Internalized reminiscence by a character on a series of events.
Alphonse had thought that he must have the bravest brother in the world.
He gave, and he gave, and he gave, and he could only hope that it was enough.
I needed something that said 'I am Elicia Hughes, more than just Daddy's Girl.'
He had only meant to pass through the town; it wasn't like much would have changed anyway.
And after all, no amount of rain can wash the blood away.
Life, the Fullmetal Alchemist decided viciously, wasn't fair.
She moves the king again, to its last optional safe square and murmurs, "I'll admit this is not how I envisioned my first night on the battlefield."
Brother wasn't the only one hiding his fears; I was so afraid everything I knew was a lie -- that our brotherhood was a lie.
For now, he has mastered one world, two worlds; they have mastered him as well, and he is tired.
There was one thing that Edward had missed above all others.
I, the stray dog of the desert, who sloped long and pale, slashed to ribbons, across the moonlight sands on my journey to God.
Rubbing at a fading reminder of one such lesson on his left biceps, he hopes she appreciates what a formidable champion she’s gained.
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.
She feels like an intruder, eyes watching her from empty rooms, and every stair is a memory she dares not to disturb.
Impress, they had told him. Make us see why we should choose you as one of our own.
She remembers the dreamlike way the pieces seemed to sit on the board—on account of the light, maybe, or perhaps her own faltering memory.
He wanted Hughes to know how many lines he had crossed in his lifetime.
Alfons is a scientific man, and Edward is his paradox.
Mustang is possessed, maybe, but not with the feverish intensity that will someday be the trademark of the Full Metal Alchemist.
Edward had come into his life, taken over his life; and sometimes Roy wondered what was left of it for him.
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.
There is no way Alfons knows what he does to him.
It was well known around Central headquarters that Roy Mustang was lusting after the visiting Major-General.
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.
Roy Mustang often looked back on his wedding night, recalling what he had thought about his subordinates; even now, they were his family, his safety, his friends.
Nothing made sense anymore.
And there was a certain look they shared, the one they both used when they thought Ed was being unreasonably stubborn.
According to Hughes, Major Mustang was close to promotion and as his subordinate, it was her prerogative to try and help him to reach the next rung of the ladder.
There was no question that the very act of living in this world was to be in exile.
The brush began its march through the sunbeam locks, from crown to tail, and Riza pressed her lips to them. "Until then."
He has seen the desert. Seen her scorched and scarred beneath his steady hands. Stepped in her tattered remains, tasted her ashes with every breath.
He couldn't understand this world, this obsession with his son in the negative.
There were precious few memories remaining, now, dimmed with the passage of time and the years that he’d spent lacking a flesh body, but he kept them close to him all the same.
Sometimes Roy would just hold him for an hour or more, late at night, blind comfort.
Because he had said one year; and dammit, he meant it.
She paced the wide, marble floor, visited each of the soaring windows, feeling every supple sinew beneath her skin move with the perfection of the young.
He had started to wonder if it was Edward or himself that was farther out of reach at the moment.
Of course, when she was their age she could hardly recite her multiplication tables, much less draw complex alchemical glyphs.
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.
Here was the corner where she retreated, reloading her gun as she prepared for another kill.
To her, the Philosopher's Stone is blood and fire: his fire, her blood.
She could remember his voice, husky with tortured emotion, screaming a name, the name "Edward Elric..."
He wanted to be able to do something like that; tangle limbs and lips and know what it was like to not have a responsibility.
Even so, you still are a manipulative bastard.
And of course, he does not believe in God anyway, and scorns the idea of predestination.
What price for a human soul? Even a body and a leg had left a debt that could cleave the world in two.
Very few alchemists believed in God, but all of them believed in books.
Grandfathers should want different things for their grandchildren, shouldn't they?
Your eyes stared up at me, wide and questioning, in a response not fit for such a young child.
I know what I feel, I know what I think, and I don't need to chickenscratch the shit down and have the risk of it falling into the wrong hands.