He sank in a sea of bedcovers, the silken linens soft and cool against his skin. Noon peeked through the curtains, the sun casting disdainful light upon the bustling world. Every day was the same, it seemed, the grinding monotony tearing at his person.
A mirror lay beside him on the floor, broken. He had grown to hate the reflection he saw, more now than when it belonged to his rival. But no matter his personal feelings for the man, guilt had bubbled to the surface, gnawing at him since the first day he awoke.
And since that day, he had been unable to fully function. He could sit up in bed with some help, or hold small objects in his hand, but ultimately he was as helpless as a newborn. Dante rarely seemed to dwell upon this fact, caring for and feeding him with a tenderness he had never before seen in her.
Any anger he felt towards her for her actions had vanished when he witnessed this part of her. Though her evil act was clearly driven out of love and desperation, he knew in his heart that he would have done the same as she.
"Ready for some lunch," she asked, beaming with radiance as she entered. Trying his best to nod, the strain caused him to sweat.
"Patience, Hohenheim," she said gently, setting a tray loaded with food before him. Like clockwork, she tucked a napkin under his chin, gently blowing on the hot soup before she spooned it to his mouth.
"Oh, did another mirror break," she asked casually, picking up the shards and tossing them aside. "You really must learn to be more careful, dear…or I shall stop getting them for you. As much as you love to dwell in your guilt, you should remember just how expensive those little luxuries are."
"They are easy enough to make," he said slowly, struggling to form the words.
"Perhaps," she replied, feeding him more of the delicious soup. He idly wondered if she had used alchemy to make his lunch as well. Since he had first awoken, he had been confined to his room, hearing only the distant sounds of Dante's experiments. It seemed she had taken back to alchemy as if she had never been absent.
"You seem tired, Hohenheim," she said, checking his temperature with the back of her hand. "You should rest."
"All I do is rest," he replied glumly, staring out his window at the world passing him by.
"I could open the window," she offered, but he made no effort to reply. Sighing, she stood from her seat, leaving him to his quiet reverie.
--
Below his window buzzed the world. Hard-packed streets lined with shops and carts, vendors hawking their wares to any passerby who cast them a second's glance. The town was not so far from the ruins of Gilvirtown; in fact, the town's mere existence could be credited to that former township, but that was immaterial now.
As part of the growing desert community, the town was predominantly nomadic people from the surrounding lands. The streets were filled with people who looked like Dante, and now, him. It was strange, how he had once wished he could change his body, darkening his hair and skin, even for just a day, to spare Dante the grief his companionship brought upon her amongst her peers. And now that he finally got his wish, he could hardly look into a mirror without smashing it.
Life had a cruel sense of humor, he thought. Perhaps one day he would find it in himself to laugh at it, but these days it seemed only guilt and anger filled his heart.
--
The world lay open before her, the possibilities dizzyingly endless. Nothing she desired was beyond her power now, no dream exceeded her grasp. Long had mankind been held in check by the balances inherent to the universe, and now she held the way around them.
It had never been her intention to neglect the law of equivalent exchange, but she found herself breaking it a little bit more each day. The future was all she saw, the past existing only to have brought her to this point, the present a soon to be forgotten memory.
She would begin to travel again soon. This town had been graced by her presence only because of its proximity to the former Gilvirtown, for its offering of sustenance and care for Hohenheim while he recovered. Its alchemic potential was laughable compared to what she envisioned these days.
But that was only one reason she wished to travel the nearby lands; she knew that Hohenheim's infirmities arose from his guilt and hatred of Gilvir. The transfer was perfect; she had been the conduit herself, seeing both men's souls pass through the crimson prisms of the Philosopher's Stone. The next transfer would be far more successful; of this she was certain.
So she had spent the past two days searching. After feeding Hohenheim his lunch and cleaning him, she would sit at a busy corner, watching the people go by. Bodies, warm and soft streamed by, like her own sick personal parade. Few caught her attention, but all met her notice. Soon enough she would find a proper set of bodies for the next trial.
Though she would never tell him, Dante was secretly pleased that Hohenheim was unable to function in his new body. It took everything in her to see Gilvir's face and not lash out at him in anger. To feel that loathsome body atop her…she shivered, cold beads of sweat dribbling down her back. Thankfully kept in bed, without even the ability to feed himself, she was exempt from nights of passion.
It was no surprise then, that this energy was devoted instead to her newfound Philosopher's Stone, and the prospects it offered her. Thoughts of revenge and material wealth had of course crossed her mind, but neither occupied half as much of her mind as the prospect of immortality. She would live forever, witnessing kingdoms and dynasties crumble, and she would watch those foolish enough to oppose her shrivel and die.
--
His body rotted. It atrophied and stiffened, the muscles shriveling and the joints withering. He sensed this from a distant perspective, the harsh understanding that it was what he deserved. The body rotted and he could hardly give a damn, no matter if it housed his consciousness.
A small part of that consciousness, however, did not give up so easily. It was this tiny part of his soul that drove him to be the foremost alchemic scholar of his time, the same quirk that understood what none before him had. His mind continued to labor, to observe and focus upon a world that had seemingly passed him by.
It was no surprise then, perhaps only to Dante, that Hohenheim's research continued to progress. He saw the world as no man had before him; as a man who had died and returned to live in another body. He saw more than that, really. He saw a gate. In his dreams, lost in the mysteries of his mind, he saw the faint outline of a massive door, agony and suffering carved into the thick stone slabs.
It was the Gate. When he had felt his life slip away, he had appeared before it, helpless as the threshold opened to reveal its terrible secrets to him.
--
She appeared the next morning to him, brimming giddily with the type of girlish excitement he had not seen in her since their younger days.
"I have been thinking," she said, pausing. But if she did so to give him a chance to reply, it was a wasted gesture, for she quickly resumed talking. "Your paralysis…I suspect that it is purely psychological. Living in the body of an old enemy is a prison no matter how you look at it, and I understand if you are unhappy where things are. But you need to move on, Hohenheim, and I think I know how you can do that."
"How," he croaked, his throat bone-dry. Without asking, she began to pour him a glass of water from the bedside table. He drank gratefully as she held the glass, his probing eyes never leaving her.
"A new body," she replied. "I have found an excellent subject, worthy of your good soul…handsome, healthy—"
"No," he said firmly. "That is not a good idea."
"Fear not," she eased. "I will participate in a transfer as well; the man's mate is also quite lovely, and comes from a wealthy, well-bred family. We shall have all we need…for the time being, of course."
"You do not understand," said Hohenheim angrily. "I do not wish to displace another human being's soul. Never again."
"Do not be hasty," she said gently, as if she were talking to a crying child. "Our work requires us both be up and about; without a proper body, you are trapped within that useless shell."
"And no good to your cause…?"
"I did not mean it like that," she answered, brushing her dark hair back. "But our time is limited; whatever you believe now to be law has been rejected. Ultimately, you shall reach the same understanding as I, Hohenheim…it is not wise to waste any time."
"Why? We have forever, do we not," he asked bitterly. "Have you even stopped to consider what will happen to the displaced souls from the transfer?"
"I have," she nodded.
"And…?"
"And…your transfer is probably not unique. I expect the misplaced souls to be absorbed by the Stone."
"As Gilvir's was?"
She nodded, the practiced lie coming easily to her. "Their souls will become part of the Stone, Hohenheim, to live forever in the blessed glory of infinity. It is not so terrible a fate."
"So you say," he said warily. "The Stone becomes more and more drenched in the blood of sacrificed innocents, Dante…that must stop."
"Of course, dear," she said, rising with a warm smile on her face. "Anything you say."
--
He waited until she had left the house, hours later, before making his move. He had practiced, of course, sneaking half-hearted attempts here and there, wiggling fingers and toes when whittling away the long hours of the day. He took care not stretch his atrophied muscles too much though, less Dante feel their rigidity returning and grow suspicious.
His first step came on this day. A shaky foot met the polished wood of the floor, and the ankle threatened to buckle under his equally shaky frame. Blood seemed to rush to every inch of his body, an alien feeling as sensations returned to the body. Nerves clicked with flaccid muscles, neurons firing at half speed, laboring over the mundane task of simply walking forward.
Inch by agonizing inch his body lurched forward, only his iron will propelling forth the unfamiliar contraption of flesh and bone. With each wobbly step, his confidence returned in pieces, but he knew the hardest part lay ahead.
With a grateful sigh he pushed open the door, glad he hadn't had to use his fingers to turn that complicated knob. But no obstacle would stop him now; he had seen the look in her eyes, recognized it from his own dark reflections, and knew that only one thing could stop it. The Stone…it had to be destroyed.
He would gladly die in the body of his most hated enemy, cursed by the one woman he could ever remember loving, if only to make amends for his greatest mistake. And so he pressed on, perspiration pouring down his quivering body, each clumsy step bringing him closer to his goal.
The door lay before him, barred and locked from both sides. But having seen the Gate open its doors to him, this was insignificant. It took him three tries, but he was eventually able to clasp his hands together, and he felt that familiar electricity crackle through his body as the transmutation took place. Bonds broke as elements reshaped to his will, carbons realigning and matter disappearing in a burst of energy.
Smoke obscured his view, and he worried for a moment that he might have used too much power in simply removing a door. But he cast the thought aside, limping forward to seek the Stone. Any joy he might have taken from performing the first transmutation ever without drawing a circle vanished.
The Stone was gone.
--
As time passed, he began to see for himself just how attached Dante had become to the Stone. He had grown familiar enough with Gilvir's body to move quietly through the house, and on the rare occasion he found Dante asleep, a faint crimson glow emanated from under her feathered pillow.
But sleep came less easily to her in those later days, haunted perhaps by a fear of losing the Stone, or of dying before she could transfer into another body. She began to live more cautiously, her skin paling after long months without any sun, and the two made an unusual sight. Nomads transformed into shut-ins.
Life became no more a chore, however, her livelihood restored in her quest for power. Experiments went well into the morning hours, and she would spend the rest of the day in a haze when unable to sleep for days at a time. Hohenheim began to view her with contempt, disgusted by the way she lived her life, for she knew she could now live several spans without regret of squandering her days.
She caught him walking one day, expressing no surprise at her discovery as if she had known all along. After that, however, he never saw her without the Stone in her hands, as if she knew of his former intentions. What few conversations they had were mostly arguments, particularly when Hohenheim revealed to her an alternative plan.
"That is idiotic," she said. "Creating soulless bodies is a waste of time and energy."
"But it is possible, and y—we would not have to endanger the lives of others."
"Our selection to this power was not destiny, Hohenheim, nor was it fate. It was the natural order of things that has guided us to this point. I have heard of a researcher from the west, a man who explains that nature selects the strongest to survive. The world, or nature, however you wish to look at it, owes us, as we are the strong."
"You are distorting the findings," he argued. "That research is only preliminary, the observations of a nature without values, without social order. The fact that—"
"Values and order are overrated," she said smugly. "Mankind has survived longer than either of those concepts, thriving at his basest nature. It is civilization that imposes such lofty ideals upon us. Where would civilization be without our will to survive? What would mankind be if it did not place its survival above all others?"
"Mankind and its qualities, its great works, thrives in a society, not in a cave. To selfishly impose its will upon others—"
"Is no different than the world we live in now," she interrupted. "I used to think how different our worlds were, Hohenheim…it is only as I grew wiser that I saw they were the same."
"Perhaps you are right," he said. "Perhaps the world is selfish and greedy, festering with sin. But what of faith? Were you not the one who taught me the value of trust, and friendship…of love? Does that not count for something?"
Her eyes softened, her rigid shoulders sagging. She touched his arm for a brief moment, her palm soft and warm, but she quickly pulled it back as if his skin had been boiling hot. It was the first time in over two years that she had touched him. But he knew the moment was broken when she turned and walked quietly out of the room.
--
Another year passed before he fell gravely ill. His experiments into creating a soulless human vessel had been dangerous, but not as deadly as the elements he had worked with. The rare and viscous element known as mercury had been essential to his hypothesis, and as it turned out, hazardous to his health.
Hohenheim had not surprisingly made peace with his fate. He had accepted his death already once before, years ago, when Dante and the Stone had stepped in. Now it seemed that Death was ready to call upon him again, to reap the two deaths he owed. The mercury that had invaded his body slowly seeped into his mind, driving him to bouts of intense dementia. During these episodes he again began to see the Gate approaching again, and he made no effort to resist.
It was only a doctor from the west that had been able to diagnose the rare illness. Dante had scoffed at the desert healers' advice, believing Hohenheim had been driven mad by demons hungry for her blood. They recommended a quick death, then immolation to purge the evil. She never called upon them again.
The doctor, a man named Winston Rockbell, often took along his young son with him on trips to the home. The boy, Denton, was as curious as he was helpful. He was fascinated by Dante, by her walls of mysterious books and apparatus, but mostly by her morbid outlook. Never in his life had he encountered an adult so brutally honest, so bleak in her view of the world. And though she regarded most westerners with mistrust, she too grew fond of the boy, who was all too eager to help with the care of her beloved.
"Miss Dante," said the boy one day. "My father says it might be best to tie down your husband…mercury poisoning can make a man delirious and dangerous."
"Is that so," asked Dante, thumbing disinterestedly through a medical journal. "Your concern is touching, Denton, but I can handle myself."
"You seem to care much about him," said the boy. "Are you going to be alright if, if…something should happen to him?"
"Why, are you offering to put him out of his misery," she asked.
"Of course not," shot back Denton. "I might be a doctor someday, and doctors only help the sick."
"And would you not wish to ease the pain of one you loved," asked Dante, setting down her book. "Because of that love? Even through the most reprehensible of means?"
"I would never wish my father dead, if that is what you ask, especially by my hand," said the boy. "And I love him above all others."
"Above even me," she teased. The boy's face reddened.
"I don't know what you speak of," he said, turning away proudly, his young profile caught boldly in the sunlight. Dante caught herself smiling for the first time in months.
"You remind me of him," she said, brushing his blonde hair to the side. "Not just how you look, but how you are…"
The boy looked curiously at her.
"He ever looked like me," he asked skeptically, turning to look at the dark sleeping form of her love, then back at the woman beside him. There was something innocent in his eyes, curious and full of wonder. "Were we ever alike?"
"Once upon a time," she said wistfully, her eyes watering. "Once upon a time."
--
"Doctor Rockbell," she said later. "How much time does he have?"
The man shook his head slowly.
"Not long, I'm afraid. His blood pressure is dropping and his pulse is weak. He probably won't make it through the night…I am truly sorry, Dante."
"There is nothing else you can do," she asked weakly. He shook his head again.
"The mercury has entered his nervous system," he replied. "He will suffer severe dementia before his passing. Please remember that. And be careful when near him."
"I understand," she said somberly. The doctor regarded her with surprise; few spouses ever took the imminent passing of their significant other this well. The desert people were indeed a hardy lot.
"I've done what I can to ease the pain," he said, packing up his bag. "I'll take my son and we'll be on our way."
"Please," she said quietly. "If you do not mind, I would like Denton to stay here."
The doctor nodded solemnly; perhaps frailty was a trait found in these people after all.
"I shall come to pick him up in the morning," he said, bowing quietly out the door. Had the good doctor been looking up, he would have seen a curious red glow in the woman's shaky hand, and perhaps the rest of his life would have been different.
--
The air was sweating, sticky with the humidity of the day's oppressive heat. Inky clouds rolled over the horizon, menacing against the clear daytime skies. Sunlight was swallowed by the blackness, churning thunder rumbling in the distance.
The people of the village fled to their homes, the echoing of nearby thunder chasing them to shelter. A static electricity seemed to hang in the air, raising hackles and crackling like wood split neatly with a swift swing of the axe.
Doctor Rockbell was nearly home when the clouds opened, dumping a sudden ocean of rain upon the village. Streets washed away with the tide of water, a downpour unlike any the village had ever seen in its young lifetime. Tumbleweeds drowned in the torrent, rushing along the winding village paths turned into a newly birthed river.
"It's really coming down out there," said Denton, his face pressed to the window. "I hope father is well."
"Sorry," he said, turning back to see Dante sitting by her dying husband's side. "I didn't mean to sound so selfish when you are suffering so…"
"There is nothing wrong with being selfish," Dante said suddenly. "It is simply another word for honesty."
"But we should live for others, right?"
"We can say that all we wish," she replied. "But doing it is another matter entirely."
"You're doing it now, aren't you, Miss Dante?"
"So it would seem," she answered, her voice distant. "Tell me, Denton…what do you picture yourself doing with your life?"
"That's a strange question," he said, looking oddly at Dante. "I suppose I'll continue school while serving as an apprentice to my father, learning to become a doctor to help people. I guess."
"And a family? Do you want to raise one," she asked, as lightning flashed beyond the window. A far off rumble shook the house.
"It depends…if I found the right girl, settled down. I wouldn't mind having a son to pass on my knowledge and wisdom to, or a daughter to spoil with nice dresses and such."
"That sounds like a grand dream, Denton. Tell me, then…if your dream were ever threatened, and you were in danger of losing everything…what would you be willing to do to stop that from happening?"
"I don't know," he replied. "Anything, I guess."
"Anything," she asked, her voice dropping as the candles flickered from an unseen breeze. "Could you kill for it?"
"I don't know…why are you asking me this?"
"Men have guided me all my life," she said tiredly. "It is the way of this world, I suppose. Men are to guide and women are to follow. No different from the Shepard and his herd; we are but mindless animals in his eyes, foredoomed to listen and obey while he tends to our foolish needs because he believes us incapable."
"Times shall change," said the boy, his chest puffing with assurance. "They always do."
"You are wise for your age," nodded Dante, and the boy beamed at her compliment. "You will make a woman very happy someday."
"You sound sad, Miss Dante…things shall get better for you as well, I promise."
Her eyes hardened at his words. "You should not make promises so easily," she scolded. "In our culture, a wife is considered the property of her husband. When he passes, she is turned over to his next of kin, like…livestock."
"That is barbaric," said the boy, clearly disgusted. "In the west, a widow returns to her family and can remarry as she chooses."
"Change does not come so easily to our people, Denton."
"Miss Dante…who is your husband's next of kin," the boy asked curiously.
"He has none."
"So what will happen to you then?"
"According to tradition, I will have to marry the first man to woo me, in deference to my former husband. A widow is lucky to have any man interested in her in our culture."
"That is madness," cried the boy. "There are far too many men in this village who would be interested in you!"
"Why, thank you Denton," smiled Dante. "But as I have no interest in them, or their outdated customs…I suppose I shall have to marry you instead."
"You tease me," reddened the boy, taking a deep breath. "B-but I would cherish you like no other man, bind you by no culture except free will, and I would follow you wherever you went!"
Dante sat by the boy, still flushed by his emotional outburst, and gently took his face in her hands. Jade bright eyes took in his nervous face, so perfectly innocent and curious and passionate. Before he could speak, she was pulling him towards her, pressing her supple lips against his own astonished mouth. His eyelids drooped heavily, his mind sinking into the soft sensation of parted wet lips. When she finally pulled away, his mouth hung open, his hungry mouth still seeking hers.
"I am sorry," she whispered hoarsely. "You would have become a fine man, Denton."
And when he slowly opened his eyes at her words, the only thing to escape from his mouth was a scream. For her once-green eyes burned crimson, brighter than any sun and darker than any blood.
--
The rains relented in the early dawn hours, leaving behind the cool dry air more commonly attributed to the mountainous region. Not that any of the villagers would complain, basking openly in the crisp air. Few crops were lost in the torrential downpour, thanks to the intricate irrigation system installed with the help of the industrious Dante. While her water-distribution methods were much appreciated, the men and women of the village were more concerned with discussing her next husband, her current one at death's door. Suitors were already beginning to line up, all eager for their chance with the attractive soon-to-be widow.
Rumor had it that he had died in the night, but Dante had long ago closed her doors to the townspeople, ever since their healers had accused her beloved of demonic possession. The only people she openly spoke to were the Rockbell doctor and his young son, the dreamy eyed and free-spirited Denton, who had endeared himself to the usually private village people.
Doctor Rockbell strolled through the village streets, sidestepping the occasional puddle, doing his best to avoid the nosy and intrusive questions he knew he would face that morning. As such, he hurried past his usual grocer and apothecary, both of which cast him angry glances, as they were eager for gossip and news. It was no coincidence that both men had bachelor sons to marry off.
The good doctor found the front door barred, and he allowed himself in with the key Dante had entrusted him. The house was dim, the windows still shut from the previous night's storm, and he imagined everyone would still be fast asleep. It was strange, though, for Denton had always been up and about by the crack of dawn…
He soon found the reason why. The boy had been overcome by fever the night before, said Dante. Denton rested now in the master bedroom, in a bed setup across from her husband, who had surprisingly not died in the night as he had predicted. She apologized for not fetching him, but his concern was meager compared to the emotional distress she was facing.
"Denton will be fine, I'm sure," said Doctor Rockbell. "I am more amazed that your husband made it through the night…"
"Is that a good sign, doctor," asked the woman.
"It's good, but by no means promising," said the doctor. Angry at himself for his diagnosis a day earlier, he feared he was lending the woman hope where there was none. "The worst is still to come," he added.
"I am not clinging to hope, as you fear," said Dante calmly. "Acceptance of death is the first thing the people of the desert learn."
"For westerners, that seems to be the last thing we learn," he said, smiling grimly at her.
"You should check your son," she said quietly. "He has been feverish for the past few hours, and I am worried about him."
"Children are a hardy lot," assured the doctor, but the color of his son's skin did strike him as odd. "Did he show any other symptoms besides fever?"
"None that I am aware of," she said. "He was sweating profusely, babbling incoherently…"
"Babbling…? About what?"
"I could not make sense out of most of it," she replied. "But something about a black doorway…I think. I am sorry, I should have listened more carefully."
"Your apology is unnecessary," said the doctor, checking his son's vitals. "His pulse is weaker than I would like, and his blood pressure seems rather low, but it looks like Denton is past the rough spot. I will, however, need some medicine that I didn't think to bring with me…"
"I can watch over the two of them," offered the woman kindly. "You just worry about the medicine."
"Very well," nodded the doctor, throwing his coat over his shoulders as he left. "I should be back soon," he called back.
"Take your time," she said, already turned away to face her sleeping husband.
--
After she heard the door close below her, she stood over the inert form of her husband, his flickering eyes taking her in. There was much in those eyes, nothing more so than accusation, however.
"I am sorry, Denton," she whispered, stroking his hand. Any former revulsion at the thought of touching Gilvir's body seemed to have passed. "But my beloved is all I have in this world. He will hate me for this, I am certain, but better he hate me and live than love me and die. This world needs him, as it needs men like your father…and you, even. It may strike you as foolish for me to say something that, after what I have done, but I would like to think that you of all people could understand why I did what I did. I have done great evil this day, as I have done before, all in the name of love. We tell ourselves that good can come from bad things, and I believe that. I truly do. For if I did not, you would be returning home with your father now, with an entire life ahead of you. Instead, you lay here, trapped within the body of a man I hate, the soul of someone I…love. And I do not love so easily, Denton, if I can truly love at all.
"To live selflessly for others, that should be the goal of one's life, you once said to me. But all I find is a world that abhors me, inhabited by people who would abuse me, imprison me. Our pure dreams become tainted by the world, our ambitions. And somewhere along the way, we lose them. We struggle through dreamless nights, plagued by the ghosts of what we never were. Maybe someday, when you are in heaven, you will understand. And you should go to heaven, Denton. I have seen your soul, beautiful and pure, innocent and graceful. It belongs in a place like heaven, not in this terrible, unjust world.
"This land is barren, barren as my womb. I can no longer create life, cannot know the simple joy of breathing life and soul into another. If I had had my child, I would have wanted him to be like you, Denton, so very much. And…if I were to again come to this same fork in the path, I…I would choose the same as I have today, even if it were my own flesh and blood. Heaven help me, I would. Perhaps that makes me an evil person…but I accept that, knowing my beloved will bring great things into this world. He will breath life into this husk of a world. He will…"
The last words died in her throat, and she hurried out of the room, overcome with emotion. The only sound to fill the room was the soft ticking of a bedside clock.
Until another voice spoke, familiar as an echo but as if from such a distance that it resounded differently. And it was no surprise, considering the source.
"I, too, am sorry," said the voice, booming from the boy's throat, standing over his one-time body. "I did not want this. I did not want to watch another suffer so that I could live another wasted life. Part of me wanted to die last night, to let go and sink away into the abyss. But…pulled out as I was, and thrust into this body, I realize I can only make amends for our mistakes," he said, kneeling to stare deeply into the body's eyes. "I know what you are going through, what it feels like to be a stranger trapped in a body. I know also that you can speak if you desire it enough.
"I will do everything I can to make your sacrifice worthwhile," said Hohenheim sadly. "Tell me where your family is from, and I will lend them my strength."
"Resembool," gasped the body, as if he had emerged from underwater. Hohenheim nodded.
"I know of it," he said, his eyes distant. The land was far off to the west.
"Answer me now if you wish me to end your suffering," he said, grasping a pillow in his hands. "You do not have long, and the pain is going to return…and the visions. You saw the Gate, did you not?"
The panicked look in the boy's eyes told him he had.
"Finish it," he croaked weakly.
"I am sorry," Hohenheim repeated. "A man, or a woman, driven by emotion becomes that emotion, and desperation is never pretty. No longer a person, they cling to the last bit of happiness they knew. For Dante, that was me, for I gave her alchemy and power. That you came into this sad little play was never my desire, nor hers. But know this, young man. She loves you, that much I can tell. Know that she loves you when you pass onto your next life. Know that people will mourn your passing, though they will not know of it until this body finally dies. I will remember you, even if no other shall.
Do not be afraid when you next face the Gate. I have studied it, you see, looked into its murky depths and seen my own reflection. You will pass through and find…what exactly, I do not know. But do not be afraid, child. Do not be afraid…"
The feathered pillow felt heavy in his hands, heavier still when he pressed it against the sad face of the suffering child. That it was the body of a man he once despised made the task no easier. There was no resistance, no struggle; only the pain in his heart told him it was real. And when the terrible deed was done, it took everything in him to not look back.
--
"Miss Dante," called the doctor, storming into the house. "What happened," he asked, laboring for breath.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," she said, regarding him curiously.
"My son…Denton…I saw him on the street, and he…fled from me."
"Denton? But he is upstairs, in the bedroom…"
"It was my son, I am certain," said the doctor, brushing past her to the stairs. She quickly followed him, her face still worn with doubt.
"He's not here," she said when they found the bed empty, but it was more question of disbelief than a statement.
"He was crossing the street when I called to him, and he took off down an alleyway. He moved so swiftly that I lost him in the back streets."
"He…ran? That could not be…"
"Why not, he is still a healthy boy, with or without his fever," said the doctor.
"Oh, of course," said the woman, but her mind was clearly elsewhere.
"Strangest thing, though," he began, his voice trailing off.
"What is that?"
"I was sure I had chased him into a dead end, cornering him, but when I came around, there was no wall where there had been one yesterday…"
"As if it had vanished…"
"Exactly," said the doctor. "I passed that wall coming here, every—" He suddenly stopped, moving from the door to her husband's side. Any worries about his son seemed to vanish, his professional demeanor returning despite his son's disappearance.
"Miss Dante," he began. "I am sorry; your husband has passed."
She uttered no reply, her eyes staring out the windows into the distance. Far across the horizon called the sandy plains, and her heart yearned to join them.
Note: I had a lot of trouble ending this chapter; I wrote the first 90 without problem but struggled later on. The Rockbell doctor angle came suddenly to me, something I hadn't planned on at all. As for how far the connection shall go…we'll have to wait and see.
One thing I just couldn't find a place for was why Dante kept Denton alive overnight. It might make her seem sadistic, but it was to ensure Hohenheim's soul made the transfer intact. Hohenheim was faking his unconsciousness as well, waiting for a chance to put Denton out of his misery and escape. It was difficult to explain why Denton would want to die when we see him so full of life early on, but I think the pain and suffering of even one night would be enough, with Dante's betrayal to boot. Initially, I wanted the 'rift' between Hohenheim and Gil's body to parallel the 'rift' between he and Dante, but it just didn't come out as I wanted.