Chapter Text
This is it, Ed thinks, staring at the souls he is about to sacrifice to save an enemy, a friend, and himself. They writhe and morph, crying out for aid, laughing maniacally, their cacophonous screams muting to a dull roar in the alchemist’s ears. He has to do this. It’s the only way. The only way I’ll get to see Al again.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He can feel Envy’s disdainful gaze, but he refuses to look into the homunculus’ monstrous eyes. So what if he pities them? These souls deserve respect, even if they no longer remember who they are. “But I need to use you.”
There. He can do it now.
Grunting, he forces shaking arms into position. His flesh arm protests the movement, but he ignores it. Pain doesn’t matter. Only getting home matters.
“Get ready!” he shouts. He claps, then places his hands in the center of the array.
Light bursts out from the array, blue at first, but changing quickly to a bloody red. Shadowy hands emerge, wriggling and reaching for something to hold onto and drag into the portal.
Ed almost smiles, and despite the terror he can feel building inside, he is calm. The eye opens beneath him, and he stares into it. After the dark, macabre abyss of Gluttony’s stomach, this, at least, is a familiar nightmare. “Long time no see,” he mutters. “Too bad this isn’t why I planned on opening you again.” He tears his gaze away and shouts, “Ling, jump in it!”
Ling gasps. Ed can’t see the other boy, but his indecision is palpable. After a moment, he shouts, “You better know what you’re doing! I’m trusting you!”
Ed doesn’t turn to look, but he hears the discomfited grunts that mean Ling is being deconstructed. More than that, he can almost… sense it. He can feel that the portal, the portal he opened, has begun to let through an unexpected guest.
He hears the agonized moans of the souls and spares a glance, watching as their tortured faces disintegrate. A sacrifice. Thank you, he thinks, watching one peaceful countenance disappear into whiteness. Thank you.
He is the only one left. Wincing, he glances back to the portal, feels his own skin, his innards, his very soul fracturing into tiny fragments-
Then, nothing.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing and nothing but him, hurtling through the nothing, alone and lonely until he hears it, the rushing, the sound of everything, and he can’t see it but he feels it, everything unraveling to base components and reforming into something new and perfect and impossible, and his body and soul and mind are separate but together, flowing forward inexorably to a destination he knows like he knows the darkest ideas that have ever entered his thoughts-
~~~
Truth sits on emptiness, smiling wide. “ Now what’s this? ” it says into Ed’s mind. “ You’re not even trying to get your body back, are you? ”
~~~
“W-were there always two portals?”
~~~
“AL! Ergh, Al, c’mon! PLEASE! Hurry, Al! AL!”
“I can’t,” Al whispers. “I can only leave with my own soul.”
~~~
“I’m sorry I can’t go with you,” Al says, unsmiling against the onslaught of his brother’s screams, and Ed, being dragged away from everything that matters, can do nothing.
~~~
I’ll be back. He has to know I’ll come back for him someday.
A metal fist punches the Gate open.
~~~
“Alphonse! Look at me. I promise! Someday soon, I’m coming back for you! Just you wait. WAIT FOR ME!”
~~~
The Truth, far from the eyes and ears of any being capable of understanding, laughs. “ Oh, silly little al-chem-ist, ” it hisses. “ There’s more to this toll than you’ll ever know. ”
~something is different~
Albus is just settling down behind his desk to sign some paperwork when a bell starts ringing in his head.
For a moment, Albus is utterly perplexed and deeply concerned. It is in the nature of magical alarms to instantly inform the caster of (in the case of wizards who have laid numerous spells of such caliber, such as Albus) which wards have been breached, where, and how, but the information he is receiving makes absolutely no sense. How can someone have simply appeared in the middle of Godric’s Hollow Cemetery? The anti-Apparition charms he layered over the area were foolproof… or so he’d assumed, since he’d never had reason to believe they weren’t. Evidently Albus had overestimated his abilities.
Albus only allows himself a moment of confused contemplation before rising to his feet. “Fawkes, to me,” he says.
Obediently, the stunning creature lifts his head and chirps before hopping from his perch to Albus’ arm. His talons dig into Albus’ flesh slightly, but it doesn’t hurt. Fawkes is lighter than he looks.
With a wave of his wand, a scroll of parchment unrolls itself, and a quill scribbles a note to Minerva on it. Another wave, and the note folds itself into the shape of an airplane and zips out the window to find its recipient.
“And we’re off,” Albus says, and he and Fawkes burst into flame. A moment later, they’re gone, with only the faintest hint of smoke remaining to show they were even there.
The odd pair materialize outside the gates, and Albus dismisses Fawkes with a stroke of his fiery plumage and a soft, “Off you go, now.” Fawkes bobs his head and takes flight, soaring into the night, but Albus knows his faithful phoenix won’t stray too far. That’s one of the best parts of having such a fantastically powerful creature as a companion: no matter how far he wanders, Fawkes can always return to his side in a matter of seconds.
Albus doesn’t wait to see Fawkes disappear, instead turning towards the wrought iron gates of the cemetery and passing through them in silence. It has been a while since his last visit, but the graveyard looks the same; dark, overgrown in places, but ultimately well-kept, with evidence of other visitors in the floral wreaths that adorn some of the newer graves.
Albus passes the Potter grave, with its usual abundance of flowers and trinkets, but for once doesn’t stop to pay his respects. The intruder didn’t disturb the Potters, which surprises Albus, but he has no time to wonder why. The klaxons ringing in his skull are pulling him further on, and he frowns. Surely not…
Albus reaches the Dumbledore family plot and freezes in his tracks.
There, before the graves of his father, mother, and sister, lies a person dressed all in black with long blonde hair. Albus scans them and concludes that this person (evidently the one that set off the alarms) is a man. Or, no, his face is far too young. A boy, then, a child , not possibly older than 16. Worse yet, he’s covered in blood.
Albus kneels beside the boy. He is unconscious, breathing steadily. The amount of blood is disconcerting, but it can’t belong to the child, thankfully. He sees no evidence of bleeding wounds, just a splint around his arm. The blood is fresh, though, still wet and shiny in his hair. Albus swallows heavily. Whatever happened to this boy was obviously traumatizing.
Slowly, Albus reaches into his robes for his wand.
Like lightning, the boy springs into action. His hand whips forward, gripping Albus’s wrist tight. (His fingers are slippery and red.) In an instant, he’s on his feet, twisting in ways that shouldn’t be possible, and the next thing Albus knows, he’s being pressed into the ground, his wand arm behind his back at an uncomfortable angle.
“Who are you?” the boy demands. His voice is clear, and clearly furious. “Where am I? What the fuck is going on?”
Albus can’t reply. He’s old, and the position of his arm is quickly progressing from uncomfortable to painful. He manages a hurt gasp.
The boy doesn’t release him. If anything, his grip tightens, and Albus groans as his arm is pressed further into his back.
“Answer me!” the boy hisses.
“Please stop,” Albus whispers. “I can’t-”
This seems to do the trick. The hold on Albus loosens, and he breathes for a moment, in and out, grateful that his arm is no longer causing him such distress.
“Shit, you’re old,” the boy seems to realize. He lets go of Albus entirely, and the elder rises painstakingly to his feet to face his attacker.
Said attacker is still poised to fight. He is mostly focused on Albus, but his eyes (which are a strange shade that Albus can’t quite make out in the dark) dart about his surroundings.
“Who are you?” the boy asks again, firmly. The surprise he expressed upon realizing the age of the man he grabbed shows nowhere on his face. On the contrary, his expression is cold and empty of emotion. He doesn’t look young anymore.
The headmaster sighs. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. Are you all right?”
The boy doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he snorts humorlessly. “That’s not a real name. Tell the truth.”
“I assure you, it’s quite authentic,” Albus says. He’d be more amused by the boy’s contrariness if the situation wasn’t so urgent. “I must ask again, are you all right? Do you know how you arrived here?”
“I’m fine, old man,” the boy snaps. His fists lower, though, as if he’s ascertained that his surroundings are less of a threat to him than he is to them. “As for how I got here, I think you should be the one to answer that question.”
Albus shrugs. “I’m afraid I’m as clueless as you, my dear boy. You appeared in this cemetery, covered in blood, and you bypassed all my wards to do so. I’d hoped you’d be able to shed some light on the situation, but evidently not.”
This explanation doesn’t satisfy the boy. His eyes narrow. “Okay, first off, grandpa, I’m not your dear anything. Do you have any idea how creepy that sounds? And second, what do you mean, wards?”
That’s not a good sign. If this child doesn’t know what wards are at his age (14? 15? He acts so much older, though) then he’s either had a vastly subpar magical education… or he’s a Muggle.
Albus really hopes he isn’t a Muggle.
Before he can decide on a next course of action, Albus notices something. An odd glint. It draws his attention to the boys hands.
One of his hands is made of metal. It’s clenched into a fist.
The boy notices Albus’s gaze and glares at him. “What, you’ve never seen a guy with automail before?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Albus murmurs. “What’s your name?”
The boy backs away slightly, his arms coming up to hold a defensive position. “I’m still waiting for a real name, gramps.”
“Once again, my name really is Albus Dumbledore,” Albus says. “I’m the headmaster of a school in Scotland. Surely by now you know that I mean you no harm, and even if I did, I doubt I could overpower you.” Not physically, at least, but if the boy isn’t magical, there’s no reason to expose himself by pulling out his wand. “Please, I would like to know your name, at least.”
The boy frowns, but seems to accept this. His arms go back to his sides, metal fingers moving just as easily as the real ones.
“Edward,” he says at last. “My name is Edward. What did you mean when you said you’d never seen automail before? And what’s Scotland?”
Ah, Albus thinks. This might be a bit more complicated than I expected.
*end of prologue*