"You know you don't have to do this, Mr. Mustang."
Riza stacked a pile of books on the dusty floor. She sat beside the piles—now seems tall compared to her tiny, sitting figure—trying to catch a breath.
"It's okay, really." The black-haired boy climbed down the ladder, having done putting the books he didn't need back in the bookshelf. "My aunt would scold me if I let a little lady picking up the things I need. Besides, even with a ladder, it doesn't seem you can reach the ones on the top rack anyway." He grinned sheepishly.
The girl pouted, but then shrugged it off.
"Well then," Roy took half of the stacked books on the floor, "now that I've gathered the things I need for tomorrow's lesson, I will head back to my room. Thank you for helping. Good night, Ri." She nodded. "Good night, Mr. Mustang."
Roy proceeded to the door, but his steps came to an abrupt halt after he realised that there was no sound of footsteps behind him. Looking back from his shoulder, he saw the blonde sweeping her eyes through the room. "Riza?" He called out, adjusting the thick books on his hands, "aren't you going back, too?"
She shook her head. "You can leave me alone," she turned around, now facing him. "This basement hadn't been cleaned for a while. It's a bit dusty here." Well, it was an understatement, Roy thought. The room was clearly a mishap—thick dust all over the place, incredible humidity, dull-coloured stone wall. The only table in the room was occupied by various of things—from opened books and papers to herbs and dried frog corpses. Those, and the fact that the room was rather dim since there was only one candle iluminating them, just added up the things that made his master was feared by the villager—being a sorcerer aside. It was wide, indeed, and able to contain many bookshelves. But in its current condition, it was impossible to actually study in this 'study room'—or, it was what she told him.
He had never actually seen his master doing his studies here. It was always in the other book-filled room upstairs. At first he thought this room was that one forbidden room every wizard possessed in their house, since Riza always lock the door leading to the basement. Apparently it wasn't.
"I'm thinking of doing some cleaning," she continued while crouching down to examine what-are-those-black-things? under the table. "So maybe in the future you can use this room to—"
"That's not good." He turned around. "I won't let you do things for my sake alone. I'm helping."
Riza pursed her lip. Finally on her knees, she folded her hands. "Mr. Mustang, it is nearly 12 in the midnight—"
"I am helping."
"No."
"You are afraid of the dark, aren't you?" He said in a sing-songy voice.
The girl flustered. Roy tried not to laugh at her reddened cheeks. "I am not!"
"Said the one who ran straight into my room when—"
"I just have to bring more candles here!" He sneered in victory.
Riza looked around, seeking for anything helpful to give a logical comeback. Her eyes landed on the books. "You have to learn the Co—"
"I've done dechipering whatever-mantra-books he gave me this afternoon. That's why I came here picking for the new ones." He lied, of course. There was no way he could transcribe those ancient hieroglyphs in less than one day. Heck, even the yellowed pages shattered when he tried to flip them quickly—just how old are those books exactly?
But sitting all day in his room with those goddamned witchcraft stuffs could damage his sanity. That's why he was there, after thinking of some dumb reasons so that he could spend some time with her, relaxing for a bit.
And of course, he won't admit that one, either.
Riza eyed him suspiciously. "You lied."
"Won't change the fact that I'm helping you."
"You have to see my father tomorrow at 5 sharp in the morning."
"I could manage."
"You can't, Mr. Mustang," she looked down to her shoes and muttered, "and it had been only two days since I have to splash cold water onto your face to wake you up. Father scolded me afterwards."
"I.. uh, well... about that..." He rubbed his neck nervously with one hand, thinking of what to say next. "I guess I will just deal with whatever he comes up with then..."
"He could turn you into a frog!" Roy didn't know what was the cause of his sudden nausea—the possibility that those dried frogs perhaps were his master's former pupils, or that the worry on Riza's eyes was deadly serious.
He sighed. "It is decided, then," the boy took a few steps towards her. "I am going straight to bed and wake up on time tomorrow, only if you agree to do the same. Right here. Right now."
"But—"
"Or," cutting her objections, he slightly bent down—books still in hands, "I will help you clean-up tonight, and you must bear being followed by a particular frog familiar for the rest of your life."
Riza was about to protest, but realising that it won't actually change anything, she let out a deep breath. "Fine," she finally said, "only so that you won't be turned into a frog."
"Fine with me," winning smirk on face, he turned and they walked towards the door. He was about to reach it when a peculiar thing on a shelf beside the door caught his attention. "What's this?"
Riza stopped and took a glance. "A wand, Mr. Mustang."
"That's not what I mean." Of course he knew it was a wand. He suppresed a giggle and tried not to roll his eyes. Seriously. "I mean Master never use this one, always that black wooden stick of his."
"Ah. It was mine, if that's what you mean."
Roy turned to face her in shock. "You are a witch?!" His expression was rather exaggerated indeed. But in his defense, he had never seen her doing anything related to magic, despite being The Sorcerer's daughter. Besides, a wand? His master kept telling him that he was slightly better—and considering his standard, that meant much better—than his previous apprentices, yet after more than three years of training, he refused to hand him a wand yet.
Not that he hadn't practiced at all, though. Most spells could be written down before being casted upon. But in his opinion, writing down the mantras or drawing magical runes every single time he was about to cast a spell was way too ineffective. With a wand, he would just have to mentally recite the mantra and swing it in a particular motion and wham! Plus, he won't have to deal with black face and burnt eyebrows because he'd mistaken a combustion runes for a decomposition one.
The girl nodded softly. "Or rather," she continued, "that was what he tried to teach me. Witchcraft. But he stopped trying after—" she bit her lips and looked down.
After her mother's demise, of course, Roy winced. She had told him how that event affected her and her father. "I'm sorry..."
"It's okay," she said as they walked out of the room.
Awkward silence embraced during their walk in the hall.
Mustang was the one who broke the silence. "So... what exactly happened? And why hadn't you tell me earlier about... you know... you, uh, being a witch and—" he stopped. Why should she tell him anyway? He avoided her gaze, guilty kind of built up inside him for intruding her privacy.
As if she could felt her companion's uneasiness, she looked away from him. "It's alright, Mr. Mustang," she assured. "When I was younger, father taught me the basics of magic practices. I managed to master them and be handed the wand at the age of 7." Damn, he remarked. "But after my mother died, somehow I lost it all. I... don't know. My ability just like vanished into thin air. I don't know if it was the trauma or whether it had something to do with the magical prowess itself.
"I decided not to tell you because it was not important, really. It has nothing to do with your study either."
The timid girl slowed down and mumbled, "and I don't want you to pity me. You don't have to feel guilty, Mr. Mustang."
He side-glanced her.
"Besides, it seemed that my father stopped trying to start from scratch, and decided to take in genius warlock-soon-to-be like you as pupils to continue his wizardy. I think it is the best way indeed. The legacy should not end just because I can't keep it alive." She smiled genuinely. The said boy just bit his lips, lost in thought. At this point he wondered how could a 12-year-old girl face things in more mature way than him—whom was almost four years older.
When they finally arrived at the front of her room, she reached the doorknob and turned it, making a click sound. "Have a nice dream, Mr. Mustang."
The door was closed.
Roy opened the door slowly, trying not to wake anyone upstairs. To be honest a little creak won't wake his master up—the distance was far enough for the voices there to be heard—but he would never be too careful if it meant involving Master Hawkeye.
Three years in that estate and he just noticed the presence of an idle wand he could use now? This must be his opportunity.
He wouldn't do any malice with it, of course. Roy would just test some simple spells. Besides, he felt bad for Riza earlier, and he guessed he had to do something to make up for that.
It was an exquisite wand. Made from oak wood, it was carved with precision. Even with inadequate lighting, Roy could tell its golden colour from its gleam. Master's is grosteque compared to this. He imagined his master's crooked and seemingly-old wand, wondering whether a wand could reflect the owner's personality. If so, he would like to be crafted a majestic red wand. Red is heroes' colour, after all.
Carefully picking up the wand, he examined the room and smirked. Well, a walking broom and some mops won't harm anyone, will they?
The candle lit dimly. He sighed, trying to scare away the anxiety inside him. Steadying his breaths, he closed his onyx eyes, recited some mantras he learnt years ago—swinging the wands in a pattern he saw his master had ever done. He may hadn't held a wand until now, indeed, but one of the things he took pride in was that he was definitely a good observer. And a fast learner too, he added mentally.
One last swing, and there was a speck of light speeding to the broom. The said broom, now already under charm, casted a thin glow. He waited for the broom to move. "C'mon," he said, "make yourself useful."
If only he knew that the broom could be useful in the first place, even without any magic.
He sighed, and retry charming the broom once again. The broom glowed—now brighter, and made a small move. Roy nearly shrieked in excitement—if only it didn't abruptly stop. He frowned, and was ready to do the third attempt when the broom suddenly stood upright, its hair moved in a motion of legs. Roy grinned. "Yes, yes," he murmured. He did one swift movement with his wand. "I am your master. Now make yourself useful and clean this place, while I call for some helps." He swung the wand to the right and left several times—the broom moved accordingly—and then exited the room, making his way to the well. The broom went on moving, dust flying everywhere.
Casting spells on the two buckets inside the well, he intended to make them, somehow, walk to the study room back and forth to provide water. Roy raised an eyebrow as the bucket glowed in red, but did nothing in particular, "I see. You can't go there if you can't walk properly, huh." Chuckling, he mentally sorted many kinds of form-altering spells. After picking an appropriate one, he lifted the wand, twirled it several times, and out of the blue, each buckets grew a pair of legs. The boy rolled his sleeves. "Gotta wash the molds and grim off that place, you hear that?"
The cycle went on—he seeked some cleaning untensils, swung the wand, charmed them, and told them to help cleaning the study room. Roy made sure he created no sound everytime he walked past Master's bedroom.
In no time, nearly all of the cleaning equipments in the estate—from broom to mops, buckets to brushes, rags to soaps—were gathered in the wide room. The candle had long been put off, leaving the reddish glows from Roy's charms iluminating the room in its place. The said boy stood in front of the door, swinging his hands in a neat motion, as if an amateur conductor directing an orchestra—or, in this case, a cleaning untensils orchestra. This is it, he thought to himself. After all those years he spent memorizing and understanding tons of mantra without actually practicing it, he finally felt satisfied. It felt good. This is it, he thought again, closing his eyes as he smiled. The joy, the satisfaction.
Now he could properly refer himself as The Sorcerer's Apprentice.
It just felt right.
He would definitely tell Riza and thank her for the wand tomorrow—perhaps she could be mad, and scolds him, but she won't tell her father, ever. She's way too kind, too gentle, he mused. He was pretty sure of it—despite her maturity and logical reasoning, she didn't tell her father when Roy accidentally burnt the ivies from the Forest of Magic in front of her that one time—practically making both of their faces coaled. She scolded him back then, hard. But when Master Hawkeye confronted him, asking where all his ivies were in suspiciousness, Riza voiced that the crows took them when they left the window open. What punishment could Master had given if he ever found out, Roy never dared to think of it. He chuckled.
Too kind, too gentle.
The cleaning ritual continued. It went on smoothly and according to plan—
—until the said broom clashed into a mop. By the time Roy noticed it, the broom and mop had already been in a sword-like quarrel.
"You!" He snapped, "stop that and just do your job!" They didn't listen. Going on with the fight, they ran into several untensils and wracked the now neatly-placed things on the table. Roy gasped. "Now you stop doing that and get back to work!" He was then focusing on getting the broom and mop under control. Yet somehow, their power seemed to have strengthened since the first time being casted spell upon. Roy furrowed his brow, pouring all of his attention to the two of them. "Refrain from ruining my intention!" He swung his wand, recited some mantras and casted it upon the two. The broom and mop stopped fighting. Roy was just about to let out a relieved sigh when they bolted towards him. He ducked in shock, the broom crashed the wall behind him and the mop got stuck in the shelf where he found Riza's wand yesterday. His heart pounded. Gosh, he thought, I could have been dead just now.
He stood up, leaning on the doorframe for support. "Fine!" he yelled, "go on fighting! Just make sure you don't hurt me!" And the untensils did as such, once again drowned in a rigorous swordfight. He watched them and concentrated, waiting for the perfect moment—still leaning on the doorframe, yes, his legs trembled from his recent near-death experience. When the broom and mop clashed into each other, in one swift move he snapped his wand towards them. And with just that, the broom and mop laid down, immobilized. No longer having a threat, Roy sighed in relief. He slided down the doorframe to sit and calm himself.
That's when he felt wetness on his pants.
Weird, he thought. It was scary, yes, but he was not the one to wet his pants due to overwhelmed fear.
His eyes snapped open. The buckets! Of course. While he tried to deal with the stupid quarrel back then, the other untensils moved freely with nobody to control them. Roy stared at the ruckus unfolding before him. The rags now flying in circle, crashing the books on the top racks—effectively making them fell down. The two buckets kept pouring water to the floor in an unbelievable speed, causing a flood. Roy winced as he saw the books on the lowest rack soaked. He should think of a way to apologize to Master for that after he cleared the mess. The other mop, which was supposed to mop and dry the water up, now looked like it was stirring on a pool. The soaps—ah, he didn't even need to examine further to confirm the haphazardness of the situation.
He got back on his legs. "Holy. Heaven."
Roy made sure he said those words with extra emphasis, completely aware that they could be his last words if Master Hawkeye caught him. Red-handed.
Okay, now is not the right time to think about the possible ways Master Hawkeye could use to kill me.
He closed his eyes and mentally arrange a strategy. The rags and mop could wait, they did nothing harmful besides moving in a constant pattern. So did the brushes and soaps, merely rubbing certain areas of the wall on and on. Water was the biggest problem. At this rate, they could drown him and this basement before the dawn.
Learning from his previous experience, forcing to control them by magic could rage them. Let alone the dawn, the buckets could easily suffocate him by drowning his face. Cancelling the spell was also a risky one. If he missed, those buckets could be wilder. Who knows. Better safe than sorry.
Not good.
So there is only one choice left.
He put the wand on a rather high shelf and dashed to find an axe, carefully grasping to the wall so that he won't slip. It only took less than 3 minutes for him to reach the warehouse, took an axe, and arrived back in the basement. But he swore it must be way longer than that, by looking at the water level. It was merely at his ankle when he left, but now, it almost reached his hip.
Seriously. Could everything get any worse than this?
With no thought, he bolted toward the buckets, chopping them several times into tiny pieces. He stared at the wooden pieces and cursed under his breath. Nice way to thank the man who gave you life, sure.
A relieved sigh escaped him. He proceeded to pick the wand, and considered if he should take down the mop or the rags first.
Just as the mop was immobilised, he noticed gleams of red light from the chopped buckets.
The lights kept getting brighter, and brighter, and brighter until he had to cover his eyes. Being blind as such age is nowhere near cool.
Roy Mustang noted that when he asked 'Could everything get any worse than this?' He should clear himself that he was being rhetorical, and that those were obviously not a challenge.
Because before he realised, those tiny wooden pieces seemed like they are regenerating. And by regenerating, they didn't mean 'getting the pieces together to once again become a bucket'.
There were a flock of buckets before him, in the exact same size as their predecessor, filling the room with more and more water.
It was the first full moon of the autumn, he remembered. Of course, Roy Mustang would never forget the day he started loathing water.
Despite groping the wand tight—now using both hands—his shoulder slumped in defeat. No use, he thought. His legs started feeling numb. He began reminiscing about his childhood, his aunt, his sisters.
About her.
He didn't even care about being so pathetic and un-heroic, at that point. After all, he was going to die that day, either by drowning or by Master Hawkeye's hands.
With one deep breath, he let out a terrified shriek.
When the blinding grey light disappeared, Roy wondered if he already arrived in heaven—or hell? He didn't really care, to be honest.
His eyes fluttered open. Slowly, he examined his surroundings. A bunch of buckets, now stay still. There were another untensils he recalled bringing to the basement. Books and papers, now soaking-wet. The once dusty stone floor, is now pristine clean from the dirt, with puddles of water replacing it. Total mess. The only good thing was that the wand in his hands was still there, safe and sound.
His eyes tracked to the door—Berthold Hawkeye, The Sorcerer, was standing there with his wand and furious look. Oh, Roy thought, this must be hell, then.
But then Roy noticed a familiar small figure standing behind his master with a horrified expression. Since there was no way an innocent girl could reside in hell, the boy assumed that he hadn't dead—yet—and the place was still the study room, despite looking like a shipwreck.
How he could manage to fake a smile, he didn't know. "Good evening, Master Hawkeye," he said politely, "did you sleep w—"
"Roy Mustang."
He stiffed. Sure, Master got mad every here and there, but that tone wasn't one he could recognize.
The man lifted his chin. "Let go of the wand."
Roy carefully put the wand in front of him. He tried to stand up, but it was fruitless. Seems that his legs were way more scared than he was.
"Riza."
"Y-yes, father?"
"I recalled telling you to get rid of that thing."
She tauted her fingers and looked down nervously, "I'm so—"
"You can save your sorry. Now look at this total mess my apprentice commited just because he found that," his eyes pierced through Roy, "and turned out, he was dumb enough to think that he could handle it."
"Master, this was not her—"
"Silence!" He snapped. "A failure she was, but I taught my daughter enough that she must realised how dangerous a wand with no master could be."
Failure.
The apprentice just glared back, not sure on how he should feel to his master's words.
"Now," the man continued, lifting the black wand with his right hand, "Elizabeth crafted that wand perfectly."
Elizabeth? Ah—so her mother made this for her.
"What a shame, having to destroy that since a certain someone doesn't know how to use it."
Roy clenched his jaw. Riza didn't even flinch.
And with a small twirl, the golden-coloured wand shattered into pieces.
The man turned, back against him. "I expect my books and old scripts be restored perfectly before the noon. I won't need anything else." He paced towards the exit.
Of course, this man.
"Master!" Roy called out to the man who didn't even bother to slow down. "What about tomorrow's lesson?"
"There would be no lesson until next week." He said sternly without looking back. "I expect you to have done transcribing the whole Codex I lent you by then." And with that, he left the mishap behind him.
Roy thought of pulling his black hair in frustration—even transcribing one page without Master's help had been hellish—but that could wait.
For now he should focus on the girl before him. She had steeled her expression back then, but by looking at her shaking shoulder now, one could tell that she was weeping.
He couldn't blame her, though. Her father's words had been so harsh.
Ah, right. The only thing left from her mother had just been destroyed. And guess whose fault was that?
"Hey, Ri," he stood up and closed the space between them, "Riza, you okay?"
The blonde didn't answer. Damn it, he cursed, guilt washed him all over again. He sighed.
"Riza, listen, this is all my fault, not yours, and the fact that Master said such cruel words—"
"It's not that!"
Roy bit his lips as she stuttered between each sobs. "I—I am relieved... he didn't t—turn you into a frog..."
Now he's utterly confused how to react. "So, uh, those dried frogs were actually...?"
Once again, she didn't give any answer. He decided that it was better not to go on seeking it until he end his apprenticeship.
"...Sorry about the wand." She was about to object when he put his hands on her lips. "My conceitedness made me use the wand—your wand—practically destroying it along with this room, is all my wrong, and you can't convince me otherwise."
Hazel eyes stared at his black ones. He nodded in reassurance, breaking the gaze before redness reached his ears.
He glanced around. "Now, then... how many times would I have to write down the restoration spell to repair books this many?"
"I will help."
Roy shot her a disapproving look. She pouted. "The last time I left you doing the cleaning all by yourself, Mr. Mustang, you destroyed my father's old scripts and the basement and my house equipments and bred a bunch of bucket."
This time it was Roy's turn to frown.
Too kind, too gentle.
Before he knew it, he already pulled her into an embrace, whispering 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry' several times. She was reluctant at first, but in the end she returned the hug, arms wrapped tightly on his waist. Her sobs ceased as the time passed.
This is the best time to plaster that cool big-bro face and say 'feel better, now?' Roy thought. So he ended the hug and did as such.
Or, that was what he wanted to do.
Because by the time he let go of her, a piece of paper smashed his face hard—so hard that he fell on his back.
"Mr. Mustang!"
What on earth?! He snatched the paper from his face. Why would someone do this to him? He turned it and read the writings,
.
.
'You know better than to use your charm against my daughter.'
That was dumb kbye
The idea of this magic AU (instead of alchemy) popped when I was listening to Paul Dukas' The Sorcerer's Apprentice. And how I like the idea of young Roy and his idiocy…
I made their relationship rather like a bro-sis relationship (Riza was still 12 after all!) because that's how I imagine how their childhood relationship was in canon—platonic at first yet slowly burning!
Reviews and critics are welcomed. Thank you for reading.