Work Text:
Isabelle Mustang is ten years old when Riza Hawkeye, now the First Lady of Amestris, receives an unexpected call in her office. It comes as Riza has just finished facilitating a seminar on the Amestris educational system, when she has a five-minute reprieve before a planning meeting for the country’s Foundation Day. She picks up the phone on the third ring, composed and professional as always:
“Colonel Hawkeye’s office.”
“Your Excellency,” a kind voice says from the other end. “This is Mrs. Phillips. I teach history at Central Primary School.”
“Yes, good afternoon, Mrs. Phillips. What can I do for you?”
There is a pause before the next, carefully spoken words. “I’m calling about your daughter, Your Excellency. I apologize that this is so sudden—you must be terribly busy—but I’m afraid it’s urgent.”
Riza’s breath catches in her throat. There can only be unfortunate news following such a divulgence, but one possibility in particular surfaces far more easily than the others, as if it has just been waiting to do so from the back of her mind. She settles onto an upholstered armchair before swallowing and saying, “No, please. Go on.”
Riza waits.
“Isabelle is quite distressed.” Mrs. Phillips’ voice drops to a near whisper. “We’ve just started our lessons on Ishval.”
Riza’s heart sinks.
Mrs. Phillips speaks with an even, respectful tone that suggests hesitation, a kind of concern that usually comes with reports about a child getting injured or displaying disturbing behavior. There is sympathy and understanding as well—sentiments which Riza has always expected to be directed at her, but which she does not believe she deserves. She would have preferred to be judged more candidly, more harshly for the choices that have created this predicament in the first place.
But as equal parts hardened soldier and devoted mother, Riza suppresses every disparaging thought that might have otherwise frozen her in place. She calmly thanks Mrs. Phillips, assures her that she will be arriving at the school promptly, and ends the call. Walks into her meeting and declares to the officers present that they will be meeting tomorrow instead. Makes a call to the Xingese Embassy and requests that the Führer be allowed to leave this evening's state dinner early so he could attend to urgent matters.
Riza is out of the building in just fifteen minutes. What follows next, however, feels like being suspended in a dream with no real grasp of time. The drive to Central Primary School is excruciatingly slow—whether she ought to blame the car, the roads, or her rusty reflexes from not having taken the wheel since becoming First Lady, she isn’t quite sure. The walk through the school’s hallways is even worse. She struggles to ignore about a hundred pairs of eyes following her to the principal’s office, both surprised and concerned.
Isabelle looks much like her father, with her dark head of hair and almond-shaped eyes that always look curious and focused. But her hair is short, styled exactly like Riza’s at the same age, and her eyes are brown instead of her father’s dark gray. It could have broken Riza to see her like this, withdrawn into her small frame and her face red from fighting back tears, but she doesn’t falter.
“Isabelle,” Riza says gently, crouching before her. She brushes Isabelle’s fringe away from her face, where her hand rests to rub her daughter’s cheek with her thumb. “Isabelle, darling, I’m here.”
Only when Isabelle leans forward from her seat does Riza take her into her arms. She realizes that her heart is racing as harshly as Isabelle is trembling, and she tightens the embrace. She can’t even imagine letting go.
Riza speaks briefly to Mrs. Phillips and the principal. Mrs. Phillips explains in hushed tones how the lesson on Ishval began, how Isabelle absorbed and participated in the lesson, and what her classmates said. The questions and whispers about the Hero of Ishval and the Hawk’s Eye were not quite accusations, but the children—no doubt having heard stories from their parents, especially those who had served in the military at one point—pressed on and on with their typical bluntness and intense curiosity. That was enough, Mrs. Phillips says, to reduce Isabelle to tears by the end of the lesson.
Isabelle hardly speaks for the rest of the afternoon, answering Riza’s careful questions only with single words or a nod or shake of the head. When they arrive at the presidential mansion, Isabelle immediately retreats to her room. Riza escorts her to the door, then thinks it best to let her have time to herself. She returns in the evening to call Isabelle to dinner, only to find that Isabelle hasn’t even touched the pie and juice that were sent to her in the afternoon.
Riza sits quietly by Isabelle’s bed, holding her sleeping daughter’s hand. They stir when the door opens and Roy enters, still dressed in his suit from the state dinner with the Xingese Embassy. He appears composed, all of him but his troubled eyes.
“Papa,” Isabelle says, her voice breaking.
Roy strides over to the bed, where Isabelle flings her arms around him when he has barely sat on the edge. She shakes and cries and Roy holds her closely as he whispers into her hair, “It’s all right now, my sunshine. You’ll be all right.”
Riza joins him on the side where he sits. One hand on Isabelle’s back, another on Roy’s arm, she looks at him quietly, and he knows exactly what she means the moment their eyes meet. His expression tenses.
They allow Isabelle to continue crying until her sobs subside from exhaustion. Roy lifts her from where she sits, and she adjusts accordingly as he sets her on his lap, between himself and Riza. He pulls out a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, then dabs at her tears carefully as he coaxes her, “Will you tell Papa what happened?”
Isabelle sniffles. “We… we learned about Ishval in class today. Just like y-you and Mama always talked about.”
“I see. What did you learn about Ishval?”
“Well… they said the Ishvalans h-had their own culture, and they prayed to th-their own god. And soldiers—soldiers killed many Ishvalans because they wanted to—to take the Ishvalans’ land a-and culture away.” Her voice grows thick as she continues, “And the other—the other children s-said—the other children said—that—”
“Mm-hmm?”
“They said—th-that you and Mama—you killed many people—”
Isabelle’s words are lost to her renewed sobs. She bawls, burying her face in Roy’s shirt as Riza leans against her back with a comforting squeeze of her arm, and Roy pulls mother and daughter together into a tight embrace. It takes a few moments for Riza to notice that Roy’s hand is cold as it digs into her shoulder, and it takes her everything she has to fight back tears of her own. I’m here, she desperately thinks as she reaches for his wrist and squeezes it. You and I are here together.
“Isabelle, darling,” Riza begins with a great effort to keep her voice even. “You know what Mama and Papa do for work, don’t you?” A pause. “Mama and Papa are working for the country. Many things have happened… that have hurt many people. We want to make things right for them and protect them, even if it’s hard.”
Isabelle looks up and turns to Riza. “Then—then you and Papa aren’t bad people?”
Riza’s breath seems to catch in her chest. Roy takes a deep breath as he strokes Isabelle’s hair. “Mama and Papa… have done things that we regret. We never wanted to do them, but back then we had no choice. It’s… complicated, but it doesn’t excuse any of those things that we did.” He draws another deep, shaky breath. “All that we can do is to work with our people to make sure that those who have been hurt—like the Ishvalans—that they can heal. And we want to make sure that those bad things will never happen again.” He cradles Isabelle’s cheek in one hand. “Do you trust us to do that?”
Their daughter doesn’t say another word. She weeps into his shoulder once again, falling asleep after what seems like a half hour that is silent except for her sniffles and hiccups. Roy and Riza gently tuck Isabelle under the covers, each leaving a kiss on her forehead, but neither can find the strength to leave right after that.
Riza sits at the edge of the bed and stares for a long time at Isabelle’s face. She appears so peaceful in sleep, even with the traces of tears that have been left behind.
“We did everything we could.”
Roy settles just behind her. He reaches around Riza to take and kiss her hand; his warmth is a comfort as he leans towards her. “I know. We always knew this day would come. We’ve been preparing her for this for a long time, but there’s nothing we can do about what other people will say about us.”
“And even if it’s not how we would have wanted to tell her everything, it’s still the truth.”
Riza’s heart seems to burn with dread. An old, familiar feeling that has stayed with her since the day Isabelle was born, even though in her heart of hearts she still hoped that the singular, unprecedented course of her life might run against her expectations. But what else could the impassioned risks that she and Roy took have led to? What other consequence is there for trusting each other so wholly that they have given away too much—all of themselves in doing so?
What else could happen now but the worst possible thing?
“Oh, Roy.” Riza’s voice shakes as tears escape her for the first time today—the first in a long time. “I can’t bear to lose her."
Isabelle Mustang is eighteen years old when she arrives at the Resembool campus of the University of Amestris, not in the least bit anxious about living away from home for the first time in her life. She sits at the back of an official state car between her mother and father. Not much has been said throughout the trip, other than how pleasant it is to live in the East and that it’s an ideal place for a well-rounded, immersive education. To Isabelle’s left, Riza has her hand locked in a tight grasp; to her right, Roy sits perfectly still.
Riza has never felt a greater divide between herself and her daughter before today. No one can say that she and Roy never tried to relieve their daughter’s anxieties about their time in Ishval. They have spent the better part of the past eight years speaking more openly about the realities of war, as well as the worldly conditions that surround it. They’ve allowed her a glimpse into the Ishval Restoration Program, provided her with learning materials and taken her along on a number of trips to Ishval and surrounding communities to gain better appreciation of Ishval’s past and the government’s future plans for it. They have kept no secret of every sacrifice they’ve made for more than half of their lives in order to atone for their sins in Ishval.
If it all had worked, Isabelle would not have grown distant from them as she grew older and formed more opinions about the world, especially on its injustices. She would not have kept bearing the wounds caused by the knowledge of what her parents have done and of the permanence of a thousand lives lost against her own rather privileged upbringing. Isabelle has learned all that she could about both sides of this great tragedy; Riza and Roy understand where her heart lies.
Riza squeezes Isabelle’s hand as they approach the university’s dormitory, as though hoping that it might freeze time in the present. She lets go only when the car pulls up by the entrance, then alights first to make way for Isabelle. It’s one of those moments when Riza is reminded of just how much her daughter has grown; she is nearly as tall as Riza now, her features sharper and even closer to Roy’s. Her hair, now shoulder-length, has lightened into a shade of brown that matches her eyes. And Riza finds it difficult to ignore how growing up with a great emotional burden has given Isabelle a hardened look—one that Riza knows all too well from her own difficult youth.
She brushes Isabelle’s hair out of her face with both hands, then rests them on her daughter’s shoulders. “Home isn’t going to be the same without you, my love.”
Isabelle purses her lips and briefly casts her eyes downwards before responding. “You and Papa will be all right.”
Riza draws a breath far too sharp.
“You know that you can always transfer to the campus in Central next year. Or next semester.” It’s a futile wish, and Riza knows it. “Well, write and call home, won’t you?”
Before Isabelle has a chance to respond, another car door opens. Roy exits, quickly striding around the car from his side to join mother and daughter at the steps leading up to the dormitory. The cap that he wears with his uniform is drawn low over his forehead, almost concealing his eyes.
He grasps Isabelle by the arms, sparing a long moment to take in the sight of her from head to toe, before enveloping her in an embrace. “Take care of yourself,” he whispers. His voice is low, so controlled that it comes out strangled. “I love you.”
The moment ends quickly, far too quickly. Isabelle bows her head respectfully as she backs away, then turns and enters the dormitory without saying another word. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t look over her shoulder, doesn’t turn back to give a belated response to any of her parents’ well-wishes. Riza feels her chest sting with every step Isabelle takes, wondering for the hundredth time how this farewell could have turned out differently.
Beside Riza, Roy’s fingers find and intertwine with hers. Even after many years, they are not any less surreptitious about their displays of affection.
His voice breaks as he says, “She won’t even look at me.”
Riza holds on to him—to what little is still keeping her heart together.
Today, Isabelle Mustang is twenty-eight years old.
In the hot Ishvalan sun, it’s evident just how much she has grown from a troubled young girl into her own woman. There is a deep flush on her face from the desert heat, a firmness in the way she walks that comes from having done diligent field work and immersion among common folk. She has somewhat grown out of the physical features she inherited from her parents, but she has never looked more like them than she does today. Her focused eyes are her father’s; the compassion behind them, her mother’s.
It has been six years since Isabelle moved out of the presidential mansion and last spoke to either Riza or Roy. Today is the first time that they are wholly seeing her as the person she has been molded into by her experiences. Each step in her life has brought her heart closer to Ishval and the dream of seeing it restored to its former glory—from her degree in psychological anthropology to her activism in an organization that has been campaigning for the peaceful secession of Ishval from Amestris.
Today, she is far more than either of them have ever hoped to be.
Isabelle takes her place on the stage of the Kanda Amphitheater in the region’s capital. Before an enthusiastic crowd, she is introduced as one of a small number of Amestrians who will be serving as peace ambassadors for Ishval, as ordained by the Ishvalans themselves in preparation for their transition into an independent state over the next few years. An Ishvalan leader prays over the ceremony, giving praise for this historical moment that has at last truly begun the process of healing among his people. A new beginning that comes after decades of unfruitful compromises and reforms.
It’s a significant crossroads in the complicated history of Ishval, just as much as it is a turning point in the path that Riza and Roy have taken for most of their lives. The years had proven to them how difficult it truly was to forge a future that would best serve the interests of all their people, but perhaps more importantly, it has exposed the harsh reality that even though they share their dreams with other people, this did not guarantee that any of their plans would be perfect, or that everyone would follow the same path of peace that she and Roy had determined. Isabelle is perhaps the best example of this—Isabelle, who never found a place in governance the way they did, whose place has always been firmly with and among the Ishvalans moving towards a more progressive future than the Amestris government could have ever given them.
But these differences hardly matter in the present amid this celebration of a new dawn for Amestris and Ishval. Riza joins Roy in completing one of their remaining functions as the last appointed Führer and First Lady of Amestris. They meet and congratulate each member of the Ishvalan interim government and their peace ambassadors, and they come face to face with their daughter for the first time in a long time.
There are no embraces between them now, no loving caresses, no words exchanged even in greeting. It’s enough for Riza and Roy to shake Isabelle’s hand in turn, to share only the quickest of glances with her, because she must know by their eyes how proud they are of her. She must know how grateful they are that she has dreamed more selflessly than they ever have, and how despite all the years that she has been separated from them, their love for her has never wavered.
Still, Riza and Roy watch Isabelle leave after the ceremony the same way she did when she first entered university all those years ago: back turned, eyes set resolutely on the path before her. It may run in a different direction from theirs after today, perhaps for a long time—however long it would take them all to truly heal from their estrangement—but it is a path that they trust because Isabelle has chosen it for herself.
Wherever it may end, however long it may take, surely this path will someday lead her home.