but one, that is; a young son that miraculously survived the choking smoke and the collapse of a burning roof. A boy his mother had lovingly named Hohenheim, found buried in the ashes of the family's destroyed home. In her dialect, Hohenheim translated to "blessed by God's grace". It was no wonder then, that anyone who saw the burnt out wreckage knew it was nothing short of God's will to save that poor little boy.
Some good came from the tragedy, people would later whisper with a tear still in their eye. The Central Church, showered with charitable sympathy and newfound gospel, had finally found their martyr and cause. The young people of the land, still impressionable, took to the new ideals of this budding church. Flocks grew. Soon they were all as large as Father Hawthorne's delegation, and gaining momentum. Rival churches began to lose their followers, their religion frowned upon by the majority. The Central Church followed suit, taking in all the nearby churches, reshaping the religion into their own image. Within two years, there was only one religion in the region. Either you belonged to the Central Church, or you belonged to no church.
In the immediate days that followed the tragedy, however, things weren't so simple. Violence begat violence, and the military, long practitioners of the sciences, was called in to quell the riots. Parishioners who had once shared the same pew now bludgeoned one another openly, choking the life from one another for differing faiths. Military intervention was efficient and brutal; anyone strong enough to fight was imprisoned. Character witnesses were provided by the church, releasing some of the prisoners. Fairness was never brought into question, offenders never formally charged with a crime.
They were soon forgotten, soon lost within the constantly expanding system. The only question left was, what to do with the boy? Badly burned across the majority of his body, the church thought he was the perfect martyr to continue in his father's footsteps. However, an officer in the military grew fond of the boy's intellectual curiosity, and offered the military's aid in providing for the boy's care.
This battle wasn't quite as obvious as the last, nor one the military was used to fighting. The church was eager to keep their hands on the child Hohenheim, who had grown into a symbol for the future with his stubborn will to live. But for every sermon and performance the church's leaders made, the military had no qualms going against the will of the people. They had no need for subversive literature, not so long as they had a ready supply of muskets and cannons.
And so the boy's next home was a military hospital. Protests died soon enough, the only memory to remain the bitterness in certain church leaders' hearts. Thankfully, the next stage of the boy's youth would be quiet enough for him to gather his thoughts, and rehabilitate his injuries.
Military doctors promised him a full recovery with the leaping strides the medical field was making every day. As his skin healed, it stiffened, and the doctors tried a revolutionary technique, grafting skin from other parts of his body to lessen his scarring. It was a painful procedure, but the boy endured, learning and studying science on his own.
It was, after all, the last thing his father told him to do.
--
However, the rest of the world wasn't so quick to change. Like any progress, it was sluggish at first. Although science had been accepted as another means, it was still frowned upon by those of the old world. That mysterious art still needed validation for those skeptics, and nothing short of a miracle could do that.
--
The once-quiet medical wing of the hospital grew to full capacity as the military waged another front to the east, filling with the unseen casualties of war: civilians. The boy didn't feel quite so alone, and he no longer felt the stares from nurses and doctors. No one knew him as the son of Father Hawthorne, or as the burned boy of tragedy…only as another patient. And he loved it every moment of it, as much as a boy in his condition could love, that is.
On a hot summer day, when the groans of the wing were as much from humidity as injury, a small family was brought in after a mortar shelling. Composed of only two parents and a child, they were unlike anyone Hohenheim had seen in his young life; dark skinned with bright eyes, and long, lustrous black hair.
"Damned nomads," spat the man at the next bed over, the perpetually grumpy victim of a bayonet through his belly. "Don't they have their own hospitals," he asked gruffly, checking his possessions to make certain they were secure.
"This hospital was set up for all injured," said Hohenheim quietly. Though he enjoyed the full medical wing, he did not especially care for his neighbor, who only grunted in response. The man cast Hohenheim a skeptical look before rolling over to sleep, but the boy only had eyes for the young girl, one side of her face heavily bandaged.
She was probably a couple years older than him, but something in her one visible eye told him that she had seen a lifetime more of the world than he. Staring blankly through the facility, she seemed a hundred miles away. He pictured her amongst a desert plain, scaling a mesa, shielding her soft eyes from the piercing sun to gaze at the expanse behind her. Moving with the fluidity and grace of a native, he knew she came from afar when she scampered up that climb with ridiculous ease. In his mind's eye, she smiled at her feat, standing silently atop the world below her.
That perfect image of her was damaged in that first night, as he heard her crying in her sleep. She wept in a tongue he had never heard before, and it sounded like someone's name. Most of the patients had learned to sleep through others' nightmares, but Hohenheim, despite having the longest tenure in the hospital, never could.
He turned towards her, the stiff, healing skin on his neck making him cringe in pain. The pain was dulled, however, as used to it as he was. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting of the hall, and he saw the girl shaking in bed, a parent on either side of her, clutching her tightly against her wracking sobs. A part of his heart longed for that comfort, for too long missing the loving touch of his parents. But as her tears faded into the night, so too did his sleepy memories.
--
The girl was an obscenely fast learner. Within two weeks of her arrival, she was already speaking the language of the other patients, though saying very little at times. During these episodes she would seem to stare blankly through the window, and nothing could disturb her from that reverie.
Most of the other patients wanted nothing to do with the nomadic family, too busy wallowing in their own misery to care about anyone else. The young nurses were the only ones to actively care about the family's place in the hospital, encouraging the young girl with her language lessons and caring for her parents' injuries. Watching from afar, Hohenheim also tried to learn the language of the nomadic family, studying the interaction between the parents. He was nowhere near the girl's language ability, however, no more evident than the eventful day that she wandered to his side of the wing.
"Hello," she had said, staring curiously at him, her bandage long removed. Only a thin scar remained over her eye, barely noticeable. Doctors had predicted a full physical recovery for her, and as doctors, had little concern for anything else.
"Hi," he had mumbled, caught off balance by her sudden proximity. While he had studied her from afar, practicing possible conversations, he had no idea what to say.
"Why are you here," she asked boldly, any sign of her earlier meekness all but gone.
"I was in a fire," replied Hohenheim, nervous under her unrelenting gaze. "About a year or so ago."
"Burn?" She was obviously having a bit of trouble with the language. He only nodded. "Your family?"
"Gone," he replied wistfully.
"Where," she asked innocently. He realized his choice of words wasn't the best. He pointed upwards and her face sank. "Forgive me," she said solemnly.
"It is okay," assured Hohenheim. He probably would have shrugged, had his upper body not been so stiff from his last treatment.
"I lose brother," she whispered, and he wondered if her confession was a result of her guilt.
"I am sorry," he said quietly, gaining the courage from their tragic connection to finally look her in the eye. "I am Hohenheim," he added. "What is your name?"
Her eyes sparkled at his name, and her mouth opened into a wide grin. "I am no gift of God like you," she laughed, playfully running away.
"Wait," he called, reaching out to her anxiously, still a prisoner of his damaged body. "Tell me your name!"
The girl, skipping towards the center of the large hall, stopped suddenly to look back at him curiously.
"Dante," she replied proudly. "I am Dante," she laughed lightly before crossing back to her side of the wing where her parents waited.
"Dante," he whispered to himself, as if he would forget it less he speak it, repeating it again and again.
--
With more than its fair share of patients and problems, the hospital was hardly what one would call a quiet place. But after a long enough period of time, one could almost grow accustomed to the constant noise and find a semblance of peace and quiet.
In those days, however, the peace was never meant to last. From just beyond the horizon, the sounds of battle could be heard, the rumble of cannons and distant explosions. Like clockwork they would begin at sunrise, the eastern armies pushing back the western military.
The doctors and nurses moved in a haze, as if they knew it would never end well. Important patients were moved out, and anyone well enough to walk was advised to also leave. Roll call showed over three quarters of the patients had checked out, moving as far away from the battlefront as they could. News from the frontlines had been grim; half of the western military had been killed, the remaining half pushed back by the insurgents.
Most of the patients left were old, crippled, or a lost cause. Hohenheim's grumpy neighbor was still there, of course, with plenty of curses and slurs to sling against Dante and her eastern people. An oppressive anxiety plagued Hohenheim, and he doubted it was from his spiteful neighbor. He could see with his own eyes that Dante's father was getting better, despite his constant begging for his wife to take their daughter and flee. Still she stood by his side, weeks later with the battle being waged only a dozen miles away. Hohenheim knew that once he was better, Dante would be gone from his life for good.
The night before, she had mentioned in passing that once her father was better, the family would travel back east, trying to circle around the battlefield. Her mother wanted to help out where she could, having served as a doctor for a time, which surprised Hohenheim.
"Your people study science openly," he asked, amazed.
"Something like that," she yawned. "Mama wants to teach me the arts as well, but I find it boring."
"I wish I had someone to teach me things like that," he said, waving his hands at the stacks of books by his bedside. "I have to teach myself."
"You are your own best teacher," she said dreamily. "My brother taught himself to eat sand."
"What is the use of that," he asked skeptically.
"There is always enough sand to eat," she teased. "My people must learn to survive on what there is enough of, not what we like," she added with a serious tone.
Public opinion of the eastern people was at an all-time low, and her mother feared persecution at the hands of the pale skinned westerners, preferring to face the shrapnel and desperation of a war zone over the narrow-mindedness of a people unwilling to accept change.
"It won't be like that," pleaded Hohenheim, sensing for the first time that he would actually lose his friend.
"Not everyone is kind hearted like you," she said sadly, and he felt a lifetime's persecution behind her words, a lifetime of wary sideways glances and hushed epithets. Deep in his heart he knew she was right; the times might change but the people never would.
The trouble in his mind was eased a bit the next morning by the arrival of his old friend, Lieutenant Thaddeus Armstrong, the muscular, clean shaven soldier of great vitality and voice that had fought for his custody.
"Hohenheim, dear boy," he said boisterously, taking the wing by storm with his booming voice. "You look well!"
"As do you, Lieutenant," said Hohenheim politely, trying to deny the heaviness of his heart.
"I told you not to call me that," roared Armstrong. "Besides," he said confidingly. "I was recently promoted to Major."
"Congratulations, sir."
"Haha, so disciplined," guffawed the Major. "You will make a fine soldier someday!"
"If I ever get out of this bed," said the boy tiredly.
"Nonsense, my boy," argued the Major. "You shall be up and out of here by tomorrow morning!"
"What do you mean?"
"I apologize for my tardiness and being remiss as your guardian; because of supply line issues I had not been able to arrive sooner. But now that I am here, I have been able to charter a medical carriage to move you further west, away from harm."
"But I—"
"As well as others here, of course. The Armstrong family is not so selfish as to leave any injured behind!"
Hohenheim's eyes met Dante's from across the wing; both shared the same look. Though they appeared to be children, they had suffered dearly at the hands of the world, a world that forced them to grow up faster than they should have. It was all up to fate now.
--
The night brought silence with its arrival, casting gloom and shadows upon the hospital. Empty beds somehow appeared emptier in the glow of moonlight, despite what the elderly superstitious babbled on about.
In the quiet darkness of the large hall, any sound was magnified a hundredfold. The rustling of a sheet, the cough of the infirmed; all were as loud as a drunken Major Armstrong at a holiday party.
Moving through the dimness, a woman glided towards a sleeping Hohenheim. Clear eyes betrayed no motive, no intention for anything evil, nor good. She flicked dark hairs from her face, studying the dozing boy. Though he physically embodied all that she feared, she had sensed a benevolent presence within the boy. And it wasn't as if he could do any harm to her daughter, not in his condition.
She ran her open palms over the boy's broken body, mere inches from his skin, but feeling his pain all the same. It was worse than she had thought. For him to smile so bravely…perhaps she had been wrong to doubt the boy so quickly.
"Please mother," Dante had begged her in their native language. "Why can we not help him?"
"It is not our place to choose who we help," said her mother calmly. "It must be the will of God."
"Oh mother, again with that nonsense?"
"That 'nonsense' has protected our people for over a hundred centuries," her mother said sternly. "Learn to respect your roots, Dante."
"What is the good of your talents if you can never use them," asked the girl bitterly, her eyes welling up with tears. Embarrassed, she turned away, though her mother had seen the girl cry every other time in her young life.
"We struggle, Dante, because we are human," her mother said, touching the girl's shoulder. "There are no easy paths in life. That boy must learn it, just as we have."
"If it were my brother, laying in that bed with his body destroyed, would you say the same," Dante asked accusingly, turning towards her mother. "If his skin were dark like ours, would it change things then?"
"They are our enemies, daughter," her mother argued. "You have not lived long enough in this world to understand what that means."
"They have sheltered us with this hospital! They have tended to our injuries, filled our stomachs with food, and you still you cannot bear to help them?"
"Our gifts were meant for our people, Dante. Their healers—"
"Those brave enough to call themselves healers do not pick and choose who they help, mother. God's will is not for that boy to suffer."
"We are not meant to question God's plan; for all we know, He might be testing that boy."
"And what if He is testing you, mother? What will you say in the afterlife when our God asks of the good you performed in this world? What will you tell Him then?"
The girl succeeded with as much tenacity as she did spunk. Dante would become an adept; of that much her mother was certain. She was smart, and passionate. Her words had found their way past her mother's defenses, through her staunch ideals, and into that hidden part of the soul that is still good in all human beings.
And so now she loomed over her daughter's sleeping friend, feeling the pain and agony of the boy's injuries, sensing the sadness of his terrible loss. She idly wondered if perhaps Dante had sensed the sadness too, and that was what had brought the boy to her attention. Both had suffered terrible losses to their families, after all. The woman knew she was doing the right thing now; if not for the boy, at least for her daughter. This would ease the pain of their imminent separation.
The first rays of the sun were barely touching the low clouds in the sky when she began. In cultures all around the world, the healing ritual started with a laying of open hands on the wound. However, few cultures in the world could explain what happened next. A soft hum could be heard, but only in that small space between the healer's hands and her patient's wounds. Energy began to sizzle, and the temperature in the massive room rose significantly. A diffuse glow of bright energy formed around the healer's fingertips, and without hesitation, she thrust her fingers into the boy's flesh. Not so much as stirring, he continued his peaceful slumber as she kneaded her fingers, massaging the skin in circles. As if by magic, the scarred flesh began to melt away, both wounded and healthy skin becoming one as she blended the two seamlessly together in a foamy whirlpool.
She stopped, trying to catch her breath as the energy settled. This had happened to her on occasion, a pain she dared not tell Dante about. The girl was skittish enough when it came to faith healing. With her low tolerance for physical pain, she would quit after her first healing session.
But this was different. The discomfort she was feeling now was like nothing she had known in all her previous work. Needles darted up and down her skin, her bones sorely aching as her muscles turned to slush. Collapsing to the floor, blood began to dribble from her ears, and she could taste warmth in her mouth, just before she vomited more blood. She gasped for air to fill her lungs, but she could feel her chest filling with more liquid, beginning to choke on it.
She realized then that she had taken on too much of the boy's severe injuries. It was a phenomenon another caravan's healer had once told her about; pain will not simply vanish. It must be endured, if not by one person, then another. That healer had always kept a small animal nearby for those occurrences when the pain became too great for her to bear on her own.
Of course…the transfer had nearly overcome her, just like that gypsy had warned. Her mind raced, looking for an outlet, something that could be sacrificed. A thousand voices screamed in her mind at once, all begging for that terrible ringing in her head to stop. And somehow, through that terrible sound, she heard it: her way out.
The old man snored loudly, the type of snore that showed he didn't give a damn whether or not anyone else could fall asleep. The old man in the bed beside Hohenheim, the man who cursed her family under his breath, the man who swore at her innocent daughter. Yes, he would make an excellent outlet, she thought, forcing herself to her feet.
Standing on wobbly legs, she got to work. Compelled by some strange force, she ran a bloodied finger along the man's arm, drawing a circular design. When she was finished, she began to chant in a tongue long forgotten.
--
Flinty eyes in deep gloom took in the sleeping form. Broken shafts of starlight filtered across clean white hospital linens. The nervous ticking of a bedside clock as the shadow approached. A messenger from the darkness, pallid with anticipation.
I shall miss you, she said quietly, so quietly that she only mouthed the words. I shall miss you and I do not understand why, like waking during a soon-forgotten dream. I hope our paths will bring us together again, and pray that time finds you well.
And after she turned to leave, to meet her waiting parents, she tiptoed back to his bedside, placing one tender kiss on him.
Farewell, Hohenheim, she said, her smile distant and sad.
Notes: Ok, this is a resubmission of the first chapter; there were a lot of typos and mistakes that I just had to clean up, and I tightened up a few paragraphs here and there. Anyways, hope you enjoy this story enough to continue reading on, I got a lot of special things planned.