FMA Fic: "The Way of Stones" 1/1
Title: The Way of Stones
Author: evil_little_dog
Word Count: 399
Rating: Teen
Characters: Slave Twenty-Three, original characters
Summary: It felt like a celebration.
Warnings: Pre-series. Violence/blood/death.
Disclaimer: If I owned anything of this, I wouldn’t be living in Boxtown.
fma_fic_contest prompt: “Stone”
Notes: This is the longer version of the story posted for fma_fic_contest.
X X X
“Did you hear?”
Slave Twenty-Three took a quick glance at Eight. He was a dark-skinned man, almost as old as the Master, who said he was from Drachma originally, like Fifteen. Fifteen didn’t believe him, not that Twenty-Three would know the difference between a Drachman and, well, any other country. But Twenty-Three jerked his eyes back to the task at hand, washing up the flasks from the Master’s alchemy chamber. “No,” he said, when the silence got too much to bear for his curiosity.
“There’s going to be a stoning,” Eight said. The way he said it, it sounded like a kind of dessert, some sort of sweet the kitchen workers would make for the Master and his family on a special day. “We’re going to be allowed to watch.”
“Watch?” Twenty-Three carefully rinsed one of the vials, setting it upside down on the rack to drip dry.
“Yes.” Eight sighed. “It’s been a long time.” He slapped Twenty-Three’s back, making the bruises on his shoulders sting. “I’ll see you there.”
The Master indeed rounded all the household slaves up, chivying them along to the town square. The tension in the air made Twenty-Three’s skin sing and prickle. He broke into a sweat, feeling his stomach twist at the weird feeling in the air. People chattered; their eyes bright and color high, and the slaves picked up on their nerves. Fifteen grabbed Twenty-Three’s hand, but let go just as quick, afraid the Master might see and take offense.
Someone was dragged through the crowd, a young man who fought against the grip the soldiers had on his arms. He screamed his innocence to the skies as they threw him in the center of the crowd, all of them laughing at him. Twenty-Three’s breath caught as a rock hit the man, bouncing off. He whirled. “Please, help! I’m innocent! I didn’t touch that girl!”
Another stone, heavier this time, struck the man, then another, until they rained down on the man. Blood spurted, and he clapped a hand over his eye, crying. More stones, and, groaning, he was knocked to his knees.
The man died, covered in bruises and scrapes, with his witnesses ringed around him, and all the bloodied stones.
Lifetimes later, Hohenheim blinked at the Xingese alchemist’s request for information on the Philosopher’s Stone. “I don’t talk about that,” he said, “I’ve had enough of red stones.”
X X X
Author: evil_little_dog
Word Count: 399
Rating: Teen
Characters: Slave Twenty-Three, original characters
Summary: It felt like a celebration.
Warnings: Pre-series. Violence/blood/death.
Disclaimer: If I owned anything of this, I wouldn’t be living in Boxtown.
fma_fic_contest prompt: “Stone”
Notes: This is the longer version of the story posted for fma_fic_contest.
X X X
“Did you hear?”
Slave Twenty-Three took a quick glance at Eight. He was a dark-skinned man, almost as old as the Master, who said he was from Drachma originally, like Fifteen. Fifteen didn’t believe him, not that Twenty-Three would know the difference between a Drachman and, well, any other country. But Twenty-Three jerked his eyes back to the task at hand, washing up the flasks from the Master’s alchemy chamber. “No,” he said, when the silence got too much to bear for his curiosity.
“There’s going to be a stoning,” Eight said. The way he said it, it sounded like a kind of dessert, some sort of sweet the kitchen workers would make for the Master and his family on a special day. “We’re going to be allowed to watch.”
“Watch?” Twenty-Three carefully rinsed one of the vials, setting it upside down on the rack to drip dry.
“Yes.” Eight sighed. “It’s been a long time.” He slapped Twenty-Three’s back, making the bruises on his shoulders sting. “I’ll see you there.”
The Master indeed rounded all the household slaves up, chivying them along to the town square. The tension in the air made Twenty-Three’s skin sing and prickle. He broke into a sweat, feeling his stomach twist at the weird feeling in the air. People chattered; their eyes bright and color high, and the slaves picked up on their nerves. Fifteen grabbed Twenty-Three’s hand, but let go just as quick, afraid the Master might see and take offense.
Someone was dragged through the crowd, a young man who fought against the grip the soldiers had on his arms. He screamed his innocence to the skies as they threw him in the center of the crowd, all of them laughing at him. Twenty-Three’s breath caught as a rock hit the man, bouncing off. He whirled. “Please, help! I’m innocent! I didn’t touch that girl!”
Another stone, heavier this time, struck the man, then another, until they rained down on the man. Blood spurted, and he clapped a hand over his eye, crying. More stones, and, groaning, he was knocked to his knees.
The man died, covered in bruises and scrapes, with his witnesses ringed around him, and all the bloodied stones.
Lifetimes later, Hohenheim blinked at the Xingese alchemist’s request for information on the Philosopher’s Stone. “I don’t talk about that,” he said, “I’ve had enough of red stones.”
X X X