[roy/riza; pg] Liturgy of the Hours Theme: 19: Another grey day in the deep blue world; (52_Flavours) Characters: Roy Mustang x Riza Hawkeye Series: Fullmetal Alchemist Rating: PG Notes: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) is copyrighted by Hiromu Arakawa/Square Enix. This is a work of fanfiction for personal entertainment only. Both concrit and comments welcome and desired. Title: Liturgy of the Hours Author:emilie_burns Word Count: 1903 Summary:She took her vows of silence upon entering that cloistered union. Original LJ Post Date: August 12, 2006 @ Chaotic_Library
Liturgy of the Hours
.lauds.
Sunrise. Another week, another day. Routine as always, for her time was not her own to spend. Every minute of every day was the property of the State, and her life moved around it in cadence. Riza Hawkeye made a pot of tea and prepared breakfast for herself, and fed Black Hayate while her own meal cooked. Routines in preparations of routines.
There was no variation. Fifteen minutes till the top of the hour, plates were washed and prayers began. Prayers said in the form of loading clips, one bullet at a time. Prayers of protection, of strength, of fast hands and keen eyes.
.prime.
The clock chimed and the shower began. Cleansing off the previous day, the previous night. Removing any trace of personal identity. She dressed the same as everyone else; they all did. They were trained to think, to act, to move, to walk in cadence, in perfect time. They were identical. There was no Self in the military, in their order.
She took her vows of silence upon entering that cloistered union. They all had. They talked but said nothing of substance. They spoke, but all they wished to say fell hidden between the lines. She took vows of poverty, just like the others. Not poverty of material wealth, but poverty of spirit. Poverty of Self. Personal wishes and dreams were tabled, shelved, discarded in dusty corners of attics and long forgotten.
She walked to work, in the early hours as the city started to stir, and before it fully awoke, she walked with others, rank and file, behind the doors which cloistered them away from living, into a deep blue world.
.terce.
The morning meetings were over, and by nine, she was at her desk, processing and sorting the mail and interoffice documentation for the Colonel. The art of politics was their new battlefield, and reaching the top was the cause of their war. Her desk was a triage; things were sorted by order of importance, efficient management of the State's time.
She could smell it before she saw it, the pink and white perfumed envelope from -- a quick check of the return address -- last weekend's date. Without a thought, without a flinch, it was tossed into the pile of lowest importance. It was, after all. And it wasn't sent to the circular filing cabinet on the floor beside her desk with the opened, discarded envelopes.
Riza wouldn't do such a thing. That might suggest jealousy, or spite, and she felt neither of those. Everything was purely professional. She set her mind on her service, on the very human man her life centered around the way a religious woman might focus on a god, and on their greater goal. There was no room for the desires of flesh, for dreams of personal gain and longing.
Chair legs squeaked on tile, and she walked across the office with a precisely arranged stack of papers. "Colonel, please have these papers signed as soon as possible so they may be delivered before lunch."
.sext.
It was a deep blue sea in the cafeteria, with gray trim as the crests of waves. The crowd forming precise lines to the left and to the right, identical, in perfect time. Trays were filled with the same food, and the rows undulated out among the tables and benches.
They were orderly and organized in their own way, falling without thought into step and stride, into a cadence of brotherhood and service. They were set apart from the world so that they might serve the greater needs of the world.
Chow time was not a time to dawdle, to linger over lunch catching up on gossip and chatter. The food was not something to complain about; it was provided to fill bellies for the remainder of the day so that work might be accomplished. It was a necessity of the flesh that had to be seen to with as minimal fuss as possible so that the greater portion of their attention could be focused on their calling.
Riza had learned the fine art of eating quickly while still retaining table manners. With a curt nod to her fellow tablemates, she stood, and returned her tray to the kitchen.
.none.
By fifteen hundred hours, Riza was standing by her commanding officer's desk again, tuning out his quiet complaining as he put up the pretense of being so inept and lazy at his work, it would take a miracle for him to finish on time. Too inept and lazy to ever reach the top, regardless of what anyone might hear him say. Besides, anyone else knew that his main driving ambition was to see to it that female personnel were clad in miniskirts. Such a pompish playboy, that Colonel. Not a threat at all.
"Oh, Lieutenant! Surely this couldn't wait until tomorrow?"
"The more you finish today, the less you have to do tomorrow."
"But today is so nice! It's the perfect day to walk home from work, and early at that. The sun is shining, there's a mild breeze from the west--"
"If you finished your work earlier, perhaps you could have excused yourself from the office earlier, Colonel."
"Work, work, work. Is that all you have to say?"
"Yes, Colonel. Now if you're done reviewing that report, it needs your signature."
It was a set routine. In between the banter and the words, they carried on another conversation below the surface, communication in looks, in touches between passed paperwork, in tone of speech. Things they dared not speak aloud, for fear of discovery, for fear of destroying all they'd worked for, for fear of rejection, for fear of changing the companionable balance between them.
The folders were held before her like a shield of faith, solid protection for the sanctity of her vows, for the poverty of spirit, the poverty of flesh. The poverty of life. She couldn't miss what she did not let herself acknowledge, after all.
.vespers.
Shadows were long, and the air itself seemed set aflame in shades of red and gold and orange as the sun died, sinking beyond a far horizon hidden out view by the tall buildings. She walked home in a twilight world with only fleeting glimpses of the sun at her back as she crossed streets and passed into areas where nothing stood between them. Black Hayate obediently trotted alongside at her heels, his nose turned this way and that as he investigated all the scents he could as much as he could without leaving his place or slowing down. The roar of life in the city was already fading to a quiet buzz. Mothers called their children in, some for bed, and some for supper. A few late shopkeepers locked their doors as she passed, pocketing their keys and offering distracted words of politeness to people they met.
She wondered on their lives sometimes as she passed them, overlooked by most, pushed out of their acknowledgment by the blue. She shopped in their stores, but wasn't one of the customers they stopped and chattered with about the weather and daily concerns. The baker still looked tired; she wondered if he got enough sleep, or if he was getting ill. The textile store owner looked upset, worried. Perhaps the business wasn't doing well? People and lives she was working to protect, to guard, to provide a better future for, and yet, they were removed from her and her world.
They went on about their lives, going home to their wives, their children, their aging mothers, their family. She wondered what it would be like, to have the family at home rather than at the workplace, to have a house full of voices or quiet companionship when the hours grew dark and long. Riza berated herself then, for thinking such things, for dreaming those dreams, for wishing such wishes. She had long ago made a choice in what was important to her; what she believed in, what she would work for, what she would live for, and something she believed in so much that it was something she would die for.
A home, a family waiting there, and maybe a bit of romance like the ones the books she secretly read where no one would see waited for her at the end of the line. That was the prize, the reward, the payment due for services rendered. Once they got him to the top, once the country was changed, once it was steadied and the useless warring stopped, then she could rest.
Not before.
.compline.
Riza let Black Hayate out a final time. Her day would begin before the sun rose, so her nights ended early. It was still long after sundown though, and the city was silent. The house creaked and groaned, and outside, the wind rustled the leaves, the branches squeaking and tapping quietly. Nothing else stirred.
Her uniform for the next day was out, carefully draped over a chair, her boots polished to a high gloss, her sidearm clean. Everything orderly, in its place, the very picture of a disciplined life.
A life put on hold, put aside to live for a greater purpose, dedicated to service and sacrifice. A life of masks, of emotions verboten, overflowing, seeping out between the lines and underscoring all that was denied.
She sometimes wondered which would be harder; to live in the shadows, complying to the unspoken, unwritten vows of emotional poverty, to never step closer, into the heat and the light, or to walk through fire, just once, to experience the fullness of life, and then to retreat again into a life of denial. She knew one was hard; it was too big of a risk to leave to chance, because she didn't know if she could bear it then, if the other option proved unbearable in the long run.
They were thoughts that lurked just below the surface of conscious awareness, always present, making themselves felt, if not heard. A low, quiet desperation, an ache that never fully left. She ignored it, as well as anyone could ignore something so large and heavy. The proverbial elephant, as the saying went.
And wasn't it also said that they never forgot?
She rolled over in the darkness, away from the soft glow of the window, and closed her eyes.
.matins.
It took her nearly two minutes to realize what had roused her from sleep. Two minutes, then a flicker of light formed at her bedroom window, followed shortly thereafter by a rumbling clap of thunder. The wind had picked up. The heat of the day was finally being spent as the temperatures dropped, fueling a storm.
She lay in bed, listening as the rain began, a steady rolling rhythm that rose and fell with the gusts, punctuated by thunderclaps. Riza opened her eyes, and for a half of a moment, almost gave in to the sudden urge to go out there, to stand under the downpour, to let the fury of the storm buffet against her, to reach out and taste passion in some way, shape, or form.
What an utterly foolish notion. It was three in the morning, after all. She had an hour and a half left to sleep; sleep that would be needed to be at her top form should the rain continue into the day.