Prompt 214 -Circle of Life "Wheel of Fortune"
Title: Wheel of Fortune
Author: Race Ulfson
Word Count: 995
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Riza Hawkeye, Berthold Hawkeye, Roy Mustang, Rebecca Catalina
Summary: Her whole life was circles.
Warnings: I’m not fond of old Bertie
Her whole life was circles.
Of course it was, Riza knew enough alchemy to understand she’d never be free of them. They ruled her childhood and stole her father from her. All he could spare from his precious arrays was a pitying look that she could never find the flow and push the wheels inside the spirals inside the circles. What Riza learned instead was that no matter how the wheel turned, you had to turn with it or be crushed underneath.
The wheel of fortune spun and Riza hung on.
Apprentices came and went, most of them pale and nearsighted from too much reading and too little activity. Some left quickly, frightened by her father’s intense brilliance. Others trudged away slowly, burdened with the knowledge that they would never have Master Hawkeye’s grasp of humors and elements, of alchemy, of fire.
Then there was Roy. Roy who wasn’t frail or nearsighted (but he was pale, aristocratically so) and who refused to leave, to give up, to let her father frighten or drive or work him away.
Roy who played with fire.
He’d been puzzling over an array at the kitchen table while she cleaned up, half listening to a soap opera on the radio. “Are you allowed to give hints, Miss Hawkeye?”
“Pardon?”
“Your father gave me a tough one to work out; I was wondering if it was permitted to ask advice.”
“From me?” Riza could not imagine having anything useful to contribute.
“Yes, of course. I imagine you have already gone through all his basic practice sets.” Wistfully Roy added, “You have probably been doing alchemy since you were able to hold a stick of chalk.”
“Oh, no. I don’t - I’m not an alchemist.” She clutched the broom and shook her head.
He blinked at her, shocked, and she was wildly ashamed. “It’s not…” Roy seemed to be picking his words carefully. “It’s not because you are a girl, is it?”
Riza’s jaw dropped. That had never occurred to her, but it explained a lot. “Girls can’t do alchemy?”
“No, they can, it’s just… some, um, older generations thought women weren’t suited to, ah, technical things like mathematics and therefore shouldn’t be encouraged to try.”
And that explained the rest. Disgusted, Riza tossed the broom into the cupboard with more force than necessary.
“It is,” Roy breathed. He sounded horrified.
“I don’t have time for silly circles; there are real things that have to be attended to!”
“Yes, that’s true,” Roy said, and she stared at him. No one ever agreed with her.
“Someone has to do it.” She managed, defensive.
“And that someone is you? Because he won’t and the rest of us… don’t pay attention.”
“You do.”
“Not well enough, it seems.” He stood up. The radio show was over and a song came on, a popular ballad.
“Do you dance, Miss Hawkeye?”
“No.” But she wanted to.
Roy held out his hand. “It’s easy. You just have to pay attention.”
“And have someone to dance with.” That came out more bitterly than she meant it to, but he just smiled.
“I am available for any dance, every dance.” He took her hand and taught her a new, exciting kind of circle.
The wheel of fortune spun and Riza held on.
Her father was furious with Roy when he left. Not because he broke his daughter’s heart, of course. Mundane things like that never touched Berthold Hawkeye. No, he was upset because he needed Roy’s razor sharp mind; he was counting on the boy to help him finish his research, to perfect The Array. But Roy was gone and that left only Riza to absorb her father’s wrath.
Finally, out of self-preservation, Riza sold some of her father’s older books, ones she was fairly sure he wouldn’t miss for a good long time. With the money, she enrolled herself in school. He sneered at her as she left, mocking her ability to learn anything “of use”. He meant useful to him, of course.
Riza made friends, learned things, and felt alive for the first time since Roy went off to the Academy. Her grades were good enough that she won scholarship after scholarship, allowing her to stay long after the book money was gone. Her father never sent money, gifts, a letter, a word. Riza didn’t expect him to.
Then there was the telephone call in the middle of the night. The proctor knocked on her door; her roommate, Rebecca, went with Riza down the hall and tried to hold her hand when she picked up the receiver. It was awkward and clumsy and Riza was absurdly grateful. She scarcely recognized the voice on the line.
Without preamble, he said, “I’m dying. You’ll have to come home and help me finish The Array. It won’t take long.”
Calmly, Riza said, “To finish the array or for you to die?”
Rebecca gasped and wrapped her arms around Riza, distracting her so much she almost missed her father’s impatient answer. “The Array, of course. I won’t die until it’s done.”
“Of course,” she echoed, and hung up. She could feel the wheel of fortune lurch.
How differently things would have gone if she’d refused to go. It was Rebecca who convinced her she had to. Riza stepped into the house, which clearly had not been dusted since she’d left, and picked her way through boxes of discarded books and wrappings, old notebooks covered in scribbles, and what she suspected was mummified former meals. Her father awaited her in his study, but he looked up as soon as she entered.
“You’re late. Take off your top, we don’t have much time before we lose the light.” He set out a tray with needles, ink, wads of cotton. When Riza didn’t move, her father grudgingly added, “I can’t leave The Array to just anyone. You have to guard it. It’s too precious to just write in a notebook.”
The wheel of fortune spun. Riza let go.
Author: Race Ulfson
Word Count: 995
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Riza Hawkeye, Berthold Hawkeye, Roy Mustang, Rebecca Catalina
Summary: Her whole life was circles.
Warnings: I’m not fond of old Bertie
Her whole life was circles.
Of course it was, Riza knew enough alchemy to understand she’d never be free of them. They ruled her childhood and stole her father from her. All he could spare from his precious arrays was a pitying look that she could never find the flow and push the wheels inside the spirals inside the circles. What Riza learned instead was that no matter how the wheel turned, you had to turn with it or be crushed underneath.
The wheel of fortune spun and Riza hung on.
Apprentices came and went, most of them pale and nearsighted from too much reading and too little activity. Some left quickly, frightened by her father’s intense brilliance. Others trudged away slowly, burdened with the knowledge that they would never have Master Hawkeye’s grasp of humors and elements, of alchemy, of fire.
Then there was Roy. Roy who wasn’t frail or nearsighted (but he was pale, aristocratically so) and who refused to leave, to give up, to let her father frighten or drive or work him away.
Roy who played with fire.
He’d been puzzling over an array at the kitchen table while she cleaned up, half listening to a soap opera on the radio. “Are you allowed to give hints, Miss Hawkeye?”
“Pardon?”
“Your father gave me a tough one to work out; I was wondering if it was permitted to ask advice.”
“From me?” Riza could not imagine having anything useful to contribute.
“Yes, of course. I imagine you have already gone through all his basic practice sets.” Wistfully Roy added, “You have probably been doing alchemy since you were able to hold a stick of chalk.”
“Oh, no. I don’t - I’m not an alchemist.” She clutched the broom and shook her head.
He blinked at her, shocked, and she was wildly ashamed. “It’s not…” Roy seemed to be picking his words carefully. “It’s not because you are a girl, is it?”
Riza’s jaw dropped. That had never occurred to her, but it explained a lot. “Girls can’t do alchemy?”
“No, they can, it’s just… some, um, older generations thought women weren’t suited to, ah, technical things like mathematics and therefore shouldn’t be encouraged to try.”
And that explained the rest. Disgusted, Riza tossed the broom into the cupboard with more force than necessary.
“It is,” Roy breathed. He sounded horrified.
“I don’t have time for silly circles; there are real things that have to be attended to!”
“Yes, that’s true,” Roy said, and she stared at him. No one ever agreed with her.
“Someone has to do it.” She managed, defensive.
“And that someone is you? Because he won’t and the rest of us… don’t pay attention.”
“You do.”
“Not well enough, it seems.” He stood up. The radio show was over and a song came on, a popular ballad.
“Do you dance, Miss Hawkeye?”
“No.” But she wanted to.
Roy held out his hand. “It’s easy. You just have to pay attention.”
“And have someone to dance with.” That came out more bitterly than she meant it to, but he just smiled.
“I am available for any dance, every dance.” He took her hand and taught her a new, exciting kind of circle.
The wheel of fortune spun and Riza held on.
Her father was furious with Roy when he left. Not because he broke his daughter’s heart, of course. Mundane things like that never touched Berthold Hawkeye. No, he was upset because he needed Roy’s razor sharp mind; he was counting on the boy to help him finish his research, to perfect The Array. But Roy was gone and that left only Riza to absorb her father’s wrath.
Finally, out of self-preservation, Riza sold some of her father’s older books, ones she was fairly sure he wouldn’t miss for a good long time. With the money, she enrolled herself in school. He sneered at her as she left, mocking her ability to learn anything “of use”. He meant useful to him, of course.
Riza made friends, learned things, and felt alive for the first time since Roy went off to the Academy. Her grades were good enough that she won scholarship after scholarship, allowing her to stay long after the book money was gone. Her father never sent money, gifts, a letter, a word. Riza didn’t expect him to.
Then there was the telephone call in the middle of the night. The proctor knocked on her door; her roommate, Rebecca, went with Riza down the hall and tried to hold her hand when she picked up the receiver. It was awkward and clumsy and Riza was absurdly grateful. She scarcely recognized the voice on the line.
Without preamble, he said, “I’m dying. You’ll have to come home and help me finish The Array. It won’t take long.”
Calmly, Riza said, “To finish the array or for you to die?”
Rebecca gasped and wrapped her arms around Riza, distracting her so much she almost missed her father’s impatient answer. “The Array, of course. I won’t die until it’s done.”
“Of course,” she echoed, and hung up. She could feel the wheel of fortune lurch.
How differently things would have gone if she’d refused to go. It was Rebecca who convinced her she had to. Riza stepped into the house, which clearly had not been dusted since she’d left, and picked her way through boxes of discarded books and wrappings, old notebooks covered in scribbles, and what she suspected was mummified former meals. Her father awaited her in his study, but he looked up as soon as she entered.
“You’re late. Take off your top, we don’t have much time before we lose the light.” He set out a tray with needles, ink, wads of cotton. When Riza didn’t move, her father grudgingly added, “I can’t leave The Array to just anyone. You have to guard it. It’s too precious to just write in a notebook.”
The wheel of fortune spun. Riza let go.