Neo’s body lies prone on the platform of the machine, arms flung wide, a messiah nailed to his cause, bleeding and broken from the power of his belief in what needs to be done.  From the belief of the power of free will and the ability to choose what path to take – which door to walk through, and which to forget.
There have been sacrifices along his journey – made willingly enough, as each knew the cost of the path they trod – but none so dear to him as the loss of Trinity.  She spoke to him of love as she slipped away, and he tried to remember that as he fought his opposite for the existence of every being – living, and not.  But in the end, all he thought of was the ideology of choice, and how some, it seems, have none.  He had chosen to allow her to accompany him on his mission, he had chosen to make his way, with her, to the machine world even after his sight had been taken, and he had chosen to send them through the clouds, ripped through by electrical currents, then careening down again.  But he had not chosen her death.  And that is the only choice that really matters.

He fights, he dies, he is brought back – it’s all he can do to continue to block punches and form a fist of his own, because people depend on him; his needs no longer matter, and therefore he has no true choice.  He longs to sink into oblivion, into peace, love, *her* – but he cannot, not just yet.  Escape beckons when Smith overwhelms his body, but, unbelievably, they are both expelled; Neo from the darkness of peace, Smith from Neo’s body, and ultimately, the world.

And now here he lies, sightless but still seeing, flames of red and gold whipping and whispering before him, and he wishes it were the end, but-

He can see something else, too.  Shades, soft and melting, paint the horizon peach and rose and baby blue, and a memory of a conversation retold (it can only be given, never taken) comes back to him.

A man who sees what others cannot -- a visionary, if you will -- blinded; and a seer of the future who had almost lost her own, bound by shared particles, shared beliefs.  The sky, soft, hopeful, infinite, spreads before him like a multi-colored cape, and he remembers Trinity’s words as they arched above the clouds: Beautiful.  He wraps it around himself and, in the hues of rose and peach, traces the shape of her lips, her cheek.

And then all he sees is her, dark hair fluttering, green eyes dancing, and he forgets that there was anything else *to* see.  He takes her hand and she whispers that she will never let go.  He smiles and the Oracle, skin wrinkled, feels her lips curve in response, even as his presence slips away from her.

Her eyes are bright as she surveys the new world, all-seeing, but not all-knowing – choice is, as it ever shall be, the one thing she cannot predict.

She wouldn’t have it any other way.
 

~end~