Iggy heard his name echo through the main lobby, but he just kept running. A great aching in all of his joints reminded him that he still needed to heal, but he couldn't stop himself, now. Up above on the loft in the lobby, he spotted Nansen's back leaning against the low wall.
"Nansen!" he screamed, thrusting himself up the stairs. Nansen turned, and caught him by the shoulders. Iggy clashed to a stop, panting, and shaking. Breaking through the panic and guilt, Iggy struggled to speak. "Help me…" he begged. "Help me!" His fingers gripped the chest of Nansen's sweater.
After a shudder of shock, Nansen pried Iggy's fingers off of him. "Whoa! This sweater is thirty years old!" he declared. "Don't ruin it like you did to my last one!" His eyes narrowed and he lifted his finger up to Iggy's chin with caution. "Whose is this?" he asked, inspecting the dark red smudge on his finger.
"No!" Iggy cried. He tore at his face to erase all evidence of his mistake. Then, he looked down at his open palms. His skin crawled beneath the rust colored stains. He jammed his fingertips around his temples and arched forward. "How could I have done that? How? How? I'm no better than the woman in the garden!"
From the lower lobby Baine spotted Iggy and Nansen up above, so he made his way up the stairs quietly. Before the clicks of his heels could be heard, Iggy could feel him. A tickle up his spine. That long lost cousin of his blood. He hunched forward with his hands over his head as if bombs were falling.
Nansen patted his back. "It's OK," he whispered. "I'll protect you," he lied. Nansen and Baine faced each other. "What happened in there? Did he phase out on you?"
"Where were you? You followed me in, didn't you?" Baine exhaled a bit exasperatedly. "Did you just bail?"
Nansen forced a tough mask on, but even so, Baine could clearly see his wavering eyes. Nansen sighed and stared at Iggy with an expression of uncertainty. He shook his head side to side. "I didn't think you needed my help. Any who," he whistled, "I'll take him to his room, so that he can calm down." Nansen swung his arm around Iggy's shoulders and guided him away.
Iggy fumbled through the doorway into his very own room, astonished to find that it was the exact same as it had been left, but it was still very different. The books along the walls and the various artworks scattered around the room made it a sanctuary more than anything else. It was a safe place. It smelled like sweat, leaves, and pencil lead. Dried leaves and flowers cluttered the desktop. Collages of insects and paintings of the night sky covered the walls. Everything was more spectacular than Iggy had ever known. More beautiful than he had ever been able to see.
Now, seeing and knowing this, Iggy was nervous, ashamed, and angry, yet still mesmerized. His entire life changed. His entire life was nothing until now, and yet it had always been something, too. Something special.
Nansen stood at the doorway, leaning against the frame, and watching Iggy with a grin. It wasn't every day that an artist could see his very own artwork for the first time the way that everyone else saw it. With color. With texture. With layers. With significance.
Iggy came to his bed and sat down. Hanging directly across from him was a piece of work that he had made not long before he was changed. It was an array of branches from every species of tree in the lot. They laid on a bed of preserved leaves and long strands of grass. When he collected the specimens to make it, he was feeling good and carefree. He didn't need memory to decipher it.
He looked at the piece hanging next to it. It was a halo of thorn vines and dried white roses made at a time of fear and worry. The stories behind them were clear, but why and how? Was it the way that he had so tightly wound the vines together and then trapped the roses inside? Or was it the fact that he hung such a frustrated piece of work next to another, whose loosely laid sticks and branches could only be a symbol for peace and serenity?
Nansen entered the room and laid across the bed behind him. His head sat heavy on his balled up fist and he stared at the two artworks, just like Iggy did. "I hope now that you can see, you won't stop doing what brings you peace," he said.
Hearing him say those words in such a soft and patient voice was the last note needed to strike a chord. It might have been what Iggy had done, it might have been what had happened to him, or it might have been the beauty that surrounded them, now. He didn't know for certain, but nothing could have stopped the tears from pouring down his cheeks. His hands crossed over his eyes, his head tilted downward, and he just sobbed a hiccupping cry.
Iggy felt Nansen's warm hand lay on the back of his shoulder. Nansen cared. He really did. He always had.
Nansen came up and sat beside Iggy. His arms wrapped around his hunched shoulders and he held him in silence. Iggy cried for about ten minutes, until he finally inhaled hard enough to catch his breath. Then, he wiped the wetness away from his eyes and cheeks with the palm of his right hand.
Through the blurry mess, he saw Nansen's smile.
"You've always been such a cry baby," Nansen joked. He took his arm back and rolled his eyes playfully. "But, you're beautiful when you cry." His head tilted and he gazed up at the artwork hanging across from them. Then, he looked back at Iggy and exhaled. "Tell me what's eating at you so much? Are you scared now that you're a big boy?"