Even with Winry there beside her, gently stroking her mauve hair in tender affection, Rose still couldn't seem to figure out just what she was, aside from that she was certainly there; so unmistakeably real that it could make her cry in relief; her very existence was a miracle in itself. And yet just what that existance was by definition was as difficult to place as a grain of sand in the vast desert. She was more than what she simply lived on defined as; so much more. She was greater than Ed and Al's childhood friend; greater than the kindly hostess who had taken the Liore girl and strange boy into her care without hesitation; greater than the young scientist who healed so many.
She was a little phenomenon, the bright country girl whom she'd come to depend upon; a seamless juxtaposition of divine protector and sacred feminine; a merciful saint whose skilled hands healed sinners and sins alike without judgement; a strong archeangel of a woman who could make any man cower and fear when she wanted to, and still manage to rock baby Cain to sleep, then retire to Rose's room to do the same for the young mother who sometimes needed it more.
Winry's warmth against Rose's back was more constant than that of the sun which rises and falls; her arms more tangible than a fabled angel's feather which can only be believed in and never felt; her kind words more healing than anything she had been given by the old texts and hymns and prayers she had always been told would bring her salvation. Winry was there- real- and astonishing as she was, still plainly human; warm and real as the earth itself; a human being of strong resolve and faith in those she loved even in their indefinite absence.
Rose could do little but conclude that Winry- and not she- was nothing less than a Holy Maiden.