He's never been one for the parties. When the Temple fills with bodies and music, heavy pulses of sound and the heat and sweat of a crowd, Morpheus prefers to be elsewhere. Affirmation has never been as necessary as conviction, and he'd learned long ago that nothing lasts forever. Perhaps Trinity had learned her distrust and distance from him, after all. The two of them had their own rituals, far removed from the crush of emotions and voices: a somber silence, a shared drink, a momentary pause. It was easier to keep moving when you didn't stop for long and didn't leave much room for regret. They had always needed to keep moving, always. There was always another mission to complete, another job to do, another message to carry, another goal to meet. The Neb was well known for its long runs and infrequent returns, and where many others burned out he and Trinity had always thrived. They'd made a world between worlds, made an art of living split between dreaming and waking.
They were the best, and when Neo joined them they only got better. He added to them, complemented them, but didn't change them. He fit in because he was already like them, not because they changed in order to be like him. Morpheus had always trusted the prophecy, but whatever anyone else may have thought he had never been so blinded by it that he couldn't recognize connections and causality. Neo was The One, indisputably, but that alone would never have been enough. He needed to be contacted, freed, taught, trained, guided, tested. He needed to live. The One was a protocol built into the very nature of the Matrix, and if the protocol had worked as intended, none of this would have happened. The difference between Neo and all the other Ones who had come before and acted as predicted lay not in his character and proclivities, but in the people he had learned from. Trinity's name had proven far more apt than she could have known when she chose it.
Ceremonies, however, are not parties. There is music and noise and searing alcohol, and in the Temple proper there is wild dancing and the pursuit of oblivion, but in the space between the Temple and the fires there is room for quiet camaraderie among those who wish to honor their dead another way.
The drums beat in the background, slow and measured, rhythms interspersed with the metallic ringing of gongs and bells, and the threads of wordless singing weave around them, rising and falling as voices join and retreat. The tunes are organic, unrehearsed – no two will ever be the same, despite the rugged mournfulness that unites them all. It is eerie and primal and perfectly suited to the atmosphere of the rough stone vaults.
The fires were already lit when the priests called the ceremony to open, the flames burning high and hot on accelerants. There is no way for the mourners to know which hearths contains which bodies, so all are intermingled before them, giving each sacred fire equal respect. The cup had been passed, the rites spoken, and the mourners called on to give their final words to the departing. Many had come for Trinity, but almost everyone can speak for at least one other. Morpheus and Link speak for two, Niobe for three. Kid, surprisingly, speaks for one. It's the first thing Morpheus has heard him say in days. In return, over a dozen others speak for Trinity. It's not the same intimate remembrances of earlier, over her body, with stories and embraces and cracking laughter, but rather expressions of gratitude and promises to carry on legacies.
After each body is spoken for, the priest who had overseen it (it, now, not him or her or them, simply a body, simply a thing) presents amulets to those who had been closest. They're small, just pieces of metal cast in the form of the thumbprints, but Trinity's weigh heavy around his neck on the cord he had brought. He'll give one of them to Neo, when he wakes up, and keep the other for himself. The others from the crew had come to stand and witness, if not to speak, but now those others are gone and only a few remain to watch the fires. Link had left with Zee a while ago, and Niobe had squeezed his hand and shepherded Kid away not long after. Now, all that is left of Trinity in this space is her thumbprints in metal and her imprint on Morpheus.
He sits in seiza, comfortable even though his physical body has rarely if ever rested here, and meditates. Watches the flickering of the fire through his eyelids, feels the heat rippling over his skin and the rough stone beneath his knees, lets his thoughts drift on the currents of the voices behind him, and pictures Trinity sitting next to him as she had done many times.
Her image is not hard to conjure, nor is her character. She appears almost immediately.
Tough shit, she says. Her face is relaxed, expression clear, posture perfect, but that smile is there in her voice. Looks like they won't let you retire, after all. Still too much work to do.
There's always work, he replies. That's life.
No shit. Solve one problem, get another ten thrown at you. Only way out is through, though, so I guess you'd better get cracking.
And what will you be doing?
I'll be here, she says, and this time the smile makes it onto her face, as well. Taking a fucking break. Come and see me anytime, but don't expect me to do your job for you. I'm in a strictly advisory position, now.
There isn't anyone I'd trust more, he tells her. They sit in companionable silence, well worn in its familiarity. There is no need for words, here. There is nothing to be said. He simply enjoys the comfort of being near her, even in his imagination. The mind shapes reality, after all, and as long as she remains in his memory, she isn't truly gone. Not to him. Not here.
The silence and stillness stretch long enough that true peace at last descends and the boundaries between his body and the air around it grow blurred. In this space, he is not a body. In his own mind, that is all he is – a mind. And in his own mind, Trinity's kneels next to him, as beloved as it ever was and ever will be. As true a friend as he had ever been fortunate enough to have. Whether great or foolish, their minds were alike, but not so much that they never disagreed. That, too, is the mark of a true friend.
He is wary of holding onto much. He knows the danger that comes from living in the past, trying to recapture what has been lost. None of them can afford to build a monument to anything but the future, and deifying the mortal leads only to confusion and conflict. He cannot make a temple for her within himself, cannot rely on memories of her to guide and sustain him. But that doesn't mean that he cannot linger, fondly, and think of her. That he cannot imagine what counsel she would give, what expression she would make, what path she would choose. He must simply be careful of allowing those thoughts to replace his own judgement. He carries her with him, now, but he remains himself; just as he could not have fully become himself without her, nor could she be herself without him. If he wishes to sustain her and honor her in this way, he must continue to live and choose and act in accordance with his values and beliefs, just as he always had. The difference now will be that she is not there in person to counter or enable him, or to give him comfort or advice. But she remains, in some small part. In his mind, yes, but also in his heart.
In his mind's eye stands and bows to her, long and deep. Her eyes are still closed, but she acknowledges him with a regal nod of her head.
Be seeing you, Morpheus, she says.
Until the next time, then. Enjoy your break, Trinity. You've more than earned it.
Damn right I have.
He straightens, walks out of the training dojo and into the caverns of the waking world, and sinks back into his body.
He drifts for a while, as he had learned to do before and after a training session, letting the new circuits between his mind and his body settle into place. The training disks create the neural pathways and muscle memory, but simply to know how is not enough. You must also know why, and when, and for what purpose. There is no disk for this, no module to acclimate him to living in a world in which Trinity is not there at his side, ready with a hand or a word or a knowing look. He will have to learn this the old-fashioned way, through trial and error and practice and practice and practice. He will need time; he will need insight; he will need patience. None of these is an infinite resource, but he's made do with less before and probably will again.
He will need to begin somewhere. He will need to accept the necessity of it. He will need to take one step, then another, and then another, and hope that there will come a time when each step is not painful. He will need to leave this place and return to the real world, the material world, the damaged city and the new and uncertain terrain beyond it. He will need to stand up. He will need to open his eyes.
He doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't stand up. He sits in seiza, and lets himself settle, alone.
...
just a short one, this time. I wanted the ceremony to be its own chapter, even though there isn't all that much going on, action-wise.
I imagine the ceremony music as something like irfan's ispariz, or maybe revelation. irfan features heavily in my mental soundtrack for this one.
thank you for reading! as always, please feel free to leave any feedback you'd like to.