A/N: A little fic from a few years back. Though I'm not entirely satisfied with it, even after much editing, I don't have the heart to tuck it away. Hopefully, you all enjoy.
/
It had been silently agreed upon by the population of Kalm that they would never understand why he had chosen to marry her. With everything he had to offer a lady—a subtle tongue, good work ethic, masculine beauty that never seemed to fade—it was thought that he could have any woman of his choosing (or perhaps two or three, if he was sly). Certainly, he could have picked someone closer to his own age. As such, the fact that his beloved wife was perhaps three times his years (they never knew for sure, for while she enthusiastically revealed her age to be pushing the eighty mark, his was a closely guarded secret) never ceased to send wildfire whispers through the tiny country town.
No one knew them well, for they never stayed long. Once or twice a year, they would wander into town, taking up residence in what could only affectionately be called a shack on the outskirts of the village. The old woman often claimed they came for the scenery; none could argue, for there was no other reason for them to visit. They had no family here, though some of the elders claimed that both had once used the town as a place to meet up with business associates (then again, given that these same elders would put themselves at about ten years old the first time they saw the man, most could be regarded as senile). Shinra associates, most said, though the old woman would usually scoff at that.
"Don't get the wrong impression," she would scold, poking in the forehead anyone who dared to ask, harsh and perhaps a little dangerous even as she wore a smile. "We both hated Shinra before it was cool."
Where they were the rest of the time was a town mystery, a topic that filled the pubs and the salons following the couple's biannual arrival and departure. Besides the children, few fell for the old woman's explanation ("Ah, we go to Wutai, of course. I'm the queen, you know, and my dear husband is the Kremlin of Nibelheim"). The young man only spoke quietly of Edge from time to time.
Regardless, such travel was looked upon as foolish by plump mothers who considered themselves too wise to keep their deliberations quiet. The old woman was getting on in her years, they said, and was nowhere near fit for it. Everything about her spoke of age: her hair held but a few, lonely stands of what had likely once been coal black; wrinkles spread like materia fire over a face that had seen much laughter and too many tears; and the body she bragged had once been able to scale Da-Chao in under five minutes was growing weak. As healthy as she may once have been, many judged her to be in her last years. Another decade, they said. Maybe that and half again, but certainly no more.
Thus, they came again to their original consideration of why, exactly, the young man had chosen to marry her. Doubtless it had been brought up enough times when he visited the pubs (which he seemed to avoid after that), but no one had ever managed an answer out of him. Even when his wife herself got in on the act ("Oh, look, she's a pretty one! Hey, girl, how about you come over here and see if you can take this lovely young man off of my hands? Well-used model, but you'll never find a hardier one anywhere!"), he kept to himself, offering at best a knowing, sad glance in response to such queries.
There was envy amongst the housewives and their daughters, to be sure—a man that beautiful claimed by an old hag—and most of the men couldn't help but wonder exactly what was in it for him. Perhaps the old woman was rich, they would ponder. The two were able to ferry themselves across the world several times a year. However, according to one whom the young man had confided in after a few glasses of scotch (and who was subsequently dubbed a liar or mad by his comrades) the latter had unequivocally put that theory to bed.
"I met her," he had said, his voice quiet and gravelly from what seemed like perpetual disuse, "when she was running about the countryside, covered in filth, without a gil to her name."
"I doubt even then she was doing much running," the other had joked, for the young man could be no more than thirty.
That moment would live on in village folklore as possibly the only time the stoic young man was ever caught smiling.
Years passed, and the two came and went. New rumors sprang forth, propositions were made, evidence was carefully placed to frame the young man as the father of some illegitimate child (that only occurred twice, of course), and the two grew old. Or, the woman grew old, and new, suspicious whispers began to circle about the unchanged young man and just how young he really was. But regardless, they lived in peace—an old woman and a grandson-husband, always at each others' side.
It wasn't until days before their final departure from Kalm (six years have gone by, now, and all that is left to remind people of them are ghostly reports of a cloaked shadow wandering the outskirts of the town, near the old shack), after the young man had rejected yet another request from a local townsman to marry his daughter, that the old woman gave them more of an answer than they had ever received before or since. Laughing gleefully, she snatched up the young man's hand and kissed it, his lips quirking beneath slowly blinking eyes. "It only fits, you know," she said, and there was the teenager in her, thin and sweet and loud, looking at her husband like he was the only thing that mattered in the world—and maybe, after this long, he was. She touched his cheek, looked at him with old eyes, and smiled, just for him.
"An old hag like me," she said, in a voice so young, "for an old geezer like you."