Virgil said, "Never mind, listen well.
I can get you through this ordeal." He said with a grin, As he wiped off his chin, "Come on, Dante, we're going to Hell." Greg Nagan, 5 minute rendition of Dante's Divine Comedy ------------------------------------------------------
TITLE: Memento
Dante walks into the dark red chamber of the room. The feeling of a heavy weight fell on his shoulders and it might arise in him that he might be watched--the prickly feeling he felt at the back of his head made him look to the side of the statue. He had acquired a new blade in his possession. It had been a bit of hell trying to attain it but here he was, in a room that hadn't been used by the looks of it.
A great big mirror stands there eerily beckoning him and a statue of a man's headpiece right beside presents itself as an offer for the sword in his grip, tightening in the strength of his hand. A rusty blade, which he had attained outside while shooting a few marionettes out of the way was the key to his success. Now the blade is corroded with age old blood demands the fitted conclusion to the mysterious headpiece.
The reflection stares back at him nearby and moves on its own harmony, an expression of unresponsiveness and something else, maybe revelation from the mirror image that looks caressing and disdainful at the illusion, noting every detail, staring as he walks back several paces.
It is no undisclosed knowledge that the young man is discriminating. How could anyone not note the strikingness of his composure, nor the strength beneath his heart? Perhaps by guessing he is roughly twenty, twenty-five, at the most, and slender, muscle toned due to his fondness for excessive training gave him a superior countenance that demanded attention.
Around him in the smallness of the room--stands a fireplace, some books upon a cobbled-riddled desk and a great big four poster bed that must have belonged to a Castillian or the one who had fled from here. No matter. This is where he must be. Everything in the room stank of dust and something ancient. The movement from the mirror begs his attention and he stares at the reflection of himself before returning to the statue.
The illuminating chandelier darkly lit up the room now seem to catch the silver highlights in his hair and plays a unique pale glint of red and metal white. Yet a warm breeze from nowhere strangely coaxes his cloak around his slim strong legs, outlining the contour of his body against the darkness of the chamber, and the candles flickers against the walls causing tall shadows to dance against them.
The route was apparent, and as he raises the rusty sword into the fitted section between the place of the statue, a noisy metallic sound confirms the complete puzzle of the secrecy. A movement from behind him becomes eerily displaced, and gravitates him to turn; a pair of steely eyes confronting the same, a clash of recognition and apathy. The reflection moves through the glassy likeness, and two men of the same stature confronting an inevitable encounter.
Dante's breath catches in his throat and he didn't grasp what was going on within him as he closes his eyes in that split second. Almost as if he senses the other's thoughts, his mirror self pauses, and the remarkable likeness was impeccable. Although if one could closely look, the other bore a more sinister expression. The glassiness of the reflection became a blurry movement, like droplets of water vibrating out in a spidery wet mirage. The stranger then looks over his shoulder for a more suitable play.
Dante moves along the room, a cocky assuredness of the upcoming battle makes him speak in his idle manner,
"This stinkin' hole is the last place I thought I would find anyone with some guts!"
A noisy metallic sound becomes a visible target and his mirror image mutates into a newer version. The armor echoes in the forlorn room; a challenge was thrown in Dante's face. The door that was once barred now made its way open with the flick of the stranger's fingers. For a haunted moment both stand motionless, Dante's eyelids lowers, and his fingers inches towards the belt at his hip, the guns he so treasures, now locked and loaded.
The sword at his back, still sheathed, quivers for the cut of flesh and bone. The young man, who has seen the holstered guns belted dormant against Dante's thighs, retreats a little. Then he forms a grin.
Without introduction his mirror image advances, names his proposal with a snap of his fingers. He knows Dante could never refuse and in truthfulness, that he wants no rejection. Silence lifts around them, the noises of the night falling away--nothing between them but the understood response.
Perhaps he fancies that he can hear the rumbling of the other's pulses. As if it went in the same rhythm as his own. Dante was waiting for this. He had been fighting lower minions from the demon world and they held no match for him. But this, this was surely of different ilk. The rush of adrenaline made his ears throb and the sound of it nearly overcoming the entirety of his being. The room seemed to swirl in a chaos of digestible delight.
Then in that momentous thunder-clap of a heartbeat, the image of himself which had become deadlier, bore a more evil representation of what he, Dante could have been. The invitation outside, in the open night beckons the young men into a battle and they fought with unrelenting strength. It was a battle that held the underworld suspended.
Dante gave no quarter as he struck with a tremendous blow, attack against defense, defense and parry, a matched pair as the two continues into the twilight, both breathless with intense heat, the demons blood coursing through their veins. How could Dante have known that the moves the other did were exactly his own? What a surprise this turned out to be.
But in the end--in the light of the present day, the opening was clear for Dante as he struck it home, impatient for the kill, the finality of seeing the image of himself in mocking display. A weakness devils possess and Nelo Angelo, never immune to the perfect power play of demons and the flaws of man failed to counter quick enough, unbalances him for a split second, and his eyes widens in surprise.
The blast that took Nelo Angelo back into the pits of hell remains at the place where his brother's presence had been, strong and powerful. A glint of metal winks at him from that resting ground. Dante crouches unsteadily to pick up the jewel, an amulet so like the one he wore now.
"Great grief seized on my heart when this I heard,
Because some people of much worthiness
I knew, who in that Limbo were suspended." –Dante, Inferno.
For a heartbeat of a second, Dante is tranquil, not trusting his voice. How could he speak? There were no words to say. This was a just and fitting finale, he muses, and he holds unto the amulet, testing its importance. Weighing and measuring it and finds it to be creditable. Yes, it belongs to him now. The sword now is a complete part of his and what was his brothers. Sparda belongs to him. The thought races over his mind like a loving litany--as if that gave him justice for his cause.
Yet how meloncholy and lamenting, Dante muses as he lowers his hand slowly, still feeling the echo of warmth beneath his palm. The questions in his mind made him ask the ones that dared not be answered and yet this very night deprives him of speech. Should it not be such an unexpected defeat that this was going to happen?
No, this was meant to be. Deep in his heart, his demons blood, he had fought with his brother and it caused a slight pain. Was Vergil fighting as he should? Did he falter or did he like himself, give it his all? The noise behind the broken marbled pillars sharply brings his head up, and something like recognition flashes in his eyes--Lady steps out into the light, and wonders how long she had been standing there, he clutches the piece between his fingers, tighter, feeling the trembling beneath him.
The virtuous exact their payment, or so they say, and Lady, astonished as always at the strength and power Dante displayed, breathes heavily as if she had been the one who had fought Nelo Angelo. Dante smile fades, a muted fire burning in his eyes. Yes, he deserves his reward, grinning.
The man has no idea how beautiful he is, as Lady stares in wonderment and awe, aware of Dante's rough hands on her waist, lifting her to fit his own and she exclaims in a broken voice, unintelligible, longing and gasping, his tongue driving into her mouth.
It was a wonder how much energy this man had, she thought in a distant memory. Even as he drove into her body, wet and slick from the heat between them, and the regrets between them fades into the background. She felt so free and never surer as the present even as Dante claims her over and over again, and ignoring the rough stone beneath her bare body. Their guns and swords lay scattered beneath the marbled coarse unholy ground unheeded.
They fitted as one: Ebony and Ivory.
Afterwards, the light peeked out from under the castle grounds, over the walls, bringing the shadows to their respected places, Lady paused, not daring to question who and what. The amulet lay at the side of Dante, along with his treasured guns.
As the tint of the air lightened before the morning, the spark in his mind had caught fire, like a match to a forest in dry season, ablaze and renewed. He had been given a legacy, a purpose, hadn't he? The sword in his hand and the memento their mother gave him and Vergil. Sighing and realizing that his own hair had grown paler, if that is even possible and a fresh surge of power touches his fingers, feathery light, tingling in great expectation. An idle hand runs through his hair, purely for the gratification of it.
Voices from the past filling him and his mothers own, young and alive, kissing the cheeks of two boys, alike in features, differing in traits and actions. Had wished the twins happy birthday. His own asking for a big piece while his brothers own faded into the darkness……
They walk in silence into that distant light, over the hills, away from the castle walls and disappearing silhouette of the past. Dante glances over, his hand itches to take hers, but remains fixated on the path, thinking otherwise, and watched the progressing sun over the horizon.
"..For such defects, and not for other guilt,
Lost are we and are only so far punished, That without hope we live on in desire." Dante, Inferno.