The World

Edward is just turning two, and already he is rambunctious and overzealous in everything he does. He learned to run before he could walk, shooting like an arrow to cling to his father's legs, golden eyes turned up to beg and demand to be held.

My little sun, Hohenheim calls him, and smiles the joke at her every time he does. He laughs and obliges Edward's demand, lifting him by the waist and swinging him around. Edward's shrieks of laughter echo from the hills, play and replay in the shifting bars of afternoon sunlight. This country is so beautiful, so beautiful; she never would have believed how beautiful until she came here to start her family.

Alphonse in her arms is more serene, thankfully; she couldn't handle two Edwards. He sleeps the sleep of an angel, although that's not what Hohenheim calls him.

Little moon, he croons, brushing his fingers over Alphonse's infant face, and it's fair. Alphonse's face is pale and round and soft and shining, his young eyes are more blue-silver than gold, and they glow when he looks adoringly up at his parents, reaching out an unsteady, uncoordinated hand.

The reverie is broken by Edward, demanding their attention again, and Hohenheim obligingly turns back to the older brother, taking his hand to walk him along the wall. Ed will insist on walking, rather than being carried, and they should get home before dark.

Home; their house, small for a country house but hers to keep, hers to sing to while she cleans and tidies. Hohenheim keeps the boys occupied while she cooks dinner, and she laughs to see the grand scholar on his stomach on the floor of the living room, reading his sons a fairy tale from a fat little book.

My world, Hohenheim whispers in her ear, later, as they make love at night when the children are sleeping. His eyes encompass a universe, his hands a wonderland, and his lips when they brush against her skin describe heaven. My earth, my Gaia. My world.