FMABBC: Tears
Title: Tears
Beta: meredavey
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating: PG/PG-13
Pairing/Characters: No pairings. Riza Hawkeye, Roy Mustang, Master (Berthold) Hawkeye
Warnings: Spoilers about the source of Roy's alchemy, and Riza's history.
Summary: The last thing he did before he breathed his last was cry.
Author's Notes: Written in Riza's point of view. Rather angsty, if we're talking about Riza. XD
***
Tears
It was around this time, somewhere between autumn and winter; right after the last leaf has fallen, and yet before the first snowflake fell to the ground. It was around this time that I saw Mr. Mustang-no, the Colonel, who had just graduated from the Academy back then-again, now a soldier, after so many years. It was around this time that my father died.
I was never close to him. As far as my memory goes, I could never recall a moment in my life that I spent happily with him. He was always locked up in his study, always doing his research, always perfecting his art. He was a distant man, and although I am his blood and flesh, I could not relate to him at all.
The day Mr. Mustang returned was not a pleasant one. Although I was overjoyed to find him at our doorstep once again, the events that transpired before and after that were not as joyful. My father was terribly sick; I never knew the cause of his illness, for he rarely left his room and he refused to see a doctor.
It has been years since I have been given the responsibility to bear and keep my father’s prized research, and it has been years since I’ve suffered the weight of it on my back. I have suffered the weight of knowing that the research my father has spent his whole life to perfect lies on me; suffered the weight of knowing that it is my job to protect this research until the person who is fitting to decode the secrets of flame alchemy comes.
And as much as I was grateful for his arrival-finally affirming to myself that indeed, Mr. Mustang would be the only person rightful enough to decode my father’s work-as much as I had a surge of positive emotions, long since forgotten after his enrolment in the military, I had a flood of negativities as well. I was grateful that at least, in some way, the weight I carry would be lightened. I was optimistic; perhaps with his return, father would, somehow, miraculously recover. I was… simply happy to see him again. And yet, I was worried; my father detested the military, more than anything else. And to find out that Mr. Mustang had tied himself to it, my father would definitely not be pleased. I feared the disappointment that perhaps, instead of recovering, my father’s condition would worsen. I was in doubt; what if Mr. Mustang wasn’t what he really was? If his dreams were false or forgotten?
That time, between autumn and winter, I wanted to cry. I didn’t understand why I felt that way back then. I had come to think it must be because of Mr. Mustang’s return. But it wasn’t. Then I thought perhaps because I could no longer keep all those emotions inside, pent up for so many years-years of silent, blind obedience, fear, and pain. But now I understand why; it was because I felt he was going to leave.
Years later, in the same mid-season, I found myself in front of his resting place. I was no longer just Riza. I was Riza Hawkeye as an individual, who had her own life in her hands, who did everything based on her own belief and decisions. I defied him by affiliating myself with the system he hated all his life. But I still obeyed him; I fulfilled my responsibility of keeping his research, I have passed it on. And as I look at his name, Berthold Hawkeye, I get mixed feelings of bitterness and sadness.
We lived in the same house, we shared the same name, and we had the same blood. But despite all that, even though we were “family”, it seemed we were worlds apart. I didn’t know much about him, save for his name, his face, and his bond with my mother. He was my father. And for a father to take his own daughter as a vessel for his research, without giving her the choice, it was like a slap in the face, a stab on the back-it was betrayal, I first thought. Perhaps, I was not really a “daughter” to him, but merely just a child. Strange as it is to come from me, I felt unloved by my own father.
“Lieutenant,” Colonel Mustang told me once, as we stood in front of his teacher’s grave, “you know, he did love you.” He didn’t look at me; his eyes were on his teacher’s tombstone, engraved with his name and his years. It was a simple resting place, for a man whose art was so great.
“What makes you say that, sir?
“Before he… died,” he said in a soft voice, only slightly louder than the autumn breeze that blew, or the leaves that rustled on the ground. “The last thing he did was to entrust me with taking care of his daughter.” he continued, turning his gaze to me.
I couldn’t bring myself to respond then. The two of us fell silent. And as the cold autumn breeze blew once again, something seemed to have prickled my eyes; and contrasting the wind’s chill was something warm against my cheek.
It was a silent passing; he shed tears.
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おわり。