The chirp of the crickets hummed in the open valley as dusk descended. An anxious young woman filled with nervous energy sat by an open window, the soft summer breeze light against her skin. Hardy she was, raised amongst the mountains, but still she shivered. Her hand wandered to her belly, and warmth filled her body again.
Stars filled the sky, more than she had ever been able to count in her lifetime, but they paled in comparison to the possibilities she sensed for the future. She loved a man who loved her, and together they would soon raise a child, surrounded by those that wished only the best for them. Few in the world were as lucky as she, fewer even those fully aware of such luck.
But her thoughts were not so vast to go beyond the high hills of her tiny world. Her thoughts rested instead with her love, her family. By this time tomorrow she would be wife to a man she loved above all others. And yet…and yet she wasn't sure she knew everything there was to know about him. His past remained a mystery to her, and she suspected he had lied about his identity. Still…she knew his heart, and that was what mattered most to her. There was no doubt in his voice when he professed his love, no hesitation when he voiced his wishes to spend a lifetime with her. Only love.
Moonlight pale as silver fell upon the sleepy village, none in the valley awake as she. For who could be as giddy as a bride the night before her wedding? Her well-wishers and friends dozed easily enough in their beds, her love only a couple huts away, but still she paced in that peaceful summer air.
A rustling stirred Elise from her reverie. Her sharp eyes, accustomed to the darkness, picked out a hunched shadow by the hut's threshold. Kayide had gone to spend the night in the forest, eagerly planning to pick the freshest bouquet ever, so the cabin should have been empty. Perhaps the woman had returned early? Elise rushed hurriedly to the door.
"Auntie, is that you," she whispered worriedly, coming upon the shadow.
"Nay, child," replied the cloaked figure. From the rasp in the voice, Elise knew it to be an older woman, and felt safe.
"You wandered in from the eastern forests…are you hurt," asked the young woman, her concern genuine.
"I…I am in need of a place to rest," sighed the old woman. "I lost track of my camp a few hours ago."
"You poor thing," said Elise. "Please…allow me to provide you shelter this night."
"You are sweet, child…and gentle. I gladly accept your offer," said the cloaked woman, passing through the opened door.
"You are lucky to have stumbled upon our small village," said Elise. "How far back did you say your camp was?"
"No idea," answered the woman, settling into a worn chair. "You have a lovely home, dear."
"Thank you…it belongs to my great aunt, however, not I."
"Ah, the one you mistook me for? She must be old indeed," laughed the woman lightly.
"Old in body, perhaps, but in nothing else," smiled the girl faintly. Something about this stranger bothered her, but she knew not why. "I shall be moving soon anyways."
"Oh?"
"Yes," nodded Elise. "I am to marry tomorrow, and my husband has built a fine home for us."
"Why, your wedding is tomorrow," asked the woman, surprised. "I should not be here, not when you need your rest for such an important day!"
"Do not bother yourself with such things," said the girl kindly. "I could not sleep for anything this night."
"Nervous, dear?"
"It is only natural."
"Indeed…what is he like, your fiancé?"
The young woman looked again to the distant stars, as if seeking an answer to such an impossible question in that infinite beyond.
"He is everything," she finally replied. "Everything I could ever want…so wise beyond his years. So gentle, and sincere. Strong, but kind. Capable and driven. I believe he can do anything he set his mind to…"
"You are a lucky woman," said the crone. "I once had such a man, years and years ago…"
Elise caught something in the woman's tone. "I…I am sorry for your loss."
"It was a lifetime ago," said the old woman, waving her hand dismissively. "But I know in my heart that I myself drove him away…trust, my dear…it is everything. If you do not know a man's past, you cannot know your future together."
Elise's brow arched at the woman's familiar words. "The people of the mountains do not concern themselves with the past."
"And you plan to stay here, amongst the mountains? A man with such dreams and vision tending gardens and forging cookware?"
"You speak of my fiancé as if you know him," said Elise warily. "Who are you?"
"I am merely an old woman, lost in the past, who longs for the nigh forgotten touch of a loved one," said the woman wistfully. "You are too young to understand, my dear. Men, you see…they are all the same; locked boxes of mystery hiding only lies. Like Pandora's Box, opening them will only unleash horrors you had never imagined."
"Not all men are alike," said Elise, annoyed by the woman's assumptions. Who was she to judge her beloved?
"Your man has no secrets from his past," scoffed the old woman. "Surely even you are not foolish enough to believe that?"
"I am more concerned with your past," said Elise, rising angrily from her seat. "Tell me who you are, old woman, lest I cast you out."
"You would cast out an old woman, Elise? After all the tales of kindness I have heard? I am disappointed," said the woman, shaking her head. "Though you are even more beautiful than I had heard…"
"Tell me who you are," said Elise heatedly, grasping the woman's ragged cloak in her shaking hands. "Tell me!"
"Better you ask your beloved who he is," replied the crone, her jade eyes narrowing. And when Elise calmed herself and released the woman, she felt the woman's bony hand grasping her wrist.
"What are you doing," said Elise crossly. "Let me go!"
"He is Hohenheim, the great slayer of Gilvertown," whispered the woman hotly. "Perhaps that means nothing to you, in your sheltered little world, but in ours, that name means everything!"
"You are insane," cried Elise, struggling against the woman's iron grip.
"I am Dante," said the woman bitterly, reaching into the folds of her cloak. "And I loved him since before you were born, child."
Light, crimson as the setting sun and equally blinding, poured into the room, emanating from Dante's wrinkled hand, the skin like tanned leather. Soon the light consumed the frantic Elise, swallowing even her screams for help. Her last thought was of her unborn child, and Dante. He had wanted to name their child after the woman who would kill her?
--
He sighed, rolling sleepily in the covers as he lay beside her. The thin sheen of sweat cooled their bodies, hot still from the ardor of their lovemaking. It was not their first time, but their first as husband and wife. And though he had known her passion like no other person, something was different about her this night.
"What is it," she asked, staring into his eyes. "I can tell you are brooding."
"I am just happy," he said, pushing aside a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "Happier than I ever thought I could be."
"This place is…nice," she said, looking beyond him and through the window by the bed. "So simple, so peaceful…I forget sometimes how lucky we are to have that."
"Why, you speak of it often enough," he teased.
"That is only to remind you," she shot back. Silence fell between them. It was unlike any that had passed between them in his memory: it was uncomfortable.
"The ceremony was nice," he said, trying to fill the silence. "Kayide really came through with the flowers…I have never seen such beautiful bouquets…"
"I didn't know you concerned yourself with such trifling details," she said, annoyed.
"Are you still angry," he asked when she sat up and turned away. "About the wine?"
"I still do not see why I could not have some," she said. "It was a celebration, after all."
"But darling," he said, reaching for her. "What of the baby?"
Had she been facing him, he would have known then, known that their baby was somehow a surprise to her. And he would have known that his true love, Elise, was gone, replaced by some thing that only resembled her in appearance.
"I am such a fool," she said, tears streaming down her face as she turned back to him. "Forgive me…I-I did not think of that," she wept, falling into his arms.
"It is okay," he soothed, caressing the small of her back. And though he could not be certain, he sensed joy in those tears, not remorse.
--
The season came and went, the journey to Resembool set aside. Autumn had begun to cast its dull glow upon the valley when he received the letter. It was dated months earlier, but he was surprised a letter addressed to him could even find its way to the remote village. No one within it knew of his past, and no one outside knew of his location.
With hands trembling, he slid a thumb under the seam, shearing the envelope open. Another envelope, smaller, fell from it, and a short, hand-scribbled note.
"What is it, love," asked his wife, not even bothering to look up from her knitting.
"A letter," he replied, reading the note. "A death notice."
"Oh," she said, setting down her work. "Someone in your family?"
"In a way," he said, furtively pocketing the other letter. He recognized the feminine scrawl on its face, addressed to the man named Hohenheim; it would best to avoid questions this way.
"But I thought no one knew you were here?"
"As did I," he said, eyeing her warily. Elise seemed to know more than she was letting on of late, he thought. She had never been one to hide things, but now she seemed much more careful in what she said. Could marriage, even one so brief, change someone so?
"So what does it say," she asked curiously.
"An old friend of mine passed away recently," he said, crumbling the note in his hand.
"Who?"
"A…colleague," he replied. "We studied at the university together."
"And did your 'colleague' have a name," she asked.
"Dante," he said, annoyed by her questions. "We lost touch long ago."
"You don't seem too torn up about it," she noted.
"Like I said, we lost touch long ago," he said.
"I suppose you missed the funeral," she said, taken aback by the coldness in his voice. "But we could make a trip out to see her grave this season."
His brow arched at her words, suspicions beginning to mount. "Perhaps," he said noncommittally. "It is a harsh journey just to see a stone marker."
"So your friend meant that little to you," she said accusingly.
"Once, when we were younger, she meant the world to me," he replied, his eyes distant. "But…the person she eventually became tainted that. She lost her way, and was lost to me then," he said finally, leaving the room without another word.
Walking aimlessly, he eventually found his way to the ledge that overlooked the valley, a place that had once brought him so much joy. The air was cooler up there, cleaner. Inhaling deeply from the mountain air, he watched the people of the village below amongst the verdant greenery, so natural and elemental. After long minutes, and after he was certain he was alone, only then did the tears finally come.
--
After his tears had dried and the pain had begun to subside, he slowly opened the letter, the faintest wisp of the perfume he had once made for her lingering on the paper.
Dearest Hohenheim,
If this letter has found its way to you, then I have passed onto the afterlife; whether by the vicious hands of another, my own, or old age, I am gone. That you are not beside me is perhaps the cruelest of fates, as I fondly remember the times we once stood together in the face of insurmountable challenges. I know it is by my hand that you left, I know that I am solely the one to blame. I hold no ill will towards you or the new life you have found.
It may not surprise you that I know a bit of your life, and that is how this letter has come into your possession. It may surprise you, however, to know that I am truly happy for you, and the life you have forged for yourself. Losing the love and trust we once shared was the sacrifice necessary for you to find the joy that we could not together find. It is equivalence in its truest form, and I suffered for my mistakes, as did you.
A person, one of the few I ever truly called friend, once shared with me a bit of wisdom about our lives, our world:
"I see all about us an ocean of sand; burning hot, churning under the suns' hot glare. And…I realize that humans, all of us, are no different from those bits of sand. Some larger, some smaller, we are all one and one of the same material, the same crucial element. It is only together that we form something of substance; apart, we scatter by the winds. We form the desert of the worlds, and others fear us, though we do not realize it. Instead we fear the world, content to lie as we are, to cast ourselves into the whims of the wind. And we get lost, so lost, afraid of what we could have been. That is the nature of alchemy, the tragedy of life that we realize this too late."
I leave that with you now, leave to you memories bitter and sweet, and pray you can remember us fondly.
Love,
Dante
He read it again, slowly, feeling his one-time love's emotion pour from the pages. It was only after he carefully folded the letter to place back into the envelope did he find her next surprise. A fine red powder poured from the opening, bits of dull, crimson crystal swimming in the dust. The once brilliant light had faded, the luster all but gone. It was lifeless now, and he realized then how she had gone so easily. The Stone had died, just as she had.
--
His wife said nothing again of the letter, asked no more questions. He waited for it, prepared with an indignant protest at the merest mention, but it never came. After a point, he was slightly disappointed that she never brought it up again.
The couple settled into their new life like they born for it. Summer seemed like a far off memory when she gave birth to their child. The day was ending, cold settling into the region, when his first cries broke the night. Mother and son lay in bed, exhausted by the long delivery, father beaming with pride as he took his newborn son into his arms.
"Say hello to William, daddy," she said, her eyes almost sad with fatigue. "Your son."
"William," he said quietly, the newborns' watery eyes opening wide with wonder as if in answer.
--
His journey back to the place where he assumed the identity of a boy named Denton took considerably less time this time around. Endowed with the strength of a grown man and empowered by his family, he descended the mountain and crossed the desert in a couple months time.
The elders had chosen him to pick up the necessary supplies that his wife had been responsible for, before their marriage and the birth of their son. While it had been hard for him to leave his infant son behind, he knew William was in good hands. Furthermore, this was his best chance to visit the grave of an old friend.
The graveyard was simple, markers made of polished rocks and carved wood lining the rows of graves, and he picked hers out instantly. Set atop a low hill, the headstone was easily the largest in the area, cut from fine marble and bright under the sun's glare.
From his bag he pulled forth a large tome, the fine leather binding worn with age. He set it against her headstone, but seemed to think better of it, taking it back. The knowledge contained on those pages was dangerous, and it was a danger she had taken on in the pursuit of knowledge. No matter how things ended between them, he respected that.
He remembered something she had once said, when her devoted Ama stood at death's door. The knowledge was only in pieces then, and they were driven by its prospects to complete it. Only when the puzzle was finished did they see the horrors it would bring upon the world. To simply destroy it would invalidate everything they risked for it. No…the knowledge was important, even if he wanted no other to learn it.
The circle came easily to him, easier than he would have liked to admit. The earth was dry and loose, bending to his will without resistance. The casket's face emerged slowly from the soil, the stained wood darker from its time underground.
He held his breath, hurrying in his grim task as he pushed aside the lid. It would be an awkward position to be caught in, and there were loved ones waiting for his return. The breath he held escaped in a rush when the lid finally slid off, dust rising from the ground as the realization settled in.
The coffin was empty.
--
His journey back was fraught with perilous thoughts. It was obvious that Dante had faked her demise, but why? A simple test of the Stone's remains that she left him also proved those to be a fake, but that was no longer a surprise to him.
Her words, which had touched him so, gave him nothing as he reread the letter again and again. Was she after his family? Could she hurt his wife and son if it came down to it? These were questions he didn't want to ask, much less answer.
The tension lightened his feet, carrying him home swiftly. By the time he saw the entrance to the village, he was running. He burst through the front door of his home, frantic.
"William, where are you," he yelled. "William! William!"
"Can you forget me so easily," asked his wife, sitting by the fire.
He stopped, her words oddly familiar. "What did you say?"
"Hello to you too, honey," she said with a smirk. "You seem to have forgotten about your lovely wife…"
"What did you just say to me," he repeated, his eyes narrowing.
"What is wrong," she asked, taken aback by his intensity. "Did something happen?"
"Nothing," he said angrily, turning away. "Where is William?"
"Sleeping…that is what babies do, after all."
He felt her soft hands on his shoulders, rubbing the tension away as he sank into a chair. The journey had been long, and he had not stopped even once to rest. Weary and worn from his travels, he let himself ease into her massage.
His head swayed against the headrest, lost in the oblivion of comfort, when he felt her wrist against his face. Nuzzling against it as he had a thousand times before, something felt different this time. It was only when her scent filled his nostrils did he finally recoil with the realization.
"What is it," she asked, worried.
"That perfume…where did you get it?"
"Why, this is the perfume I always wear, darling," she replied.
"Elise never wore perfume, Dante," he said coldly. "She was never that vain."
She smiled at him, bringing her hands together in mocking applause. "So you finally figured it out, Hohenheim. After all the hints I have left for you…"
"You wanted me to know?"
"Of course," she said. "If I hadn't, you would never know, Hohenheim. It would have been so simple to dupe you. Alas, the fun of a secret only lasts for so long before one tires of it."
"What did you do with her, Dante," he asked, his hands clenching into fists. "Where is Elise?"
"Dead, I imagine," said Dante, twirling a blonde hair between her fingers. "I would never have pictured you with a blonde, Hohenheim."
"This isn't some damned game for your amusement," he yelled, stepping forward with his balled fists raised, ready to strike at her.
"William, Hohenheim…will you not think of our child," she asked coolly, looking into the baby's room.
"You would not dare hurt my son," he said, but froze in his tracks nonetheless.
"If you remain calm, I will not have to," she said carefully, watching him intently. "I knew when you left on your journey that you would surely discover the truth, so I took the necessary…precautions."
"How long, Dante," he asked weakly, falling into a nearby chair. "When did you take her from me?"
"What, you cannot guess? Surely a man so dedicated to his love would have detected something amiss…"
"The wedding…it was our wedding, wasn't it?"
A mischievous smile came to her lips. Though she occupied the body of Elise, her smile was so different, so satisfied at the evil it could create.
"Why couldn't you stay away from me?"
"Why…? Because I missed your touch, of course," she answered, as if it were obvious. "Can you not say the same thing?"
"I did not miss you," he seethed. "I chose this life over one with you."
"A man cannot choose his life," she chuckled. "Did you not teach me that lesson so long ago? You think yourself above humanity…and you accuse me of vanity?"
"You are less than human, hiding behind a child," he spat. "Killing someone who would never have done you harm, who would never—"
"Never done me harm? You are blind, Hohenheim, or deluded. She did me the most egregious of harm by stealing you away from me."
"I left," he screamed. "Me! She did nothing to you Dante! Nothing!"
"Perceive it however you wish," she said calmly. "We are left with a situation not so different than the perfect life we once envisioned. A healthy child between us, living in a community that respects and adores our family…can you walk away from that? Can you forget what you once wanted so badly, so easily?"
"You have corrupted it all, Dante," he replied, shaking his head sadly. "But you still cannot see that, can you? You will never understand."
A long silence passed between the two, and it took every bit of strength in him to finally break it.
"Give me my son, and I shall be on my way," he said.
"Your son," she scoffed. "It seems it is you will never understand, Hohenheim. That boy came from me; I birthed him, not you. I bore the anguish of childbirth so that he could live in this world. And if necessary…"
His eyes widened at her tone, and he truly knew fear in that moment.
"I would," she said coldly. "I would rather my son die than be burdened with one so self-righteous as you."
"You would not dare," he said, but his voice faltered as the words came out.
"Have you not realized yet," she began, staring fully into his frightened eyes. "That I will do anything to further my plans?"
--
Snow fell on the mountain that night, gently caking the sleeping valley with endless white. Even in the darkness there was light born, shimmering off the high slopes with an electricity he found oddly comforting. Looking back at his tracks, lone and heavy in the fresh powder, sadness and guilt threatened to overcome him.
He had left his only son with a monster. Granted, she had all the outward appearances of a vibrant and beautiful young woman, but he knew that would not last, and she would again steal from one on the cusp of a full life. But he had no alternative; had he taken William, she would hunt them to the ends of the earth, slaying and plundering as she needed to punish him, purely out of spite. She would know no limits to exact her vengeance, and he could not allow that to happen. A good father had to know when to let go, just as his had.
But there was one thing he had taken from her, something more valuable than her own son's love. It glistened in his hands, the dull glow of red nearly faded. Soon it would die, and he with it. And if Hohenheim had his way, perhaps Dante would join them.
Note: My favorite part about this section was writing Dante's letter. I don't know why, but it just came easily to me. I realize Dante took a bit of a plunge in the sanity department this chapter, but she's been stewing in her rejection for about five years at this point, adequate time to go a bit bonkers.
In case you're wondering, I took the name of Elise's great aunt, "Kayide" from Inuyasha's Kaede. Also, sped up Dante's aging a bit. Wanted Hohenheim/Denton to spend a few seasons at the village, maybe a year, but in that time, Dante has aged terribly in the years since he left. This one was a whopper of a chapter in terms of length, but I hope you found it interesting. Future installments should be much shorter, and as a result, sooner.
