Pieces of parchment littered the hardwood floor, scattering as a light breeze sailed through the open window. Amongst them was a battered photograph, drained of colour, displaying a young, slightly muscular teen with his arm around a pretty blonde lady. The black-haired young man was smiling broadly at the photographer, while the lady seemed slightly irritated, and her gaze was fixed on a point just above the camera.
A later photograph depicted the same man, again in black and white, only this time he had donned a royal-blue State Military uniform. His eyes held many years of experience and age, betraying his round, baby-faced appearance. The woman was not in this picture, and the background seemed barren, except for a few tents that were pitched beside a small campfire. The parchment attached to the photograph contained descriptions of the man's feelings at the time that the picture was taken.
Still fluttering across the floor, one of the letters flew into the open fireplace and was caught alight by the flickering, quiet flames. The woman did not stir, as she had not noticed that the window was open, or that the pieces of parchment were moving with the breeze. Reclining in a plush armchair, she shivered, trying to get closer to the warmth that the fire offered, while trying not to drop a stitch of the blanket she was knitting.
The incandescent flames continued to blaze as the woman continued her activity, and only the clicking of the needles and the occasional sigh, as the woman's arthritis caused her grief, could be heard from the cottage. The sun setting over the hills could be viewed from an upstairs window, but the woman paid no heed to the time of day, as she continued to knit while the parchment moved across the wooden floor.
As she finished with the strand of brown wool, she patted around her for another ball of the yarn. Locating one on the three-stooled end table next to her, she picked it up, tied it to the thread she had finished with, and continued to knit. She took no notice of the way that the black wool clashed with the brown. Lost in thought about what once was, the woman carefully continued her task.
The lady's once-blonde hair fell down to just below her ears, where it was trimmed on a regular basis. The white hair colour was in contrast to her darkened skin, which had tanned during her continuous time spent outside, standing on the dusty path, waiting patiently for the man in the photographs to return home. She had been tall for her age in her youth, but now stood at just under five feet. She wondered if the man had grown taller since she had last seen him, or if he had shrunk as well.
The last of the letters that she had received from the man at the time explained how nervous he was about the possibility of death, as he would soon be leaving the relative safety of the tents to participate in the horrific Battle of Ishval. In it, he had written of his love for her, and that when he came home, he would marry her. Although another woman would have been afraid, she had packed her bags and left for the battleground, desperate to follow the man whom she loved. Leaving behind her empty home- for her father had also departed this world to join her mother- had been an easy task.
Never, in her youth, would she have believed that they would both survive the war, and that they would struggle through life, her constantly guarding his back. She would not have guessed that the military they fought so hard for would turn on them, or that he would rise to the top of the military with the help of a teenage boy with automail, take on several homunculi and survive. She never would have thought that he would come home and propose to her properly, accompanied by one night that the couple would never forget, then go back to Ishval and rebuild the cities that he had helped to destroy.
Of course, the proposed wedding had never happened, as the man had many goals that he needed to achieve, and such little time to do them in. He knew the woman would always wait for him. He had returned to Ishval with a man with no name, along with a friend they knew as Miles, intent on righting the wrongs that had befallen the tanned, mahogany-eyed nation.
And the woman would certainly never had guessed, as she stood upon the dusty path that led to the Hawkeye home, waiting for the man to return, that conflict would again rise up between the two separate peoples, and that she would be unable to help him due to her illegitimate pregnancy.
He remained in touch as much as possible while on the battlefield, but that did not ease the woman's mind. She was fraught with terror over losing her husband-to-be, and was in anguish at her own helplessness.
The last line of his final letter forever stayed in the woman's memory. She could no longer read it, as her eyes had become blank, and she lost the ability to see, but the main sentence that stayed with her read as,
I wish I was home. I hate this war, and I haven't even participated yet. If I survive, I could never go back there, to this unnecessary killing. Some of the men are trying to talk about it as though they are excited, and cannot wait, but I know that they are only hiding their own fear.
The letter had come in the mail, when she was thirty-two years of age. Despite her current age, she could easily recall that day, when the note from his fellow comrade had reached her, announcing his death.
No amount of physical pain could have prepared her for that blow, and it still ached with a dull resounding in her heart to this day. He wasn't coming home. She had wept and wailed, mourning in the large, yet unkempt mansion that suddenly seemed bigger than it had first appeared. The baby had several complications, and with the lack of medical technology at that time, she had lost it. Her only tie to the man she loved was truly gone, and she met this news with the same reaction she had when learning of the loss of her lover.
Several tears fell from the corners of the elderly woman's eyes as she reminisced, unrestrained, and they splashed over the woollen blanket she was knitting for one of the small Ishvalan children who was still suffering in the thirty long years of war and uprising, the military having no idea what to do with the Ishvalans. Riza had become accustomed to the hollow feeling inside of her, but that did not mean that she stopped missing Roy for one minute. The tears continued to flow as the now-blind woman wept for what once was.