Fic- Shackled Life

[cornerofmadness]

Title Shackled Life
Author - cornerofmadness
Disclaimer Arakawa owns all
Rating PG-13
Characters/Pairing Young Hohenheim, his Master
Timeline/Spoilers spoilers for chapters 74 and beyond, set in episode 40 of FMA:B
Word Count 965
Warning mentions of bodily functions, outhouses and canon bloodletting
Summary The life of a slave is cold and hard
Author’s Note Not sure why this one insisted on starting with such a gross topic but it occurred to me that many experiments had to have been run on Slave Twenty-Three. Written forfma_fic_contest's 'cold' prompt


XXX

An icy wind blew through the poorly joined boards making up the outhouse’s walls. Twenty-Three huddled on the rough seat, his bowels twisting. Of all nights for his master to give him one of his experimental concoctions, it was well below freezing and the surrounding desert never held heat to begin with. Whatever Master had given him had forced Twenty-Three into the outhouse several times during the night with the most disgusting of consequences. Surely there was nothing left inside of him to come out.

By the time he felt safe enough to creep back to his bed, it was snowing. The air was so cold, the flakes cut like glass and tinkled icily on the snow cover. The only highlight was his bed was warm. The master’s chemicals couldn’t get too cold or too hot, so he was generous with how much fuel Twenty-Three could feed the fire in the lab where the boy slept. He slipped a little more into the fire place and kicked off his shoes. He’d be there forever in front of the fire, trying to get the circulation back in his digits so Twenty-Three crawled onto his straw pallet in the corner, covering up tightly. He hoped that was the last trip he’d need to make to the outhouse. He couldn’t handle any more.

XXX

“That is some very lackluster sweeping, Twenty-Three.” His master looked up from where he was scribbling in a journal.

“Sorry, Master.” Twenty-Three paused, leaning on his broom. “The stuff yesterday left me weak. I’ll do better.”

“Yes, that was an unexpected side effect.” Master gazed at him thoughtfully. “For my records, how many bowel movements do you think that serum gave you?”


Twenty-Three frowned. He didn’t even want to know why that should be important. He turned his gaze to his fingers, which was all the higher he knew how to count, then held them up. “More than this.”

“Surprised you can even stand up.” Master stroked his beard. “I wonder if this can be diluted and used to treat constipation. That could make me a lot of money.”


Twenty-Three didn’t know how much more money his Master needed. He just prayed the man didn’t give him any more samples of the drink.

“I’ll get Idir to help you clean up in here. I’m expecting a visit from Tufyl Samara, another alchemist who has been working on something that I’m interested in. I want to make a good impression.”

Twenty-Three tried not to frown more deeply. He hated Idir. The Master’s apprentice was cruel to him, hit him a lot, blamed things on him, snuck into the lab some nights and hurt him. “Master, I’m sure your apprentice is very busy. Number Thirty-four might have some time to help me. There’s not much he can do in the gardens now.” Thirty-four owed Twenty-Three for saying he was at work when he had been napping.

Master nodded. “All right. I’ll send him along. Do pick up all my books, Twenty-Three. It looks shoddy in here.”

And who’s fault is that? the boy thought, getting to work.


XXX

The preparations for Mr. Samara’s arrival ended up taking days. The weather mellowed some, getting unseasonably warm as if the cold of the last few days never existed. Autumn was so weird. Twenty-Three was sure that he would probably be freezing his plums off again in a day or two.


However, if he thought his hard duty would end as soon as the lab was cleaned, he was sadly mistaken. All the fuss had Idir worked up and the apprentice took out his frustrations on Twenty-Three until the Master caught him at it. But finally things were to the Master’s liking and Samara arrived. For a couple of days, things were easier. All Twenty-Three had to do was clean up the immense messes the two alchemists. That wasn’t so bad.

“What about him?”

Twenty-Three realized they were talking about him and he stopped cleaning the glassware.



“Twenty-Three, come here. We need to run a little experiment.”

The slave tried not to scowl, his intestines tightening at the remembrance of the last experiment. “Yes, Master.”

“Lie down on your bed,” Master said and Twenty-Three complied, confused. “We need some blood this time.”


Twenty-Three’s eyes widened. “B-b-blood?”

“Yeah, so lie still.” Idir caught Twenty-Three’s legs.

Twenty-Three tried not to scream as the alchemists held him down and opened up his arm with a sharp knife. Samara caught the blood in a bowl while Master maneuvered Twenty-Three’s arm to make it bleed faster. The boy panted and whimpered as his blood filled several bowls. A new type of cold came over him, his whole body trembling as the three alchemists became fuzzy and grey.


When Twenty-Three next became aware of his surroundings, his arm throbbed under thick bandages and a slave girl he didn’t know was trying to feed him broth.


“Sorry that was so rough on you, Twenty-Three, but the experiment was a success.” Master beamed. “Number sixteen will take care of you for the next few days.”


Twenty-Three didn’t have the strength to thank him.


XXX

Van Hohenheim, the name bounced around Twenty-Three’s brain as he leaned on his broom looking at the thing in the flask, the creature born of his blood. It wasn’t fair that this creature was so much more educated, wiser, than he was. The thing gave him a name, promised to teach him about a world outside of his shackled life. It sounded so good; never having to be cold or hungry again, never having to live in fear of Master’s next experiment. Still, the very idea filled him with a new kind of cold, a nervousness that raced through him until curiosity battled it back with its own fire. He wanted freedom.


“What is your name? Who are you?"