In the morning, the Ishbarite women go down to the well and gather water for the day in giant clay jars. They sing as they walk, their voices low and mournful and sweet. Al sits with his chin on his hands and watches them until his eyes glaze over, and they are nothing more than hazy dark figures and the cadences of song.

Ed pays them no heed; he's too engrossed in his studies, in the old texts and the details of this society, this religion. Schools in Amestris' Central City have already expressed interest in accepting him as a student. Their father is indulgent of him, and ruffles Al's hair whenever he passes by, the few times he returns to their borrowed apartment.

There's a strange pleasure in watching them that Al can't quite explain. His mother is the closest to understanding, and even then, in the end, she attributes it to his age and doesn't question.

"They're beautiful," he tells his brother, as Ed drops into the chair beside him and leans back, so that his shoulders are braced against the windowsill that Al leans against. "I wish they trusted us more."

Ed shrugs. "We're outsiders," he says, unphased. "And Dad's an alchemist, to boot. They remember the war, even if they weren't in it."

Al folds his arms on the window and sighs. "I still wish they'd talk to us," he murmurs. "They could tell us a lot more than we'd learn from just books."

"Give it time, Al," Ed says, and reaches over to ruffle his hair, like their father often does. "If they warm up to anyone first, it'll be you. You're the one everyone likes."

Al bats his hands away, grinning, and looks outside again. His grin fades.

There is a man standing beside the well, wrapped in a long, dusty green cloth. From what Al can see of his hair, it's pure white. A strip of tan skin is visible through his clothing, and Al sees things tattooed there, marks like something out of one of his father's textbooks. Al has never seen him before, but he knows who he is.

He glances to the side. "Brother," he says, "I'm going to go out for a bit."

"Huh?" Ed blinks. "In this heat? Al --"

"I'll be right back," he blurts, and scrambles off his chair, across the house to the front door. He bursts outside, and falters for a moment at the brightness of the midday sun, and the heat of it. For a moment, he sways, then shakes his head and keeps running.

The man is still standing by the well, unmoving as a statue. He doesn't turn as Al comes to a stop a short distance away and doubles over, panting.

"You," Al gasps. "You're -- you're the priest who went to Central, to murder alchemists, aren't you?"

And finally the man turns, looking at him. Al doesn't flinch, even at the cold look in his eyes, or the dangerous slant to his mouth. There is a giant scar cut into his forehead, across his eyes, and Al is surprised the man hasn't been blinded by that injury. "You are ..."

"Your name was struck from the record," Al blurts. "They know who you are. Why did you come back?"

The man turns and begins to walk towards him. Al braces himself, but the man does not try to touch him, makes no more towards him -- just stares, like is something strange and a little disgusting.

"You are of them," the man says at last. "What do you want?"

"Why did you come back?" Al insists, and what he means to say is Why did you leave? Because he can't imagine leaving this place, doesn't want to think about leaving this beautiful serene desert country, though he knows they will soon enough, when his father's job sends them off again.

The scarred man stares at him. And then, shortly, he says, "I came to see if there was a memory here."

"Was it?" He's oddly breathless, staring.

"No." The man continues to stare, as though weighing him, looking through all the petty trappings of his soul, and finding him wanting.

And then, unexpectedly, he says, "Even for a stranger, you have not strayed far from Ishbara's path. If you do not let your father and brother influence you, you will go far."

His hand flashes, and Al flails, catches the sparking silver thing tossed at him. It's a woman's locket, patterned with designs that resemble the holy writings of Ishbar. "This --"

"When your brother leaves," the scarred man says, "come find me."

And then he turns and walks away, not looking back. Al watches him go, and closes his fist over the locket, stuffing it into his pocket.

Later that night, as they're getting ready for bed, Ed asks, "So, what was that all about, today?"

Al stares at his reflection in the water basin. When your brother leaves, come find me.

He shrugs. "Nothing."