Chapter Text
When Edward Elric was four hundred and twenty-four years old, he turned eleven. On February 3rd, 1912, he sat outside the new Colonel's office, snow drifted lazily over East City, and frost crystals left intricate patterns on the windows. Resting his chin on his knee, he dug into the back of his mind, trying to hear souls trapped within his chest. It had been over three hundred years since he'd spoken to any of them, but on occasion, Edward thought he could hear them scream.
The reason for his transfer was unknown to him. Raven had given him a reproachful look when he'd asked, and neither Archer nor Bradley had been willing to tell him. So, not remembering the name of the Colonel he'd be serving, he waited to be called into the office. He was sure it was in there somewhere, but he'd forgotten it on his way from Central, and Edward had never quite grown out of relying on the souls to remind him of names and dates. All the Colonels, Generals, Brigadier Generals, and the Führer himself were the same, and the new Colonel all of Central had been gushing about would be no different.
When the thick, dark wood door opened with a click, he instinctively jumped to his feet, right hand raised in a salute. The man in front of him stared, eyes wide as saucers and jaw hanging open, cigarette falling from between his lips. He looked Edward up and down about a dozen times before turning back into the office and calling to one of the other soldiers over his shoulder.
A young boy—or perhaps he was a man, Edward couldn't quite tell—with black hair and chubby cheeks peered over the man's shoulder. "There's no way that's him!" he exclaimed with little regard for the fact that Edward was standing right in front of them.
"Did you… er… get lost?" asked the older man, scratching his head.
Edward scowled. He found it hard to believe that they didn't know about him. Perhaps the story wasn't as widespread in the East as it was in Central, but either way, it was a rumor that had been in circulation since the creation of Amestris. Soldiers were forbidden to speak of it, so it wasn't as if Edward could correct him, but he hadn't expected the lot to be so oblivious.
"No," he snapped.
The two soldiers shared a skeptical glance, and Edward resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Really?"
"Yeah, really."
Another head peeked out into the hall. This one had a scruffy sort of look to him, with a square jaw and a shaggy ginger crew cut. "You're telling me," he began, "that this is the Fullmetal Alchemist?"
Fishing out his watch from pockets too deep, Edward thrust it at the group of gawking soldiers. "Do you want me to go back to Central and get the damn certificate?"
Though if he were being honest with himself, he had no idea where he'd left the paper, nor could he remember if Bradley had let him keep it.
The cigarette man raised his hands in surrender. "No need to get your knickers in a twist, kid."
Edward's eye twitched. That was another piece of slang he'd failed to keep up with, and 'kid'. It was only fair that they thought that, given his miserable appearance, but based on those three men alone, he was beginning to be grateful for the "legends" and rumors at Central Command.
"Where's the Colonel?" he grumbled, stuffing his watch back into the scratchy uniform pocket. "I don't have time to waste on this."
They looked at each other, as if Edward was the strangest person they'd ever laid eyes on. "He's in his office…" said the redhead, "come on in, I guess."
Shoving past them, Edward scanned the room, which would be his prison for at least the next several months. It wasn't much different from Archer's office, which was—if he remembered correctly—the last Colonel he'd served in recent years. Desks were arranged in rows of three, and at the head of the room was a larger, mahogany desk. The Colonel sat behind it, and as he approached, his heart stopped.
It was Roy Mustang. That couldn't be, he'd avoided him since the war. It should've been enough. Edward hoped, with every fiber of his being, that it was a cruel trick of the light. He was supposed to have saved this iteration, reincarnation, whatever the world had cursed him with. Edward couldn't watch him die again.
Xerxes, 1500 AD
Hot wind whistled through the chamber, carrying a strange, metallic smell into the palace. Alphonse clutched Edward's hand, but all the older brother could look at was the series of gems in the wall, which left Edward with a terrible feeling in his gut. The gems gleamed crimson in the evening sun. He recognized that circle, well, the type of circle it was. Based on the lines and patterns, it was an Alchemical Transmutation circle. And that night, the King was going to use it to become immortal.
King Xerxes sat in near worship in front of the circle; his hands raised to the jewels. Edward looked for their father, who stood off to the side, carrying that little flask he'd had since before either he or Alphonse had been born. It made Edward uneasy—he didn't like keeping it in the house. It always seemed to be watching.
The King's sages stood along the edges of the circle, just close enough that they'd be safe, but only Xerxes would acquire his coveted immortality. For Edward's entire childhood, his father had been talking about it; he thought it was the most amazing thing, even on Alphonse's tenth birthday, the immortality of the King had them standing in the palace with bated breath. He didn't share the same opinion. If immortality were really achievable, the King did not deserve it. Why did he deserve immortality above their mother? She'd been a doctor when a plague spread through the desert; she'd saved dozens, perhaps hundreds of people, but when she'd grown sick, no one fought so hard to save her life as they had to immortalize a King.
Edward scowled, squeezing his brother's hand. After this, they would go home and celebrate, not the King, but Al. Edward would make sure they did. He wouldn't allow his brother to feel the same loneliness they felt when their mother died again.
"Brother," Alphonse whispered, "this doesn't feel right. I want to go home."
"We will, soon," he replied, looking back to their father, who spoke animatedly with the "Dwarf in the Flask" as he called it. "I'm going to go talk to him. I'll be right back," he then added with the biggest smile he could muster after letting go of his brother's hand. "Happy Birthday, Al. I've got something ready for you, don't worry."
The King dropped his blood into a vase in the center of the circle. Edward ignored him, crossing around the circle to reach his father. The man had shown more excitement over this than his son's own birthday. It made him furious. Since their mother died, only that ball of shadow made him happy.
"Hey, wait, Edward! You mustn't disrupt the circle!" One of the sages called out. He didn't care; he needed to snap Hohenheim out of whatever trance he was in, then they'd go back to normal. They had to.
The air seemed to shift as he reached his father. Grabbing his arm, Edward said, "Did you forget about Al? Why couldn't this have waited? Or why didn't we do something earlier?" He knew how childish it sounded, but that morning was the happiest he'd seen Alphonse since Mom passed.
"Edward? What are you talking about? This is history, of course, I didn't forget about your brother, I want him to see something so amazing!"
"But he doesn't want to be here…" Edward mumbled. "Can't I just take him home?"
Hohenheim put a hand on Edward's head. "It'll be done soon, and I promise we'll go straight home then."
He clenched his fists. He wanted to be mad—it wasn't fair, but his father hadn't done it maliciously, he was excited, and he knew nothing about either of his children. "Okay."
The air crackled and popped. Edward whipped his around to the summoning circle, thin arms sprang from the ground, rising into the air.
"Is this… immortality?" the King cried, turning to the dwarf. "No, that can't be!"
A wide, toothy grin split over the face of the ball as he neglected to respond.
The sages began dropping. Coughing and gagging, they clutched at their throats. Hohenheim grabbed Edward's arm, pulling him close. In the purple fog, he nearly missed Alphonse, who lay face-first on the stone.
"Al!" Edward screamed, trying to escape his father's grasp. "Alphonse!"
"You said if we were in the center of the circle, we wouldn't be harmed!" The King gasped, strings of spit falling from his teeth.
"Homunculus!" Hohenheim snapped, pulling Edward closer. "What's going on?"
The dwarf sneered, single eye narrowing in an elated smile. "The true center of the circle is right here where you're standing! And I used your blood to open the doorway. Right now, you and I are at the center of everything!"
Edward thrashed, trying to get out of the circle as the arms climbed through the palace ceiling, reaching for the moon. Managing to slip his arm free, he reached out, knocking Hohenheim off balance. Yet, all he was able to grasp was the tingling air beyond the circle. The black hands latched onto his own, white sparks flying as they pulled his arm apart. He didn't care—Edward would give up his entire body to get Al into the center.
"Alphonse!" he screamed again as his brother raised his head ever so slightly. "Please! Get up, come on!"
As the ground split open, an eye swallowing him, his father, and the very palace itself, he didn't look away from Alphonse. If only he hadn't let go, if only he'd stayed outside the circle.
Edward was ripped away from Hohenheim. The Dwarf broke into small pieces, laughing all the while. He fell through a white abyss, tumbling as the hands pulled his very soul from his body. In that moment, he was nothing and everything all at once; he knew everything, and he knew nothing. Every secret of the world was at his fingertips, but the hands in which he used to reach out and grab them had vanished. His mind expanded to the point it broke. Around him, visions of alchemy and life swirled into one, the overwhelming Truth: he was supposed to be dead.
A sacrifice. That was what he was meant to be, from the very beginning, the shadow in the flask had planned for all this to happen. Alphonse, his mother, himself, and the entire country of Xerxes were a tool for the Dwarf's ultimate desire to be free. There was nothing he could have done without knowing the plan from the start. But he'd disrupted it, and now Al was dying alone.
In the tunnel, Edward could see the stars. The universe spanned out before him, a spiral of knowledge he could never hope to remember, but in that short time, as the eye devoured his home, it was his. He saw it all, the past, present, and future all made sense. Immortality was possible, and it wasn't the King who would be grasping it. But he knew that the moment he awoke from this, the knowledge he had wouldn't be a miracle; it would be horror, the terror of knowing and being able to do nothing with it. Knowing everything was only a blessing when he was nothing, when there was no burden to bear.
His body came back together. Edward could feel pain, fear, loneliness, and perhaps worst of all, a thrill which came with the knowledge that he knew more than any man could understand in a lifetime. But the visions faded, the spirals and thousands of years of life he'd seen washed back into the white void, and he couldn't keep himself conscious to watch it go.
The sun burned his skin, sand clung to his tongue, and a hot liquid pooled beneath him, sticking hair, sand, and dirt to his face. His eyes refused to open, and as he peeled them open, it was as if glass had glued itself behind his eyelids. Groaning, he reached out a hand, feeling the cold stone; his right arm seemed to be stuck beneath him, no matter how hard he tried to move it, the limb refused to cooperate.
Rolling onto his knees, Edward rested his forehead against the ground, left arm curled around his head. What he realized—as his arm smarted with a searing pain—was that his own blood dripped from the side of his face, a puddle revealing his reflection as he forced his eyes open wider. A young, tear-stained face stared back at him. His hair fell in a tangled mess around his face, and as Edward tore his gaze away from his face, he saw the way his sleeve hung limply, drenched in blood and swaying in the draft blowing through the palace.
Alphonse was dead.
As he rocked onto his heels and looked over the room, tears welled in his eyes. Everyone he'd ever known was gone, he was sure of it. The moment he'd woken up, Edward remembered part of what he'd seen in the tunnel of light; his country was gone. Curling in on himself, he pressed a hand to his chest, choking back an agonized wail. Bodies were scattered over the room, one of them far too small. Despite the pain, he staggered to his feet, dragging himself to the body.
Blond hair rustled in the wind. Edward's arm had been taken when he reached out of the circle, and it hadn't meant a thing. As he struggled to roll his brother's body over, he could no longer hold back the tears—they stung his eyes, burning the small cuts on his face from lying on stone all night. What was equivalent about that? He hadn't gotten anything out of that stupid right arm. They were all still dead.
Finally rolling over the body, Edward couldn't bring himself to pry open Al's eyes.
"Hey," he whispered, voice cracking, "wake up." It was pointless; he was wasting breath, but Alphonse couldn't be gone. He was too young to die. That was why they had medicine and alchemy: to save people, to advance the world past the death of children. It was a worthless science. What kind of "revolutionary" discovery would wipe out an entire city?
"Please… wake up," Edward begged, pressing his dirtied forehead against his brother's. Hot tears ran freely, choking him. Sobbing gasps made his chest seize and ache. Why did it have to be him? Why was he still alive? There was no point in living anymore—he didn't want to live like this.
"Edward!" a man cried. Whipping his head around, Edward looked over his shoulder, scrubbing away the warbling vision of a man running for him. It was Hohenheim. "Oh, Edward. You're alive," he gasped, pulling him into a gentle hug.
"Al is dead." Were all the words he could say. Everything else died in his throat. "They're all gone."
"I know," the man replied, the words trembling as he cradled the back of Edward's head. "I didn't know this would happen… I didn't know."
He'd only seen the seven who'd died in the palace, but deep in his heart, he knew the rest of the country had been sacrificed as well. Edward was stuck with the last surviving Xerxian, and it was his father.
Hohenheim pulled away. "God! What happened to your arm?"
Edward only shook his head, craning his neck to look back at Alphonse. Was there time to bring him back? After Mom had died, he'd heard there was a way to resurrect her. Could he find Al's soul and reattach it to his body? Before he got a chance to think, he'd been scooped up into his father's arms. They were running, running without Al.
"Wait," he rasped, "we can't leave without him."
Hohenheim's shoulders shook as he tore through the palace. The servants, advisors, and animals all lay still. It seemed that, in one night, the entire city had been swallowed. A phantom hand clutched fingers he no longer carried, the haunting voice in the back of his head reminding him that there wasn't a thing he could've done.
Even so, his mind raced as he tried to find a solution. Of course, there was one, perfectly glaring way he could've saved Alphonse—all he'd needed to do was take him into the center of the circle. But he'd left him behind, not wanting to force Al to speak to their father, and in doing so, he'd killed him.
"Is anyone out there?" Hohenheim wheezed. "Willard… Mechthiled…! Reinmeir! Toni! Maio!" He called the names of friends Edward had only vaguely known. Though as the two stumbled onto the main staircase of the palace, it became clear they were truly the last Xerxians walking the earth. "Somebody… answer me!"
"It's no use," said a cool voice from the top of the stairs. "All their souls have been taken from them."
"Your majesty! Are you alright?"
Edward's eyes widened—heart racing, even with his face pressed against Hohenheim's chest, he knew he'd never heard that voice before. There was no King of theirs.
"Tell me, Hohenheim, how does your body feel?" he then added, "and you too, I suppose, child. You share his blood as do I. The circle would have affected you as well."
"That's… me! How-how do you have my face? It's impossible!"
The voice chuckled. "Using your blood, I created a body for myself, a sort of reciprocal of you. How good it feels to be able to walk on my own two legs."
Edward froze. Slipping his head out from Hohenheim's grasp, he stared into the sun, eyes adjusting to the figure on the balcony. It had Hohenheim's face. And as his father recoiled, asking if that man was the homunculus in the flask, all he could see was that Al's murderer bore the appearance of the only family he had left.
"What have you done?"
"You gave me blood. In return, I gave you knowledge, freedom; now I've given you a body that will live forever. Unfortunately, that child of yours entered the circle. Perhaps it's comforting for humans that you'll be able to spend an eternity together. If you dig within yourself, I think both of you will find what will now make you tick." The homunculus was a monster. He'd destroyed a country to create an immortal body, and he made it seem like a gift.
Pressing his hand to his chest, Edward felt a dull hum deep within him. An icy chill swept over him despite the desert sun. In his heart, he could hear screaming bubbling within, hundreds of thousands of different voices. They rose from a hum to a crashing in his ears, metal on metal, the roar of an ocean he'd never seen. All at once, he could hear the despair of millions. As alone as he, they wailed in his head, for it was all they could do; if he wanted, Edward could run, he could fight, and he could cry, but they had nothing but their sorrow.
Clapping his hand to his ear, Edward fell from Hohenheim's arms as he too tried to block out the screaming. This was immortality.
"You can hear them, can't you? All the souls used in exchange for our immortality? I was going to split them between you and me, but again, your child got in the way. It doesn't matter, really; he was the one with potential, and I can't imagine what he knows now after seeing the gate. Someday, I'll be back to see what you've done with the lives I've given you," he said, turning to leave.
"Wait," Edward seethed, stumbling to his feet, "get back here. You murdered my brother. You knew him, you watched him grow up, you knew all of them, and you sacrificed them anyway. He's gone because of you. I'll kill you for that! I'll-"
"I wouldn't say he's gone," cut in the homunculus, pointing at his chest, "I think you'll find he's quite attached to you, for the time being."
"Brother, don't cry. I'm still here."
Edward reeled, falling back. "No…"
"I'm scared, brother. What happened to me? It's cold, I can't feel my body," Alphonse whispered, his voice echoing as if he were in a large cavern.
"Yes," the Dwarf said. "Though I'd be careful, the souls in that stone won't keep their sanity forever, and I would find out what happens to those souls before going and getting your head cut off. Or don't, it means little to me what a child like you chooses to do."
Alphonse's soul had been tethered to the stone in his chest. Had that been what he'd given his arm for? To trap their souls together, Al wouldn't have a body; he'd never be able to live again, and he was stuck with Edward forever.
"What have I done to you?" he whispered, digging his palm into watering eyes.
"You didn't do anything. It was him, if I have to be like this… I guess I'm happy to be with you," Alphonse said.
Despite the comforting words, he knew Alphonse was lying. Even if he were the only soul in that stone who could break through the despair, Edward could hear the misery in his voice. Was it possible to separate him from the stone? To put him back into his body in the palace?
"Edward," Hohenheim said, standing from where he'd been kneeling. "What are you about to do?"
"I'm gonna put Al back in his body."
His eyes widened. "You can't. The merging of their souls was perfect. And if you mess it up, you could trap another soul in his body instead."
"I know what I'm doing," he snapped. "I won't let him live like this."
Hohenheim grabbed his arm. "I know how badly you want this, but I can't let you do that; you're an amateur at alchemy. I wouldn't attempt that."
"Yeah, sure. But you would attempt to make the King immortal?"
Hohenheim's eyes softened, a deep sadness overtaking his face. "I didn't know… I didn't want this. I had no idea what would become of the King's plan for immortality."
"What are we supposed to do then?" Edward said, rubbing his eyes as they threatened to spill over. "Everyone is dead! We're alone now!"
"I promise you, my son, I'll find something for us. We'll find life after this."
The warm April winds, as hot as they may be, were unable to warm the pit of ice in his heart. "What kind of life is this? Mom is dead, and Al's trapped in the stone—we can't live a normal life."
Hohenheim put a hand on Edward's uninjured shoulder. "Let's get your arm bandaged." And in that moment, he understood, there was no going back. If his father couldn't fix it nor knew what to do, they had no hope; they were stuck like this.
The following days passed in a haze. He couldn't begin to accept it, but there was no room for denial. All he could do was cry, rage, and try and fail to find some way to remove the stone. The homunculus had vanished on the first day, taking a third of Xerxes with him. That was another thing that weighed upon his shoulders like a ton of steel—there were only two Xerxians left, not including the creature made from Hohenheim's blood.
When they finally went back into the palace to bury the dead, Edward didn't help bury Alphonse. He wouldn't make Al look at his own corpse. Later, when it was done and the sun had begun to set over the ghostly city, he walked to the grave. His shoulder had grown numb to the constant pain, and trembling footsteps kicked up small clouds of dirt and sand. Wearing clean clothes seemed selfish. He was clean, with bandaged wounds and a body that would never die, while his own people had been exterminated, and millions of others suffered the same over the entire world.
Never before had it bothered him so much; in fact, he'd never quite thought about it, what he couldn't see didn't exist. But now, he'd see it all. Edward would live forever, and watch millions die and be born, all while he remained the same.
At one point, he'd gone back to their house, but he didn't return home. There was nothing there for him, so, in his feverish grief, he burned it to the ground. He'd watched the flames for hours as they devoured the furniture, photos, and wooden planks in the ceiling, until the heat grew strong enough that the stone cracked, crumbling into a heap of dust and ash. Alphonse hadn't stopped him. He'd said little since the first day, but at night, when Edward lay awake, he could hear the sobs of the souls in his chest, his baby brother included. When the two did get a chance to talk, conversations were brief and miserable. Neither had anything good to say, so taking their mother's advice, they said none of it. Edward didn't speak to Hohenheim either, really; he hardly spoke at all. There was a wire wrapped around his throat, and it stole every reply, complaint, and sound he thought about making.
Now, he stood atop the peninsula overlooking Xerxes. A breeze rushed around his legs and flung sand into the sky. Before him sat a small grave, decorated with the only flowers they had managed to find. Edward held a small cluster of marigolds, plucked from the front yard of a man he hadn't known. Picking flowers with one hand had been harder than he'd thought. Never having learned to use his left hand, he could no longer write, and every move he made was clumsy; he'd shattered vases, pulled flowers up by the root, and he could hardly get dressed on his own. But it was only a fraction of the pain the others were paying in exchange for his new body.
Finally, he looked down. The small stone by his feet read, "Alphonse Elric." It was funny that wasn't a name his father would've ever chosen. The only remnant he had left of his mother was the surname Elric, and a name he'd hated growing up. She had come from the tribes in the west, and both Alphonse and Edward had been names of her choosing, but Edward did have a fragment of Xerxes in his name. Paracelsus.
"I'm glad mom died," Al said suddenly, making him jump. "I don't want her to live like this. I don't want to live like this, brother. I can't feel, I can't eat, I can't even see without you. All I hear is the beating of your heart when you sleep and the screaming of the other souls."
Bile rose in the back of his throat. "I'll fix this, I promise, Al. I'll find a way to separate you from the stone."
"But I don't have a body anymore! Father buried it!"
"Then I'll make you a new one. I saw things in there, but when I'm awake, I can't remember it all, but I swear I'll figure out how to make you a body, one without the stone inside." He knew it wasn't a foolproof plan—only in his dreams could he pick through the visions he'd seen in the spiral, but as the days passed, he was certain the answer was in there. "No matter how long it takes, I'll fix you."
"Thank you."
Those were the last words Edward heard for some time, and laying the bundle of flowers on the grave, he left Xerxes with Hohenheim. They had no plan, but he was more in tune with the souls than Edward was, and it was driving him mad to stay in the city, so they ran. The desert soaked up blood, memories, and thoughts. He went days without thinking or speaking; none of it mattered when the sun seemed to wring him out, and as his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and when he swallowed, it felt as if glass were shredding his throat. That was the first time Edward realized being unable to die was a curse.
Life was infinite, but strength was not. Sand filled his sandals, and dragging his feet through the grains was all he could muster. Hohenheim clutched his left hand in a calloused grip, staggering alongside him as the sun blazed above, a mirage rippling over the dunes. Edward had lived in a desert all his life, and he had no need for food or water anymore, but it took everything he had not to run for what he knew was only more heat. Sweat ran down his temples; it wasn't enough to keep him cool, and he could feel that, slowly, his body was running out of water.
Edward wasn't sure he was holding onto the man's hand at all; he couldn't seem to control any of his limbs enough to hold on. Another thing about the desert was that no sound seemed to come through the ringing, which grew louder and louder the longer they walked. Weakly looking over his shoulder, he frowned at the way their footsteps swayed, moving in a wave. His cheeks burned. The white cloaks they wore weren't enough to reflect the heat and light, which, despite the slight drop in temperature at night, they couldn't seem to escape. He'd long since lost track of the days they'd been walking away from Xerxes. All he knew was that, long after the sun had set, they continued to walk, the image of a man with a face identical to his father's haunting them.
When they did stop, Hohenheim would become restless, pacing and talking to the souls. Edward struggled to hear them, though it was more that he couldn't communicate with them. They were always there, an ever-present hum in his chest, but they only seemed to listen when Edward put all his attention onto them. He'd found that they liked to share things they knew, but mostly, they wanted to be dead.
His hand slipped out of the larger one. Knees buckling, Edward fell into the sand, small granules digging into his skin.
"Edward!" Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. He wasn't strong enough to react; he sagged, the screaming of the souls drowning out Hohenheim's cries. "The Dwarf in the flask said this was an immortal body! Answer me!"
The homunculus had been right. Edward could tell he should've been dead—his heart beat at an unfathomably slow pace, yet he was still alive. All the energy he had, Edward used up trying not to fall asleep. Eyes falling shut, he listened to his father yell. He knew he should've responded, but for whatever terrible reason, he couldn't, and he didn't know whether it was the dehydration or the fact that merely moving his arms was too much effort.
"Ed! You have to get up! I know you can do it, move enough that Dad can pick you up. Please, you'll be stuck here forever if you don't," Alphonse urged in the back of his mind, resurfacing from the depths of the stone.
I can't, it's too hard, I can't do it, he thought.
"You can! I know you can, grab his arm, that's all you have to do."
Groaning, he fumbled for his father's arm. Latching onto the cloth of his cloak, it took everything Edward had not to let go. One way or another, he ended up on Hohenheim's back, clinging weakly to the fabric on his right shoulder so as not fall off.
Even being carried, the cycle was the same; he was too weak to move, and the steps his father took were shaking. Soon they would both fall. Edward once again lost count of the days they spent in the desert. Time ticked away like clockwork, and he stayed the same, half dead for a human and clinging to Hohenheim's back. Alphonse would talk to him on occasion, begging him to stay awake, as if it would matter; it wouldn't kill him, having not had food or water in weeks, that alone was enough to kill a man walking through the desert.
The dune shifted, Hohenheim lost his footing, and the two were sent tumbling down into a desert ravine. Eyes shooting open, Edward reached out his hand to catch himself. A crack split the air as his wrist broke. Something within him urged him to use the stone. Edward didn't know how he did it, but red lightning sprang from his chest, coiling along his arm as he rolled down the hill. His bones snapped and popped back into place, static filled the air, and as he came to a stop, the small hairs on his arms stood up like he'd gotten rug burn.
"Brother!" Al cried, "He's gone! One of the souls is gone!"
Edward froze. That was what the homunculus had meant when he said to find out how the stone worked before using it. The stone wasn't only fueled by the energy of human souls; it used them. In healing a broken wrist, he'd killed someone.
"No… that can't be it," he said to himself. "There's just no way. The Philosopher's Stone is a legend that… we've been looking for ways to make a stone that uses people's lives to work."
His vision blurred, stars exploding in his peripherals. He was so tired. Collapsing back into the sand, he looked for the other body, but when he found it, he didn't have the strength to crawl.