So I wasn't sure what to do for this one. I didn't want to do something painfully obvious–i.e. a ship–for this prompt ("connection"), and so I consulted my oracle–otherwise known as my little sister–and her response was to start singing that song from the Muppet Movie, "The Rainbow Connection." I laughed. And then I stopped laughing.
And I wrote this.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me
. . .
Olivier Armstrong was not a lover.
When her parents presented her with her newborn baby brother, she poked him in the eye and scoffed when he began to wail. Her parents scolded, told her that babies were fragile and that she couldn't do that do her brother, but she just wrinkled her nose in disgust and said it was stupid that babies were so squishy.
A few hours later, she sat by her brother's cradle, glaring down at him and his long eyelashes and his spit bubbles and his burbling laugh. She reached over the edge to poke him again–he needed to be toughened up, she had decided–but his chubby fist collided with her finger mid-air, and he seized it with surprising strength and a particularly wet giggle.
Olivier Armstrong was not a lover, but when Alex Louis grabbed her finger that first time, she didn't pull it away.
. . .
Olivier Armstrong was not a dreamer.
While Alex was poring over books of alchemy, reveling in the power to create and build, she was outside, yelling frightfully and hacking at trees with her sword. When she came inside, glowing pink with exertion, she tossed the blade with affected carelessness so that it impaled the pages of the book right between her brother's outspread fingers.
He only looked up with a twinkle in his eyes and asked, "Did the trees fight back today, Sister?"
She snarled wordlessly and stalked up to her bedroom, muttering about idiotic mumbo-jumbo and the softness of men. A few minutes later, she heard a knock, and flung open her bedroom door to find Alex, come to return her sword. It was encased in a new scabbard of wood inlaid with silver. She glared at it for a moment before snatching it up and slamming the door in her brother's good-humored face.
Olivier Armstrong was not a dreamer, but when she looked down at the weapon in her hands, she imagined telling her future soldiers about her brother the alchemist, who had made her her scabbard out of new firewood and an old belt buckle.
. . .
Olivier Armstrong was not a forgiving person.
When her brother came home from Ishval, the first thing she did was slap him in the face. Then she didn't speak to him for three days. He bore it much as he always did, but there was no amusement in his eyes now. He only looked at her like a dog who knew he deserved to be kicked. That infuriated her more.
"Coward," was the first word she spat at him when her silence finally ended.
He just stood sorrowfully in the face of the storm, his head bowed as she heaped abuse upon it.
"You are a disgrace to the military of Amestris and the name of Armstrong," she proclaimed coldly. "You are unworthy of your rank, your power, and your family. You are no brother of mine."
Olivier Armstrong was not a forgiving person, and when Alex stood before her, shamefaced and silent, she saw no way of ever mending the bond between them.
. . .
Olivier Armstrong did not consider herself a hero.
In the wake of the Promised Day, the general stood atop a pile of rubble, left hand on her sword, right hand suspended in a makeshift sling. Her troops dug through the wreckage beneath her, searching for survivors. Though perfectly aware of the role she had played in the day's victory, she knew still more keenly that others had done, had sacrificed much more.
She watched as Lieutenant Hawkeye, weakened and blood-soaked, gently led Colonel Mustang through the debris to a place where he could sit. He felt his way gingerly into a spot free of stone and metal, then pulled the lieutenant down beside him. She laid her head on his shoulder.
Olivier watched Edward Elric clutch his brother's emaciated body to himself and cast his eyes up at the sky, blinking back tears of exhausted gratitude. Alphonse looked up as well, but at his older brother, seeing him through adoring human eyes for the first time in what must have seemed an eternity. Their father stood silently by, smiling.
"So, Sister, we won."
Alex's voice sounded low and somber behind her and she turned briefly.
"Oh, it's you," she said gruffly before returning to her survey.
Her brother was quiet for a long moment.
"You did our family proud today, Sister," he said finally.
Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword. "As did you, Brother."
If Alex was surprised at the compliment, he gave no indication. He simply joined her in looking out over the battle's aftermath. It was nothing remarkable to an outsider, but to the oldest Armstrong and her only brother, this was a moment as rare and beautiful as any heavenly miracle.
Olivier Armstrong was neither lover nor dreamer, yet she stood among them, and with them, she would build the future.
Okay idk about those of you reading this, but I had a ton of fun writing it. I hope you enjoyed it. The Armstrongs are so fun to write.
As always, please leave a review if you can, and feel free to PM me with your requests and suggestions! The next prompt is "lull and storm."
Much love, Vic
