On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me

Eight Maids a-Milking

It was a beautiful dress.

Mint green, high quality, thick, smooth satin with a glowing sheen, the same color of that silk Xingian scarf Roy had bought for her early one morning on their honeymoon. It just seemed so perfect for you; I wanted you to have it. I want you to have everything, he had told her. It was so un-Roy like, the way he blushed, the way he was unsure, suddenly, if it really was something she would like, and it had made her smile, then.

She had known, of course, that the man she had divorced would be at the holiday party, and she had thought things would be fine. She had not even seen him in over a year, but she thought she was ready. After all, she reminded herself, you left him. He holds no power over you.

But she felt her eyes drawn to him anyway, before she even consciously realized he was in the room with her, and the plastic cup with the Christmas punch slipped from her fingers and bounced once on the tile floor before it rolled under the hors-d'oeuvres table. Her shoes, had she looked down at them, were probably now mint green and cranberry red speckled, but she was turning away quickly, not wanting to look at the man she had dedicated her entire adult life to.

He had seen her.

She knew he had seen her.

Their eyes had met, for a split second only, but that was enough.

She could be civil with him, why shouldn't she be? He was a good man he was a good man, she told everyone he was a good man, and that was why he had so many people who were so fiercely loyal to him and she admired the way he had moved up in the military, and how he had used his position to begin to right some of the terrible wrongs those who were no longer in power had inflicted upon Amestris there are wrongs and then there are wrongs, no one can be always good and no one can be always right.

She opened her mouth and began to raise her hand, the hand that had been holding the punch, as if to get his attention even though she knew she already had it, but his gaze was intercepted by a young thing, no older than sixteen, surely, maybe someone's daughter, who put herself between herself and Roy, flipping her hair and saying something, whatever it was, that made his single eye crinkle and a smile spread over his face.

Riza told herself to look away, told herself not to be that woman, the jealous one, the one who exists for others, but she kept watching as he shook his head, and the girl seemed to protest but eventually gave in. Before that sigh of relief why was she relieved? Roy loved women, had always loved women, and now that he was not tied to her why would it matter who he looked at, who he spoke to, who he danced with?

Now another woman, closer to her own age, was clinging to his arm, followed by another with springy, ginger colored hair, and she watched him laugh again and run his fingers though his hair, pushing it off of his forehead. She would have looked away right then if he had not met her eyes again, excused himself, and headed in her direction.

She did not look down at her cranberry-stained shoes, and knew that he would not notice them either. "General," she greeted him professionally, allowing a touch of warmth in her voice.

He nodded. "Colonel," he returned, using her newly-appointed rank. "Congratulations."

Congratulations. Congratulations on your promotion, congratulations on moving on with your life, congratulations on following your own dreams instead of mine, congratulations. She nodded back. "Thank you."

Suddenly there was another woman at his side, yet a fourth, and certainly not the last, tugging on his sleeve and asking him to dance. She stared as he turned to her, patiently, and declined. "In fact," he said, tilting his head towards Riza, "I was planning on asking my wife to dance." She watched the other woman's eyes flick down to his ring finger, widen, and then look to Riza. Poor girl, must think she's been given bad information, Riza thought with a sudden pang of sympathy. The woman apologized, making a quick exit, and missing entirely the conflicted expression that clouded the face of Roy Mustang's former wife.

She could almost, but just almost and not quite, extend that same feeling of sympathy to man she had divorced over a year ago who was still wearing his wedding ring.

Seven swans a-swimming

Six geese a-laying

Five golden rings

Four calling birds

Three French hens

Two turtledoves

And a partridge in a pear tree