Disclaimer: FMA belongs to Arakawa Hiromu
Notes: The "laboured breathing" was due to injury, hence the worry and lack of talking.
Ninety-three: Shackles
The rattling was the worst part. There he was, locked in a cell underneath Central Headquarters, cuffed and shackled where only a handful of people remembered he existed – and less than half of them cared – yet the thing that irritated him the most was the sound of the iron around his wrists and ankles rattling and clinking. It was unbearable. Every clatter served to remind him of just where he was.
– And yet, he could put all this fuss behind him. Yes, he'd headed the coup attempting to topple the corrupt leaders of Amestris. When it failed, he didn't expect to be allowed to live, let alone have two legs left (despite sprains, bruises, cuts and possibly a break) to walk the square that was his four-by-four pace cell.
He didn't know what was happening in the world outside, who was in charge, whether anyone knew what had happened during the past eight days. All he knew was that if he sat still enough, through the silence he could hear the laboured breathing of his faithful aide and co-conspirator in the next cell over, and as long as he could hear that breathing she was still alive. So every time he moved and the chains strung about him jangled in chorus, he cursed and listened close to make sure there was still breathing on the other side of the wall.