A/N: Hello friends! It's been a while. That whole job thing likes to get in the way! This is something I've kind of wanted to write for a while. It's Riza's perspective post- Roy departure. My personal headcanon of how she gets her tattoo. I decided to stop messing with it and go ahead and post it. I hope you enjoy!
Roy left. Riza did not like to dwell on the details of the matter – how the frail house quivered as he slammed the door or how her father's voice trembled with hollow rage and phlegm and despair. He left and she continued on, and that was that. Riza believed in simplicity and when she made up her mind, her will was iron. She resumed her studies, albeit with less fervor. She would survive, of that she was certain. Her father was another matter.
Berthold Hawkeye was always an eccentric man. He ate at irregular hours, and only slept once his body insisted. His research bordered on obsessive, but it was something Riza had always lived with. She never questioned it. Perhaps she did not want to. When Mr. Mustang left (she did not feel pain at the thought of his name, she could not), however, her father seemed to change.
Riza woke early, as she always had. The pre-dawn light had barely reached the kitchen when her father teetered downstairs, his cheeks sunken and his hair curling over his shoulders. The man who never left his study before midday was leaning against the railing of the staircase, muttering to himself. She ought to feel guilty that she was more disturbed by his mere presence than the eerie way his clothes draped over his thin body. It wasn't until she greeted him that he seemed to take note of his only daughter. He watched her then, his gaze intense and bright.
"Riza. Good morning."
He turned around and walked back upstairs, even slower than before. His muttering resumed. Riza decided not to worry. After all, it wouldn't do her any good.
As the weeks went by, Riza started seeing her father downstairs more often. He was talking more, asking strange questions and picking her mind for something, some piece of information he expected her to have stored away somewhere. Riddles were as much a part of her breakfast now as her coffee. Riddles about time, about permanence and loyal dogs and secrets. The riddles tasted bitter in her mouth, but she worked through them, deciphering the desperation in the alchemist's expression. She sensed they were running out of time, but she had no idea why.
Winter was clutching their small town when he found his answer. To be honest, Riza had forgotten what she had said, or what his riddle of the day was. But she remembered the way his eyes had widened, like a great owl. She could still recall how his long, spindly fingers had gripped his mug, his knuckles white and drawn. It was as if the entire world held still, the gears in the great alchemist's mind working (not her father, now, but the Flame Alchemist, who Amestris revered and hated all at once). Then, without another word, he was back to his study.
His requests became stranger after that. Riza was purchasing more ink than she remembered him using before. She would ease into his workroom, carrying his dinner and a frown, only to see his fingers stained with ink and blood. She brought sewing needles and animal hides. Riza did not ask, as it was not her place, though a small part of her was intensely curious on his new path. He did not eat and did not speak for several days at a time. She removed tray after tray of untouched plates and dusted unused bedrooms. She ignored the uncomfortable tightness in her throat.
"I am dying."
That was a phrase the Flame Alchemist did not mind repeating, when he did talk. He did not seem to fear death in the way most people feared the loss of their own life. Death had always been an abstract thing for Riza (her mother's death came so swiftly and early she could hardly remember the woman's face), but now it lingered unwanted in her home. If Riza paused long enough in the silence, she would feel the heavy breath of her father's waning life. If she cared to think on the matter, she would recall how quickly her father's last apprentice would have filled the room with his steady presence. The house felt so much more alive with him. The air wouldn't taste so stale, or the water so sour as it did now.
When Berthold Hawkeye finally sat before her again in the kitchen, grasping her hands, it felt as if she had lived several lifetimes. Riza did not know if they had ever shared so much contact, and it set her off balance. At one time, she would have been pleased by the attention of the man, but now only sadness gripped her as tight as the wrinkled palms of the man she hardly knew. She watched his fingers leave black and blue thumbprints on her skin, vaguely wondering how long it would take to wash off the murky ink. He talked about his research, openly, which startled his daughter. He was dying, he told her, again and again. The sun cast dark shadows in the kitchen, deepening the creases of his frown. Why did her neck prickle when he spoke like that? She did not dare to seek an answer.
"I trust you, Riza."
Another statement, as true as his iminent passing. Riza could see it in his eyes. For a moment, she saw her own gaze reflected back at her. For an all-too brief moment, she was sitting in front of her father again. He trusted her. In a strange, distant way, she knew she felt the same way. He explained his studies of tattoos, of pain and healing and protection. She said nothing. He showed her the samples on his own body, telling her how long it would take, how she would know when the time was right. She watched him pull out papers riddled with cramped handwriting, describing the themes of his work. Her throat burned and her fingers felt cold where blue fingerprints kissed her knuckles. She listened.
She should've been angry. When he asked her, tentatively, quietly, hesitantly, if she would bear his research, she should've been shocked and hurt. She imagined the outrage their last tenant would have fostered at the request. But something in those familiar eyes stilled her protests. Here, in the too-intimate kitchen, Riza understood. She understood better than anyone, better than Roy or her half-forgotten relatives in Central. She understood the emptiness that ate away at her father's soul, how he had spent his life trying to fill it with his great tomes and his research. She understood how he tried to unravel the secrets of fire, as if that would return the warmth the loss of his wife had stolen. He never said it aloud, but Riza could see her father's anguish. As clearly as she could see how she could alleviate that burden.
"I trust you."
The words were small, but firm. She knew she could've refused. He would have let her, without any arguments. They both knew what he asked of her. Riza never learned alchemy or what those symbols meant, but she could evaluate risk. More importantly, she could evaluate someone's character. She pulled her hands away from her father, picking up the array that would soon be emblazoned on her body. A shaky breath dismissed the nausea in her stomach and resolve found her again. It would not be pleasant, that much she knew. Fortunately, she had long since learned how to deal with discomfort (how uncomfortable it had been watching him walk out the door, without so much as a goodbye). Riza preferred not dwell on pain; she much preferred to focus on simplicity.
And in the end, it was truly very simple.