second coming: nc-17, short

“The time is out of joint: O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!” — Hamlet, I.v.188-189

“Après moi le deluge” — Louis XV 

They call him the Flame Alchemist because he consumes fire. He can put his finger to a burning wick and absorb the dancing flame so that it dies down to a spark, down to the faint scent of wax which he consumes, also. He doesn’t feel the heat, or the pain. The candle is very much whole, and it is only evening.

fma christmas: pg-13, short

This was the ‘famous Armstrong family Christmas carolling and dinner party, passed down through generations’. Or at least, that was what Major Armstrong would tell you at the door to his palatial family home. And in addition, pump your hand vigorously until it lost all feeling. 

What a load of rot, thought Roy moodily, picking at his turkey, which the menu claimed to having been marinated in ‘special Armstrong family sauce’, and wincing at the incredibly off-key (probably traditionally so) rendition of ‘Silent Night’. A particularly high pitched warble saw him dropping his fork and cringing when it met the ground with a loud chime of protest. Bending down to pick it up gave him a good view up Hawkeye’s skirt, but the treat was prematurely cut short by her aiming a kick at his nose. It connected (painfully) and he ducked out in a hurry, bumping his head on the table and earning an annoyed snort from Fullmetal, who was seated on his right. Roy had never felt so embarrassed in his life.

only the dead: pg, short

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
–Plato

They told him death would come in a blaze of colour. They beguiled him with tales of curses and weeping women and resting places under the willow tree. 

They didn’t tell him that death could lurk in skilled fingers, in kiss-swollen lips, or in dark corners away from prying eyes. Nobody dandled him on their knee once upon a timeand warned him that death came with beauty and a final flash of green. But nobody had to die – only the fools who believed in the lies. 

And in the end, it is Neville who saves the world; good, old, dutiful Neville, who bravely bears the prophecy on rounded shoulders and exits the world in the stolen blaze of glory. Fickle history doesn’t remember how many times Neville blew up his cauldron or got himself sent to the Hospital Wing; it forgets grubby hands and a nervous stutter. His portraits hang from distinguished establishments, all wrongfully steely eyes and white hands, and nobody notices his bitter smile. 

As consolation to the almost-hero, they dash off a condensed eulogy (he survived a curse by Voldemort in his youth…) and make him into yet another forgettable Chocolate Frog card. After all, he’s just an embarrassment, better to be overlooked and hidden away in cheap, dark packets, instead of marbled memorials that take up space and have to be paid for. 

He blinks now, bleary-eyed, as sunlight strikes his eyes (it’s been a long time) and the blurred image in front of him sharpens, focuses, so that he can just make out puzzled brown eyes. He smiles and waves, of course, to be polite, like he was taught so long ago.

Smiling brings out your eyes, boy.

“Who’s Harry Potter?” Brown-eyes turns to ask his companion.

A glimpse of a generously freckled nose and flaming red hair is a painful reminder and he shrinks into the frame, remembering disapproval and overdue regret. 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Harry Potter! He’s the boy everybody thought was prophesied to save us from Voldemort, but it turned out to be Neville Longbottom instead.” 

The voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper.

“…he was a traitor, y’know, sleeping with the enemy and all that – but there wasn’t any proof after the war and they decided to close an eye. You can keep him though; what I want is the Longbottom one but I’ve never been able to find any.”

He mercifully lets himself sink back into the flimsy cardboard, ignoring surprised gasps at his disappearance well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day, and finds cold comfort instead, in dreams of power, glory and oblivion.

boys like to play: r, short

The canteen was so crowded for once that Ed had to actually try and elbow his way in. 

“Niisan, you know, it might be easier if you just asked them to move…” Al commented as Ed once again nearly missed being hit by somebody’s waving arms.

“Who are you calling smaller than a miniscule speck on your eye!!!!”

mea culpa (a tragedy in five parts): r, short

I.

There is a church outside the apartment. It would be wrong to describe this stone artifice as modest and quaint – on the contrary, it appears that its architect had had a grand design of building a miniature Notre Dame, then halfway through settled for St Peter’s Cathedral instead. The weight of its illustrious forebears sits heavily on its squat frame, its twisted body blending in with the gnarled trees surrounding it.