Chapter 50: How to Fall
It was during the summer when he was eleven years of age that Roy Mustang was first introduced to the intricacies of hand-to-hand combat.
It was not, of course, Hawkeye-sensei's idea. Alchemists, he said, were men of intellect. Any form of violence diluted that, and prevented the pure pursuit of knowledge. Roy knew these lines by rote, but he couldn't quite reconcile it with his sensei's behaviour. When the mood took him, the adult did not hesitate to slap the boy around, though admittedly Roy had not done anything to warrant use of the belt in almost eighteen months. And if Roy was quick enough, he could usually get between the alchemist and Riza: normally after he got in a few good, solid blows Hawkeye-sensei's temper would ebb and he would stride back to his study, casting some caustic, cutting remark over his shoulder.
Despite this apparent contradiction, Roy was apprehensive when Absalom Hughes first proposed the lessons. When he voiced his concerns, the tinker only shrugged, scratching the crown of his balding head, and said, "Even an alchemist needs to know how to defend himself. It's a hard world out there, son."
Roy didn't need to be told that. He remembered. He wouldn't forget; not ever.
So, one sunny afternoon in May when the morning's lessons were done, the garden watered, and the alchemist appeased, Roy stood by the Hugheses' campfire, watching while Maes and his father moved the horses' pickets towards the wagons, so that the little stretch of meadow where they usually grazed was clear.
"Now," said Absalom; "the most important thing to know is how to fall properly. Ira's never really got the hang of it. Ira." He crooked his finger at his next-to-youngest son, who had been smoking a rabbit-tobacco cigarette rolled in tissue paper. It was a habit that Maes claimed he'd picked up in South City the previous winter.
The young man snuffed the cigarette by grinding it between two wetted fingers, slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt, and slouched forwards. Absalom grinned at him, clapping his hands once. Then the two men braced their legs and grabbed one another's shoulders, pushing against each other. For a moment nothing happened as they grappled, each trying for an advantage in the hold. Then Absalom found one, turned swiftly to the left, and hauled Ira over his shoulder. The young man landed in the grass like a sack of potatoes, with a winded grunt.
"You see? That's how you don't want to do it," Maes said. "Let me!"
He came forward and locked arms with his father. After several seconds of circling one another, Maes said, "Left or right?"
"Right," his father told him. Maes nodded once, and relaxed his hold ever so marginally. He flew over his father's back and hit the ground with a soft thump. Even Roy's untrained eye could see the difference between this soft landing and the older brother's graceless tumble.
Maes grinned, holding out his arm. His father grabbed his wrist, and the seventeen-year-old sprung easily to his feet. "You want to try?" he asked.
Roy shook his head. He didn't want to be thrown around like that! It would hurt!
"Don't worry," Absalom said good-naturedly. He patted his thigh. "Come here, and we'll start by teaching you how to land."
He put a gentle hand on each of Roy's shoulders, smiling reassuringly. "Keep your knees straight, but bend your waist," he said. Your legs should tip backwards, and I'm going to keep your shoulders right here. I want you to look like a carpenter's triangle, okay?"
"Okay..." Roy said warily, trying to comply. His left knee bent instinctively: he felt like he was going to tip over!
"No, keep 'em straight," Absalom told him. "I won't let you slip."
Roy did his best, stretching back further into the desired position. "I'm going to fall..." he wavered.
"Just hold on," the man coached. "You are going to fall, but not 'til I let go. I'm going to let you go on three, all right? One, two."
He released his hold, and Roy, startled, tumbled backward onto his rump, one bare foot shooting up into the air. He flinched, waiting for someone to laugh at him... but no one did.
"Hey, not bad," Maes said. "You're a natural."
"It was pretty good," concurred Absalom. "But I want you to try again, and this time, when I let go you twist just a little onto your hip, so that the impact doesn't go into your tailbone: that's a good way to get hurt."
He helped Roy to his feet, and they tried again. And again. And again. By the end of the day, Roy was stiff and bruised, but satisfied. He had finally managed five perfect falls in a row.
discidium
The tinkers had been in town for a week and a half when Bella Greyson brought the children's new clothes to the Hawkeye house. For the first time, she did so without a prepared defensive speech: she had chosen the cloth and made the arrangements for the sewing, but Mordred had furnished the money. Lian's death had brought about one positive change in the household, at least: there was a great deal more money now. What irked Bella now was that the alchemist didn't seem interested in using it. He might easily have hired someone to repaint the house and replace the slate on the roof. The furnishings within were getting rather shabby, and the kitchen could do with a fresh coat of whitewash. The yard was unkempt, for though Roy did his best, he was sstill rather small to manage the scythe, and when he cut the grass he didn't make it very short or even. Mordred might have paid a likely local lad to take care of that, as well, but he wasn't inclined to do so.
For Bella, who remembered Petra Hawkeye's beautifully kept home, this slow decay was painful. Mordred's mother, a wool-merchant's daughter from New Optain, and so as the dowagers of the time had said "practically a local lass", had taken such pride in the house. In those days it had been a bright, welcoming place full of stylish furniture and handsome accents. There had always been a dish of dainties on the kitchen table, and a mug of tea or a tall glass of lemon ice to welcome even the most unexpected visitor. The revenue from her father-in-law's grist mill had been used to make the large, isolated house a hub of activity and social excitement.
How Petra's only son had turned out such an introvert was a mystery to Bella. She was fond of Mordred, but sometimes he made her so angry!
After the children had had a chance to exclaim over their new things, the doctor took two mugs and the teapot, and dared to invade the alchemist's inner sanctum.
He was sitting at the desk, which was covered with, of all things, sheet music. He didn't seem to notice Bella's entrance until she spoke.
"Mordred? I came by with the clothes."
"Clothes? What clothes?" he asked absently, tapping a bar of music with his finger.
"For Riza and Roy. You told me I should just take the money and order whatever I wanted for them." She set down the teapot on the little end table by the settee, and poured him a mug of the steaming beverage. "Mrs. Hampton had a particularly lovely tartan that she fixed into a frock for Riza—"
"Fine, fine," Mordred mumbled, brushing off her attempt to get him to show a little interest in his daughter's life. "Do you know how difficult this is?" he demanded.
"I didn't know you could read music," Bella observed mildly.
"I can't. Not very well, anyway," Mordred said, holding up an elementary text of musical theory. "I need to get a grasp on it, though."
"Why?" Bella asked.
"A third circle," Mordred said cryptically. He reached up and took the tea. "What do you want?"
"To tell you the children have their clothes, though you don't seem to care," Bella told him. "Unless you're interested in the local gossip."
"Let me guess," Mordred mumbled sarcastically. "Some fat farmer's wife dropped her fourth set of twins, the underdog came ahead in the latest checker tournament, the prettiest, smartest girl in the village is throwing herself away on a farmhand from Lisque, and Hughes the Rake is ploughing the local furrows with his usual alacrity. What do you see in these people, Bella?"
"They have good hearts," the doctor said. "Their lives aren't filled with endless drama or the excitement of a brilliant new scientific discovery, but they live their quiet lives with relish. They treasure their spouses and love their children and help their neighbours, and when they die there are crowds of mourners at the graveside; people who know that the world will be an emptier place because they are gone."
Mordred snorted. "I don't want a crowd at my funeral," he growled.
"I'm glad, because you won't have one," Bella said. "Oh, Roy will be there because he respects you, and Riza because she worships you. I'll come unless you're unlucky enough to outlive me. I rather think Bertha Strueby would come, except that she's to be married in September, and then she and Ian are leaving here forever. But beyond that, my dear, I rather think you'll sink into darkness unnoticed."
"How cheerful you are today, Isabella," Mordred said with silky sarcasm. "My, I can't tell you how you've brightened my day."
"Mordred, you could be a part of the community if you wanted to. Then Riza might have some friends of her own, instead of tagging after Roy like a little lost puppy," Bella said. "You'd have some company—"
"I don't need 'company'!" Mordred snapped. He sipped the tea and seemed to reign in his emotions. "I have get more company than I need from the local sawbones."
"Fine," Bella said. "Be facetious, but I know that you're lonely. And even if you like it that way, the children need more social contact. Especially Riza."
"I don't need you telling me how to raise my children," Mordred growled. "If that's all you came here for, then get out."
"It isn't," Bella said. "I came to let you know that the school board has had a bit of an upheaval. Jane Strueby has won some sort of regional teaching award."
Mordred snorted into his tea. "You mean that foolish little chit who didn't even realize Roy couldn't read?" he asked.
"The very same. Anyhow, in light of this she's taken a teaching position at a grammar school in East City. She'll be leaving at the end of the summer term."
"Will she indeed?" Mordred laughed. "What's that to me? The boy is my apprentice now: he has no use for a broken-down one room school."
"I was talking about Riza," Bella said coolly. "Honestly, Mordred, sometimes it's almost as if you've forgotten you have a daughter!"
"What about her? She studies well enough here. I don't mind taking a little time to teach her," the alchemist said.
"I wasn't thinking about your convenience," Bella told him; "though that is a point. Much more importantly, she ought to mix with girls her own age. She's going to grow up into a socially dysfunctional recluse like you, and she used to be such a cheery, sociable child! She deserves a chance to grow into her own person, instead of a pale shadow of whatever you seem to think she ought to be."
Mordred frowned at her, his keen eyes narrowing to slits. "She won't learn anything at that backwater school."
"It was good enough for us," Bella countered. "Mordred, really. You can't mean that you want to keep her a prisoner in this house, do you?"
The alchemist scowled. "Fine!" he said. "Fine. She can start at the beginning of the fall term, provided that that Strueby wench really is gone."
Bella smiled. "Good," she said. "It's about time you looked after her best interests."
"It's not in her best interests," Mordred argued. "She'll never get a proper education, but if you'd rather she be ignorant than lonely, I won't argue."
Her aim achieved, Bella moved to withdraw from the room.
"I can always work extra hard with her these next couple months, to make sure she knows how to study properly," the alchemist growled. Whether he was speaking to her or to himself, Bella didn't care. She had won this round. She smiled over her shoulder and left him alone.
discidium
The decision to send Riza to school impacted both the children's lives that summer. Riza was sentenced to spend the larger part of her days in her father's study, working twice as hard as she had before as Hawkeye drilled her in study strategies and learning skills. He didn't want a repeat of the embarrassment of Roy Mustang's stint at school, and though in other respects he scarcely seemed to care about Riza, he was adamant that she should receive a strong education – country school or not.
This increase in Riza's lesson time meant a proportionate decrease in Roy's. Instead of spending every morning with the alchemist, his lessons were limited to Fridays. Otherwise, unless Riza needed help with mathematics problems, he was free to do as he pleased. The expectation was that in the autumn, when Riza went to school, Roy would be able to spend more time working with his sensei.
The arrangement suited Roy just fine. The extra time was put to good use by Maes and his father. Roy learned the rudiments of wrestling, and enough of boxing to know how to land a solid punch and how to dance out of the path of an opponent. Though he was small, Absalom taught him tricks to compensate.
"Remember," he said, as they wove in a circle, Roy watching the adult warily, while Absalom observed his performance with a teacher's fondly critiquing eye. "You're smaller, but that also means you're faster. You can't beat me in an all-out contest of strength, now can you?" He lunged forward and pressed against Roy's shoulders so that he lost two feet of ground before he managed to twist away and dance back to a safe distance. "That's good!" Mr. Hughes cheered. "See, you need to outwit me. Wear me down. I'm bigger, I'm heavier, I'm—"
"Older!" Maes jibed with a fond sauciness that Roy could not help but envy. He couldn't imagine speaking that way to Hawkeye-sensei.
"I was going to say slower," Absalom said, his green eyes twinkling. "So be quick! Keep me busy! Wear me down! Catch me by..."
Roy's foot darted out, hooking around the adult's bare ankle. Maes' father fell, his glasses slipping from his nose. He lay on his side in the grass for a moment, grinning tremendously.
"Well done!" he cheered. "Yes, exactly like that! Now, I'm down. What are you going to do with me?"
Roy frowned. "Sir?"
"If this were a real fight, would I just lie down and laugh and say 'you win: great work'?" Absalom asked. "Of course not! I'd get right back up and try to take you out. Now, if this is just a silly scuffle, that's fine: you wait for your chance to get me down again. But what if we were in a tavern, and I used the chance to grab a broken bottle? What if I'm carrying a knife? You have a brief window of opportunity when your opponent is down to finish him off."
"Couldn't I just run?" Roy asked nervously. This talk of weapons was new. Until now, these lessons had seemed to treat mainly with beating a person in a playful wrestling match like the ones in which the Brothers Hughes occasionally indulged. Now Absalom was talking like he might actually use this stuff against a real enemy: someone who wanted to hurt him.
"You could try," said the adult; "if you're sure you're faster, and that you have the endurance to outlast me, or if you know you can reach backup before I catch you. But there's a loss of self-respect when you run. A man's never the same once he's been forced to retreat. Besides..." He sat up a little and gestured at Roy. "... your back's your most vulnerable point. Don't ever turn your back on an enemy unless you've got someone you can trust with your life to watch it for you."
"I'll watch it, if you want to run," Maes promised. "If he tries to get you, I'll tackle him to the ground!"
Roy looked at his friend, and a moment of clarity passed between them. Maes was only half joking. He didn't want Roy to run... but the promise was real. The bigger boy grinned and came forward so that they could bop one another's fists. "I'll always watch your back," Maes said, his eyes earnest.
"Maybe," Absalom said; "but you're not always around, are you? Now, Roy, if this was a bar fight..."
"You're teaching him how to act in a bar fight?" Eli asked incredulously, striding into the clearing with his case of evaluative lenses. "And people call me immoral!"
"I taught you the same tricks when you were his age," Absalom said good-naturedly. "Can you honestly say you don't value those lessons?"
Eli smirked. "That would be telling, now wouldn't it?"
"And we don't want to know!" Maes moaned.
"Roy, if this were a bar fight, your best bet would be to try to get my hands. Stay clear of my feet, now..."
The lessons continued, and the weeks slipped away. When the time came for the tinkers to move on, Roy had a reasonable grounding and a good, practical grasp of the necessary skills. He could beat Maes a little less than half the time, Absalom once in a while if he was especially quick and wily, and Ira practically always. And if Doctor Bella noticed that his skinny body had more resilience to it and his stick-thin limbs had a little muscle now, she didn't mention it to Hawkeye-sensei.
