[elricest; r] Word Made Flesh Title: Word Made Flesh Pairing: Ed x Al; Elricest Author:emilie_burns Rating: R Wordcount: 1228 Warnings: Incest, yaoi, mild sexual references and allegorical implications of activities. Loads and loads of sacrilege and biblical imagery for which I'm going straight to hell. Oh yeah, and MOVIE SPOILERS KTHX. Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) is copyrighted by Hiromu Arakawa/Square Enix. This is a work of fanfiction for personal entertainment only. Written for a challenge presented by Kaltia. Summary:So much lost, so little restored, a fallen sinner lost in Nod, cast aside from paradise, in the arms of his god, his self-made god -- was there any fault in finding rapture there? Original LJ Post Date: January 18, 2006 @ FM_Alchemist
Word Made Flesh
"And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father) full of grace and truth." - John 1:14, KJV
Alphonse was his god, the center of his universe. Spirit made flesh, word made flesh. His words. His promises. Instead of being created by a god, he created his own. His flesh. His breath. His blood and suffering were the toll for his foolishness, his pride, his own pathetic efforts to play at being one, to fly in defiance of the sun.
Thrice attempted, thrice damned.
There were stories in the new world of an angel who once aspired to be God, cast out of paradise for his rebellion and insolence. If the definition of insanity was to do the same thing in repetition expecting different results, then he would be insane if not for the fact he never expected different results. He expected to win, but not without a price.
For too long, it was too real. Cold, hard, steely truth. A living nightmare made manifest, a crime beyond penalty, a guilt beyond restitution. A limbo between the living and the dead, which was unacceptable. He damned them both. And it was his own selfishness, his own despair, his own sin which trapped Alphonse in a life that would never live.
Give him back, he's my little brother! I'll give you my legs, my arms, my heart, so give him back! He's the only little brother I have!
Thrice attempted, thrice damned. His mother once, and his brother twice. Each time cast him further from a state of grace and the third time, the proverbial charm, cast him from paradise altogether.
If hell was separation from God, then that world had been his hell.
But it was a price he would pay gladly, from then until the end of time, when he saw his creation, his god, his word made flesh. There were no happy endings for the condemned, for the fallen angels, for the devil. Separation from his god was the price put before him yet again, to once more put to right what went wrong. But there was no need for both of them damned, and he had won. His word made flesh.
It was worth it.
He didn't know what he had done to earn the grace, the pardon, to be reunited and brought back into the highest halls of heaven.
No, not brought back. They were both cast out. The god had left the throne to meet the sinner, to walk among the common dust, away from glory. For him.
His god. His christ. His salvation.
Word made flesh.
It was too surreal, too incredible that they were together again, that his promise had been kept, that his brother was alive, well and truly alive. He had to touch him, the warmth of his skin -- skin, soft and warm and pliant beneath his hands, not hard, cold steel. And when those hands, his god's hands, closed over his own, touching him, fingertips brushing over memories of words whispered in the dark -- "I want to touch you again, Brother" -- he wept.
It should have felt wrong, dirty, unnatural, when lips brushed away tears. But so much of what all they had done and witnessed was wrong, unnatural, hands and lips already unclean with inerasable sins, what was one more taboo shattered? So much lost, so little restored, a fallen sinner lost in Nod, cast aside from paradise, in the arms of his god, his self-made god -- was there any fault in finding rapture there?
And like the fables and stories of old, it felt as though he was created anew, flesh kneaded and warmed in the hands of a god, breath given, restored by lips upon his. He was desperate for it, craving it, hungry for the reassurance of forgiveness in his touch, the laying of hands, the healing of flesh and spirit. Theirs was an unholy communion, the essence of fallen gods and wretched sinners, but it brought them to a place of ecstasy beyond the wildest dreams of heaven.
"For you have need of endurance, so that after you have done the will of God, you may receive the promise." - Hebrews 10:36 NKJV
He saw himself a sinner, Al knew. The unforgiven, cast from paradise. The lost one, sullied with sin, with bloodstained hands. But try as he might, Al could not make him see nothing was further from the truth.
He was not the god, the savior, the giver of life.
His brother had been the one who took their sins upon himself, who bore the whips and scorns of the years and trials, while he remained dead in their sin.
It was his brother's blood shed which restored him to life, whole and new and clean, purified.
It was his brother crucified to the cross they both bore, his brother who walked the road alone, never quite fully in Al's company, never quite letting him in all the way into the darkest parts. It was Ed who bore the agonies of the flesh, the temptations, the weariness.
It was Ed who suffered, who died, who sacrificed, so that he might live.
He was no one's savior. It was his brother. His christ, his god, his salvation.
Dead in sin, by his stripes healed.
In his absence, he became a mirror, an image of his christ, a reflection of who he kept within his heart. His brother would come back, Al knew, or he would go to him. They would not be separated forever, and they weren't.
His brother had been stunned that Al left behind their home to follow him, and Al was at a loss how to make him understand that his home was wherever he was. That this was their paradise, their rapture, caught up together, never to be separated again. His savior died and left, restoring him whole, clean and pure and sinless once again. His savior returned, and he followed him home.
And their moments alone were worship, prayers of mercy and forgiveness, and praise of forgiveness granted and received. Hands and lips adoring, praising every scar, every inch of sacred flesh, of the boy-god made man.
Together, they dwelt in their sin, carrying the full knowledge of what might happen to them if they were discovered. But really, what was new? It was no different in Amestris, and perhaps, that little bit of continuity was a source of strange comfort in itself, a sin unique between them, secret from the world.
In the quite hours of darkness, skin sticky against skin as they clung to one another, feeling the warmth, the softness, the strength as their breath returned, it sometimes crossed his mind that perhaps, they both were right, and they both were wrong.
Both of them sinners. Both of them gods. Fallen gods, cast out among the mortals, having walked through wonders, harboring power beyond all comprehension of their surroundings. Like the Greek myths of old, pagan gods, carnal and proud, stripped of their divinity by the origins of their gifts, the father, the Zeus, the Gate.
But it was all fantastical thinking, a justification of the touches, the kisses, the heated needs and mewling passions. In the end, it merely boiled down to all the same thing: they were brothers. They were inseparable. They had walked the domain of gods and paid the price.
All they had left was one another, nothing more than what they started out with, and far less than before.
But they still had one another.
In the darkness, Al closed his eyes and smiled.
That was enough.
Because your steadfast love is better than life, my lips will praise you. So I will bless you as long as I live; I will lift up my hands and call on your name. My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast, and my mouth praises you with joyful lips when I think of you on my bed, and meditate on you in the watches of the night; for you have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy. My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me. - Psalm 63:3-8, NRSV