Artist: @cams-draws/ @dat-hawkass
Author: @the-flame-and-hawks-eye
Title: Entwining Destinies
A/N: SO I AM SO SO SO HONORED TO HAVE BEEN ABLE TO WORK TOGETHER WITH CAMS ON THIS LIKE YOU WOULDNāT BELIEVE! <3 <3 Seriously I am still giddy and still in awe as I stare at this masterpiece. LIKE THE CLOSEUPS ARE JUST!! THE DETAIL!! I LOVE THIS SO MUCH IāM CRYING AGAIN!!! Cams, youāre incredible, and Iām so fortunate to call you my friend. Thank you for working with me on this because it was like a dream come true!
Riza lives for days like this.
She stretches out across her bed and closes her eyes as a wave of warm air drifts across her room and over her from the open window. She hears the soft rustle of her curtains as the breeze floats past them and she smiles. The trend of blazingly hot summer days has finally been broken, giving her (and the wildlife she can hear outside of her window) the break they so desperately need. Dangerous thoughts of staying exactly where she lays begin to creep into her mind and she shifts in her bed, pulling her legs beneath her body so that sheās just uncomfortable enough that she cannot doze off.
Unfortunately, the arrival of the bearable weather no longer gives her the excuse to sneak off to the local watering hole to take a dip in. Her fatherās new apprentice will be arriving tomorrow, and the seemingly endless list of chores she has devised for herself that would be optimal to complete now before he comes continues to build and build, and she slowly opens her eyes again as another wave of warm air rolls over her. Rizaās stomach churns uncomfortably as the thought of the new apprentice chases away the remaining bits of airy ambiance she has been indulging in up until now. The last one had a tongue laden with silver, and disgustingly sticky fingers to match. If the new one is anything like the last, sheād have to ensure that every single cenz she saves ends up beneath the loose floorboard beneath her bed.
Attempting to combat the foul mood that has begun to settle in her gut, Riza opens her eyes and peers toward the curtains as they continue to move. Then she sees a familiar sight -red and thin- undulating on the floor out of the corner of her eye. Riza turns her head slightly, enough to where sheās directly facing it, and as expected, the tiny strand of thread vanishes.
Itās been like this for as long as she can remember - the presence of the little red thread. She still doesnāt completely understand its purpose, nor does she know how many others can see it. All she has gathered in the time since sheās convinced herself that it is real and not a figment of her imagination is that it is tied to something somewhere.
Sheās seen the thread that is tied to her fatherās pinky finger. Itās dull and lifeless and frayed, the tattered end dragging on the ground a few feet behind him wherever he goes. She remembers once, when she was younger, pointing it out to him and asking where his once led, and learned quickly after that to never ask him again. So she tried to learn in secret, and once again found that the alchemy books her father didnāt lock away provided nothing for her to follow, leading her to believe that it isnāt something bound by alchemy.
She tried following it once. It led her down the path she normally traverses into town - past the post office and convenience store and pharmacy. Over the brook that runs through the center of town, and then back around the perimeter of her school. Sheāll never forget the disappointment she felt after rounding the bend on the side of town opposite of where she normally wanders to find the strand running down the one dirt road that leads out of town, seemingly with no end in sight.
Rizaās come to the unfortunate conclusion that whatever lies at the other end is tied to her destiny. āUnfortunateā because every day passing solidifies her belief that she will be forever cemented in the tiny town her father and mother settled in despite her dreams of something bigger. Something more. Itās a tantalizing thought, following the red thread to whatever fate intends for her, but itās an implausible one too.
She raises the hand the thread is tethered too and stares directly at her palm. It appears in the periphery of her vision again, small and light and delicate, swaying gently as the breeze circulates through her bedroom. When sheās stared at it long enough to convince herself that it is solid, her eyes follow along it, only to find that, like every time before, it disappears from her direct line of sight.
Not wanting to make sour the otherwise beautiful day, Riza sweeps the intrusive musing beneath her bedsheets, promising herself that she would reflect on the matter when there is nothing left for her to fret over. Her eyes slowly sink closed and she promises herself a few, unbroken moments to relish the day she has been given. But just when she begins to find that even the position sheās in is comfortable enough, she feels a gentle tug at her hand. Confused, her eyes slowly open and she turns her head and waits for a few moments until she feels the tug again. This time she sees her pinky finger move, as though of its own volition. Her heart stalls in her chest, but before she allows the building surge of excitement to overcome her, she turns away so that her eyes are facing toward the ceiling. This confirms her hopes, and solidifies the abandonment of every chore she had planned.
She springs to her feet and, as though on cue, the red thread draws taut against her doorframe. Riza follows with little resistance, allowing it to guide her down the stairwell and into the kitchen below. Out of the corner of her eye she sees it slipped snugly beneath the kitchen door. So overcome by exhilaration, she nearly forgets that her father is still home. With her hand still on the door handle, she quietly turns and scans the kitchen and what part of the dining area she can see, and is relieved to find that he isnāt there. She has half a mind to call out and inform him of her departure but stops when she realizes that the excitement has so far only served to cloud her reasoning. Not once has she ever announced to him when she departs or arrives, simply appearing only when sheās expected to be there. So she abandons the notion, though not without making sure that the door closes behind her as softly as possible.
She follows it first through the woods, weaving meticulously through the brush and trees and shrubs in a manner so haphazard that sheās briefly convinced thereās been a mistake. But all the while the thread continues to playfully tug at the finger it is bound, and she tells herself that she will continue a little more ways until it guides her over the bridge that leads into town. Riza half-expects it to pull her toward the road that it always leads to, but instead it twists in a direction opposite that.
Until now she has refrained from allowing the hope in her heart to overpower her mindās logic, and tried to keep herself grounded. But the weight of doubt she had draped over herself lifts, and she suddenly feels lighter than air.
Itās as though the thread understands her haste and it contracts, urging her ahead. She can feel the eyes of the townspeople on her well after she rushes past them, but while she would normally feel uncomfortable being in their sights, the thought of what lies at the other end of her fate proves stronger than her fears.
A person? A place? A moment? She does not know what waits at the other end. Riza has always believed that her fate is intertwined with another - that the red thread is the bridge between their interwoven destinies. It makes sense, after all, that a person could be on the other end of the thread. Because never before has she experienced or felt something could be a tangible existence at the end of the line. She has always been left to wonder -trapped- with something no one else can see. Left only with her thoughts about it, with no one to confide in or turn to about its mysterious existence.
Itās pulled so taut that she cannot pump her arm back as she runs. She looks just above where she feels it pulling and she sees it twisting rigidly around the side of the pharmacy. Her heart begins to beat faster as the anticipation gives her a second wind, and the reminder that thereās someone out there that is hers and she is theirs grants strength to her fatigued legs, and she is able to carry on. She can feel it in her chest, in her bones, that whatever her fate is guiding her toward is just around the corner.
A face appears where there wasnāt one a moment before, and it takes every bit of Rizaās already gangly coordination to avoid running into him. She dips and manages to catch her footing again. Before she can continue, however, the thread tears her arm back and the balance she managed to preserve moments before nearly betrays her. She pivots toward the tether on the foot she has planted and catches herself again, and freezes when she spots the thread again. No longer visible just out of the corner of her eye, it is now a blazing red that lies directly in her line of sight.
Riza follows it up to the person it leads to, and her breath catches in her throat.
The boy she nearly collided with curls and unfurls his fingers as he stares down at the finger the thread is tethered to. She doesnāt recognize him. He looks a few years her senior, and is at least a head taller than her. Short, shaggy black hair obscures most of his forehead and, at least at the moment, his eyes so she cannot see the how intense his scrutiny is - or whether he can see the thread, for that matter.
This moment is the culmination of everything Riza has ever wondered and hoped about her destiny. She wants to say something -anything- to disrupt the everlasting moment that time seems to have forgotten and yet, she cannot summon the words she has long kept buried in her heart. In fact, she has found herself unable to muster a word of any sorts, and any word she could amass will likely be muffled by the metaphorical handful of cotton stuffed in her mouth.
āOh, Miss Riza!ā The boy vanishes behind the beet-red face of the pharmacistās wife. Fearing she will lose sight of him, Riza attempts to duck away but is stopped when she plants a hand on Rizaās shoulder and cements her there. āI was wondering when youād be back into town,ā she continues, seemingly without realizing that Rizaās attention is not focused on her. āYour fatherās medication is all set to be picked up. If Iām remembering correctly, this is the medication he tends to burn through.ā
āNo, youāre right.ā She tries to see over the womanās shoulder but is impeded once again when the pharmacist, Mr. Johnston, joins his wife. āHe definitely will need it. I just donāt have the money with me right now.ā
Mr. Johnston waves a hand at her before he pushes a small parcel into her hands. āJust pay us back when you come around again. Heāll need another refill here soon anyways.ā
She stuffs the package into her jacket pocket, bends slightly at the waist, and offers a hurried āthank youā as she ducks around them to confront the boy, only to find that he is gone.
The road leading home is paved with nothing but defeat. The thread, just minutes before having been taut and blaringly red, is a shell of itself, dragging so faintly against the gravel road that there are moments where even Riza cannot see it out of the corner of her eye. She characterizes her mentality as numb and dull, yet in the same instance her mind is buzzing with hundreds of questions she fears will now be left unanswered.
Riza saw him look down at his hand. She knows that there was something there in that moment. Whether he had seen it, however, would be something she will be left to wonder. Why didnāt he wait after her graceless display? Hadnāt he felt something as he looked down at his hand? Somewhere in those few precious seconds was a moment. A moment where everything she has done has led her there. And somewhere along the way something went awry, and now sheās left to endure the shattered remains of the hope the thread had given her before. Because never before has she felt a sense of familiarity so strongly, nor has she ever felt such exceptional yearning in the aftermath.
Riza presses her lips together and blinks rapidly as self-serving tears cloud her vision, and she shakes her head to rid herself of the remaining jumble of selfish thoughts. There is no proof that the boy is anything more than just a sign, a flash in the pan meant to show something or prove something orā¦ā
She slows to a stop and gathers the front of her shirt in her hands. She should wait before she allows her head to wander in a new direction, because the ache in her chest is too unbearable now. Opening and then wandering down another path of speculation and uncertainty will only add fuel to the proverbial dumpster fire this situation has already become, and further disappointment will almost certainly destroy her.
A gust of wind passes by and the trees around her shudder. Her thoughts now interrupted, Riza looks up with the intention of traveling back home, but stops when the red thread catches her eye. Not wanting to think about the topic further, she tries to peel her eyes away from it and continue on, but something inside of her nags her to reconsider her dismissal. Riza eyes it with greater scrutiny than she initially did, trying to unveil what it is that reignited the spark of hope in her heart that had been extinguished. She looks over her shoulder and toward town again. A heartbeat times the revelation she has and she once again finds herself running - toward her home.
For as long as she can remember, the thread has always led out of town and down a road she fears she will one day never travel. But now, for the second time today, itās taking her somewhere else - somewhere it has never taken her before. Home has always been the last place she has wanted to be, and yet itās the only other thing she is bound to. Now the thread -her destiny- is leading her back there.
She rounds the corner without slowing and nearly collides with the stone wall that separates the Hawkeye property from the rest of the world. She pushes off it and continues down the dirt path, the front door of her home within a few bounds reach - and skids to a halt when she sees a familiar form standing in front of the door.
The overwhelming sense of familiarity she felt before grips her again, and leaves her breathless.
The boy, seemingly surprised to see her, lifts the hand by which they are bound in salutation, and she sees the blaringly red thread more clearly than she ever has before. He smiles and her heart does an uncharacteristic little leap in her chest. āAre you Master Hawkeyeās daughter?ā
Every word sheās ever learned has conveniently disappeared from her brain, and she mumbles an unintelligible (even to her) reply under her breath while nodding.
A blush spreads across his cheeks and he casts his glance toward the floor, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. āApologies, Miss Hawkeye. Had I known it was you back there I would have waited around. It looked like you were in deep conversation by the time I regained my bearings and realized what happened.ā He stops his nervous task and gestures to her. āAre you okay?ā
Something clicks in Rizaās brain, and suddenly everything begins to make sense. Itās true that, at least by what she sees, he cannot see the thread the way she does. Whether he feels its pull, however, is still up for debate. But she knows for certain that that was not what physically brought him here today. Rather, the mention of her father reminds her of the apprentice due for tomorrow who appears to have made an appearance today.
She nods slowly in reply as the realization -that understanding that the little red thread that has been a constant in her life for as long as she can remember has led to this- begins to sink in. A part of her wants to put this moment on hold, to live in it and soak up every ounce of it she can because she knows that from this point on, the threadās existence has a tangible meaning. On the other hand, sheās terrified of what lies ahead, and what significance this boy will ultimately hold in her life. But Riza has always been one to forge ahead because life as she knows now it holds little meaning with the path she has continually tread. With that thought, she decides to march on, and soak in every detail of him that she can.
As she vows to relish the newness and unfamiliar territory theyāre about to embark, she cannot help but feel something unfamiliar that has precipitated in her heart. Something she doesnāt completely understand, and yet she understands enough to know that the butterflies fluttering around inside her stomach are akin to something sheās only read about in books and listened to on the radio.
She doesnāt love him now, of course, but itās the feeling that maybe someday, yes, she will.
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