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Izumi Curtis will always be awakened in the dead of night by the sound of absolute silence, the memory of the haunting, wrenching absence of sound that followed the birth of her baby boy.
She will always remember her husband’s eyes that had gazed down at her as she had held their child in her arms for the first time and the pity she had found in them. She had not wanted pity; pity was for the weak and she was strong, stronger than Sig and stronger than the doctor (who had told her that there was nothing more he and his pathetic staff could do to save her child).
But, if she was so strong, why then, did she feel so fucking fragile while cradling her baby- the remnants on her baby?
Izumi Curtis will always be awakened in the dead of night by the sound of crackling alchemic residue and the memory of the ghostly smell of blood and decay that had crept out of the overturned crib she had placed in the center of a human transmutation circle.
Izumi Curtis will always turn into her husband’s arms – on the nights in which she can’t escape her past – and vow to always remember. Never forget.
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Scar will always think of his people when he looks at his arms.
Scar will remember their culture, vibrant and flowing out of every crevice in the buildings that had once stood proudly against the harsh desert landscape. He will remember the face of his master, a man who was not only wise, but also Great in a way that Scar is sure no other person will ever replicate. Scar will remember his mother, a kind and gentle woman, and his father, a man who was stringent and demanding of his sons, but also supportive and strong. He will remember his brother, his opposite in many ways, and thank Ishvalla that he was fortunate enough to share blood with someone as bright and progressive as his brother had been.
Scar will remember the war and only be able to discern angerangerangeranger. He will wonder why, when his entire race has been slaughtered, people regard this as an unjust emotion.
Scar will always look out onto the Land of Ishvalla, teeming with reconstruction and refugees turned residents, and smile. He will close his eyes against the trauma of his past and, while he will move on, he will Never Forget.
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Riza Hawkeye will always be plagued by the suffering she’s caused.
She will remember the night that Roy Mustang traced alchemic designs on her skin and finally – miraculously! – cracked the code of her father’s research. She will only be able to think about how that was, truly, the beginning of the end.
She will remember her entrance into the Amestrian military; how her back and her soul were unmarked by her sins, soon to come. She will remember how her future had seemed so fucking bright that it hurt her eyes just thinking about it.
Riza Hawkeye will remember her first night in Ishval. Her knees had been numb from kneeling on the hard cement of her sniper’s nest and when she inhaled, the air had tasted like rot. Her hands had shook when she shot the first enemy combatant – civilian.
She will remember seeing Roy Mustang through her periscope and almost pulling the trigger on a boy she was sure she had been in love with six months prior.
Riza Hawkeye will remember Kimblee’s cold, vacant eyes (how can the man truly feel nothing) when he told her that the enemy – her victims – will never forget her.
And, when she closes her eyes and sees their faces burned into the insides of her eyelids, she is sure that she won’t forget them either. And she decides she shouldn’t forget them. Never forget.
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Roy Mustang will always carry the people of Amestris with him.
He will always remember the last Ishvalan in that brutal war; the old man who had sat, propped up against a crumbling building, who had looking up at him, unflinchingly, and damned him.
He will always remember Maes Hughes. He will remember spouting idealistic nonsense about climbing pyramids of rats while standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the man while the aftermath of war – genocide – blossomed around them. He will always remember his best friend; a man who supported him, who treasured him and who had died before him, in a phone booth, covered in his own blood.
He will always remember Riza Hawkeye. He will remember spouting idealistic nonsense – a motif of his life – at her while they stood in front of her father – his teacher’s – grave. He will remember how beautiful she looked, bared before him, with lines of alchemic code looping onto her shoulder blades and dipping into the crevice of her back. He will remember how her back had bubbled and burned and arched when he had honored the promise he later made to her. He will remember how he fell in love with her as she, fearlessly, joined his service (after everything that had happened) and how she swore to keep him on the right path, the just path. He will remember how her blood had looked, smeared across a dirty, cold, catacomb floor, and how her glare had broken his fucking heart.
He will always remember Edward Elric. He will remember the crippled boy who had fire brewing silently behind his eyes. He will remember the annoying, pestilent youth who had aggravated and pissed him off until he, too, had felt 15 years old. He will remember the brave, foolish young man who had tossed his state alchemist’s badge at Fuhrer King Bradley’s – Wrath’s – face and relinquished his title, like it was nothing. He will remember hearing the crackle of transmutation residue and Fullmetal’s exuberant, “We’re back!” as he and his brother had stepped out of a human transmutation circle, together and whole.
Roy Mustang will lay back on his too-small couch, for a Brigadier-general anyway, and remember. And he will Never Forget.
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Edward Elric will always be brought back to the mistakes of his adolescence.
He will remember his foolishness when he ran onto traintracks and cost a dog – Den – its front leg. He will remember his arrogance when he had assumed that a Childhood Prodigy could experiment with a taboo practice after just six months of research and training. He will remember his selfishness when convincing (coercing, his unforgiving mind will tell him) his younger brother into joining his quest. He will remember his lunacy in attempting human transmutation and he will remember the bloodshed that followed.
He will remember the long, fruitless journey to the grisly truth of the philosopher’s stone. He will remember the late nights he had leaned against his brother’s metallic body and forced himself to imagine what fucking torture he has put his brother through. He will remember the agonizing despair he had felt pull at his heart when Alphonse traded his soul for his gaunt, malnourished, husk of an arm.
He will remember the joy he had felt when he realized what a true equivalent exchange would be.
He will remember the grins and warmth he had felt when greeted by all of his friends as he had stepped out of his final transmutation circle with Alphonse (flesh and blood Alphonse) leaning against his arm.
Edward Elric will stare at his pocket watch’s carving: Don’t Forget 3 Oct. 11. He will Never Forget. And he doesn’t want to.