Chapter Text
Edward had an idea in his mind of what death looked like. He figured it’d be something similar to what he saw that first time he faced the Truth: a blindingly white room with an iron door. The Truth would confirm his passing and the reliefs on the gate would glow as they opened. Where this would take him, he could not imagine. Afterlife seemed so feeble, so simple, like a fabrication of the human mind. But still—if not to Heaven or Hell, then where to? Perhaps it was a cycle? Like alchemic energy, would he be reborn?
There was no such transfer period between him bleeding out on the cold stone floor of that abandoned Amestrian building and him waking to a rumbling beneath his feet. Why he was standing up right he did not know—but the ruddy tiles beneath his unfamiliar leather-clad feet trembled. His vision was clouded by smoke, though he was unsure of whether it was his eyes producing this obscuration or something surrounding him. When his ears stopped humming a violent ring, shrill screams and panicked conversation bombarded him. He pressed his hands to his head to make it stop, but found himself stumbling forward as a woman desperately pushed past him, corralling her children down the street.
“Excuse—” Edward tried to say, but he ended up heaving. Tears brimmed in his eyes. Where was he? Why was everything on fire?
He forced his heart to settle and took shallow, hot breaths. His vision was a bit clearer now, but the scene happening around him didn’t give him much more to go off of. All he saw were people running, tripping over themselves and shoving whoever and whatever was in their way. A few people—families, Edward thinks—cling together, holding the hands of children and the shoulders of the injured. Whatever caused all this was a real catastrophe, because a good amount of people had something missing. Fingers, arms, ears… and that’s not even mentioning the blood-red dust covering half of them.
“Edward!” someone behind him called. Edward turned to face them and immediately regretted it. Something was clearly wrong with his head, and it felt too painful to just be because of the smoke.
Seeing Edward’s grimace, the man grabbed his shoulders and looked him over. His blue eyes were intense, and Edward wanted to pull away. Oddly enough though, in the back of his mind, he felt a flicker of recognition for this stranger. Once satisfied, the man straightened his overalls and grabbed Edward by the arm.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” the man asked him. His accent was so odd, and nothing like Edward had heard before. His gloved hand held Edward’s bicep too tight.
Edward hesitated; the last time he tried to speak didn’t go so well, but he answered: “I don’t think so.”
The man looked back at him and furrowed his brow. Ultimately, he didn’t voice any concerns, but he did speed up in taking Edward through the crowd. Amidst the crying people, Edward began to wonder if this was hell. It would make sense—the fire, the terrified people, the insufferable and claustrophobic heat—Maybe this was damnation. What a horrible thought.
“Your father should be just past the hill, by the big roundabout,” The man told Edward breathily. Edward’s feet hurt from running, and he felt pretty close to blacking out, but he was awake enough to hear him say that.
“My father…?” What would he be doing here? Did something happen to him too? If this was hell, then someone must’ve killed Hohenheim for him to be here. But that just didn’t make any sense.
“Yes, lad, your father.” The man now warily looked at Edward, but his grip also tightened. “Don’t worry. We’re almost there, Edward. West End is safe.”
West End? Where is West End?
Before Edward could ask, the ground began to rumble again, but much worse this time, like a giant following behind the crowd. People’s screams grew louder and many people began to cover their ears and cry. An old man fell to the ground, kneeling prostrate. A long beaded bracelet was in his hands as he murmured inaudibly. Edward and the man moved forward as that stranger was enveloped by smoke.
And then it came, the world-shattering noise. It started with a short boom. Edward’s ears began to ring again, which made him want to vomit, but that was hardly the worst of it. What came after was a heartstopping wave that first echoed outward and then got sucked inward, completely knocking the breath out of Edward’s chest. All at once, the foundations of the buildings lining the shuddered. Their windows shattered and the facades splintered. The few lights that had been on flickered before coming to a sharp stop. What could not be understated was the severe amount of dust cascading from every rooftop, every balcony, and every street. It all added to the evening’s darkness. Only a minute or so after did Edward realize he’d lost his friend.
He stood there for a moment, staring blankly into the barely visible sky behind him. It was all orange and grey. Black smoke formed marvellous clouds in the sky and papers and flower petals rained down on the crowd. People had probably left them on the balconies of their home, expecting to come back and tend to their garden; to read the news. This wasn’t hell. This was an awake and suffering world, and Edward was now living in it.
If I could help Amestris, I can help this place too. Edward thought to himself, standing still as the crowd warped around him, trying to escape. He pressed his palms together and raised them to the sky. If he could just use all the material in the air and somehow transmute it…
“You have to move, love!” A woman shouted at him. Caught off guard, Edward looked at her, trying to see if it was someone he knew, but in his motion he was shoved by someone and fell. The skin of his cheek was on fire and his palms were torn up from the gritty road. He felt himself being kicked—maybe not intentionally, but the people around them were definitely in too much of a rush to notice a scrawny boy on the ground. He closed his eyes as the thudding of people’s feet grew louder in his head. Oh, his head. Just walking had been nauseating. Laying down felt too good for him to try to get up. What was even beyond the hill? Was there Alphonse, standing with Hohenheim, revealing that Edward’s plan had worked and more? Was Rose with them, safe with her baby? Was Winry next to her, safe and sound…
“Edward? Edward!” He could barely hear the man through his shocked stupor. He honestly wasn’t expecting him to be alive. Edward let out a loud and desperate groan in response. He heard heavy footsteps circle him before being enveloped by a strong pair of arms. He was lifted up, and for once he was glad about his size, because the last thing he wanted to do was inconvenience this man. In his blindness he rested his head against the man’s shoulder.
“That’s alright, that’s alright,” The man murmured. If his face wasn’t right against Edward’s ear, Edward wouldn’t have heard him at all. People were still wailing. An alarm was going off, and the blurriness of his eyes captured the red and blue lights. The man was still murmuring soothing words to Edward as they both took the impact of every harsh step and rigid tile. “We’re almost there, Ed. Uncle Yuriy’s got you.”
“Uncle… Yuriy…”
“That’s right, sweetheart. It’s all right,” But his uncle’s voice shook. “We’re almost there.”
At the mouth of the street, people are pouring out into a roundabout filled with escapees and members of a militia with big letters on their vests spelling out: POLICE. They guided people towards vans with crosses and laurels on them. What Edward could assume were medics hopped out of them carrying stretchers, medicine bags, and bandages. He could’ve sworn one of the medics looked like the blurry image of Psiren, an old enemy of his, but he was in no position to investigate. The man—Uncle Yuriy, apparently, which was impossible because Yuriy Rockbell was long dead—was still carrying him like a baby. Edward could feel him wiping a bit of dust off his nose and his uninjured cheek, which was nice.
“Move along, sir,” a man, probably one of those “police” guys, ordered Uncle Yuriy.
“I’m with Hohenheim and Churchill,” Uncle Yuriy insisted. “and this one’s Hohenheim’s son.”
The police-man scowled. “Head along then. Not much up the hill. It’s all bombed out.”
“Thank you, good chap!” Edward could feel Yuriy bump into some of the militia members. Then, in a soft murmur: “Fuckin’ pigs they are.”
From then on, things got easier. The hill, from Edward’s limited perspective, was large but not steep. The air as they ascended got clearer too. Edward relaxed as the world fell into a calm rhythm, and his headache was eased by the breathing of his revived uncle and the singular footsteps that grounded them to the motionless earth.
By the time they reached the top, Edward was entering a deep slumber, but in the forefront of his mind, he could hear Uncle Yuriy greeting some men.
“Hohenheim! Very child-focused as always,” Uncle Yuriy said in a condescending voice.
“The situation was urgent, Yuriy.” Hohenheim replied coolly. Always unsurprised and imperturbable. Edward’s dearest dead-beat father.
“Enough.” The third voice I did not recognize. “Can’t you see we’re at war, men? This bombing was nothing.”
“Indeed,” Hohenheim said. “In fact, I have a feeling the entire world will be shifting in the near future.”
Edward could feel Uncle Yuriy clench his jaw. “Always the riddles.”
“It’s just a prediction. And likely the truth.”
Oh, how annoyingly right his father could be sometimes. For such a neglectful man, knowledge seems to be at his fingertips. The bombing wasn’t a sign of universal detriment, but Edward’s arrival was.