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Alphonse Elric is in pieces: the bits of him sit in a box and a canvas is tied around the gaping hole in his side to hide his hollow body. The bits of him rattle against the wooden slats of his box like dice in a cup. The noise is atrocious, a constant clanging roar. It is only the canvas that keeps his loose bits from rattling about inside him as well.

If he were still possessed of nerves, they would have frayed away long since.

His attention is in pieces as well. It wanders far and wide, and whenever he brings it to heel from the consideration of an array, or the contemplation of the man Scar, he is surprised by his circumstances. The journey home--it is home still, despite the embers and the years--passes by in a series of vignettes. He is among the sheep; Ed is worrying whether he will be all right. Then he is sitting on a station's platform as the train and his boxcar of sheep pull away without him. Then he is sitting by the side of the road intimidating another child. Finally, he is propped up in a bed, speaking with Ed about visiting the grave. He is in pieces, and cannot go himself. As with so much these days, Ed must do this for the both of them.

And then he is resting against a wall, and cannot remember the name of the girl who has just passed by.

He is in more pieces than he realizes.

He is waiting for Ed to put the pieces back together.