I patted his sweating forehead with a wet towel, as he tossed and turned in his sleep. He was dreaming of home again, or what he had told me of his home, though I wasn't too sure if he was telling the truth or not. A world with different people, some people with albino hair, red eyes and dark skin, Ishvalians or, people who looked like him, Amestrains. His mechanic, a blonde girl with sea blue eyes and an earnest heart whose parents died in a war as doctors. His brother who was sleeping in the bed behind me, had been trapped in a suit of armour for a long time before he had been saved by his brother, who was now in a restless sleep in front of me. Although he had the scars, and the auto-mail to prove it, I was still skeptical. He had shown me numerous transmutation circles, that he'd drawn in chalk and his eyes always lit up when I asked him of home. I blinked several times, and remembered the boy in front of me, I looked back down to his face and dabbed it with the wet cloth.
"Your just trouble aren't you." I murmured, putting the cloth back into the wash basin and standing up from my wooden stool beside his bed. I picked up the steel wash basin and smoothed down my skirts, getting irritated at the heavy cloth. Tilting my head up when a warm draught infiltrated through the closed, fly screen windows. The sun was only just rising, but the cattle station outside was already bustling with energy and you could already feel the heat of day. I opened the door, creaking as the hinges protested, needing a good oiling. I felt a hand grabbing the end of my dress, and I looked back over my shoulder, despite being a nineteen year old he still acted like a little child, his size not really helping anything. Despite all of the young stockman who did the musters, and who went to the bars and constantly got themselves drunk on beer and all sorts, seeing Mother Nature at her worst, he seemed to have seen more horrors then you could find in the Australian Outback.
"No... I'm..." He murmured, mumbling in his sleep was a common occurrence. The boys usually teased him for it and called him a pipsqueak, and yet he always found a way to beat them to pulp before they could say another word. Alphonse, his little brother, always seemed to try to stop it, but still grinned each time even when he tried to smother his smirk. I turned around and gripped his hand gently, like a mother would and gently patted his blonde plaited hair. I smiled, but then remembered I had to keep up my reputation as the best stock woman around here. I gently pried his fingers off of my skirt, like you would a child who was having nightmares, and in a sense he was. I dropped his hand onto the bed, and walked out of the room.