I'm alive.
Frightened, orphaned, far from home, but alive.
It is the first and last thing that Riza has told herself each day for the past four months. She tells herself this again as she lies awake, back flat against a lumpy mattress, hand outstretched to catch the sunlight coming through the window. Nothing. Her sensations have been dulled by her lingering shock, leaving nothing but her palpitations for her to feel.
She has forgotten much of that night. It comes back to her in fragments of pitch black and flames that emerge out of nothing as though they are trying to take her. A voice sometimes calls out, strangled and terrified, and she wonders if it is her father's or her own. Whenever she tries to reach out, she emerges from the mass of nothingness only to find that the inferno has filled the room, consumed her father, razed her back in circles and then—
And then the trembling begins, and it's what finally convinces Riza that she is here, that she is alive, despite every aching pulse throughout her body screaming that she shouldn't be. It's agonizing to even turn to her side and curl up in fetal position.
Riza can no longer remember how it felt to have an uncomplicated relationship with her father. Even when her mother was alive, he had been distant at best, and perhaps Riza knew in her heart that it would never get better after her mother's death. In spite of it all, she had hoped to bridge the gap between herself and Berthold, had spent the better part of her teenage years finding something that could still hold them together.
She never dreamed that this something would be her memory of how he died.
It takes every ounce of energy she can still scrounge up to force herself out of bed, into the routine she has been using to keep herself grounded when her guilt and self-hatred are at their worst. Riza trudges unsteadily into the small bathroom, grabbing at the sink to pull herself upright. She forces herself to look at the mirror—and what a sight she is, as though she'd aged twenty years since leaving home—and recite:
My name is Riza Hawkeye.
I am sixteen years old.
I am an only child. My mother died when I was ten.
My father and I lived together in Cameron.
My father is dead.
And then Riza cannot bring herself to continue. Her knees give way, and she collapses onto the cold tiled floor, pressing her face into the side of the sink as her head throbs. She cannot seem to cry, and yet she shudders and heaves as she struggles to properly breathe. The heaving eventually subsides into hiccups and pangs of pain down her back, and then it's over.
Exhausted and lightheaded as she is, this is when she is finally fully awake. Riza pushes down whatever is left of the negative emotions she woke up with, and in her head, she goes over her tasks for the day:
It is Friday morning, and the marketplace will be at its busiest due to this week's shipment of clothes, books, and handcrafted furnishings. If she leaves soon, she will have more time to browse through the special goods after getting their regular food supplies. The madame will want something new to read, perhaps something lighter than the scholarly materials in her collection. In the late afternoon, she will be transcribing the last fifty pages of the madame's old teaching notes; if she finishes quickly, she will have time to assist the madame in accommodating their latest guests from out of town. And by night, she will have to sort and transcribe the profiles of the madame's old students again, a task she began when she first came to live with the madame and which never seems to end.
The man seated across Roy in East City's oldest café is the opposite of Berthold in nearly every way. Emmett von Braun from Meox introduced himself as a father of three, lovingly married for twenty-five years to his childhood sweetheart, Clara. He has traveled to many countries with his family, learning not only about different cultures, but about different scientific fields outside of alchemy. Above all, he encourages his children's interest in alchemy, allowing them to learn by watching him as he works at home.
The only thing he had in common with Berthold was that they had spent some years studying alchemy together as young adults, after which they parted ways and have not been in contact since. This gave Roy hope at the beginning of their meeting—perhaps this time they would finally find a lead worth pursuing—but it's becoming disappointingly clear that Emmett von Braun is another dead end, just as all their other prospects have been.
"... I'm so sorry, where was I?"
Seated at Roy's left, de Havilland turns to him, prompting him to continue the discussion. Roy quickly glances at his notes. "You said you recently began research into a new branch of science because your daughter showed some interest in it. Could you tell us more about this?"
von Braun's eyes light up at the mention of his daughter. "Yes, yes, my darling Lorraine. As the eldest, she's always been the most eager with her alchemy pursuits. Sometimes I believe she will soon overtake me as the alchemist of the family! But of course, right now she is limited to what she can practice at home. So, lately, she has been experimenting with cooking using alchemy. Can you believe it?" He chuckles heartily as he drinks his coffee. "A simple house chore!"
Roy taps his pen against his notebook. "And how exactly has she been using her alchemy for cooking?"
"Oh, it's a simple, brilliant thing!" von Braun leans forward, hands animated, and de Havilland and Roy follow suit, as if he were about to share some crucial secret. "She places her hands around the pot like this, see, just before it becomes too hot—and she controls the chemical reaction as the food cooks, so each ingredient releases just the right amount of flavor and complements all the other ingredients! Isn't it amazing?"
He straightens up and clasps his hands together giddily, looking from de Havilland to Roy and back—Roy manages to recover quickly from his stunned silence. "And—and how have you been helping her with this type of alchemy?
"Well, of course, culinary alchemy deals with much more than just flavor, you know? You want to think of acidity, toxicity, spoilage, medicinal benefits, and then of course there's the matter of how heat affects all these chemical reactions—Lorraine now has me studying thermodynamics on top of everything else!"
von Braun laughs again, as if being goaded into pursuing a new branch of physics were nothing more than the everyday whim of a teenage girl. It takes Roy all his willpower not to sigh in exasperation, even as he tries to remain optimistic about the value of the hour and a half that they've spent with von Braun.
Thankfully, de Havilland takes up the next question. "How has your research into thermodynamics fared so far? Perhaps you have pursued, ah, specific applications for it?"
"Other than heating a pot of stew? I was hoping I'd make enough progress to figure out how to keep the house warm during the winter—oh, but where have the months gone? I might not be of use to my family for some time!"
Roy takes the opportunity to ask, "Surely if your research into thermodynamics could help you produce a flame, it would be worth your while?"
von Braun's look turns thoughtful. "I don't think that has crossed my mind, Lieutenant. You see, my research has always been driven by that which is needed by those who pursue it. This is why I've been fascinated by the different ways alchemy is used all over the world, and why my current research complements my daughter's interests. That being said, I don't see the need to pursue flame alchemy. I've always considered myself a scholar of alchemy, even when I was learning it. I do wonder, of course, why Berthold had been so enamored by flame alchemy—but his reasons were his, and I can only hope he considered his pursuits complete before he passed on."
He leans back and drinks the remainder of his coffee. de Havilland nods sagely, and Roy closes his notebook. Roy is glad that de Havilland had given him the liberty to end an interview as he pleases, as he would have scrambled to think of anything else he wanted to ask von Braun. Roy rises with the most gracious smile he can manage and offers von Braun his hand. "Thank you very much for making the time to see us here in East City."
"It was my pleasure," says von Braun, and Roy believes that he means it. "What better way is there to spend time with fellow alchemists than discussing our work?"
"And we look forward to doing it again," says de Havilland. "Perhaps you will consider our earlier offer of joining the State Alchemist program? Of course, it is in the interest of further developments in alchemy research for the country, especially during these trying times. I'm sure you will find many like-minded fellows among our ranks."
von Braun clasps de Havilland's hand in both of his. "I would be honored. You have my home address and telephone number. I hope to be in your company again soon."
"Indeed, Mr. von Braun." de Havilland pulls out his pocket watch, the same intricate silver one endowed to all State Alchemists. "You will have to excuse us, as Lieutenant Mustang and I have a train to catch."
Roy watches from the Amestris Premium Rail as the skyline of East City retreats into the horizon. Its gray slate roofs and faded brick walls give way to the vibrant colors of spring along a meadow, just as the sun reaches its highest point. What a waste for the view to be so fleeting, he thinks. It is a welcome break from his notes—hastily scribbled life stories of all the alchemists he has met since beginning his assignment with de Havilland three months earlier. He closes his notebook and slides it to the other end of the table.
"You seem deep in thought, Lieutenant."
de Havilland sits across Roy in the lavish booth, setting a silver tray of tea and assorted pastries between them. The sight of food leaves Roy weary now, having had much of it in far too many meetings that were ultimately worth nothing to his purpose.
"If I may say so, General, I feel that the assignment hasn't quite served its purpose."
"Oh?" de Havilland pauses from adding sugar cubes into his tea. "How exactly has it fallen short?"
Roy takes the notebook and flips through its pages slowly. "In three months, we've met with over fifty alchemists living in the East Area. They come from different backgrounds; some have been practicing alchemy longer than others; many never considered becoming State Alchemists until we extended the invitation." He pauses every few pages to point out profiles which match the descriptions. "We've met a few who are pursuing a specialized type of alchemy. Two knew Berthold Hawkeye at one point in their lives." He pauses. "And yet none seem to be a viable suspect in his murder."
de Havilland folds his arms and hums thoughtfully. "That is quite an observation. What makes you think so?"
"You said it yourself, General. 'Only an alchemist can know other alchemists well.'" Roy exhales. "I've been taking note of their speech patterns in our interviews, to determine if they view the practice of alchemy a certain way, what biases they might reveal. Or how a specific type of alchemy ties in with their beliefs. I don't believe we've met anyone with any remarkable view of flame alchemy."
After a moment, Roy is met with a laugh.
"How astute! In the four years I have headed the program, I have not worked with anyone who perceived things as deeply or as well as you do. What a pleasure it is to work with you, Lieutenant Mustang." de Havilland takes a sip of tea. "So, you are not convinced that those who knew Berthold might know anything of interest? Emmett von Braun, and—what was that lovely lady's name?"
"Martha Lund." She was a neighbor of the Hawkeyes' when Berthold was newly married, who had tried to befriend the family through her interest in alchemy and the shared experience of having a new child. She had moved out of Cameron before Riza was even old enough to attend school. "Neither of them had much to say about flame alchemy, no matter how I steered our conversations in that direction." He recalls his memory of Berthold and the dead tree again. "Practicing alchemy comes with reverence for it. They showed none for flame alchemy."
de Havilland nods. "And, if I may ask, how much do you revere flame alchemy, Lieutenant?"
An impetuous flicker passes over Roy's face, and he notices the general watching him closely. His many thoughts on flame alchemy from the past several years begin coalescing into something else. Is it… pride? Protectiveness? Allegiance?
He finds himself sneering.
"I've been on this path for a very long time," he begins. "I sought out Master Hawkeye because I heard he was brilliant. Unmatched. People said he was mad, but what they called madness was devotion to his practice of alchemy. He went further than most alchemists do, and I knew even then that that was the kind of alchemist I ought to be, if I am to use alchemy to follow this path."
"And what might this path lead to?" says de Havilland quietly.
"To serving my country."
Roy looks out the window, his face impassive once again. They have completely disappeared into the rural parts outside East City. Down in the valley by which the train is now passing, a quaint little village blooms into view, with its dirt roads and old cottages made of stone and wood scattered across a lush green field. He can imagine the life they lead there—the children running barefoot to clear rivers where they can fish and bathe, their backyards with heirloom crops, the freshly baked bread coming out of their ovens.
He thinks of the war.
How fragile this life is.
"I wanted to devote myself to protecting this country before I wanted to become an alchemist," Roy continues. "When I became Master Hawkeye's student, I knew I couldn't separate one from the other. But what good would I be to my country if I can't fulfill a need that hasn't been met?"
The train is plunged into darkness as it enters a tunnel carved into a rocky slope. From the sparse light thrown onto them by the lanterns hanging along the sides, Roy sees his faint reflection in the window of the train. He has never looked more tired and indifferent.
The full brunt of his frustration over the past three months is just dawning on him now. For all the unworkable information they've gathered since then, they might as well have not met any alchemists at all.
They emerge from the tunnel, and de Havilland finally speaks again. "I must say, I am glad to hear your thoughts, Lieutenant. All things considered, I couldn't ask for a better subordinate. Head and heart both in the right place. And I have seen how hard you have worked along that path you speak of, both concerning this assignment and otherwise. I'm sure you have improved your alchemy somewhat as you continued your education throughout these months with what was available to you."
de Havilland pulls out an envelope from the pocket of his coat, previously opened, and begins to unfold it. "That being said, I cannot promise you that we will quickly find an answer to Berthold Hawkeye's death. This morning, I received a new report on the investigation at the Hawkeye house in Cameron. I'm sure you already know the nature of their findings based on their preliminary report..."
Roy does not wait for de Havilland to read the document. "No evidence of forced entry, no fingerprints, no weapons, and no foul play," he says dryly. "No conclusive findings in the autopsy, due to the state of the remains. And no traces of transmutation."
"Indeed," de Havilland concurs. "But the intelligence department hasn't ruled out homicide, given the peculiar nature of the burning. It seems they aren't entirely lacking in imagination after all." He puts the envelope away and leans forward, elbows on the table. "The circumstances around this investigation are less than ideal. But know that I am in full support of it, and of your ambition to become a State Alchemist. If you find even the faintest hope in the way of flame alchemy, we have the resources to invest in your development. Indeed, we may as well consider you an honorary State Alchemist now, for the hard work you have done for the program."
Roy meets de Havilland's eyes, and they exchange a nod despite the inefficiency of flattery to allay his renewed doubts.
"Thank you, General."
de Havilland begins to clear his place at the table. "I will be getting some rest for the remainder of our trip. You should try to do so as well, Lieutenant. We will not be arriving in Mebdo for at least another three hours."
The general rises from his seat, walks past Roy, and soon disappears into the adjacent sleeper car of the train.
Roy hadn't noticed that the blue sky they left in East City has turned overcast. A drizzle begins, obscuring the views beyond the window, and Roy is left with nothing for company but a notebook he wishes he could burn. He flips through its pages in idle resignation. He could recite many common details about the alchemists they had met and the towns each of them comes from, but not any of their names. None had been truly remarkable. None of them matter.
He stops at Martha Lund's page, where a significant detail catches his eye amid all the scribbles. An agricultural alchemist, her knowledge offered little in the way of flame alchemy, but Martha Lund knew the Hawkeyes more than a decade ago. Her closeness to the family, if brief, gave him hope when she first mentioned it, and so he earnestly wrote it down at the top of the page. Traced twice over and underlined in red. Riza.
"Why, of course, Berthold and Edith's lovely young daughter!" Lund had said over tea in her house in Resembool. "How is dear Riza? She should be completing her secondary education by now, am I right?"
It was the first and so far only time Roy had had to deliver news about Riza to anyone. "I regret to say no one knows where she's been, Mrs. Lund. She seemed to have disappeared the night Master Hawkeye died. We've been looking for her for the past few months."
Lund had appeared genuinely crestfallen at the news. "Oh my, that poor dear. She was always such a sweet friend to my daughter."
"Is there any chance you're still in contact with anyone who might know her whereabouts?"
"I'm afraid not. It's been far too long since we lived in Cameron. Most of our family friends and colleagues are from here in Resembool."
Riza was not mentioned again for the rest of their visit.
Roy flips further to the end of the notebook. Between the pages, he finds the photograph which he retrieved from the Hawkeyes' living room on his last visit and has been using to ask other alchemists about Riza. Here, she wears her hair a little longer, and on her face is the most genuine smile he has ever seen from her. She appears no older than nine or ten and is sitting next to her mother, Edith Hawkeye, whom he never met, but would recognize anywhere for Riza's striking resemblance to her.
He doesn't know how much Riza may have changed since the portrait was taken, but it has hardly mattered. No one they have met has ever recognized the photograph or its young subject. No one knows if they are staring back into the eyes of a dead girl.
On most days, Roy has thought of Riza less than anything else, but the hope of finding the master's daughter has so far largely depended on the discovery of his murderer. Guilt bleeds into the indifference Roy feels towards the assignment. He tries hard not to assume the worst, because accepting it even as a possibility would mean that he has failed his old master. It would mean that he has failed her —so young, so innocent, so unfortunate to have had the world crumble around her in the way it did.
Roy wonders if she will soon join her father in his nightmares.
He cannot look at her face or her name any longer. He closes the notebook as the drizzle turns into rain, and the world outside turns to gray.