If they weren't a girl, maybe their father would notice them.
The same thought crossed an addled mind nearly every day. In the mornings, they stood in front of the mirror in their room to dress for the day. Dresses couldn't protect against skinned knees as well as pants could, so they stayed hidden in the closet. Ribbons and clips meant for long hair remained there as well as they learned to cut their hair short like the boys in town. It was easier to maintain too. Short hair didn't get caught in branches when they went hunting, nor did it take as long to wash when they got home. Being a boy... it would be easier.
Alas, those changes didn't work for they father. He yelled, "Daughter," when he wanted their attention, his voice echoing off the decrepit walls of the estate that he could afford to get fixed, but didn't want to. Not once did he say their name. Those two syllables seemed to be too much to ask for. His demands were typically for food, coffee, or chores, and they had to be done. If they didn't feed him or take care of the house, no one else would, and they didn't want him to die.
Did they? They considered the possibility a few times. Guilt cornered them without fail as soon as the thought entered their head, forcing tears out of amber eyes. How dare they think something so horrible! He was their father. They loved him. No one should ever want anything bad to happen to their parents.
But couldn't he just take care of himself for a change? Take care of them? Love them?
Maybe if they were a boy, he would. If they were his son.
Their morning routine became slightly longer. They needed the time to wrap bandages around their chest and ensure they fit just right. A few of times, they didn't, and they paid for that mistake with labored breathing, aching sides, and bruising. But, once they finished getting dressed every morning, they gazed at the person in the mirror with a smile. This look... they could get used to it. Being a boy might be feasible. Now, they needed to lower their voice when they spoke, which was rare, keep their hair short...
Father needed to notice them now. No, notice him now. He was trying for him. Surely this effort could be rewarded with something. Then, in an ideal world, Father could be patient enough to teach him alchemy. Daughters couldn't learn it, he said, but what about a son? He could be the heir to the alchemy he worked on for years.
That day came at long last, and a young Riza almost wanted to jump for joy. Olive eyes stared into amber, making contact for perhaps the first time in years, before he looked him over. He noticed him. This was it. As long as he didn't get too ahead of himself and ask for anything, he might have a shot at just a little more---like an actual conversation.
"My research is complete." Oh! Riza's eyes widened at this statement. The research Father spent years on---his own form of alchemy---was finally done. He put so much of himself into his work, and he could now say it was complete. What now? What was the next step? Publishing it? No, Father was too secretive for that. Teaching it to someone? But who? "It is time I entrusted you with it."
At the time, Riza did not know what to do other than resist the urge to smile. With his father's serious gaze upon him, he remained calm. Finally---finally---he allowed him into his world. This was the measure of his love. Not in words or gifts, but in alchemy.
"I will not let you down, Father."
Oh, what a fool he was. They were. She was.
The process took days, and every bit of it was painful. Riza fought her instincts as she forced herself to stay still. Tears pricked her eyes for hours, but she didn't dare cry out. Father wanted to trust her with his life's work. What a huge honor that was. He didn't say it in words, but this was his profession of love for his only child. At long last, he saw her as worthy.
That thinking didn't last. After the first couple of days, mostly filled with silence, Riza wondered why this needed to be done. Each word he inked into her skin was another she couldn't read, much less put into practice. She wasn't an alchemist. Would this... would this make her an alchemist? No, that was silly. He wanted his research to be safe, and thus he trusted her with it. Nothing could be on paper because of how powerful it was. In the wrong hands, it would bring nothing but destruction.
Not her hands. She couldn't learn. No, some other alchemist, someone her father taught and trusted, would need her to show her bare skin to reveal the secrets of Flame Alchemy to them. Only then would his technique see the light of day. He would not teach her.
Mornings came and went. The tattoo needed to heal, which meant she couldn't wrap bandages around her chest anymore. It was red against her skin even without the irritation. Fabric rubbed against the ink and caused her to wince in pain with each step. Alas, she kept going. This pain was manageable. Besides, she had a father and a house to care for. Soon, another alchemist would join them, and she would need to add that onto her list of duties.
She didn't look in the mirror anymore. There wasn't anything worth looking at.
