Intense themes with a nightmarish edge or grim outlook.
If Al hadn't known how often the older boy feigned unconsciousness in order to stave off these visits, he might have been fooled.
Of all the castle's "guests," Roy was the only one not allowed to leave. Ever.
"...If I...really went insane...I mean, completely lost my mind..." Ed said, carefully, "do you think you'd be able to stop me?"
He was afraid, so afraid, that something would go wrong, but he couldn't let this go.
Death could come to Roy on his time. Appointment first. Lunch, maybe.
...when he presses his hand against the scraped array and wills it to activate, he can't help but send a whispered prayer to it. Please work. Please, please...
"If you are going to keep pets, you are going to have to take care of them."
All it took was a push of his hand and the twist of a small brass key to put it out of sight.
Screaming or crying would have been appropriate. Edward Elric didn't care about propriety. He was laughing.
He was only human though, and he had given into his rage at having to deal with Edward's dysfunction--and now Edward was gone, and it looked more and more like he might not be coming back.
Envy forced down the nasty smirk that threatened to overwhelm him.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a daddy?" Wrath said.
He didn't know why they would do this to him, why they would stare with sad eyes and sad lips, with mouths turned down for the frowns that came.
Faith didn't hold much of a place in my life; science was my passion, something I could see, something I could feel, could make sense of.
Of course, when she was their age she could hardly recite her multiplication tables, much less draw complex alchemical glyphs.
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.
He just carries himself with a certain atmosphere, one that feels like splinters of buildings falling off walls and landing broken or the smell of roasted flesh.
And when the next words followed, barely loud enough to be heard, the General was surprised by the force behind them.
A small smile crept along her face--this visage made for mischief--and her tell-tale purple eyes narrowed.
It isn't often that our darkest fantasies get fulfilled.
Roy had been among the rebels for weeks now, and he'd learned very early on that these men were dangerous, very dangerous.
Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.
"If I do not, I might begin to love you, whom I should hate."
It was just as his body heat was beginning to bring the sheets up to a reasonable temperature that the noise caught his ears- an ugly scraping sound, unnatural and harsh in the silence of early morning hours.
Ed meets his eyes, holds them, and then -- slowly, painfully, but deliberately, traces his free hand in a line across his throat.
The color red was a distraction. The color red was him. Him--Mustang's own constant distraction, the waving red banner amidst the dull color that painted his everyday life.
Ed did not want to die without seeing Alphonse again.
It's almost as though Al is the blind one, seeking to memorize his brother's features by touch.
The cheap ink has blurred and run, but Ed's memorized the gist: Riesenbul needs help; come sort things out.
He had lost everything in a heartbeat, on a chance, and deserted his brother, although against his will.
Envy was no poet -- one could say that he lacked a poet's soul -- but he did recognize beauty when he saw it.
From saint to sinner, from mother to whoreâ€¦ She was far more beautiful in death than she'd ever been in life.
I've never regretted keeping you, Envy.
"It's getting worse," his brother said as he came in the door.
rated:G | GEN | dark
Sometimes, he prays that the hand will come down and Ed will tell him gently they are done, they are going to quit, end the nightmare before it worsens.
"I'm sorry Al," he said at last. "For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen to you."
On the first night, he comes to her as her teacher.
"Mother?" And his voice broke, shattered as he raced to her, arms wrapping around her thin body, embracing the image, the idea. "Mommy!"
Al thought of Martel, of Nina. He didn't want to be a chimera.
Before this war, he'd never wiped human blood off his automail.
Mustang fell into a kind of trance whenever he killed with his flames -- snapping his fingers continually, sometimes so fast that both his hands blurred.
Edward doesn't come back the next night, or the next.
This was always my favorite part of the day, when I could observe the wicked gleams of a glare I wasn't meant to see.
He’s killing his brother slowly, but he has already promised to do it quickly; what does it matter?
Edward would speak to him, eventually. Any good dog would, and despite his obstinacy, the child could be trained.
His brother seemed to like it when the leather left marks, a residual token of ownership, even when the collar (by job-dictated necessity) had to be removed.
What kind of stupid creature would walk willingly and calmly to its own violent, brutal death?