Chapter Text
A cool breeze drifts into the parlor room of Hawkeye Manor, in which Riza Hawkeye sits cross-legged on the floor, rearranging the insides of a wireless radio. Loose springs and wires litter the ground as she fiddles with the knob, vying desperately for a signal.
Father had shut his study door three days ago and hasn’t emerged since, except to eat the trays of food Riza placed outside the threshold. It's not as though Father was an especially good conversationalist, but, seeing as Riza had no other friends, siblings, or family members, it was so lonely to sit around at home by herself—she couldn't even use her schoolwork as a distraction, as classes had been cancelled for the foreseeable future. A week ago, she could feel bombs rocking the province, rattling the ground so hard that their wireless fell off the counter and stopped working except in staticky bursts of sound. Riza turns the knob again, straining her ears to hear something, anything.
The radio buzzes, crackling in and out:
—kzzzgt—"...getting word from our boys up north that their stations have been compromised...a siege on the Northern border camp and a bombing in Nordheim...Several buildings have been wrecked in the attacks....a hospital destroyed, buildings reduced to rubble...suicide bombers passing as traveling salesmen...we need all the help we can get—all men of legal age are implored to join forces—we won't go down without a fight...if you see something, say something—"
"Riza, turn that drivel off!" Comes father’s voice from upstairs.
Startled, Riza wrenches the knob so hard it pops clean off, clatters to the floor, and rolls under the sink. And just when she had gotten the radio to work. She curses quietly, hitting the decrepit thing before discarding it entirely.
She retires to the porch instead. The old thing droops under her weight, unsteady from years of disrepair. The sun battles with the smog from town, barely peeking through dark clouds. It’s chilly for a summer afternoon; Riza breathes, and the air is smoky. She sighs. It’s quiet all around, and for a second she feels like the only girl in Northern Amestris.
"Riza! Frau Riza!” A voice shouts. Clomping over hill in his rickety little carriage, Herr Schulz waves frantically toward her. Seated next to him is a man dressed in a crisp military uniform. Even at a distance, Riza can see he carries himself severely: his hands are placed firmly on his rifle, and his posture ramrod, and he sways with the carriage. They pull to a stop three-quarters up the hill, and Schulz runs the rest of the way. The military man lingers behind, tending to the cart in the back.
Schulz is a well-meaning, slightly incompetent cabby of forty-eight, with a thickness around the middle and a permanent expression of trepidation. He wears that familiar expression as he approaches Riza, patting his damp forehead with a handkerchief.
“Frau Riza. I’m sure you’ve heard the news—the bombings last week in town? Yes, we’ve all heard, no need to rehash the obvious,” He says, all in one hastened breath. Schulz takes a second to glance back at his cart before continuing. “I have a favor to ask of you—well, less of a favor, really. I’m sure you’ll be happy to—er, where is your father?”
“He’s inside,” Riza says, squinting at Schulz’s vehicle. She swears she can see a shadow under the tarp where the military man is fiddling around…
Before she can inspect further, Schulz shifts on his feet, obstructing her view. “Could you go fetch him for me? It really is imperative that I speak with him.”
“He’s ill, Herr Schulz. He’ll be upset if I disturb his rest.”
“O-of course. But I think you’d find this matter, er, of most importance.”
“What matter would that be?”
“Ah,” Schulz says, hesitant. He dabs at his brow again. “Maybe you’d like to see for yourself.”
Riza follows Herr Schulz down to his cart, wary but intrigued. The military man's face is even more severe up close. He’s taller than Schulz, although significantly younger, with pockmarked cheeks and a thin upper lip. His eyes are seedy and dark, darting from Riza to Schulz to Riza again. He frowns deeply.
“Who is this girl?”
“She lives here,” says Schulz wearily, as if he’s resigned himself to a lifetime of sharp words from men in uniform.
“She’s a child,” the man says, shaking his head. Still, he draws back the tarp, revealing a young man in the back. He’s lying prone on the base of the cart with a blanket wrapped around his body. He doesn’t stir. He’s scarily still, like a rabbit right before you shoot, and Riza belatedly realizes that he’s asleep.
“Herr Schulz?” Riza questions, but he simply gestures her forward. She pokes her head inside. Most of his face is obstructed by the shade of the tarp and the angle of his head, but the bits she can see look awful. Pale skin contrasts with a shock of greasy black hair, darker than any Amestrian she’s ever seen, and his cracked lips part slightly as he wheezes in and out like a donkey, hee-hah, hee-hah, each breath sounding far too shallow.
She gawks at the man, taking her fill, before asking, “Are you going to wake him?”
A perfectly reasonable question, but the military man kisses his teeth impatiently. “He’s comatose.” Riza feels warmth rising to her cheeks. Schulz places a hand on her shoulder protectively.
“The boy’s a soldier,” he explains gently. “He was injured, staying at St. Augustine’s. But then the Drachmans…” He trails off, eyes already wet. “Who attacks a hospital? It’s so awful—”
“Anyway,” the military man interrupts him, and Schulz sniffles self-consciously. “We’ve already gathered the other invalids and given them temporary lodgings. Most are staying in the surrounding area, with whoever’s opened their doors. But there were over a hundred soldiers in that hospital, and only so many beds in town. Do you understand what I’m saying, girl?”
He says girl like a particularly nasty word, and spittle flies as he pronounces the hard guh sound. Riza frowns, wiping her face.
“You want him to stay here until he gets better.”
“Quick on the draw, eh?”
“We can’t have him,” she says firmly, and the military man stiffens.
“It’s your civic duty. There’s no can’t. It’s the law.”
“Law or no law, my father won’t stand for it,” She says. Unable to help herself, Riza adds, “He doesn't allow dogs in the house.”
This enrages the military man. His face turns a satisfying shade of red, his hands clenching around his weapon, and Riza can nearly see the smoke coming out of his ears. He tromps toward her in his big black boots, seething, “Why, you little—”
“Please, Hesse,” Schulz says, placing himself between the two. “Frau Riza, he’s right. I know how strict your father is—especially after what happened to Olgaa, God rest her soul—but it’s just one man. Hardly a man, even—he’s practically still a boy.”
That hardly convinces Riza. At her unchanged expression, Schulz tugs at his collar nervously. “And if you don’t… you’ll be in violation of the law. The military will have no choice but to revoke your father's state alchemist license.”
Riza sighs. It’s not exactly a secret that the only thing keeping their family afloat was her father’s pension. “Then I guess we don’t have a choice, do we?”
“No, you don’t,” the military man, Hesse, says with a sneer. “Help me lift the boy, Schulz.”
Riza watches helplessly as the two heft up the boy, Schulz’s hands wrapped under the boy’s armpits, and Hesse hoisting him by the ankles. The pose looks uncomfortable, but Riza can hardly muster sympathy for the boy, pathetic as he looks. Now in the sunlight, Riza notices that half of his head is wrapped tight with gauze, and the collar of his shirt is stained with old blood, flaky and brown. She holds the door open for them as they bring the boy inside, placing him on the settee. The springs squeak in protest as his limp body sprawls over the cushions, limbs akimbo. Still, he doesn’t stir. Riza shivers, unnerved by his stillness. It’s a grim reminder of her mother, in her casket, and the waxy stiffness of a face laid to rest.
“The doctor will stop by later today. He’ll check up on the boy, make sure everything's in order,” Hesse says, breath short from carrying him. “He’ll bring over whatever’s left of his belongings.”
“Uh, alright.” Riza glances at the boy in his threadbare button-up and trousers. He’s not wearing shoes. His socks are frayed and holey. “When should he come to?” She asks.
Hesse gives her an annoyed look. “How should I know? I'm not the doctor.”
Schulz claps a hand on her shoulder, smiling lamely. “Thank you, Frau Riza,” he says. “You’ve done right by this nation. The fuhrer would be pleased by your selflessness.”
Riza would beg to differ, but she nods in response. Hesse taps his foot impatiently, unimpressed by the sentimentality.
“Herr Schulz,” he says, glancing at his watch. “We haven’t all day.”
The pair is halfway out the door before Riza calls out, “Has he got a name?”
“Of course he’s got a name,” Hesse says without looking back. “Cadet Roy Mustang, part of the six forty-eights. He was a good man.”
With that, Hesse closes the door with more force than necessary, rattling the house’s foundation. Sunlight streams in from the open window, illuminating Mustang’s pallid face, and suddenly it’s just Riza in the room with him, and not even the click of Schulz’s horse outside can cover the incessant donkey breathing coming from the boy.
After a few minutes of unsure stillness, Riza shivers. Was, she thinks sourly. He was a good man, Hesse had said. Not is.
The doctor swings by a few hours later with dark circles under his eyes, drooping under the weight of his medical bag.
“Would you like some coffee? Or tea?” Riza asks, hovering over the doctor as he prods at Mustang. Despite her distaste for the military, the only thing worse than a soldier on her settee is a dead soldier on her settee, so Riza spent the entire night monitoring the steady rise and fall of Mustang’s chest. He looks so fragile, so weak, that Riza’s terrified he’ll stop breathing at the slightest provocation, or his heart will fail, or he might simply shatter into pieces.
The doctor presses the back of his hand against Mustang’s forehead. His bangs are clumped together in patches, shiny with grease.
“He’s in bad shape, that I can say for certain,” The doctor explains, packing his sparse medical equipment. “You’ll have to change his bandages twice a day, and apply this solution to the wound.
“I won’t lie to you. It’d take a miracle for him to wake within the next day.” Sluggishly, he pulls on his overcoat and hat.
“So? What does that mean?” Riza asks.
“It means that the boy’s fate rests with God, now. I know your father disagrees with the church's teachings. Please—If there’s any hope for the boy, that’s it.”
Much like yesterday, as the doctor leaves, Riza is filled with an indescribable loneliness that seems to emanate from every surface in the house. It spindles like spiderwebs and strings along the corners and edges of furniture, predatory, trying to trap Riza in its web. She doesn’t let it—instead, Riza rushes upstairs, grave in her duty. Thick layers of dust are unsettled when Riza enters the room that used to be Mama’s. Aside from the mothballs, everything is exactly as Mama left it. Not even a hair out of place, as Father had all but forbidden entrance into the sitting room.
Father’s too sickly to hit me now, Riza reminds herself, crossing the unspoken threshold of the doorway. She’s greeted by the smell of must and decaying Cretan rugs. Her target sits atop a large dresser, inside a velvety jewelry box that’s nearly empty. Mama was not one for showing off, despite her husband’s alchemist’s pension. Inside the jewelry box sits a wooden rosary.
With this rosary, Riza prays solemnly over the boy, reciting prayers she hasn’t said in years, the words clunky and unnatural in her mouth. Still, she persists, and hopes that her quiet prayer and the steady tok-tok of clacking beads is enough to bring the boy’s spirit from beyond the grave.