Wayward Son: Grounded

Chapter 7

Aerrow took a deep breath.

'It has to work this time,' he told himself. 'This time it's gonna work. It has to.'

He placed the small hunk of iron on the island in the kitchen.

'This is iron,' he recounted. 'Nothing special to it. There's no chrome, no paint on it, nothing. If I can change its shape to something different, then I'll know I'm getting somewhere.'

He pulled up his right arm in front of his body. If he remembered correctly, he had to press his hands together as though he was praying. It was easy enough with his right arm, but...

Using every other ounce of his effort, he hoisted up his left arm, concentrating as much as possible on keeping his elbow bent at the angle he needed. It had become far easier over these past few weeks and he was even beginning to move the shoulder, but that didn't mean it wasn't still difficult.

He didn't even know how much more respect for Ed he'd gained over these past months. He supposed that had it been anybody else, or if he'd just gone home and nothing else had happened, he would have forgotten the fiery blonde around two months later and gone right on with his life.

But as it was...

'A pyramid,' he decided. 'It's going to be a pyramid, just like the first time I saw him transmute. If I can do this, I've achieved something. I haven't spent the past five months reading and studying and researching for nothing.'

He pressed his hands together in front of his face as though he was praying, in exactly the same style he had seen Ed doing, then rested them atop the iron hunk.

Nothing happened.

He did it again. Still nothing.

'What is this?' he thought. 'What am I doing wrong?'

Had he been concentrating too much on keeping his left arm in the right position? That sounded like the most plausible explanation. Either that or there were some impurities in the metal he didn't know about.

Had he not made himself clear enough about the shape?

Or...

Or had he been wrong?

Had it all been a waste? Months and months of reading, studying, researching, memorising, trying as hard as he could to get as much information as he could in his head and understand this whole alchemy thing... had that all been for nothing?!

"Son of a bog howler," he muttered under his breath, burying his face in one of his hands.

What a waste.

If he couldn't do alchemy...

...did that mean he had lost his arm and been rendered completely incapable of fighting, almost permanently confined to the Condor...

...for NOTHING?!

The very thought was enraging! He felt like punching something. He felt like tearing this entire room, this entire ship, this entire planet to shreds out of sheer, unchecked, irrepressible FURY.

But that wouldn't do him any good, would it?

So instead he just sat down on the floor against the wall, groaning in annoyance, and pounded his fist into his forehead (his right fist – he didn't want to give himself a concussion).

What was he missing? There was something vital that he hadn't noticed in those countless weeks of searching, wasn't there? What was it? What had he missed? What was holding him back?