Welcome To The Bitchery

Our Story Part 1 (tw death)

I have yet to find a person from my country on their so called World Wide Web. But I'm ok with that. So far I've found you all to be very nice people. So I would like to continue communicating with you. I am actually writing this on a portable communication device that Al somehow acquired. I'm not going to ask how; I don't think I would want to know.

The trip to Liore was a failure. I was hopeful the priest's "miracles" were the work of a Philosopher's Stone. Well it was, but it was incomplete and during our confrontation it broke. Well if nothing else I was able to trick the priest into confessing publicly his plans to dupe the town's people into becoming his army to use to attack Central. So the town rioted and got rid of him. If nothing else we accomplished that. I do feel bad for Rose, a young woman I met who truly believed that if her faith was strong enough, Father Cornello, the priest, could bring her dead boyfriend back. But as me and my brother know, nothing comes back from the dead.

Al suggested I tell you our story. Very few in my country know it. I have the name Fullmetal Alchemist because of my automail leg and arm, but very few ask how I acquired them. I know they do it out of courtesy but the rumors spread throughout the Military.


Human transmutation is the one unbreakable law amongst alchemists. That's for good reason. It cannot be done. And it brings only sorrow and pain. I will tell you my story. I will warn you, there is death. I find the idea of trigger warnings that I've seen in a lot of other articles interesting. This "mainpage" you all talk about doesn't use those I guess. In fact I saw an article all about defending the lack of use of it. I find it odd you would get defensive over someone calling you out for being an insensitive jerk when it's justified. But I digress.

My brother Alphonse and I grew up in the town of Resembool. It's a small town, mostly known for sheep farming. The wool was exported to make military uniforms. During the Isvalan Civil War we were attacked by terrorists but for the most part stayed out of the fighting.

I lived in peace with my brother and our friend Winry Rockbell. My brother and I were very close to our mother, while our father….let's just say I find it hard to talk about him. He never hit us or yelled at us. But he was always distant, cold and hollow. He seemed to love our mother in his own way so it never became an issue….until he left.

I was only 4 or 5 when it happened, Al even younger. Mom never said why he left. We grew up, just the three of us. We found his books on alchemy and studies as much as we could. Mom was so proud of us, and called us our father's sons. All we wanted was to make her happy. We knew that while she never said anything, she was suffering because of him. We could see her looking out the windows at nothing, as if we didn't know. But we did. She was waiting for him to return. Overtime I grew angry and resentful at him, but Al never got as mad as I did. And then….she got sick


It came suddenly. She was fine and then….they said it was a plague that was sweeping that part of the country. We thought if our father would come home, she would get better. We sent letters to all the people he had communicated with trying to see if anyone knew where he was. But no one responded. And then….she left us.

It was just me and Al then. Mom was dead, Dad had abandoned us. We were orphans in our own home. Maybe you could say we did what we did out of grief and pain. It wouldn't make any sense logically otherwise. But I'll get to that part later. I am tired of writing and the walk down the past is harder than I thought it would be.

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