Archive of Our Own

Father liked his office.  Father liked his work.  Father liked reading.  Father did not like being interrupted when he was in his office – but he was not in his office.  He was out near the trees carrying out fieldwork, he said.  As he was not in his office, and as the man in the brown suit had arrived with a wallet of unpaid bills, Riza would need to interrupt him.

She knew where he was – and the air in the woods felt wonderful against her skin.  Momma had liked the woods; Father had said so once in a moment of rare acknowledgement.  Sometimes Riza liked to pretend to be her Momma – a pretty woman by all accounts, with long thick hair and red-brown eyes that Father had lost himself in, and then Riza happened.  Riza imagined Momma had been pretty in death, pale – perhaps – with sweat gathering in delicate beads on her forehead as she gave those few final pushes.

In Riza’s head, Momma had cooked and skipped and sung.  So, as Riza made her way to Father, she skipped and sung too. 

‘Singing, singing, buttercups and daisies…’

*

Berthold Hawkeye, alchemist, has died.  He is survived by his daughter, Riza.

Riza stared down at the obituary.  It seemed fitting, almost, that her father should receive such a cursory mention – a sentence in the middle of the column, short enough to be barely noticeable.  She tossed the newspaper into the bin and checked her suitcase one last time: clothes, newspaper clippings, and a bag of unopened, unused makeup. 

Content, she closed her suitcase.  When everything was better, she would buy nicer things and she would wear the makeup.  They didn’t make blush for cheeks like hers.  For now, though, a long skirt and blouse – her Sunday clothes, sure, but when the healing was done, they would be her everyday clothes. 

She took a final glance at the radio, then snatched up the suitcase and slammed the door closed.  The mile to the bus stop was the longest in Riza’s life, anticipation thrumming through her veins.  There was no fanfare when she arrived.  Just an old, worn sign.  She set her suitcase down and listened to the distant bustle from the town centre.

“Hey!” came a lazy drawl.  “You aren’t coming down here without paying your fee first, I can tell you that!”  The man, from whom Riza bought her groceries, stopped at the sight of her.  He stood, staring at her shoes.

“Can I help you?” asked Riza, after a moment’s silence.

The man glanced up and met Riza’s eyes, then quickly looked away.  “Are you going somewhere, Riza?”

Riza tried not to roll her eyes.  No, she was standing at the bus stop with a case because she was starting a family in town.  Lord knew the man was staring down at her suitcase intently enough to see it.  “I’m going to the city for a couple days,” she said.  “Got some business to take care of there.”

The man glanced at her face and glanced down again.  It made Riza’s gut coil that he couldn’t look at her, not even for a second.  “Your pa’s research, huh?”

“Something like that,” said Riza. 

There was a long, long silence.  The bus driving up the road was the most welcome sight she’d ever seen.  “Safe journey, I guess,” said the man – and then he was gone.

The driver stepped off the bus.  “You got your ticket, m-…”  He’d tried to meet Riza’s eye, and he was just as shaken.  “Uh, ma’am.”

“Yeah,” said Riza.  “I got my ticket, sir, right here.”

The man stepped aside with a nervous nod, gesturing that Riza could board.  She took a seat right up front, where she wouldn’t have to walk past so many people.  Out of the front window, she could see a tiny old woman barrelling across the road, ticket brandished.  She sighed and looked out of the side window instead.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from next to her.  “Can I sit here?  Front seats across the aisle are taken.”  Riza had seen that when she’d stepped onto the bus: two military men.

“Sure,” said Riza without looking.

The woman dropped into the seat next to her.  Conversation still lingered in the air.  “You dropped your papers,” said the woman. 

Riza looked, then, and took them from the woman.  “Thank you,” she said. 

“I have to say,” said the old woman, “I don’t think much of alchemy.  You hear about these people making miracles, and before you know it, they’re doing harm left and right.”

Riza turned and stared the woman in the eye.  “Some people need miracles,” she said shortly. 

The woman held her gaze on Riza’s scar.  “If that’s what you think you need,” she said.  “Is that why you’re going?  To get your…”  She gestured.  “Your mark fixed?”

“It’s not a mark,” said Riza.  “It’s a scar.  I wasn’t born like this.  Took fire coming right at me to make me like this.”

The woman harrumphed.  “I’m going home to Resembool,” she said.  “Been a long few days of travelling, I can tell you that – going from Ishval, to Dublith, then to this hovel.”

“Why not visit Ishval last, then?” asked Riza.  “Go back on your way.”

The woman shifted in her seat.  “I had to go identify my son and his wife,” she said bluntly.

Riza looked the woman in the eye.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

The woman waved a hand.  “Not like you could know,” she said.  She rolled her shoulders back.  “Don’t put too much stock in miracles, miss.”

Riza fell silent, choosing instead to examine the woman’s face.  She was old, now, and it showed – but she had strong features.  Her eyes had been greener once, but they verged towards being brown now.  Riza imagined herself with green eyes, the kind that might give her an air of mystery.  The woman’s eyes were dry and drawn. 

Maybe, when Riza had spent 70 years crying, her cheek might dry up.  Tears had scrubbed the woman’s face clean, at any rate.  Lord, she didn’t want to wait another 50 years. 

“Crossing into the South, now,” called the driver. 

Riza stared through the windows.  The army men were bickering between each other, the woman was sighing every now and then, and the driver drove on and on, glasses perched on a flat nose and his cheeks drooping.  Riza wouldn’t want to look like him – not for anything less than a clean face.  She hoped the healer was more merciful than that.

She sighed and zoned out, watching the surroundings blur past, and then – an hour later – the bus came to a stop.  The driver stood and stretched.  “We’re takin’ a rest break.  If you ain’t back here in 45 minutes, you ain’t getting back on the bus, you hear?”

Riza stood and stretched, then squeezed past the old woman, who had apparently deigned to stay seated.  There was a diner a stone’s throw away, and Lord, Riza needed a coffee.  She stepped inside.

“Hey there,” said a waiter, menu at the ready.  “Why don’t you just take a seat, and we’ll be right with you!”  He paused.  “Say, that’s a scar and a half.”  He winked.  “Wanna see mine?”

Riza recoiled.  “No, thank you,” she said.  She made her way towards a wall-facing seat.

“Hey,” came the waiter’s voice.  “I didn’t realise they let street rats into the army nowadays.  You gonna clean out our ammo, sell a few actual war heroes’ medals – that kind of thing?”

Riza strolled over to where the waiter was standing over the two army men.  He was addressing the one with the round face, whose uniform certainly did look like it was second-hand.  “What would you say if I told you he was with me?”

The waiter sighed and rolled his eyes.  “Orders?”

“Coffee, please,” said Riza. 

“I’ll take a club sandwich and a coffee, and he’ll take the same,” said the bespectacled officer.

The waiter slunk off, leaving Riza with the military men.  “That wasn’t an invitation, by the way.  I just didn’t like seeing someone act like you aren’t good enough because of how you look.”  She paused.  “Say, you playing poker?”

The baby-faced man glanced up at her.  “You play?”  He had a distinct Central City accent, and Riza was willing to bet he’d grown up playing in alleys and throwing stones at cans.

“Guess so,” said Riza.

The baby-faced man gestured for her to sit.  “Then I’m Roy.  He’s Maes.”  Roy paused.  “Even if you lose, you’re not going to lose like Maes.”

Maes rolled his eyes.  “I wouldn’t even try if I were you.  Roy’s gonna clear us both out.”

Riza looked him in the eye.  “You fixing to play?”

“Yeah, I’ll play,” conceded Maes.

“Well, then I’m playing too,” said Riza.  “Two people in’s more money in the pot.”

Roy choked.  “Good call, if you win.”

“I’ll win,” said Riza.  “That’s how I was taught.”

*

“Riza,” called Father, and Riza stiffened where she was standing.  “Riza, I want you in the kitchen.”

Riza appeared in the doorway. 

“All the money I’ve given you for your chores, I want you to put it on the table.”

Riza sputtered.  “I earned that!” she said.

Father crossed his arms.  “You half-assed the job.  Girl as smart as you ought to know math.  Not like I don’t send you off to school every day.  If I were someone else, I’d keep you at home to keep the place tidy.  You ought to be taking your education seriously.”

“So, what?” asked Riza, shifting in place awkwardly.  “You gonna pull me out, make me sweep the floors like Cinderella?”

“No,” said Father.  “I think you’re smarter than that.  I’m going to ask you: why’s your math so bad?”

“Teacher makes us write out equations on the blackboard.”

Father stared at her, eyes level.  “And?”

“There’s… a lot of boys in the class.  I don’t like them looking at me.”

Father sighed and rubbed his forehead.  “Sit down, I’m going to teach you.”

Riza stared at him appraisingly.  “I don’t wanna learn from your books,” she said.

Father raised his eyebrow.  “I didn’t learn from books; I’m teaching you how I was taught.”  He paused.  “Now, sit.”

Riza sat in the chair opposite Father, careful not to meet his eye.  “Thank you for teaching me,” she said.

Father mumbled something, but Riza couldn’t make it out.  He produced a pack of cards from his pocket.  “We’re going to play some Poker, you understand?”

Riza stared down at the cards.  “No.”

“It’ll teach you basic arithmetic, help you talk to boys.”

Riza wrinkled her nose.  “I don’t wanna talk to boys,” she protested.

Father said nothing, just dealt the cards.  When he was done, he looked Riza in the eye.  “You put a cenz in the pot, now.”

“Pot?”

Father sighed and rolled his shoulders.  “It’s what you put your money in, understand?  You win, you get it back.”

“That ain’t fair,” said Riza, “I don’t know how to play.”

“Well, child,” said Father, and then, before Riza could take it in, cycled quickly through the hands.

Riza stared, then sighed and looked at her hand.  “I got a pair of Queens.”

“That’s not a bad hand.  Bet a cenz.”

Riza bet a cenz.

Father leaned back in his chair.  “I win.  So, what are you left with after that cenz?”

Riza paused, figuring out the money on her fingers.  “I got 224 cenz.”

Father nodded.  “See how you’re learning?”

“So, what?” asked Riza, “you gonna take more of my money?”

Father steepled his hands, looking over the table at Riza.  “That depends.  Are you going to win?”

*

Maes made a noise of frustration, then let his head drop onto the table.  “Neither of you ever heard of a friendly game, huh?”  He lifted his head and looked at the space just past Riza.  “He grew up in a bar, what’s your excuse?”

Riza shifted her head, just slightly, so that Maes had no choice but to stare at her scar.  “My father taught me to win,” she said.

Roy snorted.  “C’mon, let’s play another round,” he said, then pulled out a plain pocket-watch.  “Never mind, you’re off the hook, Maes.”

Maes gave a relieved sigh and stood, ready to board the bus again.  “I can’t wait until that’s a State watch, then you won’t have to gamble me out of my life’s savings,” he said.  He turned to Riza.  “Fancies himself an alchemist.”

“An alchemist, huh?” 

The Old Lady had shifted into the window seat while Riza was gone, and Riza didn’t protest.  As Riza sat down again, the Old Lady glanced up and nodded her greeting. 

The driver settled in and made his announcement, and they began to move again.  It wasn’t long before most of the passengers were asleep, full as they were.  Riza couldn’t – every tree which passed them by was a step closer to a clean face.

“So,” whispered Roy from across the aisle.  “Where are you going?”

Riza gave him a closed-off glance.  “Liore,” she said.

Roy raised an eyebrow.  “Do they even send buses there?”

Riza shifted in her seat.  “I’m changing in East City,” she said.  “I got a motel for the night.”  There was a beat of silence.  “Your friend says you’re an alchemist,” she said. 

Roy rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.  “I’ve been studying, yeah,” he said.  “Had a teacher out West for a while, but he stopped teaching me when I joined the military.”

Riza nodded.  “My father didn’t like the military.”  She paused.  “I’m going to see an alchemist,” she said, after a beat.

Roy held his gaze on her scar.  “Don’t hold out hope,” he said.  “Life’s more than what you look like.”

Riza snorted derisively.  “That’s easy enough for someone like you to say,” she said.  “You ain’t ugly.”  She wiped her hand on her skirt.  “People like me gotta hope.”

Roy’s chest heaved with a barely supressed sigh.  “Everyone has to hope,” he said.  “I hope that I can make my mark on this country.”

Riza rolled her eyes.  “Lucky you, getting to hope for that sort of stuff.”

Roy held her gaze, unmoved by her comment.  “So, this alchemist you’re going to see,” he said.  “How does he work – cause my reading would suggest that the tissue in your cheek is pretty firmly arranged by now.”

 Riza huffed through her nose.  “He says you gotta have faith and believe in how it’s gonna go.”

Roy pressed his lips together tightly.  “Let me see your notes,” he said.  

“No,” said Riza.  “They’re mine.”

Roy squinted at Riza’s book.  “That isn’t an alchemy book.”

“It was my momma’s,” said Riza.  “You ain’t touching it.”

Roy sighed and slumped into his seat.  He didn’t say anything more, and when Riza caught sight of the Old Woman through the corner of her eye, she saw another set of sceptical eyes trained on her.  Ignoring them both, Riza pulled out her newspaper clippings.  A woman’s tall figure – but only her eye shape was right – Riza wanted more defined eyebrows than that, and thick, long hair. 

*

Father’s eyes trained on Riza.  “You aren’t supposed to have that book,” he said.

Riza avoided his gaze.  “It was momma’s,” she said.  “I found it in your bedside drawer.”

Father’s eyes were hard and cold.  “Momma’s,” he said, “not yours.”  He held a hand out to her.  “I’d like that back, please.”

“Why?” asked Riza, “it ain’t like you read it.”  She paused.  “Momma’s notes are all in the margins, she talks about boys, an’ how she wears her hair.”

“Riza,” said Father sharply, “you are too young.”

“She was my age!” Riza protested.  “You got that boy in the spare room, and I ain’t allowed to see him, just do his laundry.”

Father trained his eyes on her.  “I don’t want you concerning yourself with boys, now.”

“What, so I can see his stained underpants but not him?  Or are you worried?”

Father took a deep breath.  “I am trying to raise you, Riza,” he said.

“You’re worried,” she said.  “You’re worried that if I see a boy, I’m gonna leave you cause I look just like Momma – I saw your picture of her, too – and she had boys falling all over her!  That’s why you pulled me out of the school!”

Father’s face grew very white.

“Father?” asked Riza in the silence.  “I-I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to-…”

Father snatched the book from her hands and deftly tore the picture of Momma into tiny pieces.  He threw the book down onto the table.  “Keep the book,” he spat.

*

The driver pulled the bus to a stop.  “East City,” he announced.  “End of the line, folks.”

The scant passengers began to pile off the bus.  Riza stood on the pavement, trying to get her bearings.  A hand landed on her shoulder.  “You okay?” asked Maes, “got somewhere to stay?”

Riza nodded, “there’s a motel, uh…” She paused.  “I think…?”

Maes gave a friendly smile.  “Listen, Roy knows a place – they won’t ask much from you to stay.”

Riza held his gaze for a minute, then sighed.  “Alright,” she conceded.

An hour later, she was sitting in a motel room over a bar, the smell of cigarette smoke embedded deep in the carpet.  Roy stood awkwardly in the doorway.  “It’s not exactly high-class, but it’s better than…”

“Yeah,” said Riza.  “Thanks.”

“Maes went to go and get some drinks – he didn’t know what you’d want, so he’s just getting you a lemonade,” he said. 

Riza sighed and inclined her head.  “Come on in, then.”

Roy faltered.  “Are you sure – I can…”

“Stop lingering in the doorway and come in,” she said more firmly.

Roy stepped inside, pointedly leaving the door open.  He perched on the end of Riza’s bed.  There was a long silence before – mercifully – Maes muscled into the room balancing four bottles.  He kicked the door closed.

“I got drinks,” he announced.  “That’s beers Roy and me – and I got a little bottle of scotch, just in case,” he said, holding up the smallest bottle of scotch Riza had ever seen.  “I got you a lemonade,” he said, nodding at Riza.

Riza smiled and took the drink from him.  “Thank you,” she said.  “How much do I owe?”

Maes made a face.  “You don’t owe.  I’m not Roy.”

Ignoring Roy’s indignant noise, Maes leaned against the small chest of drawers, setting down his glass without bothering to source a coaster.  “Is this your first time away from home?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Riza.  “Thought I’d see if the rest of the world looks anything like me.”

Maes cleared his throat awkwardly and took a sip of his beer.  “Say,” he said, “if you want something alcoholic, I can go and get you that.”

“Oh, no,” she said.  “Lemonade’s fine,” she glanced down at the glass bottle, but made no move to open it.  “Have you two been anywhere interesting?” she asked.

Maes laughed gently.  “Only all the way West on our weekend off just so Roy could get a book.  We’re headed East to pick up our orders.”

“Riza’s headed East to see an Alchemist,” said Roy, more pejoratively than Riza liked to hear.

“You’d be going to see one too if your face was anything like this,” said Riza. 

“Do you think he’ll help?” asked Maes, who still wouldn’t look Riza directly in the eyes.

“I think so,” said Riza.  “It’s what my Momma’s book says.”

“And after that?  You just go home?”

“Oh, no,” said Riza.  “When I’m pretty, I’m gonna sell the cottage ‘n go to Central.  Places say no when I apply now, even back home, but once I’m pretty, I bet they’ll give me a fair shot.”

Roy, suddenly looking very interested, swivelled around on the bed to meet her eyes.  “Are they allowed to do that?  Just say no because you’re…” He trailed off, evidently looking for a word to describe Riza’s scar.

“Not officially,” said Riza.  “I went in the Library once to check, and they aren’t allowed to on my scar alone, but if they say they think I’ll slow up business, they’re off the hook and I got one, maybe two places that’ll take me.” 

“I’m going to fix that,” said Roy.  “It’s not right.”

“You won’t have to, after my healing,” said Riza.  “I know just how I’m gonna look.”

“Yeah?” said Maes, cutting off a vocalisation from Roy.

“Yeah,” said Riza.  “I – you ever gone to a picture show?”

“Not me,” said Maes.

“A few times,” said Roy. 

“They brought one to the village hall once,” said Riza.  “I wasn’t meant to leave the house that night, cause Father and his student were out and he didn’t want me round boys, but I snuck out with a hundred cenz.  They played this film – there was this woman in britches and a longcoat, fighting some man.  That was the only one they had, and when they played it again, people started walking out, but that woman had this thin nose and these high cheekbones, and I knew that’s what I wanted mine to be like one day.”

“So, you’ll look like this woman when you’re healed?” asked Maes.

Riza shrugged.  “Not all of me – just my nose and my cheeks.”

“I think we should go downstairs,” announced Roy.  “Find something to do.  Stop sitting and talking.”

“Alright,” said Riza, and stood.  She paused and uncapped her lemonade.  “Hey,” she said to Maes, “may I have some of the scotch in there?”

Maes grinned.  “You may.”  He poured a measure of scotch into the bottle, careful not to spill anything.

Riza took a sip.  The mixture burnt going down, but it hit right.  She made a breathy noise, and Roy appeared at her elbow.  “First drink?” he asked.

“First scotch,” Riza corrected.  “Don’t hover.”

They made their way into the bar.  “Darts?” asked Maes.

Roy snorted.  “You must be joking if you think I’m going to play darts against you,” he said.  “Thanks, I’ll keep my pride.”

Maes rolled his eyes.  “Always polishing his pride,” he said.  “How about you?” he asked.

Riza smirked, stretching out her fingers.  “Sure, I’ll take you.”

She let Maes go first.  He was good, she’d give him that.  He hesitated before each throw, like he was making sure the target was where he thought.  When he was done, she watched him relax back on his heels like he was relieved, and then he collected the darts, walked back to the table and looked up at Roy expectantly.

“170,” said Roy.  “Good going.”

Maes nodded, apparently proud.  “Thanks.”  He turned to Riza.  “Want to place a bet on this one?” he asked.

Riza frowned at him.  “No bets after the game’s already started,” she said. 

Maes smirked and handed her the darts.  “Good choice,” he said.

Riza walked up to the line, darts in hand.  Posture straight.  Eyes in front.  Three throws.  She took a breath, letting the bar noises fade into static behind her.  She threw – one, two, three.  She rolled her shoulders back and marched towards the board, then returned to the table with her darts.

Maes’s eyes were fixed on her for the first time, and his mouth was hanging open.  Roy’s eyes were bright and pleased.  “180,” he announced a little breathlessly.

“Glad I didn’t place that bet?” asked Riza, smirking.

“How did you do that?” gaped Maes.  “That was…”

Riza’s smile softened.  “You’ve got good aim but you’re too hesitant.  You couldn’t fit the third dart in the outer bullseye because you paused on the first two throws.”

Roy was still staring at her.  “Where did you learn that?” he asked.

“Oh,” said Riza.  “I’ve been working shooting game for the butcher in town, stops him having to pay the farmer a premium on birds.  I never miss, except on purpose – I don’t like hitting the birds if they’re nursing chicks.”

“That’s incredible,” breathed Roy, his face flushing.

Maes pushed himself upright and nodded to a group of women sitting at a table across the bar.  “I’m going to talk to that lady over there,” he said, looking at a mousy-looking woman in an embroidered blouse.  As he went, he paused and gave Roy’s shoulder a squeeze.  “Meet you back at the room, Roy.”

Riza watched Maes slip effortlessly into conversation with this unfamiliar woman, then turned back to Roy.  “You not so good at darts?” she asked.

Roy smiled.  “I’m proficient,” he said, “I’m just not Maes.”

Riza inclined her head towards the dartboard.  “Take a few throws.”

Roy paused, his eyes falling on Riza, and then he took up the darts.  “Okay,” he agreed, then walked up to the board.  He took his throws slowly, then gathered the darts and walked back, shoulders tense.

“Not bad,” said Riza.  “Your posture is a little off – if you stood like…”  She trailed off.  “I can’t explain in words.  Can you stand on the line again?”

Roy did as she said, and Riza followed him, standing at his back.  She laid both of her hands on his shoulders.  “Relax them,” she said, coaxing them into position.  “Your legs, too,” she said – “you’re bending your right knee a little.  It’s throwing your balance.

Roy corrected his knee by himself, then took a deep breath and lifted his arm.  Riza stepped off to the side.  “Wait,” she said.  “You got one eye closed.  It doesn’t help like they say it does.”

Roy’s eye opened, and his gaze fell on Riza for a second, then he threw.  He let out a long breath when he was finished, finding himself inexplicably nervous.  Riza collected the darts for him, then walked back to meet him. 

“That was much better,” she said.  “See how your throws are smoother now?”  She pressed the darts into his hand. 

“Thanks,” said Roy.  He didn’t move to take the darts from her hand – just let it sit there.  Riza found herself not minding.

She met his eyes like he’d been meeting hers all day.  Her breath hitched.  She wasn’t used to looking someone straight in the eye and them looking back.  She felt the space around her, like she was being put back in the world.  “Forget the darts,” she said, not thinking.  “Let’s go upstairs.”

*

The room was as they had left it.  The half-measure of scotch Maes had poured into Riza’s lemonade had long worn off, and she felt the world in microscopic detail.  Roy’s fingers circled around her elbow and he leaned forward until his lips touched hers.  Riza grasped the door and pulled it closed, then kissed back, guiding him towards the bed.

She pulled him down, and then they were both reclining.  Riza used the hand she wasn’t leaning on to undo Roy’s top button, and then made her way to the next. 

Roy pulled away breathlessly, and Riza’s hand stilled. 

“You don’t want me,” she said, trying not to let her disappointment show.

“No,” said Roy.  “I do – I just want to know – are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Riza.  “I’m sure.”  She paused.  “You aren’t my first, you know that?”  She resumed undoing Roy’s shirt buttons and let him brace himself with a hand on her back.  “I’m not doing this because I think you’re the only chance I’ll get.”

Roy paused, giving a nervous smile.

Riza stopped, leaving his buttons half-done.  “I’m your first?” she asked.

After a second, Roy’s smile relaxed.  “Guess so,” he said.  “You must think I’m stupid.”

“Of course not,” said Riza.  She kissed him again, just to prove her point.  “I’m hardly advanced,” she said.  “We’ll muddle it through together.”

*

Spent, Riza relaxed onto the pillow, staring at Roy.  “I should make the bed,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.

“Room service will do it in the morning,” said Roy.  “No need to ruin the moment.”  His hand ran onto her back.  “I didn’t expect you to have a tattoo.  If I crack it, do I find the secrets of the universe?”

Riza stiffened.  The tattoo.  Of course, he’d noticed the tattoo.  She pulled the sheets up over it.  “I just thought it was pretty,” she said. 

Roy frowned.  “Really?  It looks like a code – I could…”

Heat spread up Riza’s neck.  “Let’s just sleep,” she said, rolling over and turning off her bedside lamp. 

There was a long silence.  “Say, Riza?  If you came with me to headquarters tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind.”

“I gotta get to Liore,” said Riza.  “My healing…”

“Are you sure?  I’d be happy for you to…”

“I have to get to Liore,” repeated Riza.  She softened.  “I’ll be back at the bus stop tomorrow night,” she promised.  “You’ll see me then.”

“…Alright,” said Roy after a moment.

*

Ink in a little pot.  A knife.  Some water.

Riza’s reflection, the scar rippling over the surface, stared up through the boiling water.  She blinked back at it, then turned her cheek.  No scar on that side – but the water, still swirling gently, made her eyes and cheeks droop. 

“Riza,” said Father.

“Father.”

“Why don’t you just lie down on your front?” said Father, and Riza did.

He placed a jam-jar of clear liquid onto the side table, then poured a little of it into a glass. 

“Drink that,” he said, and Riza took a sip. 

It was half-bitter, half-sweet, and Riza nearly gagged on it.  She looked up at Father, who nodded approvingly, and downed the whole thing, then lay back down.

“You know you’re important to me, Riza?” said Father.

“Yes, Father,” said Riza.

“What I’m going to do – I hope it makes up for everything.  You’re going to be responsible for the information that hurt you, understand?  It’s going to be your choice whether anyone ever lays their hands on it again.”

Riza stayed silent – and then Father’s hand on her back, warm, and a sheath of notes hitting the table.  A moment of silence.  Some rustling, and then Father was – drawing on her?  It took a long time.  The pillow against her face and the dark swirling.

A cutting pain.  Riza hissed.  Father was silent.

After 20 minutes, Father stopped and poured something into a glass.  “Drink,” he said, and Riza struggled onto her elbows and downed the thing.

A few minutes of nothing, except Riza’s lips and knees and fingers and toes were tingling.  She was floating around, plummeting and then floating again.  Father started again – and it still hurt – but she was further away.  Much further.  Further and further.

She woke alone to the smell of vomit, and it made her sick over the side of the bed again.  Her mouth was dry and her back was smarting.  She closed her eyes.

*

Roy was already gone when Riza left – and there was no note.  It figured.  Riza washed her face in the sink in the corner of the room, then stared at herself in the grimy mirror.  Her face – she’d had her face once, but this was Father’s mark.  By tonight, she’d have her own face.  She stared at it a moment longer, then pulled on a blouse and skirt.

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” asked Riza.

“It’s me,” came Roy’s voice.

Riza picked up her carry-all and pulled open the door.  “I thought you’d gone.”

“I thought you’d want some privacy to change,” said Roy.  “When’s your bus?”

Riza checked her watch.  “I got another hour,” she said.

Roy nodded.  “Let Maes and I walk you to the shelter,” he said.

For a second, Riza considered arguing.  She sighed and nodded. 

Maes was already waiting for them downstairs.  He nodded a greeting at Riza.  “I can carry your things, if you want,” he said.

“No, thank you,” said Riza.

The walk to the bus stop was awkward and silent.  They reached it with 20 minutes to spare.  Roy shifted from foot to foot for a moment.  “I’m going to get you some lunch for the journey,” he told Riza, and ducked into a nearby store.

Maes turned to Riza.  “You know, he doesn’t care about your scar,” said Maes.

“It ain’t about what he thinks,” said Riza.  “I nearly forgot it last night,” she said, “same as he did – but I remembered.  Long as this scar’s here, I can’t ever think of anything else.”

“If it doesn’t work,” Maes started.

“It has to,” said Riza.  “You know, I looked in the mirror this morning.  I don’t like it – but last night, I nearly forgot.  If I walked out the door like that and felt all those eyes on me, I’d have been taken off guard.”  She paused.  “It’s – being around Roy, it makes me vulnerable.”

Maes’s eyes seemed hard, just then, but he put a gentle hand on Riza’s shoulder.  “I can get that,” he said.  He took a breath.  “Listen – when you’re ready, give him a call.”  He scribbled down a number and handed it to her.

In that moment, Roy came back, his arms weighed down by bags. 

Riza raised her eyebrows.  “Lunch?”

Roy gave a sheepish laugh.  “I didn’t know what you liked,” he said. 

The bus came, then.  Roy spun, apparently taken aback.  Riza turned to the two men.  “It was very nice to meet you,” she said, picking up the bags.  “Thank you for the lunch.”

*

Liore was hot, and Riza was alone.  The Church of Leto wasn’t hard to miss.  A big statue towered over the town – and she didn’t need to stop and ask anyone.  She muscled her way in through an unlocked side door.  The altar, all the way at the end of the Church.  The preacher would be through soon.  Riza knelt and bowed her head.

Footsteps.  She turned.  “Hello?” said a boy – not older than 12 – in a set of robes.

Riza stood.  “Do you know where the Father is?” she asked.

The boy eyed her suspiciously.  “Father Cornello isn’t serving today,” he said.

“Is he here?” asked Riza.

“Well…” began the boy.

“Cain?” came a voice.

Riza’s heart soared – she knew that voice.  It was the man on the radio.  “Father!” she breathed. 

The man, imposing and broad and bald, stared down at her.  “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

“I came to be healed,” said Riza.

Father Cornello turned.  “Cain, please sort the collection money.”  He turned back to Riza.  “You can’t come here and expect a miracle.”

“You perform miracles,” said Riza.  “I heard you on the radio – and in The Book, it says about the coming of the Healing Prophet.  Isn’t that you?”

Father Cornello still hadn’t met her eyes.  “I think you’ll find that you’re healed, ma’am.”

Riza stared at him, aghast.  “How can you look at me and say that?”

“There’s nothing for me to heal,” said Father Cornello. 

“In The Book,” said Riza, “it tells of the Prophet who places his hands on the fissures and the torment, and it heals the scar.”

Father Cornello shook his head.  “He was talking about the land,” he said.

“But…”  Riza took a deep breath.  “Why won’t you even try?” she asked.

“It’s impossible,” he said. 

Riza’s breath shuddered.  “The radio said I’d get taken care of.”

*

“Singing, singing, buttercups and daisies…”

Riza skipped, weaving through the trees.  Papa would be in the clearing, he said.  The clearing was up ahead, and she heard the clapping.  She broke into a run – Father’s head was bowed over the ground.  He clapped.  Touched the ground.  Looked up, and his eyes grew wide.

“Riza!  Careful!”

Heat.  Burning – her face.  She let out a cry.  “Father!”

Hands over her, picking her up.  Every movement – every second hurt.  She sobbed, gripping at her cheek. 

“We’re getting you out of the forest,” whispered Father.

“I’m scared!” cried Riza.

“I know,” said Father.  “I know.  We’ll get you taken care of.”

*

“I just can’t,” said Father Cornello, his voice rising.

“Grant me the courage to change the things I can,” Riza murmured at the statue.  “I can change this – how do you think I’ll just accept…”

“Listen,” said Father Cornello.  “I’m going to go and get someone to remove you.  You have to make peace with that scar.”

“You haven’t looked at it!” shouted Riza.  “Nobody even bothers to look at me!  I – people won’t spare me a glance.”

“Ma’am, why don’t we pray?” said Father Cornello.

“You don’t get to speak now,” said Riza.  “I gave you your chances.”  She took a long, deep breath.  “You were never gonna look at me.  You think I’m vain.  I got a swamp over my cheek, and you think I’m vain because I want it gone.”

“Miss, let’s…”

“How can you even tell me what I’m supposed to do when you haven’t looked me in the eye!”  Her hands were shaking now.  “Is that how you show the mercy He promises?  Is that it?  You avoid seeing me in the space, like I’m not meant to be there!  And when people do, it’s just…”  She stopped and breathed in hard.  “How do you…?  It’s all so hard.”

She broke off, looking up.   Father Cornello was gone – and in his place.

“Father?”

Father stepped towards Riza.  “So, what is it you want from me?”

Riza stared him hard in the eye.  “The last eight years – can you do that?  Can you take it all away?”

Father sighed, shaking his head.  “You know I can’t.”

“You put it there!” she shouted.  “It’s your gift, so take it away!”

“Riza, the accident happened.  Neither of us can turn back the clock.”

“Us!” cried Riza.  “I had nothing to do with all this – it’s your mark.  They’re all your marks!”

Father scoffed.  “You thought it would be a good idea to play in the clearing, right where I was working.”

“You didn’t control the variables, and it came right at me.  I wasn’t the one who didn’t contain the oxygen in the field.”

“It was contained!  No alchemist checks every single equation in the circle – not after all the research.”

“I’m damn sure you check it now.”

Father sputtered.  “I don’t know what I’m meant to do!”

“How about you give me the last nine years back?  Take it back – the way you let me out the house after when you didn’t before, like people wouldn’t want to touch me!”

“Riza…”

“They didn’t,” said Riza, voice thick and cracking.  “The other girls who’d gone to the school – when I saw them, they’d bow their heads like they couldn’t bear to see me.”

“I-I got you home and healed up,” said Father. 

“You wouldn’t take me to a doctor – just dabbed butter on it for two months!”  Riza took a deep breath.  “You didn’t want anyone else to have me, so you took care of that!”

“Haven’t I fixed it?” snapped Father.  “Didn’t I give you something that you could only give to someone who’d prove he’d treat you right in spite of it all!”

“I never wanted that!” shouted Riza.  “You gave it to me, and the scar – God, your mark is all over me.”

Father was silent for a minute, his Adam’s Apple bobbing in his throat.  “I tried to do it all right,” he said brokenly.  “I sent you off to school and gave you money for our dinners.”  He paused.  “And then you – you got older.  I pulled you out of school because they used to tell me how you looked just like your momma.”

“And now I don’t,” Riza said flatly.

“I just didn’t need people interfering just then – my research…”  His breath hitched into a sob.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “God, I’m so sorry.”

A lump formed in Riza’s throat.  He was sorry.  She knew, then – the scar was an accident.  She took a step forward.  A clean face – a clean slate was so close.  She could forgive an accident.  She could forgive a man who cried in front of her.

“Father,” she said softly.

Father looked up and…  Father looked up.  Riza’s face grew warm.  She was standing right in front of him – unmissable – and he was staring over her shoulder like her face was forbidden territory.

“I just want something that’s mine,” Riza said quietly. 

“Riza,” whispered Father, his voice shuddering.

She thought about pretending to forgive him.  That would be the quiet option – the one that wouldn’t draw attention.  She drew her lips tightly.  No wasting chances, not now.  “Your research,” she said.  “After I choose to give it to someone, I’m going to have them burn it off my back.”

Father stared ahead blankly.  “My life’s work.”

“My life,” said Riza.

There was a moment, then Father gave a laughing sob.  “Just look at you.”  He took a deep breath.  “You grew up beautiful, Riza.”

Riza’s heart sped up.  “I’m healed?” she breathed.  She didn’t dare touch her face.

Father was smiling.  “I should have let you make your own choices.”  He was staring at her now.  “Look what they’ve done for you.”

Riza’s breath was coming in gasps now.  “I’m healed,” she said.  She stared around at the chapel, the light pouring in through the grand glass windows.  “Thank you,” she gasped.  “Thank you.” 

“I’m glad you grew up so strong,” said Father.

Riza swallowed hard.  “Me too,” she said.  She stared up at the idol.  “Is that it?  Have I done everything?”

Father was stepping away, now.  He’d be gone in a moment.

Riza stood up straight and held out a hand.  Father looked at it disbelievingly and stepped close, like he was ready to hold her.  Riza stepped back and took his hand, giving it a firm shake.  “You understand,” she said firmly, “that this is the last time you’ll see me?”

A last second, and then Father nodded.  She let go of his hand.  She closed her eyes, opened them, and he was gone.  A job done.

*

Riza stepped onto the bus, greeting the driver with a bright smile.  She clutched her bag tighter.  When she was back at East City – and Roy had seen her – she would duck into a bathroom and she would tear the packaging from her makeup; she would wear bright red lipstick and her eyelashes would turn long and dark with mascara.  She would go shopping, then, and finally learn whether her skin was golden natural or cool honey and make her skin smoother still.

The fantasy carried her through the journey and right off the bus at East City.  The city was scary before, but it buzzed with life, now, and Riza imagined herself part of it – her pulse thrumming along with a hundred others.  She squinted in the evening light until she saw the blue uniforms. 

“Hey!” she called.

The figures turned, their faces lighting in recognition.  “You came,” said Roy, staring her up and down. 

“I came,” said Riza.  She turned to Maes – and to the woman next to him.  The woman nodded nervously.

“Glad you kept your word,” said Maes.  His eyes seemed duller behind his glasses than before.  He inclined his head towards the woman.  “This is Gracia,” he said.

Riza smiled at Gracia.  “I’m Riza,” she said, feeling her shoulders high on her shoulders.  “Pleased to meet you.”

Gracia smiled politely, staring at Riza’s face like there was something she wanted to discern.  “Maes told me you were going to see an alchemist – did you…” She paused.  “Did you change your mind?”

A cold feeling settled in the centre of Riza’s shoulders.  “I went,” she said.  “I got healed.”

A stricken, nervous expression came over Gracia’s features, and she flickered a glance at Maes.  There was a cold, anxious silence from the three of them.

“I got healed,” repeated Riza.  “I got – I got healed.  Or at least, it started healing.”  She paused defiantly.  “The tissue isn’t going to regenerate overnight – it might take a week or two, but it already started healing.”

“Riza,” started Roy.  Maes held up a hand and took something from Gracia. 

“Riza,” Maes said softly, and pressed the small pocket mirror into Riza’s hand.

Riza’s muscles grew tense, and she thought she might start to quiver so hard she would explode.  She flipped the mirror open – it would jinx the healing to be so presumptuous, but she had to know it had worked.  Her heart catching in her chest, she lifted the mirror and blinked her own face into focus. 

“Oh,” she breathed.  She didn’t blink.  Her eyes blurred with tears and she didn’t blink, just let her image grow marbled and mosaic, let her sightline drift to the side a little so that the clear skin on her right side stretched over her left and made it clean, clean, unburnt. 

“Riza,” said Roy – because all any of them could say was Riza – because they couldn’t know.

Riza looked up at him, ready to tell him to say anything else, and blinked.  A tear dribbled pathetically from her right eye.  She opened and closed her mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

Riza felt her breath coming in gasps, and she fought to keep them under control.  “I have to get on my bus,” she said.  “I have to go home.”

“You don’t-…” began Roy.

“I have to go home,” repeated Riza frantically.  “My ticket…”

“You could stay here,” said Roy, sounding dumb and helpless.

“How?” she hissed, staring up at him.  “Everything was meant to be different,” she said.  “I can’t…”  She gulped.  “I can’t stay in East City.”

“Please,” whispered Roy, and for the first time Riza thought that the dullness she’d seen in Maes’s eyes might not have been tiredness at all.

Maes stepped in front of her and gently took the mirror from her.  “You’ll need to stay here tonight anyway,” he prompted.  “Routes to your village don’t run at this time of night.”

“I can’t stay,” sobbed Riza.  “I can’t stay.”

There was a long pause, like everyone wanted to say something and nobody wanted to talk.

“Neither can we,” said Roy quietly.

“What?”

“Neither can we,” Roy repeated.  Riza didn’t respond, and he went on.  “They’re sending us to Ishval with the rest of the newest recruits.”

Riza stared.  “When?” she breathed.

“Two weeks,” said Roy.  “They’re waiting until after the next set of State Alchemy exams.”

Riza stood in silence.  “A war,” she said. 

Nothing had changed.  The world shifted like it might fall out from under her anyway. 

“I think we should go inside,” said Maes.

“You go,” Roy prompted gently.  “We’ll catch you up.”

Hesitantly, Maes and Gracia headed away. 

Between the two left, there was quiet. 

“I need to get home,” said Riza, because there was nothing more she knew how to say.

“You can’t get home tonight,” said Roy firmly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” she whispered.  “I don’t know how to stay in a city this big when I haven’t changed.”

Roy looked like he was about to crumple.  “You didn’t see yourself stepping off that bus,” he said.  “You looked like you might dare anyone to try and tell you that you couldn’t do something – like when you were playing darts.”

Riza shook her head.  “I wanted my own face,” she said brokenly.

Roy guided her to sit on the bench.  “When you thought you had it, what were you going to do?”

Riza stared into the road.  It was so busy, even at this time of night.  “I made a decision,” she said.  “I was taking control.”  She took a deep, shivering breath.  “I was going to look at the world like I was a part of it just from being here, not like I had to wait to be let into it.”  She stopped, then let out a wet laugh.  “I was going to wear lipstick.”

“Why can’t you?” asked Roy like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Riza sat for a moment, cold air striking her face.  “There’s no mirror here,” she told him.

*

Riza turned.  “I feel dumb,” she said.  Her voice sounded fragile to her own ears.  She squinted and scrubbed at her lips with a facecloth until the red-orange lipstick was gone, then turned back to look at Roy.  “That’s better.”

Roy smiled.  He looked so tired, like it was taking all of his effort just to turn his lips up.  “Yeah,” he agreed.

There was a long, long silence.

“In Ishval,” said Riza, “would it be safer for alchemists?”

Roy paused, then looked nervously at his hands.  “I think so,” he said.  “The military – in war – I mean, they’re not meant to care about expendable soldiers.”  He tipped his head back to stare at her and forced a smile.  “I read that most Amestrian casualties happen when they send new forces in with more resources and clear out whole areas as fast as they can.  There have been 1500 Amestrian deaths that way, and they haven’t sent in the State Alchemists yet.”

“What if you refused?”

Roy’s smile turned not-very-nice.  “Treason, apparently.”

If she’d had the energy, Riza would have been furious at the injustice.  Instead, she let her eyes fall in Roy’s direction.  “If I let you decode my tattoo, do you promise you’ll only ever use what you find when you’re sure you need it?”

Roy stood and took a hesitant step towards her.  “I promise,” he said.

Riza held his gaze, then nodded.  She turned away from him.  Let her blouse slip off her back.

*

After the war, as they sat together in the back of a rickety wooden carriage and headed away from two young boys and their tiny village, Roy met Riza’s eyes.  “That boy’s eyes,” he said.

“Yes,” said Riza.  “There was fire in those eyes.”