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Selim Bradley is eight years old when the black-haired man in the military uniform comes to visit. He introduces himself as Roy, and smiles, and bends down to shake Selim’s hand. His gloves are thin and white and smooth, and they feel warm, like a fireplace.
“Don’t you remember Colonel Mustang?” whispers his mother into his ear as they walk towards the dining hall. When he shakes his head, she continues, “He’s a great hero of our country! Make sure to be on your best behavior!”
There’s no need for a reminder; Selim is always on his best behavior, and his mother is fully aware of that. She’s always been so proud of his wonderful manners.
They all have a nice little lunch together, just the three of them. Roy is all smiles. He laughs at every joke, praises Mrs. Bradley’s cooking, and waves away any mentions of his supposed heroism. He asks Selim about homeschool, asks if he still has the opportunity to make new friends. And Selim sets down his knife and fork and excitedly rattles off the names of a couple boys who he goes to play with sometimes, and Roy seems happy to hear about it.
As they’re eating—and as his mother engages Roy in some grown-up talk while Selim digs into his sandwiches—the stories come back to him in bits and pieces. Colonel Mustang and your father are two of the great men who made Amestris what it is today. Your father is the reason why it’s so large, filled with so many people! And Colonel Mustang is the reason it is so peaceful and fair. You should be grateful.
He tries to be. He knows he should care—and he does, he really does. But it’s hard for him to wrap his mind around how it was before. If it’s peaceful now, was it violent back then? It’s like he’s skipped out on some experience, some shared grief. His mother tells him he was born on the very day the country was saved. Maybe it makes him special. Or maybe it just makes him ignorant.
“A couple of the men from Central Command were released from jail the other day,” Roy is saying. “They’ve been helping with the reparations. We’re glad they’ve decided to join the right side.”
“Oh,” his mother replies. “That’s—that’s good to hear!”
Selim is not typically a curious boy, a fact that has likely saved his mother a lot of trouble. He is a kind boy, though, and he helps when he can. He has lots of friends, even if they aren’t from school. He’s close with some of the adults, too—even the security guards that frequent their house. (His mother tells him they’re here to protect him. Leftover staff from back when his father was a very important person. It makes Selim feel important too.)
Roy Mustang is going off on a story about the Elric brothers now, and, ooh, Selim does remember them. The amazing alchemists—the ones who used to have metal bodies! He met Edward once. He was very excited about it, his head filled with tales of incredible battles and selfless sacrifice. But when Ed looked at him, there was sadness in his eyes, and Selim has not forgotten that either.
(There’s another person his mother has told him to be grateful for. Edward Elric saved him, once upon a time, when he was just a baby. If only he could remember it. It’s strange, isn’t it—almost becoming a victim of a war that he knows so little about. All he’s got now to show for it is the scar in the middle of his forehead.)
And all throughout lunch, his mother’s smiles have grown fainter and fainter, and at times an anxiety seems to flit across her face, replaced after a moment by determination. But just then the corners of her lips will turn up again. And Selim thinks little of it. She’s just in one of those moods again, right? Immersing herself too deeply in the past.
Selim asks Roy if he would like to see his model trains. Roy seems excited about this possibility, and the two of them leave the table early to go up to Selim’s room. A guard tags along. He’s got no reason to be suspicious of Roy, so why is he here? Maybe he wants to see the trains too. As if Selim hasn’t shown them off to all the guards at least five times.
Roy is very impressed with the train set. Selim is impressed with how much Roy seems to know about trains. And machinery in general! He makes the Colonel recount a couple old war stories (a fugitive Ishvalan once used a train in a daring escape from his father’s army!), at least until he seems to falter, face growing ever more contemplative.
“Selim,” he says finally, after a rather significant pause, “I actually came here to tell you a different story.”
Selim blinks and leans in. From all the hesitation, it’s probably a good one. His mother always tells the watered-down versions of the great battles; Roy, meanwhile, has no trouble explaining that Kimblee (a name that Selim will write down in his mental list of historical figures) was fatally stabbed through the chest during the aforementioned train escapade.
Roy raises his voice and tells the guard to give them a few minutes alone. He says it’s fine, don’t worry; Mrs. Bradley said it was okay. And as the guard leaves, shutting the door behind him, Selim turns now-curious eyes upon Roy Mustang. Who is no longer smiling.
“Selim,” he repeats, and then grits his teeth. He stands, makes his way over to the couch, and perches at the edge of it, fingers digging into his thighs in agitation. Selim sits next to him and waits, no longer so excited. Dread pools in his stomach—something he hasn’t felt in a very long time.
“What is it, Colonel?”
“Selim, this is—this is not going to be an easy story to hear. But if I am to make things right in this country, everyone needs to know the truth. Even— especially —you.”
It could be any number of things, really. Selim is aware that the horrors of war extend far beyond anything he has heard secondhand. Maybe this is where he learns the true face of that violence that he has never really been able to grasp. Maybe this is how he comes to truly appreciate the heroism of Colonel Mustang, and King Bradley, and Edward and Alphonse Elric.
“First, I need you to know that—” Roy considers his phrasing, and chooses the simplest possible. “I’m not mad at you.”
It isn’t what Selim is expecting. An entirely different fear wells up inside him—this is what his mother says when he’s stepped out of line, broken a rule. This is the voice that tells him he’s about to be disciplined. “Why would you be mad at me, Colonel? Did—did I do something wrong?”
“No! Of course not.” He smiles, too quickly. It’s half fake.
Selim finds himself recalling the day, many years ago, when he ran around with bare, muddy feet and brandished huge sticks at his mother’s houseguests. And he had been scolded, of course, because it was a terribly rude thing to do. But he had not been prepared for how scared his mother looked as she rushed him out of the parlor, away from the guards, whose faces had turned cold. She told him why it was wrong. She told him he wasn’t allowed to cause trouble. That yes, little boys do silly things, but he couldn’t afford to slip up like this. Because a great many people would be very mad at him if he did.
Mad at him. Specifically him.
If the military hero Roy Mustang is here for him, he must have slipped up very badly indeed.
“I’m sorry,” he says reflexively.
“Don’t apologize. It isn’t your fault.”
What isn’t his fault?
Roy sighs and puts his head in his hands. He’s quiet again for another agonizing moment.
Finally, he raises his head and says, “Selim, do you know what a homunculus is?”
This he can answer. “They’re evil creatures made from, um, philosopher’s stones. Which are very powerful things that make you able to go beyond the laws of alchemy. The Elric brothers fought loads of homunculuses!”
He’d talked with one of the alchemists about it once. The super-strong bald one, if he remembers correctly, had taken down a homunculus by the name of Sloth. They were all named after sins, apparently. The seven great sins that live inside a human heart.
“Why is Sloth a sin?” he’d asked. “Relaxing is good, isn’t it?”
“Yes, relaxing is very important. But, if you get too lazy, you won’t be able to do anything, will you?”
Selim had nodded along; he knows the value of hard work. “I see why Greed is bad… and Envy, and most of the others. I don’t really get Lust. Maybe it’s just like greed but for people?” He thought some more, calling up all seven in his head. “Oh, and Pride. I don’t understand that one. Isn’t it good to be proud of yourself?”
A bead of sweat had trickled down the alchemist’s forehead then, and he’d stammered out a reply about how too much pride can make one feel like they’re better than everyone else. Which made sense to Selim. No one person was above any others; his mother had made sure to impart that to him.
“I see,” says Roy, and Selim is jolted back to the present. “I fought many of them too.”
“Wow! Cool!”
Roy turns towards him, eyes alight with purpose. “One of these homunculi was named Wrath. He was designed to be a leader, created by putting a philosopher’s stone into a carefully selected human body. He did… a lot of damage to our country. No one knew he was a homunculus until much of that damage was already done.”
Beat. So far so good. Selim nods. He knows this much, more or less.
“To make him seem more human, Wrath selected another of the homunculi to masquerade as his son. This was Pride. He was the first homunculus that was created, and almost certainly the most powerful. For example, he had the ability to control shadows and turn them into weapons.”
This part is new. The shadow thing sounds pretty neat to Selim; he kind of wishes he could do that. Well… maybe not the weapons part. He could use them to make shadow puppets instead! Or… something along those lines.
“Like Wrath,” Roy continues, words perfectly calm and steady, “very few realized that Pride was a homunculus. To most of the world, his name was Selim Bradley.”
Selim’s shadow puppet daydream shatters into a thousand smoky shards as his mind does a double take. Has he been paying close enough attention? Did he hear correctly? Did Roy really just—?
The room is so silent you could hear an eyelid flutter.
“That’s my name.”
“Yes.”
“Am I—” He doesn’t know how to say it; he doesn’t want to speak the truth into being with clumsy words. “Am I Pride?”
“No,” says Roy firmly. “Pride was a… a fusion of a human baby with a philosopher’s stone. When he was… defeated, all that was left was that baby. And you are what grew from it.”
A still, drawn-out pause.
“I know that this is difficult to process,” Roy continues softly, and tries again to smile. He puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Selim isn’t sure he likes that warmth right now.
“So I used to be a homunculus?”
“Your body was used by one. But your soul is your own.”
“And… Wrath…” Selim turns terrified eyes on the Colonel, who winces. “That’s my dad? That’s King Bradley??”
“Yes.”
“He… he…” His words are high and aspirated; he swallows, but it doesn’t help. His throat feels constricted. “He was the bad guy?” His voice cracks on the last word.
“Only a tool for the bad guys.”
“But he’s… he’s one of the heroes… he made our country great…”
“Big is not the same thing as great.”
“But my mother—he—he cared—”
Something presses down on Selim’s chest, thick and strangulating. It’s too much. If this is the truth then he doesn’t think he wants it. Sure, he knows that good and bad are hard to define in such a grand conflict. He knows that even Colonel Mustang has done terrible things in the past. But if he can’t trust the good will of his own father, what can he trust?
Can he trust his mother? Has she been lying to him? Maybe she just doesn’t know the whole truth. Maybe she was kept in the dark, like he was.
Can he trust himself?
Selim is also a very trusting sort of boy. Almost every person he’s ever met has treated him with the utmost kindness; he’s never once encountered one of those villains he’s heard so much talk of in the stories of the past. He knows what the homunculi did. They killed people, enacted the horrible plans of those who would destroy a country to gain a world. Is that what his father did in the shadows? Is that what he did? Selim Bradley number 1? Pride?
Not for one second does he believe that Roy Mustang is the one who is lying. Perhaps that says something to his trusting nature. Or perhaps the acquisition of this information is less like an injection of knowledge and more like a gate opened into deeper realms of his own brain. He knows that it is true.
That sudden realization—it hurts.
Selim shuts his eyes and clamps his hands over his ears. The Colonel waits, patient as ever, his face a mask of sorrow.
“I will answer any and all of your questions,” says Roy, after Selim, shaking, starts to lower his hands. “I am committed to delivering the truth to you, Selim. Ask me anything.”
When he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. What could he ask that could be condensed into a single phrase? What he needs now is a re-translation of everything he’s ever been told about his father, about his birth, about the war and the homunculi and everything else. It’s hard for him to conceive of the enormity of it. It simultaneously feels like so very much, and not a lot at all. Footnotes on a story, not real life.
“Am I evil?” he whispers.
“Do you want to hurt people?”
“No!!”
“Then you aren’t.”
“Oh.”
“The circumstances of your birth don’t make you good or evil. Rest assured, you’re nothing like Pride.”
There it is again. Pride. It’s a funny name. Better than Gluttony or Wrath or anything. Just Pride. In another world, it would be a positive thing, for isn’t it important to have good self-esteem? Now, maybe what he should be asking is—am I vain? Arrogant? Self-important? He doesn’t think he is. He sure hopes he isn’t.
“Okay,” says Selim slowly. He takes a deep breath and blows it out, rocking back and forth in his seat.
“Are you alright?” asks Roy.
“I think so.”
His eyebrows rise. “To be honest, you’re taking this better than I expected.”
Selim doesn’t know how he should be taking it. His heart thunders in his chest, but any emotion he might have been feeling has given way to numbness. Maybe—maybe this is just another story that he can take note of and file away. It doesn’t really affect him, does it? Not his day to day life. Not when his father has been dead for eight years. Not when he doesn’t remember any of it.
“Is that it?”
“How much more do you want to know?”
He’s stuck between All of it and None of it. So he shrugs.
“Hey.” Roy leans down so he’s at Selim’s eye level. “I think you need some time to process. In the meantime, I’m sure your mother would be happy to talk it over with you.”
Something cold and sharp runs through Selim. But he nods. “What about you?”
“You know how to use a telephone, right? Yes, of course you do. I’m very busy, but if you call me, I’ll try to answer, okay?”
“Okay,” he replies, for the most part unaware of how kind this offer truly is.
Colonel Mustang pats him on the shoulder once again, then rises from the couch. Unsure what else to do, Selim follows.
As they head downstairs, Selim finds his eyes drawn to the way the light hits the walls, the shadows cast by each slightly-ajar door.
It’s all a rush of pleasantries and good-byes and thank-yous after that. Selim’s mother rests her hands on his shoulders and pulls him close to her, back straight and head raised up so he can’t see her face. She says no more and no less than what she’s supposed to, all the formalities and the won’t you tell so-and-so I said hello. The I’d love to see pictures of Riza’s new dog and So glad to hear Alex is making a speedy recovery and I can’t believe Alphonse is visiting so soon, even though her voice has begun to quaver.
Roy Mustang waves as he leaves. Selim waves back. He always waves back.
The doors clang shut.
“Selim, dear,” comes his mother’s voice, “I have something to show you.”
He lets himself be led back through the house. It’s too quiet now; the only noise is the tap-tapping of their footsteps as they ascend the stairs once again, then up one more floor, towards the attic. His mother lets go of his hand, leaving him in the hallway as she enters the attic alone. Soon enough, she’s emerged with a small wooden box. Her face is sunken, eyes refusing to meet his.
And it’s back down again after that. Back down the stairs with their angular shadows. Into the living room. Past the ornate table he’s told was his father’s favorite. Onto the long mahogany couch.
They sit, and his mother places the box onto her lap, and opens it, and draws out a photograph. One of many.
It’s a typical family portrait. His mother is on the right, looking a good decade younger. She wears a faded pink blouse and a smile. On the left is his father. King Bradley. (Wrath.) He seems in good spirits, squinting into the camera with his one good eye.
Standing in between them is a boy who looks almost identical to Selim. He grins with what appears to be genuine excitement, clutching his mother’s hand. He’s in a coat and tie, not unlike what Selim’s wearing now. There is no round scar upon his forehead.
It’s a photograph that, half an hour ago, he would have deemed impossible. But now he understands.
She flips to the next picture, carefully pulling it out. And the next, and the next. Each features this not-Selim, always in different clothing, face the exact same. Playing in the garden. Reading in an armchair. All dressed up for a ceremony. Normal things. Basic, human things. If Selim didn’t know better, he’d say that all of these were taken in the last couple months, and doctored to hide his scar.
But they can’t be. They aren’t. They aren’t.
His mother’s hands are shaking.
“I’m so sorry, Selim,” she’s whispering as she clumsily packs away the hundreds of photographs that likely haven’t seen the light of day in eight years. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you… I didn’t think you were ready… I—” She gulps, takes a shuddering breath. “You know that I was just trying to protect you.”
Selim looks up, and meets the eyes of a stone-faced security guard positioned just outside the room’s threshold.
And his blood runs cold as he considers the fact that maybe—maybe they are here not to protect him from others, but to protect others from him.
His head throbs. That smiling child in the photographs, with such large, round eyes, so much like him. Has everyone met him? Everyone but Selim himself? When they look at Selim now, do they see an altered version of the person—the thing he used to be?
“He was such a sweet boy,” his mother is murmuring. “He was so excited about the world. He may have been led astray, but deep down, I know he cared about us… about his family…”
And if he was all of those things, Selim wants to scream, what does that make me?
But tears have begun to run down his mother’s face, and he quickly closes the box’s lid before the pictures inside can get stained.
The following days go something like this:
The next morning, there’s a brief moment where Selim thinks he’s forgotten, thinks the weight in his chest is a remnant of a dream—and then it all comes crashing down on him once more. No, things are not what they seem. His father was a monster, and so was he, in another, intangible life.
No true feelings or memories come along with the knowledge. Nothing visceral. It’s just words.
Well, maybe sometimes, words can turn a world upside down.
Selim is not sure if he’s old enough to have really painted himself a coherent picture of who he is, something that hasn’t been stitched together from the things other people have told him. Perhaps that is a blessing; perhaps he can more readily accept such a catastrophic shift. But when he picks up all the scattered puzzle pieces, what will he find?
He asks his mother again and again to fill in the wide open spaces, but she refuses. After a while he comes to realize that she’s learned to live with the gaps in the story, tidied them up and hemmed them to look all pretty. Though she’s more knowledgeable than the average layperson, she really doesn’t know much; what she knows is secondhand, for the most part. A bundle of palatable half-truths.
Selim learns a couple new things in those days. He learns that Pride was destroyed when Edward Elric wrenched the philosopher’s stone from inside him, reducing him to little more than a fetus. Selim’s mother had raised this miniscule baby until he grew into, well, Selim himself.
He learns that his mother was once almost killed by armed forces acting under the will of the Father of the homunculi. King Bradley hadn’t been directly involved, no, but the incident had shook her to her core. He learns that his father had finally fallen at the hands of an Ishvalan who is now known as a great hero. He learns that Pride had been in existence for hundreds and hundreds of years. That the identity of Selim Bradley is far, far older than he is.
It’s like he’s carrying on a legacy. Maybe his mother should have named him something different this time around. This name feels tarnished.
Selim tries to call Roy Mustang three times in the days following his visit. Every time, he’s given a generic answer—the Colonel is unavailable right now, the Colonel is in a meeting, the Colonel is out of town. The first time, his mother helps him, dialing the numbers and speaking to the operator as Selim looks on. She politely asks when the Colonel will be available, and makes a list of possible dates and times.
The second time, Selim consults this list and does it all himself when he feels the moment is right. The operator pauses after hearing his stammered greeting (the one he practiced too many times, explaining who he is and who he wants to talk to), and for a moment Selim imagines that she recognizes his name, that she knows what he’s done. (What Pride has done.) But no, she’s more likely taken aback by the fact that a little kid wants to speak with Colonel Mustang.
The third time, it’s late at night, after his mother has gone to bed. Selim reasons that Roy surely cannot be in a meeting at midnight. And he can’t be asleep either; everyone knows that the cool adults stay up far later than that. But, again, it’s all to no avail.
And Selim sits on the floor underneath where the telephone perches on the counter, and cries softly to himself.
It’s around that time that he begins to have the dreams.
The first isn’t quite a dream—more of a memory that wanders into his sleepy mind through the crevices between waking and slumber.
It’s a memory about chalk. Alchemists often use chalk to draw their transmutation circles, and Selim remembers that, in his brief period of obsession with alchemy (likely prompted by all the tales of the Elrics), he’d begged his mother to buy him some. She’d obliged, of course, and got him a whole set of colors. He’d sketch lopsided shapes on the patio and pretend that the symbols were magic.
When he realized that his games weren’t anything close to real alchemy, he’d mostly given up on circles, instead doodling whatever came to his mind. Scores of rainbow flowers dotted the driveway for a time, then cars and stick figures and whatever else blossomed within his five-year-old brain.
For a while, it was eyes.
Selim drew huge, curving, slitted eyes around the yard until his red chalk ran out. There was something satisfying about it, the way that he could move his whole arm in a swooping motion, capturing the organic shape, the way it flowed like liquid. He was never sure what the eyes were supposed to be looking at. Maybe they were standing guard. Maybe they were hunting around the house. Snooping for secrets. Peering from the shadows in search of—truth? His imagination never really got that far.
It had all ended, of course, when his mother sat him down and told him that he had to stop. The eyes were creepy and unnerving, and the guards and the neighbors didn’t like it at all.
They washed away easily—they were just chalk, after all. But in a way, it felt to Selim that all he had done was erase the visuals. The evidence. He’d closed the eyes for now, but they could always be reopened.
Selim stops asking questions of his mother, and in return, she stops talking about it. And so they settle into a kind of normalcy again.
His silence doesn’t stem from a lack of curiosity—rather, he now knows it’s useless trying to get information out of her. It’s hard to say, but he gets the feeling that her ignorance is voluntary in some way. Roy Mustang said he was committed to delivering the truth. Surely Roy, or someone like him, had offered to tell her the whole story. But she hadn’t needed to know the whole story. She’d made up her mind—she was going to raise Selim as a normal child, no matter what.
And that’s… understandable. He guesses she isn’t a curious person either. Like him, she’s just someone who cares.
Does Selim wish he had known sooner? Does he wish it had all been laid out flat for him from the start? Maybe, maybe not. Either option would be cruel. (Maybe it’s what he deserves. He was born from a cruel being.)
The security guards are more alert these days. Their presence seems to have doubled. They watch Selim, and he watches them back. Yes, he understands now that this is a precaution. He’s been told the truth about his past, now, so it’s only reasonable to assume there’s a danger of him repeating it.
“But Selim would never hurt a fly!” wafts his mother’s voice from an open doorway one morning.
He knows he wouldn’t. He wants to scream that he’s good, he’s kind and he’s fair and he’s friendly and he hates to see people upset. (They all seem to be upset lately, and that’s no good at all. No, things haven’t gone back to normal after all. They couldn’t. They can’t.)
But—
Maybe he isn’t all that. Maybe the guards are right, and something is waiting inside him, ready to pounce. Maybe those unseen eyes are ready to open fully.
Or, even if he is such a good, pure child—he mustn’t allow himself to fixate on that.
Pride is a sin, after all.
It’s not obvious, at first. His dreams are as they’ve always been: spiraling concoctions of an excited brain, twisting into silly little tales unconfined by the limits of reality. Selim doesn’t remember most of them.
But when he does, it’s those with a certain character. This feeling of… being bigger than himself. Of stretching limbs beyond the confines of his body and looking down at himself, so small and so fragile. He controls a huge presence; he is huge himself—but not in the way that a building is huge, or a giant is huge. He is huge like an ant colony, like the roots of a tree, something that spreads and envelops and crouches in the corners of things and watches from the cracks in the walls, and smiles when the sun is out and all the little people come cluster in the shadows. He is a pattern, not a mass; he has no weight, but he is undeniably there.
He watches himself unfurl like the petals of a brilliant red flower, and celebrates his own beauty.
Look at how large I am. Look at how ancient. Look at how well I weave this pretense around me.
Look at me.
Can’t you see me?
Don’t you all love me? Aren’t you so proud of me?
The fifth or sixth time Selim tries calling Colonel Mustang, he picks up.
“Ah,” he says. There’s the sound of chatter in the background, the kind one might hear in a lobby or common room. “Selim. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’ve been pressed for time lately.”
“It’s okay!” he replies brightly. No matter how he feels, he’s got to be polite. Roy is busy—that’s fine. He hasn’t been ignoring him.
“How are you doing?” continues the Colonel. “And please give my regards to Mrs—to your mother. She’s been very stressed out.”
“I think she’s okay now.”
“Is she? Did the two of you talk about it?”
“A bit.”
“I hope you were able to get some answers.”
“Some,” says Selim.
Footsteps on the other end of the line, then a shuffling of fabric and some muffled voices. Roy has a short, unintelligible conversation. Selim waits, the telephone pressed close to his ear.
“I’m supposed to be calling Alphonse Elric in a couple minutes,” Roy says finally. He sounds apologetic. “He’s visiting Friday, and there were a couple complications with the logistics. But, if you’ve got any quick questions, I can definitely answer them right now.”
Selim’s mind draws a blank. Quick questions? He’s suddenly forgetting why he called the Colonel in the first place. To seek some sort of reassurance?
“I’ve been having weird dreams,” he whispers.
More muted talk. A sound of scraping metal. “What was that? Dreams? What kinds of dreams?”
“Dreams about… eyes?”
He surprises even himself with his answer. Yes—yes, there had been eyes, hadn’t there. He didn’t make that conscious connection before, but now that he’s said it, he’s sure it’s true.
There’s a long pause. Roy says, “Eyes.”
“Other things too.” Things he can’t put into words.
“Like what.”
“Um… I don’t know.”
“Well, tell me if you figure it out.” There’s more shifting around in the background, like Roy is getting ready to leave. Selim clings to the phone in desperation.
“W-will you answer?”
“Of course. If you’re remembering the… eyes, that could be a bad sign. But, don’t forget that the memories don’t represent you. You’re better than them. Good luck.”
“Colonel—”
Before Selim’s lips can form another panicked question, Roy Mustang hangs up.
After that, it’s not just a fleeting feeling. Images swim around Selim’s unconscious brain, too sharp to be fictional but too foreign to be anything he’s directly experienced. There’s a familiarity to it, despite the disconnect—like memories of a movie he’s watched over and over, except the scenes are all jumbled and the protagonist has no face.
He seems to have plenty of eyes, though.
Though the dreams have little substance or plot, focusing more on snapshots of scenes and disjointed emotions, Selim comes to get a feel for some of the principal actors. First and foremost, there’s the man with the long blonde hair and beard and piercing eyes. Selim doesn’t know if he can even grasp the complexities of this man’s existence, but his importance is coded into his subconscious, written deep into his bones. How can he be paralyzed in love and fear of a person he has never met? But a kinship exists between them, so much so that Selim once or twice finds himself dreaming from the perspective of this mystery man. When he does, he almost wakes up screaming, for the choking anguish and burbling resentment and burning need to know and experience are so loud and so present that they instantly move him to tears.
And Selim feels what it is like to be wanted. To be needed. To be cast away from a self and re-formed as something new, most powerful when it is pure and isolated. Unadulterated by any sense of humanity.
He becomes intimately acquainted with scenes of the past, with spaces that have changed shape over centuries, watching and waiting as new creatures are born and grow and die. He has studied the architecture of time and fit himself into the folds in its flow. He is the eye that drinks it all in. He is the immortal spy with a mask well-woven and a smile wide enough to fool all the silly young things that look down upon him. He is the one who everybody loves but nobody suspects. Perfect and loyal and always in his place.
It feels so right until it doesn’t. Until Selim becomes fully aware of the dread that crawls into his stomach every night near bedtime, keeping him awake for long hours. This soft terror of becoming complacent. Each memory of Pride’s is a drop of ink into the shallow pool of his brain, and he lives in fear of the day when the water clouds over for good and there is no longer any distinction between the emotions of Selim Bradley and the vestigial predilections of the homunculus that once wore his face.
Selim doesn’t even notice how much he’s been lurking until he catches himself purposefully drawing towards the shadows of half-lit rooms. Between his mother’s only partially-concealed unease, and the increased guard presence at his house, he’s been feeling more and more on edge. So he slips back into old habits. Doubles down on the politeness and the upbeat attitude, never strays far from what exactly is expected of him. Sits patiently through his schoolwork. It’s a much-needed distraction.
He feels terrible lying to his mother when she asks him, time and time again, if he’s sure he’s okay. He shouldn’t be keeping secrets from her. That’s what Pride did, when he inserted himself into Wrath’s game of house. That’s what Pride did, and no, he won’t let himself replicate another of Pride’s mannerisms.
But what’s the alternative? Let it all out, admit how much he’s been remembering of what has come to feel more and more like a past life? The knowledge boils inside him, and—he just doesn’t want to hurt anyone, that’s what it is. He’s hurt too many people, and maybe if it all stays confined in his brain, it won’t be able to get out and cause more trouble.
It isn’t because he’s stubborn (like Pride) and it isn’t because he’s overcommitted to appearing as a perfect son (like Pride) and it certainly isn’t because he wants to keep himself out of trouble until he’s forced to make a move (like Pride). It’s just because—why does the past have to affect the present? Why can’t they bury it all and start afresh?
(What’s so great about the truth, anyway, Colonel Mustang?)
No, no, Selim knows that all of this history is of the utmost importance, perhaps more vividly than he ever has in his life. And so he hates himself when he puts on a cheery smile and does not mention the visions of an ancient, inhuman consciousness swallowing up his own.
If Selim had any mind to explain the whole experience to someone, he might do so with a metaphor of a beach. Of course, Amestris is so land-locked that he’s only ever been to the beach once—a special holiday journey that took many many hours by train. But Selim remembers digging his toes into the wet, pliant sand, and watching, transfixed, as the water ebbed and flowed. It was so calm there, a serenity unmatched by any riverbank or lakeside he knows. The ocean stretched farther than he’d ever imagined was possible; he squinted at the horizon, as if the clouds might resolve themselves into distant mountains, but to no avail. Just the endless, lapping water.
His most distinctive memory from that day is collecting seashells. When the waves shrank back, he would run forward, scooping up any white fragments that peeked out of the sand and dropping them into his pockets. And then the water would return with a vengeance, and Selim would scamper back up the beach, shrieking in delight. About half the time, he couldn’t outrun it, and it would slosh around his legs, an unpleasant onslaught of coldness that always managed to catch him a little off guard.
Nevertheless, Selim continued his dance with the ocean, even as the waves crept higher and higher up the beach. After a time, the waves that caught up with him had become waist-deep, and his nice shorts were soaked through. It was a slow, steady sort of violence. But it was not something his brain would let him escape from. He was determined to travel the entire length of the beach. He wouldn’t be coming here again anytime soon. This was his opportunity to map out the new, exciting terrain.
And in one moment, the water had retreated so far out that Selim could reach a whole new strip of sand, one teeming with shining pebbles and colossal shells. Of course he would rush in. He hadn’t yet grasped the full extent of the sea’s fickle nature.
And when the wave came barreling towards him in all its inexorable force, there was really nothing he could do but stop and stare. It swallowed him up, crushing the air from his lungs, tugging on him with such power that it felt like space itself was conspiring to drag him away. He screamed and choked, but all his energy had been sapped—he was at the mercy of something much larger than him. Ancient and inhuman.
Then the water slipped away, and with the last of his strength he sprung up and dashed away from the ocean, collapsing in the soft, dry sand. But he was sopping wet all over, and the sand stuck to him—he’d be picking grains out of his hair for days to come. And all of his clothes now smelled like saltwater.
Tonight, the dream crashes over Selim Bradley like a tidal wave.
The scene unfolds with a dimensionality that makes him nauseous—shot from the perspective of dozens of eyes, each with its own unique view of the action. The shadows pool and slither around him, shooting out like razor-sharp knives to pierce his opponents. Oh, how he misses his swarm of ever-shifting limbs. A wonderful tribute to his origin. Eldritch and deadly, showcasing perfectly the ways in which he has risen beyond humanity.
Shadow, like water, distorts to fit the shape of its vessel. It flows from one body to another, filling it to the brim, reaching its multitudes of hands around every edge and holding tight. Twisting and twisting the space inside until it is choked in blinding darkness.
And so he invades the hollow shell that calls itself Alphonse Elric.
A forest at nighttime and an enraged chimera who bats and swats him around as if claws and fists and crushing rocks are strong enough to breach the walls of his container. What a fool, to even think himself worthy of challenging the first homunculus. He should have gone with his instincts.
But as light flares back into the forest, the humans adapt, their tactics becoming cleverer—playing with the nature of shadows, using light as a weapon. And here is one of the few times in his life that Selim—that Pride —has felt true, stabbing pain. The shadows are ripped from his body, and it feels for a moment like an arm’s been torn clean off, like a hundred eyes have been gouged out. For that one second, he is nothing but his vessel.
Then all his limbs sprout back, rejoining themselves, and he realizes that he cannot win alone. He must expand his capabilities, and become ever more perfect. Sacrifice is necessary for growth, after all.
And now—
Pride is hungry.
A fight and a trick and a trap and the familiar face of a man who is not his Father, and then there is darkness. And it feels like he is falling through the dream now, bits and pieces whizzing by across his perception as he struggles to regain control of his mind.
(Knock, knock, knock.)
Why don’t we engage in a test of wills, Selim?
(Knock. Knock. Knock.)
This is what happens when you make fun of humans so much.
(Knock, knock, knock.)
What a funny thing to say, Alphonse Elric. You’re barely human yourself.
(Knock, knock, knock.)
I was the one who caused this mess, says Al. Taking the blame for the actions of Pride. How… selfish.
(Knock. Knock. Knock.)
Of course he cares about his human mother. She fascinates him, if nothing else.
(Knock, knock, knock.)
How long do they sit there, in the pitch blackness? The dream stretches the seconds into hours, forces the placid, tinny tones of Alphonse into his ears, plays each word on repeat like a broken record. But Pride is patient. Pride has always been patient.
(Knock, knock, knock.)
“Do you ever feel remorse?” Al asks, some time later. “So many people have suffered at your hands.”
“Why should I? I’m a homunculus.”
“I know. But even if you feel so vastly superior to humans, does that justify harming them just because you can?”
“Would you feel bad for crushing an insect?”
“Yes,” says Al. “Of course I would.”
(Knock. Knock. Knock.)
The beat thrums in his hands, in his body, in his nonexistent heart. The sharp metallic clang of it slices through his head, cuts the silence open wide, leaving it raw and bloody.
(Knock, knock, knock.)
Not too proud to ask for help now, eh?
(Knock, knock, knock.)
And he is wrenched from the quiet slow motion torture and back into the sunlight. And the kicks and jabs and thrusts and deadly slinking shadows are set to the tune of a signal spelled out in wood and metal, too fast, too slow, relentless. The projector in his brain rewinds, smashes together a supercut of violence, a life of waiting as the world fell to its knees. The scales are preposterous. How many lives were lost in the creation of the first homunculus? And how many have been lost since?
(Knock. Knock. Knock.)
It’s unimaginable. But here it is, hammering itself into his brain, and with each strike he cracks a little more—opens himself up to even deeper truths. Memories run like blood through his veins, pulsing in grotesque motion. These eyes have witnessed so much. His mind is an archive of bloodshed and arrogance.
(Knock, knock, knock.)
(Knock, knock, knock.)
Will it stop? Can it stop? If he forces himself awake, will he stir the slumbering monster within him? Will more eyes open than just his two?
(Knock. Knock. Knock.)
(Knock, knock, knock—)
Selim Bradley jolts awake in a pitch black room, and only just manages to bite back a scream.
It’s too much. He has no idea what in the world he’s just experienced, except for that it’s like nothing that has ever happened to him in the eight years of his supposed existence. He’s shivering like he’s in the center of a blizzard; silent tears roll down his face and blur his vision until the shapes in his room seem nothing more than a dark smear. The clanging in his head hasn’t stopped yet. It still reverberates within his bones.
Selim sits up, ignoring the wave of nausea, and grasps his pillow, pressing it to his face. For some reason, his first instinct is to staunch the flow of tears—some tiny piece of his whirling mind is shrieking that he can’t let himself be seen like this. Stay as silent as possible. Don’t make a sound. Don’t give your mother more to worry about.
He can’t be sure whether or not he’s being as quiet as he thinks; his ears are filled with that awful banging, growing fainter and fainter but still achingly present. He pushes his face further into the pillow, muffling the sobs rising in his throat.
Just breathe. Breathe. Calm down first, ask questions later. Come on, Selim, you’re a good boy. You can do it.
He pulls his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, taking huge, shaky breaths. It’s okay. He had a nightmare. He’s had nightmares before! And they’ve always turned out okay.
But those ones weren’t like this. Those ones weren’t real.
Selim finally gets himself into a place where he can begin to think semi-rationally about what has just occurred. He’s no longer shaking; the banging has faded to a dim echo. He’s safe. Probably.
Does he dare turn on the lights?
No, no—because then they’ll cast shadows. Shadows that could come alive and gobble him up.
Like—like he did to Gluttony—to Kimblee—
A fresh wave of terror runs through him as he considers the meaning behind the nightmare. Of course. Pride’s memories. All of these things happened, once upon a time. This is how he learns about the reality of the war: first-hand, through his own recollections. He did all this. It’s his fault.
Slowly, Selim places the pillow behind him and lays down once more, staring up at the blank ceiling. The adrenaline pumping through him won’t allow him to sleep anymore, that’s for sure. But all of a sudden he just feels… numb. Has he accepted it all so quickly? He hasn’t even gone through all the other stages of grief yet! Shouldn’t he be fighting to deny that the dreams hold any truth? That it’s all just a fiction?
No, his instincts are stronger than that. At this point, it seems like there is nothing he can do but accept it. There’s no use crying about it indefinitely. If this is his punishment for all the things he saw in the dream—well, then it’s too kind, probably. What do they do with murderers? Manipulators? Liars? People who seize control of others’ bodies? Maybe he should be locked up in a dark prison cell, so deep that no light can find him. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about the eyes.
He stays like that until sunrise—flat on his back, unmoving. He dips in and out of consciousness, but never long enough to dream. And once he feels the warmth of the sun on his face through the window, he forces himself to open his eyes and seek out the room’s shadows.
He breathes a sigh of relief when they don’t move. They don’t even blink.
By the time his mother comes up to his room and flips on the light, Selim is fully awake. He’s been pouring through old memories—ones that he knows are his. Playing at the park with the other homeschool kids. Learning to draw with pencil and paper. Going birdwatching, making sure to bring the binoculars he got for his birthday.
(His conversation with Roy Mustang. The photographs. His unhelpful phone call.)
But actually, as he thinks about it… it might have been more helpful than he’d presumed.
“Rise and shine!” calls his mother softly. “Only one day left until the weekend! Aren’t you excited, Selim? I thought we could—”
She pauses as she takes him in—his blank face, wide eyes, caught in an unmoving stupor.
“A-are you alright, dear?”
“Didn’t sleep well,” murmurs Selim.
“Oh no! Well, if you’d like to postpone—”
“No,” he says, sitting up too fast again. His brain has locked on to something the Colonel said, and it won’t let go. “Can… can you take me to Central Headquarters?”
She blinks, her mouth falling slightly open. “Central Headquarters? Why would you want to go there?”
“Please. I need to.”
A pause. His mother takes in his pleading expression, the shock and sorrow behind his big brown eyes, the way he’s gripping his sheets so hard his knuckles turn white. And she nods.
I’m supposed to be calling Alphonse Elric in a couple minutes, Roy had said. He’s visiting Friday, he said.
In the car ride over to Central Command, Selim begins to quietly panic again. He’s making this impulsive journey off so little information. Would a visitor come to Central? Is there a special reception area or something? Why is Alphonse even visiting in the first place? And from where? How does he know the visit hasn’t been postponed or something?
But he needs to do this. There is nothing more important in the world right now—everything seems to have come to a halt except the steady progression of the car.
Selim presses his nose up to the glass in the window. So many people outside, going about their business at 8:00 AM on a Friday. Any of these people could be Alphonse, making his way to the Headquarters. Selim doesn’t know what Al looks like now that he’s not a suit of armor. But he trusts he’ll know when he sees him.
His mother’s eyes find his in the mirror up front. “Did you want to see Colonel Mustang?” she asks quietly.
Selim shakes his head.
They inch closer and closer. Selim thrusts his hands into his pockets and wills himself not to fidget. A huge, dark mass has settled in his stomach, like a clump of shadowy butterflies. If this doesn’t work—if he’s too early or too late—all this anxiety will be for nothing. He doesn’t know what he’ll do then. He doesn’t know if he could do anything without this closure.
After what seems like hours, Selim’s mother parks in front of Central HQ. Selim practically leaps out of the car. He’s only been here a couple times, but the fortress structure has always seemed intimidating. A remnant of the days when the military was at its height.
Fortunately, his mother seems on good terms with the guards, and after a brief explanation the two of them are through the gate and travelling up towards the top of the pyramid. The journey takes forever, especially given his mother’s infuriatingly slow pace. Even the exercise does nothing to assuage Selim’s restless nerves. He wants to be there already. He wants to do what he came here for.
The huge gate at the top is open, and a couple people are milling about who don’t seem like military personnel. Selim scans each face, looking for Alphonse. No luck.
He keeps up this activity as they pass through the courtyard. A few small groups are scattered around, sitting on the lawns and chatting. The vibe is significantly friendlier than it was back then—back when his father was in command, he realizes with a start. Panic rises at the edges of his brain again as it becomes clear where he got that information from.
It’s up some more steps after that, and finally into the central building. Selim’s hopes are rapidly fading, especially as he registers the size of the lobby, all the people in blue uniforms passing to and fro. How is he supposed to find one man in a place this huge?
“Selim,” comes his mother’s voice, “why don’t you tell the receptionist who you’re looking for?”
His eyes fix upon a man at a small desk near the front of the room. Right. Okay. He makes a beeline towards him as fast as he can, leaving his mother to hurry after him.
The receptionist peers down at Selim, clearly surprised. Selim rises up onto the tips of his toes and grips the edge of the desk. When he speaks, it comes out much too shrill. “I-is Alphonse Elric here?”
“Yes,” responds the man, arching an eyebrow, and Selim almost collapses forward onto the desk in relief. He rocks back onto his heels instead. “He arrived about half an hour ago. Do you have—”
“Where is he?”
“Are you a—”
“Where is he!” Selim yells. His voice cracks.
The receptionist looks alarmed. “He—he was meeting with Colonel Mustang, I think—”
“Where?”
“Well, the Colonel’s office is…”
Selim is concentrating so hard that he almost misses the directions. He makes the man repeat them, thanks him in as polite a tone as he can, and sets off down the hallway. His mother makes hasty apologies to the receptionist before rushing after him.
So close. So close. His mind is a blur again, unwanted images bubbling back from his subconscious, replaying the highlights of his harrowing nightmare. His heart feels as fast as the wings of a hummingbird. Maybe it’ll all be over soon. Maybe he’ll be able to figure it out. Maybe he has nothing to fear. Then why does he feel like he’s about to pass out? Why is he more afraid than he’s ever been in his life?
He breaks into a sprint.
Each corridor looks the same. His mother jogs after him, but he pays her little mind, pushing past all the loitering officials, glancing down every hall and peering into every open door. Mustang’s office should be here somewhere. If they’re still around. If they haven’t moved to another part of the building. If he’s not too late—
Two men turn into the hallway. One is dressed in uniform, and his black hair falls slightly over his eyes. The other is tall and blonde, with short hair that’s parted on one side and wide, excited eyes. The way he’s dressed is not unlike Selim himself—in a collared shirt and an olive waistcoat. His hands are stuck in his pockets; he’s got a jovial air to him that makes him seem… approachable.
The two of them stop as soon as they see Selim at the end of the hall, their conversation coming to an abrupt halt. Roy Mustang looks as surprised as the receptionist, as does his companion. But it does not escape Selim’s notice that the first emotion to flit across Alphonse’s face is fear.
There is a long, long moment of absolute silence. Selim’s heart feels like it’s about to jump out of his throat.
“What,” begins Roy, but Selim is already sprinting towards the two of them. His head is filled with noise, the weight of sudden memories pressing down upon him once more, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s sobbing, loud and ugly in all the ways he wouldn’t let himself cry a couple hours ago. He drops to his knees in front of Alphonse (because it is Alphonse, despite the way that his mind insists on conjuring pictures of a gigantic suit of armor) and covers his face with his hands and wails like a banshee. He knows he’s supposed to use his words. He knows that neither of them have any clue why he’s here. But the tears keep coming and coming, and his throat is all constricted and he doesn’t even know what he would say—
And then someone is knelt in front of him, and two arms curl around his back, and Alphonse’s voice whispers, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“I’m s-s-sorry,” Selim chokes.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to be sorry. You’re safe. Don’t worry.”
In the background, Selim’s mother has caught up with them. She lets out a shout, and he can hear her rushing forward—but Roy steps in, and she stops. He can’t hear their conversation over the pounding in his head.
(Knock, knock, knock.)
But the man before him isn’t made of metal. He’s someone different now. Different and yet the same.
“You d-don’t understand,” Selim manages to get out. The words are wobbly and disjointed, thick with water and mucus. “I—I—I hurt you, and I’m sorry, I’m so s-sorry, Alphonse—I was s-s-so horrible, I—I remembered—w-with you and the forest and the flares, the d-darkness, and I—”
The hands on his back go tense.
“I’m sorry!!” he cries again. He’s sure Al knows what he’s talking about now, and if he’s pushed some buttons—if he’s reminded him of something he’d rather forget—
“No, no, don’t be. Shhh. It’s okay.”
“It’s not!”
“It is. We’re here and we’re safe, okay? Selim—Selim, look at me.”
He slides his hands away from his face and looks upwards into Alphonse’s golden eyes. There’s no fear there anymore. He’s smiling slightly, calm as could ever be, even in the face of… of all this.
“Selim, you’re not Pride.”
Beat. He swallows. “Roy s-said I was.”
Al’s eyes flick up to Roy, standing behind Selim, then settle back on Selim’s face. “Roy was wrong.”
“He wasn’t! I remember it!! I remember everything—”
“Memory’s a strange thing, Selim. You might have his memories, but I promise you that that isn’t the same thing as being him.”
“N-no, I—I look like him too—”
“That’s just because he used your body as a vessel. That has nothing to do with your soul, I swear.”
Selim blinks, wiping the fresh tears from his eyes. “But I don’t know that!! Aren’t—aren’t people just a bunch of memories in a body? Isn’t that what you were, when you were in the armor?”
He doesn’t expect Alphonse to laugh at that. He settles down into a more comfortable position, resting his hands on Selim’s shoulders. “Maybe! It’s hard to say. But Pride is different. Pride was a homunculus. He was destroyed when his philosopher’s stone was destroyed.”
“But he wasn’t destroyed! Because I remember—”
“Do you feel like Pride?”
Selim bites his lip. “I—I don’t—”
“Let me tell you something,” says Al. He leans in a little closer, like he’s sharing a secret. “Do you know how I know you aren’t Pride? It’s because Pride would never apologize. He would never admit he was wrong. And he would never let someone see him like this, all torn-up and crying. He had an image to maintain. He had his pride to protect.”
“O-oh.” He sniffles, turning Al’s words over and over in his mind. His eyes are watery, but no new tears spill from them. Maybe—maybe Al is right. Maybe he’s been so focused on all of Pride’s other little personality traits that he almost forgot about the most important one.
Alphonse closes his eyes and smiles fully, tilting his head to one side. “You see? There you go. It’s okay.”
“B-b-but what if I want to apologize anyway?”
“Hmm? No, I promise you don’t need to. You never did those things.”
“I feel like I did them!!”
“That sounds awful,” Al murmurs with genuine sympathy.
“I remember taking over your body… and trying to kill your friends… and we were trapped in that dome together, and—and—”
“Sounds like you remember better than me.”
“What?”
He chuckles. “It was eight years ago!”
Selim doesn’t know what to say to that. It all feels so present in his mind—like all of hundreds and hundreds of years played out yesterday. His mouth opens and closes until he finally just decides to repeat, “But I—Pride—he hurt you.”
“Yes. And there are things that happened then that I’m never, ever going to forget. But it was never your fault. You are not to blame for the sins of the thing that used your body.”
Though it’s likely not Al’s intention, Selim can’t help but imagine he’s addressing himself as well. Way back when, Al had held himself responsible for the way that Pride had hijacked his body and used it against the people he loved. Maybe he’s realized the truth—that he isn’t to blame for being the victim.
“I wish I hadn’t known,” Selim whispers after a moment. Not sure whether or not he means it.
“It’s a hard truth to deal with.”
“But—but I would have found out at some point, right?”
“Mostly likely,” Al says, looking somber.
“So maybe it’s good I know now?”
“That’s up to you to decide.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to know.” Al heaves a deep sigh, his shoulders moving up and down. “Oh, Selim. I am so, so sorry.”
“W-why are you apologizing??”
“Because you didn’t deserve any of this! And neither did your mother. To be completely honest, I was a bit taken aback when I heard that she was going to raise the little baby that Ed gave her. But then she told us more about you as you grew up—how kind and caring you always were—and it made me so hopeful. It felt like we’d saved a life, you know. Like… after all that death and destruction, something new had come into the world. And that was beautiful.”
Selim thinks he might just burst into tears again. He presses his face into Alphonse’s shoulder, and Al gladly hugs him back, pulling him close to his chest.
He’s got to say, it’s a much, much better sort of closeness than the uncomfortable intimacy of invading the soul of a suit of armor.
They stay there, in that embrace, for a long, long while. Selim keeps his eyes squeezed shut, clinging to Al like a lifeline. It’s nothing like the tense, gaping silence of the earthy dome. Both of them are human now. Both of them are breathing in time.
After a minute, Al raises his head up and begins speaking softly to Roy and Selim’s mother. Something about chastising Roy for dumping this all on a kid and leaving him with no reliable support network, something about therapy, some vague explanation as to Selim’s breakdown, and lots and lots of apologies. Selim doesn’t catch it all. He doesn’t think he needs to hear it. He just wants everything to go away right now—all the pictures in his head, all the emotions, the way that his heart feels like bursting in all sorts of different ways.
And, slowly but surely, it all fades out.
When he wakes, he’s lying on the couch in what he presumes is Roy Mustang’s office. The adults are clustered around the table, conversing in soft voices. Selim’s mother looks like she’s been crying. There’s another person in the room too—an older man with a scarred face who Selim feels like he should recognize but whose name he can’t place. As the four of them notice Selim stirring, the other man stands, says his goodbyes, and leaves.
Then his mother has jumped up from the table and flung her arms around him, crying that she had no idea what he was going through, that she didn’t know what to do, that she should have tried harder to help him find answers, that she’s sorry, she’s so sorry.
Selim is just confused and exhausted and he wants to go home. But he hugs her back as tight as he can. And—it’s nice to not be the only one offering apologies.
The car ride home is just as quiet as the one on the way there, but in a good way, this time.
Here’s the thing—Selim hasn’t figured it out yet. There’s so much to process, so many images to parse, hundreds of years of memories to sift through if he so chooses. His brain feels as if it’s filled with fog. But as the day crawls on, the nightmares seem to lose their edge; they all blend together like the beats of a particularly complex story. Something he heard a long time ago, not something he directly experienced.
History is never going to go back to being just history, though. There are still gaps in his understanding that desperately need to be filled. He thinks he can stomach the truth about his father, now. About both of his Fathers. When he’s ready, he’ll ask for the real story—and he doubts anyone will say no.
And most of all—
He isn’t Pride. The echoes might not have faded, but Pride is well and truly gone. He’s not sure he understands that fully, not yet, but if Alphonse says it’s true then he’s going to cling to it with his whole heart.
He goes back to bed as soon as he returns, and his dreams, miraculously, are sweet ones.