Ed Io Respiro?

"Tu se' morta, se' morta, mia vita, ed io respiro?

Tu se' da mi partita, se' da mi partita

Per mai piú, mai piú non tornare, ed io rimango?"

The words floated out Horatio's door as he answered Calleigh Duquesne's knock. Opera of some kind. She didn't understand the words, but the genuine agony in the tenor's voice brought tears to her eyes.

But what stole away the comforting words she had so carefully chosen was Horatio himself. The look on his face mirrored the singer's pain as a bizarre but skillfully executed ornamentation made the voice seem to crack and tremble under the weight of unbearable tragedy. "Calleigh, come in," he said, his own voice a barely audible croak, and bowed his head as she stepped past him into his home.

"What can I do for you?" he asked as he shut the door. He gave her a small smile, and it took Calleigh a moment to realize why the expression looked so terribly wrong on his face: it never reached his eyes. Horatio's smiles always started with his eyes, were always genuine and warm. He was one of the kindest people Calleigh had ever met––and now the man was a wreck.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Calleigh said. "I thought I'd drop by and see how you're holding up, if there's anything you need."

Horatio once again cast his gaze to the floor. "I'll be fine," he whispered. Then looking up at her again, "I'm fine. Thank you."

Calleigh didn't believe him. With his reddish-blond hair in uncharacteristic disarray and his clothing rumpled, he certainly didn't look fine. But she didn't challenge him, and a slightly uncomfortable silence ensued, neither one knowing what to say. Desperate for something, anything, to say, Calleigh finally asked, "So, what is that you're listening to?"

Momentarily blindsided by the question, Horatio stared at her blankly for a moment. Calleigh had the uncomfortable feeling she'd just committed a major faux pas, and was about to apologize for her insensitivity when Horatio shook himself out of his stupor and answered her. "It's Monteverdi," he said, "L'Orfeo. This, ah, this aria is Orpheus' lament, from Act 2."

Calleigh fought the urge to cringe––she knew enough Classical mythology to be familiar with that story. Orpheus' wife, Eurydice, was killed on their wedding day, and Orpheus went down to the underworld to convince Pluto to let her return with him. Moved by the demigod's powerful music, Pluto agreed, on the condition that Orpheus did not turn around and look at her until they reached the land of the living. Unfortunately, Orpheus, plagued by doubt and questioning Pluto's honesty, did turn and look––and lost Eurydice forever. "What's he saying?"

Horatio sighed, and his gaze grew distant. "This is where he vows to rescue Eurydice, or die trying. The translation is something like, 'You are dead, my life, and I still breathe? You have gone from me, never more to return, and I remain? No, for if my songs have any power at all, I will surely descend into the deepest abyss, and, having softened the heart of the King of Shadows, will bring you back with me to see the stars again.'" His voice cracked, and Horatio cleared his throat and went on. "'Oh, if malign destiny denies me this, I will remain with you in the company of death. Farewell, earth! Farewell, sky, and sun, farewell!'"

Very little registered with Calleigh after the first few lines. The breathless shock and harsh irony of the two opening questions found expression in Horatio's eyes, and Calleigh found herself spellbound.

"There's quite a number of parallels there, aren't there?" Horatio said.

Calleigh nodded staring into his eyes. "More than you think, Horatio."

Horatio raised one eyebrow, and for a moment Calleigh thought she saw the old Horatio Caine there, instead of the mess he'd become after Marisol's death. "How so? I can't bring Marisol back. Orpheus had hope––I have… nothing…"

"That's not true," Calleigh said firmly, steeling herself against the tears that threatened to spill. "You can catch her killer, so she can rest in peace."

He'd held his grief tightly in check in the hospital room, in the lab, in the field, in front of Calleigh. But now, as Orpheus bid earth, sky, and sun good-bye in tones of heartbroken loss, Horatio stared down at his hands, feeling Marisol's blood welling up beneath them, and cried.

The faint golden gleam of his wedding ring broke through his tears like a ray of sunshine on the sea.

He would find the man who had shot Marisol. And by God, he would make him pay.