Through the Rabbit Hole
Magic.
Seriously.
The Albus Ten-Middle-Names Dumbledore that originally requested aid, according to his translated letter, believes Alchemy to be a form of magic. Ed’s more inclined to believe it’s the other way ‘round, although the entire concept is unbelievable. By the end of the first page of the case file, he’s intrigued. By the end of the second, he’s fascinated. He can’t wait to figure it out. ‘Magic’ sounds like it could be some evolved or adapted branch of alchemy that uses incantations and wands as the runes and transmutation circles. The implications of that are boundless. Roy sat on this for years?! What the fuck!
So he’s going to England, apparently. Edward knows of the place, but it’s so far removed from Amestris he’d half considered it a fairy tale. From the case file, he wasn’t far off. It only occurs to him to wonder how he’s getting there once he’s out of the country. His driver says he’ll be collected by Dumbledore on arrival at the safehouse they’re currently on their way to. Ed’s perfectly happy to pass the travel time burrowing into the case file– the thing’s about as thick as his arm.
The letter calls for aid dealing with some biological ‘magic’ conceived by an active terrorist, who’s covered in the second section of the file. As England’s magic and Amestris’ Alchemy are such different fields suspected to share their original theoretical foundations, Dumbledore requests an expert in ‘soul tampering’. That catches Ed’s attention. Dumbledore goes on to say that he is in possession of an inactive artifact that may have been used in a violation of natural providence. Ed can almost read the information that’s been excluded as clearly as the report itself, and that in and of itself paints a bad picture. The civilian reticence to consolidate forces and cooperate with him almost weaves itself into a physical aspect right there in the back of the car, multiplying the weight of the debrief by the word. The whole situation is so severely lacking in order, even factoring in the extensive political corruption, it’s a mess.
It’s starting to make sense to Ed why Roy might sit on something like this for so long. For one, the ‘magic’ that this country possesses is looking to be far more powerful than he realised. Obviously there’s been no shortage of intelligence gathered regarding these people and the way they work, and given what they’ve found, it makes sense not to make any diplomatic moves on them. The wizards are on the verge of a civil war, have been ever since they came off the last, and their government is in complete shambles. The last thing Amestris should do is insert itself into that.
They probably wouldn’t even bother so much with it— England itself is large but the magical community within it is pitiful, hardly worth noting on a global scale— but their magic… if these reports are faithful, then Ed’s got a lot of thinking to do, and so does his country. Just thinking of something like this getting out to Amestris in any capacity gives him chills. The small number of these wizards and their general incapacitation at the hands of infighting and corruption are likely the only things keeping it in check. In fact, the discord is probably a result of it, as well as it’s mitigating factor. Roy hasn’t been sitting on this. It’s probably all he can do to keep it under wraps. If one wrong person found out about this, the fallout would be catastrophic for the country.
One thing’s for sure: Ed won’t be found here. Wrapping him up in this, under false pretences or not, is putting him in a vault with the greatest secret Amestris has— and it has a lot. Ed is almost touched the bastard sent him; despite Ed being one of those very, very few that Roy can genuinely trust, he does have a tendency to fuck shit up. If anyone finds out he sent Ed on a diplomatic mission of any importance whatsoever, Riza will castrate him and the rest of the office will just go right ahead and prepare for war.
There’s a portion of the report that’s written by Roy himself. He speaks plainly, but gives Ed all the information he has. It’s almost more useful than the entire rest of the report, which is about as thick as Ed’s forearm is long.
Things are coming to a zenith, and war will likely openly begin in the next year or so. We’ve determined the current government the preferable victor, with consideration to the upheaval that will result from the war. The death of the enemy’s figurehead, Tom Riddle (Voldemort), would be beneficial to this end and ideal regardless given his active terrorist status. He is as detrimental to the enemy as Albus Dumbledore is to the resistance. Both are revered by their followers as unquestionable leaders, so at least pretend to play nice with the old man to begin with or you won’t get anywhere.
The government itself is corrupt from both the in and outside. The resistance you’re joining is not a united one. Watch your back, and keep out of the courts if you can. I don’t care how much you say you’ve changed, I know you, Fullmetal.
I think this mission might actually suit you. It’s a lot less formal than I can parse. That should give you the elbow room to do what you see fit, but don’t make me regret sending you.
It’s only a minor civil war, Fullmetal. I figured you could handle it. Try not to make too much of a mess.
Oh, and enjoy the magic.
Führer Bastard
Ed almost smiles at the proof that Roy hasn’t changed all that much. He rereads the letter, then burns it. Then he turns his attention to the English-Amestrian dictionary included and gets to work.
Ed is dropped off two miles from a station, where he gets a train. Then he doubles back with another. He changes clothes and tucks his hair up, then gets one final train. He transmutes his jacket and shirt and puts on his false glasses, gets a car to the city he’s expected in, and walks to the meet point. It’s a little house in suburban Germany where he’s supposed to meet his contact. Shockingly, it’s the leader of the resistance himself. Maybe that’s on account of the secrecy of the whole event, or on account of the secrecy of the man himself– Ed was told to initially report only to the old man, but whether that’s because Roy is keeping a tight lid on this or because the old man wants to keep his cards as close to his chest as the reports suggest he likes to is unclear. Either way, this Dumbledore (and what a name) will be the extent of his escort contingent into England.
The safehouse they’re meeting at is tucked in close to its neighbours, close enough to share support beams that look to be cedar and probably run through the formulaic structure of the whole street. They’re visible from the front, probably to distract from the iron fastenings– something of a priority when you’re rich enough to make your house with metal, but not enough to protect it. You’d have to know to look for the fastenings. If you do look for them, though, they’re there. A military safehouse would know how to hide those properly. It wouldn’t have windows, or a broken fly screen. It wouldn’t keep lights on or the kettle boiling, which Ed can faintly hear through the wall. The only explanation one could come to is that this is a perfectly average, middle-class home that likely belongs to a lecturer, or an administrator– something to that degree. Which is how Ed knows he’s got the right place.
He pulls the broken fly screen aside, leaning on it so it doesn’t slam back. He knocks in the pattern he was taught. An increased humming marks the old man’s approach on the other side of the door, and then it opens inward with a modest creak. Ed can’t help the jump in his eyebrow.
Ed’s not one to judge on age, having met his share of immortal freaks, but he’d put this guy at about a hundred years past dead. How else do you explain a beard that long? He can’t even see the guy’s sweater for it, it goes past his belt. He has the weathered face to match, but obviously not from the sun. The beard expertly hides a few short scars, and the rest blend into his face quite naturally. His face has a natural uplift, helped by the rather becoming creases around his eyes that speak of a near-constant smile. As advertised, he’s smiling now– he was smiling when he opened the door, but as he takes Edward in his whole face brightens, eyebrows lifting and lips parting in express delight. It’s all very projected, even while it comes across as nothing but sincere, like Ed’s his dearest friend come back at last for a cup of tea and a good chin-wag. For an old guy, his eyes are remarkably clear– a strong sky blue that he’s obviously tried to wash out with his ghost-white hair like the helpless old man he isn’t. Still, it’s hard to get past the yellow-feathered beret the man’s got on.
‘Ah, Mr. Ellis! Marvellous, do come in!’
Ed gets the gist of that, even if he’s not clear on all the individual words. One afternoon with a dictionary does not a fluent man make. Whatever, as long as they get out of the doorway. Everything about this is designed not to draw attention, and that hat is about to negate all of it.
As the old man shuts the door and turns around, Ed comes to realise that the rest of his outfit is no better. He’s wearing both a grey suit vest and a knitted orange sweater over a black silk shirt, a belt buckle in the shape of a duck, and green dress pants. His shoes have buckles on them too, and the ends are curled slightly, like a little pixie’s.
Deep breaths, Ed.
‘Good to see you,’ the old man chuffs, and he genuinely seems to mean it. His eyes twinkle merrily as Ed stands there with his mouth hanging open. He seems content enough pretending he hasn’t just completely upended all of Ed’s hope for this mission and his own sanity. ‘Would you come in? I have the kettle on.’
Again, Ed doesn’t understand that. Dumbledore seems to realise this, and he rectifies it with his very own stick– one of the wands detailed in the report. This must be his own. He produces it from the inside pocket of his suit vest, steadies it against his throat, and casts what can only be a spell. It’s understated– Ed only catches a little yellow light, like that from a match as seen through thick glass, travelling up from the centre of the wood to the tip, blooming bright for a moment against the skin in contact, and fading. Then the headmaster tries again.
‘My apologies. It slipped my mind that my previous translation spell had worn off. Hopefully we can better understand each other now. Now, some tea? I think so.’
‘How did you do that? The magic? It was a spell, yes? Can you show me again?’
The old man frowns at Ed apologetically, turning back from his tea mission. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you yet, Mr. Ellis. I only performed the translation charm myself. Would you mind terribly if I performed the same on you? Otherwise, I’m really not sure how we’ll get through this discussion.’
Ed hesitates for half a beat before he agrees. Thankfully, the old man doesn’t stick his… wand, against Ed’s throat. He casts the spell from his standing position. Ed feels no change.
‘Better?’ he asks. Old Man brightens.
‘Much! I always find it handy to understand the language of the person you’re speaking with.’
‘Then we are speaking English?’
‘I am. You are still speaking Amestrian, I suspect.’
It takes everything in Ed not to follow that line of discussion. He knows, he just knows, there will be far more to parse than that tonight. They can’t afford to get sidetracked. Besides, from what he understands, that’s the least this ‘magic’ is capable of. He needs to understand the theory of magic as a whole before he can expect to understand spells.
The kettle goes. Old Man shuffles after it, subtly gesturing for Ed to follow. He does, as if in a trance. It’s occurring to him that this may turn out to be the worst thing Mustang’s ever done to him. Half a step away from the kettle, Old Man turns as if remembering something.
‘Now, the thing about the tea,’ he begins, ‘you’ll want to hold on. The important thing is not to panic.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He nods decisively and takes Edward by the arm in a surprisingly firm grip. ‘Perhaps it’s best I give you an arm on the first go around. Now, deep breath in–’
One wrinkled hand claps onto Ed’s flesh arm. The second the other hand touches the kettle, the world explodes.
While the world explodes, Ed appears to implode, just to be contrary. That’s what it feels like, anyway– like his particles are reacting to a black hole, like every breathing, pulsing bit of him is being vacuum-sealed into optimum compaction. The metal of his prosthetics screeches, and he thinks, me too, pal. It feels like his leg and arm are being pulled off, the grafted skin screaming as it tears, the ports crying and crunching ominously. Through the mind-numbing onslaught of agony , Ed has the hysterical thought, somewhere in his mushy core, that if this doesn’t kill him, Winry will.
Suddenly the pain kicks down from world-ending to just torture. Whatever was swallowing him whole has its teeth out of him now. The pain, like usual, pours into his adrenaline, kicking him through the process of checking himself, his surroundings, his immediate wounds and problems. First thing of note: he’s not bleeding. The skin didn’t tear like he thought. His arm and leg look as whole as they’re supposed to, and they respond as normal. Ed can’t see any evidence of whatever just happened to him at all.
Second thing: He’s on the ground in a clearing, no buildings or people in sight. In the dirt. Outside. He has clear range of vision, but that doesn’t mean anything with wizards. The loam beneath his cheek is about 30% sand, 70% dirt, damp enough to border mud. The smell of petrichor and the wriggling of worms says it’s either rained recently or it will soon– Ed would put his money on the latter. If they weren’t already in hell, he would be able to feel it in his stumps.
Third thing: Old Man is there. He’s standing with a concerned frown on his face, falling into something like a crouch to insert himself into Ed’s space. His eyes are a stormy grey to match the darkened sky, and it makes him look completely different. He doesn’t seem injured, but he’s clearly as surprised by this turn of events as Ed. No, not by their circumstances– by Ed’s reaction.
‘Mr. Ellis! Are you alright? Adverse reactions to portkey travel vary, but I’ve never heard of a case as bad as this. I would most certainly have warned you, had I known. Are you physically harmed?’
Ed closes his eyes and takes some deep breaths, partly to work himself through the pain, partly to come to grips with this reality. This isn’t an ambush. Old Man just decided to trust his magic with an unknown factor in that unquestioning way of the faithfully ignorant. Because why would anything go wrong with taking Ed’s molecules apart via tea kettle and reconstructing them elsewhere? It’s never gone wrong for Old Man, obviously it’ll be fine for Ed. The idiocy of it is so dangerous, Ed wonders if he’ll even make it to the undercover part of this operation. It will almost be poetic if Ed never gets to see his wife or Al again because he spontaneously combusted on the way by manner of magic cookware that his wizard host forgot to mention.
Ed drags himself up, ignoring the fretful hovering of the old man. He gives a healthy glare, swallowing down a whine at the ache in his ports. He braces his hands against his metal leg to stop his shaking.
‘What the fuck was that,’ he growls lowly.
‘The kettle,’ Old Man replies, settling back on his haunches and keeping his hands in view. One of them is still holding the thing. ‘It was a portkey. I apologise for not letting you know in advance, but I find the effects are generally exacerbated by forewarning. It seems it didn’t do you much good, though.’
‘Ya think?’
Old Man hums. Ed’s just grateful he’s keeping his hands to himself.
‘I’ve never seen such a reaction… I do wonder what caused it. It wasn’t the border that gave us trouble, was it? I didn’t think they had much in the way of defensive magical interception. Ah, but then…’ those endless eyes of his cast down to where Ed’s massaging his port.
‘Yah,’ Ed snorts, confirming the guy’s hypothesis. ‘Maybe have a warning label on those portkey things for amputees. Jackass.’
‘I see. Yes, that would do it. I must apologise once again. Your prosthetics must be truly unique to have slipped under my radar. Are they characteristic of Amestris?’
Ed grumbles something about nosy sycophants. ‘Help me up, old man.’
‘Are you sure you want to– oh.’ Ed hadn’t finished his demand before he was grabbing Beardy by the shoulder like a crutch and hoisting himself up. Ed doesn’t feel bad about it– this guy’s clearly solid enough for it. He’s probably just used to people treating him like a wilting flower, assuming that frail old man schtick actually works on other people.
Ed bites off a yell as he stands, but he doesn’t wobble. He can feel the pressure of the ground beneath his metal leg, faint as it is under the pain. He tests the give, the resistance, the response, and finds it all in perfect working condition. All that pain, and the ‘portkey’ apparently didn’t do anything to him. (Yeah, right.)
‘You’d better hope that doesn’t have long term effects,’ he grunts breathlessly.
‘If it helps, I sincerely doubt it will. In the meantime, if you’ll permit me another turn of magic, I can conjure up a stretcher and we can postpone this meeting–’
‘Like hell, old man! I’m here now. I can walk. Where are we going? I assume you didn’t dump us in a field without a plan?’
‘No, it’s a short walk to your temporary accommodations… are you quite certain…?’
Yes, Ed is. He is not dragging himself through the mud on his ass all the way to town, and he is definitely not getting on a conjured fucking stretcher. This has thoroughly pissed him off, but it’s an obstacle, nothing more. Old Man, to his credit, seems to recognize this faster than most people, and he doesn’t question Ed again. Ed continues to use him as a crutch, and they start through the mud and heavy gloom at a dismal pace in the direction Beardy leads.
It’s a slow slog, and it’s not a nice one. Ed has no qualms about the mud he sinks into with each slurred stomp of his boots, one in front of the other, rinse and repeat. He throws it up in thick globs with his determined fight through the muck, coating the two of them to the knees. Beardy doesn’t say anything, which proves that he does have some self-awareness. Ed gets surer as they go, the pain receding to a furious ache. Eventually he lets go of Beardy to press at the place where the skin meets his right arm. Beardy pretends not to be keeping an eye on Ed, strolling along with his hands behind his back. Him and his pixie shoes. So weird.
When they crest a hill to overlook a cosy little town, Beardy does his third impossible thing. He waves that wand of his and his clothes melt before Ed’s eyes into new ones, the fabric folding in and over itself with a flourish that Ed can’t quite follow in the dark. Now he looks even more insane: a long purple robe-dress thing that swishes around his ankles, glittering like the night sky. Little silver stars speckle the velvet– Ed thinks it’s velvet. He even has a pointy hat to match.
Because Ed is not a bratty child anymore, he manages to hold his tongue. He says nothing while he rethinks his entire life and everything that’s led him here, walking into a wizard town with the Mad Hatter’s twinkly old cousin.
The town is small, the roofs low and the structures questionable. Thin walls and crumbling stone that probably shouldn’t be capable of bearing its load. The smell of wet wood is calming. Ed wonders if the air is often so wet to produce that smell even before a rain. He takes in the odd way the buildings are assembled. Each one has character– a wonky slope or uneven windows, lending the place a sense of what Al would call whimsy and what Ed would call chaotic dysfunction. The lack of respect for order and regulation is more off putting to him than the rest of this experience so far put together. It’s like he’s fallen into a parallel universe where everything’s the same, just not quite right. An uncanny valley. It’s freaky as fuck.
And no one knows I’m here, Ed thinks bleakly. I’m gonna die in this freaky fairy world. These guys will serve me a cup of spiked tea, wave their wands and use me for pixie plaster. They’re gonna build me into their walls, and the grout won’t even be level. I’ll be a cobblestone eyesore for the rest of eternity and Winry won’t ever know what happened. There’s your whimsy, Al.
Adding to the creepy air is the fact that despite the darkness, there are no lights on. Ed can see plenty on the street, but nothing’s lit. Something’s been wrong, and it finally dawns on him what it is.
‘...It’s daytime.’
Old man hums in agreement, squinting up at the ominous cloud cover. ‘Yes. The time difference is about four hours.’ He turns and twinkles at Ed. ‘Welcome to England.’
The clouds break.