A/N: Don't call it a comeback.

Simulacrum (n): A representation or imitation of a person or thing.

The muscles of her arms are burning by the time she's finished scraping her skirt against the washboard. Her teacher had caught her this afternoon, lifting the skirt and tying the hem of it into a ball by her knee as she was leaving school. They hate when they catch her doing this, they say it's disrespectful, so she was told to untie it and wear it properly. She walked home in compliance with the dress-code and the bottom three inches of her skirt got caked in mud as a result.

Her walk home is mostly secluded from the village, she doesn't understand why she can't wear her skirt however she wants. It's easier to wash mud from her shins than her clothes and besides, she only has one school uniform. So now she has to do a wash even though it isn't the day for it. She decides to do all the laundry in one go — no point wasting the time and hot water on one skirt. She hums as she pushes the clothes back and forth, the washboard creating a rhythm for her tune.

As she's hanging the clothes and linens on the line, she hears a gasp. Turning around, she sees two adults quickly turning their backs on her. She doesn't get a look at their faces but she doesn't need to. Their clothes give them away. Bluecoats. Her shoulders tense towards her neck and she crouches slightly to keep her knees from locking.

One of them unbuttons their coat and slides it off their shoulders, displaying the criss-cross of leather straps across the back of their shirt. Without turning, they pass it back behind them, holding it out in her general direction.

She stares at it for a while before she understands the gesture. She looks down at her own body, her pale skin dotted with occasional brown and purple bruises. How silly of them, she thinks. They can kill and take land and still sleep at night, but she can make them so uncomfortable they cannot bear to look at her.

"What do you want?" She tries to keep her voice steady. These are the people she sings about, soldiers with guns and cannons and no regard for the carnage they inflict.

"Please, take it," the arm holding the coat waves it like a flag, the voice tinged with desperate discomfort.

This doesn't sound like the voice of someone who will kill her for disobedience, but that is their job, isn't it? She is surprised to feel a discomfort of her own, not at their occupation but at their reaction to her. The surprise morphs into a knee-jerk irritation. How dare they make her feel as if she has done something wrong, and they the ones coming to her home unwanted? Still, no matter her discomfort, she won't wear a blue coat. Even the thought disgusts her. And what if her father saw?

She compromises, taking her nightdress from the line and pulling it over herself. It is darkened and heavy with water, trying to pull her down along with the escaped droplets that drip from its hem. They must hear her shuffling, because when she repeats her question they turn around, slowly and flinchingly, eyes barely open to see that she is clothed, before they visibly relax.

This time, the other answers. "We are here to speak to Mister Hawkeye." One puts his coat back on. When they leave, she won't remember a single detail of their faces, only the blue uniform and ramrod-straight statures. Her own school uniform is blue too, but a darker blue. It's the reason she only has one. Blue dye isn't cheap, yet they dress their entire military in it. It seems decadent to her.

"We would have knocked on the door," the other continues, "but we heard someone back here." He bends at the waist slightly, his head closer to her eye level so she can see his wide, thin smile. "You must be Riza. You have a lovely voice by the way."

He wouldn't think that if he knew the words to the song she was humming.

They've come many times for her father over the years, she can tell by the broken pieces of conversation he has with himself when she comes home from school. Disjointed dialogue, but she hears 'Bluecoats' or 'recruit' or 'dogs', and she understands. This is the first time she's home for their visit, and she desperately wishes they'd arrived and left earlier. She recalls the fight between father and mother. They'll take her and they'll use her…

She is suddenly hyper aware of the fact that she is alone with them. Would her father come outside if she were to scream? If they grabbed her, stuffed her into a car right now, how long would it take someone to look for her? If she was seen on a train in soaked pajamas, would anyone even question the two Bluecoats pulling at her arms?

She wants to step backwards but wills her body to stay still. If she needs to run, she can't give them any notice. In her peripheral, she looks for the trees leading to the lake. She could lose them in the woods if they didn't shoot her first, maybe.

If a tree falls in the woods, and nobody is around to hear, does it make a sound?

If a girl falls in the woods, and nobody is around to care, does it even matter?

She's been quiet for too long, they shift uncomfortably. The one who had offered her the coat clears his throat. "So is he home?"

She blinks away her macabre train of thought. Her philosophy lessons have been a nuisance, really. "He won't want to see you."

They share a look with each other for a long moment. When they turn to face her again, One speaks slowly.

"We've come quite a long way…"

Other chimes in. "We won't take up too much of his time."

Riza can feel her head bowing, her body trying to make itself smaller. She isn't exactly in a position to refuse them, and the opened, freshly-adorned jacket of One shows a peek of a harness, its object of security glinting just under his armpit. But she isn't about to lead them into her house either, to call her father from his study and stand among the people he despises most. Again, she wishes she were still in school.

She compromises in the only way she can think of. She shrugs a shoulder and turns back to her laundry on the line.

"I'm not going to stop you. Knock on the door."

She doesn't turn around as she hears them linger for a moment before their footsteps retreat around to the front of the house. When she hears the echoes of knuckles on wood, she resumes humming. She doesn't dare sing the words aloud, but she hears them clearly in her head.

Your houses they pull down
To fright the poor men in the town,
But the gentry must fall down
And the poor shall wear the crown,
Stand up now, stand up now.


If there's one thing she's learned from her music lessons, it's that a surprising amount of women die in songs.

The two songs they are studying now are tragedies. One is based off an old Xerxian tale, in which a woman is cursed by the Gods to be unable to speak, unless she is repeating other people's words. Scorned by the man she loved, she wastes away until she is only her voice. The music is a canon, the same piece is repeated, starting at different times. The other song is about a man who is waiting to be hung for murdering his young betrothed. In both songs, the women are portrayed as virtuous and ethereally beautiful, until they are portrayed as dead.

She uses the school's violin, and she is allowed to bring it home for the weekends, since she doesn't have one of her own. It's the only reason she chose the violin over the piano. She is supposed to learn the songs that they are studying, but more often than not she tries to remember by ear the songs that filled the house a couple of months ago.

Sitting by the lake, she successfully plays one of the easier tunes the whole way through for the first time. She is improving, her fingers learning where to press and hardening to the wiry strings. When she plays the song through a couple more times, just to make sure she remembers how, she packs away the violin and bow carefully. Her visitor doesn't appear today, hasn't appeared for a few weeks now, but she has learned not to expect him.

She's been catching herself missing Mister Wesley recently. The noise he brought to the house with him only helped punctuate the silence of the house without him. No music, no chatter between master and student, no overly-familiar piccolina or gattina. She finds it strange that she misses being annoyed by him. She wonders if he ever thinks of her, if there was a missed opportunity for love between the two. Not romantic love, something far less tragic than that. She wishes she had given him a part of herself, so as that part could travel beyond the town, beyond Amestris. Maybe it could have seen the sea.

By the time she returns home, it's dark. She had prepared and served dinner before she left the house, and she always schedules her time by the lake, so she has no duties except sleep.

As she removes her shoes by the door, she hears shuffling feet from the kitchen. She instantly knows they are not her father's footsteps, though they are similarly slow. When a figure darkens the doorway at the other end of the hall, she freezes, one shoe still half-laced on her foot.

It's a boy. He's probably about seventeen or eighteen years old, but it's hard to tell his age from his face. He looks chubby-cheeked, like a toddler, but his baby fat ends at his jawline and the rest of him is stringy like cartilage. His hair is messy and unkempt, black and with a fringe like strips of liquorice. He is hunched over slightly, shoulders hugging his ears. His dark hair and dark clothes make him almost indistinguishable from the shadow he casts on the wall. When he takes a few steps towards her, he is tentative, every movement slow and deliberate, as if he is trying to stay upright on a tilting rowboat. She can't decide whether he looks like he is afraid of her or afraid of scaring her away.

"Hello?" he offers quietly, his voice smooth but unsure.

She hunches over too, crouches as her muscles lock into place. "Who are you?"

He seems to relax a little when he sees how small she is. "I'm Master Hawkeye's new student. Are you his daughter?"

He approaches her with surer steps, his wariness peeling away to display a casual smile. As his shadow falls on her, she straightens as well, nodding her head before bowing it like she would if a teacher addressed her.

He stops a couple of short steps apart from her and extended his hand, the corner of his eyes crinkling as his smile grows.

"Roy Mustang. Your dad told me you'd show me my room, but he called for you a couple times and then just wandered off."

Riza takes his hand and shakes it briefly. "I will show you now, Mr. Mustang. Is your luggage in the living room?"

He laughs, light and airy. She feels a couple of strands of her fringe move with his breath. "Slow down there. What's your name?"

She looks up from her feet. He is over a head taller than her and close enough that she has to crane her neck to meet his gaze, but when she does, she pauses.

His eyes are different, unlike any she's seen before. Too beautiful to be call a deformity, but definitely a strange shape. And a dark, dark grey, almost the same color as his pupils, the surrounding whites almost glowing in contrast. They shine kinetically, like flowing liquid. The way he carries himself, smiles easily, is surely considered handsome, but he would be considered beautiful by his eyes alone.

"Riza. Hawkeye." She is used to being quiet, but even she is surprised by the whisper of her voice as she answers.

The boy's brow twitches. "Riza…" he repeats thoughtfully. Then, after a moment: "Is that short for something?"

It takes her a few seconds to understand the question. "No."

He frowns, as if she has answered him incorrectly. "I've never heard it before, it sounds like a nickname. Are you sure it's not short for anything?"

Her voice loses all whisper. "I know my name!" she spits, a resentment swelling in her stomach at the question. She may not use it often, but it's one of the few parts of herself she doesn't have to question and she doesn't like this stranger doubting something so simple. "And it's longer than 'Roy' anyway," she adds, somewhat defensively.

His eyes widen at the outburst. "Okay, okay. Nice to meet you Riza."

"Miss Hawkeye."

He cocks an eyebrow, his lips tilting into a half-smile that instantly infuriates her. "Really?"

Instead of answering, she walks past him in the narrow hallway towards the living room. It's only after she takes a few steps that she realizes she's still wearing one half-laced shoe, but she has already committed to walking away and she can't turn back to remove it. Judging by the quiet snicker behind her, he has also noticed her mistake. She walks as if limping, careful that the shoe doesn't slip off mid-stride, and tries to ignore him.

She finds his luggage — a huge, burgundy bag that looks like it is about to burst open — and hauls it over her shoulder. The weight almost topples her but she manages to correct her balance on time as she trods to the spare room. She didn't know to expect a new student (though she should have, the envelopes were starting to arrive in blaring red again) so she hasn't cleaned the room in a while, but she doesn't feel too bad about it. Let the boy inhale dust. She dumps the bag in the corner and waits for his footsteps to catch up with her.

"This is your room. Breakfast is at seven, and you'll be expected in the study straight after." She turns to leave, brushing past him again. "Goodnight Mister Mustang."

"It's barely nine o'clock!"

She decides that that's hardly her problem, and leaves without responding.


Black bushes separating white fields. Black trees and with grey branches. Black the road she walks. Or floats? Looks down where feet should be. Just the black road. No buildings, no people, no noise.

Road twists, no straights only curves. Turns each corner. Another corner. Another field, white grass white crops, swaying in the wind, bending. No noise.

Goes off-road, into a field. Wheat that reaches her waist, bending in the wind. Cannot feel the wind. Wheat that reaches her shoulders. Wheat that reaches her eyes. Wheat that reaches far above her. Trees now. Black leaves, white branches.

Faster, through the trees. Leaves bend wind blows no noise. Panting, but no noise. Looks down, white grass black path. Faster, through the trees. Screaming, but no noise. Scream, scream, lungs burn throat hurts but no noise.

If a girl falls in the woods…

She wakes up under the covers, the air muggy and warmed by stale breath. She instinctively thrashes until the covers tangle beneath her waist and gasps until she feels cold air. Panting, her blurred vision slowly sharpens until she can see the crisp edge of her windowsill. Her room is lit up by the stars and the moon, just enough to see silhouettes and shadows. Every inhale shakes her ribs and every exhale releases a thin puff of steam. When she manages to control her breaths, she blinks repeatedly to try and relax her eyes.

She doesn't notice the footsteps until they stop, the silence alerting her retroactively to the noise.

"Hello?" The voice is soft, hesitant, just like it was the first time she heard it.

She holds her breath instinctively, moving only her eyes until they rest on the door. The silence stretches and she feels like she's been caught; that she's done something to superfluous and called unnecessary attention to herself. She is about to get discovered in a moment of weakness, and she doesn't like how it feels; being concerned that she appears weak. She shouldn't care what the rude apprentice thinks.

Eventually, the footsteps retreat, and Riza slowly exhales a thin stream of breath. She understands now that she can't act however she pleases, not when there's someone around to witness it.


She forgets him while she prepares breakfast, muscle-memory being what it is. It is only when she takes two plates from the cupboard that she remembers that there should be a third.

Instead of dividing the food up equally, she decides to serve their breakfast and quickly make something for herself. She brings one plate upstairs, knocking on the door and entering.

Her father stirs under his covers, turning around to lie on his side facing away from the door. She places the plate on his nightstand and hopes that the smell of buttery toast and eggs will be enough to rouse him.

When she comes back downstairs, Mister Mustang is in the living room. His hair is messy and sticking out at odd angles, and his bedclothes are loose, his pajama pants so far down on his hips that he is standing on the bottom few inches of plaid material. His eyelids are heavy and as he stretches into a yawn, the bottom of his ribcage is visible through his shirt.

"Mornin'" he mumbles lazily. "Something smells good."

She hurriedly walks to the kitchen and retrieves his plate. When she returns to the living room, she holds the plate in front of her, suddenly unsure of what to do.

"Where do you want to eat?" She had planned on taking it to his room, but he's here now.

He rubs his eyes and smacks his lips a few times as if he is trying to adjust his jaw. "The table seems like a good spot." He looks around the room. "Um, where is your table?"

She leads him to the dining room and places the plate and cutlery down. He yawns again as he sits, barely able to keep his eyes open.

"Is your dad not eating?"

"He takes his breakfast in his room." After Mister Wesley spilled stew on a textbook, her father has banned all food from the study, so lunch and dinner is eaten at the table. But he still doesn't know how to wake himself up so breakfast is always served in his bedroom. Going to bed at night is a habit he hasn't dropped even in the few months without a student, and Riza is thankful for that. He is far easier to be around when he is not manic from sleep deprivation.

Mister Mustang finally looks at her for the first time this morning. "Are you not eating?"

"I'm just about to make something."

"Oh. I'll wait for you."

Her first instinct is to ask why, it seems silly to wait until she's ready before he eats. Instead, she just shakes her head. "It will go cold."

He picks up a slice of toast and shrugs. "If you're sure…"

As she returns to the kitchen, she hears the snap of crisp bread behind her.


When she finishes breakfast, she goes upstairs to retrieve her father's plate. He is just finishing the last forkful of eggs when she enters. He hands her the plate while his mouth is still full.

After a loud swallow, he asks: "Is the boy up yet?"

"Yes, papa."

"Good. Shouldn't you be in uniform?"

"Today is Saturday."

"Ah. No matter."

She pauses before opening the door. Hesitant, she turns around again slowly.

"Papa?"

He swings his legs off the bed and looks irritatedly for his slippers. "What is it, child?"

She almost loses her nerve, but after a deep breath, she finally speaks. "Is Riza my full name?"

The question surprises him, his face severe as he glances up at her. Then, his expression softens, his eyes glazing over in the same contented way they do when he hears an old song. He smiles a gentle smile, as if only smiling to himself.

"Riza… Short for Teresa."

Riza's stomach drops.

He continues without noticing her unease. "Teresa of Duty. An old tale, your mother loved it. The most beautiful of her kind." He closes his eyes contentedly. "After her beloved is killed, his murderer plans to take her as his wife. So devoted was she to her beloved, she chose instead to throw herself in front of a chariot and end her life."

Her father stays in his trance, recalling the story or Riza's birth or some treasured memory. Riza doesn't really care what he is thinking about, just as he unquestionably doesn't care about her thoughts. She has been curious about her father, about who he was before he was a widow, a father. She knows he has a past, secrets, and he is allowed them. But to keep her name for her, to let her think she was someone else entirely. Riza never existed. Riza was a placeholder for someone else entirely, someone she doesn't know but is supposed to be. She feels hatred clawing at her throat, a violent hatred she's never felt before. For her father, for the carefree teenage boy who made her question her name, for her mother for naming her.

Most of all she hates Teresa, her namesake. An old tale, no doubt an old orchestral piece to accompany her story. Another tragic character. Another beautiful, dead woman.


A/N: A lot of actual stories/songs have been twisted to make this story. The term 'Bluecoats' was what Irish people used to describe the Irish Fascists in the early/mid 20th Century. The story of Teresa is an adaptation of "Dierdre of Sorrows" (Which is an adaptation of the Iliad). The song about a woman who fades to a voice is the story of Echo and Narcissus. The song Riza hums while doing laundry is a 17th century protest song called "The Digger's Song".