Title: Of Harsh Treatments
He was floating in ocean of white. But found he wasn't alone.
He felt the ominous approach of the thing he didn't want to see. It was here, arriving with a boom that echoed through him as only it could. It was the sound of finality. Of judgement. He heard the nearly sing-song voice calling out behind him.
"Oh Al-chem-ist...."
A great black iciness gripped him and wouldn't let go. Familiar and full of weight. A rhythm thudded thunderously in his chest.
There was a man with dark, greasy, shoulder length hair.. he wore dark flowing robes, making him look much like a bat. He turned, walked forward from a wooden table and squatted. Soon enough, he saw just his face. And his cold black eyes.
He felt the aching pain in his port at his shoulder. Throbbing slowly. Then it was joined by the port in his left thigh. It was almost like a duet in agony. He pushed it to the background of his mind.. Where it belonged. Then came the frozen..burning pain...throughout the rest of him. He grit his teeth and pushed it back as well.
He was back on the array in the opera house, grand archanum equation done to perfection below him, and he had just activated the arrays he'd drew on his body. Hands across his chest as if he were hugging himself. The rush of energy flowing through him, and making a wind rise from the ground. He closed his eyes as the blue glow increased at his final...what he meant to be his final...thought...have to try....for you Al....
What...!?
He 15. It was a place called London. He ran..on two complete! legs. Novelity of it dying nearly as soon as it occured to him. ...The owner of the body on this side knocking pain against his just-arrived mind, demanding: Who are you..? In his own voice. It was the moment he realised what had happened. I STOLE...a LIFE?!? And..it was... me?!? How...? No time. The ground shook. Headlines on the paper he passed in his rush declaring there was a war....Written in a language he both did and didn't recognise. Then. He saw them. Great airships...floating in the air. Amazing. Silent. What WERE those?
He was 13. On the train headed south. His brother, soul trapped in armor, laughing hollowly at his attempt to cheat at poker. It was a lame try, he admitted to himself. He laughed with him, already planning the next attempt....
Thud thud. He saw the man's cold eyes again. Thud. His view jarred for just a moment. The man's hand withdrew from his face.
"Severus!"
"Don't hit..."
He blinked a slow blink.
"Mr. Weasley, I assure you that I know what I'm doing."
His chin was grabbed firmly by soft hands. Long fingers bit into frozen skin. He saw the dark cold eyes narrow.
Winry, striking his head with a wrench, yelling at him to take better care of both Alphonse and his automail... In the dark tunnels beneath Lior..leading refugees to safety...their way blocked by things only he could fight off. He turned and yelled for them to get the hell away....Huge red flash before his eyes against the bright desert sun, signaling the death of those in the city. No. All those people...but shadows disintegrating against the arc of destruction....Numerous boxy gravestones stacked and doubled up upon themselves..all the way up high..piled like a hill...He fell to his knees before them. Unable to cry because he knew he didn't have the right...
Stop it. STOP!!
The cold black eyes.
"MAKE ME."
He was 12 the day he received the silver watch and the name .
NO!NO!NO!NO! GET OUT!
"MAKE. ME." The voice almost a sneer.
He exhaled and squinted his eyes.
Wait.
Breath. He was breathing.
He could breathe!
He blinked a slow blink. Black eyes. Cold black eyes. A cruel upward curl on the thin lips on one side. The man with the greasy black hair.
He took a deep breath. Held it. Focusing inward. Searching. He felt the energy in the room as it flowed between the atoms...just out of his reach. Frustratingly out of reach. He blinked another slow blink. Right arm safety override...He hissed at the burning cold of that arm so near his ribs, felt it even through the many layers..Heard something tearing, and hoped it wasn't himself. It was stopped...hindered by something. He found couldn't move anything else, as the rest of him was busy shaking and shivering. Cold. So. Cold.
"He...moved!"
"Obviously."
Fuck it.
He scowled and glared at that face.
Get.
THESHITOUT!!!!!
The face before him jerked backwards, then gave the tiniest of slight nods, yet looked as though it was looking down at something particularly nasty while doing it.
No more images flashed before him. He exhaled a shaking breath. His chin was released.
:::
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