Sky
Necessary Evil: Oh, wait, wrong fandom. :-D Full Metal Alchemist is not mine. I am not affiliated with Full Metal Alchemist. If it you understand, review please. You I thank!
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She walks on the grey sky above him, her feet tracing blue arcs that he can almost see. The sky is bolder on the other side, but the color does not seep beyond; it stays, chipper and serene, on her side of the Gate. The heavens here are grey, and Ed cannot quite accept that there is absolutely nothing beyond them, not even the cold certainty of ether. This is why he loves night in this world, because he can see the stars burning distant and clear. She was like a star, too.
Al's eyes were grey, Ed remembers (but it has been so long), and stormy grey or placid grey he cannot quite decide to remember, and thinks it must have been somewhere between the two. Whatever the color the sky is today, he imagines Al's eyes are, and when he thinks of Al the ache of absence is something close and unfamiliar. Winry's eyes were violent blue, like the skies of yesterday, and yet for some reason that ache is something he knows well.
The sky of today is scarred by the traces of those flying machines (planes, they call them), those machines that leave thin white fumes over the slate of the sky. He looks up and the reflection of the smoggy sky in his eyes is not grey, but something clearer and brighter, the fume trails transformed into hale cumuli. In his eyes, also, are reflected the quick stirring storms that used to descend from nowhere, from a blue sky, to throw their deep cast over their world. Those were the days they crept outside to yell over the slanting rain and laugh at the wind lashing their hair against their faces. Those were the violent storms. Ed didn't see the quiet rains very often, but it happened sometimes that a clement day would weep, drops scattering on silver birch leaves and making the birches weep, too. When he was very, very young, he believed that was when the angels cried for the passing of a saint. Now he is older, and knows there are neither angels nor saints. Now he is in a different world, and the days of blue and white no longer dominate. They have given way to a smudged grey.
The Thule swathed in their black robes and clouds of incense – they search for a way to open the sky, for a way into Ed's world. They wish for the gods of Ed's world – Mustang, Pinako, Hawkeye, Scar, Winry. Ed thinks them fools, with their endless incantations and talk of mock-alchemy. But he cannot scorn them, for they are all searching for a key to the same thing – a way to break free of the grey. It comforts him, a little, to know that she keeps a piece of the blue sky safe for him.
Do you know what he sees in the skies?