Chapter Text
Emperor Ling Yao was an attentive ruler. Really, as attentive as he could be. After all, being so was paramount to his leadership: a good ruler listens to his subjects and rules with intent to make their lives better, and Ling was going to be a good ruler if it killed him. He’d seen more than enough monstrous ones.
He would never be King Bradley. That bastard.
That didn’t mean he was perfect. Now, for example, all he could do was scratch absently at his left hand and wonder if, maybe, he could put a clock in his throne room without anyone noticing so he didn’t have to sit and starve with no idea how soon dinner was. There was certainly enough ornament to disguise it…
Damn, he was hungry.
Sometimes politics was simply exhausting. Today was especially bad; these complaints were things he’d heard countless times before. Some of Ling’s more radical decrees, such as his most recent, were not particularly popular among his vassals. Yes, he was restructuring the military, and no, you weren’t going to be left defenceless, and yes, all other clans had to donate troops as well. Ling would—and could, in all likelihood—give this speech in his sleep, but he figured that would hinder the impact of his rhetoric. In the future, he would definitely be arranging for all the clan chiefs to visit simultaneously. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to repeat himself so much.
Nevertheless, Ling persevered. If it would help Xing and his people, he would give a thousand more identical speeches, but that didn’t dampen the unsoothable itch in his hand. He missed sword fighting. Four years had come and gone, yet his time in Amestris still clung to his skin and thrummed in his veins.
If only Xing’s problems could also be solved with incredible violence against an ancient homunculus wielding the power of God.
But alas, Xing was a little more complicated, and for all the advisors and Alkahestrists and diplomats at his beck and call, everything came down to Ling. His time. His ear. His persuasion.
Alone.
“And Your Imperial Majesty, our forces truly are honoured, but we fear—”
Let them speak. Let them air their issues. Let them feel heard. Sometimes, for all his charisma, Ling felt like he was just regurgitating protocols taught in political science classes. Leading the Yao clan was very different from leading all fifty, as he was always learning. He was stumbling around in the dark most days.
But he wanted a better Xing, so he would press on blind if he must.
The back of Ling’s neck prickled and a jolt of alarm lit up his nerves. Someone was staring at him. His eyes swept the room, but he was quickly soothed by the realization that it was just Lan Fan, glaring at him from her position beside his throne. She pointedly looked down at Ling’s perpetually reddened, raw hand. He shot her a small, apologetic smile and ceased his scratching, refocusing on the clan chief in front of him.
“—and our diplomatic situation with neighbouring clans makes this situation very precarious. We—“
Another guard appeared next to Lan Fan, tilting their head and whispering so quietly Ling strained to hear mere parts of it. “Suspicious activity… review… influence…”
Lan Fan nodded and the messenger left as silently as they arrived.
“—humbly request, until such a time as our people feel safe, that our contribution be reduced.”
“Emperor Yao, utmost apologies for speaking out of turn,” Lan Fan began, stepping from the shadows. The chiefs stared at her, expressions contorted by shock and anger. Ignoring them, Ling smiled sweetly and waved her on.
He stifled a laugh at the chiefs’ impossibly redder faces. He supposed it made sense for chiefs with bodyguards who weren’t Lan Fan to be baffled by his immediate forgiveness and permission, but Ling trusted Lan Fan implicitly. Especially if it was a matter she was willing to interrupt for.
“There are confidential urgent matters among your guards I have been asked to attend to. Would Your Imperial Majesty permit me brief leave to resolve the problem?”
If she thought it was important enough to leave him without elaborating, it was. The slight twitch of Lan Fan’s hands and the way her features hardened confirmed that expectation and sobered Ling quickly. “Of course. Take as much time as you need.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She bowed, then vanished from the room. Another of Ling’s bodyguards slipped into her place in the shadows.
“So, where were we?”
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Ling leaned forward on his throne. Lacing his voice with something light yet dangerous, he asked, “Do you really think I would allow that kind of breach of the treaties I arranged?”
The chief blanched, just as Ling thought he would. That one always worked. “No, no, of course not, Your Imperial Majesty! Our apologies, we mean no disrespect—”
Ling noticed the faint whistle of a kunai a second later than he should’ve. He arched, jerking his body backwards, but the damn robes he wore were too thick and stiff and he couldn’t move right and Lan Fan was gone and Ling was out of practice and he wasn’t immortal and fuck, he was too slow he needed the—!
The kunai made a grating, scraping noise as it slid along Ling’s collarbone and throat before slamming into the opposite wall. It must have skimmed bone to make such a noise; Ling’s heart pounded in his ears; one hand flung to his neck, pressing hard on the wound.
He leapt to his feet, drawing the dao he kept buried in his robes. The chiefs looked sincerely terrified, so not them, he sensed no one unusual among the columns—
Lan Fan was a blur as she tore into the room. In an instant, her automail arm ripped through the skin and ribs and lungs of one of Ling’s own bodyguards. His own bodyguards, his thoughts hissed. The assailant choked as she swept his feet out from under him.
Another kunai flashed, but this time Ling was ready, leaping out of the blade’s path. So there were two.
Adrenaline coursed through him as he let his body remember how to fight like this—twist and jump and duck and there, the momentary lapse in their defence. Ling swung his sword, slashing through the flesh of the man’s leg. He dropped to one knee, panting, and drew yet another blade that Ling easily knocked from his grasp.
Thump thump thump.
The man gasped before slumping forward, three of Lan Fan’s kunai embedded deep in his back. The other assassin, alongside a third Ling hadn’t even noticed before their death, lay unmoving in a growing pool of their own blood.
Time flowed like thick honey as Ling pulled his hand from his throat.
It wasn’t wet.
No thick, red blood dripped from his fingers. No warm, sticky smears marred his calloused palms. In fact, as his breathing deepened, Ling realized he couldn’t even feel the wound. There was no pain. It was as if the blade hadn’t even touched him.
But Ling had felt it touch him, felt the force of the slice through his chest, felt—
“Young lord!” Lan Fan cried, racing over and slamming to a stop beside him. Her eyebrows furrowed as she stared at his throat, then shook her head minutely and signalled towards his other loyal guards. They took the wide-eyed, sputtering chiefs by the arms and began to usher them away.
“Are you hurt?” Ling asked.
Lan Fan turned back to Ling, expression shifting with every passing moment.
“What is it?” he bit out.
He brushed his hand to his throat again.
Ah.
Beneath the tear in his robes was not the soft give of skin, but the smooth hardness of carbon.
Lan Fan inhaled sharply and reached for Ling’s raised left hand. Its ever-present itch had vanished, seeming real only for its absence. She gently turned it over and ran her flesh thumb along the back of it.
There, etched in pink so faint it was barely visible, was undeniably an Ouroboros tattoo.
Ling laughed, breathy and sparse. “Greed.”
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Greed often haunted Ling’s thoughts, even now. Some lonely, fractured part of Ling always reeled from the absence of a sarcastic quip or a “That’s it, pissant, hand over my body,” in response to his every move. Ling was so empty. Like someone had reached inside him and scooped out his guts, leaving him full only of air and raw grief. Time couldn’t dull the ache; after all, Ling no longer regenerated.
Ling sat cross-legged on his bed, Emperor’s robes traded for the more comfortable sarashi and loose pants he used to wear. Lan Fan watched from the footboard as Ling breathed deeply.
“Greed?” Ling called, reaching for the cavernous space around his consciousness where a maelstrom of souls used to blanket him.
A moment passed. Then another.
And nothing but Ling’ and Lan Fan’s soft breaths met their ears.
“I can’t sense him.” Ling dropped his head to his hand. It didn’t itch. Fuck, it didn’t itch. “But the Ultimate Shield and the tattoo mean he has to be in me, somewhere. I am not a homunculus without him.”
“Can you summon the Ultimate Shield now?” Lan Fan asked.
Ling furrowed his brows and clenched his fists. Concentrating, he poured every ounce of will into the remembered feeling of the Shield wrapping up and around his arms, tipping his fingers with claws, shifting with every twitch of his muscles. The way it was ever so slightly cool, ever so slightly stiff, yet never cold nor restrictive.
But try as he might, he couldn’t quite grasp it.
“No,” Ling sighed, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension.
A spark of something akin to worry flashed in Lan Fan’s eyes, but her body relaxed as if relieved.
Ling cocked his head. “You don’t want him to return, do you?”
Lan Fan stiffened. She opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again and said, “He claimed your body for himself, my lord. I do not want him to do so again.”
“We were getting much better at cooperating.” By the end, Ling wasn’t always sure where he ended and Greed began: Greed’s thoughts and feelings pressed up against Ling’s with only the thinnest barrier between them. They switched seamlessly and worked in tandem like they were created for it. Perhaps that was why being separated felt like Ling’s very soul being ripped in two. “I think he was willing to share with me.”
She shook her head. “He is Greed. As much as the Shield and regeneration help keep you safe, if they still come on instinct when you need them… is it actually worth it?”
“Yes,” Ling snapped.
Greed could be blunt, narcissistic, and very greedy, but he also took in the chimeras who had nowhere else to go. He passed on Ling’s message when he had every reason not to. He kept Edward safe despite the dangerous people that were hunting him down.
Greed screamed their throat raw when Fu died, just like Ling did. He told his only lie to save Ling. He gave his life to save the people of Amestris.
He loved as, if not more fiercely than any human Ling had ever known.
“Yes, he is worth it. I won’t just give up on him.”
Lan Fan tightened her jaw and searched Ling’s face for a long moment. He did not waver, holding her gaze with his full resolve. She seemed to find what she was looking for—with a soft exhale, she nodded. “What can I do to help?”
What could she do?
The dead did not return to life. That was a fundamental law of the universe. Ling spent more than enough time with the Elric brothers to learn that lesson.
But nothing is impossible, Greed always insisted. And Greed wasn’t dead, clearly. He was just…
Weak. Ling couldn’t even feel his qi.
Stoneless.
“Lan Fan, would you grab our Philosopher’s Stone from the treasury?”
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“Young lord, you’re certain you want to use the stone this way?”
If you ever turned your back on something you wanted—
Ling shrugged as casually as he could manage. “What’s the point in having it if we’re not going to use it?”
Lan Fan eyed him, then extended the small vial. Ling took it from her hands. The sloshing red liquid still glowed as bright as it had the first time he laid eyes on it.
The hall was clear, save for his few bodyguards Lan Fan still trusted. Mostly Yao clan, but a handful of Chang, some Liu, a few Huang. They were instructed not to interfere. The door was locked. All windows were shut tight. Ling was as ready as he could be.
The beast, Gluttony, crushing him into unyielding stone, monstrous Envy’s distorted laugh, inhuman Father in his blinding white robes looking down on him in a mixture of apathy and intrigue, every instinct screaming at Ling to fight back as the stone dripped down, down, down—
The situation was at least better than the first time around.
Ling drew his sword and made a shallow cut along the back of his arm. Lan Fan’s hand twitched, but she remained otherwise still at his side.
“Alright,” Ling began, forcing his voice to be steady. “Don’t be too worried if I start screaming.”
Lan Fan’s eyes blew wide at that. “Master Ling—?!”
The stone dripped into his wound too quickly for her to stop him.
Ling heard the first zap and saw the flash of dancing red energy before he felt it. He gasped as the spasm that wracked his muscles made his vision flash white.
And then, he burned.
The Ultimate Shield snaked up and down his skin, fighting to cover bits of him that were being clawed apart. It was deconstructed with the rest of him, sputtering and failing worse every time Ling’s feral subconscious tried desperately to summon it. Where regeneration used to be a warm, tingly feeling, a raging inferno now cauterized his wounds.
One of Lan Fan’s hands hovered over him as the other drifted towards her kunai. Her eyes frantically scanned Ling and she flinched forward every time he did. “It’s alright,” Ling assured her through the red-hot convulsions.
His joints hyperextended, further, further, further. Bones cracked as they were forced beyond their limits. The sound nearly overpowered the bursts of alchemy to form a chorus that Ling would call nauseating if he thought he had a stomach or a capability to feel anything other than maddening agony.
“I kn- gah! I knew this would happen.”
The violent jerking threw his head into the wall. Lan Fan’s gloves met his shoulders and the flesh shredded beneath her touch.
Ling’s returned grip on Lan Fan was iron until his fingers ripped themselves apart. His left hand burned. He trembled as he tried to restrain himself, to lie back and tough it out without clinging to Lan Fan. He did this once. He could do it again.
She tugged him forward. He doubled over, toppling into her shoulders as the breath was punched from his chest. He heaved, gasping for real air. Each lungful was ice cold and acidic.
The sound that tore its way from his throat was utterly inhuman, a screech more befitting of a tortured cat. His throat bled with the effort.
Lan Fan cried his name, echoing with the phantom memory of Ed and Al shouting similarly at him.
With the floodgates open, Ling couldn’t force himself to stop screaming. He choked on spittle and blood and chunks of dissolving flesh, but in every moment where his vocal cords were intact, he howled as if it could save him. Lan Fan was saying something. The words—and the rest of the world for that matter—drowned beneath his cries and the excruciating pain.
His mouth was so full of bubbling copper. Hot blood poured from his eyes, his ears, his nose, his everything, everything, everything . It traced fiery lines down his cheeks and chin and pools formed where he pressed his face into the crook of Lan Fan’s neck. God knows what else was gushing onto her as the stone mutilated every inch of his body.
Every gaping hole that threatened to free his disintegrating organs from the confines of his skin was met with Lan Fan’s hands, squeezing the wound shut until alchemy knit him back together like human yarn. Her swift hands were surely all that held him in a recognizably human shape but he was liquifying and spilling through even her deft fingers.
Why did he do this, again?
Lan Fan faded away, but the pain held tight.
Red. Burning, chaotic, screaming red. Eyes, everywhere, eyes, eyes, eyes. Ling was falling, plummeting fast through an endless abyss of wailing voices and red.
There were hands, not quite material but strong nonetheless, pulling Ling forward.
“Ling, kid, what the fuck were you thinking?!”
That voice. Ling knew that voice.
Greed!
Ling was pressed tight to his side, Greed forming a wall between Ling and the howling will of the souls he welcomed. Waves of relief lapped against him as the agony slowly drained from the points where they connected. “You’re alive,” he laughed, leaning his weight on Greed.
“Yeah, yeah.” Greed rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “But at this rate, you might not be for much longer. Hand over your body. Let me handle this.”
“What, greedy for pain now too?” Ling tried to joke, undercut by the way the world tilted beneath his throbbing feet.
“You know me, brat,” Greed said, tightening his grip and stabilizing Ling’s swaying. ”I want it all.”
Ling hummed. “Go ahead and have it.”
The world went black and Ling knew no more.