I can't say how sorry I am for the long wait. I worked on this chapter for months, but it refused to be written. Finally, I decided to leave it as it is so that I can continue with the rest of the story. So, it's out now, whether it be for better or worse _ Thanks to all those who have been reading, voting or commenting this fanfic- it means a lot to me!
I hope you enjoy :D

Love, xBookEaterx

Three.:

Of Strange Garments and Communication

The first thing he noticed was the itch. Slowly creeping onto the left side of his face. Little by little, he felt it climb, as if with tiny feet, over his skin. It dug into his skin, not painfully, at least not at first, but gradually making itself known. It was bothersome. Ed tried very hard not to be bothered by the itchiness, but it was hard not to, when his hands felt too heavy and he couldn't scratch it away.

The itch… It was driving him crazy… He couldn't stand it any longer.

He mustered all his strength and sat up, growling. He opened his eyes, but everything was dark, except for a fire a few paces away. Huh? He scanned the area as he exasperatedly scratched his face, suddenly mindful of the wound he himself had inflicted on it.

Then he saw him. Slumped against a tree, sleeping when he probably should be taking watch. Ed gaped at the older man. He remembered now. He had found him unconscious, he had tied him to a tree transmuting ropes out of the cortex, he had beaten him and now… the guy had saved him? Ed remembered he had been dying. So cold… He stared down at himself and found that he had been stripped from his shirt and red coat. His shoulder, which had been bleeding from the strain of the transmutation that had brought him here, was bandaged. His red coat had been replaced by a brown one. The man's, no doubt. Ed wondered if he had recognized him as the Fullmetal Alchemist. Nah. He'd probably be dead if that were the case.

Nevertheless, he had to run away. He couldn't have a stranger holding any kind of power over him. He'd learned on an early stage on life not to trust anybody. He'd have to work with whatever he had to get out of wherever-there-was. He looked around him in the dim light, trying to figure out where the heck he was indeed. Had Ed been transported to another land? Judging by the surrounding trees, the leaves beneath his hands, and the all-too-clean air that struck his nostrils, saying that this was not Central would be a safe bet. Plus, the man was clearly foreign- scratch that- it was Ed that was so very different from him- the Amestrian could feel this was not his home. The man before him seemed to match the nature there: he was extremely tall (or maybe Ed was too short- no, he was not, dammit!), thin, pale, and had sharp cheekbones and angular nose. His garments' style was a mix between Xingian and Amestrian fashion, but… older? And what the fuck was that thing around the guy's neck? A rag? Strange taste.

Okay, enough of tacky fashion. This was so not his day; Ed was trapped in the middle of who-knows-where, with wounds that he'd gotten from who-knows-who, and stuck with a guy whose intentions where who-knows-what. Great. Why did things like this only happen to him? Today at Central had actually seemed like it could have been a good day, until Mustang came in and ruined his mood. Was that why he was here? He couldn't quite remember; his memory was a bit fuzzy. "That bastard" he muttered. "Just wait 'till I smash your face- agh!" His side exploded with pain. "Bastardbastardbastard!" he hissed through clenched teeth. He didn't really know whom he was referring to: Bastard SmugFace, Bastard LetMeTransmuteYou, or Bastard I'mSoStupidICan'tEvenStandWatchOverAStranger. All be damned. He wished he could smash the crap out of all of them. If only he hadn't been transmuted today…

Wait, what?

You get what you deserve, murderer!

He's a jerk that cares for us, can't you see that, brother?

Huh?

Why do we always fail, Brother?

A transmutation circle…

It's your fault we are in this mess…

The blade…

We killed her again!

YOU GET WHAT YOU DESERVE, MURDERER!

MurdererMurdererMurdererMurdererMURDERER

MURDERER

What was happening?

When had everything turned black? Was that a memory, Al's voice? What was going on? His vision was turning blurry. He needed to focus, dammit. His breathing was turning uneven. He could tell he had a fever. His face felt like crap. His side felt like crap. All his skin was on fire. His eyes itched. And it was so freaking cold, dammit. There was a sheen of sweat over his forehead and upper lip. He really needed to dry it off, but he was so tired…

"Hey, Al, would you mind handing me a cloth- ALPHONSE!" he realized with a start that Alphonse was not here, that he'd left his little brother behind, unprotected, alone, after being so mean to him and-

Why do we always fail?

Murderer.

Brother!

"Alphonse." He stood up on his unsteady feet breathing heavily. God, it hurt. "Alphonse"

The world became a fuzzy blur of orange, red, and black, and, before he knew it-

He opened his eyes.

"Wha-?" His mouth was dry and his tongue felt way too big for his mouth. "What-"he tried again, but was interrupted.

"Shhh" A deep voice, speaking lulling words he couldn't understand. He tried to speak, but his voice came out wrong-

"Pl-se…m' bruth'r…"

A hand was placed beneath his head, pulling it up a little, and soon fresh, heavenly water touched his lips. He drank avidly, barely taking time to breathe. He whimpered when it was taken away.

A cool cloth was placed over his forehead.

"M-mom?" He tried to sit up.

"Shhh." A hand gently pushed him back down.

"Mo', am I sick?" He tried to grasp the figure before him. "Mom… Al… Look f'r Al. He mus' be b' th' river…"

He faintly heard what appeared to be a curse and the sound of someone scurrying away.

Was it his imagination, or was his mother slowly ascending towards the sky? Her dress danced in the wind so beautifully, her smile so sweet it made his heart clench with pain. But why?

"Mom! Al was so mad… Look fo' him-" he coughed, "-by… by the river…"

His mother's smile fell a little, and that made him sad. Was she disappointed that Ed and Al had a disagreement? That once again Ed couldn't handle being the older brother he was meant to be? And what had it been about, again?… He couldn't remember.

It was dark, and he was an armor. He was a soul. No body.

A pointy nail scratched away his blood seal and he screamed and screamed-

Alphonse!

His heart clenched as he tried to grasp his thoughts, as he tried to…

He was so tired.

Perhaps he should just sleep and never wake up.

No, no, no, no, NO! He was losing him!

"Damn, Gaius!" Merlin muttered. "What should I do?!" Merlin put his hands over the stranger's chest. "Ahlúttre þá séocnes. Þurhhæle bræd. Ahlúttre þá séocnes. Þurhhæle bræd."

The warlock was desperate. Thanks to his falling asleep on the watch, his patient was facing death once again. Thug might have that revolting arm irradiating evil energy attached to his shoulder, but Merlin couldn't just let him die. He was just a boy, a boy in much suffering, somehow, he could tell. The boy's golden strands of hair were draped in sweat. His brow was furrowed and he kept mumbling gibberish, shifting in his troubled sleep. Sometimes, he screamed. His voice came out raw and desperate. At one point, the metal appendage grabbed a hold of Merlin's arm and squeezed, causing the warlock to gasp in pain.

He instinctively whispered "Tospringe"- and the hand let go.

What was that inhuman force? Merlin thought, becoming genuinely scared by now. This monstrous arm was the work of the most evil sorcery, the darkest forces… There were old sayings, old superstitions Merlin had never wanted to believe, but he found himself wondering: This man had no right hand. At least, not a human one. The right hand had long been a sign of God's blessing upon humans. The left hand was unlucky because the Devil was supposed to have sat on the left-hand side of God before being cast out of heaven. This person lying before him was un-blessed, according to the superstitions. Perhaps he was cursed? When an image of Freya flashed through his mind, however, he shook his head- he knew better than to judge by appearances at this point. Those un-blessed were not always at fault of their condition. So, what to do?

In the dim light, he took off his neckerchief and tied it around the boy's wrists when he stopped thrashing for a moment. He hoped it would hold for a bit. He couldn't risk using more magic in front of anyone, not even this unconscious stranger. He looked around. Reaching for his satchel, he took out a cloth which he dampened with water from his canteen, and put it on the boy's forehead. His fever was dangerously high. In his discomfort, his foreign muttering rose.

"Kaa…san?" Thug tried to get up, a faraway look in his eyes.

"Shhh." Merlin slowly pushed him back and rearranged the cloth on the boy's head, when he felt something wet on the hand that had pushed the boy's chest. Blood! How could he have forgotten? The boy had a deadly wound which Merlin had just barely treated. Now it had reopened. He cursed and scurried away, searching in his belongings for something to stitch the wound again with.

Merlin's own brow was dripping with sweat as he worked. He needed to save this man- he didn't know why, but he couldn't bring himself to think of him as evil. Freya… Lend me your strength. Let me save him, he's just a boy… His breath hitched. And please- please, don't let him be another Mordred.

As Thug kept thrashing around on the floor, screaming, the warlock cleansed the wound, stitched it, applied potions, herbs… The night wore on, with Merlin diligently treating his patient, until the wounded man became a prone, feverish, whispering form. With the renewed silence, the physician's apprentice was having a hard time trying not to get distracted by his berating thoughts: You bumbling idiot! Couldn't keep your eyes open while on duty? That's unheard of about the King's manservant! What if he dies? What if he dies and it's all your fault? Now you'll have to redo all the work that got you sleepy in the first place!

His berating mind sounded a bit like Arthur, actually. Funnily enough, when Merlin came back to Camelot from this ordeal tomorrow (he would have to return for a bit, at least), he was sure Camelot's biggest prat wouldn't let him hear the end of it. The thought made him smile ruefully. Maybe it was the fatigue, but he certainly felt like the useless idiot Arthur always claimed him to be. As he wiped the wounded man's brow, he mulled over what Gaius's and Arthur's reaction would be when he didn't come back that night. He sincerely hoped they wouldn't overreact. Arthur, the pompous prat, may pretend that he didn't care for his servant, but he did, and that was that. On one hand, a day in the stocks probably awaited Merlin. On the other, the warlock could only hope Arthur wouldn't come looking for him, for, how would he be able to explain the part-metal man whose eyes shone golden at all times, screaming 'magic'? He sighed and continued to work.

Dawn was breaking by the time Merlin finished his ministrations and slumped back against a tree with a sigh of exhaustion. His whole body felt like lead; he was so tired… yet he didn't allow himself to close his eyes and drift off to sleep. He had to keep watch, even if things were quieter now. The stranger's fever had finally broken, and, though he was sleeping with a furrowed brow, he had calmed down the point where Merlin had felt safe to take away the neckerchief binding his wrists. The red garment was once again loosely tied around Merlin's neck, providing his chest with the slightest warmth on that chilly early morning. The warlock noticed his breath coming out in front of him and shivered, cuddling against the rough bark of the tree. This morning was colder than most that month, which wasn't good news for the wounded stranger- Merlin had to get him to shelter soon, or he could develop a cold on top of things. The servant at least had to get him some covers from the castle- perhaps he could sneak some out of the unused guest rooms? It could get him in a lot of trouble if they got him red handed, but more so would sneaking a golden-eyed stranger into the castle, where all it took to summon glares was to mention the word 'magic'.

He'd better go with stealing blankets.

Merlin waited for hours- maybe more than he should have, for his sake as a manservant- until Thug stirred. The strange boy with a metal arm (and leg, as Merlin had discovered on his second medical check- was he human at all?) groaned, his brow furrowing and his long golden eyelashes shimmering under the light the tree leaves let through. Merlin stood up, torn between checking on his patient or keeping away and gathering his magic should he fight the apparently powerful being. In the end, he decided on the former, though. He was a physician. He rushed to the boy's side and dropped to his knees, left hand reaching out to feel the wounded man's forehead while the other searched for his canteen inside his satchel.

The golden-haired boy grunted. He looked so much better now. The pallor was almost gone from his demeanor.

"Don't worry, sir," Merlin soothed him. "You are in good hands."

He helped him lift his head just enough to drink small gulps of water, but he got a fist in the face for that. His head exploded with pain- had that been the metal fist? He scrambled away, holding out his hand in a menacing gesture; he would use magic, he would-

Except he looked up, and he just couldn't attack: the man (boy?) before him looked lost and a little delirious. He obviously had gotten over the worst stage of his fever, but he still had that glazed look to his eyes. He was shaking and sitting on his heels with his shoulders slumped. His bangs hid most of his face, but Merlin could still see his bared teeth and the faraway look in his eyes slowly turning lucid.

Thug croaked something.

Merlin slowly stood up, nursing what was sure to become a bruised eye.

"I'm sorry, I can't understand you."

"Alphonse."

That word again? It sure sounded like a name. Like 'Alfons'. Could it be that both their languages shared names?

"Are you Alphonse? Is that your name, sir?"

"Alphonse…" He kept muttering while intently staring at Merlin, which was unsettling.

"Um… right. Look, sir. My name is Merlin. I work at… The Rising Sun." No point in becoming a target so fast.

Thug stopped muttering and tilted his head, watching Merlin with distrust. He tried to stand, but winced and gave up. He looked around, searching for something- at first slowly, then in a frantic manner. He felt his pockets, and that's when Merlin realized.

"Oh, your medallion!" He searched his satchel for the strange silver object attached to an extremely thin chain and with a dragon awfully alike to the Pendragon symbol engraved on it. "Here, I found it next to you."

Merlin slowly approached, took the item out and handed it over. The man snatched it from his hand with a growl.

"That dragon... What does it mean? Are you a noble?... You're certainly not a Pendragon- are you? Where are you from?"

A growl and a hiss.

Too many questions, perhaps.

"Okay, okay. I got it. Look." Merlin sighed and started making wide motions while he talked, in hopes the other man could understand him better:

"You. Should. Sit. Down. You will injure yourself further."

A look of distrust was sent his way.

"Oh, come on. I'm not gonna hurt you- unless you are a threat." The last part was added as an afterthought. "It doesn't seem like it's going to rain any time soon, so you should just stay put while I go grab some blankets from my place, got it?" Merlin facepalmed in realization. "No, of course not."

The stranger lolled his head to the side, carefully scrutinizing Merlin's face- whatever for, Merlin wasn't sure. Merlin scratched his head, sending the man an earnest look. He wasn't going to hurt him- at least, so long as he wasn't a threat to Arthur. The golden-haired seemed to get the message, since he nodded, as if deciding something and the man pointed at himself with his metal thumb.

He said something to Merlin.

"Sorry, what?"

He muttered the same phrase. A word? Edo… Wa- Edward?

"Is that your name?"

The man stopped his muttering, looking Merlin in the eyes, as if waiting for him to repeat.

"Name." Merlin said. God, Arthur would never let him live this down if he saw the scene the two of them conformed. But this was important. He pointed at the man. "Edward?"

A smile drew itself onto the man's face, making him look a lot younger. Merlin got the feeling that smiling wasn't something he did often- the smile looked the tinniest bit painful. However, that grin got wider, and a strange (almost satisfied or relieved) look took over the unfriendly earlier one.

"Edward."

The pronunciation wasn't quite the same, but it would do. Merlin smiled- he felt his guard going down a little already. That smile just could not be faked. So, he pointed at himself.

"Merlin."

"Meh. Roo. Deen." He croaked in his rough voice.

The warlock laughed. "Merlin."

"Mehrin."

"Sounds acceptable." Merlin started to collect his belongings in a relaxed way. "Then, Edward. Stay. Here. I'm going for blankets. I'll return in a few hours, since there's a clotpole waiting for me."

"Clot… Pole?"

A mischievous smile spread over Merlin's face.

"Yes." He nodded. "Clotpole."