Fullmetal Alchemist © Hiromu Arakawa
Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling

Fields of Gold
"And if you gaze into the abyss the abyss gazes into you."
- Friedrich Nietzsche

Breathe.

It was a quite the concept, now that he thought about it. When he allowed himself to inhale, he caught the faint, coppery tang and taste of blood in his mouth and nostrils. Splattered on the floor, he stared down at the mutilated body before him with blank, uncomprehending eyes. There was a quickly growing wet spot in his side, even as he leaned against the wall to hold himself upright, the sheer amount of pain he was in, the pain

a hole in my side a hole in my side just breathe

was encompassing. Of course, his mind didn't work as it used to. There was a certain amount of...gone inside of him, swallowing up the corners of his brain and the dark, damp that he held inside of him. He closed his eyes and focused, a slight crease in his brow while he tried not to throw up. Even as he relaxed, the muscles in his arm and legs and shoulders loosing their tense stance, he felt as though someone had stabbed him all over again.

They got a pretty good chunk out of him. Or that may have been his imagination.

Another dead end caught him in the middle of his latest mission. It had been nearly a week since he had last gone out, recovering from an ailing wound to his shoulder that was healing slowly. He decided to go ahead with the mission instead of letting it heal completely, because now that he was still alive and fine he needed to get going, keep working.

He rubbed the heel of his free arm in his eye, uncaring that the metal creaked in the dark of the room. He had to get out of here somehow. Perhaps if he was lucid enough, he could transmute the skin of the wound together in a makeshift treatment, like he did in the mine. But this wasn't the same. He couldn't, simply because he wouldn't.

He groaned, turning on his side, the smell of blood dripping down the edges of the floorboards and trailing their way past white, chalky lines and the awful, awful moaning making him go nearly insane. Sparks crackled underneath his fingertips, barely. When he closed his eyes and breathed in

blood spilling too much too much too much

he could hear his heartbeat under all the cartilage. Steady, always there. He inhaled loudly, shallowly, letting the darkness creep along the edges of his eyelids and somehow creeping up on his heart. The intact sound of something dripping kept him from going any further down than he was. A moment of silence, laid still in a single moment of weakness. His weakness.

Then, an ear-splitting explosion.

He felt the heat on his face, felt the roar of fire lick across his battered skin, saw the orange-red glow from behind his eyes. The sound of repeated, perfectly synchronised footsteps hit his earbuds, and he wanted to groan; why couldn't he be left alone? There was the burn and the way that something tickled his face, making him want to sneeze in a drunken daze. He was loosing too much blood. His blood, on the floor, creeping along the edges of the floorboards and past white, chalky lines.

If he opened his eyes a smidgeon, he would have seen dark irises peer back at him, lit by the glow of the fire.

"Hold on," said a distant, almost familiar voice. "We've got you."

Edward felt the warmth surround him, like a hand-knit blanket in the middle of the night. There was still a chill to his bones, but he could feel himself defrosting after calming himself down and just breathing. The pain, of course, wouldn't go away. Like an ebb, it stood on the brink of subconsciousness, peering at him like he was a real person, like he was a real breathing human. When he opened his eyes—with mild difficulty—the dim lights of his usual hospital room greeted him like an old friend.

And so did something else.

"I see you're awake," a gruff, weary voice said from his right. "It's been a week, Fullmetal. They thought you were never going to get up this time." A pause. "Then again, that's what they always think."

Edward didn't answer. He stared up at the ceiling and exhaled deeply, like he was in thought. His eyes were misted over with a mix of different somethings that made it impossible to tell apart from his feelings and his needs.

Roy Mustang continued like it was no problem.

"You did a fine job," he said amiably, sitting with his legs crossed on the visitor's chair beside him. "The murderer was caught. He managed to stab you, though. You lost a lot of blood." If Edward managed to turn around, he would see that his commanding officer was in no better shape than he was. Dark rings shadowed even darker eyes. Wrinkles started to form on his forehead, only to be covered by a mop of unruly hair. His dark blue coat was taken off, placed around his shoulders.

Roy sighed and leaned forward. "Stop pretending like you can't hear me, Edward. I know you're there."

This time, the blond actually spoke back. "It helps better," he started, voice hoarse like it was unused. "I keep thinking that I'll throw up blood any second. How much did I lose?" By this time, he looked down at his own body, saw his limbs dressed in a pale blue shirt and comfort pants. He tried, with difficulty, to get up by himself. Pushing the heel of his hand against the bed, Edward propelled himself up and held a hand to his side before hissing in pain.

"A lot," Roy replied flatly. "I'm at no disclosure to tell you how much. You'd faint."

Edward shot him a dry look. "Surely, it wasn't that bad."

The General shot him a warning look, and Edward turned away, choosing to stare at the fraying hem of the shirt that he was wearing. His flesh hand—his left hand—fingered his side where the remains of the wound once was, a hard bandages wrapped firmly across his abdomen. Edward raised a hand to look at his automail, which had been polished and cleaned, and he'd say that his nurses had gotten tips from Winry; when he clenched his fingers, they felt better oiled.

He blinked and saw that there was a bandage—square and small, taped to his face. He reached up to touch it, fingers ghosting over what could have been. He remembered that cut.

"I don't get why you're doing this to yourself, Fullmetal." Roy said, breaking him out of his reverie. "At this rate, you'll kill yourself before you have the chance to find Alphonse."

His hands fisted in the bedsheets. "Shut up," he rasped out. "I'll find him, okay? Are you done with your check up?" He felt as though there were a million bolts of lightning hitting his chest; the mention of his little brother caused him to go on overdrive, and Roy knew that fully well.

The bastard eyed him dubiously for a moment. "There's a report of another country, holding in some sort of new-found alchemy," he started, not continuing until Edward turned around to look him in the eye. "The Amestrian that let loose all the information is in captivity. He says that there's this school, filled with talking armour and 'magical' people that shoot blue sparks."

Edward flinched. "Are you serious? W-where is this guy?"

"The nearest mental hospital," came the brisk answer.

"Don't fuck around with me, Mustang," he said, narrowing his eyes dangerously, the barest remains of a scowl still prominent on his features when he frowned.

"I thought it was a stupid joke at first," Roy admitted, leaning back. "But the man kept on insisting. Babbled some odd words or so, made these hand motions, and then was shot with a dart of anaesthesia." the dark-haired man took a deep breath. "And about five days later, another man shows up in my office, an order from General Grumman himself. Asking for help."

"For?" the blond questioned, feeling something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.

"His school." Roy grimaced, licking his dry lips and placing his hands in his pockets. It was chilly in the room, Edward noticed, but he really couldn't find it in him to notice anything other than the cushion-y warmth of his bed. "A magic school, believe it or not. He waved his wand—don't look at me like that, I'm telling the truth—and blue sparks came out. Like alchemy. And they made a chair float."

Edward peered at him curiously.

"Their world is overrun with some monster, and they can't seem to get rid of him. One person in particular is under direct contact and threat. The headmaster of this particular school—also the founder and leader of the rebellious group against this monster—came to us because he had a powerful friend that told him to come by...and that help would be found here." Here, Roy grimaced. "I don't know what kind of help he expects with this war-torn country, but I'm not questioning."

"This friend?" Edward repeated, not liking the sound of what Mustang was leading to. In fact, it sounded scarily like a new mission. "Who is it? And why did the Fuhrer ask him to come to you?"

"Eighteen and still all these questions," Roy mused. The ailed blond gave him an acid stare. "His friend was your father, Hohenheim, and when Fuhrer Grumman heard, he sent the headmaster to our quarter. Because of you." Long, tapered fingers interlocked and was put underneath a square chin. "He wants a few of the officers to come by to his school and protect the boy that's under the threat."

"Boy? You mean a kid?"

"Did I forget to mention that?" a dark eyebrow was raised. "Well, yes. A fifteen year old boy, in fact. Starting school this September. The question is whether you'll go or not. Of course, you'd have to stay in their headquarters or whatever, but you've had enough experience with...uncomfortable living situations, yes?"

The blond prodigy did not answer him, instead deciding to lean his head back on the pillow, strands of his hair sticking to his neck from it's wayward ponytail. He thought over his actions; his previous mission was only a few days ago, but his wound wasn't all that bad and neither was his automail. Other than that, all he had were a bunch of cuts, scrapes, and bruises. He was in good shape. Mustang was staring at him as if daring him to say no. He wanted Edward to say no, wanted it for a long time.

But Ed was much more pigheaded than that. He refused to stay still, heal completely. He could not let himself heal, could not let wounds close up, like the gaping hole in his chest or the sting that came from loneliness. He refused to forget those feelings, as long as Alphonse was gone from his side.

"What does this man give in return? Grumman doesn't give away his officers—especially me—for no reason. He would have said no on the first try." His tone was far from bragging or shallow; in fact, it was more of a tired, almost defeated admittance, like he couldn't believe that he had reached this far when he didn't want to.

"Knowledge," Roy replied, his tone simple. "Grumman saw this as an opportunity to see a whole other world, with different strategics and manpower. The headmaster—Bumbling something—seemed to know a lot, and offered a position in his school for us."

"A student? Us? I decline to both."

Roy took a moment to study his protege. Whereas when he was two years younger, Edward would have flailed and screamed until his face was red, saying that he absolutely positively fucking refused to go on a mission like this. But eighteen-year-old Edward was different. He sat with this sort of burning stare that made you short of breath and with his hands folded neatly in his lap, face expressionless except for the casual inquiry or rare smile.

His subordinate had always been a hard book to read from the start, but now it was as if he had shut his pages completely. "It's one or the other, Fullmetal," he dead-panned. "And you wouldn't technically be a student...of the school. The headmaster knows that your intellect is far beyond a mere schoolchild's. You'd be of private tutoring. His and your own."

Shaped lips pursed in thought. Silence dawned on both men, neither of them showing the least bit of awkwardness in it. They had been through far worse and much more than to be slowed down by words. Edward scanned his room, familiar enough to be called his room. He thought of Winry, whom he hadn't seen in two months. And he thought of Alphonse, of his brother's face the day before he seemed to disappear completely off the face of the planet.

"I'll go," he said finally, voice echoing off the bare walls. Beside him, Roy's lips slanted upward.

Better? Worse? You guys tell me. Please do, I'm rather interested to hear what you say about the revamp of FoG. There will be no Murder and Roland in this, sorry, mostly because I forgot where I was going with the old plot. And I know that if some of you, if you want to review, it has to be as an anonymous person. But if you are a part of ff dot net's society, leave your penname and I'll leave a review reply on in a PM on your profile page.

.:.

to be continued.
11.25.11