Diagnosis
As January became February, it became clear that Berthold's illness was not a simple cold as Dr. James had initially believed. Hawkeye-sensei was bedridden for nearly a week following his dangerously high fever. Dr. James became a daily visitor, and Roy and Riza both noted with uneasiness that the man's demeanor became more serious with each passing day. But it wasn't until a rainy afternoon in the first week of February that they truly understood the gravity of the situation.
February 6th
At the sound of clinking china, Roy glanced up from his books and notes. Riza was attempting to navigate the stairs balancing a heavily laden tray with only one hand, the other being occupied by a sizeable stack of books culled from her father's library. Cheerfully abandoning his work, Roy bounded after her and offered to help carry something. She agreed with a grateful smile, allowing him to relieve her of the tea tray, which she'd been taking up to her father and Dr. James. Roy followed her up the stairs and along the hallway leading to her father's suite, where the doctor and patient had sequestered themselves about half an hour earlier.
Hearing raised voices from within, both teens stopped just outside the door—which stood partially open. Roy caught Riza's eye and shook his head in warning. Shifting the books in her arms, she bit her lip uncertainly but nodded. Silently, Roy crept closer.
"I've run the tests four different times, now," the doctor was saying in an exasperated voice. "I even confirmed my results with a specialist in North City! I can assure you: there is no mistake."
Roy risked peering through the crack in the door. His teacher, wearing a silk dressing gown the color of claret, was standing at one of the windows and staring out at the rain. Dr. James had been seated in an armchair nearby, but as Roy watched he leaped to his feet and began pacing the room.
"I examined the cultures myself, Berthold," he declared, running agitated hands through his thinning hair. "There's no mistake. I wish to God there was, but..."
"But I feel just fine," Berthold growled, turning to glare at the doctor. Roy chanced a worried glance over his shoulder at Riza, whose face had completely drained of color.
"Good, wonderful," Dr. James said impatiently. "But you must continue taking these pills if you wish to stay that way. It's a very serious diagnosis, yes, and not to be taken lightly, but there have been advances in medicine of late. Your disease is completely manageable, with the right medications!"
"This is absurd. It's not my time, yet," Berthold said in a low voice.
"If you truly believe that, then why won't you listen to me?" the doctor cried, sounding nearly desperate.
Berthold mumbled something Roy couldn't hear. But it made the doctor freeze in his tracks.
"Oh, Berthold," Dr. James breathed. He moved slowly to stand just behind the taller man, and cautiously placed a hand on his shoulder. "You can't…Tereza's illness wasn't…this isn't the same, I swear to you," he said softly.
A shudder ran through Roy's frame, rattling the china on the forgotten tray in his hands. Both men whipped around to face the door, and Roy immediately made the decision to play dumb. He'd seen his 'sisters' in action plenty of times before; what better time to put their lessons into practice? He carefully nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder, leaving the stricken girl behind him in the hallway. Praying she'd understand, Roy greeted his teacher and the doctor with a polite smile.
"Sorry to interrupt, but Miss Hawkeye asked me to bring this up for you," he explained amiably, pretending not to see the quick look exchanged by the two older men. Moving to the table beside the armchair the doctor had lately vacated, he carefully set the tray down and straightened the items on it. "She's made those shortbread cookies you like, Dr. James," he added.
"Mr. Mustang," the doctor began, uneasily. "Did—were you just—?"
"Hm? What's that, sir?" Roy asked innocently, looking up at him with a mildly curious expression. Dr. James studied him for a moment and then shook his head.
"No, it's…never mind, son. Please thank Miss Hawkeye, and let her know I'll stop in to chat with her on my way out," he said.
"Of course. If you'll excuse me," Roy answered courteously, with a slight bow. He made the mistake of glancing in his teacher's direction as he turned to leave. Their eyes met. The hairs on the back of Roy's neck stood straight up, but he managed to hide any outward sign of alarm. With steady, even steps, he left the room with the certainty that his teacher knew he'd overheard their conversation.
Half-expecting Riza to have fled in search of solitude, as she often did when stressed or upset, Roy was oddly gratified to find her waiting for him right where he'd left her. Gently taking the stack of books from her arms, he hesitated for just a moment before turning and walking towards her bedroom. Like a sleepwalker, she glided along after him, hardly seeming to know where she was going. She sank onto the edge of her bed as he dropped the books onto a chair and quietly shut the door behind them.
"I knew something was wrong," she whispered as Roy sat beside her. Pressing herself into his side, she shuddered violently. "I knew it." At a loss, all Roy could do for the moment was wrap his arm around her and let her shiver against him.
Serious diagnosis, the doctor had said. But how serious? And how long had Hawkeye-sensei planned to keep his real illness from his daughter? And Dr. James! How long had he been aware that Berthold's nasty cold was more than it appeared to be? Were they trying to protect her somehow, as though her ignorance would somehow prevent her father from succumbing to a deadly illness? Was it actually a deadly illness? Dr. James had just been saying it was manageable, with the right medicine…what did that mean?
"Shit," he whispered. Beside him, Riza huffed.
"Yeah," she said. In a strained whisper, she added: "Oh god, Papa...why is this happening?" Roy tightened his grip around her.
"Maybe…maybe it's not quite as bad as it sounded," he said, trying for optimism. "We don't have all the facts; we only heard a small part of one conversation. Right?"
"I-I suppose…but it certainly didn't sound like good news," she replied. They were both silent for a moment, thinking.
"I'm sorry," Roy finally whispered.
"Thanks," she whispered back, leaning her head against his shoulder. After several long minutes, she sighed audibly and pulled away. "Dr. James," she said. "He said he'd come talk to me, didn't he? I—I don't even know what to say. Should I ask him what they were talking about?" Roy frowned.
"May as well. He'd probably tell you more than sensei would." Realizing a second too late how that had sounded, Roy winced. "Sorry, I didn't mean—" Riza just shook her head.
"No, don't be. You're right. Papa isn't exactly chatty, especially concerning himself," she replied, with a humorless little laugh. "To be honest, I've been expecting something like this for the last few days," she admitted, standing up. "Given the way Dr. James was acting."
"That man would make a lousy poker player," Roy agreed with a sigh. "Do you want me to—?" he asked, with a vague gesture towards the door. Riza gave him the ghost of a smile.
"I appreciate the offer, but no. He might be more forthcoming if it's only me asking the questions."
"True. You really don't play the motherless waif card very often. Gives it more of a punch," he joked weakly. Her lips twitched.
"Maybe I can dredge up a few tears," she retorted. At the oddly thick quality to her voice, Roy's eyes widened, panicking.
"Hey, now, save the waterworks for the doc, huh?" he said, jumping up and enfolding her into another hug. Riza choked on a sob and tried to laugh.
"Why do boys always panic at the very idea of a girl in tears?" she mumbled, face muffled against his chest.
"I dunno, I guess it makes us feel like we've failed somehow," Roy mused, stroking her hair softly.* "We're supposed to be the big, strong, protectors, you know? So if our sister or mother or girlfriend, or any other woman we love ends up in tears, then we've mucked it up somehow, let something hurt her. Or worse, actually done something ourselves to cause her pain, however inadvertently."
"That sounds a little sexist," she said, with a watery half-laugh.
"Hey, I didn't say it was rational," Roy protested, pulling back so he could glare at her. "It's one of those instinctual, cave-man-brain reactions, okay?"
"Well if it helps, you haven't failed me," she said softly, looking up at him with damp dark eyes. "In fact, I'm really glad you're here."
"Me, too," Roy replied, stroking a thumb affectionately across her (mercifully dry) cheek.
"I should go," she added reluctantly. "Before he leaves and I miss my chance."
"Yeah," Roy sighed. "I'll be in my room, if you wanna talk about it, you know…after."
"Thanks," she said, with one last squeeze of his hand.
Careful to check that the coast was clear before leaving Riza's bedroom, Roy realized the flaw in his plan as soon as his own door closed behind him. Pacing restlessly, he knew that being cooped up would only make him more anxious. He wanted nothing more than to go for a long walk, just to think, regardless of the downpour outside. He tried and failed to settle down with a book, and then with his writing materials, but he couldn't keep his mind on the task at hand. Invariably, his mind kept returning to the phrases 'serious diagnosis,' and 'it's not my time.'"
Finally he threw himself face down on his bed, prepared to have a proper sulk. And naturally, that's when someone knocked softly on his door.
"Come in," he called, rolling over and sitting up. The door swung open to reveal his teacher. "Sensei!" Roy gasped.
"I'd like a word with you, in my study," Hawkeye-sensei said quietly. Roy nodded wordlessly, still shocked, and meekly followed the older man downstairs.
"It's about the terms of your apprenticeship, child," Berthold began, folding his hands neatly as they settled on opposite sides of the large desk.
"M-my apprenticeship, sir?" Roy repeated, bewildered. "What about it?"
"You heard me speaking to Dr. James, earlier," his teacher said. It wasn't a question.
"Erm, yes, some of it, sir," Roy admitted. He didn't bother to apologize for eavesdropping. They both knew that wasn't why Berthold had called him in here.
"I thought as much," Berthold nodded sagely. "As you are no doubt aware, I have been severely ill these past few weeks," he said, before fixing Roy with one of his painfully intense stares.
"Um, yes, sir," Roy said when it became clear that Berthold was waiting for him to reply.
"As it happens, I have contracted a very serious illness, from which I will never fully recover," he stated. Roy swallowed thickly.
"Never fully recover?" he echoed, stricken. Berthold's gaze softened somewhat.
"Though I may rightfully be considered a learned scholar, the knowledge of the future is rarely granted to mortal man," he said, with a very slight smile. "And therefore I cannot promise that any man or woman in this world will be alive when the sun rises tomorrow morning, myself included. But I am likely to live as long as any other man my age."
"So…so what does that mean?"
"Merely that this body has become weakened. However long I may live, I shall never again enjoy complete good health," Berthold explained gently. "But you needn't look quite so concerned. I have no plans to collapse here and now."
"I…I see," Roy managed.
"The good doctor assures me that the symptoms are manageable, for the most part. I shall have periods where there are no discernible effects of the virus on my body, and periods where I am bedridden and quite possibly writhing in excruciating pain," Berthold said plainly.
"I—I'm really sorry, sir," Roy said sincerely. There was truly nothing else he could have said. Berthold gave him a small nod in acknowledgement.
"Thank you, child. Now, as both a friend and my physician, Theodore has been trying to convince me that I ought to take a break—a sabbatical, if you will, at least until my health is slightly less…hazardous. Unfortunately, this would leave you in a somewhat precarious position."
"I—how's that, sir?" Roy asked, not quite following.
"Our arrangement was to last until the end of April, yes? And of course, I ought not to include these last several weeks, during which we have spent very little time on alchemy," Berthold said. "Which leaves us between twelve and fifteen weeks until your contracted time is complete." Roy didn't bother to check the math in his head.
"Ye-es," he said slowly. "That sounds about right." His teacher smiled wanly at him.
"I am proposing that we put a hold on our contract, my boy. For several weeks, at least, if not months."
"Are you saying…you want me to leave?" Roy asked in a very small voice.
"Not at all. You are welcome to stay here for the duration of my recovery, if you'd like. Though you'll no doubt wish to discuss it with your aunt, first. But the fact is, I will not be fit to teach you properly for some time hence," Berthold replied, looking troubled for the first time. "And if you should choose to simply terminate the contract, I can assure you that your tuition for the remainder of your time will be refunded to your aunt at once—"
"No!" Roy interrupted. "No, I don't want that. I'd rather just wait, sir, however long as it takes. I'm sure Aunt Chris will understand, once I explain it to her."
"Very well," Berthold said softly. "If that is your wish. That was all we needed to discuss, my child. Would you please tell my daughter that I'd like to speak to her? Theodore should have gone by now."
Dr. James hadn't gone yet.
When Roy entered the kitchen, he found the older man gently patting Riza's hand as he spoke in a soft, kind voice. Riza looked more fragile than he'd ever seen her look before—including the time she'd been too injured to even walk. A quick glance around the kitchen told Roy that she'd started to make supper, or at least pulled out several ingredients and started to wash and chop some vegetables, all of which had been abandoned the second the doctor had entered the room. Roy cleared his throat.
"When you're finished, sensei wanted to see Miss Riza," he said softly as they both turned towards him.
"Very well. I think that's all, for the time being," Dr. James replied, rising. "I'll be by again tomorrow evening, my dear," he added for Riza's benefit. "Good night." Gathering his coat and bag, he clapped Roy on the back before striding swiftly from the room. Riza hesitated, glancing round at the state of the kitchen.
"Go on," Roy prompted. "Don't worry about me; I'll make myself something. And we can talk later."
"Okay," she said. "Thank you," she added, and darted away.
After she left, Roy spent a few minutes staring out the window. It was still raining, quite heavily. But it would be light outdoors for at least another hour yet. He wasn't remotely hungry, and he knew he couldn't go back and attempt to sit quietly in his room again. He needed to get out, to move. Decision made, Roy grabbed his coat and a spare umbrella out of the hall closet, and slipped out the front door.
Considering his options, Roy chose a path that wouldn't be visible from the study windows. Squelching through the mud puddles, he focused his entire being on the soothing patter of rain falling on his umbrella. A cold wind whistled past him, its icy fingers cutting right through his rain-spattered clothes and seeming to settle deep in his bones.
He wandered somewhat aimlessly for a while, thinking about Riza's mother and his own long dead parents. When it started to grow dark, he found himself standing beside the rain-swollen river. He stared numbly at the churning water, roaring by with various bits of flotsam and jetsam borne aloft on muddy, white-crested peaks. It was another moment before he realized that his vision had grown slightly blurry, and that his face was wet.
"Damn this rain," he mumbled miserably, swiping at the salt water on his cheeks.
February 13th
After another week, Hawkeye-sensei appeared to be on the mend. Although, if what he'd told Roy about his illness was true, he was really only entering a sort of temporary dormant period. And he was clearly still very weak, barely able to leave his bed for more than a few hours at a time. Even so, he coughed less, and his color looked much better. And consequently, Riza's color looked much better.
During these days, Roy continued to study independently as best as he was able, as did Riza. At night, he lay awake and wondered how long he would have to wait before resuming his apprenticeship. Even more troubling, though, was the fact that he couldn't find the words to write to his aunt and explain what was happening.
He still wrote to the girls, knowing from experience what would happen if he neglected them for too long. But his letters were full of the trivial rather than the substantial—he wrote about the dreariness of the constant cold rain, the difficulty he was having with his studies (not wholly untrue, he told himself), and how much he'd enjoyed the last novel Claire and Violet had mailed to him. He was also careful to add the little personal details that his girls thrived on—like how Riza had taken to reading up in the loft of the barn, wrapped in a quilt, since the trees outdoors were too wet and uncomfortable during this season. When he'd teased her about the tactical advantages of higher ground, she'd blushed and admitted that old habits were hard to break.
But all the while, Roy fretted about how to tell his aunt about the hiatus in his apprenticeship. He was certain she'd want him to come home and find something else to keep him busy in the meantime, in spite of what he'd told his teacher. And he didn't want to go, yet. He couldn't bear the idea of bussing tables at the bar, or of doing some other menial, mind-numbing job while he waited around for his teacher's doctor to sign off on his health. Oddly enough, he also couldn't bear the idea of finding some other alchemy teacher. Of being sent off to live with another stranger, who would undoubtedly be inferior to Hawkeye-sensei. Even the thought of hiring a private tutor to give him lessons in the comfort of his aunt's home was an unpleasant one.
But he knew he couldn't put it off much longer.
Every evening, he settled at his desk with a pen and a stack of paper, scribbling out and rapidly discarding draft after draft of letter, late into the night. And one night, instead of writing to his aunt, he found himself drafting a letter to someone else entirely.
Dear Sir or Madam,
I am writing to request information about joining this nation's armed services…
Roy paused, carefully weighing his options.
Ever since talking to that young lieutenant, he'd been thinking about the military in the back of his mind. Every time the news on the radio reported another border skirmish, where lives were lost and property irreparably damaged, he remembered Lieutenant Price's desire to protect people. He remembered also the idea that a small country surrounded by larger ones, which wanted nothing more than to absorb it into themselves, must fight to protect itself and its independence.
When he'd first started dabbling with alchemy, he'd aspired to become nothing more than a private alchemist, someone like his teacher—the kind of man who used his talent to help people in need. He'd never thought he'd be good enough to be a certified State Alchemist. But maybe, if he worked hard enough, if he pushed himself…maybe one day he could be. And if he were a part of the military, he'd be able to help people in a different way, whether or not he had the talent to be a State Alchemist.
That much was clear. The real problem was how his aunt would react to his decision. Although he was still technically a minor, he knew boys as young as sixteen who'd joined the military academy. He wasn't entirely certain whether they'd needed the approval of their parents, though, and that was something else he should clarify while he was asking for information. Then again, he'd turn eighteen in a few short months, so it wasn't all that dire. As long as he qualified, no one would be legally able to prevent him from joining up once he reached the age of majority. If he had to, he supposed, he could just wait.
Tapping his pen lightly against the desk, he wondered what Chris would do if he joined up without her permission. She'd be upset, certainly…but if it was something he really wanted to do, would she actively try to stop him? She had plenty of friends in high places, so she probably could prevent him if she set her mind to it.
But would she?
It wasn't an ignoble profession, certainly. And he'd be another resource for her, with access to a younger generation, who might be freer or more honest with a comrade than with a cute girl from the local bar. Alternatively, he could easily persuade comrades to join him at the bar, thus bringing fresh sources of information Chris's way as often as necessary.
Straightening, he pulled out a fresh sheet and began to jot down notes. If he had a clear, rational argument prepared, he'd be able to assuage any reservations Chris might have and possibly even earn her blessing. Assuming, of course, that he qualified at all.
February 14th - 19th
Feeling both nervous and a little silly, Roy dropped the letter into the mail box in front of the general store rather than go into the post office as he normally did. He really didn't relish the idea of facing questions, so he'd also taken the precaution of writing his return address inside of the letter itself, rather than on the envelope. After all, if he never heard anything back, then no one ever need to know he'd even applied. Nothing to lose.
And so he was surprised to receive an official-looking packet only five days later. If Mrs. White thought it odd that Roy was getting mail from the Amestrian Military Recruitment Centre, she didn't mention it. Perhaps it wasn't so strange. The military probably regularly sent out recruitment materials to able-bodied young men within a certain age range. It would certainly make sense to recruit strapping young farm boys from small towns like this one—they'd already be physically fit from all the work they did in their parents' fields and barns and such, and most of them would be eager for the opportunity to seek adventure away from the rural family farm. Idly, Roy wondered how many of his acquaintances in this town had gotten a similar letter.
Once back home, he took his letter to the privacy of his room to read. Inside, there was a very polite form letter thanking him for his interest in his country's armed forces, a sheet of answers to frequently asked questions, an informational pamphlet detailing the roles and responsibilities of enlisted men and officers, as well as an aptitude test, several pages long, that he would need to fill out and return if he truly had a desire to enlist. It took him less than an hour to complete. It took a lot longer to make up his mind to mail it back.
Nothing to do after that but wait.
February 26th – March 5th
One week passed, with no response. And then another. And Roy began to think his plan had been incredibly foolish.
A.N. Thank you all for your kind and supportive words, and a special thanks to my guest reviewers shaak ti and Guest who I am unable to PM individually :D Yes, I am being deliberately vague about Hawkeye-sensei's illness...personally I always assumed it was consumption (tuberculosis for those of you who aren't familiar with the archaic terminology of the 1800s). But I'm not a doctor, so I'll keep my opinions (mostly) to myself.
xoxo Janie
*Based on a true story. My best friend's little brother gave us a version of this speech in response to the same question: she was in tears over something or other (likely a boy, come to think of it) and the poor kid flew into an adorably flustered panic trying to make his big sister stop crying. He was only about 14 at the time, and it struck me as rather an interesting explanation for a teenage boy to give.