"Aww, is the rough and tough Elric crying for his dead brother?" sneered a voice in his ringing ears.
There is only the Now, with Them, although They have not come for a long time.
Screaming or crying would have been appropriate. Edward Elric didn't care about propriety. He was laughing.
It was beautiful, this pre-industrial world, with its white snows and ever-visible rainbows and the dazzling night sky. But it was also dreadful, seething with ignorance and man-made horrors.
"Apparently their mother never cautioned them to stay away from strangers with cars."
You want to break him just once; see what he really is beneath that cool exterior.
He had lost everything in a heartbeat, on a chance, and deserted his brother, although against his will.
They were Scientists; this was Nature. They were Modern; God is dead.
They say that a wizard lives in the log cabin, on the other side of the dark woods and the silver river.
There is grass growing on the cinders, ivy covers the old stones.
Winly was touched, really, that even after two years without seeing one another, Ed still wrote her letters.
You hide it well behind your bluster and your sulks, but the workings of your mind are at once cunningly devious and ruthlessly simple.
Always on Al's face was that soft, sad expression, paralleled by the fierce unyieldingness on Ed's.
And when the next words followed, barely loud enough to be heard, the General was surprised by the force behind them.
It was getting kind of depressing, though, by the time the color red alone would make him wonder about the child; the flash of a cardinal, a sprig of bright berries, the gaudiness of nighttime tavern lights, and the scarlet lipstick of bar women.
What things Envy learns of his master's nature, of his future and his past alike, are those things which he has divined on his own, and nothing more.
Roy had not wanted to cry for many years; he hadn't wept since Ishbal.
Roy was silent when Maes came back several minutes later. If he heard the sounds of retching from the bathroom, he didn't say.
If she cries, he may have to kill her. He can't stand that sound any longer.
He had believed, until that moment, that he had moved beyond carnal wants and human feelings.
Twenty-one days, and it all falls down.
You're the only person on earth who will ever be able to read this message.
It was so, so much easier just to go hungry than to try their hands at something she'd done so well.
You'd have to be inhuman not to quake in fear when she stares you down.
Two boys, two faces, two fates, alive and dead at the same time, at different times, nothing in common, everything in common, one thing in common: him.
When Winry found him, he could not help but clutch at her, babbling almost hysterically.
Nurses in white smocks bustle about a tiny nurses's station, and he is intercepted by one of the younger ones, a new girl he doesn't recognize.
The creature tilted its head, eyeing the two men to the side of her, and slid off its precarious perch.
Al wonders, a little, what it's like to live inside Ed's head now.
There was no question that the very act of living in this world was to be in exile.
She accepted the label and its implication without argument, lifting the revolver and sighting along its barrel.
Yet there are still nights that he wakes up to find his hand clutched by a seated Al, who laughs his hollow laugh and asks if he's okay, even though he does not remember screaming.
He can do the math; he knows that with two of them and only one of her, there's no good way for things to come out even.
Because he had said one year; and dammit, he meant it.
It was, and he hated to admit it, an intriguing proposal. Ed wondered who the General had leaned on to get it written in just such a way to make his alchemic blood tingle.
Who knew how long it would take to find Al and take down those who'd conspired to feign his death?
No one talked of Equivalent Exchange in England, but they had a saying that came close: There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.
He'd meant to say something but Ed had been so determined, so anxious to be useful, to create something.
He thought, for a fleeting instant, that he ought to feel some kind of guilt—but he couldn’t muster any.
He underestimates the little things, like how long it will take him to put his socks on in the morning, and she comes up the stairs when breakfast is long since over to find him crouched over a torn stocking, blinking back furious tears...
It didn't really sink in when you saw the thing, all clumsy dangling wood and leather straps, like the arm of a marionette in a kids' puppet show.
But he's traveled like this before, and the hope that it won't end in failure a second time is, at this moment, enough.
Half the apple pie was still on a cracked plate on the windowsill, covered with a bowl so it didn't go stale before tomorrow, because it was all he had in the house.
Heaven is this: a short, crisp October day, the clear sky a great bowl above them, the amber valley a chalice below.
Sometimes, he really wished that sleeping dogs would have been left alone...
This is far more effective, Roy thinks grimly, than any threat of physical violence against his own self.
Now the eyes were dull, the gold frosted, and bitter lines caged his mouth.
The sweet morning snaps like a fragile pane of glass and Al is sobbing, the sounds tearing up out of his chest and throat before he can stop them.