He was a version of his brother if he'd grown up, but fainter, as though he'd been diluted in the bright light of the Gate.
Light was what brought shadow into being; they were cast by its brightness and thrived in its absence...
For the first time, he suddenly understood that there was worse than death.
What was it like, Father mine, to die and to be resurrected again?
He gave, and he gave, and he gave, and he could only hope that it was enough.
When the lines didn't matter, when the lungs weren't working in labor of sweet industry worlds, then it was so easy to see where they might be all born of the same blood.
His name. His name on wet, bloody lips. Edward turned his face away, his lips in the long, dark hair.
Death overtook Hohenheim unexpectedly on the road to knowledge.
But the language of legend and that of alchemical secrecy were linguistic-sisters...
Faith, he'd thought, was something he'd learned as a child, squirming on the hard wooden pews.
They shared the same eyes, the same hair, and a level of intelligence ... and sometimes, Ed felt far too much like he was his father's son.
He couldn't understand this world, this obsession with his son in the negative.
He can still feel in his cheeks the faint scratch of beard against skin when his father kissed him there.
Brother deserves better than to always walk alone. And you deserve better than to quietly freeze in the dark, regretting things left untested.
Hohenheim had been familiar with death, but his own still took him by surprise.
He had only meant to pass through the town; it wasn't like much would have changed anyway.