Awakening

By Soyokaze

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For Hohenheim, there were two important possessions in his life, two things that he would sacrifice anything for; the immense knowledge of two worlds inside his mind; the little amount of money attributed to his name; his very life. Their names were Edward and Alphonse. His children, the children who bore his and Trisha's faces, the children who inherited his aptitude for alchemy and his talent for getting himself into inconvenient trouble. His children who had crossed the gate, as he had, and lived to tell the perilous tale. The lost man had always imagined that, as much as they meant to him, his children had finally moved beyond his reach forever.

Until he walked out his front door to address a shutter squeaking in the rain, and found his son, shirtless and soaked, unconscious on the sidewalk.

Somehow, little less than eight hours after the dirigible had crashed and he hadn't any way of knowing if Edward had survived the violence or not, his eldest son had crossed the gate again. And was still alive.

The rain was pounding down around them on the stone like a thousand reverberating drums as he gathered the shivering Edward into his arms. The boy had seemed so strong and so sturdy when he stood against his father so many times previous, but now he was so small in his father's arms. Hohenheim felt that if he wasn't careful, his coat would swallow the boy. So small.

His eyes, the same as his father's, were closed. His long hair had fallen out of its plait, and was hanging, dripping onto the carpet of Hohenheim's small flat. The tresses that normally framed his face were clinging to the still young contours of it. There were smudges of ink on his arms, chest, and forehead, remnants of circles the rain had almost washed away, but it was enough evidence for Hohenheim to discern the events that had once more deposited his son at his wayward father's door.

"Oh, Edward . . ."

The thunderstorm outside was one of the most belligerent Risembool had seen in a long while. Normally, the plain was sunny and green, but today the rain raged over it, turning the sky dark gray and occasionally illuminating the whole of the village with shocks of light. Lightning had always fascinated Edward, and under the eyes of a watchful father, the little boy was enjoying himself exuberantly.

He had his elbows on the windowsill, his eyes straining through the rivulets of water down the glass to see the distant flashes of illumination. His eyes were just as bright as the lightning.

"Alphonse! Come look!" Edward's smile widened as he turned to his brother, who cowered in a corner near where their mother sat mending one of Edward's shirts. Alphonse shook his head in a negative, preferring to stay closer to Trisha. Their mother reached a hand down to pet Alphonse's dark golden hair. Edward frowned, partly at his brother's fear and obstinance, and partly at the attention it gained him from their mother.

"Come on! Don't be such a scaredy cat!"

"Edward. Don't say things like that," their mother admonished, making Edward's head hang in shame. Trisha turned to smile at Alphonse, who had indeed been hurt by his brother's words. "I was afraid of these storms when I was little, too," she admitted, pulling Alphonse into her lap, "but it'll be all right, I promise."

Edward turned his attention back to the storm, murmuring an apology not altogether sincere. Another flash and then an immediate sound of thunder, and Edward beamed, while Trisha frowned.

"Are you sure that he should be that close to the window in this?"

Hohenheim grinned at his wife. "I think it'll be all right. He enjoys it so much . . ."

Another flash sounded and it was too close to the house for comfort. Before Hohenheim could look through the window to discover the damage, the window shattered above Edward's head as a thick tree branch plunged into their house. Edward dove under the windowsill and covered his head, screaming in unison with Alphonse, who buried his head in their mother's chest, terrified. Hohenheim jumped out of his seat as rain poured in the broken window.

"Edward!"

Edward was soaking and sobbing into the floor as Hohenheim scooped up the boy and took him to a corner of the room, trying to warm his son in the folds of his coat. Edward cried into his father's chest, and for the next few years was very cautious about the brilliant lights he loved.

Hohenheim would fix the window later; right now, his son was his priority.

"Oh, Edward . . . I'm sorry . . ."

Hohenheim quickly wrapped his son in a warm, dry blanket and laid him on the thread-bare sofa, somehow wishing his will could stop Edward's awful shivers. He prodded the flames of the small fire he had built, the flames licking higher as he turned a charred log on its side. Edward's breathing was audible, harsh, as his body struggled against the cold. Hohenheim rushed to retrieve a basin of warm water and a clean cloth; he had no way of knowing how long Edward had been outside and how long he'd been in the freezing rain of Munich. It was just as likely as unlikely that someone could have come across him, as it was approaching five in the morning. The father was only glad his squeaky shutter demanded attention, or someone else could have found Edward, and he would have continued living so near to his son without any knowledge of it.

He dunked the cloth into the warm water, washing Edward's face and shoulders with it, soaked it again, and put it on his son's forehead. He hoped his clumsy care was helping his son rather than hurting him; Hohenheim was a scientist and he knew he had never been particularly proficient in anything else. Edward turned his head towards his father in response to the touch, eyes still closed but lips moving as if he wanted to say something but was unable to make sound.

The blanket he had wrapped Edward in was already soaked through, so Hohenheim pulled another from the coat closet and quickly replaced it. The boy had stopped shivering, which Hohenheim was pleased to note. The first time Edward crossed the gate to Munich, he had inhabited a body already acclimated to the Germany side of it; this time, he had fully crossed over. Europe was quite different from Amestris, and entering in such a harsh climate would not help the shock his body was going through. Hohenheim himself had been urgently ill the first time he made the switch.

Edward moaned softly in his sleep, prompting Hohenheim to refresh the warm cloth on his brow. The father's hand lingered at his son's face, smoothing his still damp hair away. Edward obviously took after Hohenheim in most respects; that fact made the elder man smile slightly despite himself. His features lacked the sharpness, the prominence of Hohenheim's; Trisha's softness was there as well. He had grown his hair out long, which was notable; it was a beautiful golden color that was all his own, but Hohenheim still puzzled over why he would want to grow it out. Wouldn't the long hair of his father be a trait Edward would resent in anyone, especially himself?

Despite that thought, Hohenheim made sure he appreciated the value of being able to see his son so close to him again. His thumb moved up and down Edward's cheek, and he smiled and was pleased at the fact that his son seemed to lean in to the contact. Relief made it safe for Hohenheim to breathe again when golden eyes peeked at him from under the wash cloth. Exhaustion was clouding them, but Edward was still conscious enough to recognize who it was before him.

"Dad?" he mumbled, voice coarse and eyes straining. Hohenheim nodded.

"Yes, son."

"Where," he paused to cough; Hohenheim knew that after tonight, no matter how fast his body recovered, he was going to have a nasty cold. "Where- where am I?"

"A place called Munich. You'll be all right, though, don't worry."

Edward's eyes fell shut again, and he took a deep breath, weakly pulling the blanket closer around him. Hohenheim was instantly at the linen closet, pulling out yet another blanket and swathing Edward in it. As he did so, Edward's brow knit as if he was annoyed by it, but he said nothing. Hohenheim took away the wash cloth and wet it again, replacing it.

Edward grunted. "Stop that."

"What? You're sick."

Golden eyes opened to slits again, this time a faint hope tainting their feverishly delusional brightness. "Where's Al?"

Hohenheim pressed his lips together, realizing he was completely unequipped to answer that particular question. He paused for a moment, but with Edward's eyes staring at him, although through fatigue, he found he had to give some sort of reply, so he said the only thing he could think of.

"I don't know, son."

There wasn't a violent reaction, but Hohenheim knew that his answer was most certainly not the one that his son was seeking. There was a sharp intake of breath as Edward closed his eyes again, and a few tears that were accompanied only by silence. Edward was sick, depleted, and lost, problems with which his father could help and could possibly cure, but he was also without his brother. Hohenheim knew no cure for that.

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