Iridian

17. OPERA

.present (psych)

In a silent corner, Arden curled up, her head tucked against her knees. It felt too cold, even though the thermostat regulated the temperature of the room. A half-eaten apple lay abandoned on a white plate beside her, its flesh already beginning to oxidize, turning brown and unappetizing.

She didn't notice any of this.

She was struggling to tamp down the eerie, empty pain caused by the hollowness where Dante should have been. Her mind refused to focus on anything, continuously dancing at the ragged edges of the emptiness inside her that was much like an amputated limb that couldn't heal. She was senseless of the persons who came to check on her from time to time, sinking deeper and deeper into that melancholy caused by the missing presence from her mind, missing from her very spirit. She didn't want to think about him, but she could not not think about him.

She shifted, grimacing from the stiffness of being in one position for too long. If only she could turn to stone. Something rolled from her lap to land with a thud on the carpeted floor. Her head shifted, her eyes drawn to the long cylindrical object lying next to her feet. It was familiar.

"Dante..." the name slid unconsciously from her lips though speaking his name caused a dull ache in her chest.

She reached out to pick up the lifeless cylinder. It was warm to the touch. Unexpected. Something... something... about it... Deep inside her, something stirred—that powerful something that tied her to him moved sluggishly but inexorably to a wakened state. Visions suddenly rushed through her of that cylinder in Dante's hands, the tattoos running along his arm up to his shoulder glowing with an inner light. Alive.

This was his psych.

The cylinder in her hand grew warmer, responding to the vision, to the shared bond.

Arden struggled to her feet, shaking off the stiffness in her limbs and padded awkwardly to the door of her room. She had not stepped beyond that door since she had woken from her comatose, but tonight, there was a place that drew her. For the first time since realizing that Dante was gone, she felt a little more animated, her subconscious drawing upon the bond that was reviving.

The dim hallway outside—with only a single light illuminating it—made her pause briefly. Which way was it? Left or right? Right, her memory told her. Her senses told her that there were others, some deep asleep in their rooms, and the ones who weren't, were not aware of her movements. Her bare feet made no noise on the smooth wooden floors as she wound her way down the stairs, the psych glowing softly in her hand.

The doors to her destination were darkened, but she didn't need any light. She only needed the space. Quietly, she slid the door to one side, allowing her entrance into the room. It was only slightly smaller than the studio at Ashbrook but it was enough for what she needed—no, compelled—to do.

Moonlight bathed the wooden floors from the long French windows at the opposing end. She opened one window to allow in the cool air.

She stepped to the centre of the room, raising the psych horizontally before her with one hand. It was glowing brighter. How did it work? she asked herself, afraid that she would fail. But the psych was responding to her. That had to mean something.

Drawing in her will, she slowly released it into the psych, picturing the very first form that she had ever given it. It was the form that he had often used.

Know me, she commanded the psych. It had to know her, to recognize that he was still there, within her somewhere.

The glow around the psych grew, briefly obscuring its outline as it melded and reshaped to her will. When it was done, a smooth crystalline katana was in her hands, strong and unyielding, but lighter than steel. It glowed softly with an inner light, suffused with the energy of Nexus—and with that she began, her body at first refusing to move, resisting the steps that had been engraved in her memory. She had been out of practice for too long, but her mind was slowly clearing, the black emptiness that had surrounded her thinning into a foggy grey until all that existed for her in that moment was the dance.