Plod Dumbly On and Dream


by llamajoy


author's notes: for what it's worth, i did write this before i saw the second version of the ending credits, so i didn't totally steal my premise. `-`;

the world seems shrouded, far away.
its noises sleep, and i as secret as
yon buried stream plod dumbly on and dream

--"snow," archibald lampman


The human psyche, at that age, is more than willing to accept physical change; indeed, after a decade of years, the human form is ripe for growth. True life, unconcocted by alchemy, is versatile like nothing else in the world. No thing is exempt from alchemical principles, but the human body undergoing adolescence is a series of unfolding miracles, chemical change unforced, unfurling from within.

Still, coming to and being more than seven feet tall had been a something of a shock.

Alphonse Elric was getting used to it, as he was learning to get used to most things. With the impatient grace of a budding teenager who knows his legs are too long and waits to grow into them, he studied his movements again, careful not to trip over his own feet, or knock his knees, or hit his head on a low door lintel.

But unlike that teenager, Al wasn't entirely certain he'd ever grow in to being quite so... big.

With some effort he'd become at least less awkward, with his brother's help. Hours of training between them, honing the body along with the mind, were a source of constant comfort. Reflexes unforgotten were polished and sharpened-- feeling the empty suit of metal responding to his will, the thick fingers grasping a spear, the arms doubling what would have been his natural reach. That part he didn't mind so much.

He almost didn't even hear the clanking that he made as he walked, even more so since Edward had been helping him keep his armor oiled and relatively quiet. Sneaking wasn't going to be his forte; he'd accepted that, more than willing to make up for his lack of stealth with his sudden increased strength. Something else he'd never had before, that Ed had noticed first-- when sitting still, he was utterly, undetectably silent. There was no breathing to make a noise, no heartbeat loud in the darkness to give him away; when Ed fidgeted at his side it was a tumult in the silence, whispering agitated, "Hey, lemme know you're alive in there, will ya?"

And so Al learned how to be nearly invisible, despite his girth and unaccustomed size, and Ed learned other cues than sound to know his brother was conscious and alert within the armor. If Al had allowed himself to think about it he would have admitted it was bringing them closer, being able to read each other's thoughts with barely any hint of motion or betraying facial expression, anticipating each the other's movements and strategy. Invaluable, for a team of alchemists, split second timing and harmony of intent.

Still, there was residual strangeness, that Al had stopped trying to convince himself would ever fully go away. Here in Central City, in Shou Tucker's back yard, and sitting crosslegged (or as near as he could manage) in the snow-- essentially unclothed, and unable to feel the cold. His waking mind still told him that snow should be icy, should sting and shiver on his skin, should turn to water on his upturned face. Instead, the snow just crunched beneath his legs, gravity bringing it trickling down into the crevices in his armor. Unmelting. He lifted a handful and it fluttered between his palms like sand through an hourglass, whole hexagonal flakes scattering from his hands, not water droplets warmed by his touch.

The absence of pain was unnerving. How often, as a child, had he wished to be immune from hurt? Maybe the umpteenth scraped knee, or bandaged lip, or the one bee sting that landed right between his thumb and forefinger the summer that he was eight.

Now, though, as he could not feel pain, or temperature, or the bittercold air entering his body and the distant sunlight feebly attempting to cast any warmth-- it was a surreal realization that the lack of pain was not equivalent to the absence of suffering.

Tipping backwards into the snow, he swung his arms and legs to make a snow angel, feeling the snow shift and settle beneath him. Trying hard as he could not to feel tiny and trapped within a metal shell, trying not to imagine the way that his breath ought to fog warm steam into the wintry air. Some days it was easy to forget that he wasn't quite human. Some days, with Nina's bright laughter ringing in his ears, and her unfeigned glee in seeing him, he could imagine it was warmth he was feeling, and that sight and sound were senses enough.

But if he were honest with himself, it was not so, like the hours in the middle of the night where he lay flat on his back, unable to get comfortable-- not uncomfortable, of course, but never comfortable, either; that eerie not-feeling that crept into the corners of his mind and made him afraid that if he drifted to sleep in the husk of armor that his soul might leak from the gaps between the metal plates and he might evaporate into the ether, without the sheer force of his will keeping him there.

He knew it was untrue; knew that Edward's skill had saved his life and given him a second chance. Not by his strength alone was he bound still to this world. But it was lonely and terrible to feel fear in the hours before dawn, unable to crawl to his brother's side and feel the heat of his breath, or the chilly skin of the foot he always thrust out of the blankets, or any of the human comfort of him.

He could not count his heartbeats to soothe himself back to sleep; there was no sensation for him at all, neither ice nor fire. Though he stood closer than he should have, he could not feel the heat as their childhood home burned to ash, though he could see the flames, and though the light they cast brightened the burnished metal armor he wore.

He had dusted and polished this suit of armor before, naturally, cleaning the alchemical lab while Ed was trying new transmutations, or just tidying to clear his mind before a new exercise. The shape of it was familiar, at least from the outside... But he wondered, now, that he had never thought to measure it before. Perhaps sixty pounds of iron, six pounds carbon to mix to shining steel, two pounds zinc to galvanize, eighteen grams of silver for soft and intricate decoration at the helm, four ounces copper for the color of the screws and joints. All estimation, of course, at this point, because of the new and immeasurable variable:

What weight, then, to a human soul? Was the suit of armor heavier now that he dwelt within it? Was it sinking more deeply into sticky ground, making a louder noise if toppled off-balance? Such essence they had already proven that they did not know how to quantify, and Al felt a heaviness resting on his spirit that surely might be measurable on an alchemist's carefully weighted scale.

Laying in the snow and watching the swiftly moving clouds, he felt insensate, both burdened and oddly weightless, nothing to keep him bound to the earth, the principles of gravity only biding their time.

Then there was a head superimposed on the windy snow-colored sky above him, upside down and grinning. "Hey, Al." Ed's hair was flipped up over his head as he hovered, the braid dangling down like a rope of golden sunshine that Al might cling to, to climb upwards towards the light. "I know you're awake in there."

And to Al it sounded like a promise, and a benediction, and a greeting all rolled into one. One day at a time, he thought, one foot in front of the other. It won't always be so hard. He found a smile inside him, and though he couldn't change the face he wore to show it, he could hope that his brother might find a way to see it anyway. "Thanks, niisan."


~o~





b i s h o n e n i n k