#resmbooth

The clinking of spoons against ceramic bowls provided the only respite from the thick, suffocating silence. Steam, fragrant with the rich aroma of beef and root vegetables, curled lazily from the bowls of stew, a stark contrast to the frigid air that seemed to emanate from Edward Elric himself. He sat rigid, his gaze fixed on his plate, his jaw clenched so tight Y/N Mustang feared it might snap.

Across the worn wooden table, Granny’s eyes, sharp and knowing, flitted between the two young Alchemists and the older gentleman across from them. Van Hohenheim, his expression unreadable, occasionally took a slow, deliberate sip from his own bowl, his presence radiating a quiet, almost unnerving calm. Y/N, seated next to Edward, felt the tension like a physical weight. She’d only ever known Edward to speak of his father with venom, a “rotten bastard” who had abandoned him. And now, here he was, an almost spectral figure at their dinner table, bridging a ten-year chasm with a bowl of stew.

Edward’s spoon scraped against the bottom of his bowl, an aggressive sound in the strained quiet. He pushed his plate away, a defiant act that earned him a sharp glance from Granny. “Not hungry, Ed?” Granny Rockbell’s voice was deceptively soft, a preamble to the storm she knew was brewing.

Edward didn’t look up. “Not anymore.”

Y/N nudged his arm with her elbow. “Come on, Ed. It’s good stew.” She offered a weak smile, trying to inject some normalcy into the profoundly abnormal situation. Edward merely grunted, his eyes now fixed on the glass of milk beside his untouched plate. It sat there, pristine and white, a silent accuser in his war against consumption.

Hohenheim finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the house. “You’ve always been a picky eater, Ed.”

The casual use of his name, the seemingly innocuous observation, struck a nerve. Edward’s head shot up, his golden eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and hurt. “Don’t you call me that,” he spat, his voice tight. “You don’t get to call me that.”

Y/N’s heart hammered. This was precisely the kind of confrontation she’d dreaded. She’d heard stories, the whispers of Edward’s desperate past, the pain that had fueled his alchemy. Seeing him face-to-face with the architect of so much of that pain was like watching a live wire spark.

Hohenheim’s expression remained unruffled, though a flicker of something – regret? Sadness? – crossed his features for a fleeting second before vanishing. “I am aware that my presence is… unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” Edward scoffed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. He gestured wildly with his hand, nearly knocking over his milk. “You disappear for a decade, and now you show up for stew? What kind of twisted joke is this?”

Granny Rockbell sighed, a long, weary sound. “Edward, your father is trying.”

“Trying what?” Edward’s voice rose, raw with emotion. “Trying to pretend he’s not the man who threw everything away? The man who…?” He trailed off, his gaze falling back to the milk. A fresh wave of anger washed over him. “I’m not drinking that.”

Hohenheim’s eyes followed Edward’s. “Why not?”

“Because it’s pathetic!” Edward finally exploded, shoving his chair back with a screech. The sudden movement sent a ripple of shock through the room. “Everything about this is pathetic! You, me, this… this forced family dinner! I don’t want your milk, I don’t want your excuses, and I don’t want you here!”

He stood, his fists clenched at his sides, his entire body vibrating with repressed rage. Y/N watched him, torn between wanting to placate him and a strange, burgeoning understanding of the depth of his pain. She saw the way his shoulders hunched, the vulnerability beneath the bluster.

Hohenheim simply watched him, his gaze steady. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t retaliate. He simply absorbed Edward’s outburst, a silent testament to years of experience, perhaps, or an infinite well of patience.

“You did burn down my house,” Hohenheim said, his voice still low and even.

The silence returned, even heavier than before. The stew sat cooling, the tension a palpable entity at the table, a fifth, unwanted guest. Y/N met Granny’s gaze, a silent question passing between them. The remnants of dinner, once a hopeful symbol of reunion, now felt like a stark reminder of the chasm that had opened between them. Edward Elric, his knuckles white, had finally exploded, his words a torrent of pent-up hurt and accusation directed at the man who sat unnervingly calm across from him. Then, with a final, guttural roar of frustration, he had shoved his chair back and stormed out of the dining room, his metallic footsteps echoing ominously up the stairs.

Y/N Mustang watched the empty doorway, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She’d known Edward’s temper, but this was different. This was raw, deep-seated pain, all aimed at the stranger at the table.

Granny, her face a roadmap of weathered concern, cleared her throat. The sound was sharp, cutting through the lingering tension. She didn't look at Y/N, her gaze fixed on Hohenheim, but her voice held a gentle note when she spoke. "That boy… he holds a lot in. Too much, sometimes."

Hohenheim gave a slow, deliberate nod. "I understand." His voice was deep, resonant, carrying an unfamiliar accent Y/N couldn't quite place. It wasn't the clipped tones of the military or the simple country drawl of Resembool. It was something older, something foreign.

"Well," Granny said, pushing herself up from the table with a groan that was more theatrical than genuinely painful, "he’s not going to do himself any good stewing up there. And you," she turned her sharp gaze to Y/N, "need a place to rest. Come along, dear. I'll show you to Winry’s room."

Y/N rose, a flicker of gratitude for the distraction washing over her. She glanced at Hohenheim one last time. He met her gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. It wasn't a welcoming smile, not an apologetic one. It was simply… acknowledgement. A silent understanding that a weighty, uncomfortable chapter had just begun.

She followed Pinako out of the dining room, the scent of stale food and unspoken emotions clinging to the air. The old woman led her through the familiar, cluttered halls of the Rockbell home. The thought of Winry, miles away, unaware of the drama unfolding, brought a pang of sympathy.

"Winry’s room is just down the hall," Granny Pinako said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper as they reached a closed door. "She won't mind you using it."

Y/N pushed the door open. It was exactly as she imagined it was a comfortable chaos of tools, blueprints, and plush toys artfully arranged on shelves. The scent of oil and metal mingled with the faint sweetness of fabric softener. It was a space that spoke of Winry’s passion, her dedication.

"Make yourself at home," Granny said, her eyes softening as she looked at Y/N. "You've had a long day. Get some rest."

Y/N managed a small smile. "Thank you."

The silence of Winry’s room was a heavy blanket, thick with the scent of metal polish and dust. Y/N Mustang sat on the edge of the bed, the crisp white sheets cool beneath her fingertips. It felt like hours had passed. She pushed herself up, the springs of the bed groaning in protest. The window was open, a gentle breeze coaxing the curtains to dance. Y/N stepped out onto the narrow balcony, the night air a welcome balm against her skin. It was so much clearer here, away from the perpetual haze of Central City. Above, the stars glittered with a fierce brilliance, a stark contrast to the muted sky she was accustomed to. She leaned against the railing, the metal smooth and unyielding beneath her fingertips. The stars here were sharper, more numerous, unblunted by the city’s artificial glow. A memory, unbidden, surfaced of her Uncle Maes, pointing out constellations on a rare camping trip with her and her father, his booming laughter echoing through the trees. He’d been the constant. The clarity of the night air only served to sharpen the edges of her grief. She saw it again, the scene replaying behind her eyes with a sickening, visceral clarity. The darkness of the street. The unnatural stillness of his body. The silence, so profound it had screamed louder than any gunshot. And then, the dawning horror, the realization that the man who had always stood beside her, who had always been there, was gone. Erased. She’d been sleeping on her father’s floor ever since, a silent sentinel in his grief. His own quiet suffering, a mirror to hers, had been a fragile truce between them.

But tonight for the first time in weeks, she was alone, nobody by her side.

Y/N closed her eyes, the constellations blurring into streaks of light. Uncle Maes. He’d been so proud of her, of her alchemy, of her progress. He’d spoken of a future, a bright, normal future, where they’d all be together, celebrating their achievements. He’d never seen the fruits of that future. He’d never see her fully grown, or her own path solidify. A shudder ran through her. The world felt colder now, the shadows deeper. The Homunculi. The word itself tasted like ash. They had taken him. They had silenced his laughter, extinguished his light. And Y/N, a State Alchemist, capable of manipulating matter itself, had been unable to stop it. The helplessness gnawed at her, a dull, persistent ache. Uncle Maes had been a beacon, a man who believed in the inherent goodness of people, in loyalty, in love. And they had taken him.

A faint sound from inside the house made her jump. She opened her eyes, pulling herself back from the precipice of her sorrow. It was just the gentle creak of the old house settling. She took another deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs. It wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing could. But it was a reminder that life, however fragile, continued. And Uncle Maes would have wanted her to continue, to live, to find joy even in the face of such profound loss.

She stayed there as a solitary figure on the balcony, bathed in the unblinking gaze of the stars. A soft knock on the bedroom door startled her. She opened her eyes as the latch clicked, and Edward stepped into the moonlit room.

Her breath hitched.

He wasn’t in his usual attire. No crimson coat, no black shirt. He wore a simple undershirt, and his usually meticulously braided golden hair wasn't pulled back. It cascaded past his shoulders, a shimmering waterfall of gold in the dim light, framing a face that looked far too young and impossibly tired. He often let it down when he washed it, or just before bed, but seeing it on display, untamed and vulnerable, in the middle of the night, was jarring. It was like seeing a warrior without his armor, a king without his crown. He looked… exposed.

He didn't meet her gaze immediately, his eyes fixed on the floorboards as he shuffled closer, his automail clinking softly. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?" His voice was rough, low.

"No," she replied, her own voice barely a whisper. She turned back to the railing, leaning her elbows on the cool metal. "Too quiet, paradoxically."

Edward moved to stand beside her, his frame surprisingly radiating a palpable exhaustion. The breeze ruffled his loose hair, making it dance around his head like a halo. "Yeah. Funny how silence can be louder than a thousand screams."

A minute stretched between them, thick with unshed words. 

“Y/N,” Edward finally began, his voice rough, quieter than usual. “I… I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond immediately, letting the apology hang in the air. She knew it referred to his dramatic exit, his argument with his father. She knew the fury he felt towards Hohenheim. But her own well of sorrow felt too vast to properly engage with his.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, laced with a weariness that surprised even herself. “It’s fine, Ed.”

Edward leaned his elbows on the railing, though he didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the same empty horizon. “No, it’s not fine. I lost my temper. Again. And I just… I left you there. At the table. With him.” The last word was spat out, a bitter taste.

Y/N finally turned her head, her eyes, usually bright with the spark of an alchemist, dulled by pain. “Besides,” she continued, her voice growing softer, “you have every right to be angry with him.”

He grunted, running a hand through his unbound hair, a gesture of frustration. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t make it okay to make a scene and storm off like a child. Especially not when… when things are already…” He trailed off, sensing the deeper current of her sadness. His sharp golden eyes finally met hers, and the anger fled, replaced by concern. “Are you okay?”

Y/N shook her head slowly, a genuine response she rarely offered. “No. Not really. But there is nothing I can really do about it.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “God I don’t even know why I'm so suddenly upset.” A weak, watery laugh escaped her. “He died weeks ago, this shouldn’t still be affecting me.”

Edward’s hand, the metallic one, reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder, a small, comforting pressure. He knew exactly who she was talking about. Maes Hughes. The man who had been a surrogate uncle to Y/N.

“I’d be concerned if it wasn’t still affecting you,” Edward said, his voice unusually gentle, devoid of its usual brashness. He looked utterly drained, yet his focus was entirely on her. “We’ll avenge him, we’ll get them damn homunculus."

A tear finally escaped Y/N’s eye, tracing a cold path down her cheek. “I just keep seeing his body, how does anyone get past something like that?”

“You don’t,” Edward murmured, his gaze falling back to the distant lights of Resembool. A shadow passed over his features as he thought of his own past, his own losses. “You just… you find a way to carry it. To live with it. And you keep fighting for a world where people like him don’t get taken so senselessly.”

Y/N leaned into his presence, finding a strange, shared comfort in their mutual pain. It wasn't about her grief or his anger with his father; it was about the heavy burdens they both carried, young alchemists thrust into a world far crueler than they’d ever imagined.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon was Y/N’s gentle alarm clock. Memories of the previous night’s long talk with Edward on the balcony, the crisp night air, and the surprising comfort of sharing their thoughts, floated into her mind. He was still angry, still hurting, but at least they had talked. Y/N made her way downstairs, already feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun streaming through the windows. The Rockbell home, though simple, exuded an undeniable sense of belonging. In the kitchen, Pinako Rockbell, her tiny frame belying a formidable presence, was already at the stove, humming a tuneless melody as she flipped pancakes.

Across the worn wooden table, Van Hohenheim, Edward’s estranged father, was engrossed in a newspaper, its pages rustling softly with each turn. He wore a simple, unadorned shirt and trousers, looking far more a country gentleman than Y/N had imagined him to be. He didn't seem to notice her entry.

“Good morning,” Y/N said softly, stepping fully into the kitchen.

Pinako turned, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Morning, dear. Slept well, I hope?”

“Very well, thank you,” Y/N affirmed, already feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You can set the table if you like, dear. And maybe chop those potatoes for the hash. Ed usually sleeps until noon,” Pinako chuckled, a knowing glint in her eyes. Y/N reached for the cutting board and a knife, her hands moving with practiced ease as she began dicing the potatoes into neat cubes. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the knife against the board filled the comfortable silence. This domesticity was a stark contrast to how her life had been recently. Suddenly, the rustling of the newspaper ceased. Hohenheim slowly lowered the broadsheet, his golden eyes, so uncannily like Edward's, drifting over to Y/N. He studied her for a moment, a faint, unreadable expression on his face.

“You said your name was Y/N, right?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t a question of confirmation, but rather an observation, as if he had just pieced together a puzzle.

Y/N paused her chopping, meeting his gaze. “Yes, sir. Y/N Mustang.”

“So you’re a dog of the military too?” He asked, face unmoving.

“Yes sir.”

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Why? Y/N wondered, gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles were white, why had she become an alchemist? The question echoed in the quiet spaces of her mind, a persistent hum she’d never quite managed to silence. It wasn’t a burning passion, not a childhood dream ignited by the marvels of transmutation. It was… complicated.

Was it to spite her mother? M/N Mustang, her mother, had been a force of nature, fierce and loving, but also fiercely protective. She’d died when Y/N was just seven.. The last convocation Y/N really remembered, was a plea: “Promise me, you won’t follow in your father’s footsteps. Promise me you won’t become an alchemist.” 

And yet, here she was, Y/N Mustang, State Alchemist, inheritor of the Flame Alchemist’s legacy, albeit a different kind of flame. Her father, Roy Mustang, a man whose ambition burned as brightly as his alchemy, had paved the way, his name a constant whisper in the halls of the military. Had she chosen this path to prove herself to him, to justify his sacrifices, or perhaps, ironically, to fulfill the very destiny her mother had tried to shield her from? Y/N shivered, though the kitchen was warm. The memory of her mother’s gentle hand, the fear in her eyes as she’d made her plea, was still so vivid. M/N had seen the toll alchemy and the military had taken on Roy, the endless pursuit, the sacrifices. It’s why she left so many times. She hadn't wanted that for her daughter.

But Y/N had always been drawn to the logic of it, the elegant dance of matter and energy. And after her mother’s death, the world had felt so… fragile. Alchemy offered a way to mend, to create, to exert some control in a universe that had already snatched away her mother. It was a rebellion, perhaps, against the helplessness she’d felt as a child. A way to spite her mother for leaving her in a world without her, for leaving her again.

Y/N looked back up to the man sitting in front of her, “My father is a state alchemist, just carrying on the legacy, I guess.” 

Hohenheim turned slightly, his gaze, surprisingly sharp, met hers for a fleeting moment. There was something in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, perhaps even understanding, that Y/N couldn’t quite decipher. He offered no words, just a subtle nod before turning back to his paper. Y/N turned her back to the man to pass the now chopped potatoes to Pinako, when Hohenheim spoke, his voice a low rumble that cut through the morning calm. "I am leaving."

The words hung in the air, simple and definitive. Granny Rockbell’s hand paused mid-air for just a fraction of a second before resuming its rhythmic work. There was no surprise, no plea for explanation. Hohenheim didn't wait for a response. He turned, his long coat rustling softly, and walked out of the kitchen as silently as he had entered. The front door opened and closed with a soft click, marking the finality of his departure.

Y/N’s gaze followed the empty space where he had sat. The silence that descended felt even heavier now, punctuated only by the sizzling of oil in the pan. She risked a glance at the elder woman, expecting to see some sign of emotion – a frown, a sigh, a flicker of sadness. But Granny Rockbell’s face remained impassive, her focus entirely on the potatoes. It was as if Hohenheim’s departure was merely another mundane event in a long, complex life. Y/N looked towards the stairs, imagining Edward still lost in his sleep, perhaps dreaming of a father who would never stay. The weight of his pain felt like a physical presence in the room.

"He always did have a way of disappearing," Pinako said, her voice surprisingly steady, her eyes never leaving her task. The understatement was so profound it was almost comical, yet it held a deep well of sorrow. She just nodded. The potatoes were almost done. Soon, breakfast would be served, and Edward would eventually descend, his face a mask of practiced indifference. And Y/N would be there, a quiet observer. The sun was rising higher now, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor, but the warmth of the morning felt a long way off.

“Breakfast is ready, Y/N,” Pinako announced, her voice clipped but not unkind, surveying the spread of eggs, bacon, and steaming pancakes. “Go set the table, would ya? Plates, silverware, the works.”

“Yes, Granny,” Y/N replied. She moved to the cupboard, pulling out the ceramic plates and sturdy metal cutlery. Pinako, meanwhile, surveyed her handiwork, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well, everything’s perfect except for that lazy good-for-nothing still snoozing away. EDWARD! GET DOWN HERE, BOY! BREAKFAST IS READY!”

The shout, surprisingly loud for such a small woman, echoed through the quiet house, rattling a few of the glass panes in the kitchen window. Y/N winced slightly, a sympathetic smile playing on her lips. She could almost picture Edward, burrowed deep under his covers, groaning dramatically. A beat of silence followed, then a distant, muffled grunt from upstairs. Pinako merely huffed, clearly satisfied that her message had been received.

“Heard that, did he?” Y/N chuckled, rearranging a serviette.

“He always hears me,” Pinako sniffed, pouring them both a cup of coffee. “Just takes him a while to decide if he wants to actually do something about it.” She pushed a mug towards Y/N. “Drink this. Give you some energy. You two were up late enough talking.” The old woman’s sharp eyes held a knowing glint.

Y/N took a grateful sip, the warmth spreading through her. “We had a lot to discuss,” she admitted, a vague but truthful statement. She wasn't about to betray Edward's trust, but Pinako knew the score. Another groan, this one closer, followed by the distinctive thud-thud-thud of Edward’s feet on the wooden stairs, each step sounding heavier than the last. Edward Elric appeared in the doorway. Unlike the night before, when he had looked like a thundercloud about to burst, he looked… rested. His usually intense golden eyes were relaxed. He actually stretched, yawning loudly, before flashing a genuine, albeit slightly sheepish, grin.

“Morning, Granny. Morning, Y/N,” he chirped, sounding almost shockingly cheerful.

Pinako stopped mid-stir and stared at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

Edward blinked, affronted. “What? Can’t I be in a good mood?”

“Not after the performance you put on last night, no,” Pinako shot back. “You came down here looking like someone kicked your dog, then you locked yourself away, and now you’re suddenly sunshine and daisies? Did you hit your head?”

Edward stomped over to the table and immediately tried to sneak an early piece of bacon off his plate, only to receive a smart rap on the knuckles from Pinako’s wooden spoon.

“Ow! No, I didn’t hit my head. I just… slept well,” he muttered, rubbing his hand.

Y/N pushed a mug of coffee towards him, watching him closely. She knew the real reason for the shift. The weight of his father’s presence had lifted, and the hours they’d spent talking on the balcony until dawn had successfully vented the worst of his frustration.

“You know, Ed, you look a little taller this morning,” Y/N said, adopting a serious, analytical tone.

Edward froze, his eyes narrowing instantly. “I knew it. You’re in a good mood because you found a new angle to attack my height, didn’t you?”

Y/N shrugged innocently. “Maybe the fresh air simply agrees with you. Or perhaps the absence of certain tall, irritating individuals has improved the atmospheric pressure around your growth plates.”

Edward launched into his predictable, sputtering defense about his future height, his voice regaining its familiar, high-volume pitch. Pinako merely chuckled, shaking her head as she sat down with her own modest portion.

Y/N swirled the last tepid drops of coffee in her mug. Ed sat beside her, rigid and still. Usually, Ed was a hurricane confined to a chair, twitching, tapping his foot. Today, his real hand was locked around his mug, his golden eyes fixed on a scratch in the tabletop.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Y/N murmured, leaning closer.

He didn't even look at her. The sound of his automail leg shifting against the chair was the only response. The friendly, familiar tension that always existed between them was replaced by something cold and brittle.

“You know how me and Al tried to bring our Mom back,” he finally managed, the sentence a heavy stone dropped into the quiet room.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She glanced quickly toward the sink. Pinako didn’t stop scrubbing, but the tempo of her movements seemed to slow, becoming deliberate and heavy.

“Ed- Well yeah ,” Y/N said, nearly choking on her saliva.

He finally looked at her, and the doubt in his expression was more harrowing than any display of pain,“I don’t think that what we created was actually my Mom” 

Y/N couldn’t formulate a response. She saw the fear reflected in Ed’s eyes, the horror that their transgression had been fundamentally misdiagnosed all these years.

Pinako’s humming had ceased entirely. The clatter of the dishes stopped. She stood perfectly still at the sink, her back still to them, but the silence she maintained was absolute.

“You mind helping me find out?” He asked, he knows the answer, he knows that she would go to the ends of the earth to help him.

“Jesus Christ… sure,” Y/N answers, running a hand over her face.

The air above Resembool was thick, heavy, and smelled of ozone and damp autumn decay. The late afternoon light was weak, filtered through a churning mass of gray cloud that promised a fierce storm. Edward Elric, his left automail arm gleaming dull under the oppressive sky, moved with the measured pace of someone walking towards a necessary punishment.

He was flanked by Y/N Mustang, who held a small, sturdy shovel, and Pinako Rockbell, who carried the heaviest bucket of water with unnerving ease for a woman her age. Edward carried the second bucket, filled to the brim, the sloshing water a rhythmic, mocking sound against the silence.

They were ascending the path to the high meadow, the place where the Elric home, and everything that came before, and everything that came after, had occurred.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the crumbling path, her face a mask of supportive neutrality. She knew this ground was sacred and cursed. 

The physical exertion of the climb was nothing compared to the psychic weight of the location. Edward felt the shift the moment the stone foundation of the old house came into view. It was a broken jaw of scorched brick and rock, surrounded by the stubborn, encroaching weeds of the prairie.

“It’s amazing how fast the land forgets,” Y/N murmured, a rare break in the silence.

“The land doesn’t forget,” Pinako corrected, her voice gravelly and low. “It just covers it up.”

Edward stopped at the edge of the ruin. He didn’t look at the foundation, or the empty spot where he had stood years ago, transforming resolve into ash. He looked instead at the small, disturbed patch of ground further back, hidden beneath the shadow of a surviving oak. It was unmarked. It didn’t need to be.

That patch was the center of his universe, his beginning and his true end. It was the shallow grave where Pinako, in the crushing aftermath of a nightmare, had buried the byproduct of their hubris—the grotesque, non-human remains of what they had tried to resurrect.

Edward put down his bucket. The metal rang dully against a piece of buried slate. “The ground is hard. It hasn’t rained properly in weeks.”

Pinako nodded, dropping her own bucket. The water shifted violently, threatening to spill. “That’s why we brought the goods, Ed. To soften up the earth for the tools.”

They hadn’t spoken about why Edward suddenly thought that what they brought back wasn't actually his mother. But he had insisted that he needed to face the physical evidence again, to see the proof that the Gate demands the truth, and delivers only mockery. Y/N began to pour water from her bucket slowly, systematically soaking the dry clay over the burial site. The ground hissed, steaming faintly as the moisture penetrated the dry surface.

Edward gripped the handle of his shovel, his automail fingers cold against the smooth wood. His mind, usually sharp and quick, felt sluggish, weighed down by the knowledge of what lay a mere foot beneath his boots.

He had paid for that thing with his body. He had paid for it with Al’s body. He had paid for it with the subsequent years of pain and searching. And now, he was returning to the grave to retrieve the proof of the debt and the futility of the exchange.

The storm was closer now. A cold wind whipped across the hill, scattering dry leaves and rustling Ed’s braid. The air turned electric.

Edward didn’t look at Y/N, didn't look at Pinako. He stared at the newly dampened earth, black and shining under the overcast light. He saw not the surface of the world, but the thin membrane separating him from the consequences of his transgression.

Edward, Y/N, and Granny Pinako were digging. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic scrape of shovels against the damp earth and Edward’s ragged breathing.

Edward dug with a desperate, frantic energy, attacking the soil as if it were a personal enemy. He was searching for the remnants, the horrifying, incomplete mass of flesh and bone that Pinako had buried here years ago, after the failed Human Transmutation.

“Edward,” Granny Pinako called out, her voice sharp but weighted with concern, “you need to slow down, boy. The air’s heavy. You know what that means for that arm of yours.”

He ignored her, gritting his teeth. His automail arm and leg were screaming. It wasn’t a dull ache; it was a deep, invasive throb, like cold iron being wrenched from the bone. The coming rain always amplified the phantom pain, turning his mechanical limbs into anchors of agony, constant reminders of the price he had paid.

“I’m fine, Granny,” he spat, throwing a shovelful of dirt that was almost mud already. “We have to find it. I need to make sure.”

Y/N, her own hands blistered beneath her gloves.

“Ed, she’s right,” Y/N said softly, running a hand across her sweat-damp forehead. “You look green. ”

Every scoop of dirt was a penance, a forced confrontation with the horror he had brought into the world. He couldn't stop. He wouldn't. He owed it to his mother, and to the thing he had created in her image.

A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a low, rumbling groan of thunder that seemed to shake the earth beneath their feet.

Edward drove his shovel down again, harder this time. The tip struck something solid and unyielding, deeper than the common stones of the hillside. His breath hitched, a sharp, rattling intake of air.

He scrambled, throwing the shovel aside and dropping to his knees. Using his automail hand, he clawed at the loose soil, desperate to uncover whatever lay buried beneath. The pain in his shoulder surged, radiating up to his jaw, making his vision swim. Then, the aroma hit him first—the sickly, sweet-and-sour odor of truly old decay, disturbed after years of quiet rest.

The sight that followed was instantaneous and devastating. It was a pile of muddy bones now, flesh welted away in the earth , a grim, petrified monument to a law broken.

The years of repressed trauma, the physical toll of the automail ache, and the grim reality of the unearthed corpse hit Edward like a physical blow. He made a strangled sound, a mix between a cough and a gasp, and violently doubled over, retching onto the newly exposed earth.

Y/N dropped her own tools instantly, rushing to his side. Pinako was already there, pulling his braid back from his face with a firmness that bordered on roughness.

“Damn fool!” Pinako muttered, hitting his back lightly. “I told you to stop!”

Edward coughed, spitting the metallic taste of bile and panic onto the ground. His whole body trembled, not from cold, but from sheer emotional and physical overload. He leaned heavily on his knees, his automail leg locking to keep him upright.

Y/N knelt beside him, resting a gentle, steady hand on the small of his back. Her voice was low and soothing, a stark contrast to the brewing storm.

“Ed, that’s it,” she said, pushing a strand of bright blonde hair off his damp forehead. “We found the spot.”

The rain hit the exposed hilltop like a confession. It was cold and immediate, washing over the slick, grey clay. Edward sat with his knees pulled up, his coat already heavy with water, the metal of his automail leg feeling like a dead weight against the mud. Beside him, Y/N remained still, her own posture rigid, offering silent, steady protection against the elements and the moment. She watched the figure of Pinako Rockbell.

Granny Pinako knelt beside a shallow pit, her hands moving with the practiced efficiency of a master craftsman cleaning a difficult piece of machinery.

A bucket sat next to her, filling quickly both with rainwater and the dark, viscous water Pinako used to rinse the clumps of dirt from the transmuted matter.

“Please don’t be her,” Edward muttered, his voice barely audible above the heavy drumming of the downpour. He didn't look at the bucket, focusing instead on the blackened foundation stones that were the only markers left of his childhood. Y/N grabbed his hand and squeezed it in comfort.

Pinako pulled a tangled mass of wet fiber from the ground. It dripped heavily, looking less like human hair and more like shredded rope.

“Hair first,” Pinako announced, her voice rasping. She held it closer to the pale evening light filtered through the low clouds. “Color.”

Edward felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He remembered the dark chestnut, thick and soft hair that flowed down the back of his mother’s neck.

“Jet black,” Pinako stated, dropping the hair back into the water with a dull plop. “Absolutely black. Trisha’s was neither this texture nor color.”

The air shifted, the immediate tension replaced by a deeper, colder dread. It wasn’t a relief to find the details wrong; it was proof that their attempt hadn't even managed to assemble the basic components correctly. They had failed at the molecular level.

Pinako reached deeper into the mud, pulling out curved, pale bone fragments. She placed them on a scrap of oilcloth, wiping them clean before measuring them meticulously with a collapsible metal ruler she kept in her coat pocket.

“Pelvic structure,” Pinako continued, squinting. She traced the broad, shallow curve of a hip bone. “Too wide, obviously, but look at the angle of the ischium. And the acetabulum here…” She paused. “These hips belong to a male. A large male, at that.”

Edward felt a sick lurch in his gut. They hadn't just failed to revive Trisha; they had transmuted some grotesque, generalized structure of human components, a raw, meaningless facsimile of life.

Pinako then presented the two longest and most intact bones: the femurs. She aligned them, measuring from the greater trochanter to the medial epicondyle.

“Trisha was tall, but not abnormally so,” Pinako observed. “She was five-foot-seven.” Pinako tapped the ruler decisively against the bone. “This length,” she indicated, “suggests an individual closer to six feet. At least. Too long.”

Edward looked up, staring into the milky white horror of the bone. It was not his mother. It was nothing.

Silence settled, broken only by the incessant hammering of the rain. The revelation wasn't a comfort; it was a deeper condemnation. Their sin hadn't been an understandable mistake born of grief, but a monumental, ignorant transgression against the foundational rules of the universe. Ed squeezed Y/N’s hand back. Edward stared at the bucket, now half-full of grey water and the scattered, meaningless components. He had paid for this knowledge with an arm, a leg, and his brother’s body. And at the final, at least they hadn’t disturbed their mother’s eternal rest.

The rain came down heavier now, a relentless, icy curtain falling over the desolate hill. Edward Elric, usually a whirlwind of restless energy, moved like a broken marionette, each step a strained effort. His automail arm and leg, usually an extension of his indomitable will, screamed in protest against the damp cold, their intricate mechanisms grinding with an almost audible sorrow. 

“Lean on me, Ed,” Y/N urged, her voice a soft command against the drumming rain. Her own clothes plastered to her form, slick and heavy with rain and mud, but she braced herself, taking more of his weight. Edward’s body was a familiar burden, both physically and emotionally. He wasn’t just heavy with the rain-soaked fabric of his clothes, but with the years of stubborn grief and untold pain. She could feel the tremor in his prosthetic leg as it found purchase in the slick mud, the tenseness of his arm as he slung it over her shoulders. His breath hitched, a faint gasp escaping his lips. “I’m fine,” Edward mumbled, but his grip on Y/N’s shoulder tightened, a desperate clawing against the inevitable fall. He was not fine, and Y/N didn't need him to say it. She just needed him to keep moving.

Behind them, her head bowed against the wind, followed Pinako Rockbell. The old woman’s back was straight, her steps slow but unwavering. In her gnarled hands, she carried two empty metal buckets and the now mud-caked shovels.

“I wish the Major would’ve let me pick up some spare clothes before he dragged me out of my house.” Y/N laughed as she tightened her grip on Ed’s side to stop him slipping, “I am caked in mud.”

“I'm sure I can borrow you something to wear out of my wardrobe” Ed laughed back, the mood slightly lifting.

“You know what…” Y/N started, Ed looking at her strangely from the corner of his eye, “If I wasn’t already going to hell, I’m definitely going now.”

“Eh, at least we’ll be going together.” He replied.